Kramer finished the last morsel of ham and pushed aside his plate. He lit a cigarette.
There was a long pause, then he said, an edge to his voice, “Nobody tells me what to do, Helene, you know that: not even you. Just relax. Moe’s coming here for lunch. He’s coming because he is an old friend of mine: no other reason... so relax.”
Helene saw the hard light in the slate grey eyes and she flinched. She had always been a little afraid of her husband when he looked this way. She knew she was getting no younger, that she was putting on weight, and when she examined her face in the mirror each morning, she was distressed by her fading looks. Kramer, although sixty, was still vigorous and lusty. So far he hadn’t looked at other women, but she had the growing fear that if she wasn’t careful how she handled him, he might look elsewhere.
As she stood up, she forced a smile.
“All right, darling. I’ll fix something nice for him. I didn’t mean anything. It just worried me that he should turn up here... out of the past.”
Kramer studied her.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said and got to his feet. “Well, I’m off to the airport. We’ll get back around half past twelve. See you, sweetheart.” He patted her behind with a heavy hand, brushed his lips across her cheek and went out of the room.
Helene went back to her chair and sat down. Her legs felt suddenly weak. Moe Zegetti! Her mind went back to those years when Moe was Jim’s right-hand man. She had nothing against Moe personally: it was what he stood for that frightened her. An ex-convict! Here in Paradise City when she and Jim had won their way into Paradise City’s society and were regarded as two nice, respectable people, always wanted when a party was thrown. Suppose someone found out that Moe had had lunch with them? She put her hand to her face. What was Jim thinking of?
Inspector Jay Dennison and Special Agent Tom Harper, both of the F.B.I., were waiting impatiently in the airport lobby for their flight to Washington to be announced.
Dennison, a burly, muscular man with a ginger moustache and a bridge of freckles across his thick nose, was getting on for forty-eight: a sound, hard-working Federal Agent whose headquarters was in Paradise City. Harper looked a stripling beside the inspector. He was tall, lean and some twenty years the inspector’s junior and making his way. Even Dennison, who was a hard taskmaster, was satisfied with the way Harper was shaping. The two men had grown to like each other, and now Harper was planning to marry Dennison’s daughter.
It was while they were sitting away from the swirl of the crowd that Dennison suddenly put his hand on Harper’s arm.
“Look who’s blown in,” he said. “That fat little punk just passing through the arrival gate.”
Harper spotted the short fat man with greying hair and a fat, round, sweating face who had just walked into the lobby. He meant nothing to Harper, who looked inquiringly at his chief.
Dennison got to his feet.
“Play this gently,” he said. “This punk interests me.”
The two men moved casually after the little man who was carrying a brand new suitcase. As he reached the double glass doors leading out into the parking lot where lines of taxis and cars waited, Dennison paused.
“That’s Moe Zegetti,” he said, watching Moe as he stood looking to right and left uncertainly. “Remember him? You wouldn’t have met him... before your time, but you’ll remember his record.”
“So that’s Zegetti,” Harper said, his lean face showing his interest. “Sure, I remember his record. He was Kramer’s stooge and he was one of the top boys in the rackets at one time. He went down for six years and has been out two: since then he has been behaving himself. Looks as if he’s done himself pretty well. That’s a nice suit he’s got on.”
Dennison glanced at Harper and nodded approvingly.
“That’s the punk. Now I wonder what he is doing here.”
“Look... to your left. There’s Kramer himself!”
A voice distorted by the loudspeaker system announced that all passengers for Washington should go at once to Gate 5.
The two Federal Agents paused long enough to see Kramer wave a big hand and Moe Zegetti start towards him before they reluctantly turned away and walked with the crowd to Gate 5.
“Kramer and Zegetti... an unbeatable combination,” Dennison said thoughtfully. “Could mean trouble.”
“You don’t imagine Kramer is coming out of retirement?” Harper said. “He wouldn’t be that crazy with all his money.”
Dennison shrugged.
“I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself why Solly Lucas shot himself. He looked after Kramer’s money. Well, we’ll keep tabs on them. I’ll alert the boys when we’re on the plane. I’ve waited twenty-one years to get Kramer. If he’s coming out of retirement. . this could be my chance.”
Unaware that he was being watched, Moe started across the tarmac towards Kramer who came to meet him. As they approached, both men looked searchingly at each other, curious to see any change since last they met some seven years ago.
To Moe, Kramer looked bronze and fit, although a lot heavier. He had lost that restless, springy walk that Moe was familiar with, but this didn’t exactly surprise him. After all, Big Jim must be sixty now, and at that age, you don’t walk like a young man. Kramer was wearing a nigger brown suede golfing jacket, fawn gabardine slacks and a white peak cap. He seemed to be prosperous and relaxed.
Kramer noted that Moe was overweight and pale. He looked unhealthy and soft. This discovery made Kramer look more searchingly at Moe. He then became aware of the uneasy, almost frightened expression in the dark eyes and the nervous way Moe’s lips tightened and slackened. On the credit side, Kramer thought, Moe looked prosperous enough. He couldn’t have slipped too far back to wear a suit like the one he was wearing.
“Good to see you again,” Kramer said, grasping Moe’s hand. “How are you?”
Aware of the iron grip, Moe stiffened his own flabby grip. He said he was fine and how good it was to see Kramer again. The two men walked over to a gleaming black Cadillac.
“This yours, Jim?” Moe asked, impressed.
“Yeah, but I’m trading it in for the new model,” Kramer said, unable to resist boasting. “Get in. Helene is preparing a special lunch for you. I don’t want my ears knocked off for being late.”
Kramer asked after Doll as he drove onto the highway. Moe told him of the situation.
Kramer was shocked. He was fond of Doll.
“She’ll pull through,” he said. “She’s tough, Moe. You see... this kind of thing happens to us all sooner or later, but we come through, and so will she.”
Casually, he asked about San Quentin. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Moe’s hands turn into fists. Moe said in a tight strangled voice that it had been pretty rugged.
“I guess,” Kramer said soberly and shook his head. This was something that haunted his dreams. He knew he had escaped San Quentin by the skin of his teeth. “Well, it’s behind you. That’s the way to look at it... it’s behind you.”
During the rest of the twenty-mile drive, the two men chatted about this and that, recalling the past, mentioning names of people they had known, the places they had visited together. There was no talk as to why Kramer wanted to see Moe.
Lunch passed off fairly well. Helene had provided a good meal, if a trifle heavy, but Moe was quick to realize that his visit wasn’t welcome by her, and this upset him a little.
Halfway through the meal, Helene asked him bluntly what he was doing now.
Moe said he had a restaurant and it was doing all right.
“Then what are you doing in Paradise City?” Helene demanded, scarcely concealing her hostility.