The Cunning Read online

  Not everybody was drinking, of course. Not the jerk in the tight collar, Homer, or whatever his name was. And not Ed Brice, the one who kept giving everybody dirty looks. Have to remember the sober ones; they might take a little special handling when the time came. Mick kept his eye on the quiet ones, too. Warren Clark, the guy over in the corner, nursing his drink, not saying much. His wife was having a good time; maybe that’s what was bugging him. Well, it didn’t matter; there wasn’t going to be any problem.

  That other couple, Tom and Jerry, were really putting it away. Getting a little loud, laughing it up. And the loner, Crile; he wasn’t feeling any pain.

  For a while Mick was a little hacked about some of the old broads who didn’t touch the sauce at all, and then he lucked out because one of them—Dolly somebody—started pouring it into a couple of her friends back in the den.

  That’s what got Gibby spooked, when they conked out. And when old tight-collar Homer dragged the two of them off home, Gibby damn near fell out of his tree.

  Good thing everybody was flapping over them when they left, because it gave Mick a chance to move in on Gibby without being noticed.

  “Hang in there.” he said. “Don’t cream your jeans.”

  “But Christ, man, they’re splitting!”

  “Cool it, baby! What you want me to do, lock ’em in the john or something?”

  Gibby wasn’t listening. “Three of ’em getting away like that—home free—”

  “Will you shut up and listen a minute?” Mick leaned over the bar, watching the mob scene at the front door. “We aren’t out a thing. I been casing, and I know. Those two—the Owenses—are a couple of farm types from back east someplace. Look at the way they suited up for this scene; strictly from Sears. We wouldn’t get peanuts off them anyway. And the other one, Carrie—nothing, not even a ring on her—five-dollar purse and nothing in it. Let ’em go, we’re better off. Makes the rest easier to handle.”

  “Okay, but I still don’t like—”

  “Just zip your fly and forget it!” Mick watched the front door close and put a smile back on his face before the crowd started to turn. “Keep those glasses filled, now. I got work to do.”

  Like he figured, as soon as the excitement ended, everybody bellied up to the bar. Gibby had heavy going with all those dudes, but that was good too, helped him get his head together again.

  Just a few minutes and everything was back to normal. Pigs at the trough, swilling away. Grunting and squealing like they did in the pen, not knowing what was ahead.

  Mick scanned the room one more time. Fat bellies jiggling, flabby jowls wobbling, little hog-eyes squinting. Snuffle, slop, slurp.

  Go ahead, goddam it. Go ahead, goddam pigs, all of you. And in a little while now—pow-time!

  He glanced at his watch. Ten-fifteen. Beautiful.

  Then he moved down the hall, into the kitchen, and unlocked the back door.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Warren turned away from the front door. To his surprise, he found himself alone again. The others had already drifted across the room, and most of them were crowding around the bar to get fresh drinks.

  What was wrong with these people? Carrie Humphreys and Lulu Owens passing out, Homer taking them home, and nobody cared. A minute after leaving they were completely forgotten, as though they’d never existed.

  And that’s the way he felt now. Not forgotten, exactly. Excluded would be the better word.

  But there were no better words, not for the way he felt. Not after all that had happened.

  Dolly ignoring him all evening was understandable enough. But the conversation with Roy Crile still didn’t make sense. Siamese nobles pounded to death in a red velvet bag—what the hell was that all about?

  And that stuff about Sylvia being lonely. That was nonsense. Twice Warren had gone up to her, tried to talk, and both times she’d been too involved with Irene to pay any attention. Lonely? Not Sylvia, smiling and chattering away, telling him she’d see him later. If that was a mask she was wearing, it seemed like a perfect fit.

  Masks. Dolly’s mask of polite indifference. Roy Crile’s mask—obscure esoterica woven from the pages of old library books.

  And Ed Brice. His mask had slipped a little, up there at the bar. Behind that sour face was a sour mind. Damn it, the whole thing was a masquerade, and he wanted out.

