Black Genesis

Chapter 1

Heller couldn’t find anybody in the Brewster lobby, so he went behind the desk, put the thirty-dollar room price under the counter where it could be seen, put his Al Capone registration card on top of it and wrote himself a receipt on their invoice machine, signing it Brinks. The FBI had not taught him very well: Capone had never once robbed a Brinks armored car. I know my American history!

Working on deciphering the scribbled numbers around the lobby public phone — some of them girls, some of them pimps and some of them gays — he found a taxi company and phoned it.

After getting his baggage into the cab, he said to the German-looking driver, “I’m looking for a place to live. A better hotel than this one. Something with some class.”

With Heller noting bashed fenders of cars and darting amongst collision-fixated cars, they were soon over on Madison Avenue, roaring uptown.

At 59th Street and Fifth Avenue, the cabby dumped Heller in a driveway. Heller unloaded his baggage and offered a twenty-dollar bill. The cabby simply took the bill and drove rapidly away, though the fare had been much less. Heller was learning about New York.

He looked up. The Snob Palace Hotel soared above him. Although there were uniformed doormen and bellboys racing about, nobody took his baggage. He gathered it up and went in. A vast, glittering lobby stretched about him, almost a hangar. Sparkling but decorous light fixtures illuminated the subdued and decorous furnishings. An expensive and decorous throng eddied around him as he made his way to the Room Desk.

There were numerous clerks, all busy. Heller waited. Nobody looked up. Finally, he said to one clerk, “I’d like a room.”

“Do you have a reservation?” said the clerk. “No? Then see the assistant manager. Over there, please.”

The assistant manager was busy. He was answering a complaint on the phone in a suitably decorous voice. Something about a poodle not having been aired. Finally he looked up. He did not much care for what he saw. By a mirror that covered the back wall behind him, I could see it, too.

Here was somebody in a loud, too-small, red-checked jacket and a pair of blue-striped pants that didn’t reach his baseball shoes and who had, of all things, a red baseball cap on the back of his head. “Yes?” said the assistant manager.

Heller chipped the ice off it. “I’d like a nice room, maybe two rooms.”

“Are you with your parents?”

“No, they’re not on Earth.”

“Suites start at four hundred dollars a day and go up. I shouldn’t think you would be interested. Good day.” And he got on the phone to scold the help for not decorously airing somebody’s poodle.

I knew what was wrong. Heller was thinking in credits. A credit was worth several dollars. He picked up his baggage, walked out and walked into a cab which had just discharged a Pekingese that had been getting aired.

“I am looking for a room. I want something less expensive than they have in this place.”

The driver promptly dashed downtown, switched over to Lexington Avenue, avoided numerous smashups and dumped Heller at 21st Street. Heller offered a twenty-dollar bill. The driver was very surprised when it didn’t come out from between Heller’s fingers. He grumblingly got change and in a swift movement, they swapped monies. Heller gave him a fifty-cent tip. He was learning. Heller looked up at a ramshackle building. The canopy over the sidewalk said:

He picked up his bags and walked in. A sodden group of winos sagged on sodden furniture. A sodden clerk slumped over a sodden desk. It was a very sodden lobby.

An odd sound hit my ears. Then I identified it. It was Heller sniffing. “Oof!” he said to nobody. “You’d think this place was run by the Apparatus!”

Code break! Code break! And unpatriotic! I made a hasty note and marked the recording strip. Nobody can accuse me of not doing my duty!

He hefted his bags, turned around and left.

Outside he stopped and looked back at the building. “You hotels can go sink yourselves! A house would cost less and be cleaner!”

It was two blocks before he could find another cab. It was sitting at the curb and Heller hailed it before it could drive off.

The driver looked like he had been up every night for the past year. He also didn’t have any space between his eyes and hairline. A Neanderthal type.

Heller loaded his baggage. He leaned forward to speak through the glass and wire New York cabbies hope will protect them from muggers.

“Do you know of a house?”

The driver turned around to look at him. He thought. He said, “Do you have any money?”

“Of course I have money,” said Heller.

“You’re awfully young.”

“Look,” said Heller, “do you know of a house or don’t you?”

The driver looked at him doubtfully but then nodded.

“All right,” said Heller, “take me there!”

They bashed their way up into the Forties and headed over toward the East River. The black, tall slab of the United Nations pointed skyward in the near distance. They were drawing into a quieter, more elegant neighborhood full of imposing, high-rise buildings.

They pulled up at the curb before one. It was a building of gleaming stone and opaque glass, a beautiful modern structure many stories high. A patch of greenery and a brief curved drive set it back slightly from the sidewalk. An elegant, decorous sign, lettered in gold on black stone, was part of the wall to the left of the imposing entrance. The sign said:

The cab had not pulled into the drive because a squat, low, black limousine was sitting there, chauffeur at the wheel. Heller got his bags out of the cab and put them on the walk. He was fishing in his pockets for the fare.

And then a remarkable thing happened!

The cabby, who had shortly before been so dopey, stared at the limousine and front entrance. His eyes suddenly shot wide with fear!

With a screech of tires, the cabby got his hack the Hells out of there!

Without being paid!

Heller gazed after the fleeing cab. He put the money back in his pocket. He hefted his bags and walked toward the entrance.

The limousine had its engine running.

There was a tough-looking young man lounging outside the door to the right of it. He was dressed in a double-breasted suit and he had a hat pulled down over his eyes. He pried himself off the wall as Heller approached.

The young man’s right hand came up. Something in it!

It was a miniature walkie-talkie radio. He said something into it, eyeing Heller.

Something was going on! Something dangerous!

And Heller, the idiot, wasn’t taking alarm! He walked on in through the entrance.

The lobby was small but dignified. Iron spiral staircases went up to a balcony on the far wall. Gold elevator doors were set into the polished tan stone. Designs in gold-colored metal wandered gracefully on the walls. There were some upholstered chairs of beautiful design, in groups of two, half-hidden by lovely green plants. A long, gold-colored counter was the obvious reception place.

There was nobody in sight! Not a soul!

Heller clickety-clacked across the polished, multicolored stone terrazzo floor, going toward the counter.

A small door in the wall to the left of the counter, marked with a sign: Host, opened about six inches. There was a man’s face there. A tough one. A hand came out and beckoned silently to Heller.

Heller put down his baggage and walked over to the door. It swung open.

It was a large, ornate office. At the far end there was a carved desk. At it sat a man, small, well-dressed, black hair, narrow face. The sign on his desk said:

Sitting to the desk’s right were two men, hats on, right hands out of sight. The three were all looking toward Heller.

Behind Heller the door closed.

Suddenly he was seized from behind!

His arms were pinned with a lock grip!

He was wrestled to a straight-back chair in the corner beside the door!

He was forced to sit down in the chair, his captor behind him, still holding him.

One of the men beside the desk gestured at Heller and addressed the manager. “So this is one of your fancy boys.”

“No! No!” cried the man behind the desk. “We don’t use young men here!”

The other gangster near the desk laughed in disbelief. “Aw, quit the (bleep), Vantagio. What do you charge for a boy with a pretty face like his?”

“Let’s get back to business, Vantagio. Faustino says you are going to push drugs here and you push drugs here. We supply, you sell.”

“Never!” said Vantagio. “We’d lose all our clientele! They’d be sure to think we were trying to bleed them for information!”

“Aw, what the hell do the niggers and chinks at the UN know about information!” sneered the gangster nearest Vantagio. “You got to learn new lessons. Faustino calls the shots now and you know it! So where do we start? Before we waste you, that is. Wrecking furniture? Disabling a few whores?”

The other gangster said, “How about the pretty new boy?”

The two hoods looked at each other and grinned. The one who had just made the suggestion lit up a cigarette and got it burning brightly. “For starts, we’ll just put a few deep holes in his face and cost you some fees!”

Holding the glowing cigarette, the gangster got up and started across the room. The man gripping Heller from behind tightened his lock on Heller’s arms.

Abruptly Heller brought his feet off the floor!

He did a sitting back flip!

His toes struck the man behind him on the head!

Heller’s hands caught the sides of the chair seat. He catapulted himself backwards, straight over the head of the one who had been holding him! He landed behind him!

He had the man’s gun out of its shoulder holster!

The gangster halfway across the room had stopped, staring!

The one still near the desk swung up a gun. “Get out of the way!” he screamed at the fellow in the middle of the room. That one promptly dropped to the floor!

The hood near the desk fired!

Heller was behind the one who had held him. The bullet struck the gangster’s chest!

Using his former captor as a shield, Heller was trying to get off a shot.

The hood near the desk fired again. Twice!

Both shots struck Heller’s former captor.

The hood at the desk realized he was shooting his own man! He flinched.

Heller slammed a shot straight into his heart!

The one crouched in the middle of the floor had his gun out. He was trying to get a shot.

Heller got a glimpse of him, momentarily putting himself in view. The man on the floor fired!

Another shot slammed into Heller’s former captor.

Heller ducked to floor level.

He drove a shot straight into the skull of the man who had been crouching on the floor.

Two dead men! The third still flopping about in his death agonies.

“Jesus!” said Vantagio Meretrici at the desk.

Running feet outside approaching.

Heller jumped back away from the door.

The hood who had been at the entrance got half his face and an arm in. He saw Heller.

He was raising a gun!

Heller slammed a shot into his upper shoulder.

The man was hurled back out the door, spinning around. But he did not go down. The door banged shut. Running feet were racing away.

With a roar, the car outside revved up. A car door slammed and the limousine could be heard racing away on screeching tires.

“Jesus!” said Vantagio. Then he seemed to come to life. “Kid, give me a hand, quick!”

The body closest to the desk had fallen on a throw rug. Vantagio grabbed a corner of it and, using it as a kind of sled, sped to the door. He blocked the door open with a chair. Then he grabbed the rug again and skidded it and its burden out into the lobby.

