Cajek was a doer. Introspection was as foreign to him as diamonds to a beggar. He had lived his life like a tightrope walker without a net. He was a professional who played the percentages. The element of luck, that sweet happenstance men worship, was looked upon with disdain by Cajek. He wanted no part of that which he could not control.
Cajek walked slowly into his kitchen and emptied an opened bottle of warm beer into the sink. He had taken one swig of the beer earlier in the afternoon — it had made him sick. It was now six p.m. and he was neither thirsty nor hungry.
The telephone rang. Cajek picked up the extension.
“Tony?”
“Yeah.”
“What went wrong yesterday?”
“Nothing,” Cajek said as he loosened his gray silk tie.
“You’re a liar.”
“So?”
“So what happened? You’re supposed to be old-reliable. Listen, buddy, the girl left town two hours after you were supposed to make the hit. Very sudden-like, very cute. She went to L.A. on Western’s flight 62. We had to make quick arrangements, thanks to you. The job was taken care of down there.”
“That figures,” Cajek said quietly.
“So what is this lying bit? I want an explanation and Jake wants an explanation.”
“You get nothing.”
“After all these years? My own brother, and that’s all you have to say?”
“That’s right.”
“I can’t cover for you, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Cajek quickly covered his mouth to stifle a moan as pain shot through his guts like showers of sputtering fireworks.
“Tony, listen to me, there’s a contract out on you. You messed up a big one. That girl was going to talk; she could have sent Jake up for life. I told Jake to give you a break — it’s your first goof — but he wouldn’t listen. He was raving like a madman, he never liked you much anyway. If only Jake owed me one favor — just one — but he paid me off a couple of years ago. I got nothing to go on, Tony. He’s like a brick.”
“Forget it, Mitch.” Cajek leaned against the wall.
“No, this is crazy! Come on, give me a reason. What is this? I don’t see you for four months and you talk to me like a stranger. I need an out, just something I can tell Jake so he’ll cancel the contract. Are you sending him back the five grand tonight?”
Cajek said nothing.
“You idiot! This is no time for games. We’ve got to placate the guy. Send the money back, then go to South America for a while. It’ll give him a chance to cool off. Go to Bolivia, but stay out of La Paz; I think we’ve got one connection in La Paz. This is bad for me too, you know. I mean, you fouling up like this. Look, will you give me a reason?”
“There is no reason, damn it, so butt out.”
“OK, that’s it, then.”
“That’s it.”
“So long, chump.”
Cajek replaced the receiver on the hook. He coughed as sudden nausea rose in his throat. He went back into the livingroom and stretched out on the couch. He would wait. It wouldn’t be long — a few hours at the most.
How long had it been? Three months, four? The pain had begun then. He had taken a short vacation in Costa Rica. He remembered the hot sun that had fallen comfortably on his smooth, lithe body, remembered the joyous shouts of children playing along the edge of the pool by the hotel. Then, as he had risen to go back to his room, he felt a short, hot spasm in the pit of his stomach.
When he had returned to San Francisco, he made an appointment with an internist. There were the usual tests; then more tests. An operation was imperative and Cajek consented. They opened him up, looked around, then closed him up. It was that simple; something ventured, nothing gained.
After the verdict was in, he resisted the temptation to indulge in fantasies of hope. Miracles were not in the cards for him. He would do what he knew how to do best: he would plan an execution.
He had accepted that last contract with no intention of carrying it out. It was a beautiful plan. The hit would be clean. Jake Mollette always hired the most efficient hit men in the business.
Cajek propped his body up on his elbows and swung his feet over the couch to the floor. He sat on the edge of the couch for a moment and then stood up. He walked over to the huge window that swept across the front of his livingroom, and looked down at the carpet of lights that spread over the Bay.
The doorbell rang. Cajek froze by the window; he did not turn around. The bell was pushed again. He knew whoever was outside would instinctively try the doorknob. He had left it unlocked. Cajek jammed his fists deep into his pockets. He heard the door open slowly, then click neatly as it was closed.
“Tony?”
He couldn’t believe his ears. Jake had sent Mitch. Jake’s a stupid idiot, a fool! Mitch would never carry it through.
Cajek whirled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Mitch walked swiftly toward him. His big feet mashed the orange shag carpeting. “Tony, listen—”
“I don’t want to listen!” Cajek shouted hoarsely. “Get out of here!”
“Tony, it’s OK. Everything is OK.” Mitch towered over him. “They got Jake tonight at Angie’s Bar about an hour ago. Two guys walked in and bam, bam, that was it. Pete told me and right away I called Solly. Solly knew about the contract on you, but he said there’d be no problem, so you’re home free, Tony. Damn, why don’t you turn on some lights in here, I don’t like talking to shadows. Listen, say something, will you? Hey, Tony, what are you crying for? Man, you don’t know how lucky you are.”
The Graft Is Green
by Harold Q. Masur
If it be true, indeed, that “every man is the architect of his own fortune,” one must then consider that not infrequently plans are warped in adaptation.
When a judge, a federal judge yet, calls on the phone, sounding urgent, and says please come to his home that evening, you go. You do not make excuses, especially if you are a lawyer practicing in the same district.
His Honor, Judge Edwin Marcus Bolt, U.S. District Judge, a lifetime appointment, fifteen years with a Wall Street firm, twenty years on the bench, was tall, spare, iron-haired, and physically fit. Twice married, his present spouse was a cool, slender beauty of thirty, exactly half his age.
Judge Bolt was currently presiding over a case that commanded daily headlines: The United States versus Ira Madden and Amalgamated Mechanics, for misappropriation of union funds to the tune of one million American dollars; misappropriation — a euphemism for stealing, embezzling, the larcenous juggling of books — with Ira Madden, union president, as chief malefactor and prime beneficiary. The authorities had not yet been able to locate the proceeds, although they had certain suspicions. In the past year Madden had made several trips to Switzerland, probably visiting his money.
So that evening, obeying the judge’s summons, I took a cab to his East Side town house. I saw that he had a number of visitors ahead of me, leaving their cars parked alongside the curb in direct violation of parking regulations. None of the vehicles, of course, would be ticketed. No meter maid in her right mind would tag a police car.
I should have forgotten the whole deal and walked away, but curiosity needled me. The man in blue guarding the front door put a hand against my chest. I told him why I was there and he convoyed me to an upstairs corridor.
Sergeant Louis Wienick, swarthy, heavyset, bald, lifted a spiky eyebrow and shook his head. “Well, well! Scott Jordan. Wherever there’s trouble. What cooks, Counselor?”