1963 - One Bright Summer Morning (12 page)

Vic and Carrie exchanged glances, then controlling his anger, Vic sat down. He reached for a cigarette, lit it as he eyed the big, red-faced man.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I'm in need of an explanation.”

“I've been lucky enough to have kidnapped one of the richest girls in the world,” Kramer said, his face splitting into a wide grin. “I reckon she is worth four million dollars to her father. This place struck me as the ideal headquarters to negotiate the ransom and an excellent place in which to hide the girl. I am being as brief as I can, Mr. Dermott. I have picked on you to talk to the girl's father and to convince him to pay up without a fuss. You will also collect the money and bring it to me.”

Vic stiffened. He began to say something but stopped as he saw Kramer's evil little eyes staring fixedly at Carrie.

After a pause, Kramer went on, “I understand you have a baby . . . a boy?” He looked across the room where Junior was sleeping. “I like babies. The last thing I want is for kids to run into trouble. Know what I mean?”

Carrie put her hand on Vic's. Her skin felt hot and dry.

“I think so . . . if I don't do what you want,” Vic said evenly, “you'll take it out of the baby . . . that's it, isn't it?”

Kramer smiled expansively.

“I like dealing with a man like you, Mr. Dermott. You're quick, intelligent and reasonable. This fellow, Riff . . . he's dangerous, and he's a little out of my control. I'm afraid he pushed you around.” There was a threatening pause, then Kramer went on, “He doesn't give a damn who he pushes around: a man, a woman or even a baby.”

Vic thought of Riff. He was one of those morons spewed up from the gutter capable of anything. All he was now concerned about was to keep Carrie and Junior safe.

“If I think I can persuade Van Wylie to pay up, I'll try,” he said evenly.

Kramer's eyes narrowed.

“Who said anything about Van Wylie?” There was a dangerous snarl in his voice.

“I recognized the girl,” Vic said impatiently. “She's a well-known personality. What do you want me to do?”

“No, Vic!” Carrie said. “You . . .”

Vic shook his head at her. The expression in his steady eyes brought her to abrupt silence. He turned once more to Kramer who was easing his bulk in his chair.

“You won't have any trouble,” Kramer said. “All you have to do is to talk to Van Wylie and convince him that if he doesn't pay up, he's not seeing his daughter again. I have an idea he'll be pretty easy to convince. I want him to give you ten certified cheques for four hundred thousand dollars each. Signed by a man of Van Wylie's financial weight there'll be no difficulty in cashing cheques for that amount. It will be your job, Mr. Dermott, to go to various banks and cash these cheques. I'll give you a list of the banks: they are well spread out and you will have no trouble. Then you will hand the money to me. I will immediately release Miss Van Wylie and you will be free to get on with your play.” He grinned. “Not very difficult, is it?”

“I suppose not,” Vic said quietly.

Kramer stared for a long moment at him, his face a sudden ugly, hard mask.

“If you fail to convince Van Wylie that he must pay up, that he is not to bring the police into this, that he will never see his daughter again if he tries anything smart, then your wife and baby will land in real trouble. I want you to understand this. The money is important to me. I need it. I am in a position that does not allow for any sentiment. I assure you if things go wrong whether through your fault or Van Wylie's obstinacy, the first persons to suffer will be your wife and baby.” Kramer leaned forward, his eyes bloodshot and cold. “I want you to imagine what a slob like Riff would do to a baby. He likes handling someone who can't hit back. You are a man of imagination. You should know what I am driving at. I assure you if we fall down on this plan, I will simply withdraw and leave you all to Riff. So be very careful, Mr. Dermott. Understand?” He got to his feet. “I'll leave you two to talk it over. Tomorrow morning I expect you to see Van Wylie. It will take you three days to collect the money. Then you will return here. If all goes well, you won't see us again. If there is trouble . . .” He shrugged his shoulders and started to the door.

Vic said, “Wait. What's happened to my servant?”

Kramer paused, his hand on the door handle.

“Nothing's happened to him. He's all right.”

“I don't believe it,” Vic said, getting to his feet. “There's blood in his sleeping quarters . . . he's disappeared.”

Kramer's face hardened. He opened the door.

“Riff!” His deep, heavy voice resounded through the ranch house.

There was a moment's delay, then Riff lounged into the lobby. He eyed Kramer.