The manager pointed at the man Heller had used for a shield and then out into the lobby. Heller lugged the body out and dumped it in the lobby.

The chortle of distant cop cars sounded.

Together, the manager and Heller dragged the third body out.

An old woman had appeared in the lobby, a neatly uniformed cleaning woman. “Get the blood off the floor in the office!” the manager yelled at her. “Be quick!”

The cop cars were nearer.

The manager dived behind the desk. The clerk was there on the floor, tied up and gagged. Heller took the clerk and cut the bonds off.

The manager arranged the bodies in the lobby. He took the gun Heller had used and wiped it off and put it in the hand of the one who had been Heller’s captor.

The cop cars were drawing up. “The (bleepards),” said the manager. “They had the fuzz tipped to rush in and grab me if there was any shooting!”

The manager surveyed the scene, said something fast in Italian to the clerk and was about to tell Heller something, probably to beat it, when a stentorian voice called out from the entrance, “Everybody freeze!” The everybody was the manager, Heller and the clerk.

A police inspector, fronted with two cops holding riot shotguns, was there. He was a huge man, middle-aged, flabby. “All right, Meretrici, you’re under arrest!”

“For what?” said Vantagio.

The police inspector was looking at the bodies. He glared at the clerk. “What happened?”

“Just like you see,” said the clerk. “That one,” and he pointed to the body that was furthest from the entrance, the one Heller had used for a shield, “was evidently trying to get away from the others. And they came busting in the door after him and they all started shooting each other.”

The police inspector examined each of the bodies and the guns.

“They should be arrested,” said Vantagio. “We don’t allow shooting in here!”

“Wise (bleep),” said the inspector. He came over to Heller. “Who the hell are you?”

“He’s a delivery boy,” said Vantagio. “He came in from the back after the shooting.”

“(Bleep),” said the inspector.

“I wish you’d do your civic duty,” said Vantagio, “the ones the taxpayers pay you for and get these bodies the hell out of here. They already ruined one rug!”

“Don’t you touch nothing,” said the inspector. “The stiff team will be here in a few minutes and they’ll want pictures of all this. And you two,” he pointed at the manager and clerk, “don’t fail to show up at the coroner’s inquest! I oughta jail you as material witnesses!”

“We’ll be glad to perform our civic duties,” said Vantagio. “You just make sure you give honest businessmen better protection hereafter!” He glared at the bodies. “Hoodlums running all over the streets!”

The inspector left. A patrolman stood guard over the bodies so no one could corrupt the evidence.

“I’ll take that baggage in my office,” Vantagio said to Heller and beckoned.

Heller picked up his suitcases and the carry-all and followed him in.

Chapter 2

The cleaning woman had finished mopping up the blood. Vantagio turned the air conditioner on to “vent,” probably to clear out the drifting cordite smoke. He seated Heller in a chair and then sat back down at his ornate desk.

“Kid,” said Vantagio, “you saved my life! I never before seen such terrific shooting!” He regarded Heller for a bit. “How did you come to get here, anyway?”

Heller told him he had been looking for a place to live and then quoted his conversation with the taxi driver in which he had asked for a house.

Vantagio laughed. “Oh, kid, you are a greenhorn. Strictly from the backwoods. Listen, kid. In the vernacular of our fair city, the word ‘house’ means a brothel, a bordello, a bagnio, a crib, a sporting house, a cathouse, a whorehouse or, in short, a house of prostitution. And here you are. This is the pleasure palace of the United Nations, the top ‘house’ in all Manhattan!”

He started to laugh again and then he sobered. “But I can thank La Santissima Vergine that you arrived. I was sure my number was up!”

He sat back, looking at Heller, and thought for a moment. “You’re kind of handy to have around. Kid, could I offer you a job? Something respectable like a bouncer?”

“No,” said Heller. “Thank you. I’ve got to get a diploma. People don’t listen to you unless you have a diploma.”

“Oh, so true! I’m a great believer in education! I have my master’s degree in political science from Empire University,” he said proudly, “and here I am at the top of my profession, head of the UN whorehouse!”

At that moment there was a commotion at the door and two very disheveled men rushed in. Although their clothes were expensive looking, they were very crumpled.

“Where you been?” Vantagio shouted at them.

“We got here as fast as we could,” said one. “At dawn that God (bleeped) Inspector Grafferty busted into our apartment and arrested us for vagrancy and littering. It took until just now for the shyster to bail us out!”

“It was a setup,” said Vantagio. “Police Inspector Bulldog Grafferty,” and he spat sideways on the carpet.

“He was right up the street waiting! He got you two gunsels out of the way so the Faustino mob could come in here and put the pressure on. If I’d refused and they’d have killed me, Grafferty was right on hand to prove they wasted me in self-defense. If this kid hadn’t crashed the party, I’d be dead!” And he told them exactly what had happened and what Heller had done.

“Jesus!” said the two men in unison, looking at Heller.

“Now go down to the dry-cleaning room and get yourselves pressed up and get on duty. We can’t have you looking like a couple of bums! This is a high-class joint!”

“Yes, Mr. Meretrici,” they both said and rushed out.

“This really is a high-class joint,” Vantagio repeated to Heller. “The UN crowd is funny. If they thought we pushed drugs, they’d be sure we were trying to bleed information out of them. No, sir. We stay with tradition. We serve bootleg booze. And booze and drugs don’t mix, kid.”

“Lethal,” said Heller, doubtless remembering his book.

“Eh? Oh, right. You sure said it, kid. No gang wars in booze at all these days. And there’s just as much money to be made in bootleg booze as there ever was in Prohibition. Did you know Federal taxes was ten bucks a fifth now? And it’s more respectable. More traditional.

“Now, there are those that will tell you you can’t have prostitution without having drugs. But that’s baloney. The whores go silly. They get all dried up. They don’t last two years. And they’re an expensive investment! We have to train them, send them to Towers Modeling School and hygiene clinics as doctors’ assistants and postgraduate them to an ex-Hong Kong whore. That’s expensive. You can’t amortize it fast enough. Internal Revenue Service won’t let you write off the investment that quick. So, no drugs, kid.”

“No drugs,” said Heller, probably thinking of Mary Schmeck.

“Right,” said Vantagio. “The UN clientele would simply evaporate. And we’d have to pay off the DEA. We’d go bankrupt!”

“Well,” said Heller. “I’m sorry I made a mistake. I’ll be going now.”

“No, no!” said Vantagio in alarm. “You saved my life. And even Clint Eastwood couldn’t have beaten that gun play! You’re handy to have around! Listen, business is slack — the UN isn’t in session and it’s summer and nobody’s in town. You came for a room. There’s two hundred rooms and suites in this building! I got a little room — it was once a maid’s room — up on the second floor you can have.”

“Well,” said Heller, “if you’ll let me pay for it.”

“Pay? Well, how about you just sitting around the lobby now and then, two or three times a week maybe. For just an hour or two. I’ll see you get some decent clothes.”

I thought, no, no, Heller. He knows the Faustino mob saw you! He’s just going to use you to scare them off!

He must have seen Heller was reluctant. “Look, kid. You’re going to college. If you go to Empire, I can give you some steers and pointers. We don’t have a restaurant but we have a kitchen that serves great food to rooms and you can get sandwiches. We can’t serve you any booze because it’s obvious you’re a minor and it would be illegal. But you could have all the soft drinks you wanted. Listen. We’ll even keep you from being embarrassed by the UN people thinking you’re part of the help. We’ll cook up some story about you being the son of a dictator or something incognito and living here to go to college.”

It wasn’t the danger I was worried about. I couldn’t see how I could sneak Raht in there to rifle his baggage! Whorehouses go crazy when you try to rifle baggage. They think you’re trying to roll the customers and get them in trouble with the police! And those gunsels had looked formidable! It would be like trying to reach Heller in jail!

I knew what was wrong with Vantagio. He was still in shock and overreacting with gratitude. Heller wasn’t all that prepossessing!

“Now, this place is full of good-looking women,” said Vantagio, “and a good-looking kid with muscles like yours will have them swarming at you. But you can always call one of the madames if they bother you. What say, kid? Is it a deal?”

“Do you have boys here?” said Heller.

“Cripes no!” exploded Vantagio. “That was just that dumb hood’s idea. He’s… was… gay. So how about it, kid?”

Heller barely started to nod when Vantagio was out of his seat and racing to the door. He peeked into the lobby. The stiff team and bodies were gone. The cleaning lady was mopping up the floor.

Vantagio said to the clerk, “Hit the buzzers.” And shortly numerous staff began to drift in and then the elevators started going and numerous beautiful women in various stages of dishabille began to drift into the lobby. They were of all colors from all parts of the world, though white predominated. The lobby got pretty full of half-bare legs and half-exposed breasts.

Vantagio grabbed off Heller’s cap and told him to stand up on a marble ledge. The sea of upturned lovely faces looked like the color plates of the porno and movie magazines had all gone into a mad shuffle. A montage of alluring beauties!

In a very commanding voice, Vantagio said, pointing at Heller, “This kid just saved my life. I want you to treat him decent.”

A whoosh of pent-up breath sounded in the room and a concerted “Ooooo!” I couldn’t understand it. What could they see in Heller? Then I realized it was off-season for them. Man-starved.

“He’s going to live here,” said Vantagio.

If the “Ooooo” was loud before, it doubled now, interspersed with some pants!

Oh, my Gods, I thought. If the Countess Krak could only see this!

“Now, listen,” said Vantagio, raising his voice to be heard, “he’s underage as you can plainly see. He’s jail bait! And if he complains about anybody bothering him, out that (bleepch) goes!”

Mutters.

Vantagio shouted up to the balcony, “Mama Sesso! You hear that?”

A big, heavy-breasted woman, black-haired, muscular, mustached, shouted, “I’m here, Signore Meretrici!” And she came forward to the rail and looked down.

