1968 - An Ear to the Ground (2 page)

‘She’s never happy about any cut. I can’t help that. Anyway, she eats too much.’

‘Don’t change the subject, Abe.’ Shelley crossed one long leg over the other. ‘She thinks your offer of a quarter is a swindle. I’m inclined to agree with her. You see, Abe, this will be our last job. It’s going to be big. The best stuff— the biggest take.’ He paused, then went on. ‘She wants to settle for a third.’

‘A third?’ Abe managed to look shocked and amazed at the same time. ‘Is she crazy? I won’t get a half for the stuff! What does she think I am . . . the Salvation Army?’

Shelley examined his beautifully manicured fingernails, then he looked at Abe, his shrewd eyes suddenly frosty.

‘If anything goes wrong, Abe, and we get the cops on our collars, we keep you out of it. You know us. We take the rap. You sit here and collect the money. Unless you do something stupid — and you won’t, you’re safe. Martha is sick of this racket. So am I. We want enough money to get out. A quarter won’t give it to us, but a third will. That’s how it is. How about it?’

Abe appeared to think. Then he shook his head, a regretful expression on his fat face.

‘I can’t do it, Henry. You know Martha. She’s greedy. Between you and me, if I gave you a third, I’d be out of pocket. That wouldn’t be fair. If I handle this stuff, I must make a reasonable profit. You understand that?’

‘A third,’ Shelley said gently. ‘I know Martha too. She’s set her mind on a third.’

‘It can’t be done. Look, suppose I talk to Martha?’ Abe smiled. ‘I can explain it to her.’

‘A third,’ Shelley repeated. ‘Bernie Baum is also in the market.’

Abe reacted to this as if someone had driven a needle into his fat backside.

‘Baum?’ His voice shot up. ‘You haven’t talked to him, have you?’

‘Not yet,’ Shelley said quietly, ‘but Martha is going to if she doesn’t get a third from you.’

‘Baum would never give her a third!’

‘He might if he knew he was doing you out of a deal. Baum hates your guts, doesn’t he, Abe?’

‘Listen, you old swindler,’ Abe snarled, leaning forward and glaring at Shelley. ‘You don’t bluff me! Baum would never give you a third . . . never! I know. You don’t try your con tricks on me!’

‘Look, Abe,’ Shelley said, mildly, ‘don’t let us argue about this. You know Martha. She wants a third. She’s willing to peddle our plan around to all the big fences — and you’re not the only one — until she does get a third. She will begin with Bernie. This isn’t for peanuts. The take will be worth two million dollars. Even if you pick up a quarter of that, you’re making nice, safe money. We want a third, Abe . . . just like that or we go talk to Bernie.’

Abe knew when he had struck bottom.

‘That Martha!’ he said in disgust. ‘I can’t get along with women who overeat. There’s something about them.’

‘Never mind how Martha eats,’ Shelley said, his charming, old world smile now in evidence. He sensed he had won. ‘Do we get a third or don’t we?’

Abe glared at him.

‘Yes, you do, you thief!’

‘Don’t get excited, Abe,’ Shelley said. ‘We’re all going to make a nice slice of money. Oh, there’s one other thing . . .’

Abe scowled suspiciously.

‘What now?’

‘Martha wants a piece of jewellery . . . a bracelet or a watch. Something fancy. This is strictly a loan, but she needs it to swing this job. You remember you promised . . .’

‘There are times when I think I should have my head examined,’ Abe said, but he unlocked a drawer in his desk and took out a long flat jewel case. ‘I’m having this back, Henry. . . no tricks.’

Shelley opened the case and regarded the platinum and diamond bracelet with approval.

‘Don’t be so suspicious, Abe. You’ll end up not trusting yourself.’ He put the case in his pocket. ‘Very nice: what’s it worth?’

‘Eighteen thousand dollars. I want a receipt.’ Abe found a piece of paper, scribbled on it and pushed it across the desk.

Shelley signed his name and then got to his feet.

‘I’ll go along and meet Johnny Robins,’ he said.

‘I wouldn’t be doing this,’ Abe said, staring up at him, ‘if Martha wasn’t handling it. That tub of lard has brains.’

Shelley nodded. ‘Yes, she has, Abe. She has.’

‘I want you to understand, mister,’ Al Barney said to me as the barman brought his fifth refill of beer, ‘that I’m inclined to add a little colour to my stories. If I could spell, I’d write books myself. . . if I could write. So you’ll have to go along with the poet’s licence. It’s just possible what I’m telling you didn’t happen the way I’m telling it. . . don’t get me wrong. . .I’m talking about the little details, the local colour, but when I sit here with a glass of beer in my hand, I’m inclined to let my imagination take some exercise.’ He scratched his vast belly and looked at me. ‘That’s about all the exercise I ever take.’