  He glanced toward the bar. Sylvia was standing in the corner with Roy Crile; the two of them with their heads together, talking, looking his way.

  Warren started over to them. Time to put a stop to that. Now they had averted their gaze, pretending they didn’t see him coming. To hell with it; he’d had enough.

  Coming up behind Sylvia, he put his hand on her arm. She turned, registering surprise. “Oh, it’s you! Roy and I were just—”

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  “What?” The mask slipped; the surprise was genuine now.

  “I want to go home.”

  “But darling, it’s still early. Irene says they’ll be serving in just a few minutes.”

  “Sylvia—”

  “Come on, have a drink.” Roy Crile nodded at him. “You can’t leave now.”

  The hell he couldn’t. They were going if he had to drag her out. Warren turned, jaw tightening. “Damn it, will you listen to me—”

  But Sylvia was moving away, beside Irene, enveloped in a cloud of conversation.

  “—just the one I was looking for. I want you to see if you think the table looks right for the buffet—”

  Warren took a step after them, then halted, jaw slackening as he watched the two women disappear down the hall together. And when he turned back, Roy Crile was gone too, edging along the side wall with Joe Marks.

  Dolly brushed past him, glass in hand, followed by Ed Brice. Neither of them even bothered to acknowledge his presence; they avoided his stare. The absent treatment. What was the matter with everybody—did they think he had leprosy? Maybe he ought to wear a little bell around his neck and signal his approach with a cry of “Unclean!”

  Tom and Jerry were still at the bar. Correction; at the bar, but not still. They seemed to be absorbed in conversation, and from the slurred intonations it wasn’t a sober discussion. But damn it, they were together, talking to each other like husband and wife. At least that made sense; the two of them weren’t like the others here. They were friends, people you could count on because you knew them. Warren remembered his impulse to confide in Tom this noon—good God, had it only been this noon, it seemed like a million years ago—and he felt the need returning now. If he could just get Tom alone for a few minutes, talk things out, maybe it would make sense.

  Worth a try, anyway. Warren walked up beside Tom, peering over his shoulder at Jerry as she brushed her mane back from her forehead in mid-sentence. Her voice was low but it carried distinctly.

  “—it’s my work that pays the bills and don’t you forget it! Every time I turn out one of those lousy Valentine greetings it brings in enough to let you paint another Mona Lisa sitting with four aces in her hand.” She glanced up, noticed Warren, and nodded. “You hear about my husband the artist? He’s having a one-man show next week—wall murals in the men’s toilet at the Mobil station.”

  “Come on, Jerry, knock it off.” Tom raised his glass. “What’s Warren going to think?”

  “Who gives a damn what he thinks? I’m tired of what people think, taking their crap about what a wonderful guy you are, what an understanding husband, while I knock myself out to support you!”

  She talked fast, with an exclamation point behind every word, and as she talked she began to tremble. Tom’s face was pale; he took a step toward her and she lifted her glass as though to push him away.

  “Let me tell you what I think for a change,” she said. “I think I’m sick of it. Sick of doing the goddam cards, sick of running the house, sick of the way people fawn on you and admire your crazy scrawls, sick of playing second fiddle in your domestic symphony—”

  Warren
wanted to hide, hide from her tormented eyes, from Tom’s frozen look. But the words went on.

  “You and your creative impulse—that’s a laugh! All you’re doing is painting mustaches on billboards. You’re not a real artist; you’re not even a real man—”

  “Jerry—”

  Tom took another step another and Jerry’s arm rose, throwing the contents of her glass in his face.

  Then she turned and lurched down the hall.

  Tom stood there, blinded and blinking, his sad mouth sagging convulsively. A moment later he wheeled and followed Jerry, leaving Warren alone.

  God, he’d never felt so alone in all his life.

  Tom and Jerry weren’t any different than all the others. They were masquerading too. And that left—nobody.

  Nobody, standing alone at the bar, hand moving automatically into the jacket pocket to close around what was resting there; what had been resting and waiting until now.

