Consider Yourself Dead

One

Frost got talking to a high-class hooker in a dimly lit, chromium-plated bar off Broadway. She explained she was waiting for a client who was generally late as he had a wife problem. Frost told her he was just waiting. She was blonde and very chic with a traffic stopping body. Making chit-chat, she said she was going to Paradise City at the end of the month.

‘That’s where the real action is,’ she said, her blue-grey eyes sparkling. ‘There’s more money to be picked up there than in any other city in the world.’

There were two things that interested Frost, apart from women: money, and then more money. He said he had never heard of Paradise City. What was so good about it?

She was one of those girls, given an audience, who never stopped talking. This, of course, Frost thought, didn’t make her unique. He could say that of all the girls he knew and had known.

‘Whereas Miami is known as the millionaire’s playground,’ she told him as if reading from a guidebook, ‘Paradise City is known as the billionaire’s playground. The extra naughts make all the difference.’ She closed her eyes and made yum-yum noises. ‘Paradise City is around thirty miles south of Miami. It is super de luxe where anyone with what it takes, can pick up a load of the green stuff.’ She leaned back and looked searchingly at Frost. ‘Now a stag like you could have a real ball there.’

She went on to explain that fifteen percent of the City’s population represented the stinking rich. Fifty percent represented the various well-paid serfs who kept the stinking rich in luxury. Thirty percent were the workers who kept the City ticking over, and five percent were the girls and the boys who latched on to the stinking rich and, if they were smart enough, picked up enough folding money to keep them happy until the following season when they descended once again on the City.

As Frost was urgently looking for money, he expressed interest.

Again she regarded him. If he hadn’t been sure that she would cost him the whole of his payroll to haul her into bed, he would have taken a very serious interest in her, but he knew a doll of her class was way out of his money bracket.

‘What’s your line?’ she asked.

‘The same as yours — the fast buck.’

‘Apart from your looks, what’s your talent?’

Frost frowned. What was his talent? This was something he hadn’t thought about before. He was now thirty-two years of age. For the past twelve years he had scratched up a living, always on the lookout for the big money, but up to now, never finding it. Right now he was unemployed. He was in New York, hoping to find an opportunity that paid well without too much sweat.

‘Security,’ he said. ‘Using my muscles. The last job I had was riding a truck as a guard. I goosed the old man’s secretary, and got the gate.’ He grinned at her. ‘Right now, I’m looking for something.’

‘With your looks and build,’ she said, ‘you could get yourself a rich old woman in Paradise City who would pour bread into your lap.’

Frost grimaced. He said rich old women weren’t his thing.

She flicked her fingers at the waiter and ordered another dry martini. Frost still nursed his Scotch, but he did make motions of reaching for his wallet when her drink came, but she shook her head.

‘I run an account here.’ She accepted the cigarette he offered, then said, ‘If you really are after the fast buck, here’s what you do. Go to Paradise City. Contact Joe Solomon. You’ll find him in the book. He handles all us folk who are after the fast buck. Tell him you are a friend of mine, and I’ll hate him if he doesn’t fix something for you. I’m Marcia Goolden.’ She looked across the barroom and heaved a sigh. ‘Here’s my freak. Call Joe.’ She gave Frost a sexy smile. ‘See you in Paradise City. You and I could have fun together. Joe’ll tell you where to find me.’ She finished her drink at a gulp, slid off her stool and walked over to a fat, balding man who was staring around like a fugitive from a chain gang. She hooked her arm in his and led him out into the hot, humid sunshine.

Frost had been in New York for five days. He had been offered a job here and there, but the money didn’t interest him. He thought about what Marcia had said. Why not? he thought. What have I to lose except the airplane fare?

Frost believed in conserving his money. When he had booked into the Hilton hotel, he had with him a shabby suitcase containing the bare necessities and his oldest suit. His best clothes in a good suitcase he had left in the left-luggage depot at the airport. He spent one more night at the Hilton, then leaving his oldies to take care of the check, he took a flight to Paradise City with his better possessions.

From Marcia’s description, Frost was prepared for the City, but when he came out of the airport, he found himself gaping. Every car, waiting to pick up passengers, was either a Rolls, a Bentley, a Caddy or a Benz. He asked the cabby to take him to a cheap hotel.

