Carla's Revenge. Sydney J. Bounds
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jeered: “Look who’s talking!”
Carla said: “You know we represent King Logan?”
Waldemar smiled pleasantly.
“Of course.”
Nick said: “King runs the protection racket in the Bowery. He’s boss of the East Side. You’d better take yourself off to another quarter before King puts the finger on yuh.”
Rufus Waldemar’s gold-tipped cane swished the air and he smiled again. His blue eyes were calm, his slender hands steady.
“King Logan did run the protection racket,” he replied gently, “but he doesn’t now. Logan is finished in the Bowery. Traders’ Insurance Inc., have taken over for Logan—and Mr. Shapirro, our boss, wishes me to leave this message with you for him. ‘King Logan will take himself out of New York if he values his health’!”
Carla said: “King isn’t going to like that. He likes to think he’s the boss around these parts. This means trouble.”
Nick said: “Shapirro is a—!”
The words he used to describe Shapirro left no doubt in anyone’s mind that he considered Shapirro to be several times fouler than a ten-year-old cesspool.
Waldemar’s eyes hardened and the smile froze on his lips.
“You will,” he said, “apologise for that.”
Nick snarled: “Yeah?” and drew a knife. He hurled himself forward at Waldemar.
Carla saw Waldemar’s expression change. He no longer looked young. His face was the face of a killer, cold, ruthless. The gold-tipped cane swished up, pointing straight at Nick’s chest. Too late, Nick saw the gleaming steel blade shoot out of the cane. He couldn’t avoid it because his momentum carried him forward. He groaned as the steel sliced into his chest, slid between his ribs, and found his heart.
Rufus Waldemar took a step back, lowering his swordstick. Nick’s body slid off the steel and huddled motionless on the floor. Nick was never again going to think he was smart—he was never going to think anything again. He was dead as last year’s fashions.
Blood seeped through the beige shirt and spoilt the royal blue tie. The fawn jacket started to discolour, a dark red stain spreading across it. Waldemar wiped the six-inch blade clean and sheathed it. The swordstick became an innocent gold-tipped cane again.
Carla didn’t move. She had a gun in her black leather handbag but she didn’t bring it out. Her eyes were watching the open door behind Rufus Waldemar, and she saw the three hatchet men standing there. Each of them held a heavy automatic, pointing into the workshop.
“A customer for you already, Mr. Mazzini,” Waldemar said. His smile had returned now. He was, once more, the debonair man of the world. He swung his cane jauntily as if he hadn’t a thing to bother him.
“King isn’t going to like this,” Carla said. “He’s going to come a-gunning for someone.”
Joe Mazzini looked at the ground and scuffed wood-shavings with his foot. His twitch had become suddenly worse.
“You’d better box him, Joe,” Carla said, nodding at Nick.
The heavy man with the flattened nose and dull eyes rubbed one of his scars.
“You want I should take him?” he growled, staring at Rufus Waldemar.
Carla shook her head. “No,” she said shortly. Ham was a dumb ox; he hadn’t noticed the three hatchet men waiting for him to start something. She said: “Go out to the car, Ham. Wait for me.”
Ham shuffled off. Carla looked at Waldemar, and said:
“Lucky this is a coffin shop. No trouble about losing a stiff here.”
Rufus Waldemar smiled and bowed.
“You’ll convey my message to King Logan?”
Carla nodded. She had a new respect for Waldemar after seeing the cool way he had disposed of Nick. She thought he might give King a little trouble.
“I’ll give him all the details,” she said, turning for the door. She paused, and added: “But he isn’t going to like it.”
“That needn’t worry you,” Rufus Waldemar suggested. “I’m sure that Mr. Shapirro would be delighted to welcome such a beautiful girl into his organization.”
“I’ll think about it,” Carla drawled. She looked at Joe Mazzini, and said:
“This means trouble, Joe.”
She went through the door, out to the car.
CHAPTER TWO
Carla’s hand gripped the wheel of the car and her foot kept the accelerator hard down. She thought King would want to know what had happened at Joe Mazzini’s coffin shop and she was in a hurry. Ham sat beside her not saying anything.
The olive-green Lincoln flashed through the drab streets of Manhattan’s Bowery and crossed the East River by Brooklyn Bridge. The night sky was dotted by a million lights from the unshaded windows of New York’s skyscrapers. Below, the water gleamed and flowed, and a tug hooted. The skyline was majestic; tall, stately buildings rose almost from the water’s edge and the riverfront was noisy with traffic. But Carla had no eye for the scene.
She kept the Lincoln to the centre lane, passing everything on the road. Once on Long Island, Carla left the main road and threaded her way between dingy Brooklyn tenements. It was an area of squalor, where large families lived cooped up in one room, where children played in the streets, and lines of washing hung in the caverns between giant concrete blocks.
King Logan had been born in Brooklyn and, now that he could afford to move to a more select area, he refused to leave. Brooklyn was home to King Logan and he intended staying there, though now he lived in a hotel and hired the best suite in the place.
It was called the Royal, a name that tickled King’s fancy. Carla drove the Lincoln into the all-night garage at the rear of the hotel and she and Ham took the elevator to King’s floor.
King Logan was standing by the window, looking out over the river, when Carla hurried in. It was a favourite pose of his, standing there looking out across the river to Manhattan Island; he said it gave him ideas. King had a secret longing to be acknowledged the gang boss of all New York—and Manhattan was most of New York.
He turned as he heard Carla and Ham. He was tall, over six feet, and well-proportioned. He looked as if he had been carved out of muscle, and prided himself on being as tough as he looked. His hair was dark and close-cropped, and his eyes were too much like round beads, and too close together for him ever to be called handsome.
He wore a maroon sweatshirt and grey gabardine slacks. A green silk dressing gown draped his shoulders, and the right side sagged under the weight of the heavy .45 automatic he kept in his pocket. King never went anywhere without his .45. He said it was his best friend.
His feet were covered by hand-made slippers, but they were hardly visible for the thick rug that carpeted the floor. King spared nothing to impress his visitors that he was a big-shot. The furniture, the hangings, everything about the suite suggested big money. If King had had any taste, it could have looked like an emperor’s palace—as he hadn’t, it resembled an opulent and gaudy nightmare.
His eyes, when they settled on Carla, seemed to bore right through her white gown, to caress her from head to toes. He moved towards her, swiftly for so large a man, and brought his hands out of the pockets of his dressing gown. The little finger of his right hand had been shot away at the second joint—the result of a gang fight early in his career—and gave him a sinister appearance.
He caught hold of Carla and swung her off her feet, cradling her warm body close to his chest. His lips sealed hers in a long kiss before she could speak, almost bruising her with the force of his passion. He lowered her to the ground and removed the fur wrap.
Carla