The carton remained motionless as if bolted to the floor. Its unexpected weight sent a surge of alarm through Maisky. He hadn't anticipated the carton could possibly be so heavy. Again he heaved his puny strength against the dead weight. The carton shifted a few inches and then again became immovable.
Maisky paused. Sweat was streaming down his thin face and he was shaking. The night was stiflingly hot. In the far distance, he could see people still enjoying themselves on the beach, some in the sea, others playing ball in the moonlight. There was a sudden, alarming stab of pain in his chest, and, with a feeling of dread, he realised the carton was too heavy for him to manhandle into the boot of the Buick.
Maisky was a man who never panicked, but at this moment, he had to make a stem effort to control himself as he was forced to accept the bitter truth that his age and his health weren't up to coping with this carton of money. To increase the pressure of panic, here was this possibility that Chandler or worse — Perry — might suddenly arrive.
He climbed into the truck and took the lid off the carton. No wonder it was so heavy! For a long moment, he squatted on his thin haunches, staring at the packets and packets of $500 bills. Then, working feverishly, he began to toss the packets into the open boot of the Buick. As he worked, feeling choked and hot in the stifling truck, he became more and more aware of the laughter and shouts of the people not more than eight hundred yards from him, enjoying themselves in the moonlight.
Every now and then, he paused to look along the deserted beach to his left . . . it was from this direction that either Chandler or Perry or both would come.
Finally, with an effort that exhausted him, he emptied half the carton, then scrambling out of the truck, he dragged the carton, that was still almost too heavy for him to handle, from the truck into the boot of the Buick. He then had to replace all the packets of money back into the carton before he could shut the door. One packet of money dropped in the sand. The paper band broke and a sudden, unexpected breeze sent some of the $500 bills careering towards the sea.
Such was Maisky's greed that he began to chase the bills, but, realising the danger of wasting more time, he slammed shut the boot, slid under the steering wheel and switched on the ignition. He pressed down on the accelerator. The engine gave a cough, but failed to start.
Maisky sat rigid, his hands gripping the wheel, sweat blinding him. Cautiously, he again pressed down on the accelerator. The engine kicked, whined and then was silent.
For several seconds, Maisky cursed vilely. He had been out of his mind to have tried to save money buying a secondhand car! He remembered another occasion of no importance when he had tried to start the car and had had trouble . . . so much trouble that he had had to telephone a breakdown garage to come out and start the car. But now there was no telephone, no breakdown garage and he was in trouble with this sonofabitch car. Once again he tried, and once again the engine failed to start.
Hp turned off the ignition, opened the glove compartment and took out a .25 automatic. He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, then he opened the engine cover. He peered into the dark interior. His heart was slamming against his ribs alarmingly and his breathing was coming in short, jerky bursts.
Cursing, he went to one of the sidepockets of the car, took out a flashlight and returned to the engine. He peered at the mass of wiring which meant nothing to him. He jerked at one or two of the cables in the hope that one of them had come loose, but he only succeeded in burning his hand on the hot cylinder head and getting black grease on his shirt cuff.
"You got trouble?"
The sound of a man's voice just behind him sent such a stab of alarm through Maisky's frail body that he thought he was about to have a heart attack. He leaned against the wing of the car, cold, shocked with fear, as the voice went on, "Could be oiled up, you know. It's the heat."
Very slowly, Maisky turned.
A young man . . . not more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing only a bathing slip, his tall body so deeply suntanned, he looked almost black in the moonlight, was standing close to him.
"I guess I startled you," the young man went on. "Sorry. I saw you trying to start her. . . I'm pretty good with cars."
Maisky was aware that the moonlight was falling directly on him. This young man with his young eyes and his young memory would be able to give the police a dangerous description of him. This was something Maisky had planned all along must never happen.
"You . . . are . . . very . . . kind," he said slowly, trying to control his breathing, trying desperately not to alert this young man that he was terrified. "Perhaps you could see what is wrong." He offered the flashlight.
He felt the warm, firm flesh as their hands met. The young man took the flashlight.
Maisky stepped back. He glanced again up the beach, aware of the passing minutes, aware that Chandler, Perry or even the police might arrive at any moment. He was also aware of three $500 bills lying in the sand close to the young man's feet. His hand crept to his jacket pocket. He drew the .25 gun and snicked back the safety catch. He held the gun down by his side.
"Your points are dirty," the young man said. "Have you a rag?"
With his left hand, Maisky gave him his handkerchief.
"Use that . . . it doesn't matter." He was surprised to hear how shaky his voice sounded.
The young man worked for several minutes, then stepped back.
"Try her now."
"Perhaps you would," Maisky said, moving away from the car.
The young man slid under the steering wheel, turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator.
The engine fired immediately and Maisky drew in a sharp breath. For a long moment, he hesitated, then he remembered
Lana Evans. He had killed her. One more death now didn't matter.
"It's okay," the young man said as he got out of the car. He suddenly stared down at his feet, seeing the three $500 bills in the sand. "Hey! Are these yours?"
As he bent to pick up the bills, Maisky took a quick step back, and then aiming his gun at the young man's bent head, he squeezed the trigger.
* * *
Mish Collins was shutting the lid of his tool box when he heard the distant sound of a gunshot. He straightened, a red light flashing in his mind.
That meant trouble! In a few minutes, the place would be swarming with police and security guards. He snapped off the light in the control room, then, leaving the tool box, he began to walk quickly up the narrow alley. Then he heard another shot and he flinched, his hand groping for the butt of his .38 automatic, stuffed into his hip pocket.
He paused at the head of the alley. Across the way, he could see his parked car. The doorman of the Casino was looking tensely away to his right. A scattering of people, enjoying the hot, night air, stood motionless, also looking in the same direction. Then Mish saw two Security guards, guns in hand, come running down the steps of the Casino and go off to the right.
Mish gave up the idea of using his car. He turned left and, not walking too fast, he made his way under the arc lights that floodlit the face of the Casino. During the seconds he had to walk under the blazing lights, he expected to hear shouts or the bang of a gun.