1965 - The Way the Cookie Crumbles (12 page)

* * *

At lunch time, Ira left the bank and drove rapidly along the broad promenade, weaving her T.R.4 through the traffic, indifferent to the male eyes and the occasional whistles. At the end of the promenade, she turned down a narrow street and pulled up outside a small pizza restaurant.

Leaving the car, she entered the dimly-lit restaurant and walked to the bar.

Algir was sitting at the end of the bar, a Martini before him, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips.

Ira joined him and ordered a Coke which Algir paid for grudgingly. When the barman had gone to the other end of the bar, Ira opened her handbag and took from it a small cardboard box. This she slid over to Algir.

‘That’s the impression of the pass key,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Tell Ticky there’s no trouble. As soon as I can get the impressions of other keys, I’ll let you have them.’

Algir opened the box and examined the impression made in a lump of putty. He saw at once that he would have little trouble in cutting the key, and he nodded.

‘This is okay.’

Ira finished her drink and slid off the stool.

‘Don’t rush away,’ Algir said, staring at her slim body. ‘I’ll buy you a pizza.’

‘Buy yourself one. I don’t need one,’ she returned and swiftly left the restaurant, got into her car and drove back along the promenade. She stopped outside her usual snack bar, went in and ordered a chicken sandwich on rye bread. While she was eating the sandwich, her mind was busy.

She had now been away from New York for a month. The sudden change from poverty to riches hadn’t made the impact on her that she had imagined it would. Looking back, she realized since she had left New York, she hadn’t had a moment of real happiness. She knew why. There was no fun living in luxury, owning a car and having unlimited pocket money without Jess Farr to share it all with her.

Without him, life was flat and stale: a photograph out of focus. She missed their physical relationship. At least four nights a week, after the jam session, Farr took her back to his sordid little room where they made violent and often brutal love. As she sat in the sunshine, nibbling at her sandwich, her body clamoured for Farr.

Now she had succeeded in getting into the vaults, she decided she wasn’t going to wait much longer. During the past days, she had been coming around to the idea that Jess must be given the chance of joining her. Whether he would or not remained to be seen. For all she knew, he might have found another girl. She had never been sure of him.

He had used her body and had been content to go around with her, but she wasn’t at all sure how he felt towards her. At least, this was something she would know if she wrote to him, telling him to come. If he didn’t come, then that was that, but if he did . . .

Having him in Paradise City would be dangerous, she told herself as she paid her check. But this she would explain to him. Jess was no fool. He would understand her position. He would have to keep out of Mel Devon’s way. Ticky and Algir mustn’t have the slightest suspicion that he had joined her.

She would have to buy him an air passage from New York to Miami. She had no idea how much that would cost. She would also have to provide him with funds. When Jess wanted money, he stole it. She couldn’t have him doing that here.

As she got into her car, she decided it would be asking for trouble to bring Jess out here until she had raised some money. The money she got from the first safe she opened would have to go to Jess. That was the obvious way to do it.

A vague feeling of uneasiness stirred at the back of her mind. She remembered Edris’ warning. He was as dangerous as a rattlesnake, and now she was planning to double-cross him. She stiffened her back. No pint-sized dwarf could scare her, she told herself. She wanted Jess, and she was going to have him.

* * *

Six feet of brawn and muscle, his leathery complexion riddled with tiny burst veins, his bulbous nose pock marked, Hyam Wanassee looked what he was: a roughneck Texas millionaire.

This was his last day of a six-week vacation at Paradise City. He and his wife were leaving on the night flight for Texas, and he was leaving with considerable regret. The thought of returning to the sandstorms, the wind and the ulcer-forming pressure of Texas depressed him. At sixty-three, he found the desk work, the long hours in the oil fields and the nag-nag-nag of the telephone a drudgery.

If he had been allowed to have his own way, he would have happily retired to Paradise City, leaving his son to take care of his oil wells. He liked nothing better than to sit on the beach and watch the girls in their skimpy bikinis, drink whisky, eat seafood and in the evenings, gamble at the Casino. But his skinny, ageing wife would have none of that. ‘When a man retires he gets into mischief,’ she had said often enough, ‘and that’s one thing you’re not going to

do, Hyam, as long as I have breath in my body!’