The cabby stared at him as he picked his gold teeth with a gold toothpick.

‘There ain’t such an animal, bud,’ he said. ‘The cheapest is the Sea Motel. It costs thirty a day, but I wouldn’t put my old mother there.’

Frost said the cabby’s mother could be more fussy than he was, and if that’s the cheapest the cabby could suggest, he was prepared to try it.

Frost had one thousand dollars saved, but as he was driven through the City, he felt his money shrinking. Sky-scrapers, luxe hotels, the fantastic beach with sun umbrellas, shading well nourished, brown bodies, the vast stores, the luxe boutiques, the moving crowd, all looking a million dollars, made, to Frost, an alarming picture of wealth, but once through the City, the scene changed.

The cabby explained this was the district where the workers lived. The small villas, the seedy-looking walk-up apartment blocks and the weather-beaten clapboard cabins made a sharp contrast to the gold-paved sidewalks of the City.

The Sea Motel was hidden away, as if ashamed of itself, up a cul-de-sac. Twenty cabins, all in need of paint, built in a semi-circle around a plot of yellowing grass restored Frost’s confidence and swelled the money in his wallet.

The reception clerk, ageing, sun-bleached, gave Frost a welcome. He said he had a nice cabin at forty a day. This cabin had a tiny bedroom, a small living, shower and toilet. In the living room there was a sagging armchair, a settee with grease marks, a table, two upright chairs, a TV set that would have delighted an antique dealer, and a threadbare carpet, pitted with cigarette burns. The view from the window gave on to dusty palms and a row of over-flowing trash bins.

Frost haggled for ten minutes and finally got the rate down to thirty a day. With a dismal expression, the reception clerk said there was a snack bar across the way.

As soon as he had taken himself off, Frost looked up Joe Solomon in the book. He found the number and called.

A cool female voice said, ‘This is the Solomon Agency.’ She made it sound as if she were announcing the White House was on the line.

‘I want to talk to Mr. Solomon,’ Frost said, and swatted at a fly that was crawling up his sleeve. He missed the fly that came back to crawl over his hand, sneering at him.

‘Who is this, please?’ Her voice sounded bored as if she had asked the question a million times.

‘Mr. Solomon wouldn’t know me. I’m looking for a job.’

‘Please write in and state your credentials,’ and the line went dead.

Frost stared into space. He felt lonely, although he had the fly for company. He was playing this all wrong, he told himself. This was Big Time. Unless you were Small Time, you didn’t talk to a snooty chick who was paid to give the brush off, you talked to the Boss. After thought, he went over to the reception cabin.

The aging clerk was propping himself up on the counter, staring at nothing. Two flies were taking their morning constitutional walk over his bald head. He paid them no attention.

‘Can I borrow a typewriter for a couple of hours?’ Frost asked.

The reception clerk stared at him as if he had just landed from the moon.

‘What was that again?’

Frost pointed to the battered looking typewriter on the desk behind the reception clerk who looked around, stared at the typewriter as if he hadn’t seen it before.

‘Can I borrow that?’ Frost produced a dollar bill.

The reception clerk eyed the bill, let the two flies play tag in what was left of his hair, then nodded.

‘Help yourself.’

‘Got any paper?’

The reception clerk thought about this, then reluctantly heaved himself to the desk and produced some sheets.

Frost gave him the dollar and lugged the typewriter back to his cabin. He spent a sweaty hour typing. When he returned the typewriter, the clerk was still in the same position, but another fly had joined the other two.

The book had told Frost that Joe Solomon had an office on Roosevelt Boulevard.

‘Where do I find Roosevelt Boulevard?’

‘City centre: runs parallel with Paradise Boulevard.’

‘How far from here?’

The reception clerk pulled at his nose, thought, then said, ‘Give or take, five miles.’

‘Have you a car I can rent?’

‘Five bucks a day. That one over there in the last bay,’ and he pointed.

The car was a beaten up VW. Frost decided anything was better than walking five miles in this heat. The car got him to Roosevelt Boulevard without falling to bits.

Joe Solomon’s office was on the tenth floor of an impressive high rise with four express elevators, air conditioning, and important looking people moving around the vast lobby with that busy, preoccupied air of ants on the march.

