1978 - Consider Yourself Dead (6 page)

‘How about my boat, Ross?’ he demanded, a peevish frown on his face. ‘You said you’d fix it.’

‘Hi, there, Mr. Bernstein. It’s all fixed. Did you ask at the desk?’

‘Didn’t know I had to. Where the hell is the car?’

Umney pointed.

‘The green Caddy, Mr. Bernstein. Joe’s waiting . . . no problem.’

The fat man grunted and walked off.

Umney sighed, smiling at Frost.

‘That’s Bernstein. He’s worth millions. You know, Mike, this is a hell of a job. None of these rich creeps is ever satisfied. Now . . . you . . . what can I fix for you?’

None of the suggestions Umney had offered appealed to Frost. Some other time, he might give the massage parlour a twirl. He had heard of Jap girls, but Marcia had so drained him, any form of exercise was strictly out.

‘Nothing right now, Ross,’ he said. ‘Thanks all the same. I guess I’ll get moving . . . some other time, huh?’

Umney looked alarmed.

‘Hey! You can’t walk out on us, Mike! Marcia would have my balls.’ He laughed. ‘Are you interested in shooting?’

Frost regarded him.

‘That’s one thing I’m tops at . . . why?’

‘Excuse me for asking, but are you really good?’

‘That’s what I said. Why?’

‘We have a guy here who thinks he’s a male Annie Oakley,’ Umney said. ‘He drives me nuts. He’s offering a thousand bucks to anyone who can outshoot him with a .38 at twenty yards. I can’t find any takers. Do you think you could take a grand off him?’

Frost hesitated. He had been the best shot with a handgun and a rifle while in the Army, but that had been some time ago. A thousand bucks?

‘Who’s this guy?’

‘A club member. He practically lives in the shooting range. I could fix up a match right now. If you’re as good as you say, it’d be an easy way of picking up a grand.’

‘And an easy way of losing it,’ Frost said cautiously. ‘What age guy is he?’

‘He’s an oldie . . . around fifty, and he has only one eye.’

‘Fifty and one eye?’ Frost grinned. ‘Sure, I’ll take him on.’

‘Here’s what we do, Mike. We wouldn’t want you to lose a grand. You’ll be doing us a favour by taking him on. You beat him and the grand is yours. He beats you and we pick up the tab . . . what do you say?’

Frost grinned again.

‘What have I to lose?’

‘Let’s go down to the range. He’ll be there right now.’

They found Lu Silk in the well-equipped basement shooting range, talking to Moses, the coloured attendant, who kept the range clean, changed the targets and acted as scorer when there was a shooting match on. There were no other sportsmen. Silk had had the range closed to other clients. He wanted Frost on his own.

Umney made introductions, and Silk offered what seemed a flabby hand which Frost shook.

Among Silk’s many talents was the ability to convey the impression that he was a little feeble, and edging into premature senility. Frost regarded him searchingly, and was completely taken in by Silk’s act. He decided this was going to be a pushover, and, he began to wonder what he would do with the thousand dollars he was going to pick up.

Umney was saying, ‘Mike’s a good shot, Mr. Silk. He would like a match.’

Silk nodded, then looking at Frost, he said, ‘Have you got a thousand, sonny? I don’t take on a match with a piker.’

Frost bristled.

‘Are you calling me a piker?’ he snarled, his face flushing.

Silk appeared to shrink a little.

‘Forget it . . . just so long as you have the money.’

‘I’ve got the money,’ Frost snapped, ‘and another thing . . . don’t call me ‘sonny’, or I’ll start calling you grandpa . . . right?’

Umney said hastily, ‘Now, gentlemen . . .’

Silk retreated a step.

‘Sure . . . sure, Mr. Frost. Forget it . . . suppose we start shooting?’

Moses came over with a long leather case containing six .38 police specials.

‘Take your pick, Mr. Frost,’ Silk said. ‘I have my own gun.’

Frost took his time. He examined each of the six guns.

Finally he selected one of them that sat well in his hand.

Moses ambled down the range and set up two targets.

‘We toss for the first shot . . . best out of five,’ Silk said, and promptly won the toss. This suited Frost. He wanted to judge just how good this one eyed fink thought he was.

Silk took up his position. Watching, Frost decided he had an old-fashioned stance. His feet were spread wide and he extended his shooting arm, the gun pointing like a finger. His left hand hung by his side. Strictly for the birds, Frost thought.

