The Cunning Read online

  Carrie edged away from the blinds, moving to one side so her shadow wouldn’t be showing. No sense standing there any longer; nothing to see now anyway. And in a little while she’d be able to get a good look, from the inside.

  They weren’t fooling her, of course. She knew perfectly well that the only reason Irene had invited her was to make sure she wouldn’t be complaining about the noise. At first Carrie was going to say no, but then she remembered there was nothing worth seeing on TV anyway—not on Saturday night. And this would give her a chance to see the place. Carrie wondered who else would be there, and what they were going to serve. Probably they’d have drinks first.

  She hoped the Markses weren’t the kind who encouraged that sort of thing. Not that she wasn’t broad-minded, but one has to draw the line somewhere, and everyone knows what hard liquor does to people. Hooch, that’s what they used to call it in the old days. A good thing she’d seen to it that Alfred was brought up to be a teetotaller. “I’ve managed to live my life without touching the stuff,” she told him. “And so can you. I want you to promise me you’ll never indulge. Always remember, alcohol is poison to the system.”

  Of course she couldn’t help but wonder if he still kept his word, now that he was on his own. She didn’t really know too much about his line of work except that it meant dealing with investors. And that sort, wealthy clients, always talked business over cocktails—at least it seemed that way from what she saw on television. Joe and Irene Marks had plenty of money, so most likely they drank too.

  Well, in a little while she’d know.

  Carrie glanced at the alarm on the bureau. Almost seven-thirty already—how time flies! She was all dressed, but she still had to change her shoes.

  She sat down on the bed and kicked off her slippers, then reached for the shoebox. Patent-leather pumps, brand new almost, because she never wore them unless she was going somewhere special and how often did that happen?

  They looked very smart, but they were a little snug, just what she was afraid of. And with her veins, too!

  Young people just didn’t know how lucky they were, being able to wear anything they pleased. They didn’t have to worry about girdles and elastic stockings and tight shoes that hurt your feet when you weren’t used to anything but slippers around the house. Comfort is about all you can expect out of life when you get old.

  But just because she was getting along in years didn’t mean she couldn’t keep her wits about her. And she was going to do just that tonight. Maybe it would be a good thing if they did serve liquor—that’s when a clear head is an advantage, because other people get careless but you can watch your step and keep tabs on them.

  Carrie winced as she stood up. Maybe she should have gotten a half-size larger, because this pair was really too tight. She was going to suffer.

  But there was no law that said she had to be standing on her feet all the time. The minute she got there she intended to pick out a nice soft easy-chair and plant herself in it for the evening. Maybe one in a corner, where she could get a clear view of everything that went on.

  She looked around for her purse. Now where was it? Not on the bureau—oh yes, she remembered now. After changing her things she’d put it back on the shelf in the closet.

  Making her painful progress across the room, she opened the door and switched on the closet light.

  There was plenty of light in the kitchen as Lulu Owens stood at the sink, drinking a glass of water. My, she was thirsty! And no wonder, after all the chasing she’d done, getting ready for the party.

  Not that she minded, really. The nearer it came to the time to go the more excited she got; why you’d think she was a schoolgirl having her first date at the graduation prom!

  She remembered how it had been then—the prom, and that first date. Homer, of course. How handsome he’d looked, too. But all evening long she’d worried because his tie was crooked and she was afraid to tell him.

  Well, she had nothing to be afraid of now. And she was certainly looking forward to this evening. Putting down the empty glass, Lulu turned away from the sink and fluffed her hair. Sure felt better with those old curlers out at last.

  She could hear Homer in the hall, and as she moved to the table and picked up the box he came up behind her.

  “What’s in the package?” he said.

  “I thought I’d take over some of those cookies I made yesterday. Maybe Irene can serve them after dinner.”

  “What makes you think she’s the cookie type?”

  “Well, I just don’t feel right going empty-handed. Besides, how do you know what type she is?”

