Carla's Revenge Page 2

  King paced the room, scowling. His voice was bitter and his hands tightly clenched.

  “Me get out of New York,” he raged. “Me!”

  He brought out his automatic and balanced it in his hand.

  “If I had Shapirro here—” His voice died away, but the tone he used left no doubt in Carla’s mind that it would have been strictly unhealthy for Shapirro to have shown himself at that particular moment.

  Carla smoked her cigarette in silence. Ham wasn’t saying anything either. Jerry emptied his glass and lounged across the room.

  “What yer gonna do, boss?” he asked.

  King roared like a wounded lion.

  “Do? I’m not letting any slick shyster like Shapirro run me outa town! I’ll blast him and his gang into tiny shreds! I’ll—”

  “Shapirro’s smart,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “He isn’t gonna be easy to get at.”

  King calmed down. He pocketed his .45 and walked over to the bar. He poured himself a rye and seated himself next to Carla, on the divan. Absently he stroked her arm while he drank, thinking hard.

  Carla was curious about Shapirro. She’d heard of him, but didn’t know enough to gauge the menace he represented.

  “Who is Shapirro?” she asked. “What’s his angle?”

  King said: “Shapirro’s a high-class racketeer. He operates on West Side: gambling saloons, dope, women. Anything the suckers in dress suits will pay for—and they pay big. There’s nothing small-time about Sylvester Shapirro.”

  Jerry said: “Shapirro ain’t nice people. He’s a fancy man.” He spat out the words to show his contempt.

  “And now he’s horning in on my territory,” King said indignantly. “Why can’t he stay on West Side? I don’t interfere with him—why should he try to cut in on me?”

  No one answered that question.

  King said, grimly: “I ain’t running from no fancy guy. If he wants to fight it out, I’ll be around.”

  Jerry lit a fresh cigarette. Through the haze of blue smoke, he observed:

  “Shapirro’s place is the other end of Long Island up by Montauk Point. He never comes out—lives behind a high wall, guarded by a private army. He’s gonna be tough to crack.”

  King sipped his rye.

  “Yeah,” he said, “that’s right. But his mobsters have got to operate in the open. We’ll shoot ’em up. We crack down on every guy who pays Shapirro protection money. And if Shapirro doesn’t call it off then, we’ll take the boys up to Montauk Point and start a war. We’ll blast him out with tommy-guns and pineapples!”

  He turned to Carla, and said:

  “This Waldemar guy, describe him for me.”

  Carla described the debonair man with the blue eyes and gold-tipped cane in detail. King shook his head.

  “I’ve never heard of a guy like that,” he said. “Have you, Jerry?”

  “Naw,” said Jerry. “Sounds like one of Shapirro’s fancy boys to me.”

  “You heard of him, Ham?” King asked.

  Ham shook his head; his dull eyes registered nothing. Ham wasn’t a guy to waste words when a shake of the head would do.

  “I guess he must come from outa town,” King said thoughtfully. “When I’ve finished with him, he’ll wished he’d stayed there!”

  No one mentioned Nick. He didn’t count any more. King looked at Jerry and Ham; he said:

  “You two beat it. Round up the boys—tomorrow, we start gunning for Shapirro’s mob.”

  Jerry lounged across the room and went out. Ham lumbered after him. When the door had closed behind them, King looked at Carla.

  “Jeez,” he said, “but you’re lovely.”

  He hauled her closer and started to kiss her. King was big and strong and she liked the touch of his rough hands on her smooth skin, liked the savageness of his kisses. She clung to him, kissing him back.

  * * * * * * *

  The morning was bright and sunny. Carla drove north, out of New York City, taking the main highway and passing everything on the road. She wasn’t in a hurry—she just liked to drive that way. Anything for a thrill. Danger was something she craved.

  The sun was bright on the trees lining the road, and on the distant hills, and there was a crispness in the air. But Carla didn’t notice. She had other things on her mind. Like the coming battle between King Logan and Shapirro. And thinking about that brought back the past.

