Four for the Money

Dan J Marlowe

• Publisher: Prologue Books
• Year: 2012
• ISBN:
  9781440541186
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Crime & Mystery Literature
• Index: Literature

In the penitentiary back East, there were four of us slated for parole. And we had plenty more on our minds than just freedom.We had a plan.If it worked, it would be the first time a successful heist had ever been pulled in this gambling town—a town where every cop had eyes in the back of his head and a hand on his gun 24 hours a day.There were a couple of snags—like the fact that we hated one another's guts, and the fact that a casino girl named Nancy was bugging me to get out and go straight.But I was locked into the plan, because if something went wrong, a Nevada prison—by reputation no rest cure—was preferable to having the other three guys looking for me as the pigeon who had made it go wrong.

Chapter 1

Smitty and the kid, Tommy, wished me luck and then left. They knew Blackie wanted a word with me in private. “All packed and ready to go?” Blackie asked, standing in front of my cell. His hair was combed straight back without a part and was so black it would have made coal dust look like dandruff.

“You know it,” I said.

He glanced around, then fished out a cigarette without removing the package from his shirt pocket. As always, his swarthy, pock-marked face looked threatening. He didn’t offer me a cigarette, nor did I expect him to. Offering cigarettes is just one of the habits a man loses in prison. The forty bucks a month that New York State lets an inmate spend—if he has it—doesn’t go far if he tries to support other people’s weaknesses.

Blackie struck a kitchen match on the bars. When it stopped flaring, he lit his cigarette. “Got everything straight?” he asked. I could barely hear him. His lips moved so slightly that the cigarette in his mouth bobbed hardly at all.

I nodded.

He took a long drag on the cigarette, studying me. “You’re not playin’ a game with us, are you, Slick? You know better than to try conning me, don’t you?”

I wondered how a man could convey so much menace in so few words. “You’re the boss, Blackie.”

“And don’t you ever forget it.”

I had enough pressure on me without him adding to it, but Blackie wasn’t the type of individual to whom this could be successfully pointed out. He’d already made up his mind about me a long time ago, of course. He’d given me the directions and instructions, everything but the address. This was just intimidation. And he had me convinced. I was locked into the plan, because if something went wrong, a Nevada prison—by reputation no rest cure—would be the next port of call for all of us, but it would be preferable to having Blackie looking for me as the man who had caused things to go wrong.

In the next aisle a shoe scraped on cement, and Blackie leaned closer to the bars. He removed his cigarette, and a trickle of smoke came from a corner of his mouth as he spoke. “Repeat after me, Slick. Nine three three two Wilmer Street, Brooklyn.”

I repeated it.

“It’s my stake,” he said, his deep-set eyes on me. “There isn’t any more. Don’t abuse it.”

I nodded again. What was there to say? I had given both Smitty and the kid small boxes of my personal belongings—books, clothes, things like that. I slid another box from under the bunk and handed it to Blackie through the bars. “I’m not taking anything with me,” I said.

“It pays to travel light,” he said in approval. He hefted the box. “Heavy.”

“No charge.”

He hefted it again, no expression on his dark features. “Repeat, Slick.”

“Nine three three two Wilmer Street, Brooklyn.”

“Keep in touch,” he said, and walked away from me. He didn’t look back. In a few minutes the buzzer sounded, and five minutes later the bolts clicked in the cell doors. I sat on the edge of the bunk, thinking, until long after lights out.

In the morning I rolled up my bedding and carried it with me to Receiving & Discharge. I tossed it onto a pile of sheets and blankets in a corner, then sat down on a bench until I was called into the dressing room. I was handed a blue double-breasted pin-striped suit that couldn’t have been more than thirty years out of style, a white shirt, a pink necktie, and brown shoes. When I was dropped off at the local bus station, no knowledgeable citizen of the State of New York would be in any doubt about my last address.

I put on the clothes in front of a full-length mirror mounted against the stone wall. I’m five ten and weigh only one-sixty, but the jacket was tight across the chest, and the trousers seemed too short. I loosened the belt and let the trousers ride lower on my hips. That was better, and I wouldn’t be wearing these clothes very long, anyway.

Wilson, the guard behind the counter, was watching me. “Always the dude, eh, Slick?” he said. “Seems like we always have a type like you who’s got to have tailor-mades, even in here.” He grinned when I didn’t say anything. “Whatcha takin’ with you?”

“Just what you have for me.”

He placed a large Manila envelope on the worn counter and opened it, dumping out its contents and comparing them with the listing on the face of the envelope. “Sign,” he said, pushing the envelope and a ball-point pen toward me.

I wrote my name, James Quick, in the space provided on the envelope. I picked up my watch, a thin, gold Patek Philippe, and slipped it on my wrist. I remembered the table stakes game I’d won it in. The loser had owned it because it was expensive—he hadn’t known it was the best. There was a set of cuff links and a tie bar, each with a Linde Star set in it. I put them into my pocket. My shirt didn’t have French cuffs, and it was probably just as well. Good jewelry would have made my cheap clothes look cheaper.

“Don’t put that away yet,” Wilson said when I picked up my billfold. He set a ledger down on the counter. “You’ve got a hundred sixteen dollars and change coming.” I’d almost forgotten. I put the bills in the wallet after signing the ledger. Always after signing.