At 15.00 hours Wanassee’s chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce pulled up outside the Florida Safe Deposit Bank. Wanassee left the car and climbed the steps to the bank’s entrance.

He was a well-known figure at the bank and the guards respectfully saluted him.

The guards at the grill, leading to the vaults, always dispensed with the formalities of identifying him. One of them saluted, then unlocked the grill and motioned him to the stairs.

‘This is my last visit, boys, until next year,’ Wanassee said, pausing. ‘It has gone goddamn fast this time.’

One of the guards said he hoped Wanassee had had a fine time. The other said it would be a pleasure to see him again.

Wanassee nodded, pleased, then walked down the well-lighted steps into the coolness of the vast vaults. The only fault he found with the bank was that they should have employed that stick of a girl Doris whatever-her-name-was.

Down in the quiet narrow lanes of the vaults, there was a chance for a little fun if you had a pretty girl in charge of the desk, but who would want to make a pass at a flat-chested, pratless virgin like Doris?

But . . . Hello! Hello! Hello! Who was this? He came to an abrupt standstill and gaped.

Ira had been warned by the Head Teller that Wanassee would be arriving. She had been told that he was a very valuable client worth some eighteen million dollars and was to be received as royalty.

She was sitting at her desk as Wanassee came down the stairs. She looked up, smiled and stood up. The light from the overhead lamp fell fully on her.

‘Hi!’ Wanassee exclaimed. ‘Where did you spring from? What’s a pretty little girl like you doing down here all on your own?’

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Wanassee,’ Ira said, coming around her desk. ‘I’ve taken Miss Kirby’s place for a week or so. She’s had an accident.’

‘Is that right?’ Wanassee was staring at Ira’s long, lovely legs. ‘An accident, huh? Don’t tell me some hero has knocked her up?’

Ira laughed.

‘Oh, no, Mr. Wanassee, she fell down stairs.’

‘That’s the best thing she could have done,’ Wanassee moved a little closer. This was really a doll, he was thinking. Just his luck that he was leaving that night. ‘And who are you, honey? What’s your name?’

‘Norena Devon.’

‘Devon? The same name as the V.P.?’

‘He’s my father.’

‘Is that right?’ Wanassee looked astonished. ‘Your father? Well, hang me for a hog! I’ve been coming to this joint now for the past ten years and I was never told Mel had a daughter. and what a daughter!’

Ira looked demure.

‘I’ve just left school, Mr. Wanassee. Now I’m working here.’

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s all right. It’s nice meeting Daddy’s favourite clients.’

Wanassee grinned.

‘That include me?’

She looked at him: an up from under look that she knew always excited the men, especially the older men.

‘Why, of course, Mr. Wanassee. Daddy told me to be specially nice to you.’

‘Did he? But wouldn’t you have been if he hadn’t told you?’

She lowered her eyes.

‘I should think every girl would be nice to you, Mr. Wanassee. You look just like one of those big Western movie stars. I can imagine you on a horse.’

Wanassee puffed out his chest.

‘Yeah. there’s not many guys my age as big and strong as I am.’

‘Your age? Why, Mr. Wanassee, what do you mean? You’re not old.’

It was easy after that. She led him on, got him to talk about himself, no difficult task, stood staring up at him, her eyes glowing with admiration, and when she finally held out her hand and asked for his key, he handed it to her without pausing in his account of how he had made his millions. Still talking he followed her along the narrow lane that led to his safe. She had no difficulty in pressing the key into the putty she had concealed in her left hand. Her body, moving ahead of him, hid what she was doing.

In any case, Wanassee was fully occupied staring at her neat little bottom as it ducktailed along in front of him. Pausing at the safe, she unlocked both locks and handed him his key.

‘I’ll leave you now, Mr. Wanassee. If there’s anything I can do just ring for me.’

‘You stay right where you are, honey,’ Wanassee said. ‘This won’t take a second.’

He opened the safe and taking a bulky envelope from his pocket, he tossed it carelessly into the safe.

Ira felt her heart give a little lurch of excitement as she peered over his shoulder. The safe was crammed with one hundred dollar bills. She had never seen so much money. She had only a brief glimpse as Wanassee slammed the door shut. He turned the key and stood aside.