“As Chief Madame,” shouted Vantagio, “you’re going to see that enforced and that all the other madames enforce it!”

“I got it, Signore Meretrici. If they don’t do what the young boy tells them, out they go.”

“No, no, no!” cried Vantagio. “You’re to keep them off him! He’s a kid. Jail bait! They could get us on a morals charge!”

Mama Sesso nodded severely. “I a-got it, Signore Meretrici. I a-seen what the boy do on-a the close circuit TV. He save-a you life. He’s-a faster than a-Cesare Borgia! He’s a-good to have around. Maybe he save-a all-a our lives next. La Santissima Vergine send-a him. If they don’ do right by the young boy, out-a they go!”

“Right!” said Vantagio.

Some madames swatted their palms together and the assemblage began to disperse, several sets of lovely eyes remaining reluctantly on Heller. Did they suppose, I thought disgustedly, that he was something to eat? He was far too young for their general taste!

A uniformed attendant came up and struggled with Heller’s baggage. Heller helped him, and because the elevator was jammed, they walked up to the second floor on thickly carpeted stairs.

Vantagio led the way down a long hall and they came to a small room. It was plain but it was clean-almost sanitary. The iron bedstead was white and so was the chest of drawers. The bathroom was small but modern. All strictly utility.

“How’s this?” said Vantagio.

“Fine,” said Heller.

Some of the women had followed down the hall. But Vantagio peremptorily ordered them away. He got out some old cards and a ball point. Using the back of one, he wrote an address on it.

“Now, this,” he said to Heller, “is a tall man’s shop. You go out and buy yourself a summer suit you haven’t grown out of. And get something besides baseball shoes! You got dough?”

“Lots,” said Heller.

“Good. But you wash up and when you come down, bring any excess dough and I’ll give you a small personal safe with your own combination. We want to keep this an honest house!” He left.

Heller stowed his things, washed up, checked the lock on his door and then went down with the fifty thousand in the paper sack his breakfast had come in.

Vantagio showed him the battery of private safes and how to open one. It seemed UN people carried documents and things around they wanted stowed for the few hours they might be there.

Heller mastered how to change the combination and then changed it so fast I couldn’t read it off! But it would be impossible to get near it or even get to his baggage. My interest in stealing it was purely academic. It punched through how protected he was now!

He left the Gracious Palms on foot, happy I suppose to have some exercise. I wasn’t happy. He had more guns pointing at him now than I could easily count. The Faustino mob knew his face and he had killed three of their men, one of them maybe a lieutenant of the mob! And add in Police Inspector Grafferty. He had seen Heller face to face and cops remember things — that’s their trade: mentally cataloguing who to shoot down next!

Shortly it did not help my morale a bit to receive the day’s report of Raht and Terb. It read:

Went to whorehouse and got (bleeped) and they stole his baggage. He’s probably broke but seems safe.

I could have killed them!

Chapter 3

Miles from the UN area, and now in the garment district, Heller was clickety-clacking along, on his way to I knew not where but, if I knew Heller, up to no good.

It was evidently a hot midday in New York and people were slouching along, mopping their faces and carrying their coats over their arms. One would have thought that they would have glanced at Heller but New York is a peculiar place: practically nobody ever looks at anybody no matter what they are doing — including rape and murder. Even dead bodies can lie on the street until the sanitation department gets a complaint — and answers it if they happen to have any appropriation that month. So Heller was attracting no attention.

Wait! I was wrong!

Heller glanced back and I saw someone quickly turn. Was it Raht or Terb? I got the other screen working and stilled it. No, it wasn’t Raht or Terb. It was too brief a glimpse to make it out. But someone had noted his departure.

They push delivery carts of racked clothes through the streets of the garment district at a mad pace and Heller was dodging these. He had come to a shop. The sign said:

Heller was shortly involved in trying to purchase something that fit. It was off-season — too late for summer clothes to be in demand, too soon for winter clothes — and because business was bad, the shop was dedicated to making it worse.

He found a dark blue suit of summer weight. He couldn’t find a normal shirt — they all had collars of twenty-five or so inches and girths of sixty. Finally he located three drip-dry cotton ones. They had Eton collars! These are the kind the undergraduates wear in England!

The real tailor that did adjustments was on vacation and the helper he had left behind botched the suit alteration. He adjusted the coat sleeves and pants cuffs too short again!

But Heller dressed anyway. He was now in dark blue with an Eton collar and he looked younger than ever!

He presented the store with the red-checked jacket and the blue-striped pants. And because those clothes were bugged, I bitterly surmised that Raht and Terb, who were depending on those bugs, would now stake out the tall man’s shop!

He couldn’t find any shoes he liked so he kept the baseball spikes on, popped his red baseball cap on the back of his head and was shortly engaged again in what seemed his favorite pastime: examining fenders of parked cars.

In peripheral vision, I saw the figure again. He was being tailed!

But Heller? Did he take evasive tactics? Run through a large store with two entrances? Dash into a crowd? Not Heller! He didn’t even inspect the street behind him! Amateur!

He knelt down by the fender of a very modern car and bent it with his fingers — an easy thing for anybody to do. Then he looked around quickly to see if the unintentional act of vandalism had been noticed. Apparently to make sure he covered it up, he stood, turned, folded his arms and sort of lounged back against the fender. It really buckled!

He walked off. And then, abruptly, began the craziest series of actions I had yet seen him engage upon.

He caught a cab. Breathlessly, he said to the driver, “Quick! Take me to the bus terminal! Five-dollar tip!”

They went westward. No especially hurried ride. Heller got out at the Port Authority Bus Terminal and paid the driver.

Immediately, he got another cab. He leaped in and said urgently, “Quick! Take me to the Manhattan Air Terminal! I’m late! Five-dollar tip!”

Aha! I thought I understood at last! He had noticed the tail and was shaking it!

Cross-town rides are slow and it was very uneventful.

At the Manhattan Air Terminal, he paid the driver and got out.

Then Heller walked along a line of cabs, looking at their fenders. He found one with some bashes. It was a Really Red Cab Company hack.

Heller leaped in. “Quick! I have to be at Broadway and 52nd Street in two minutes and nineteen seconds. There’s a five-dollar tip!”

Disregarding other drivers’ protests that it was not his turn to go, the cabby zipped out of line, screamed into high gear. He cut a corner, bashed a car out of his way, ran a red light, sent a works-in-progress sign skyrocketing and stopped at Broadway and 52nd Street. Heller looked at his watch. It was two minutes!

Heller paid him the fare and the five-dollar tip.

AND THEN HELLER JUST SAT THERE IN THE CAB!

The driver, expecting Heller to rush out, looked at him in amazement.

“How would you like to teach me to drive in New York?” said Heller.

Oh, my Gods! Heller was not shaking a tail. He was trying to find a reckless cab driver! Heller was a hopeless idiot!

“I ain’t got the time, buddy,” said the driver.

“For a hundred bucks would you have the time?”

Silence.

“For two hundred bucks would you have the time?”

Silence.

Heller opened the cab door to get out.

The driver said, “I’m almost off shift! I’ll race up to the barn, turn in and come back. You wait here. No. You come with me. I’ll turn this wreck in and get a decent hack.”

Promptly, driving rapidly, the cabby started for the Really Red Cab barn. “What’s your name?” he shot back through the open glass partition.

“Clyde Barrow,” said Heller.

I snorted. That was a famous gangster! Nothing was sacred to Heller!

“I see on the card here,” said Heller, “that you’re called Mortie Massacurovitch. Been driving cabs long?”

“Me?” said the cabby, glancing back at Heller without regard to a near collision. He was a very tough-looking oldster. “My old man was a hacker in this town and I learned how from him. In the last war, on the strength of it, they made me a tank driver.”

“Get any medals?” said Heller.

“No. They sent me home — said I was too brutal to the enemy!”

Heller waited outside while the hacker turned his cab and receipts in. And suddenly it dawned on me what he was up to. He had believed that tale about it being too hard to drive in New York! He was going to bring the Cadillac into town!

Oh! No, no, no! There was no way to warn this naive simpleton! One of the things Bury would surely have done was to have that Cadillac rigged to explode! Bury had not wanted it to be near the planned murder of the bogus Rockecenter, Junior. But aside from that, it was strictly textbook that he would have it set to explode, particularly now that he had missed. Bury was the sort of man who did multiple planning and handled eventualities.

So I sat there helplessly while Heller, in a forthright fashion, industriously planned his own suicide!

Chapter 4

Shortly, Mortie Massacurovitch came out of the huge garage they called a barn. He beckoned and Heller went inside.

Way back in the corner, covered with dust, sat the remains of a cab. Most of the paint was off by reason of dents and scrapes. It still had its meter and its top taxi lights but it was a long way from a modern cab. It was sort of square, with no smooth gentle curves.

“Here,” said Mortie, “is a real cab! It has real steel fenders, quarter of an inch thick. It has real bumpers with side bars and hooks. It has real bulletproof, nonshatter glass.” He looked at it proudly. “They really used to build them! Not plaster and paper like today.”

A passenger could ride with the driver in this one and Mortie wiped off the seat and got Heller in. Then the cabby got in. “Gives you the edge,” he said. “My favorite cab!”

He got its oil and gas checked and off they went, back to town. And, in truth, there was nothing wrong with its motor. It seemed to have more acceleration than modern cabs in that it got away from lights way ahead of everybody. “Geared down for fast darts,” said Mortie.

Heller learned how to handle the gear shift and clutch on a quiet street and Mortie, satisfied now on that score, took over. “Now, let’s see, where is the traffic thickest this time of day?” He looked at his watch. “Ah, yeah. Grand Central Station.” And off they roared.

It was creeping up to afternoon going-home time when they neared the area. The traffic was THICK! And fast!

