Well Now, My Pretty Part 12

"What's the matter now?" Sheila demanded, rounding on him.

"The engine's packed up."

"It only wanted that. What do you expect with a cripple like this? So what are you going to do?"

As the road began to climb, the car slowed and stopped. Tom stared into the pools of light made by the car's headlights. Then, shrugging, he took a flashlight from the glove compartment, got out of the car and opened the hood. He had had a thorough training in servicing G.M. cars and it took him only a few minutes to find the gas pump had packed up. There was nothing he could do about this. He slammed the hood shut as Sheila got out of the car.

"We're stuck," he said. "The pump's gone. It's a five-mile walk down to the highway. I might be lucky to catch the last bus. You had better stay here."

"Stay here?" Sheila's voice went shrill. "I'm not staying here on my own!"

"Well, okay, then you better come with me."

"I'm not walking five miles!"

Tom regarded her, exasperated.

"So what do we do?"

"You and your lousy car! What a vacation!"

"Will you shut up about our vacation? I'm sick and tired of you complaining."

"So we spend the night here. Get the sleeping bags out."

Tom hesitated, then went to the back of the car. He got the sleeping bags off the rear seat and found the picnic basket. He was hungry, tired and depressed. He locked the car, then threw the beam of his flashlight to right and left. Seeing a narrow path facing him, he went ahead, and found himself in a tree-surrounded glade.

"Sheila! This will do. We can sleep here. Come on. You want something to eat?"

Maisky, lying in his cave, heard Tom's voice. He sat up, his body stiff with apprehension.

Sheila joined Tom in the glade, muttering as she picked her way over the rough ground. Tom had put down the sleeping bags and was opening the picnic basket.

She sat on one of the sleeping bags, took out a cigarette and lit it.

"The end of a perfect vacation," she said. "Oh, boy! Is this something for my memory book! I've enjoyed every minute of it!

Tom found some dry slices of ham, a half loaf of bread that was brick hard and a half a bottle of whisky.

He poured two big drinks. He gave Sheila some of the ham and half the loaf. She promptly threw the food into the bushes.

"I'd rather starve than eat that muck!" she said furiously and drank the whisky at a gulp.

"Okay . . . starve," Tom said. "I've had about all I want from you tonight." Turning his back on her, he began munching the dry ham.

Leaving his bed of blankets, Maisky crawled to the entrance of the cave. He peered through the branches down into the glade. It was too dark to see anything, but he could hear voices although he was too far away to distinguish what was being said.

He lay on the cold, damp floor of the cave, listening. His body trembled with weakness. Who were these people? What were they doing down there? How long would they stay?

Tom finished his meal, then taking off his windcheater and his shoes, he got into his sleeping bag. Sheila was already in hers.

"Will you try not to snore?" she said. "It only wants you to snore to make this really perfect."

"Just go to h.e.l.l!" Tom said bitterly, then trying to make himself comfortable, he closed his eyes.

Sergeant Patrick O'Connor, known in the police force as Gutsey O'Connor, was sixty-one years of age. He had been in the Paradise City police force now for forty odd years. Six feet three, with an enormous belly that had earned him his nickname, a brick-red face and thinning, sandy hair, he was one of the less-liked sergeants attached to the force.

In another year, he planned to retire. He hadn't done so badly during his service career. He had made a nice slice of money putting the bite on the prost.i.tutes, the pimps, the pushers and the queers who lived in his district. For a $10 bill, he was always ready to look the other way, and although his graft was small over a period of forty years it had totalled up to a respectable sum.

When Beigler told him to take Patrolmen Mike Collon and Sam Wand and search five hundred bungalows in the hope of finding the missing Casino robbers, O'Connor stared at Beigler as if he couldn't believe his ears, and when Beigler told him to go to the Armoury where he would be issued with tear-gas grenades and automatic weapons, Gutsey O'Connor's red face turned a purplish white.

He had heard all about the Casino robbers. They were desperate, dangerous men a" one of them was a Mafia killer!

O'Connor plodded down to the Armoury thinking that this was just his luck. In another year, he would be free of this kind of caper. He would own his own bungalow, his own car and he planned to grow roses. Now he might very easily get himself killed on this G.o.ddam a.s.signment.

He found Mike Colon and Sam Wand waiting for him in the Armoury. Both these patrolmen were young and keen. Colon was big, dark and tough looking with a growing reputation for being smart, and with a number of arrests in his book. Wand was shorter, fair, with steel-grey eyes. He too was keen and ambitious. The kind of punks, O'Connor thought sourly, he would get landed with.

"Okay, fellas," he said, "get your weapons and let's go." He drew an automatic rifle and ammunition from the Sergeant Armourer who grinned unfeelingly at him.

"Watch that big belly of yours, Gutsey," he said. "You don't want anyone to make a hole in it. I reckon there'd be enough gas out of that to light the City for a week."

"Shut your trap!" O'Connor snarled. "All very well for you . . . you just hand out a gun. I've got to use it!"

He stamped out of the Armoury. Collon and Wand exchanged winks. They followed him to the waiting police car and they all piled on. Wand took the wheel.

"North Sh.o.r.e," O'Connor said, "and snap it up."

The time was a little after six o'clock when they reached the first row of bungalows that skirted the beach near the Casino. The three officers got out of the car.

"Okay, fellas, start working," O'Connor said. "You know what to do. Find out who owns the place. If they've been there some time, skip the search. If they are renting the place, go over it. I'll be right here, covering you."

