James Chase - The World in My Pocket

Bleck was pleased to see how Kitson had immediately risen to the bait, looking like an infuriated bull.

‘Yeah?’ He laughed. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, stupe. She’s more likely to go around with a guy like me than you. After all I’ve had education. You — well, you’d look pretty silly trying to order a meal in Paris, taking her any place with class with that squashed snout of yours. You can’t even read, can you?’

‘You shut up!’ Kitson said, ‘or I’ll take a poke at you.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ Bleck said, with a sudden rasp in his voice. ‘Last time you took me by surprise, but don’t try it again, bum. You’ll think the bomb had hit you.’

Kitson half turned, ready to swing a punch, when a horn blasted behind him, bringing him to his senses. He saw the traffic light had changed to green and the cars ahead of him were almost out of sight. Breathing heavily and muttering under his breath, he sent the car forward.

‘Yeah,’ Bleck went on, delighting in needling Kitson. ‘I had a talk with her the other day and we got around to Paris. I was over there a couple of years ago and I got to know the place. She said she always wanted.’

‘Will you shut up!’ Kitson exclaimed, ‘or I’ll stop the car and I’ll shut you up!’

‘Okay, okay,’ Bleck said patronizingly. ‘I just wanted to warn you when you are playing the lovesick groom to remember I’ve got the first claim. If you don’t remember, then you and me will have trouble.’

They reached the parking lot before Kitson could think of a suitable rejoinder. He was suddenly depressed. A girl like Ginny could fall for a smooth operator like Bleck: a guy who knew his way around, who had education and who probably did know Paris like he said. That was opposition that overwhelmed Kitson. He wasn’t sure either if he could take Bleck in a fight. Bleck was fourteen pounds heavier than Kitson, and he was in good condition. Kitson had seen him fight once in a saloon brawl and he had been impressed by the weight of Bleck’s punching. He was a savage, ruthless fighter with every dirty trick for disabling a man up his sleeve.

When they arrived at the parking lot they found there was no attendant to look after the cars parked in two long rows.

As the two men got out, Bleck said, ‘You take the top row. I’ll take the other. If you find anything, whistle.’

The two men separated, and Kitson walked fast along the long line of cars, his mind seething. He kept trying to assure himself that Bleck had been lying about Ginny and he joining up together, but it worried him. At least, he told himself, he would have a couple of days – three with luck — with her alone, and he decided this would be his one chance to win her if she was to be won, which he felt doubtful about. There were moments when she looked so hard and wooden, Kitson wondered if any man could possibly win her.

He paused abruptly as he came upon an MG two-seater sports car, parked between a Cadillac and a Jaguar. This would do, he told himself, and, looking quickly to right and left to make sure no one was in sight, he went to the car and examined it.

He had a small flashlight with him, and with the aid of its beam he checked the car over. In the glove compartment he found the ignition key. He whistled to Bleck, who he could see walking along the lower row of cars.

Bleck joined him.

‘This looks okay,’ Kitson said, ‘and the ignition key’s here.’

Bleck studied the car and nodded.

‘Yeah. You’re getting smart, plough boy.’ He looked at Kitson with a jeering smile. ‘Well, you drive it to Gypo. Since you’ve been elected as the bright boy driver and since you’ve got the soft end of the job, you may as well take a little risk now before you start making sheep’s eyes at Ginny.’

This was more than Kitson could stomach. Without thinking, he slammed his fist at Bleck’s head. Bleck was hoping he would do exactly that and he was ready for him. He shifted his head a fraction to the left so Kitson’s fist sailed over his shoulder, then as Kitson lurched forward, off balance, Bleck hit him in the pit of his stomach, solidly, all his weight and strength gathered into a punch that didn’t travel more than a few inches.

Kitson had been out of training now for months, and his muscles had softened. The blow paralysed him. He fell on his knees, gagging, a white flame of pain engulfing him.

Bleck stepped back, a cruel grin on his face.

‘That makes us even, bum,’ he said. ‘Don’t swing another punch at me again or I’ll make you even more sorry. Get that car to Gypo and snap it up.’

He walked away to the Lincoln leaving Kitson still on his knees, his head hanging, while he struggled to get his breath back into his tortured lungs.

It took him some minutes to recover from the impact of the punch. Finally, he got to his feet, then, moving painfully, his mind on fire with the humiliation of his defeat, he got into the MG, started the engine and drove out of the parking lot.

He had asked for it, he told himself savagely, as keeping to the back streets, he headed for Gypo’s workshop, but the next time would be different. He felt sure that there would have to be a final clash between Bleck and himself. For months now Bleck had been picking on him, and if Bleck thought he was going to steal Ginny from him, he had another think coming. When the clash did come, he was forewarned. Bleck could punch and he would have to keep away from that devastating right hand. Both of them had surprised each other with a sucker punch. Both of them wouldn’t be taken by surprise again.

While Kitson continued on his way to Gypo’s workshop, Morgan was driving back to his room off the town’s main street. Morgan’s mind was occupied with the coming job. He had gone over the plan time and again, taking the job much more seriously than any of the other three. This would be the last job he would do, he told himself as he steered the car through the heavy traffic.

The rain had now ceased, but the roads were slippery and glistened in his headlights, and he drove carefully.

As soon as they had the money, he thought, the mob would split up. He had already made arrangements for his own getaway. In his wallet he had an air ticket for a Mexican-Californian border town; a priority ticket, undated, but that gave him the right to board any plane out at any time. He had rented a safe deposit in the town in which he intended to lodge his share of the loot. He would then cross the border into Mexico and wait. When he felt it safe enough, he would begin to buy bearer bonds, and once he had turned the whole two hundred thousand dollars into bonds, he felt he not only had the world in his pocket, but also at his feet.

He wasn’t kidding himself about this job. He had a fifty-fifty chance of survival. The opposition would be fierce. The police and the Army would throw in every man and every trick they knew to get the money back. He didn’t trust Bleck nor Kitson nor Gypo. So long as he directed them they would be all right, but once his hand was off the helm, once they were on their own, their chances of escape were small. It irked him to think that he had organized a steal as big as a million dollars, only to get a fifth share for himself. He felt sure that the rest of the money would eventually be grabbed by the police with the possible exception of Ginny’s share.

Ginny intrigued him, but she also worried him.

Her plan to capture the truck had been complete and brilliant.

He couldn’t believe she had thought the plan out herself. Then who was behind her? Had she double-crossed someone? He supposed it wasn’t his business. She had given him the plan and he was going to profit by it. She had accepted the hardest and most dangerous part of the job.