“Now,” said Mortie, “this is going to require your close attention because it is a very high art. People are basically yellow. They always give up before you do. So that leaves you a very wide scope.”

Chattering along, naming each maneuver as he went, Mortie Massacurovitch performed.

It was horrifying!

They dashed between two cars to make the cars split each way! They squealed brakes to startle people “because honking was frowned upon.” They swerved to make a car dodge away from its intended parking place and then stole it. They dove in ahead of another hailed cab and when the passenger tried to get in, told him the cab was engaged. They bashed backwards to widen a place to park. They bashed forward to get a place to park. They did a skid “to alarm a motorist, who then stamps on his brakes and you grab his place in line.” They followed an ambulance to get somewhere quick. They followed a fire engine to really run the meter up fast, “but setting a fire ahead to get the engines to run is frowned on.”

Heller then got under the wheel. He did all those things Mortie had done, with a few embellishments.

With bent fenders, raw voices and screams of anguish and terror strewn behind them, Mortie now guided Heller to a cabby bar on Eighth Avenue. It was a time of traffic lull and one had better have a sandwich.

Heller tried to order a beer and got scolded both by Mortie and the proprietor: “Trying to make the place lose its license?” So Heller had milk with his steak instead. “You got to have respect for the law, kid,” Mortie told him. “Learn to grow up to be a good, peaceful, orderly, law-abiding citizen. That’s the only way to get ahead.

“Got to get going!” said Mortie. “Time for theater traffic around Times Square.”

En route, Mortie told him, “Now you got to learn how to handle police. When a cop stops you for speeding, you stop, see. You wait until he comes up and then you whisper, ‘Run for your life. This fare is holding a gun on me.’ And the cop will beat it every time!”

Heller thanked him.

“You got to know these things, kid.” But something else had attracted Mortie’s attention. “You got any enemies, kid? Your parents looking for you or something?”

“Why?”

“Well, it’d have to be you. I never made an enemy in my life. A cab started up behind us when we left the eatery and it’s still back there.”

Mortie did a right-angle turn, went down an alley, went wrong way on a one-way street. Looked back. “Don’t see him now. I think we shook him. So we can get busy.”

They were into the theater district. It was well before the evening start of the shows but the traffic was THICK!

“Now, you see that line of cars, kid? Watch!”

Mortie came up alongside of a cab in the line. He stopped. He screamed an insult at the driver. Mortie made a motion to get out of his cab. The other driver, in a rage, leaped out of his. Mortie didn’t leave his cab. The line moved ahead. Mortie slid the cab into it, taking the place of the immobilized cab. “See, kid? Art!”

Mortie got to an intersection near a big hotel. There were several cabs and few customers. Mortie sailed in,

skidding to block the exit of the driveway, and killed his engine. Other cabbies screamed at him. He screamed back, “I’m stalled!” As he was now first in line, an elderly, well-dressed man and woman tried to get into Mortie’s cab. “Sorry,” said Mortie, “I’m going to the barn.” He drove off. “See, kid, I could have had my pick of fares. You got to know what you’re doing and think, think, think all the time.”

He raced down a line of traffic. A car looked like it was going to turn out and block him. He sideswiped it with a scream of metal. The car pulled hastily back. “Don’t try it with limousines, kid. They’re really yellow. Scared for their paint. You don’t have to sideswipe. You just gesture, like this.” He veered toward a limousine and it promptly climbed the curb.

The bright lights of theater marquees, the flashing advertising signs, the throngs and ticket lines. A lively, blazing night.

“Now, you see that car ahead there that’s stopping. I’ll show you how to take off doors.”

The street side door swung open. The old cab was there before anyone could get out. There was a rending crash and off came the door.

“It’s timing, kid. All timing. Now, you see that guy up the street waving for a fare? Over there on the wrong side for us?”

Mortie zoomed ahead to forty miles an hour, stamped on the brakes, did a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and skidded sideways to the curb. The hopeful fare started to get in. “Sorry, we’re heading for the barn,” said Mortie.

He found a one-way street. They backed down it at forty miles an hour. “You see, we’re pointed the right direction so it ain’t illegal.

“See that red light? Now we’re going to rush it. If you listen you can hear the switch in the box and you can claim it was yellow.

“Now here is a curb bounce. That’s a nice curb. If you hit it right, you can bounce back into the street and the guy that was about to pass you, thinking you was parking, gets sideswiped! Watch.”

They bounced. There was a rending scream of metal. Headlight glass tinkled to the pavement.

“All right, kid. Now let’s see you do it.”

Heller took the wheel. He started up. He went through the routine. But just as he was about to rush a red light, the sound of a heavy thud shook the cab.

“What was that?” said Mortie. Then he pointed. The side window had a star. “Jesus, that’s a bullet!”

Another thud!

“Get the hell out of here, kid! Somebody is breaking the firearms law!”

Heller was on his way!

He went down 42nd Street, headed west. He was not going very fast.

“Step on it, kid! A cab just came around the corner behind us!”

“You sure?” said Heller.

“Hell, yes! He’s gaining!”

But Heller was loafing.

He was watching in the rearview mirror. Sure enough, there was a cab behind them, gaining!

A bullet hit the rear window!

“Now we can go!” said Heller.

He fled down 42nd Street.

He passed the Sheraton Motor Inn.

I grabbed a New York map to see if he was leaving the country.

The old cab negotiated the approaches to the West Side Elevated Highway. Traffic was light. Below them over the rail, the ground level street was dim. To their left lay the North River and the passenger steamship docks. Yes, on this route he could escape to Connecticut!

Heller checked the rearview mirror. The pursuing cab was still coming.

Below the elevated highway, to their right, the De Witt Clinton Park fled by and was gone.

Heller wasn’t moving fast. The other was close behind!

A sign ahead and a split in the elevated highway: 55th Street!

Suddenly, with a yank of the wheel, Heller sent the cab into a ninety-degree right turn! He stamped on the brakes! The rail was right in front of him! The lower street was fifty feet down!

He was stopped!

The other cab was coming on.

Heller suddenly backed up!

There was room for the other cab to pass in front of his radiator. It started through the hole.

Heller sent his cab ahead!

The bumper hit the other cab’s front wheels.

The other cab was punched over toward the rail!

With a shattering crash, it went through the guard!

It catapulted into space!

Chapter 5

Even before it hit the street below, Heller shouted to Mortie, “Take over!”

There was a crash below!

Heller was out. The rail was torn into jagged pickets where the cab had disappeared.

He peered down. There were girders and supports.

He went through the hole in the rail. He swarmed down a girder. He slid down a pillar and hit the lower street.

The other cab had landed on its wheels, shot ahead and struck a stanchion.

Gas was flooding the street!

A traffic light was nearby. Heller looked at the control box.

He raced over to the cab.

The doors were buckled.

He yanked a small jimmy out of his pocket and went to work on the rear door. The metal bent around the jammed lock. He inserted the jimmy higher and pried. He got his fingers in and, with a heave, got the door open.

He glanced at the spreading gasoline and then at the traffic light. Suddenly I knew why. Fumes, rising, would explode when they hit those control box switches! Like a bomb! I know bombs!

Heller had the driver out. Then he reached in and grabbed the man in the back.

Lugging two bodies, he sped over to the curb.

He looked back. He evidently decided he was not far enough. He went another fifty feet.

On the pavement, in the protection of a big concrete abutment, he laid the bodies out.

With a shattering blue crash, the wreck exploded!

The “cabby” was dead. But even though the top of his head was half off, he was obviously a Sicilian.

Heller turned to the other one.

The weird hue of the street light shone down upon the face of Torpedo Fiaccola!

The hit man’s eyelids fluttered. He was still alive!

A squad car chortled in the distance. Nobody could have missed that blast for a mile!

Torpedo opened his eyes. He saw Heller. He recognized him.

Torpedo said, “You ain’t going to kill my mother?”

Heller looked down at him. “I’ll think about it.”

“No!”

Heller reached into Torpedo’s coat and took his wallet. The money was only the five thousand that Heller had given him back. But there was a slip of paper. It said:

Valid with the evidence. Hand package to bearer.

Heller shook the paper at Torpedo. “Hand to who?”

Torpedo said, “You going to kill my mother?”

“I was thinking about it. Give me the name and address for this slip and I might reconsider.”

The hood was blinking hard. Then he said, “Mamie. Apartment 18F. Two thirty-one Binetta Lane. Downtown.”

“And the evidence?” said Heller.

“Look,” moaned Torpedo, “Bury is going to kill me!”

Heller said, “Mothers should be cherished.”

Torpedo shuddered. “Your baseball cap with blood on it and a lock of your hair.”

Heller took off his cap, turned it wrong side out and swabbed it through the mess that had been the driver’s head.

He said, “I hear an ambulance coming. Get yourself patched up in the hospital and then I’d advise you to take up residence at the North Pole.” He bent over him and put the wallet and five thousand back in his pocket. “I keep trying to give you this. Now take it and learn to speak polar-bear. I’m not a mother killer but I sure enjoy exploding torpedoes!”

The squad car had been drifting slowly closer, cautiously. The flames flickering from the wreck made a shifting patchwork on it. The cops got out.

“How come you drug the bodies from the wreck, kid?” said the first cop, threateningly.

“He just missed me,” said Heller. “I wanted to give him some advice.”

“Oh,” said the cop in sudden comprehension. “But I’ll have to give the driver a ticket all the same.” He got out his book and called to his partner. “What would you say the charge was, Pete?”

“Littering,” said the other cop.

“It’s that one that was driving,” said Heller. “He’s dead.”

“Gets the ticket all the same,” said the cop, writing.

The ambulance was whining up, probably called by the cops earlier.

Mortie Massacurovitch had brought the old cab down to the lower level. Heller got in. “Take me to 231 Binetta Lane.”

“That’s Little Italy,” said Mortie. “Wrong time of night. You got a gun?”