“You want me?”

“The Vietnamese? What's happened to him?” Kramer demanded.

Riff jerked his thumb towards the staff cabin.

“He's in there,” he said.

“He's lying!” Vic exclaimed. “He is not there!”

Riff grinned evilly at him.

“You want another poke in your puss, palsy?”

“Belt up!” Kramer snapped. He went out of the room.

After staring at Vic for a long moment, Riff followed him.

Out in the lobby, Kramer said, “What happened to the yellow-skin?”

“He got excited,” Riff said casually. “I had to give him a little poke. He bled a bit, but he's okay now.”

Kramer grunted. He had too much on his mind to worry about a Vietnamese servant.

Moe came from the living room and Kramer beckoned to him.

“I'll stay the night. There's room for me, isn't there?”

“Sure,” Moe said. “There's plenty of room.”

“Where's the Van Wylie girl?”

“Chita's taking care of her.”

“No chance of her getting away?”

“It's a fifteen-mile walk to the highway. No chance at all. This is the perfect setup.”

As the two men walked into the living room, still talking, Riff wandered out onto the veranda and sat down. He stared bleakly at the spot, some hundred yards from where he was sitting, where he had buried Di-Long.

It was not until after midnight that the Cranes got together alone for the first time since the kidnapping. Riff was sitting in the bamboo lounging chair at the far end of the veranda where he could watch all the windows of the rooms where the Dermotts and Zelda were sleeping. Chita came out of the shadows and joined him. She sat on the floor at his feet and took the cigarette he handed to her.

“What's biting you?” she asked as she moved her head forward to light the cigarette from the match flame he had struck alight. “That girl?”

Riff moved uneasily. It always irritated him that Chita could probe into his most secret thoughts. He made a sneering grimace.

“Think she worries me?”

“Yes . . . I think she might.”

“Screw it! No skirt has ever worried me.”

There was a long silence while they both smoked. Knowing something was wrong, Chita waited. Her brother always got around to his troubles in his own time. She never attempted to rush him. But after some ten minutes had gone by in silence, she said, “Well, I guess I'll turn in. Zegetti's relieving you, isn't he?”

“Yeah.” Riff hesitated then as Chita began to move, he went on, “That yellow-skin. . .”

Here it comes, Chita thought, as she sank back on the veranda floor.

“Shouldn't we give him something to eat?” she said. “I've forgotten about him. He must be hungry.”

“Think so? I don't.” Riff eased the neckband of his shirt with a dirty finger. “He's dead.”

Chita drew in a quick startled breath. She remained very still, staring at her brother who scowled at the burning end of his cigarette. He flicked the butt over the veranda rail and immediately lit another.

“Dead? What happened?”

“He was going to yell. He took me by surprise. I tapped him too hard,” Riff said, scowling. “I had the chain on. His goddam face busted like a dropped egg.”

Chita wiped her sweating hands on the skirt of her dress. Her quick, animal intelligence told her at once that now they were in real trouble. Steadying her voice, she said, “What have you done with him?”

“Buried him out there.” Riff pointed to the sand dunes.

“If they ever find out he's dead,” Chita said slowly, “Kramer won't be able to keep the cops out of this.”

“Think I'm dumb?” Riff snarled. “I've thought of that. I tell you it wasn't my fault! I just hit him too hard.”

For a long moment, Chita fought against a rising panic, Kidnapping! Now murder!

“You'll have to take food to the cabin every day,” she said finally. “Suppose you tell Zegetti that the yellow-skin had seen you, but there's no need for him to see him or me. The less faces he sees the safer for us all. Zegetti will fall for that line. That'll give us a couple of days to see how it works out.”

Riff thought about this. It made sense to him and he nodded.

“But I don't see how we fix it in the end,” he said. “The punk's dead and I killed him.”

“I'll think about it,” Chita said. “Could be we could push the killing on to Zegetti. The cops know him. They don't know us.”

“Oh, wrap up!” Riff snarled. “They'll know when he sparked out. Moe wasn't here until fifteen hours after I hit the punk. These cops are smart.”

“I'll think about it,” Chita said again. She paused, then, “Riff . . . leave that girl alone.”

Riff stared at her, his narrow eyes glittering.