  “I don’t.” Homer grinned. “And I don’t know what type of cookie Joe Marks is, either.”

  “You’ll like him. He’s a very nice man.” Lulu tucked the box under her arm, then moved to where Homer stood. “Here, let me fix your tie.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “The knot’s crooked.” Lulu frowned. “I want you to look your best tonight. Come over here where I can see what I’m doing.”

  As Homer stepped forward under the light, she began to tug at his tie.

  The knot tightened about the throat and the light flickered as the face contorted in agony, and Roy Crile quickly switched his remote-control to another channel.

  Strangulation and sudden death. That’s life for you in television land.

  In the darkened living room he squinted at the screen.

  A team of newscasters sat at a table exchanging comments on the weather.

  “Well, Johnny, is that the best you can come up with for the Southland?”

  “I’m sorry, Tommy—I don’t make the weather, I just report it.”

  Roy shrugged. Why did all these so-called TV personalities always address one another in diminutives—Jerry, Buddy, Jimmy, Joey, Jackie—when the only thing diminutive about them was their talent?

  The camera moved in for a close-up of the senior news commentator. “And now a late-news bulletin on tonight’s fatal crash on the Harbor Freeway which claimed the lives of five victims—”

  Roy clicked the button. More death. The miracle of television, bringing disaster into your own parlor.

  The screen went black and the sound faded. For a moment Roy sat there in the darkness and the silence.

  What had he told Warren Clark today—something about accepting death as a fact of life? How easy it was to say such things in broad daylight. Daylight is broad, but night is narrow, narrow as a coffin, and all philosophy is futile in the grave.

  Futile. It was time to play the game again.

  In Roman times the vestal virgins performed a sacred duty. Each morning they washed the Temple of Vesta with water drawn from the fountain of Egeria. The water was carried in a special vessel—a pot with a wide mouth for pouring, and a bottom that came to a point, so that it couldn’t be placed on the ground without spilling the water. The pot was called a futile.

  Roy shrugged.

  Did Warren understand the meaning of the word? Not likely—it took a very special kind of experience to comprehend the truth.

  Which is that we are all futiles. We are the vessels filled with the waters of life. In rest that life is wasted, spilling out and trickling away. Better to move, pour out our substance in a meaningful effort to cleanse the temple.

  So what was he doing sitting here on his pointed bottom in the dark? Maybe he was almost empty, but there was a party to go to. Warren would be there, and Sylvia. Time to prove there was life in the old pot yet.

  Rising, Roy put out his hand and found the neck of the floor lamp. Then he turned on the light.

  Staring out of the window as the light went on in the distance, Emily Nesbitt thought she could see the tree.

  It stood in the middle of the garden that was called Eden, and if she looked closely enough she knew she could see the fruit. Yes, it was there, the fruit of knowledge, waiting to be plucked.

  Emily leaned forward, searching the shadows. Perhaps if she looked closely
enough she could even see the serpent.

  But the serpent was cunning.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Promptly at seven-thirty, Mick wheeled the red panel truck into Eden.

  The guard at the service gate was a smartass, the kind who likes to play it real heavy, but Mick gave him the full treatment: the big smile, the ID card, the company’s carbon-copy of the party order.

  Gibby just sat there alongside him, all buttoned up, following instructions, until the guard handed back the carbon and nodded.

  “This your partner?”

  That was Gibby’s cue to flash his own ID. Instead of just giving it a quick once-over, the guard reached into the cab and grabbed the card and held it up to the light so he could see the picture, read the fine print. Took his time about it, too—a real hardnose.

  Gibby didn’t like it. Mick could see that he was uptight, so he gave him a jab in the ribs and he sat quiet until hardnose handed the ID back and waved them on.

  “Bastard,” Gibby said. But Mick gunned the motor so the guard couldn’t hear, and they cut out.

  All the way up the mall, he was still sounding off. Gibby was one of those muscle-beach types, the kind who likes to beat on anybody who crosses him, and he had a real short fuse. Mick wondered if he’d made a mistake cutting him in on the operation, but he needed him.