“I got another hundred,” said Heller.

They zipped downtown. They went from Eleventh Avenue to Tenth, shifted over on 14th Street, went down Greenwich Avenue, worked their way around Washington Square and were soon in Little Italy. They stopped across the street from the address. It was awfully dark.

Heller took out a knife, cut off a small lock of his own hair and pasted it into the baseball cap with the blood. Then he put the note in it.

He turned to Mortie. “Go to Apartment 18F and ask for Mamie. Give her this and she’ll give you a package.”

“In there?” said Mortie, looking at the ominously dark building. “And when you return,” said Heller, “I’ll give you another hundred.”

Mortie grabbed the cap and contents, leaped out, raced up the steps.

Three minutes later, he raced down the steps carrying a package. He threw it at Heller, started the car up and got out of there.

“Mamie was a man with a gun,” said Mortie. “But he took it with no questions.”

Heller told him to take him to the corner of First Avenue and 42nd Street. He shook the pack, listened to it and then sniffed it. Well, at last he was getting cautious for it well could have been a bomb. He pried up a corner and pulled something out.

“What’s a first class ticket to… Buenos Aires, Argentina, worth?” he asked Mortie.

“I dunno,” said Mortie. “Maybe three grand.”

“Can you cash one in?”

“Oh, sure,” said Mortie. “Just take it to the air terminal. What’s the matter, ain’t you going?”

Oh, if Heller only were!

Mortie let him out at First and 42nd. Heller said, “Now, do you think I really passed, or do I need more lessons?”

Mortie appeared to be thinking it over carefully. Then he said, “Well, kid, with experience you could become a top New York cabby. There’s more I could teach you about shortchanging customers and running up extra meterage but, otherwise, that’s about it. You pass. Yes, I’d say you pass.”

Heller counted him out six one-hundred-dollar bills. He instantly stuffed the money in his shirt and drove away at high speed.

Heller trotted along, clickety-clack, and soon arrived at the Gracious Palms.

In his room he opened the pack. Money in small old bills!

He counted it. ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND DOLLARS!

I shuddered. My Gods, Bury must be angry to offer such a price!

Heller put it in the paper sack his breakfast had come in. He went down to the personal safes and put it in.

Vantagio was in his office and saw Heller through the open door. He called to him, “Getting out some money, kid? You’ll need dough for school! Don’t blow all you got on night life. This is an expensive town!”

“It sure is,” said Heller, adding the hundred grand to his fifty thousand already in the safe. “Prices just keep going up!”

He went to bed and was shortly peacefully asleep.

I wasn’t! Bury had unlimited funds and I didn’t even have a clue on how to get that platen!

Some hours later, the next report of Raht and Terb didn’t help. It said:

He went to a place called the Tall Man’s Shop and they must have given him a job and a place to sleep. He’s still there! But we have our eyes on him.

The Hells they did! They were still spotting in on the bug we had sewn in his coat!

I was getting frightened that I might have to go to America myself to handle this. And I didn’t have the least idea what I could do even if I did.

Chapter 6

Heller was up bright and early the following day, the viewer alarm blasting me out of a sodden sleep.

He was being very industrious and purposeful. He brushed his new suit where it had been messed up on the girders, put on a clean white shirt with an Eton collar, put a new baseball cap on the back of his head and then packed a shoulder-strap satchel which looked, for all the world, like one of these kiddy schoolbook bags.

In the bag he put a spool of fish line, a multihooked bass plug, a tool kit, a dozen baseballs, a roll of tape and the New Jersey license plates. Was he going fishing?

Down to the lobby he went. It was early for a whorehouse: the desk clerk was asleep, a guard in a tuxedo was reading the Daily Racing Form, ball point in hand, and an Arab sheik was wandering drunkenly around, apparently trying to choose amongst several throw rugs as to which would be best to use for morning prayer.

Heller counted ten thousand out of his personal safe and put it in his pockets. The Arab gave him a deep obeisance, Heller repeated the bow and hand motion exactly and presently was trotting down the street, clickety-clack.

He stopped at a deli and got breakfast in a sack, went out and found a cab.

“Weehawken, New Jersey,” said Heller. “One way.” And he gave the address of the garage where the Cadillac was!

“Double fare as you won’ be comin’ back,” said the cabby.

I suddenly chilled. Up to then I had not grasped what Heller was going to do! He was on his way to get his car! Bury knew where that car was. It would be rigged! That “won’t be coming back” was all too prophetic!

“Double fare,” agreed Heller.

He had his sweet rolls and coffee as he rode along. They were soon across town. They dove into the Lincoln Tunnel and roared along under the Hudson River. They soon were in New Jersey and turned north on the J. F. Kennedy Boulevard.

They turned out of the roaring traffic to approach the garage. But one block away from it, Heller told the cab to stop and wait. The cabby looked at the decayed, semi-industrial neighborhood. “You mean wait here?” he asked.

Heller took a fifty-dollar bill, tore it in half and gave the driver half.

“I’ll wait,” said the cabby.

Heller got out and trotted around a corner en route to the garage. He stopped.

Trucks! Trucks! Trucks! The whole area in front of the huge, low building was jammed with trucks! Crews of men were unloading stacks of cartons onto handcarts and taking them into the building.

Heller went closer. He stood at the garage door and looked in. The place was being filled up with stacks of cartons higher than a man’s head and in separate islands.

He moved a bit to see deeper in. The Cadillac was there. The license plates were missing.

There was something else going on. Voices. Heller shifted. He saw the plump young man and a burly monster dressed like a trucker. They were having a flaming argument.

“I don’t care! I don’t care!” the plump young man was shouting. “You can’t store that stuff in here. I don’t care whose orders it is! You don’t understand!” He half gestured toward the Cadillac and then didn’t.

Abruptly I knew his dilemma. The crews were putting valuable stuff in a garage/warehouse with a car which was rigged! And the young man couldn’t say why.

“We ain’t clearing nothing back out!” said the burly man. “If you’d been here on time, we mighta listened. But it’s too late now! This stuff stays! Besides, we get our orders just like you. I am not going to let some punk like you work my men’s (bleeps) off just…”

The plump young man had seen Heller at the door. He stiffened. He turned and raced off to an exit in the back wall like the devil was after him. He vanished.

Heller quietly withdrew. He walked through the boil of men and handtrucks, turned the corner and got back in the cab.

“You got further to go,” said Heller. “Take me to 136 Crystal Parkway, Bayonne.”

The New York cabby had to look at a map. “This is foreign country,” he explained. “It ain’t as if you were still in civilization. This is New Jersey. And you can’t ask directions. The natives lie!”

But soon they were headed south on J. F. Kennedy Boulevard, got through Union City, went under the Pulaski Skyway, passed St. Peter’s College and roared along through the increased traffic of Jersey City. Docks and glimpses of the New York skyline could be seen.

“Is that a statue way over there in the water?” asked Heller pointing east.

“Jesus,” said the cabby, “don’t you recognize the Statue of Liberty? You should know your country, kid.”

They went past the Jersey City State College and were soon in Bayonne. The New York cabby was shortly all tangled up. They got turned back from the Military Ocean Terminal, got trapped into going to Staten Island, came back over the Bayonne Bridge — paying a toll both ways — and finally asked a native.

Ten minutes later they were in an isolated area of new high-rises and on a quiet street. Here was 136 Crystal Parkway, a very splendid building. A new condo.

Heller repaired the torn fifty and paid the driver off. “I don’t know if I will ever find my way home,” mourned the cabby.

Heller added a twenty. “Hire a native guide,” he said.

The driver drove off.

All this time, I had been cudgeling my brains to remember where I had heard that address.

Heller walked in through a plush entrance. There were several elevators. One of them said:

He pushed the call button.

Expecting an automatic elevator, I was a bit surprised to see the door opened by a man. He was not an elevator operator. He wore a double-breasted coat and a hat pulled down. I could see the bulge of a shoulder-holstered gun. He was very dark, very Sicilian.

“Yeah?” he said noncommittally.

“I would like to see Mrs. Corleone,” said Heller.

I freaked! He was calling on the head of the New Jersey Mafia!

“Yeah?”

“I saw Jimmy ‘The Gutter’ Tavilnasty recently,” said Heller.

Then it all came to me with a flash. That meeting in Afyon when Jimmy, in the dark, had mistaken him for a DEA man! Well, they’d soon see through that! And I didn’t have the platen!

“I.D.,” demanded the gangster and Heller showed it to him.

The hood was on the elevator telephone. It was in a felt-lined box. You couldn’t hear what was being said.

With a slit-eyed look at Heller, the hood frisked him lightly, inspected his bag and then gestured for him to get in.

They rode up to the top. It was a one-stop elevator, penthouse only. The hood opened the door and pushed Heller out ahead of him. With little punches from behind he directed him down a beautifully decorated hallway. He opened a door at the end and shoved Heller in.

It was a gorgeous room, all done in modern gold and beige. A vast picture window looked out over a vast park and a bay.

A woman was seated comfortably on a couch. She was wearing beige lounging pajamas of silk. She was blond with blue eyes. Her corn silk hair was in coiled braids that wound around the top of her head to make a sort of crown. She was about forty.

She laid down a glossy style magazine she had been reading and stood up.

My Gods, she was tall!

She looked at Heller and then walked across the room to him. She was at least four inches taller than Heller! An Amazon!

She was smiling. “And so you are a friend of dear Jimmy’s,” she said. “Don’t be shy. He has often spoken of his friends in the younger street gangs. But you don’t look like one of those.” She had a sort of cooing, affected voice and a fake Park Avenue accent.

“I’m going to college,” said Heller.

“Oh,” she said in sudden understanding. “That is the smart thing to do these days. Do sit down. Jimmy’s friends are always welcome here. Would you like something to drink?”

“It’s a hot day,” said Heller. “How about some beer?”

