I saw sweat begin to trickle down his face as he read the statement and examined the receipt.
“So, go ahead and shoot me,” I said, smiling at him. “If you do, away goes all that lovely green and you and your buddies go behind bars for life. But don’t let that stop you... go ahead and shoot.”
He put down the gun, then stared at me, his snake-like eyes glazed.
“I’m not being greedy,” I said. “All I want is one million dollars, and I want it right now. I could squeeze you for a lot more, but a million will be fine. You and your buddies will still have lots of millions left. I can’t be fairer than that, can I?”
He just sat there, staring at me.
“I have information for you,” I went on, enjoying myself. “First, it will take three months to wind up Hamel’s estate. The good news is Nancy inherits the lot. Could be around twenty millions. There will be a big yearly income from the copyrights, and this could go on for some years. The payoff is nice, huh?”
Still he sat there saying nothing.
“I want an immediate million.” I leaned forward, and gave him my friendly smile. “That is no problem. I have talked with Solly Finklestein. On your signature, he will loan you a million at twenty-five percent. He will want your joint as collateraclass="underline" just good will, you understand. If, of course, you don’t repay, he will send his boys around but with all those millions coming, that’s no problem for you. Are you following me?”
He began to look like a snake cornered by a mongoose.
“All you have to do is to sign this paper Solly has drawn up, and we are in business.” I took from my wallet the contract S.F. had dictated and put it before Diaz.
“I’m not signing anything,” he mumbled, but he leaned forward and read the contract. “I’m not signing this!” he squealed. “Do you think I’m crazy?”
“You would be crazy not to sign it, partner,” I said. “If you don’t: bye-bye millions. Twenty years behind bars. It’s up to you.”
He sat there, sweat oozing out of his face, as he stared at the contract. Solly Finklestein was well known and what was more important, his methods of collecting bad debts were better known. Diaz knew if he signed, then couldn’t pay, he would be crippled for the rest of his days.
“Wake up, stupe!” I said, losing patience with him. “Sign now or I’ll blow the whistle. I could get off with a three-year stretch, but you and your buddies lose millions and gain a twenty-year stretch. Make up your tiny mind!”
He moved: nothing more lethal than wiping the sweat off his face.
“Relax, partner,” I said to encourage him. “You won’t see me again. As soon as Solly gives me the loot, I’m shaking the dust off this city. Think what you and your buddies can do with all those millions, plus a big income for years.”
I knew I had him in such a squeeze, there could be no blow back, and there wasn’t. With an unsteady hand, he picked up a pen.
I watched him.
A million dollars.
I could hear the patter of feet as the dolls came chasing.
Then the scene turned sour. I saw Diaz stiffen and stare beyond me. I saw his face start to fall to pieces.
A kid’s voice said shrilly, “You killed my brothers, senor Diaz. Now, I kill you.”
I jerked around.
Joey was standing in the doorway. In his small, dirty hand, he held a .38 revolver. It was pointing at Diaz.
“No, Joey!” I yelled.
The bang of the gun shook the room.
My eyes shifted to Diaz. His face had exploded in a mess of blood. He sat there, the pen in his hand, the contract unsigned.
I moved fast. Jumping to my feet, I snatched up the contract, my statement and Selby’s receipt. I stuffed the papers in my pocket, then I spun around.
Joey smiled at me. It was the happy smile of a child who has been given a gift-wrapped parcel.
“No one kills my people, Mr. Anderson,” he said. “They die too.”
“Get the hell out of here!” I shouted at him.
“Yes, Mr. Anderson.” He smiled again and walked out of the room.
He didn’t get far. Three big Mexicans grabbed him and hustled him back into the office. One of them had snatched the gun from him.
The office became crowded. Three hustlers, who had pushed their way in, began to scream. Everyone was staring at what was left of Diaz.
I slid around them to the door.
Above the uproar, I heard Joey’s treble voice shouting in triumph: “I killed him! I killed him! Do you hear me, Tommy? Do you hear me Jimbo? I killed him!”
I fought my way out onto the street, slid into the Maser, and was driving away, as the cop sirens began to cut the air.
By the time I got back to my apartment, I was in a state of depression, and in a cold sweat of fear.
My foremost thought was whether the cops would get onto me.
As I paced the big living room, I told myself that no one at the Alameda knew me by name. The barkeep knew I had seen Diaz twice, and he knew I had been in Diaz’s office when Joey pulled the trigger. In the confusion, I had slid away. I was sure no one noticed me leaving, but would the cops start asking questions? Joey was caught. It should be an open-and-shut case, but when the cops started questioning him, would he pull me into the mess?
Take it easy, baby, I said to myself. You were a good pal of Joey. He won’t give you away.
I poured myself a drink, tossed it back, then refilled the glass.
You hope, baby, he won’t give you away, I thought. There’s nothing you can do about it, but hope.
What now?
Diaz was dead, but Nancy and Pofferi were very much alive. I thought of those two, with Josh Jones, hiding in Hamel’s house: three deadly, dangerous people. As much as I liked picking up a million dollars, I was not going to put the squeeze on them. It would be like fooling with nitroglycerin.
Bart, baby, I said to myself, kiss that million goodbye. Those three are out of your league. All you can now hope for is you don’t get the cops on your neck. If you have any I luck, you won’t. Then you return to the Agency, and you go on working for peanuts, and you look around for some doll who won’t be too expensive, and you’ll go on and on until the Colonel decides to retire you, and you will settle down on the state and wait for death.
I poured myself another drink.
Man was I depressed!
I sat there, thinking of nothing, drinking and getting high. The shadows began to creep across the carpet. In another six hours I would have to report for duty to guard an old nut.
Then the telephone bell rang. I poured another drink and let the bell ring.
Maybe Bertha had changed her mind. I didn’t want to be bothered with Bertha right now. She was the original pain in the ass. So let her ring.
After a while, the telephone bell slumped into silence. In spite of my depression, I felt hungry. I weaved my way into the kitchen. I found nothing in the refrigerator except a bottle of Scotch.