‘Go ahead,’ I said, ‘I’m still listening.’

Al sipped his beer, then set the glass down on the table.

‘Well, mister, we’ve got Abe Schulman and Henry Shelley on the stage, now we’ll take a look. She dreamed up this big jewel take. She organised it. It was her idea that Abe should find the second juvenile lead. Abe was always in contact with the out-of-towners, and Martha was anxious the other sharks didn’t hear of her idea. If they did get to hear of it, they too would have moved in.

‘Martha had always been careful with her money — not like Henry, and she had undertaken to finance the operation. She didn’t tell Henry how much capital she had. In actual fact, she had around twelve thousand dollars tucked up her girdle and she had made up her mind to put the operation on as it should be put on.

‘She took a three-room suite at the Plaza Hotel on Bay Shore Drive. Nothing over deluxe, but good. She got the penthouse suite which suited Gilda who believed in having comfort for nothing. It pleased Henry too who liked to live up to his phony background, and besides, it wasn’t costing him anything either.

‘While Henry was talking to Abe, Martha was sitting under a sun umbrella on the private terrace that went with the penthouse, eating peppermint creams while Gilda was lying in the full sun on a Li-Lo as naked as the back of my hand . . .’

Martha Shelley, better known in the underworld as Fats Gummrich, put two fat fingers into the carton and selected a chocolate which she regarded with affection before popping it into her mouth.

‘Cover yourself up, girl,’ she said, looking at Gilda’s naked brown back. ‘Henry could walk in at any moment. . . what would he think?’

Gilda, lying face down, rested her head on her crossed arms, lifted her long, lovely looking legs and tightened her lean buttocks. She giggled.

‘I know what he would think,’ she said. ‘But who cares? That old goat’s got beyond it.’

‘No man ever gets beyond it — anyway, not in his mind,’ Martha said. ‘Put something on!’

Gilda turned on her back, crossing her legs, and looked up at the brilliant blue sky through her sun goggles.

She was twenty-five years of age: her hair was thick, worn long and the colour of a ripe chestnut. She had large green eyes, fringed by long, dark lashes and one of those gamin, interesting faces that make men’s heads turn — not strictly beautiful, but beautiful enough. Her suntanned body was sensational. There was no bikini whiteness. When Gilda sunbathed, she sunbathed in the nude.

‘You eat too much,’ she said, lifting her cone-shaped breasts. ‘How can you go on stuffing yourself hour after hour . . .ugh!’

‘I’m not talking about me, I’m talking about you!’ Martha snapped. ‘Cover yourself up! I don’t want Henry to get upset. He has old fashioned ideas.’

Gilda waved her long legs in the air as she gave a hoot of laughter.

‘That’s funny! The old buzzard gave me the biggest bruise on my bottom I’ve had in weeks! Look . . .’ She rolled over, pointing.

Martha controlled a snigger.

‘Well, maybe he isn’t all that old fashioned, but cover yourself up, honey. I’ve enough trouble without Henry getting out of hand.’

Grimacing, Gilda pulled a wrap off a chair by her.

‘What trouble? I thought everything was fixed.’ She laid the wrap across her middle.

‘Do you want one of these?’ Martha held up a peppermint cream.

‘In this heat? No, thank you!’ Gilda turned on her side to stare up at the massive woman under the sun umbrella. ‘What trouble?’

‘No trouble,’ Henry Shelley said coming silently out on to the terrace. He eyed Gilda’s exposed breasts with appreciation. ‘No trouble at all. Abe has everything taken care of.’ He watched with regret Gilda pull the wrap up to her chin.

‘Take your eyes off me, you old lecher!’ she said.

‘Well, they do say a priest is allowed to read a menu in Lent,’ Henry said with a sly grin and sat down near Martha.

‘That’s enough of that!’ Martha said sharply. ‘What did Abe say?’

‘Well, as was expected, he screamed to high heaven, but he promised in the end to pay a third. He’s found us a good boy. He’ll be along in a couple of days. He’s getting fitted for his uniform and he is buying a car . . . he knows about cars. In a couple of days’ time, we can get moving.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

Henry nodded. He touched his temples with his silk handkerchief while he eyed Gilda’s exposed legs. Pretty girl, he thought a little sadly. In his past, he had had much amusement with pretty girls.

