Джеймс Чейз - One Bright Summer Morning

“Hello, Mac,” she said. “If I’m waiting for someone, looks like I’ve found him, doesn’t it?”

The little guy examined her carefully. What he saw seemed to please him.

“That’s right: suppose we get out of the rain?” he said. “I have a car over there. Suppose you and me go someplace quiet and private? We could have lots to talk about.”

Chita laughed. She arched her breasts at him and lifted her dark eyebrows invitingly.

“Sounds like an idea: how private and where?”

“How’s about a hotel, baby?” The little guy winked. “I have money to burn. Do you know a quiet little joint we could go to?”

This was easy... almost too easy. Chita allowed herself to hesitate before saying, “Well... if that’s what you want, honey, it’s okay with me. I know a place. I’ll show you.”

She flicked her glowing cigarette high into the air. This was a pre-arranged signal to Riff, letting him know where she was taking the mug.

The little guy owned a Buick convertible. They got in and as Chita settled herself beside the little guy, he said, “That’s an offbeat getup you have on. Suits you. What’s the idea of the Daddy Longlegs?”

“It’s my signature tune,” Chita said. She was already bored with this little man. She only hoped he had a wallet full of money. She eyed the gold strap watch. That, at least, would be worth her trouble.

Five minutes later they were booking into a shady hotel on the waterfront. The reception clerk, a dirty, elderly man, gave Chita a sly wink and she winked back. Both knew that within a few minutes, Riff would be arriving.

They went upstairs and into a fair sized room in which was a double bed, two armchairs, a toilet basin and a threadbare carpet.

Chita sat on the bed and smiled at the little guy who took off his raincoat and hat. He hung them on a peg at the back of the door. He wore a custom-made dark suit. He had the appearance of a man of money.

“I’d like my present, honey,” Chita said. “Thirty bucks.”

The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window. He pushed aside the dirty curtain and peered down into the rain-soaked street. He was in time to see Riff get off his motor-cycle, lift it up on to its stand and then start across the street towards the hotel.

“What are you looking at?” Chita asked, her voice sharpening. “Come here... I want my present.”

The little guy gave her an amused smile and moved to the window.

“No present, baby,” he said. “Nothing for you. I want to meet your brother.”

Chita stared at him.

“My brother? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Last week, you picked up a pal of mine,” the little guy said. “You brought him here. You and your brother skinned him and then your jerk of a brother beat him up. Now it’s my turn...”

Chita eyed the little guy with sudden alert interest. He looked harmless enough. He was small boned, lightweight and even fragile. Riff could kill him with one punch.

“Be your age, Sawn-off,” she said contemptuously. “We don’t want trouble, but you’ll have it if you don’t watch out. Riff could handle ten like you. If you don’t want to land up in the casualty ward, hand over your wallet and your watch. I’ll see Riff doesn’t hurt you.”

The little guy sniggered. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“The Leatherjackets! Two dumb vicious kids who can’t earn a dime unless they use force. Baby, this has been piling up for you both for a long, long time. Now you’re going to get it.”

As he spoke the bedroom door swung open and Riff came in. Usually when he entered this sordid room, Chita had taken off her clothes and was lying naked on the bed, and this gave him the chance of acting as the indignant brother. Seeing her sitting on the bed, fully dressed and staring at the little guy who stood in the centre of the room, still smiling, brought Riff to an abrupt standstill.

“Come on in, punk,” the little guy said. “I’ve been sweating to meet you.”

Riff looked at Chita who shrugged impatiently.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, but she was a little uneasy. “I guess he’s nuts.”

Riff moved into the room and shut the door. There was a watchful, alert expression in his eyes. His big fists dangled loosely at his sides.

“Okay, Mac,” he said. “The watch and the wallet. Snap it up. I want some sleep tonight even if you don’t.”

“I’m in no hurry to sleep,” the little guy said and sniggered. He seemed to be having a wonderful time and his lack of fear sparked off Riff’s vicious temper.

“Snap it up!” he snarled and began to move forward.

The little guy backed away quickly until he was against the far wall.

“You want my wallet?” he asked and put his hand inside his coat.

“Watch him!” Chita said sharply.

Riff paused. The little guy had a gun in his hand. He pointed it at Riff.

“Hi, sucker!” the little guy said cheerfully. “You didn’t expect to run into anything like this, did you?”

Riff snarled at him.

“You let off that heater and you’ll be in lots of trouble,” he said.

He made a quick feinting movement to the right and then charged the little guy. Chita caught her breath. It seemed a mad thing to do. She saw Riff reel back and clap his hands to his face as at the same time, she smelt the burning fumes of ammonia.

Riff fell on his knees, his hands scrubbing at his eyes and howling like an animal in pain. Sniggering, the little guy watched him. As Chita started to her feet, he swung around and aimed the ammonia gun at her. She just managed to cover her face with her hands as the burst of ammonia hit her. She saved her eyes, but she drew in a lungful of the scorching fumes. Screaming, she rolled from the bed onto the floor.

The little guy regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. He put the gun back into his pocket. He took his raincoat from the peg and put it on. Then he slapped his hat on his head at a jaunty angle. He paused for a long moment to watch the Cranes writhing like cut worms on the floor, then he let himself out of the room and went jauntily down to his car.

The Cranes never found out who he was. When the news got around how he had fixed them, those who had suffered at their hands regarded this anonymous little guy as a symbol of justice.

Special Agent Abe Mason sat in his car some fifty yards from the entrance to the Regis Court Hotel, a quiet, second-rate hotel in a side street off Van Ness Avenue, San Francisco.

The previous evening, Special Agent Harry Garson had reported to the Field Office that Kramer had arrived at the hotel and had booked in. Since then, Garson and Mason had taken turns to watch the hotel.

Since Kramer had arrived, neither of the agents had seen him. He appeared to be lying doggo. They were satisfied there was no rear exit to the hotel. When Kramer chose to show himself, they wouldn’t fail to spot him.

The time by Mason’s strap watch was twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. The morning had been unproductive so far, but Mason was trained to patience. Often enough he had sat outside sleazy hotels for days on end without anything happening, but he knew, sooner or later, so long as he remained where he was, something was bound to happen.

At exactly eleven-thirty, his patience was rewarded. A taxi pulled up outside the hotel and Moe Zegetti got out. After paying the cabby, he hurried into the hotel. Mason lifted the mike of his radiotelephone and reported back to Jay Dennison.

“Stick with them, Abe,” Dennison said. “I’ll send Tom over. When Zegetti comes out, Tom will take care of him. You take care of Kramer.”

Two elderly women came down the street and entered the hotel. A little later a woman with a small boy came in a taxi and also entered the hotel.