  He’d had enough of stalling. That’s what he’d been doing all along, might as well admit it. All this business of trying to find someone to talk to—what difference would it make if he did? Would he really have opened up with Crile or told the truth to Tom? Crying on their shoulders couldn’t solve anything. And taking Sylvia away was just another cop-out, another way of stalling for time.

  But the time was now.

  “Something for you?” The bartender, Gibby, murmured and nodded his way.

  “Scotch and water.”

  Rattle of ice, gurgle of liquor, clink of pitcher against the glass.

  “You got it.” Gibby put the drink down on the bar beside him.

  “Thanks.” Warren gripped the glass, then turned and stared across the room.

  Tom and Jerry were emerging from the hall, side by side. Both seemed subdued, but they entered together; Tom’s face was dry, and aside from a few telltale damp patches on his coat lapels there was nothing to indicate what had happened. Nobody had even noticed the scene at the bar, or if they had they’d conveniently ignored it, just as the bartender did. Crile on the sofa with Dolly. Ed Brice in a chair, shaking his head as the white-jacketed Mick held out a tray on which a few appetizers still rested. Joe Marks going to the hall doorway when Irene and Sylvia came in from the dining room, then crossing back with them, talking away. Warren could see his mouth moving in the monkey-face, but he wouldn’t really be saying anything. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. That’s the way they all operated. Pay no attention to it and maybe it’ll go away.

  Warren’s fingers tightened on the glass. He was going away now and they’d damned well pay attention when he did.

  For a moment he resisted the infantile reaction—look at me, everybody, I’m doing something bad.

  To hell with that, too. Analyzing, labeling, trying to get his head together or whatever they called it. Just a lot of phrases adding up to more stalling, and he’d finished with that. Actions speak louder than words. Sylvia, for God’s sake, say something, look at me—

  But she didn’t look.

  Nobody looked as he reached into his pocket, pulled out the pellet and dropped it into his glass.

  All the masks were firmly in place; the talking, smiling, lying masks.

  And then the masks turned to stare—not at Warren, but at the figure looming in the hall doorway.

  A man was standing there, a big man in a poncho. He wore a mask too, but it was real—one of those black woolen ski masks fitted tightly over his face and head. This mask was real.

  And so was the gun in his hand.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Beautiful.

  The way Stan stood there in the doorway, like a goddam statue wearing that face-mask—nothing but slits for eyes and another slit for the mouth. Enough to scare the hell out of anybody, even if he wasn’t holding a waster on them.

  But he was, and when he said, “Don’t nobody try to move,” they froze.

  Mick froze too, right on cue, only he managed to take a quick look around just to make sure there wouldn’t be problems. Not with these creeps; they were scared spitless.

  Joe Marks was the only one with enough guts to take a step forward. He looked like he was going to say something, but the words never came out.

  Stan just pointed the gun and that did it. “Hold it right there, Dad,” he said. “Or I’ll blow your friggin’ brains out.”

  Joe Marks got the message.

  And so did the rest of them; Crile and Dolly on the sofa, Ed Brice standing in front of his chair, the other two broads, Irene and what’s-her-name—Sylvia?—next to him. The lushes, Tom and Jerry, were behind them. They looked sober now.

  Stan swiveled around to the bar. Gibby was behind it, and this dude Warren stood in front with a drink in his hand.

  “Come on, get over.” Stan waved the gun. “Move.”

  They moved. Gibby came out and crossed to where Joe Marks stood; Warren put his drink down on the bar and followed him.

  It was quiet in the living room now, very quiet. When Stan went over and yanked the phone wire out of the wall-connection, the noise made everybody jump, even though it wasn’t loud at all. Maybe it was just the way the ape reached down and ripped the damn thing free with that big paw of his.

  Mick knew he’d already done the same thing to the phone in the kitchen on his way in; at least he was supposed to if he followed the game plan. And he was following it, right on time, just the way they’d gone over it.