‘He’s made to measure. A little tough, but we’ll be able to work with him, I’m sure.’

‘What do you mean— tough?’ Martha asked, delving into the carton again.

‘He has a quick temper. He’s inclined to hit out if someone doesn’t please him, but I know that type. He’ll be all right in any emergency.’ The old grey eyes moved from Gilda to Martha. The movement of his eyes alerted Martha. She looked at Gilda. ‘Suppose you get dressed, honey? I thought we would all go down to the Casino.’

‘That means you two old squares want to yak together,’ Gilda said. She got to her feet, holding the wrap against her and then walked across the terrace, swinging her naked hips while Henry watched, entranced.

‘Lovely girl,’ he murmured, pulling at his moustache.

‘Wants her bottom smacked!’ Martha said, outraged. ‘What about this boy?’

Henry explained what Abe had told him, then went on, ‘I met him and I like him. There’s no doubt he can handle this job. It’s just. . .’ He fingered his string tie. ‘There’s Gilda.’

‘You mean he could fall for her?’

‘He’ll do that for sure.’

‘Well, so what?’ Martha dug out another chocolate. ‘She needs a man. I’d rather it be someone in the family . . . that wouldn’t worry me. Can he handle safes?’

‘Abe swears by him.’

‘Did you get a brooch or something from Abe?’

Henry took from his pocket the jewel case.

‘Abe extended himself. It’s worth eighteen grand.’

Martha examined the bracelet, then nodded her approval.

‘Do you think we are going to have trouble with Abe, Henry?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s tricky, but he’s cooperating all along the line. The big test is when we get the stuff and ask for the money.’

Martha brooded for a long moment, then she slipped the jewel case into her handbag, lying on the table.

‘Do you think it is going to work, Henry?’ she asked, suddenly a little doubtful.

Henry crossed his long legs and stared out at the busy harbour below.

‘It’s got to work, hasn’t it?’ he said.

Two days later, the three were on the terrace: none of them revealing the slight tension they were all feeling. Martha and Henry sat in lounging chairs under the shade of the big sun umbrella. Gilda, in a white skimpy bikini that set off her golden skin, lay in the full sun.

Martha was working on a piece of embroidery, stretched on a frame and from time to time, dipping into a big box of chocolates Harry had bought at the gift shop down in the lobby. Henry was studying the Stock Exchange column in the New York Times. In his imagination, he bought and sold many stocks and could spend hours working out his imaginary profits. Gilda lay limply on the Li-Lo, feeling the rays of the sun burning into her. She could lie that way for hours.

Neither Martha nor Henry had an idea what went on in her mind while she sunbathed. Henry thought probably nothing, but Martha, who knew her better, wasn’t so sure.

The sound of the telephone brought them alert. Martha put down her embroidery frame. Gilda lifted her head. Henry dropped his newspaper, got to his feet and walked with that slow gait that reminded Martha of the uneven movements of a stork into the living room.

They heard him say ‘Yes?’ in that deep aristocratic voice of his, then, ‘Tell him to come up if you please.’

Henry returned to the terrace.

‘Our chauffeur has arrived.’

‘Cover yourself up, Gilda!’ Martha said. ‘Put that wrap on!’

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Gilda exclaimed impatiently, but she got up and pulled on the wrap. She walked over to the balcony rail and leaned over it, staring down at the crowded swimming pool in the hotel garden.

Johnny Robins made an impact on Martha. He came on to the terrace, immaculate in a well-cut, dark blue chauffeur’s uniform, a peaked cap under his arm. He was a tall, powerfully built man with close-cut black hair, a narrow forehead, a blunt nose, eyes set wide apart and hazel-green, and a thin, tight mouth. Everything about him hinted of strength with a hidden vein of violence. He walked like a professional fighter: relaxed, and with silent, springy steps.

‘Hello, Johnny,’ Martha said as she eyed him. ‘Welcome.’

‘Hello. I’ve heard about you,’ Johnny said, and his hard face lit up with an easy smile. ‘The old gentleman has been telling me about you.’

‘Don’t call me that!’ Henry said curtly, annoyed. ‘You call me the Colonel!’

Johnny threw back his head and laughed.

‘Sure . . . why not?’ His eyes went from Martha to Gilda’s shapely back. Even the wrap couldn’t disguise Gilda’s contours. Watching him, the other two saw the look of awakening interest. ‘Is that Miss Rigoletto I’ve been hearing about?’

Gilda turned slowly and surveyed him from head to foot. She felt a stab of excitement run through her at the sight of this man, but her expression remained remote and disinterested.