I gulped as I said, “If you take over the courier job, you'll be dead on delivery, too.”
“Don't worry about little Gus, fatty. I'll make the sale but not like a dummy. Now don't go for stupid, make me hurt you—give me the bag! I'll see you get a few grand, even take care of you the way you want.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You're the biggest one I ever seen, but faggots come in all sizes. Ever take it into your head to make money?” Gus cackled with horrible laughter.
“You and me will have a swishing good time—I treat all my gals good. The bag!”
Gus stepped toward me, cocky grin on his stupid face, so sure of himself the gun was pointing toward the floor...
In college they had the football squad try out for track. For a couple of weeks I was a hammer thrower. Now, I was so blind-angry at his daring to call me a swish, I said, “Here's the bag!” Swinging the sixteen-pound bag by the string hard as I could, pivoting all my weight behind it....
... Gus walked into the arc, the duffel bag striking the side of his ratty face. His entire head seemed to fold over at an unreal angle, then he collapsed into a crumpling heap at my feet. Picking up the .32 with my left hand, I smashed it down into his pale face again and again.
Lucille grabbed my arm. “Tony! You're hitting a dead man! You broke his neck! Tony, you and I...”
With the bag still in my right hand, I punched her thick chin: she went sprawling on the floor, blood gushing from the nice lips. “If we get this settled... we both might go to the beach today...'“ I panted, trying to mimic her warm voice. “Whore! Lying bitch, setting me up from the jump!”
The words echoed in the room, seemed to strike my face—wake me up. Lucille was out cold: I was talking to an unconscious woman and a corpse. Shoving the towel back into the duffel bag, I ran out of the room, thundering down the wooden steps and onto the street... got the full impact of what I'd done. Painting bum, dope courier, wanted by the cops...
Now I was a murderer.
CHAPTER 9
Killing Gus also killed my panic and indecision. Figuring I was safer off the streets, I boarded an uptown bus at the corner, my mind sure of one thing—I wasn't going to fry for the death of that dreadful, smirking, toothy, stupid pimp! Calling me a swish... well, his last thought must have been one of absolute shock!
I felt proud, almost virile, at having killed—no remorse. Best of all, I was thinking clearly. If small-time crooks like Gus knew about the attempted hijack at the Hotel Tran, it was safe to assume the police also knew, that they didn't want me for the killing of Al Foster, but only suspected I was smuggling dope. It would take the police time—since I'd been out of the country for almost two years—to get my picture and description. At least a day or more. In fact, I doubted if dizzy Arlene across the hall in 305 would admit I'd been sharing her room. Nor would Amy be anxious to come forward—so there wasn't anyone to give them a working description of me. True, once Gus was found and Lucille arrested, she could give a decent word picture of me.
I had to tear up my passport, destroy all evidence of Clayton Biner. Oh I could appreciate the ironical twist—it was the loss of my passport which started me in this mess. As plain Joe Blow I'd have about twenty-four hours in which to contact the syndicate. If I could only find a pipe-line to 'them,' the rest would be fairly simple—remembering Gus' pearls of wisdom I'd work out a deal where my services as a courier wouldn't be over until I safely had some loot. I wouldn't be hard to deal with— hell with fifty grand—I'd settle for... ten or fifteen thousand... enough to give me a few years cooling off time in Mexico or the West Indies. Yeah, I'd offer 'them' the greatest bargain ever seen.
If I still hadn't any real idea of how to do this, at least I'd lost my depressed mood, was ready to fight. I had one thread to the syndicate—Al Foster. Somebody at Foster's home address, perhaps his wife, would know his friends... give me a clue which would take me to the syndicate.
Okay; it wasn't much of a plan but I was done with my aimless wondering, fooling with cheap hustlers and whores. The original news story had given Foster's address on West 78th Street. I took the crosstown bus at 79th Street, sweating more than the day called for. At Broadway I walked down to 72nd Street and into the Automat for a sandwich and iced tea. In the men's room—not without a pang of deep regret—I tore up my passport and the few other pieces of identification on me, flushed them down the commode.
I rode a cab across 78th Street to the Drive. The late Al Foster had lived in an old and modest apartment house. Far as I could see, there weren't any detectives in sight. I walked back to the subway station at 72nd, found a group of dime public lockers. I sweated more at the thought of leaving three million bucks in a locker, but in case Foster's place was staked out, I couldn't risk being picked up with a duffel bag of junk on me.
At a barber shop I took a close haircut—although it hurt like hell to have my good hair end on the floor—manicure and shave. Next I bought a white shirt and conservative dark tie, changed in the men's room of a swank cafeteria on 73rd Street. (Hell, I was practically living in men's rooms I) But now I looked the part I was going to play, although my suit was badly wrinkled. Having less than twenty dollars, I had to stay with the old suit.
With the locker key securely in my left sock, I walked over to the apartment house, studying the parked cars and few passing people: I didn't see anybody looking like a dick. The house was a walk-up, remodeled into small apartments some years ago, judging by the condition of the mail nestboxes.
Foster's name was there but I didn't have enough nerve to go directly to his apartment. I walked along a delivery alley to the super's place. Sweating like a pig, I knocked on his door. A little faded man wearing worn over-alls and an old work shirt opened the door. His pale face was narrow and pointed, thick glasses giving mild eyes an owlish expression, few grey hairs on top of his egghead. In what sounded like a Northern European accent he asked, “Yes, mister?”
Glancing over his head I looked into a cool and darkened apartment. Far as I could hear, he was alone. “I read in the papers about somebody in this house dying. I wonder if the apartment has been rented?”
“You mean Mr. Foster's place? It was a great shock. I always thought he was a tobacco salesman.”
“Of course if his wife is living here...
“He had no wife. Such a quiet man.” The soft eyes blinked up at me. “Are you a friend of his?”
“No. I merely read about him in the papers and well, you know how difficult it is finding a flat these days. I'll make it worth your while, Mr. —”