Джеймс Чейз - One Bright Summer Morning

Moe considered this for a long moment, then he nodded.

“Well, okay, Jim. I’ve always relied on you. If you say so, then it is so.” He hesitated, then asked, “Just what do you want me to do?”

“You’ll have the easy end of it,” Kramer said. “You’ll handle the snatch... not alone, of course. We’ll need two other guys. That’s where I’m relying on you. I used to know plenty of punks who could help out, but I’ve lost touch now. We need a couple of young, tough kids with good nerves. Their cut will be five grand... no need to throw our money around. For five grand, you should be able to dig up someone.”

Moe was as out of touch as Kramer with the shadowy people of the underworld, but he knew this would be fatal to admit. Kramer wasn’t parting with a quarter of a million for nothing. Moe knew Big Jim. So long as you delivered you were in, but if you hesitated or admitted you didn’t know, you were out.

His mind worked swiftly. He had a sudden inspiration.

“I know a couple of kids who might do... the Cranes. Yeah, come to think of it, they’re dead right for this job.”

Kramer sucked in smoke and exhaled it.

“The Cranes? Who are they?”

“They live in the apartment below mine. They are pretty wild. They’re twins: brother and sister. You know these beatnik kids... he runs a gang. They’ll want handling, but they have the nerve.”

Kramer grinned. He had been handling wild ones all his life.

“I’ll handle them,” he said. He flicked ash into the ashtray. “Tell me about them. What do they do for a living?”

“Nothing,” Moe said. “They never have done anything. Like I said, they are wild ones.” He paused to stub out his cigar. “Their father was a gunman, sticking up small shops or out-of-the-way gas stations, caught their mother in bed with some jerk. He was drunk at the time and he killed them both. He was sent away for fifteen years. He hanged himself after three months in a cell. Their mother was one of the smartest shoplifters in the racket. She took the kids along with her and they got better at the game than she did. They were ten years of age when they lost their parents. They lived rough, stole their food and kept clear of the cops and the do-gooders. These kids are smart. They have never been caught. They haven’t a police record. Now they are running this gang of young beatniks. They put the bite on anyone they can blackmail. The girl dangles her sex and when a sucker falls for her, the boy arrives and shakes him down for his last dime... this boy is very tough. Now I guess they’re ripe for a big job. They have nerve, guts and they don’t scare. It’s an idea, Jim, to have a girl in on this caper. She could prove useful.”

Kramer thought for a long moment, then he nodded.

“I’ll come up to Frisco and meet them,” he said. “You fix it, Moe. If I think they’re right, we’ll use them. Okay?”

“I’ll talk to them,” Moe said. “When they hear you’re behind this setup, they’ll fall over themselves to get on the gravy train.”

Kramer grinned.

“Of course they will, but don’t tell them what the setup is, Moe. I want to see them first. Just tell them they have the chance to work for Big Jim Kramer.”

Moe looked admiringly at Kramer.

“I’ll tell them,” he said.

Chita Crane leaned against a lamppost, indifferent to the slight drizzle of rain, a cigarette between her full, red painted lips, her large dark eyes fixed with a concentrated stare at the entrance to the Giza Club, across the street.

The time was a little after three o’clock in the morning. Very soon now, the mugs would be coming out. One of them, and it had only to be one, would notice her and would come over. He would be a little drunk or maybe very drunk. He would offer her a lift in his car.

Chita was above average height with broad shoulders, a bust development that would make any man stare, slim hips and long legs. She wore black leather trousers, shiny and greasy from constant wear, and a black leather wind-cheater, on the back of which was painted in white, a realistic looking Crane fly or to give it its more popular name: a Daddy Longlegs. This outfit was the uniform both she and Riff, her brother, always wore. They were known among the gangs in their district as the Leatherjackets which, as most people know, are the larvae of the Crane fly.

When Chita could be bothered, she bleached her dark hair blonde, but more often than not, her hair was a dirty looking, streaky blonde — black. She had high cheekbones, large blue-black eyes and a well-shaped nose. No one could call her beautiful nor even pretty, but she was sensually attractive to men. Her eyes, old in wickedness and sexual promise, had a magnetic attraction. She was, like her brother, cruel, ruthless and vicious. It is always hard to accept the fact that anyone could have no redeeming feature, but it would be hard to find a redeeming feature in either of the Cranes. Both of them were habitual liars, dishonest and treacherous. They were also selfish, mean and utterly anti-social. Perhaps the one good thing — if you could call it that — in their make-up that someone could point to was their quite extraordinary love for each other. They were identical twins: there was a bond between them that withstood all their quarrelling and their constant fights, and they often fought like animals: Chita giving as good as she got. But if one of them fell ill which was seldom, or got into trouble which was often, the other was always there, giving support no matter how tough the spot. They completely relied on each other: they shared good luck with the bad and it was unthinkable to them if one had a dollar, it wouldn’t be automatically shared with the other.

Across the street, standing out of sight in a dark alley was Riff Crane. He was a few inches taller than his sister. His high cheekbones and his big glittering dark eyes were like those of his sister’s, but he had had his nose broken in a fight when he was a kid, and some months ago, an enemy had caught him unawares and had cut his face open with a razor from his right eye down to his jawbone. These two scars gave him a vicious, frightening appearance of which he was proud. Chita and he had laid a trap for the man who had slashed him. The score had been successfully settled. The man was now being led around by his wife, half-blind and stupid from repeated kicks to his head. Both Chita and Riff always wore skiing boots. They went well with their uniform and were terrible weapons in a street fight.

A man suddenly appeared in the doorway of the nightclub. He looked to right and left, stared at Chita, then started off down the street, his hands in his pockets.

Chita watched him go indifferently. The exodus had begun: sooner or later, some mug would come over to her. She saw her brother flick his glowing cigarette end into the street and move further back into the shadows.

Men and women began to emerge from the nightclub. Car doors slammed: cars drove away. Still Chita waited. Then a small man, wearing a raincoat and a slouch hat came up the stairs from the nightclub and paused in the doorway. Chita eyed him with interest and she lit another cigarette, holding the match cupped in her hand to light her face.

The little guy stared across the street at her, seemed to hesitate, then he came over. Chita’s experienced eyes noted the quality of the raincoat, the handmade shoes and the glitter of a gold strap watch. This could be the mug she was waiting for.

The little guy grinned at her as he approached. He had a cocky, knowing air about him. He moved lightly: his thin, foxy face was suntanned as if he spent much of his time out of doors.

“Hello, baby,” he said, pausing beside her. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Chita let smoke drift down her nostrils. Then she gave him her wide, professional smile.