  It was nine months since she’d met King and decided he could give her what she craved out of life. Excitement. Carla had always craved excitement—it was in her blood. Blood that went back to the pioneers of the Old West, men who had fought halfway across a continent to make new homes for their families. Carla had been born in the Deep South—her mother had died bringing her into the world—and she’d lived there with her father until she was ten. Then Matthew Bowman had moved north to New York.

  Old Matthew Bowman was rich by then; his lands brought him millions from white cotton. He bought a large house on Mount Vernon with the intention of giving his daughter, Carla, the finest education money could buy. He wanted her to mix with high society, to learn to conduct herself like a lady of high birth.

  But Carla had wild blood in her. At seventeen, she rebelled, walked out of finishing school, and got mixed up with a fast-living set of city parasites. She gambled away a small fortune, drank more than she could hold. She was in and out of police courts on charges of dangerous driving, assaulting policemen, and generally misbehaving to the public nuisance.

  She lived in nightclubs and gambling dens until her father took to his bed with heart disease. The doctor said it had been brought on by worrying over Carla. That stopped her cold. Her father was the only person Carla had any feeling for—she reformed, for a time. Then broke out again.

  Matthew Bowman, confined to his bed, knew nothing of his daughter’s current activities. If he had, he’d have died of shock. Carla was determined he should never learn of her association with King Logan.

  She had been just nineteen when she met King. Tired of society life, Carla had gone slumming in the Battery, looking for life in the raw. She’d been attracted to King, thrilled when she learned he was a gangster with several killings behind him. This, she thought, was the real thing. Life in all its rawness, exciting, dangerous.

  She had become King’s current flame and joined the gang, collecting protection money, learning to use a gun, to hate the law, to live adventurously. King thrilled her, too. She wasn’t in love with him—she’d never loved any man—but she liked it when he took her in his arms. It roused her blood, made her conscious of her beauty, her hold over him. King Logan was tough, a giant of a man, well-muscled, and it gave Clara a sense of power to know that she could control him whenever she wanted.

  The car moved swiftly along the broad avenue, carrying her towards Mount Vernon and her father’s home. She visited him once a week, telling lies to account for her absence. Old Matthew Bowman would never learn from her how his daughter was living.

  She drove a high-powered, low-slung Chevy, not the armoured Lincoln King kept for the gang’s use. It climbed the hill towards the rambling old house where her father lay dying. The doctor said he would last a good many years yet—if he didn’t have any sudden shocks.

  She stopped the Chevy outside the steps leading up to the house, jumped out, and went inside. She was wearing a plain skirt of dark brown that hung below her knees, a white silk blouse that showed off her full figure, and a tweed jacket.

  She snapped a greeting to the butler and went upstairs. Old Matthew Bowman was sitting up in bed, his face a wrinkled parchment the colour of faded straw. His eyes were faded too, and grey wisps of hair sprouted from his nearly bald head. His forehead was high and broad, all there was left to denote the proud manner in which he had once carried his lean frame. His gnarled hands shook as he held his daughter.

  “Hi, Pop,” Clara said brightly, kissing him with genuine affection. “How’re you feeling today?”

  “I’d feel a lot bet
ter if you were living here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Matthew Bowman grumbled.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Pop,” Carla said quickly. “I haven’t made newspaper headlines since I turned over a new leaf.”

  “I guess that’s right,” her father sighed. “A lively young girl like you doesn’t want to be tied down. I don’t mind you gadding about—so long as you keep out of trouble.”

  Carla fussed around, making him comfortable. She had lunch in his room and talked about the good time she was having with a purely fictitious society family. It was a good story and brought a twinkle to Old Matthew’s dim eyes.

  Around four o’clock, Carla kissed him goodbye.

  “Promised to meet someone this evening,” she said. “See you next week, Pop.”