A Spanish-looking chick sat behind a desk in Solomon’s outer office. Her long black hair lay on her shoulders and made a frame for a face that had everything until you reached her eyes. They were black, and they had seen everything, and what they had seen, they hated. Her age would be around thirty, but she had already lived eighty years of experience, and each year had increased her hate. Frost thought she was a very tough cookie.

She looked him over. He was wearing his best suit: light cream with a faint, narrow blue stripe, a dark blue shirt and a white tie. He had checked himself on the fly blown mirror at the cabin before leaving. He thought he looked pretty impressive, but he saw at once his size, his looks and his clothes made as much impact on her as a lump of dough thrown against a brick wall.

He decided to play this one brisk.

‘Mr. Solomon,’ he said.

Black eyebrows lifted.

‘You have an appointment? Your name?’

‘The name’s Frost. I have something better than an appointment,’ and Frost dropped the letter he had written, sealed in an envelope, on her desk.

She regarded the envelope as she might regard something nasty the cat had brought in.

‘If you will give me your telephone number, Mr. Frost, you will be contacted.’

He placed his big hands on her desk and leaned towards her. She gave off a faint body smell that if bottled would have been a rave as an after-shave lotion.

‘I know J.S. likes to play hard to get,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I know you are paid to sit where you are sitting, making it easy for him to feel important. It’s all part of the racket, but I don’t buy it. J.S. is here to make money. I can make money for him. Suppose you get off your fanny, give him this letter, and if he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll let you spit in my right eye.’

Her eyes widened, then she laughed, and when she laughed, she really looked a beauty.

‘I thought I’d seen them all,’ she said, ‘but although the dialogue is corny, at least, it’s a new approach.’ She picked up the envelope and stood up. She had a sensational body. ‘It won’t buy you anything, but you deserve a try.’

She went through a doorway behind her desk, swinging her hips. At least that was a step forward, Frost thought as he looked around. For an outer office it was very lush. The nigger brown carpet, the apricot-coloured walls, the picture window with a view of the sea, the battery of telephones, the built-in filing cabinets and the three lounging chairs along the far wall produced an air of considerable prosperity.

He thought of the letter he had written:

He wondered if he should get out his handkerchief to wipe his right eye when she came out. Maybe Marcia had been playing at being important. Maybe Solomon would come out and spit in his left eye, but he needn’t have worried.

The chick came out, smiling, and jerked her head.

‘He’ll see you. It still won’t buy you anything.’

Frost leered at her.

‘Want to bet?’ and he walked past her into a vast room that was more a lounge than an office. Apart from a big desk by the picture window, the rest of the room resembled a millionaire’s nest where he can entertain some fifty people without feeling crowded.

Behind the desk which was big enough to play billiards on, sat a fat little man in a grey suit that must have set him back seven or eight hundred dollars. His round, sun baked face, with hooded eyes, a nose like a buzzard’s beak and a mouth like a pencil line was framed with long white hair down to his collar.

He watched Frost cross the big room, then he smiled and waved Frost to a chair.

‘Very nice, Mr. Frost. How’s Marcia?’

‘Fine and busy,’ Frost said, sitting down.

Solomon nodded approvingly.

‘There’s a worker!’ He leaned back in his executive chair. ‘She’s my favourite hooker. There’s not much I wouldn’t do for Marcia. I take it you’re here for a vacation and employment to defray expenses?’

‘Right,’ Frost said.

‘You’ve come to the right place. What’s your line? What are you looking for?’

Frost produced the details of his various qualifications he had typed out, and handed them over.

‘This covers my working life, Mr. Solomon. Maybe you can get ideas from this how to fix something for me.’

Solomon read what Frost had written, whistling softly from time to time.

‘You seem to have had a number of jobs in the past twelve years,’ he said, laying down the paper. ‘Let me see, three years as a patrolman with the New York police, promoted to Detective, second grade, resigned after two years to join the F.B.I, as field agent. Resigned after three years to become a rifleman in Vietnam. You then became a bomb instructor for the I.R.A. You later became a mercenary in the Angola upheaval. Finally, this year you worked for a short time as a security guard for Western Security Corp in Boston.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘Quite a life of action and violence.’ He picked up the paper again and read on: ‘Knowledge of most modern weapons and explosives, judo black belt, karate, marksman with military citations, pilot’s licence etc. etc.’ He put down the paper. ‘Very impressive, Mr. Frost, but no one is planning to start a war in Paradise City. I feel your talents would be wasted here.’ He brooded, then went on, ‘There are jobs, of course, I can offer you, but...’