She wagged a finger at him, kittenishly. “Naughty. Really naughty. You realize that would be against the law.” Then she raised her head and bellowed, “Gregorio!”

Almost instantly, a white-coated, very dark Italian popped in.

“Get the young gentleman some milk and bring me some seltzer water.”

Gregorio was taken aback. “Milk? We ain’t got any milk, Babe.”

“Well, get out and get some God (bleeped) milk!” roared Babe Corleone. Then she ensconced herself again on the couch. In her sweet, cooing, affected Park Avenue voice she said, “And how is dear Jimmy?”

Heller only sat down when she did. He now had his cap on his knee. The courteous Fleet officer!

“He was just fine a few days ago,” said Heller. “Seemed to be right on the job.”

“Oh, that is so nice to hear,” cooed Babe. “And nice of him to send word.”

“And how is the family?” said Heller.

Ouch, I thought. The (bleeped) fool thought a “family” was a real family. In that country, on this planet, it means a Mafia mob!

She looked sad. “Not too well, I’m afraid. You see, dear ‘Holy Joe’ — how I miss him — was a man of tradition. He used to say, ‘What was good enough for my father is good enough for me.’ And he stuck with good, honest bootlegging and smuggling and such. And, of course, we have to respect that. And drugs are no good anyway.”

“They sure aren’t!” said Heller with conviction.

She looked at him with approval. Then she continued. “Since Faustino ‘The Noose’ Narcotici has gotten so much backing from upstairs, there’s no holding him. He has been muscling in on our New York interests and is even trying to push his way into New Jersey. When they wasted dear ‘Holy Joe,’ that was just the beginning of it. But,” she looked up with sad bravery, “we are trying to carry on.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll succeed,” said Heller politely.

“That’s very nice of you to say so, Jerome. I can call you Jerome, can’t I? Everyone calls me Babe.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Corleone,” said Heller. Fleet manners. And then, for a moment, I thought he’d blown it. “Mrs. Corleone, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Go ahead,” she said. Was she a trifle wary?

“Are you a Caucasian?”

Oh, my Gods! Here he went on that (bleeped) fool Prince Caucalsia kick! She had blond hair, she was as tall as some women around Atalanta, Manco.

“What makes you ask?”

“It’s your head,” said Heller. “It is very beautiful and it has a long skull structure.”

“Oh!” she said. “Are you interested in genealogy?”

“I’ve studied it a bit.”

“Ah! College, of course!” And she rushed over to an ornate desk, opened it and got out a large chart and some papers. She pulled up a chair beside Heller and spread the papers out. “These,” she said impressively, “were specially drawn up for me by Professor Stringer! He is the world’s foremost expert on genealogy and family trees!”

Aha! I knew already about the fixation American women have on family trees! And this Stringer was probably making a fortune out of the racket.

She gestured at Heller. She had the Italian habit of talking with her hands, head and body. “You have no idea how prejudiced some people are! I was a famous actress at the Roxy Theater when dear Joe married me.” The memory broke her train of thought for a moment and her eyes went moist.

Oho! I spotted her now. One of the Roxy chorus girls! A chorus line is composed of girls that are six feet six.

She recovered. “A capo is supposed to marry a Sicilian girl and the old cats carped and meowed and criticized. Particularly the mayor’s wife. So dear Joe had this drawn up. And did it put them in their places! I keep it around to make the (bleepches) stay there!”

She spread out the chart. It was all scrolls and swirls and illuminated with little pictures. It was in the shape of a tree.

“Now,” lectured Babe impressively, “as a student you are undoubtedly aware of all this but I will go over it anyway. Reviewing one’s studies is a good thing. Now, the Nordic race is composed of the Caspian, Mediterranean and Proto-Negroid types…”

“Caspian?” said Heller. “That’s the sea over by the Caucasus.”

“Oh, right,” she said vaguely and then plunged on with energy. “Now, you can see here how the Germanic races came out of Asia and migrated. The Goths, via Germany, came down into Northern Italy in the fifth century and the Lombards in the sixth century. These are the dolichocephalic — means long-headed, which is to say, smart — elements in the Italian population. They are blond and tall.” My Gods, had somebody rehearsed her! She was probably quoting Professor Stringer, word for word!

“Trace this line here. These are the Franks. From Germany, they came down and took over France, which is named after them. That was in the fifth century. Now, one branch — trace this — the Salians, took over northern Italy. One of the Salians, in the ninth century, was emperor of all the Franks and Holy Roman Emperor besides. He was named, you see here, Carolus Magnus, which, in American, means Charles the Great. In history books he is called Charlemagne. He was the emperor of the whole God (bleeped) world!”

She stopped and looked impressively at Heller. He nodded. She went on. “Now, Charlemagne had quite a few marriages. And he married — that’s this line here — the daughter of the Duke d’Aosta. That means ‘of’ Aosta and that’s a province in northwest Italy just south of Lake Geneva.

“There are blond and tall Italians clear across northern Italy but they are thick in the Valle d’Aosta.

“Now, follow this line here. From the Duke d’Aosta we come right down to Biella, which was my father’s name. You still with me, kid?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” said Heller in a fascinated voice.

“All right. Now, at the start of World War II, my parents fled to Sicily. They stayed in Sicily four whole years! At the end of the war, they emigrated to America and that’s where I was born. So,” and she drew up in triumph, “I’m just as Sicilian as any of them! What do you think of that?”

“Complete proof!” said Heller.

Babe flipped a finger at the chart. “And, furthermore, I am a direct descendant of Charlemagne! Oh,” she gloated, “the mayor’s wife went absolutely green with envy!”

“I can see why she would!” said Heller. “But wait. There’s something that’s not here. That maybe you don’t know. You ever hear of Atalanta?”

“I never been to Atlanta.”

“No, Atalanta,” said Heller. “Now, at the beginning of this tree, a lot earlier than it starts here, there was a prince.”

This had her attention. And it sure had mine! Code break! He was about to be carried away with his stupid enthusiasm for Folk Legend 894M. I reached for my pen.

“His name,” said Heller, “was Prince Caucalsia. He…”

From the door came a piercing, “Pssst!”

Babe and Heller turned toward it.

There was a Sicilian there. He was holding a large money sack. He had come halfway through the door and was bending over, beckoning urgently to Babe Corleone. His face. I had seen his face! I was trying to place it!

Babe went over and bent down. The Sicilian stood on tiptoe to reach her ear. He was urgently pointing toward Heller. I could not hear what he was whispering. She shook her head, negatively, a bit puzzled. Then he whispered and seemed triumphant.

The woman’s eyes shot open. She stood up. She turned and stamped across the room to Heller. She seized him!

Then she pushed him off, holding him by the shoulders. She stared at him as though memorizing his face. Then she whirled. In a voice that could have knocked the walls down, she said, “Where the hell is that Geovani?”

Geovani was right there. The hood that had brought Heller up in the elevator.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me this was that kid?” she thundered.

There were other faces in the door. Scared!

“Here I been treating him like dirt!” She turned. She pushed Heller down into an easy chair. “Why,” she pleaded, “didn’t you tell me you were the one that saved our Gracious Palms?”

I could hear Heller swallow. “I… I didn’t know it was yours.”

“Hell, yes, kid! We own and control the fanciest cat houses in New York and New Jersey! Who else?”

Gregorio, glasses shaking, belatedly walked in with the milk and seltzer.

“To hell with that,” said Babe. “This kid wants beer, he can have beer! To hell with the illegality!”

“No, no,” said Heller. “I’ve really got to be going.” He thought for a moment. “You can tell me where to find Bang-Bang Rimbombo. I think I’ve got car trouble.”

So that was why he had walked in on the Corleone mob!

Suddenly, it all added up. He had read of Bang-Bang in the papers, knew he was part of the Corleone mob. He had Babe’s address from Jimmy “The Gutter” Tavilnasty. To find himself an expert car bomber, he had simply gone to Babe’s. Very, very smart detective work at locating somebody.

But wait! He had shown himself at that garage! They would be waiting for him when he came back there. Very, very dumb!

Heller was going to drive me crazy yet! He was too brightly stupid to live!

Babe turned to the people inside the door. They were whispering to each other and pointing at Heller and trying to get a better look at him. “Geovani, get out the limo and run this young gentleman over to Bang-Bang’s. Tell him I said to do what the kid wants.”

She turned back to Heller. “Look, kid, anything you want, you let Babe know, see?” She turned to the staff. “You hear that? And you, Consalvo, I want a word with you.” She was pointing at the one who had identified Heller.

I suddenly remembered who the Sicilian with the money sack was. He was the clerk at the Gracious Palms! Trying to keep up with Heller was exhausting me, spoiling my recall for faces even.

Heller took his leave. Babe bent down and gave him a big kiss on the cheek. “Come back any time, you dear boy. You dear, dear boy!”

Chapter 7

Heller sat in the front seat of the limousine with the hood, Geovani, driving.

“You really wasted them punks just like that!” said Geovani in a voice of awe. “Did you know one of them was Faustino’s nephew?” He drove for a while and then, taking his hand off the steering wheel, he made a gun out of his fingers and, pointing at the road, made the motions of firing and said, “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie! Just like that! Wow!”

They drew up in front of a down-at-the-heels apartment house. Geovani led Heller up to the second floor and knocked on a door, a code signal. A girl’s face came out through the door crack. “Oh, it’s you.” She opened it wider. “For you, Bang-Bang.”

Bang-Bang Rimbombo was in bed with another girl.

“Come on,” said Geovani.

“Hell, I just got sprung!” protested Bang-Bang. “I ain’t had any for six months!”

“Babe says you go.”

Bang-Bang was out of bed in a flash. He struggled into his clothes.

“Car job,” said Geovani. “This kid will show you.”

“I’ll get my things,” said Bang-Bang.

