The driver lifted his shoulders and sent the car moving forward again. Taggart turned away with a grunt of disgust. Neither of the men had ever heard anyone talk to the boss like this and get away with it.
But Ben realized that Harry held the cards. The more he thought about this job the more he liked it. Two million profit! It was cheap at fifty grand.
“What's to stop you double crossing me if I give you the money?” he demanded.
“You'll stop me, won’t you?” Harry said. “What are you worrying about? Your man will give me the two cheques. He'll come to the bank with me. He'll stay with me until the job's done. If you can't trust your man to see I don't double cross you, you'd better take care of me yourself.”
Ben had already arranged in his mind to let Borg take care of Harry. There wouldn't be one man, but three, as well as Borg. He had no misgivings that Harry would have a chance to double cross him. But he didn't want Harry to think he was gaining an easy victory.
“Well, okay. When's the plane due to leave?”
“On the twentieth.”
“What time?”
“I'll tell you that when I have the money and not before.”
“You don't trust easy, do you?” Ben said and grinned. He was beginning to gain a little respect for this odd fat man who talked as if he had no roof to his mouth. “Okay, Green, it's a deal. At noon on the twentieth my man will give you two certified cheques for twenty-five grand each. He'll stick with you until you're on the plane. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“I'll get you two good men to go with you on the plane, and a third to handle the car.” Ben went on. “You can work out the details with my man Borg. I'll send him along to you tomorrow night. Where are you staying?”
“Lamson's.”
“Okay.” Ben leaned forward and tapped the driver on his shoulder. “Stop here.”
The driver pulled to the kerb and stopped.
“This is where you get out,” Ben said to Harry. “If the job fails, you'll return the money: understand? Plenty of guys have tried to double cross me in the past. They're all dead. Some of them took a long time to die. I have means of finding a guy no matter where he hides and I'll find you if you run off with the dough without delivering. No diamonds: no dough. Understand?”
Harry got out of the car.
“Yes.” He hunched his shoulders against the rain. “You'll get them all right. You don't have to worry about that.”
“I'm not worrying,” Ben said, a snarl in his voice. “You're the one who's going to do the worrying.”
Leaving Harry standing in the rain, the car drove rapidly down the street and disappeared into the darkness.
IV
On the afternoon of the nineteenth, Ben sent for Borg.
For the past two years Borg had been in charge of all Ben's illegal activities. Ben completely depended on him to carry out his instructions, handle the gang, take care of the rough stuff, organize a killing if a killing was necessary, and see there was no drop in the vast income that came to Ben from his vice and extortion rackets. ,
During those two years, Borg had never made a mistake and had never failed to carry out an order: no matter how difficult the order had been. Looking at him as he sat like a big fat toad in the chair opposite Ben's desk, Ben marvelled at the deceptiveness of Borg's appearance. He knew him to be a cold-blooded and utterly ruthless killer who thought no more of taking a life than he thought of killing a fly. He knew him to be as swift as a striking snake, incredibly fast with a gun and an expert shot. There was no other member of his organization who could handle a car as Borg could. He not only drove at fantastic speeds, but his sense of anticipation and judgment of distances were incredible. Ben had been with him when he had been ambushed by the Levinski mob. Two cars, spraying gunfire, had converged on them, and Borg had got away only by brilliant and unbelievable driving.
Unable to beat the other two cars for speed, he had swung off the side streets into the thick traffic of Figueroa Street and Ben had never forgotten that drive, and never would as long as he lived. Moving at sixty miles an hour, Borg cut through the traffic as if it didn't exist, leaving Levinski's cars standing. He had darted all over the road wherever there was an opening and shooting up on to the sidewalk when there wasn't. The ride had lasted three minutes. It had been the most shattering experience of Ben's life, but he knew Borg was saving him from certain death. No one got hurt, no car got smashed, and when Borg whipped the car again into the side streets, having shaken off Levinski's cars, he had been as placid and as unmoved as he always was.
It was difficult to guess Berg's age: he might have been thirty or even forty-five. He was a mountain of soft, white fat. His complexion was greenish-white like the belly of a toad. His eyes were hooded and black, as expressionless and as hard as knobs of ebony, His black hair looked like a piece of astrakhan draped over his skull. He had a black moustache that drooped like a rat's tail either side of his mouth.
Although Ben paid him a thousand dollars a month, plus a percentage on his vice and extortion rackets, giving Borg a considerable income, he never looked as if he owned a nickel. His clothes were stained and shabby and invariably too tight for him.
His shirt was always grubby. His hands and nails were so dirty that Ben, who was fastidious, often complained.
Looking at him now as he sat slumped in the chair, his dirty hands folded across his gross belly, a cigarette drooping from his thick, almost negroid lips, ash on his vest, the buttons of which threatened to fly off under the strain of keeping the gross body controlled, Ben thought he had never seen a more unpleasant and disgusting object.
“Well?” he said. “Let's have it.”
His ebony eyes staring up at the ceiling, Borg began to talk.
His voice was hoarse and breathless. All the time he talked he seemed to be struggling to breathe. From where he sat, Ben could smell his stale sweat and his dirty clothes. He fancied he could smell the threat of death in him.
“This guy's a phoney,” Borg said, speaking hoarsely and softly. “He has no background. He doesn't exist as you and I exist. Suddenly, out of the blue, is Harry Green. There are no records of him. The Army Air Force don't know him. The cops don't know him. No one knows him. I haven't dug into any guy's background as I've dug into his and found so little. I've traced him from New York, though he says he comes from Pittsburgh. No one knows him in New York. As soon as he hits Los Angeles, he starts making an impression. He tips a taxi driver five bucks. He has his photograph taken and starts a fight with the photographer. He gets tough with Lamson. He goes to the same bar every night and talks big and tough. He brags about what a hot pilot he was and how he wants to get into the air again. He acts like a man who wants to be remembered. That stinks to me. A guy who is planning a three-million-buck steal doesn't act that way unless he's crazy or has a damn good reason for doing it.”
Ben knocked the ash off his cigar while he stared at Borg.
“Think we can trust him?”
Borg lifted his massive shoulders.
“I guess so. He won't get the chance to double cross us. I’ll take care of that. I think he can handle this job. But he isn't Harry Green. It's up to you whether you care who he is or not. If he delivers, it doesn't matter who he is. If he doesn't, then it does. He's being smart. He is taking care of himself. It's my bet when the job's been pulled, Harry Green will vanish because Harry Green doesn't exist.”
Ben nodded.
“Yeah, that's the way I figured it. Maybe it'll be a good thing if he does vanish. If the cops catch him, he might squeal.” He stared into space for a long moment. “I don't give a damn who he is so long as he delivers. Have you any dope on the diamonds?”