  She went downstairs, out to the Chev, and drove back to Brooklyn and King Logan. If King was gunning for Shapirro’s mob, she didn’t want to miss any of the fun. And her father need never know.…

  After Carla had left him, Matthew Bowman sat up. His gnarled hand pressed a bell-push and a man came into the room. The man wasn’t handsome and his clothes were greasy. He licked his lips all the time. His face was shiny, his manner sly, and his eyes never focused long in one place.

  “Well,” demanded Matthew Bowman, “did you see her, Piggot?”

  Piggot nodded.

  “Nice-looking girl,” he said, and waited.

  Bowman looked steadily at Piggot.

  “Carla isn’t to know I’ve set you to watch her,” he said in a strained voice. “She’s got hot blood in her veins, and she’d flare up right away if she ever learnt that her father had put a private detective on her heels. But I must know what she’s up to.”

  He brooded a while before continuing:

  “Carla’s been too quiet lately. It isn’t like her at all—I’m afraid she may have got herself into serious trouble and doesn’t want to worry me with it. I want you to watch her, see where she goes, who she meets. Don’t take any action yourself—report back to me. I’ll decide what to do.”

  Matthew Bowman smiled a little.

  “Carla’s growing up. She’s a pretty girl—and I don’t want her making a bad match. But she mustn’t know I’m having her watched—you understand that? Carla’s got the real Bowman temper—she’d flare up like a Fourth of July rocket. You’re a detective—though you don’t look like one! It’s up to you to tail her without being found out. That’s all.”

  Piggot licked his lips.

  “I’ll keep on her tail, Mr. Bowman—that’s an old job for me. I’ll find out what you want and report straight back.”

  Old Matthew Bowman lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes. He didn’t say any more, so Piggot walked out of the room. He went down the stairs and out of the house.

  A cinch, this job, he thought; just keep an eye on some dizzy dame. His face wore a greasy smile as he got in his car and drove after Carla, along the main highway to New York.

  Maybe, if he played his cards right, there would be more money to be made out of Carla than her father. If she had a secret and wanted it kept quiet…well, Piggot wasn’t the man to turn down an offer. If it was big enough. He licked his lips as he thought about that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Night was a dark shroud over Manhattan’s Bowery. The olive-green Lincoln slid smoothly between gaunt, concrete blocks, gliding with dimmed lights through the rain-washed streets. A fine mist of rain obscured the view for more than fifteen yards, and the street corners lacked the usual loungers with wide-brimmed hats and padded shoulders.

  Jerry was driving, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips. Ham sat beside him, silent, nursing a submachine gun. In the back, King Logan sat with Carla. Carla was dressed in a black velvet gown with bare shoulders, and her jet-black eyes were alive with excitement. She gripped her handbag tightly, aware of the revolver it contained.

  King’s face was impassive. He leaned back, waiting for the Lincoln to arrive at their destination. Behind the Lincoln, two cars followed with King’s mob, armed and ready for action. If Shapirro’s gang wanted to shoot it out, King wouldn’t disappoint them.

  Jerry said: “Coming up to Luigi’s, boss.”

  King grunted. He took out his automatic, inspected it, slipped it back in his pocket. The Lincoln slowed down and stopped outside a café. Yellow light filtered through the windows and closed door. Inside, Luigi had few customers—business wasn’t good on account of the rain.

  King waited for the first of his two cars to pass him and park a hundred yards further on. He got out of the Lincoln and looked both ways. He watched all the shadows, the dark corners and alleys—and saw no one. He glanced back at his second car, saw that it was parked a hundred yards to the rear. He was covered.

  “Keep the engine running,” he grunted to Jerry, and crossed the street.

  Carla watched him push open the door of the café and go in. King didn’t close the door behind him. He stood a moment, his eyes moving round the tables, stabbing into the doorway behind the counter. Satisfied that none of Shapirro’s mob were waiting for him, he went up to the counter.

  “Hi, Luigi,” he said.

  Luigi grinned weakly. He had a dingy apron tied round his fat belly and a look of apprehension on his round face.