Geovani used the phone and called a cab. Waiting, he covered the phone. “We never use the limo for wet jobs,” he said apologetically. “And we control the cab companies. They don’t talk.”

Shortly, Geovani shook Heller’s hand and left. Halfway down the hall he turned and made a pistol out of his fingers again. “Blowie! Blowie! Blowie!” he said. “Just like that!” He was gone.

The cab arrived and Bang-Bang, dragging a big bag, got in. Heller followed him. Heller gave an address a block away from the garage.

He was learning, but he was not really up on this tradecraft. They would be alerted. I knew he was going into a battle. And I didn’t have that platen. Short of sleep, haggard, I hung on the viewscreen. He had my life in his hands!

Heller paid the cab off and walked around the corner toward the garage.

“Wait,” said Bang-Bang. He was a very narrow-faced little Sicilian. He looked pretty smart. Maybe he had sense enough, I hoped, to keep them out of trouble. “If that’s the place,” he said, “I know it. It’s a garage Faustino uses to repaint stolen cars and other things. You sure you know what you’re doing, kid?” He shook his head. “Sneaking in there to rig a car for a blitz is a little bit steep.”

“It’s my car and I want you to unrig it,” said Heller.

“Oh, that’s different,” said Bang-Bang. He hefted his heavy shoulder bag and approached the garage.

The door was locked on the outside with a big padlock. Heller put his ear to the wall and listened. Then he shook his head. He went around the building and checked the back door. It, too, was locked with a padlock. He returned to the front. He stood back and saw that there was a window beside the front door, about six feet from ground level.

He took out a tiny tool, inserted it in the padlock, fished it, and almost at once had it open.

Heller was moving very fast, very efficiently. It was so much in contrast with his sloppy disregard for routine espionage that I had forgotten for some time what he actually was. I was looking at a combat engineer. Getting into an enemy fort was something they did with a yawn. He was in the field of his own tradecraft!

He opened the entry port of the front door, swished his hand around to make sure, probably, there were no trip wires and then stepped inside, placing his feet to avoid where feet would normally step — probably to avoid mines.

He got a box and put it under the window, stood on it and undid the latch.

He returned to the door, beckoned to Bang-Bang to enter. Then Heller went outside. He carefully relocked the padlock, just as it had been.

Heller went to the outside of the window, lifted it and entered the building. He closed the window carefully. Now, to all intents and purposes, anyone approaching from the outside would have no sign that anyone was inside. Clever. I would have to remember how to do that.

The whole interior was stacked with islands of cartons, leaving only aisles and room to drive a car down the center. And it was these cartons which were getting Bang-Bang’s attention.

“Well, I’ll be a son of a (bleepch),” said Bang-Bang. “Will you look at this!” He had pried a carton open and was holding a bottle. “Johnnie Walker Gold Label!

Look, kid. I heard of it but I never seen any.” In the dimness he must have seen that Heller wasn’t tracking. “Y’see, there’s red label and there’s black label and you can get that easy. But gold label, they keep only for Scotland or sometimes export it to Hong Kong. It’s worth forty bucks a bottle!”

He looked at the cap. “No revenue seals! Smuggled!” He got the cap off adroitly to hide signs of opening. He touched his tongue to the top and tilted it.

Heller’s hand tilted the bottle back, vertical.

“No, no,” said Bang-Bang. “I never drink on duty.” He rolled the drop around on his tongue. “It ain’t fake! Smooth!” He put the top back on and restored it to the carton. Then he began to make an estimate of the number of cases, walking about. The islands were piled nearly to the ceiling and the garage/warehouse was big.

“Jesus!” said Bang-Bang, “there’s close to two thousand cases in here. That’s…” he was trying to add it up. “Twelve to the case and forty dollars…”

“Million dollars,” said Heller.

“A million dollars,” said Bang-Bang, abstractedly. He went deeper into the building. “Hey! Look at this.” He had his hand on some differently shaped cases. He expertly pried up a lid with a knife and hauled out a small box. “Miniature wrist recorders from Taiwan! Must be…” he was counting, “…five thousand of them here. Two hundred dollars apiece wholesale…”

“A million dollars,” said Heller.

“A million dollars,” said Bang-Bang. Then he planted his feet and glared down the widest aisle. “Well, God (bleep) me! You know what that son of a (bleepch) Faustino is trying to do? He’s trying to cut in on our smuggling! The (bleepard)! He’s trying to muscle in on us! He’s going to flood the market and drive us out of business! God (bleep)! Oh, when Babe hears about this, she is going to be livid!”

He stood and thought. “It’s that crook Oozopopolis!”

“Can we get on with this car?” said Heller.

Bang-Bang was promptly all business. “Don’t touch it!”

The Cadillac was sitting apparently where Heller had parked it. The license plates had been removed. The light was very bad there.

Bang-Bang got out a torch. Keeping his hands off the car, he gingerly slid under it. He was looking at the springs. “They sometimes put it under the leaves so when the car tilts, off it goes. Nope. Now for the… oh, for Christ’s sakes!”

Heller was kneeling down watching Bang-Bang under the car. Bang-Bang seemed to be working on the inside of a wheel. His hand emerged and he tossed something to Heller who caught it. A stick of dynamite!

Bang-Bang was working on another wheel. He tossed up another stick of dynamite. Heller caught it. Bang-Bang, scrambling around, shortly tossed a third and then a fourth stick to Heller. After playing his light around further underneath, Bang-Bang emerged.

“Cut-rate job,” said Bang-Bang. “There was a stick taped vertically to the inside of each wheel. Dynamite of this type is just sawdust and soup. The soup is usually spread all through the sawdust and is safe to handle unless concentrated.”

“Soup?” asked Heller.

“Nitroglycerine,” said Bang-Bang. “It explodes when you jar it. This car was rigged to blow up miles from here! As the wheels spun, the centrifugal force would make the soup move from the stick as a whole and concentrate at just one end. Then an extra bump on the road and BOOM! Cut-rate. They saved the expense of detonators! Cheap-o!” he added with scorn.

“But maybe these were placed just to be found,” said Heller, “and the real charge is still in there somewhere.”

“So these could have been decoys and the real charge is still in there somewhere,” said Bang-Bang.

He passed a very thin blade down through the window slit to make sure there was no trip wire and then opened the door. He looked under the panel. Nothing. He opened the hood. He looked back of the motor.

“Aha!” said Bang-Bang. “A cable job!” In a gingerly fashion he slid a matchbook cover between two contact points. Then he snipped some wires. Shortly he fished up a revolution counter.

“A second odometer!” he said. “The speedometer cable was taken off the back and put to this thing.” He was spinning its wheels. It suddenly went click. He read the numbers. “Five miles! It was set to go five miles from here.” He peered back down behind the motor. “Jesus! Ten pounds of gelignite! Wow, did they blow dough on setting this up! Somebody is big bucks mad at you, kid! That’s enough to blow up ten—”

“Shh!” said Heller.

A car was coming!

Hurriedly, Bang-Bang closed the hood and door. Heller dragged him to a point about fifteen feet from the main entrance and back between two stacks of boxes.

The car stopped.

Bang-Bang whispered, “You got a gun?”

Heller shook his head.

“Me neither! It’s illegal to carry a gun on parole.” He shifted his heavy sack of explosives. “I don’t dare throw a bomb in all this whisky. We’d go up like a torch!”

“Shh!” said Heller.

A car door closed. “I’ll put the car around back,” somebody said.

Silence.

A car door slammed in the back of the building. Footsteps going around. Then, in front, “The door’s still locked back there.”

“I told you,” said a new voice. “There ain’t nobody here.”

A rattle of keys. “You just got the jumps, Chumpy. He’s probably still running.”

“Anybody could have come in the time it took you!” It was the plump young man. He backed in. The door opened inward more widely.

Two men in expensive-looking clothes followed him through. “We came as fast as we could. Jesus, you don’t get from Queens to here in five minutes. Not in this traffic! See, there’s nobody here! Waste of time.”

“He’ll be back!” said Chumpy. “He’s a mean (bleepard)! If you don’t do nothing, I’m going to call Faustino!”

The other man said, “Look, Dum-Dum, it won’t do any harm to wait around for a while. Jesus, after all that drive. Tell you what. Leave the door unlocked and a tiny bit ajar, kind of inviting, and then we’ll go over and sit down behind those boxes opposite and wait. Jesus, I got to catch my breath. All those God (bleeped) trucks!”

He left the door ajar. Chumpy, getting out a burp gun, went over and sat down on the floor back of an island of boxes, in profile and in full view of Heller. I went cold. Then I realized Heller was looking through a slit between two cartons.

The other two disappeared behind the island opposite the door.

“Don’t shoot toward that old car in the back!” said Chumpy. “It’s a walking boom factory!”

“Shut up, Chumpy,” said one of the men. “We’ll give it an hour. So you just shut up.”

Heller looked down and slipped out of his shoes. He moved sideways until he could see the door. It was very dark right near it, the effect heightened by the slit of light coming through the ajar door.

He was fishing in his satchel. He got out the fish line. He got out the multihooked bass plug. He tied the line to the eye of the plug.

My hair felt like it was going to leave my head! This (bleeping) fool was going to try something! Bullets flying into that whisky or near that car would turn the place into an inferno! All he had to do was wait for an hour and they’d leave! The idiot!

He was coiling the fish line in big, loose loops around his left hand. He took the end he had fastened the bass plug to. He began to swing the plug back and forth.

With a toss he sent the plug sailing through the dimness toward the door! At an exact instant, he tugged it back.

There was a tiny thunk.

There was a rustle from behind the island of boxes where the men were hidden.

Heller slowly began to take in the slack. The line was nearly invisible. I could not make it out.

He shifted the sack on his shoulder and opened it. He shifted the line to his left hand.

He yanked the line!

The door came open with a crash!

There was a sizzling sound and a thud!