“I'm fixing her good,” he said viciously. “No — talks that way to me! You keep out of it! I'm going to fix her and I'll fix her good!”

Chita got to her feet.

“You touch her and you'll be sorry,” she said. “You want to use your head. We're in bad trouble enough now, but if you interfere with her, we'll be up to the neck in it. Can't you see . . . we're in real trouble already?” It was typical of the Cranes to share the responsibility of each other's mistakes. “Get your mind off her. What is she anyway? All she has is a fat behind . . . nothing else. You start thinking about the yellow-skin. I want to leave here with ten thousand dollars which I can spend!”

She went away, leaving Riff scowling out across the moonlit desert.

Vic and Carrie lay side by side in one of the single beds in their bedroom. Carrie wanted to be as close as she could get to her husband. The cot in which Junior slept peacefully had been moved to within arm's reach of the bed. Neither of them had been able to sleep. Carrie began again on the subject they had already discussed and discussed.

“You can't do it, Vic,” she said. “You can't act as this man's go-between. You can surely see that, can't you?”

Vic moved impatiently.

“I don't give a damn about the Van Wylies,” he said, pulling her close to him. “I have to do it for our sakes. He wasn't bluffing. Carrie . . . I'm pretty sure Di-Long's dead.”

Carrie stiffened.

“Oh, no!”

“Well, if he isn't dead, then he's badly hurt. I picked that blood up on my shoe in his cabin. That thug hits!” He touched his aching face. “If he hit Di-Long . . .”

“Don't Vic!”

“These people mean business. I don't know who the fat man is, but you can see for yourself, he is just as big a thug as the young one. If I don't do what he says, he could take it out of you and Junior. He's not bluffing. I have to do it.”

“But, Vic, you aren't going to leave me alone with them?” Carrie said, her voice jumping a note.

“They aren't looking for trouble,” Vic said quietly. “They only want the money. They won't harm you . . . unless I fail to get the money for them. I'm sure of that.”

“I wish I was as sure. You really mean you're going off tomorrow and leave me with these awful people?”

Vic drew in a long, slow breath.

“Unless you have another suggestion, Carrie, that's what I have to do.”

“Suggestion? What do you mean?”

“What else do you want me to do?”

“I keep telling you! Stay here with Junior and me of course!”

“You want me to tell that man I won't do what he asks?” Vic said quietly.

They were back where they had started. They had gone over this again and again. Vic understood how Carrie felt to be left alone with these thugs, but he realized that if she and Junior were to remain safe there was no other alternative.

“I have to go, darling,” he said.

Carrie closed her eyes. She clung closer to him, fighting back the tears that tried to escape through her tightly closed eyelids.

Moe Zegetti lay in the comfortable bed in the fourth guest room. Although he hadn't been so comfortable in years, his mind was uneasy. He was thinking of his mother. It was now two weeks since he had seen her. He had had no news of her since he had left Frisco. He knew she was pretty bad, but he had great faith in her toughness. When this job was over, he would be worth a quarter of a million dollars!

Big Jim had said so and when Big Jim made a promise, he stuck to it. With that kind of money, Moe told himself, no matter how bad his mother was, he would be able to fix anything for her.

But he hadn't the money as yet. He worried about the speed cop. He worried too about Riff Crane. That boy was bad . . . really bad. Moe didn't like the way he had looked at the Van Wylie girl. There was trouble ahead with those two: he was sure of that. And Riff had Dermott's gun. That was bad. A punk like Riff with his kind of nature should never have a gun.

In the room next to Moe's, Zelda lay awake. She wondered what her father was doing right at this very moment. She moved her long legs under the sheet and smiled into the moonlit shadows. He must be laying square eggs, she thought. She had no doubt he would pay up and pay up fast. Really it was a pity that it would be over so soon for she was frankly enjoying herself. The first moment of shock when that girl had squirted acid on the Jag door and she had seen the way the leather had just peeled away had terrified her, but once she was over the shock and she realized she was in no danger, this affair had begun to amuse and excite her. After all, she was in luxury. No one could complain about the room in which she was. Then there was this man with the scarred face. Zelda felt a hot rush of blood through her at the thought of him. He was an animal, but what an animal!

Her hands went under the sheet and she closed her eyes. The image of Riff filled her mind. She began to breathe unevenly and heavily: soon she was panting, her legs tightly pressed together.