Wand stared at him.

"Doing what, Sarg?" he asked.

"You deaf? I'm here to cover you," O'Connor barked. "Get moving!"

The two patrolmen looked at each other in disgust, then set off towards the bungalows. They were both aware of the danger of their a.s.signment, but neither of them hesitated. They never had had any use for Gutsey, and this act of blatant cowardice set their seal of contempt on him.

"Good luck, Mike," Wand said as he pushed open the wooden gate, leading to the first bungalow. "Watch it."

"You, too," Colon said, and moved farther down the lane to the adjacent bungalow.

The search progressed fairly swiftly and unsuccessfully. None of the people renting the bungalows objected to letting the police officers in. They had all heard about the Casino robbery, and were thrilled to be on the fringe of such a daring steal.

Around eight o'clock, the two patrolmen had covered forty of the bungalows, and it was now growing dark. Gutsey O'Connor was sitting in the police car, resting his feet and dozing. He was no longer taking any interest in the search, being convinced it was now just routine and the wanted men weren't hiding in his district.

But Wand and Callon didn't relax. They knew that any moment they might turn up these three men and then there would be a battle. Young and as tough as they were, the strain was beginning to tell.

The final bungalow in the long row yielded nothing and they returned to the police car.

"How long do we keep this shindig up?" Wand demanded as O'Connor jerked awake.

"We'd better drive to the South end now," O'Connor said, trying to sound alert. "The Chief didn't say anything about knocking off."

"Sure you wouldn't like to help out, Sarg?" Wand asked sarcastically. "One more man on the job, and we'd get done that much quicker."

"I give the orders around here," O'Connor snapped. "Get in and let's go."

They drove farther down the beach road, past a big clump of palm trees until they came within sight of another long row of bungalows.

Without knowing it, they were now within five hundred yards of Maisky's bungalow. The two patrolmen, their automatic rifles carried at the alert, walked along the sandy road, split up and began rapping on doors again.

At this moment, Mish Collins pushed aside his plate and released a soft belch. That, he told himself, was one of the best meals he had eaten for a long time. Looking across at Lolita who had prepared the meal, there was genuine admiration in his eyes.

"That was swell," he said. Then to Chandler, "Boy! You certainly can pick them!"

Chandler laid down his knife and fork and grinned.

"She's something very special." He patted Lolita's hand. "That was terrific, baby . . . and I mean terrific."

"You men . . . if a woman can cook, you're just mush." Lolita got to her feet. "Sit still. I'll take care of the dishes," and rapidly clearing the table, she carried the dishes into the kitchen.

"This is about our one lucky break," Mish said, lighting a cigarette. He tossed the pack to Chandler. "I really thought she was going to walk out on us."

Chandler got to his feet and moved over to the open window. It was growing dark now. He could see the moon coming up behind the palm trees, making the sea glitter. He drew the curtains and turned on the light.

"I told you. She and I have an understanding."

"Do you think we are safe here," Jess?"

Chandler sat in an easy chair. He let smoke drift down his nostrils.

"Could be. I don't know. We should work out something, Mish. If the cops did come here, there's a good hide in the roof. If something started, we could leave Lolita to handle it and you and me get up in the roof."

"Think her nerve would hold?"

"Sure."

Mish got to his feet.

"I'm going to grab me some air."

"Watch it."

Mish grinned.

"Relax, Jess. I know what I'm doing."

When he had left the bungalow, Chandler walked into the kitchen where Lolita was finishing the washing up.

"Anything I can do?" he asked.

"It's done." She took off her ap.r.o.n and came over to him. She leaned hard against him as he put his arms around her. "Where's Mish?"

"He's taking the air." Chandler's hands slid down her back and cupped her b.u.t.tocks. "Let's go to bed, baby." He pulled her close to him.

"I was only waiting for you to say that."

They kissed, then, his arm around her, he led her out of the kitchen, down the pa.s.sage and into the main bedroom. As he was about to close the door, he heard Mish come in. Mish's movements were hurried. Chandler stiffened. He raised his hand to Lolita, and then stepped into the pa.s.sage.

"There's a police car down the road," Mish said tensely. "They are checking all the bungalows. They'll be here in half an hour . . . automatic weapons."

Lolita came to the door, zipping up her dress.

"What is it?"

"The cops . . . they're checking the bungalows," Chandler said, trying to keep his voice steady.

Mish pointed to the trap door in the ceiling.

"We'll get up there."

"Put the radio on," Chandler said to Lolita. "When they come . . ."

She was surprisingly calm: a lot calmer than Mish and Chandler.

"I know. You don't have to tell me. I'll handle it, Jess. Just get up there and leave it to me."

"This could turn into a jam, baby," Chandler said. He had a sudden spasm of conscience. He had no right to ask her to do this for him. "Maybe you had better go. You still have time . . ."

"Get up there and be quiet. I'll handle it."

He pulled her against him.

"You won't regret this. When we do get out of this mess, you and I . . ."

She smiled up at him.

"I know, Jess."

Mish brought a step ladder from the kitchen. He opened the trap door and hauled himself into the hot s.p.a.ce between the roof and the ceiling.

Chandler kissed Lolita, then he climbed up into the roof. Looking down at her, he said, "You are going to handle this beautifully, and I love you."

"I love you too," she said and carried the step ladder back into the kitchen.