  So when they turned off the mall onto the street leading up the hill, Mick waited until the truck was under some trees and out of the light, then pulled over to the curb. He didn’t kill the motor, just in case somebody spotted them from below and came up to check things out, but he was pretty sure nobody could see the truck from the mall. Anyhow, he figured to take that chance because he had to cool Gibby right now.

  “Knock it off,” he told him.

  “That sonofabitch. When we come back I’m gonna rip his goddamn—”

  “Knock it off, I said!” Mick came on strong, all the while knowing that this big ape could tear off his head and use it for toilet paper, but there wasn’t any choice. “You want to blow the whole deal? When we come back you’re gonna do like we planned.”

  “Okay, okay!” Gibby scowled, but he was cool, Mick could see that.

  “That means you, too, Stan. Are you listening?” Mick turned his head.

  “Yeah.” The deep voice came from the back of the truck and now Stan’s head rose over the barricade of boxes. He was a hairy-looking sight, Gibby’s big brother, even in the poncho and the broad-brimmed hat. Mick knew that when Stan made his move he’d look ten times worse, and this was what Mick wanted. The thing was to make sure Stan didn’t foul up. Gibby was just a dumb ape, but Stan was King Kong. You had to make sure he remembered.

  So for the hundredth time, Mick went over the score, step by step. And all the while he was going over it again in his own mind, regular computer operation, like.

  Rip-off.

  That was the name of the game, and they’d cut it just like a regular catering gig, nothing out of line. Gibby handling the bar, Mick helping out on serving. Just making sure everybody had themselves a ball, heavy on the drinks so they’d be feeling no pain. The old klutz, Mrs. Marks, was going to be very happy with the way they ran her party for her.

  And at ten-thirty she’d be expecting the second truck to come with the hot dishes ready for serving. Dude named Ron Moreno was supposed to bring it in.

  But Mick wasn’t hacked about that. Old Ron was a loser—he’d been in a couple times and right now he was violating parole by driving nights. If he ever got fingered for that he’d end up right back in the slammer, never mind him being a street dealer on top of it. So Mick had a nice little talk with Ron-baby, just to make sure he kept his fly zipped. And when Mick promised him a piece of the action, no hassle.

  All Ron had to do was take the truck out like always—but on the way he’d get himself a flat. So he wouldn’t be showing at ten-thirty.

  And that’s where Stan came in. The muscle, wearing the mask and holding the heat. From then on it was Stan’s schtik all the way. Playing the heavy, yanking the phones, collecting from the creeps, leaning on Marks to open the safe in the den and turn over the loot.

  “But suppose maybe the bugger puts up a fight?” Stan said.

  “I told you, no sweat! You grab his old lady, see? She’s the one you hang onto and he won’t give you any problems.”

  “Yeah, okay, I got it.”

  Mick nodded and went on. When the safe was empty and Marks came across with the goodies, it was time to get the keys to the truck.

  “Remember, I’m gonna give you an argument,” Mick said. “You’ll have to slap me around and take the keys away from me. But for Chrissakes, don’t clobber me too hard—just enough to make it look good.”

  “Gotcha.” Stan nodded, his eyes squinting beneath the thicket of hair and beard. “I tell ’um, everybody lie down on the floor now, don’ make a move or I come back ’n cut your goddam—”

  “Hold it!” Mick shook his head. “You do it like I said. Just take off. After they see me get my lumps there ain’t nobody gonna make any sudden moves. You get in the truck and cut out.”

  Stan’s forehead furrowed. “What about the service gate, the guard?”

  “Dummy, will you listen to me? I already checked that out. By the time you leave it’s eleven o’clock, right? They change shifts at ten, so there’ll be a new man on. All he worries about is who comes in. When he sees you coming, he looks at the log, spots the license number and the time, and that’s it. He doesn’t know who was driving the goddam truck in the first place, and he could care less about an ID. He’ll just wave you right on—I’ve seen them do it every time.”