Heller had heaved a baseball at Chumpy!

Through the slit, I could see Chumpy fold up, motionless.

Silence.

Minutes.

“(Bleep),” said one of the men. “It was just the wind.”

“Go close it!” said the other.

Through a slit, Heller was watching. A man, gun in hand, crossed the open place toward the door.

There was a sizzle and crack!

Heller had thrown another baseball!

The man jarred sideways. He fell and lay still.

“What the hell?…”

Heller threw again. The baseball hit the far wall and rebounded. He was throwing at the sound! With a bank shot!

Heller threw again!

There was a scramble. The man raced out the rear opening in the island and raced toward the back door! Stupid. It was locked!

The man raised his gun to blow off the lock.

Heller threw!

The man was hurled against the door. He slumped.

Heller casually walked to the front door and closed it.

Bang-Bang, more practical, raced to the last man and grabbed the gun. Then he raced from one to the other. He came back to Heller. “Jesus Christ! Their skulls is smashed in. They’re dead!”

“Get the rest of the explosives out of that Cadillac,” said Heller. “We got to get to work now.”

Chapter 8

Heller fished the car keys out of a dead man’s pocket, opened the full building door wide open, found the hood’s car in the back. It was an old Buick sedan.

He drove it in and closed the full doors again. Then he inched it down the narrow aisle between the islands of cartons and brought it to a halt beside the Cadillac.

Bang-Bang was just finishing. He was sniffing at the oil dipstick. “No additives in the crankcase.” He put the dipstick back. “There was no sugar in the gas — no other tricks. And there’s the gelignite.” He pointed to where it was perched on a window ledge rather precariously.

He went into the Cadillac rear interior, probing the seats. Then he said, “Oh, look! Draw curtains!” He promptly pulled them all down.

Bang-Bang went to a pile of cartons, got one and lugged it to the Cadillac and put it in the back. Then he went and got another one. As he worked, he began to sing softly:

There once was a con who was awful, awful dry.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues. He tried from the guard a little drink to buy.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues. He tried from the warden saying thirst will make me cry.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues. He even wrote the governor his thirst to satisfy.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues. He even begged the president, I will not tell a lie.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.

But none of them would tell him how he could qualify.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.

He sang on and on. He was absolutely jamming the back of the Cadillac with whisky cases. Then he got Heller to open the trunk and he piled it full of boxes of miniature wrist recorders. He went back and looked into the rear seat area of the Cadillac again. He juggled it around so there would be more room. He went and got two more whisky cartons.

So he prays each night unto the Lord his thirst to gratify.

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues.

And drown him in a tub of gin, if he has to die!

Sing, sing them Sing Sing blues!

With one last shove, he managed to get the rear door closed.

Heller had been working industriously. He had put the Buick’s plates on the Cadillac. Then he had the hood of the Buick open. He piled the gelignite on top of the Buick’s motor. He went and got a dead man’s revolver and made sure that there was a live cartridge under the pin when it was cocked. He took some of his tape and then taped the weapon, pointed at the gelignite, to the Buick’s cowling.

Heller got in the Cadillac and drove it to the main door, opened it and then drove outside. “Wait in the car,” he said to Bang-Bang. And Bang-Bang went out and got in, petting the whisky cartons.

Heller went back in. He closed the main door and its entry port. He found the bass plug and hooked it into the top inside edge of the door. He ran the fish line over a nail and then unreeled it all the way back to the Buick. Then, very gingerly, he tightened the fish line and tied it to the cocked trigger of the revolver.

Then he did something very odd. He took two blank pieces of paper and laid them on the seat of the Buick.

He looked around the garage. He found a heavy iron jimmy.

Starting near the Buick, he raced down the rows of cartons; smash right, smash left. The crash of glass and the gurgle of whisky followed in his wake.

Heller climbed out the window, made it secure so it didn’t look like it had been touched. Then he gently closed the padlock on its hasp.

He got in the Cadillac.

“You booby-trapped it, didn’t you?” said Bang-Bang.

Heller didn’t answer.

Heller drove up the street six blocks. There was a hamburger stand there and an outside pay phone. He got out. He went into the phone booth. From his pocket he took a handful of change. Then from another pocket, he took a card.

Swindle and Crouch!

He deposited coins and dialed.

A telephonist at the other end simply repeated the number for an answer.

In a high-pitched voice, Heller said, “I got to speak to Mr. Bury.”

The telephonist said, “I am SOR-ree. Mr. Bury left for Moscow this morning to join Mr. Rockecenter. WHOM shall I say CAlled?”

Heller hung up. “Blast!” he said in Voltarian.

Bang-Bang was near the phone booth. “You look like the sky fell in.”

“It did,” said Heller. “There was a guy made a bargain. This is twice he didn’t keep it. He doesn’t have any sense of honor or decency at all! Won’t keep his word.”

“So that’s who the booby trap was for,” said Bang-Bang.

“Yes. I was going to tell him some papers had been left in a car. He would have been over here by airbus in ten blinks of an eye.” He sighed. Then he said, “Well, I guess I better go back and undo the booby trap.”

“Why?” demanded Bang-Bang.

“Some innocent person could come along and get killed,” said Heller.

Bang-Bang was looking at him in round-eyed astonishment. “What’s that got to do with it?”

And I could certainly agree with Bang-Bang. Heller with his scruples. Far too nice. I scoffed aloud at the viewscreen.

“I don’t just run around killing people, you know,” said Heller. “We’re not at war!”

Code break! He’d be telling this gangster about the threatened invasion next.

“Oh, the hell we aren’t!” said Bang-Bang. “It’s war flat-out! That Faustino is pushing our backs straight against the wall. Don’t go wasting a booby trap!”

“I suppose you mean we should phone Faustino,” said Heller.

“No, no, no. He’d never cross the river to Jersey. But I got a real candidate! A turncoat!”

“Somebody who is dishonorable?” said Heller. “Somebody who double-deals?”

“You said it! I got somebody who really deserves it! A filthy, boozing, two-timing crooked crook!”

“You sure?” said Heller.

“Of course I’m sure. There’s no crookeder rummy drunk on the whole planet.”

“Ah, a ‘drunk,’ ” said Heller. “What’s his name?”

“Oozopopolis!”

Heller shrugged, Bang-Bang took it as assent. He got his satchel from the car and sped into the booth closing it.

Through the glass door, Heller watched Bang-Bang wad a rag around the mouthpiece. Then he took a rubber glove out of his satchel and put the cuff over the rag and mouthpiece. Then he took a small tape recorder out of his satchel and turned it on. Faintly, the sound came out of the telephone booth. It was planes taking off.

At least this Bang-Bang knew some tradecraft. He was messing up his voice pattern and, with the planes,

was mislocating the source of the call to some airport.

Bang-Bang spoke briefly into the phone and then hung up. Yes, he did know some tradecraft. His call had been too short to trace.

He recovered his gear and went back to the car window. “Like a hamburger?” he said.

Heller shook his head. Bang-Bang dove into the joint and the girl there began to fry a hamburger in a leisurely fashion.

My toes curled! Tradecraft be (bleeped)! After you make a sensitive call, you don’t hang around the phone booth!

Then I reviewed the rest of it. The car they’d left in there had motor numbers. It was a different make even! If it blew up, nobody would be fooled!

Heller’s tradecraft might be good in its place-getting into forts and blowing them up. But shortly after, in his profession, he would be out in space and not on the planet!

They were howling amateurs!

Six blocks down the street, the garage was in full view!

Heller said, “There’ll be concussion.” He turned the Cadillac around so that it faced the blast more squarely.

Bang-Bang came out with a hamburger and a beer. “You sure you don’t want one?” said Bang-Bang. But again, Heller shook his head.

Bang-Bang settled down and began to eat. “He lapped it up,” he said. “I told him in Greek — I was raised in old Hell’s Kitchen and that’s gone Greek. Otherwise he wouldn’t have believed me.”

“What was his name again?” said Heller.

“Oozopopolis. About a year ago, he stopped taking bribes from us, changed his coat and started taking them from Faustino. And he’s been hitting at us ever since.”

He took another bite of hamburger. “I told him a couple of the Atlantic City mob had been seen looting Faustino’s liquor right down at that address and they were inside stealing the place blind with the outside door locked. Wouldn’t do to get the name Corleone mixed up in it. He sure leaped at it.”

Bang-Bang finished his hamburger and washed it down with beer. He then passed the time by filling Heller in on mob politics.

After a while there was a roar of cars.

Three sedans went streaking by. The seats were full. “You can tell they’re government men, all right,” said Bang-Bang. “The way they carry those riot shotguns. Did you see Oozopopolis? He was the big fat slob in the front seat of the second car.”

The three cars raced the last six blocks and drew to a skidding halt in front of the garage, a reeking bomb of gelignite and alcohol fumes.

Men bailed out, guns ready and threatening.

“Come on out of there! We got you covered!” drifted faintly up the street.

Then a very fat figure raced forward and slammed the flat of his foot against the door.

There was a tremendous flash!

Blue flame and red battered the street!

A fireball bloomed!

The concussion and sound hit the Cadillac! It recoiled and then rocked!

Through the smoke and falling debris six blocks away one could see the strewn bodies.

Heller turned the Cadillac around. “Who was this Oozopopolis?”

“He was the New Jersey district head of BAFT. That’s the U.S. Treasury Department Bureau of Alcohol, Firearms and Tobacco. The Revenooers. The dirty turncoats. Aside from changing sides on us, it was Oozopopolis that planted a machine gun on me and got me sent up.”

Bang-Bang was smiling happily. “Oh, my! Babe certainly will be pleased. Not only did we cost Faustino two million bucks, but we also got rid of the Feds! And it’s about time she got some breaks, let me tell you!”

They wended their way through the fire engines now charging toward the sky-leaping conflagration.