‘Such as?’

‘With your looks and build, you could earn five hundred a week. I have an old trout who needs a chauffeur, but you would have to lay her regularly once a week.’

‘Not my thing,’ Frost said firmly.

‘I didn’t think it would be. I have a very rich queer who needs a companion, but you... no, I can’t see you filling that bill.’

‘Nor can I.’

‘How would you like to be a lifeguard? It pays around a hundred, but it’s as good as a free vacation. All you have to do is sit on the beach and wait for someone to drown.’

This suggestion appealed to Frost until he considered the salary.

‘It has to be a lot better than that. From what Marcia told me, I’m expecting to pick up big money.’

Solomon sighed.

‘That old trout...’

‘That’s out. How about a bodyguard?’

Solomon brightened. He leaned forward and thumbed a buzzer. The Spanish chick looked in.

‘Any vacancies for a bodyguard, Carmen?’

‘Not right now.’ She gave Frost a jeering smile. ‘Strictly a drug on the market,’ and she removed herself, shutting the door.

‘From time to time, we do get requests for a bodyguard,’ Solomon said. ‘It’s your best bet. Suppose you hang around? If I hear of something...’

‘I can’t afford to hang around,’ he said. ‘Okay, if that’s all you can do, I’ll call Marcia. Maybe she can do something for me while she’s hating you.’

Solomon winced.

‘Don’t do anything hasty. Give me a couple of days... okay? I’ll get Carmen to go through our files. Give her your telephone number. We’ll find you something.’

‘Two days, then I call Marcia.’

Frost left him and went into the outer office.

Carmen smiled jeeringly at him.

‘I warned you. Give me your number, but don’t squeal if you don’t hear from us.’

Frost wrote down the telephone number of the Sea Motel and laid it on her desk.

‘Get me a good job, baby, and I’ll buy you a ribbon for your typewriter,’ he said.

‘More corny dialogue,’ she said, and reached for the telephone.

Back in his sweltering cabin, Frost settled down to wait. If Solomon didn’t come up with something, Frost knew he was in trouble. He had no idea how to contact Marcia, and even if he did contact her, he didn’t think she could help him. He had just to wait and hope. So that was what he did — hoped and waited. Scared to leave the telephone, he sent over to the quick-snack bar at lunchtime for a sandwich and beer. The beer was flat and scarcely cold, the sandwich could have been made of cotton wool.

At 20.00, Frost decided Solomon and the Spanish chick had gone to their respective homes, and it would be safe to take a swim. He spent until midnight, swimming, lazing under the palm trees, and watching the dolls and their boys having a ball. He felt lonely.

He slept late, had lukewarm coffee that should have been ashamed of itself, then dressing, he sat down to wait again.

By 15.00, after another gruesome lunch, he was fit to be tied. Maybe, he told himself, it hadn’t been such a hot idea to come to this City. He was now sorry he had listened to Marcia’s sales talk. Then just when he was deciding to cut his losses and take a look at Miami to see if there was anything cooking there, the telephone bell rang.

It was Solomon on the line.

‘I have a job for you, Mr. Frost. Will you come to my office immediately. It’s a matter of urgency.’

‘The knock you are hearing on your door is me arriving,’ Frost said, hung up, bolted to the VW and was on his way.

The Spanish chick was at her desk manicuring her nails when Frost hurried into the outer office.

She gave him a stony stare and flicked her fingers at Solomon’s office door.

‘There you are, Mr. Frost,’ Solomon said, from behind his desk. ‘Sit down. A job’s come in that’s custom made for you.’

Frost sat down.

‘What’s it pay?’ he asked.

‘Six hundred a week, your own quarters, all found. Nice, huh?’

Frost said it was nice.

‘You know the Agency’s terms?’

Frost cocked an eye at him.

‘Not yet, but you’re sure to tell me.’

Solomon chuckled.

‘Fifty percent of your first week’s salary and ten percent until the job folds.’

‘No wonder you can afford to wear a suit like that,’ Frost said. ‘Well, okay. What’s the job?’

‘Bodyguard. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

‘Whose body do I guard?’