  Stan got the message and backed off. Mick wrapped it up fast. “You know what to do then. Ditch the truck on the dead-end where the car is parked, but make sure you aren’t spotted when you wheel out. After that, just drive on home. Take the freeway, cut over to the last exit; then into Venice. Remember, go easy on the pedal; you don’t need to be tagged for speeding. And when you hit your pad, stay there. I don’t give a damn what you do tomorrow or Monday as long as you stash the loot at the bottom of the trash can like I told you. Call Gibby Tuesday, at his place. By then we’ll figure out when it’s safe to get together and divvy. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then let’s roll.”

  Mick put the truck in gear and they started to climb the hill.

  If the ape followed orders now they were home free. And he had to follow orders. Stan and Gibby being brothers, that was beautiful, because it meant he wouldn’t try to pull a cross and run off on his own. And if Gibby got any ideas about the two of them holding out on Mick, he had that covered too—between now and Tuesday Gibby wasn’t going to be out of his sight for a minute. There might be a couple of bum sessions with the fuzz, but as long as they stuck to their story they were clean. They had come in with a permit, they had a job to do, they did it, period. And if the party got ripped off, nobody could tie them in on the deal.

  All he had to do now was play the game. And it was going to be a hoot watching the old creeps get their lumps. Bunch of feebs. Who the hell did they think they were with their goddamn catered party? He’d give them a real party.

  Tonight was going to be super.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Promptly at seven-thirty the door chimes rang.

  Irene was still at the vanity mirror, putting the finishing touches to her hair. “Will you get it, Joe?” she called. “If it’s the caterers, tell them I’ll be with them in a minute.”

  So Joe got the door, but it wasn’t the caterers.

  “Good evening,” he said.

  “Evening.” The tall man in the dark suit offered a crooked grin. “Guess we haven’t met. I’m Homer Owens.”

  Joe nodded, but the smile he returned was directed at Homer’s companion. “And you must be Lulu.”

  The plump woman beside Homer gave him a startled glance, and Joe nodded again. “Bridge club, and the sewing lessons,” he said. “Don’t pl
ay cards myself and I haven’t sewed in years, but Irene told me all about you. Come right in.”

  Lulu relaxed as she followed her husband into the living room, then stiffened again as she glanced around. “My, what a lovely place you’ve got here, Mr. Marks.”

  “Joe.” He guided them to a sofa, then turned to Lulu, noting the package she carried under her arm. “Here, let me take your things.”

  “This is yours,” Lulu said, handing him the wrapped box.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing, just some cookies I made yesterday. I thought maybe—”

  “Lulu!” Irene came charging to the rescue. “How good to see you.”

  “I was just telling your husband here about the cookies—”

  Somehow the box changed hands, and it was Irene who carried it out to the kitchen, followed by Lulu Owens.

  Walks as if her feet hurt, Joe noted. Shoes too tight. Now he glanced at the husband, who was pulling at his tie. Collar too tight, probably. You can always spot a hick type; they never dress comfortably. But after you spot them, then what? Joe glanced at the big lug, wondering how he could handle him until the drinks arrived.

  But Homer solved the problem for him. He had walked over to the French windows and stood staring at the lighted patio.

  “Nice roses you got there,” he said. “Queen Elizabeths?”

  “That’s right.” Joe moved up beside him. “Like to take a look at them?”

  “Sure.”

  Joe led him out onto the patio. As he did so he heard the echo of chimes in a different timbre—the back door, this time. Must be the caterers arriving, he decided. Good. The sooner they set up the bar, the better. Until then he was going to be stuck playing host to this clown.

  Only it wasn’t as bad as he’d anticipated. For a character from the sticks—Nebraska, wasn’t it?—Homer was surprisingly knowledgeable about polyanthos. He knew why Joe had put in the mermaids to cover the slopes without the bother of pruning; and he understood that the Belle of Portugal generally requires a second summer pruning after flowering.