‘Lock it up, honey,’ he said, dropping the key into his pocket.

Moving past him, Ira put the pass key into the second lock.

Wanassee eyed her back. The lust that was always close to the surface broke through his control. This was too good an opportunity to miss. His urge was so strong, he didn’t even wonder if she would make a fuss.

As Ira locked the safe, she felt Wanassee’s hot fingers cup her left buttock and gently squeeze it. Controlling the impulse to swing around and plant her fist in his mouth, she remained motionless, letting him squeeze again before she looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes big and startled.

‘Oh, Mr. Wanassee, you shouldn’t do that. Really, you shouldn’t.’

Suddenly ashamed of himself and a little frightened, Wanassee moved hurriedly away from her.

‘That’s right,’ he said huskily. ‘I don’t know what got into me. I’m sorry, honey. I shouldn’t have done it.’

She turned and smiled brightly at him.

‘But I’d rather it was you if it has to be someone, Mr. Wanassee. You’ve no idea how I’m pestered in the subway. Those men are horrible, but you . . . well, you’re different.’

Wanassee blew out his cheeks with relief. He must have been crazy to have touched her like that. Suppose she had yelled. Suppose she had complained to her father?

‘By God, Norena, that’s pretty nice of you,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have done it. I know how a little girl like you can get pestered.’ He took out his wallet, selected a hundred dollar bill, folded it and pressed it into her hand. ‘Don’t refuse an old man, honey. You forget what I did, huh? You buy yourself something. some frillies, and don’t tell your Pa.’ Patting her shoulder, he turned and lumbered away down the lane.

Ira put her tongue out after him.

‘You cheap creep!’ she said under her breath. ‘What a shock you’re going to get when you come back next year!’

* * *

Ticky Edris parked his car and got out stiffly, aware that his back was aching. The long, hard hours at La Coquille restaurant were exhausting him. Now the end was in sight, the work seemed harder and the hours endless. He looked at his wrist watch. The time was 02.55. A hell of a time to get back from work! He glanced up at the apartment block and was surprised to see the light was on in his sitting room.

It wasn’t usual for Algir to be waiting up. Had something gone wrong? Exerting himself, he trotted across the sidewalk, and up the steps and across the lobby to the elevator.

He would be thankful when Algir got some money, he thought, as the elevator took him up to his apartment. Having him as a boarder was not Ticky’s idea of fun. He unlocked the front door of the apartment and entered the living room.

Algir was sitting before the kitchen table he had brought into the living room and which he had converted into a workbench. On the table was a small foot-driven lathe, a vice and a number of tools. To one side was a pile of key blanks.

‘You’re working late,’ Edris said, crossing over to the cocktail cabinet. ‘What’s new?’

‘Knock it off, this is tricky!’ Algir grunted.

Edris poured himself a stiff whisky, kicked off his shoes and sat down heavily in his armchair. He watched Algir as he used a fine, rattail file on a key blank. After some ten minutes, Algir pushed back his chair with a sigh of relief.

‘I guess that’s it. That’s taken me four blasted hours to get right.’ He got to his feet and fixed himself a whisky. ‘Ira was here this evening. She brought a beautiful impression of a key belonging to Hyam Wanassee’s safe.’

Edris slopped his drink.

‘Wanassee! He’s about the richest! He eats regularly at La Coquille. He tips fifteen fish at a throw!’

‘He left by the evening plane. She’s going to empty his safe tomorrow morning. That’s why I’m working this late. There could be enough in that box to put us in the gravy for the next six months!’

‘This is the beginning of it, Phil! Tomorrow she may get hold of another key. You’ve got to keep at it! No slacking off. You’ve got to cut those keys as fast as she gives you the impressions. I tell you: this could net a million . . . more!’

Algir nodded. He sipped his whisky and then leaned forward.

‘Something is bothering me, Ticky. Something maybe you have missed out on.’

Edris looked sharply at him.

‘What is it?’

‘Did it ever occur to you that Ira might cheat us?’ Algir said. ‘She transfers the money into my safe. Later, I come around and pick up the money and bring it here. What’s to stop her transferring only part of the money and keeping the bulk of it herself?’