‘Mr. Grandi is a very valuable client of mine. He has reason to be anxious about his daughter’s safekeeping. He has a permanent home in Rome. An abortive, but vicious attempt was made to kidnap the girl while in Rome. Mr. Grandi, naturally alarmed, has rented a villa on Paradise Largo where he has installed his daughter. He thinks, away from Rome, she will be safe.’

‘Grandi? Who’s he?’

Solomon made an impatient gesture.

‘Carlo Grandi is the richest industrialist in Italy. Rumour has it he is worth several billion dollars. He is, as I have said, one of my most valued clients. I have supplied all the staff at the villa, and I arrange everything for his daughter’s comfort.’

‘Several billion dollars?’ Frost’s ears pricked up. ‘What’s the daughter like?’

‘I haven’t had the fortune to meet her nor Mr. Grandi. I deal through Mr. Grandi’s major-domo, Mr. Frenzi Amando.’ Solomon grimaced. ‘Now, there is a difficult man, but that’s neither here nor there. The reason why I have had this urgent request for a second bodyguard is that Mr. Amando, checking during the night, found the night guard asleep. He was instantly dismissed.’ He paused to light a cigar. ‘I have highly recommended you, and Mr. Amando is prepared to give you a month’s trial. He relies on me to check out references and so on, and I have told him your background is impeccable.’ He looked slyly at Frost. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘You can say that again,’ Frost said, with a grin. He now understood why the Agency’s terms came so high.

‘I didn’t mention your more violent activities, Mr. Frost. I feel that would be unwise. I told him you have been a detective attached to the N.Y.P.D., then a Federal Agent, and recently a security guard. He seemed satisfied’

‘You mean the job’s mine?’

‘Yes, if you want it. I have several applicants for bodyguards, but as Marcia is a friend of mine and yours...’

He waved his cigar in the air.

‘I want it. So what do I do?’

‘You are to report to Jack Marvin who is the senior guard. He is expecting you. Mr. Amando may not find time to see you himself. He’s a busy man, but if he does see you, watch your step.’ He pushed a slip of paper across his desk. ‘Here are instructions how to reach the villa. Paradise Largo is where the very wealthy live. Villa Orchid — Mr. Grandi’s residence — is on an island. Access to the Largo estate is over a bridge which is constantly guarded. You will have to show your driving licence to the guard who has been alerted to expect you. I suggest you pack, and get over there pronto. Okay?’

Frost got to his feet.

‘I’m on my way, and thanks.’

Solomon waved that away.

‘Anything for Marcia.’

‘Where does she stay when she’s here?’ Frost asked as he moved to the door.

Solomon eyed him.

‘Didn’t she tell you?’

‘I forgot to ask.’

‘The Spanish Bay Hotel — where else?’

‘Is that something?’

‘The best and the most expensive. Marcia can pick up a thousand bucks a night when she’s in the mood.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘What a worker!’

Going into the outer office, Frost saw Carmen had finished her repair work on her nails and was now reading a legal looking document.

‘The job’s mine,’ Frost said, pausing at her desk. ‘I owe you a ribbon for your typewriter.’

‘Shove the corn,’ she said curtly, ‘and sign this.’ She handed him the document. ‘It’s your contract with this agency.’

Frost took a chair near her and read the document carefully. He read the small print even more carefully. All money due to him in wages were paid direct to the agency. Having made commission deductions, what was left was to be paid into an account in his name with the National Florida Bank. He was insured for ten thousand dollars against accident, the premium deducted from his earnings. If he didn’t hold the job for more than two weeks, there would be a further deduction of fifty percent on the last week’s salary.

‘You certainly know how to look after yourselves,’ he said taking the pen she offered and signing.

She didn’t bother to answer that one.

‘How about a little celebration dinner tonight?’ he said, without much hope. ‘I could show you my press cuttings, and you could show me yours.’

She gave him a stony stare.

‘Piss off,’ she said, and reached for the telephone.

You can’t win all the time, Frost thought as he took the elevator to the ground floor, but, at least, you can try.

Paradise Largo turned out to be an isthmus linking E.1 to A.1.A. highways, halfway between Paradise City and Fort Lauderdale.

The causeway to the estate was guarded by a lodge and an electronically controlled barrier.