The gun exploded into sound.

Moses peered, then pressing a button signalled ‘Outer 25.’

Silk muttered under his breath and then stepped aside. Grinning, Frost swung up his gun, holding it in both hands, right leg forward, a perfect balance. He fired.

Moses signalled ‘Inner 50.’

Should have been a bull, Frost thought. The gun throws to the left.

Silk fired.

‘Inner 50.’

Frost aimed a trifle to the right.

‘Bull 100.’

They shot three more times. Silk failed to score a bull.

Frost scored a bull, an outer and an inner.

Moses computed the scores. Frost 340. Silk 225.

His hatchet face expressionless, Silk took out his wallet and produced two five hundred dollar bills.

‘You’re quite a shot, Mr. Frost,’ he said, then as he was about to give the bills to Frost, he paused. ‘Suppose we try again? Five thousand evens. Give us both an incentive, huh?’

Frost hesitated.

Silk went on, ‘I’m getting to be an old man. I need a leak. I’ll be right back,’ and he walked away to the toilets.

Frost grinned. This was taking a dummy out of a baby’s mouth. Now he had the feel of the gun, he was sure there would be no problem.

Umney said, ‘Don’t risk it, Mike. You’ve won your grand. Forget it.’

‘This guy isn’t with the scene,’ Frost said. ‘Of course, I’ll take him.’

‘Look Mike, you’ll be on your own. If he beats you, I can’t ask Marcia to finance you for five grand. Forget it.’

‘I can’t lose, Ross. I’ve already taken a grand off him. I’d be out of my mind not to take five more off him. I’ve got this fink taped.’

‘Okay,’ Umney said. ‘You have a point.’

Somewhere in the range, a telephone bell rang. Moses ambled away, and while Umney was lighting a cigarette, Moses called, ‘You’re wanted upstairs, boss. Mr. Seigler.’

‘I’ll be right back,’ Umney said. ‘Good shooting.’

As he hurried to the elevator, Silk came from the toilets.

‘Well, Mr. Frost, do we have a match?’

Frost nodded.

‘Five evens?’

‘Sure.’

‘Sure.’

While they were talking, Moses was cleaning the guns and loading them.

‘Where did you learn to shoot?’ Silk asked.

‘The Army.’

‘Fine training.’ He accepted his gun from Moses. ‘You have the first honour. Suppose you have your five shots? I’ll follow you . . . right?’

‘Sure.’ Frost took the gun, balanced it in his hand and waited for Moses to put up two new targets. When he got the green light, he steadied himself. Five thousand! A dummy from a baby! He took his time, aimed fired, aimed fired, paused, then fired three more times. Then he stood back. He heard Moses whistle, then the figures came up on the board: 452.

Beat that, you old fink, Frost thought. The five thousand was as good as in his pocket.

Silk wandered up, the gun slack in his hand.

‘Damn good shooting, Mr. Frost. Well . . . let’s see what grandpa can do.’ Suddenly, his thin body seemed to come alive, his feet spread, his arm came up and five shots hammered out: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang!

Frost gaped. This old fink must be out of his mind! He hadn’t even taken aim. He wouldn’t be even near the target at that speed.

Then as figures appeared on the board he saw 500, a chill ran down his spine.

‘Let Mr. Frost see my target,’ Silk said.

Moses came running up, grinning and thrust the target into Frost’s hand. The bull had been completely cut away.

He stood staring at the target. He had been conned! He had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the world, and he was in the hole for four thousand dollars!

‘That’s shooting too, Mr. Frost,’ Silk said with a wintery smile. ‘No immediate rush. I’ll keep the grand I owe you and you give a cheque to Mr. Umney for four thousand. He’ll give it to me.’ He walked over to the elevator, leaving Frost alone with Moses who continued to grin.

‘That Mr. Silk sure is a big conner, boss,’ he said. ‘He sure makes a lot of bread down here.’

Frost stared sightlessly at the negro, then dropping the target, he walked slowly over to the elevator and stood waiting until the engaged signal flashed off.

Three

C
atching the last rays of the sun, Gina Grandi lay on a lounging chair, and stared across the big, lonely swimming pool.

