2
Ernie Kling bore such a striking resemblance to the movie actor Lee Marvin, that often, gushing, blushing matrons would stop him on the street and ask him for his autograph.
His reply was always the same: ‘I only autograph checks,’ and, pushing roughly past them, he went on his way.
Kling believed in living in luxury. He had bought a small two bedroom, luxury apartment, down-town Washington, which was his headquarters. He lived like a vicious, hungry tiger, lurking in his lair, waiting for a kill. He had had a long association with the Mafia as an out-of-town hit-man. He would get instructions to go to some city as far as Mexico and Canada, and to waste some man who was being a nuisance. During the years, he had gained a reputation of being utterly professional and reliable. When he did a job, there was no blow-back. The Mafia often steered him to private jobs: a rich woman wanted to get rid of her husband: a rich man wanted to get rid of his blackmailing girlfriend. ‘As a favour, Ernie,’ a voice would say on the telephone.
Kling would never consider a killing under a hundred thousand dollars, plus all expenses, and as his hit jobs averaged three a year, he could afford to live in style.
He spent his money on clothes and in luxury restaurants. Women didn’t interest him. When in need of a woman which was seldom, he made use of a top-class call-girl service. He favoured red-heads, a little overweight, and his treatment of them, as tough as they were, often left them in tears.
Kling had no respect for human life, except his own. Man, woman or child was mere profit to him as long as the price was right.
The black woman who cleaned his apartment, did his laundry and provided dreary lunches made him realize he would have to look elsewhere. He was becoming bored eating out every night. He loved good food, and was one of the fortunates, no matter how much he ate, he never put on weight. He now wanted someone to run his apartment, who was utterly reliable, who wouldn’t listen when he answered the telephone, who didn’t yak when he was relaxing, and would give him decent meals.
Some eighteen months ago, he had encountered Ng Vee, a starving Vietnamese youth, wearing ragged jeans and a filthy sweat-shirt. The youth had implored him for a handout, telling him he hadn’t eaten for three days. Kling happened to be in a mellow mood after an excellent dinner and a lot of Scotch. He liked the look of the youth in spite of his dirt. He was of medium height, thin as a stick with big dark, intelligent eyes. Kling made a snap decision and, looking back, he told himself it was one of the best snap decisions he had ever made.
He took Ng to a scruffy Vietnamese restaurant and watched him eat like a starved wolf. Ng kept glancing at him uneasily, not making anything of this tall, lean, grey-haired man, well dressed, and whose tough personality instantly commanded respect.
After eating several substantial courses of Vietnamese food, Ng slowed down. So far this tall man hadn’t said a word. He smoked, and studied Ng with probing, slate-grey eyes.
Finally, Ng said softly, ‘Excuse me, sir, you are very kind to me, but I am not gay, and I am not on drugs. I just want work.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Ng’s story was briefly told. His mother was a Vietnamese, his unknown father a sergeant in the US army who disappeared when Ng’s mother became pregnant. She had made a tiny living selling hot snacks in the Saigon streets. Finally she decided to join the flood of refugees going to the States. By then Ng was sixteen. He had had a certain amount of education and had been fortunate to have been helped by an American RC priest who had taught him to read and write in English. Ng was a bright student, and he had slaved to improve himself. Both his mother and he hoped all would be well when they arrived in the States, but they found the going desperately hard. His mother got a lowly paid job in a Vietnamese laundry. Ng had searched and searched for work, but no one wanted him. After a year of this misery with his mother slaving to feed them both and pay the rent of the one room they had been lucky to find, Ng realized what a hopeless, useless burden he was to his mother, seeing her beginning to starve because she was also feeding him. He knew she would be better off without him. Without telling her, he took to the streets. This was now the third day of his desperate hunt for a job, no matter how menial, and without success. He felt, in misery, he had come to the end of his road.
Listening and watching Ng, Kling decided this youth had possibilities to be moulded into the slave he needed: to run his apartment, look after the chores and be faithful.
‘Okay, kid,’ he said. ‘I’ve a job for you.’ He took out his wallet and produced two one-hundred-dollar bills. He also produced his card. ‘Get cleaned up. Buy yourself new clothes and report to me at this address the day after tomorrow at eleven A.M.’
It took Kling only a few days to teach Ng exactly what he wanted and expected. Ng was a rapid learner. He seemed born a natural house-boy, unobtrusive, always on call, keeping in the kitchen when Kling was doing business or talking on the telephone. The apartment was kept immaculate. Then Kling had a call to do a hit job in Jamaica. He would be away three weeks. He had no qualms about leaving Ng to look after the apartment. He explained he wouldn’t be back for a while.
Ng nodded.
‘No problem, sir. I will take care of your home.’
Kling was paying the boy a hundred dollars a week and all found. When Kling departed, Ng went to visit his mother. He told her of his good fortune and gave her a hundred dollars.
‘Make yourself indispensable, son,’ she said. ‘Take cookery lessons. I will teach you how to wash and iron.’
Seeing the wisdom of this, Ng joined a night class for cookery. His mother taught him how to iron Kling’s expensive and fancy shirts. Again he learned quickly. Even with Kling away, Ng never sat in the luxury living-room. He either sat in the kitchen, studying English, or else, in the evenings, watching TV in his bedroom.
On his return, Kling was surprised and pleased to find a hot dinner of an excellent pot roast waiting for him. He was also pleased that his apartment never looked better.
‘Say, kid,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve become quite a cook!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Ng said. ‘I have taken lessons. Please order what you wish to eat tomorrow.’
Kling grinned.
‘I’ll leave it to you, kid, so long as it’s as good as this.’ He took a thick roll of one-hundred-dollar bills from his pocket, peeled off three of them and tossed them onto the table. ‘That’s for the housekeeping. You fix it.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ng said, looking at the tall, lean man with adoring eyes.
When he had cleared the table and was once more in the kitchen, Kling lit a cigarette and relaxed back in his chair. He had got this little bastard hooked, he thought. Man! Was I smart to have picked on him! He’s just what I’ve always hoped for.
A couple of weeks later, he was made to realize just how valuable Ng was to him.
He had gone out with friends for dinner, leaving Ng alone in the apartment, telling Ng he would be back around midnight, and not to wait up for him. That, of course, was unthinkable to Ng. No matter how late Kling was, he always found Ng waiting with coffee ready or an iced drink.
Around half past eleven, the front door bell rang. Ng opened the door and immediately received a violent shove that sent him reeling back.
A thickset man, wearing a shabby sports coat and a greasy hat, came swiftly into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He held a .38 automatic in his right hand.
Recovering his balance, Ng looked at him, his face expressionless.
‘Where’s Kling?’ the man rasped.
‘He’s out, sir.’
‘When’s he back?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’