  “Good evenin’, Mister Logan,” he said eagerly. “You want Luigi should fix you a hot meal, yes? First class. No charge to you, Mister Logan. On the house, yes?”

  King smiled and let his hands rest casually on top of the counter.

  “Not tonight, Luigi. Just dropped in for a chat. Heard you were paying insurance to a new outfit and wanted to get it straight. For the records.”

  Luigi hissed in air.

  “No trouble, please Mister Logan. I pay you insurance, two, three years now.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Luigi, you did. I ain’t gonna make trouble—I just wanta get it straight, that’s all. You paying another mob?”

  The café owner’s round eyes looked round his shop. There were a couple of guys talking horses at one table; a girl powdering her face at another. He relaxed a little; King wouldn’t start anything with witnesses around.

  “Thassa right, Mister Logan,” he said eagerly. “I pay another firm—Traders’ Insurance Inc. They say I pay them or they make big trouble.”

  King looked at Luigi thoughtfully. He said: “I hope they can give you protection.”

  He turned and walked out of the café, leaving the door open. He glanced both ways; the street was still deserted. He crossed to the car and opened the door.

  “Well?” said Jerry.

  “Yeah—Shapirro’s cutting in on us,” King said.

  He picked up a hand grenade and pulled out the pin.

  “But not for long,” he said, tossing the grenade through the open door of the café.

  King dived into the Lincoln and Jerry stamped on the accelerator. Carla looked back. She saw yellow light streaming out through the open door. The seconds dragged by, then—

  There was a loud explosion as the grenade detonated. A blinding streak of orange flame and clouds of black smoke and dust. A shattering of glass and splintering of woodwork. Twisted steelwork hurled through the air.

  King said: “Luigi ain’t gonna pay Shapirro no more insurance—and the other suckers are gonna get the idea he can’t come through with any real protection. That’s the way I like it.”

  King’s other two cars were close behind the Lincoln now. Luigi’s café was ablaze; angry red tongues of flame shot up into the night air. No one was going to come out of the café to tell the story. When the cops got there, they’d find only charred corpses…but the other paying clients on King’s list would know what had happened.

  Jerry chain-lit another cigarette.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “We’ll call on Toni next—I wouldn’t want him to get the idea we don’t mean business.”

  Jerry turned the Lincoln down side streets, heading for Toni’s shop. King, in the ba
ck, hauled Carla closer and started kissing her. He liked to while away the time between jobs— and Carla was always ready for a little love-play.

  “Baby,” he said, “I’m gonna let you take a hand with Toni. This is what you’re gonna do.…”

  * * * * * * *

  William Franks was no longer a young man. He hitched his drab raincoat tighter about his withered frame as he walked along the dim streets of Bowery. The fine mist of rain had an icy edge to it and Frank was glad he was nearly home; Martha would be waiting with hot muffins and that made him glad he didn’t have far to go.

  He turned down a dark alley, moving slowly over the cobblestones, feeling for the rickety wooden fence with a shaky hand. He avoided the refuse bins automatically; although he couldn’t see well in the gloom, he knew every inch of the alley leading to his small house. He’d used the alley every day and night for the past thirty years.

  He wasn’t very happy about his shop. King Logan took five hundred bucks a week off him for protection—and now that this new firm, Traders’ Insurance Inc., was moving in, Franks smelled trouble in the air. Maybe he’d sell up; then he and Martha would be able to retire as they’d always wanted to.

  It would be nice to go away with Martha, to forget about Logan and his insurance to leave the Bowery for.…

  “Hullo Franks,” said a quiet voice from the darkness.

  Franks peered into the gloom. He made out the form of a blond-haired man in a perfectly cut gabardine raincoat. He recognized the debonair Rufus Waldemar with his gold-tipped cane.

  Two more men moved up out of the darkness and took Franks’ arms. They were both lean and muscular with gaunt hatchet faces and cold eyes. Frank began to shake with fear.