She was wearing an emerald green bikini which went well with her Venetian red hair. Her heart shaped face was expressionless. Her body, heavily sun tanned, was well proportioned: her breasts a little heavy, her hips rounded and solid, her legs long and slim.

She spent most of her days thinking back into the past when she had been the toast of Rome’s Dolce Vita.

Because of this stupid kidnap attempt, she was confined behind an electrified fence, and she had no idea when her father would relent.

How she hated her father!

For the thousandth time she thought of that disastrous night when she was getting into her Lamborghini, and four men had suddenly surrounded her, guns in hands.

She had been dining at one of the fashionable cellar clubs with a party she had found boring. She had excused herself, leaving them half drunk and shouting. As she was unlocking her car, these four men appeared out of the darkness. They were all young, thin, dressed in shabby jeans and leather jackets. They were all bearded and, to her, excitingly dirty looking.

She immediately realised they intended to kidnap her.

The realisation sent a sensual wave through her body. To get away from the boredom of luxury, to be hidden in some sleazy apartment, to be raped even, was something she had realised, with a slight sense of shock, she had been subconsciously yearning to happen.

But how stupid and incompetent these four had been!

They had been waiting outside the club, all hoping for millions, but without a plan in their retarded minds. Their furtive movements had attracted the attention of two alert policemen who had taken cover behind a car and had watched them.

Kidnapping in Italy was rife, and every policeman had been instructed to watch for any suspicious action. As the four young men surrounded Gina, she had smiled at them, unafraid of the guns in their hands. Her heart began to pound with excitement.

‘Come with us,’ the tallest of the four had said. ‘This is a snatch!’

Then out of the darkness, a voice barked, ‘Police! Drop those guns!’

The tall youth, who could not have been more than eighteen years of age, swung around and fired.

The policeman who had moved out from behind the car was hit, but before dropping, he shot the youth, killing him.

There was an immediate panic among the other three. They turned to run. The other policeman, shielding himself behind the car, his gun hand on the roof of the car, picked off two of the youths as they ran. The fourth youth, short, thickset, had dodged behind the Lamborghini. He caught sight of the policeman’s head. Standing up, he fired as the policeman fired. Both shots were killers.

Gina had stood motionless during the gun battle. She was still standing, staring at the six bodies as her friends spilled out of the club and press photographers appeared from nowhere. While standing amidst the screams, popping flashlights and seeping blood, she had a sick feeling that something very special in her life had been snatched away from her.

The publicity had been worldwide. Every newspaper carried a front-page photograph of her, surrounded by bodies. The snide papers had underlined that she had just left a club which had an unsavoury reputation: the haunt of gay men, reefer smokers and kinky women.

When her father heard what had happened and had read the reports in the papers, he took instant action.

Carlo Grandi was a ruthless tycoon who had fought his way up from a Naples slum to being the richest man in Italy. He spent every hour of his waking life controlling his vast financial kingdom. His wife, bored and lonely, scarcely ever seeing her husband, had had an affair with a playboy whom she had met at a party, given by one of her women friends. The playboy had tried to blackmail her. Terrified of her husband, sick of her empty, rich life and sick of herself, she drank a bottle of vodka, swallowed sleeping pills and died. Grandi returning from a business trip, found her with a sad little note that read: Forgive me, Carlo. Your standards were too high. The suicide had been hushed up. Gina, then seventeen years of age, was at a Swiss finishing school. She had a cable from her father which read: Mother died. Heart attack. Coming to see you.

Grandi arrived at the Montreux school. Gina had little love for her mother and none for her father. She knew he was far too occupied to have much interest in her, and she knew he was a man incapable of affection. When he said that she should stay at the school for another year, she agreed.

At the end of the year, she arrived in Rome. Grandi was far too occupied to give her any attention. He gave her a generous allowance, made her a member of various high-class clubs, checked to see that she had amusing and wellborn friends, then left her to her own devices. Every month, he arranged to take her to a stately, dull dinner at Alfredo’s. When he had time to think of her, he imagined she was thoroughly enjoying herself, and was behaving as the daughter of the richest man in Italy should behave herself.

When he read of the kidnapping and about the club, he flew into a towering rage. He had her locked in one of the upper guest rooms, and called for an inquiry to be made of her past activities. A discreet detective agency produced a report that Grandi could scarcely believe. She had not only been behaving like a whore, but was on drugs.