James Chase: Not My Thing

Ng did as he was told.

‘Here’s a nerve here,’ Chi Wu said, pointing. ‘Now I will very gently press it… so…’

Ng felt a sharp tingle of pain shoot up his arm and to his brain, bad enough to make him flinch.

‘You see? If I had pressed that nerve end brutally, you would have been in agony.’

Ng was fascinated, and listened every evening, extracting knowledge from the old doctor until he was well versed in the science of death-dealing and inflicting pain. It was not morbid curiosity. Ng had a pressing problem and, from what the old doctor was teaching him, Ng realized that his problem could be solved.

For the past three Saturday nights, he found Won Pu, a powerfully built youth, waiting for him as he left the doctor’s office. He told Ng to hand over his earnings. The old doctor paid Ng two dollars a week for keeping his place clean. Knowing that Won Pu was capable of doing him a serious injury, Ng complied and, returning home, had told his mother that his earnings had been stolen. She had looked at him in despair. Without his two dollars, how could she go to market and restock her pathetic restaurant?

The following Saturday, he found Won Pu, a brutal grin on his face, waiting. With a quick movement, Ng darted away and made for a long, dark alley. With a roar of rage, Won Pu took after him. Knowing he could easily outpace the bully, once Ng was satisfied that he had drawn his enemy into a dark recess, he stopped. Won Pu came up, snarling.

‘Give me the money!’ he shouted. ‘I will then push your fornicating face into the back of your fornicating head!’

In the dim light of the moon, Ng saw the outstretched hand. His fingers closed on the nerve end and Won Pu screamed, going down on his knees. Ng was on him like a tiger cat, his fingers pressing the vital blood vessel. In seconds, Won Pu was dead.

From then on, Ng had no problems about giving his mother the two dollars he had earned, wondering what she would have said if he had told her how he had rid himself of the thief.

He kept this precious secret of death-dealing to himself. This was so precious, it was not to be shared with anyone.

Twice during the next two years, Ng had been forced to resort to murder to protect his mother from two men, lusting after her. It had been very simple. He had followed each man, pounced in a lonely spot and, without trouble, killed them.

When this thickset man had forced his way into the apartment and had told Ng what he intended to do, Ng knew this man had to be killed. It had been so easy to incapacitate the man, but he understood his master’s reluctance to have the man killed in the apartment.

Ng always thought of Kling as his ‘master’. There was nothing in the world that he wouldn’t do for him.

However, he had shot this man because he didn’t want even his master to know of the death-dealing power he had in his fingers.

Having lived with Kling for many months, Ng had come to realize how his master made his money. The fact that his master was a hired killer didn’t disturb Ng. It was a way of life, he told himself.

Well, now his master knew that he too was a killer. Who knows? he thought, his master might find him extra useful.

He turned off the light and went peacefully to sleep.

Two nights later, Kling was drinking a brandy after an excellent meal of steak in a cream and pepper sauce, when the telephone bell rang.

He reached out a long arm and picked up the receiver.

‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘Is that you, Ernie?’ A man’s voice.

‘Well, if it isn’t some sonofabitch is wearing my shirt.’

A laugh.

‘This is Lucky Lucan.’

Kling grimaced.

‘Oh, yeah? You’re the guy who makes suckers out of old, rich women… right?’

There was another laugh at the other end of the line: rather a forced laugh.

‘Well, each to his trade, Ernie.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘You still in business?’

‘Sure.’

‘What looks like a job has come up, Ernie. It needs looking at in depth. Would you be interested?’

‘I’m always interested in making money.’

‘What’s your going rate now? It’s got to be a perfect job, Ernie. Absolutely no blow-back.’

Kling puffed at his cigar. He had little faith in a gigolo like Lucan.

‘For that kind of job, three hundred thousand and expenses.’

‘Jesus, Ernie! That’s high!’

‘Sure, but it’d be a perfect job, and that kind of job needs working on. Take it or leave it, Lucky. I’ve plenty of money, and I don’t need the job. Please yourself.’

There was a pause, then Lucan said, ‘Okay. I’ll talk around. Would you be prepared to fly down to Paradise City in a couple of days, and meet me?’

‘Paradise City, huh? That’s south of Miami. Sure: all expenses paid, I’ll come.’

‘I’ll see what I can fix. If I get the green light, I’ll book you in at the Star Motel where I’m staying. Okay?’

‘Sure, but make it for two, Lucky. I have a partner now,’ and as Lucan began to protest, Kling, with a jeering smile, hung up.

Charles Smyth was the Jamisons’ butler and major-domo. He had been with them since they had married.

Smyth, in his late fifties, was a bean-pole of a man, with balding head, hollow cheeks and a large nose that dominated his features. He adored Shannon and disliked Jamison, who usually ignored him, issuing curt orders from time to time, leaving Shannon and Smyth to run the two homes with the complete efficiency that Jamison expected.

Every morning at exactly 08.00, Jamison came down for breakfast with Smyth waiting. Jamison’s breakfast consisted always of orange juice, grilled ham, toast, marmalade and coffee.

‘Good-morning, sir,’ Smyth said as Jamison came into the breakfast-room. A quick look at the hard face warned him that Jamison was in a bad mood.

Jamison grunted, sat down and began to look at the financial newspapers that Smyth always placed where Jamison could reach them.

Smyth served the grilled ham and poured the coffee. He had watched the gradual deterioration of Jamison’s marriage, and it saddened him.

Shannon had left some minutes ago to attend Mass. When she returned, Smyth would consult her about lunch and dinner. He had heard the previous night Jamison’s barking voice and, a little alarmed, he had left his sitting-room and listened. He had heard Shannon say: If you want a legal separation, tell me, but there can be no divorce. He had hurriedly returned to his room. He believed eavesdropping was an unforgivable sin.

He understood his master wanted an heir. He further understood his mistress had done everything possible. It was a sad and dreadful problem, and Smyth grieved for both of them.

‘Smyth!’ Jamison snapped as he began to cut up the ham. ‘I want a Hertz rental car here at 10.15. Arrange it!’

Startled, Smyth bowed.

‘Certainly, sir. Is there anything else you require?’

‘No! Arrange about the car,’ Jamison snapped and went on eating.

Breakfast finished, he went into his study, carrying the newspapers. Smyth, slightly bewildered, arranged with the Hertz rental service for a Mercedes to be brought to the villa at exactly ten fifteen.

Jamison settled in his desk chair and nodded to himself. This morning, he would meet again this man, Lucan. He was certainly not going to drive up to this man’s motel in his Rolls, with the give-away number plates SJ1. He wanted to remain anonymous. He had no idea, of course, that Lucan had made inquiries about him, and now knew who he was. If Lucan didn’t come up with a serious proposition, then Jamison told himself, he would shop elsewhere.

As Smyth was clearing the breakfast-table, he saw Shannon’s car arrive. He hastily went into the kitchen and prepared Shannon’s simple breakfast of orange juice, two slices of toast and cherry jam. He waited a few minutes, then getting in the elevator, went to Shannon’s living-quarters that consisted of a large sitting-room, a bedroom, bathroom and a wide veranda, looking onto the sea.