  Would he remember the next move?

  He did. “Okay, now,” he said. “All you guys move back to the wall there. That’s it, turn around—get those hands up—”

  And, to the broads. “You stay there. Shut up, lady—” This to Dolly Gluck, who was starting to make sobbing noises. He jabbed the gun at her. “I said to shut up!”

  She took one look at the gun and then the room was quiet again.

  Beautiful.

  “Hey, you!” Stan was talking to Gibby now. “Get the purses.”

  Gibby looked around, frowning, pretending he didn’t dig.

  “The purses, dummy! I want ’em here on the bar.”

  Gibby moved out and began collecting the bags from where the broads had stashed them; on the end tables, under chairs, in the corner of the sofa. He carried them over to the bar top, dumped them there.

  “Awright, now the guys. See what they got in their pockets.”

  Gibby hesitated.

  “Come on, do it!”

  Stan put muscle into his voice, and Gibby acted like he was really spooked. All that rehearsal was paying off.

  Mick took a deep breath, facing the wall but managing to watch by standing at an angle at the end where the others couldn’t notice. Had to keep an eye on things because the next part was going to be rough. Not rough, but tricky. Gibby had to frisk these dudes, lift their wallets, and do it fast—not giving anybody a chance to put up a beef, pull something.

  “Spread out.” Good, Stan remembered to say it, and they were following orders—lined up all along the wall, not too close. That made the job easier, keeping them separated.

  “Get those arms up!”

  Old Stan was really with it; he sounded perfect. And now Gibby was moving along the line, starting at the far end, with Mick.

  Mick could feel Gibby’s hands patting his jacket pockets. At least they started to, and then they stopped.

  No need to ask why. The room was so quiet they all heard it at the same time.

  The sound came from the left—just a click, like a door opening.

  The door to the patio.

  Mick turned his head, seeing it swing open. And seeing what came through it. Now who the hell—

  Who the hell was this little old white-haired broad coming in out of the dark? She stood there, blinking in the light, holding the big cloth purse with the pink flowers embroidered on it.

  Mick stared, Gibby stared, and Stan was staring too.

  Now what? Mick watched Stan, waiting for him to make a move. He had to handle it himself, but if he blew
it—

  “Okay, lady—hold it right there.”

  Stan showed her the gun. She blinked at it too, but she got the word.

  Stan walked over to her, eyeing the big embroidered bag. “The purse,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

  She kept staring at that mask of his like she couldn’t believe it, and then she started to smile and mumbled something under her breath. Mick couldn’t make out the words, and neither could Stan, because he waved the gun at her again.

  “Come on,” he said. “Open up and give.”

  Smiling sweetly, the little old lady opened her purse. She reached in fast, pulled something out and gave it to Stan.

  A butcher knife, right in the chest.

  THIRTY

  Stan hit the floor with a thud.

  The big knife was wedged between his ribs, and for a moment the blade wobbled as his chest heaved. Then it was still.

  That’s when they started to yell, all of them, but Gibby’s voice rose above the rest.

  He grabbed the old lady by the shoulders and shook her, and screamed it out over and over.

  “You bitch, you dirty bitch—”

  Then he raised his fist like he was going to hit her, but Mick got over there fast and grabbed his arm.

  Gibby grunted and turned to swing on him instead. Mick ducked, reaching down to scoop up the gun from the floor next to Stan’s body.

  “Cool it,” he said.

  But Gibby said the words then, said them loud and clear.

  “She killed him—she killed my brother—”

  And that’s when it hit the fan.

  Everybody heard, everybody stared. Two of the guys, Brice and Joe Marks, started to move forward.

  Mick halted them with the gun. “Back off, you mothers!”

  They edged back.

  “That’s better.” Mick nodded. “Anybody makes a move, I’ll waste him.”

  He meant it, too. Just because they’d blown the plan didn’t mean he was going down the tube. From now on it was out in the open and he’d have to take over.