“Gawd!” he muttered again. “An’ a big time guy like that is willin’ to risk his neck on account of a moll. Ain’t life one hell of a riddle?”
In a large rear room, directly over Torreli’s place on Eleventh Avenue, Floss O’Connor and Italian Joe Mercurio sat face to face over a table on which, exposed to the feeble light from above, lay over two hundred thousand dollars in money and stolen jewelry.
The look of anxiety that filled Joe’s eyes faded as he admired the richly loaded table. All of this represented the work of only a few months. The sight of it all filled him with pride. But again the film of anxiety flooded his eyes.
“I was a sucker to show you where I had all this stuff hidden,” he whined, the beads of moisture dripping from his swarthy face. “Supposin’ the cops should come bustin’ in? Where t’hell would I be then?”
“Aw, Joe,” Floss O’Connor cried, “ain’t part of that stuff mine? Ain’t I been in on every deal with you? An’ ain’t I your girl? I just wanted to look it over again, that’s all.”
“But yuh didn’t know where I had it hidden, an’ now—”
Floss O’Connor’s painted lips broke into a smile.
“You wasn’t going to double-cross me, Joe, was you?”
“I don’t trust any skirt,” Joe growled.
The sound of footsteps passing in the hall outside brought a little cry to Joe’s lips. Bending forward he tried to cover the gems and money while his strained eyes watched the door, and the beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead. The footsteps passed his door and continued on down the hallway. Italian Joe breathed a sigh of relief.
Floss O’Connor watched the Italian’s face closely. Then her eyes returned again to the shimmering silver and platinum; the pearls and other precious stones, and the crisp bills, counted out into neat little piles of various denominations.
Italian Joe wet his lips. Ever since he had hung around with the river mob he had envied Big Red Regan’s split on the various rackets put over by the gang.
Now that big split was his. He was sitting pretty and with almost four long years to go before Big Red could ever bother him again.
He had certainly made a clever move the day that he had planted the big Irishman for that cheap little Long Island job and then fixed it so that Phil Moran, the flatty, would pick him up.
Big Red had been the most surprised man in the world when they had fished the three rings and the platinum bar pin out of his pockets. Italian Joe laughed as the scene flashed before his eyes again.
Suddenly Floss O’Connor bent forward, listening. A clock was striking somewhere. Three times it struck. Italian Joe reached forward to gather in the jewels that lay before him on the table. Floss O’Connor smiled and touched Joe’s hand.
“Joe,” she whispered. “Let’s go away tonight, just you an’ me!”
The Italian eyed Floss with the look of a man who is about to realize the one thing that life had cheated him out of. He had stepped into Big Red’s shoes as far as power and money were concerned.
His had been a rule of blood clouded by the smoke of his automatic. But as yet he had failed to gain control over this active, fighting moll of Regan’s. True the river mob recognized her as his property — his girl. She herself at times, as tonight, admitted the claim.
And yet, at other times, she ignored him and almost jeered openly at him. And now, at sight of the riches that lay scattered about the table, she had come to a final surrender.
Italian Joe Mercurio smiled complacently.
“Joe,” Floss breathed again, “let’s pack this stuff in a bag an’ head for Canada. You’ve got your car outside. None of the mob will get wise to where we’re going. And tomorrow we’ll be in Canada, just you an’ me. What d’yuh say, Joe?”
Italian Joe put his fleshy fingers over her own. This was his moment of final triumph over Big Red Regan. And yet his avaricious mind clung to the power and wealth that might be his if he stuck on here with almost four long years ahead of him. He could even have Big Red taken for a ride when the Irishman finally was released from stir. And yet—
There was a new light in Floss O’Connor’s velvet eyes as the hardness died out of them. Again she reached forward and touched his hand.
Her touch was magnetic. The hot Italian blood stirred in his veins as he eyed her bare throat and rounded breasts. He leaned forward, his lips seeking hers. For a brief second a flare of hatred flashed into the girl’s eyes. Her slim body trembled and her small hands gripped the table’s edge. Then her red lips curved into a smile of triumph. She knew that she had won.
Carrying the heavy black bag that contained the money and gems. Italian Joe Mercurio led the way down the narrow stairs that brought him to the street. Close at his heels came Floss O’Connor. Eleventh Avenue was deserted, although the lights in Torreli’s place were still going strong. Quickly Joe crossed the sidewalk to where his trim little roadster was parked. Without a word he threw the bag into the car and climbed in behind the wheel. Floss followed him, throwing an outer garment over the bag that rested on the floor between her feet.
At the same moment the huge bulk of a man slipped out of the shadows of the doorway that adjoined Torreli’s. The light fell full on his face as he approached the car. It was Phil Moran, the flatty.
Italian Joe eyed the detective suspiciously as he rested one huge hand on the car, leaning forward with a grin on his heavy lips.
“Off on a little trip, just the two of you, eh?” chuckled the detective. “What t’hell’s the rush? Checkin’ out at three o’clock in the mornin’?”
“What is it to you?” asked Floss bluntly.
Italian Joe squirmed uneasily in his seat. But the flatty retained his good-natured grin. He acted like a man who had valuable information to give — if he cared to. Joe’s uneasy fingers played with the wheel.
“Got a little news that might interest you, Floss,” Moran added with a throaty laugh. “Your old sweety. Rig Red, was all set for a break tonight. My idea is that he was comin’ down here to ‘talk’ things over with you. Well, at any rate, Eddie the Dope was to pick him up outside an’ rush him in a stolen car down to where nothin’ could keep him from droppin’ in on you. Big Red, as you probably know, is all hell let loose when his temper’s up. But” — again he laughed — “somebody filled Eddie the Dope full of snow again an’ he got to shoot in’ his mouth off. Told the whole works—”
Floss O’Connor’s face was white and drawn. A sob burst from her painted lips. The next second she had leaned forward and struck the detective full in the face, her tiny fist drawing a trickle of blood from his lower lip.
Phil Moran caught the girl’s two hands and forced her back into her seat. He admired this fighting moll. With the back of one huge hand he wiped the trickle of blood from his lip. Again he grinned.
“I’ve got a damn good mind to keep you here in N’Yawk where yuh belong, Floss — with me,” he said.
“I told yuh once before that there are many things I could tell yuh — about Red goin’ up to the Big House, f’r instance — that yuh might wanta know. Yuh told me once that yuh was gonna ‘get’ the guy that double-crossed Big Red, an’—”
Italian Joe Mercurio’s face was gray-white in the light reflected from Torreli’s windows.
“Come on, Floss,” he cried sharply, “let’s get goin’!”
“You’ll get goin’ when I’m damn good an’ ready,” snarled the detective suddenly, “an’ that’ll be when I get a look at what yuh’ve got in that black bag, Joe!”
As if ashamed of his weakness of a moment before, the detective suddenly pushed Floss O’Connor aside roughly and reached for the bag. Italian Joe Mercurio’s nerve failed him. With a sullen whine he gave up.