The last thing Wilson gave me was a bus ticket to New York City, where I’d been sentenced. “Let’s go,” he said. I followed him across the central corridor to the outside gate. I was the only man being released that day, so there were just the two of us. A state car was at the curb in front of the main building, its somber black hood shimmering in the April sunlight. Everything looked so much greener from the outside than it did from behind the walls. Wilson motioned me into the front seat with him and drove me to the bus terminal. “Your bus leaves in twenty minutes,” he said when he pulled up in front of it. “If you’re not on it, the local police will pick you up before dark.”

“If I’m not on it? You’ve got to be kidding.” I slammed the car door shut and went into the terminal.

A great sense of humor, that Wilson.

My bus arrived in Manhattan at one in the morning. I was stiff and tired from the ten-hour ride and I walked to the first hotel I saw and checked in. The desk clerk asked me to pay in advance after one look at my suit, and the elevator boy asked if I wanted company, sex and habits unspecified. He seemed disappointed when I declined. Even the strange bed didn’t keep me awake long.

From force of habit I woke early in the morning. I went down to the drugstore off the lobby and bought shaving gear and a few other little necessities. When I got back to the room, I called room service and ordered breakfast. It arrived while I was slapping after-shave lotion on my face. I sat down and took on a load of orange juice, oatmeal with cream, bacon and eggs, sweet rolls, and coffee. I called downstairs for another pot of coffee and half a dozen A & C cigars. The boy brought Grenadiers, a long, slim shape they hadn’t been making when I went away. It reminded me that I ought to get out and see how much the rest of the world had changed.

I went down to the lobby and out on the street and walked a few blocks, shaking down the outsized breakfast while I savored the activity going on all around me. Everyone was in a hurry. I caught myself sizing people up, separating the sheep from the goats, those with something to lose from those who hadn’t. I cut it out. There was no need for it. Not yet, anyway.

When I tired of looking in the shop windows, I took a cab over to Brooklyn, giving the driver an address a couple of blocks short of the street number Blackie had given me. It took me only a few minutes to walk the remaining distance. The building had seen better days. Its chipped red brick had been painted a jaundice color, the effect being similar to a prostitute’s makeup, which covered the defects of age without concealing them.

I went into the lobby and pretended to examine the names on the tarnished brass mailboxes while my eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Blackie had said there’d be no one up and around in the morning, and so far he was right. The building was a night building. I pulled open the inside door and followed a narrow hallway permeated with stale cooking odors to the rear of the place.

The basement door was right where Blackie had said it would be. It was partly open, and I slipped through it without opening it wider. I fumbled for the light switch along the wall at the top of the flight of stairs. When it clicked, a dull glow came from below, along with smells I’d forgotten. Pure filth is rare in prison.

The rickety wooden steps swayed as I went down them. A forty-watt bulb hung from a chain in the center of the basement. The floor was littered with dog droppings. Some tenant apparently didn’t care for the bother of walking his dog outside. Stepping carefully, I made my way to a large coal furnace that had been converted to oil. Round heating ducts ran from it and disappeared into the ceiling. I went to the chimney behind the furnace and opened an eight-inch square door in the chimney’s base. The door had been used to remove soot in the furnace’s coal-burning days. One hinge was rusted, and the door hung crookedly.

I reached inside and felt nothing. Squatting, I reached deeper, and my fingers touched plastic, stiff and brittle with age. I had to use both hands to work the plastic-wrapped bag out without tearing it open and soiling its contents with the soot that covered everything, including my hands. I carried it to the concrete sinks along the wall and washed the soot from the plastic and from my hands. Then I tore off the plastic. Inside was a canvas sack stenciled with the name of a supermarket chain. I loosened the drawstring and opened it. The sack contained bundles of currency and a Mauser HSc .32 caliber automatic pistol. I counted the money as I distributed it among different pockets. It came to ninety-seven hundred dollars.

I looked at the money sack again before pushing it back into the base of the chimney. I’d like to have left the Mauser there, too, but Blackie had given me orders about that. I stuck the automatic inside my belt and hurried up the stairs and down the hallway and out to the street; where I could get some fresh air before my ears wilted. I hadn’t seen a soul during the expedition.

I flagged another cab and had it stop at the nearest service station. The cabbie waited while I bought an auto battery. He gave me a fishy eye when I carried it to the cab and set it down on the floor of the back seat, but he didn’t say anything. I gave him the address of the storage warehouse in Manhattan. It was near enough to a five-dollar ride that I didn’t ask for change.

I entered the warehouse carrying the battery by a sling attached to its terminals. In the tiny office a frail-looking old man was seated at a cluttered roll-topped desk. He wore a green eyeshade and black sleeve garters around his thin biceps. I set the battery down on the cement floor and fished the claim check from my billfold. It had been white but was now yellow. The old man accepted it, looked it over, then looked at me. “So you’re the fella who owns the car,” he said in a cracked voice. “That’s my brother’s handwritin’, and he’s dead now. I been won-derin’ if anyone was ever goin’ to come for it.”

I’d paid storage on the car for eight years. I’d finished a short jolt in Florida, legacy of a ruckus originating in a card game, to find a detainer waiting for me from the State of New York on a con charge I’d had nothing to do with except unwittingly snuggling up to a broad who turned out to be holding a load of warm ice. My lawyer kept telling me I’d beat it, but (skeptic that I am) I paid storage on the car. I drew seven years and served five and I had a lot of time to think over the circumstances. Aside...