A big hunk of beef, in a bottle green uniform, a .45 colt on his hip, surveyed the VW as Frost pulled up before the barrier. He then surveyed Frost who could see from the expression on the guard’s face, he didn’t think anything of the car nor of him.

Taking his time, the guard came out of the lodge and took Frost’s driving licence.

‘Jack Marvin’s expecting me,’ Frost said. ‘Mr. Grandi’s place.’

The guard read everything, including the small print on the licence, then handed it back.

‘Second on the right and straight ahead to the next guard house,’ he growled, then went back into the lodge.

Frost took the second on the right and drove down a broad avenue, newly sanded. On either side were ten feet high hedges. Every now and then, the hedges were broken by high, oak nail studded gates, leading to some villa. To Frost, the smell of wealth was overpowering.

At the end of the road, he came to another guardhouse. The barrier was up and another hunk of beef was waiting.

‘Straight ahead,’ he said, staring at the VW as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Park in bay 10. Marvin’s there, waiting for you.’

Frost drove over a fifty-yard long bridge, spanning the seawater canal. Ahead of him he could see an island in the middle of the lagoon. The island was screened by closely planted mango trees. Over the bridge, he saw ahead, ten-foot high double gates. They swung open as he reached the far end of the bridge. As he drove on to a broad sandy drive, he saw, behind the screen of mango trees a ten-foot high fence of electrified wire. In his driving mirror, he saw the double gates had already swung shut.

A hundred yard drive through a forest of papaya and loquat trees brought him to Grandi’s residence.

The villa was two-storey, Spanish style, covered with red and white bougainvillea. The villa probably had some fifteen bedrooms. To Frost, it looked enormous. In the front of the villa was half an acre of lawn and a small lake with a playing fountain. Beds of roses and begonias made splashes of colour.

Near the villa was the car park. A cream and brown Rolls Camargue sneered at a sky blue Lamborghini that, in its turn, sneered at a silver Benz.

As Frost parked the VW in bay 10, a tall, thin man, wearing a grey suit, dark blue slacks tucked into Mexican boots, came out of the shade and advanced towards him. On his hip was a .38 police special. He wore an Australian style hat, the sides laced up.

As Frost got out of the car, the thin man joined him. Steady, steel grey eyes set in a thin, hard face, surveyed Frost, then he thrust out his hand.

‘Jack Marvin.’

Frost shook hands.

‘Mike Frost.’

‘Suppose we walk around, and I’ll wise you up on the job?’ Marvin said. ‘The first thing you’ll want is a uniform like mine. I’ll tell you where to get it. I’ve already talked to the cops, and all you have to do is to go to the cop house for a gun permit. We have an armoury here, and you can take your pick. As you’ll be on duty at 20.00 tonight, there’s a bit of a hustle.’ He moved into the shade and led Frost down a narrow path, bordered by orchid trees, talking as he went. ‘This is an easy job. The security is more or less taken care of by electronics, but all the same, you have to be constantly on the alert. In the guardroom in the villa there is an alarm panel and TV scanners. Your job is to watch the alarm panel and the scanners, and keep watching. It’s a hell of a boring chore. I guess you spotted the electrified fence as you came in. Don’t go near it. It’s lethal. If some smart ass, using insulated cutters, opens a way in, an alarm alerts the cop house and shows on the panel in the guardroom. The island is completely enclosed by the fence. We don’t reckon to have trouble during the day. There are too many boats on the lagoon, and as you’ve seen, the entrance is well guarded. At 21.00, four Doberman Pinschers have the run of the island. They are killers: make no mistake about that. When on night shift, you stay in the guardroom. Don’t go out unless you want your throat torn out. The dogs know me. I let them out and lock them up when I come on duty during the day.’ They came out of the shade, and into the open by the fence at the back of the island. Frost could see the seawater canal ahead. Already there were a number of motor cruisers and yachts roaming aimlessly. The crews were either fat old men and their fatter wives or lean young men with their dolls. The scene reeked of wealth. ‘Just along here,’ Marvin said, ‘is where the boats are kept.’ He moved on and reached a gate, overlooking a harbour in which floated a sixty-foot motor yacht, a Cris-craft and a dinghy with an outboard motor. Marvin waved to the boats. ‘All so much waste of money. No one uses them, but they are there, if anyone wants to.’ He spat at the fence. ‘I guess all these rich punks on the estate have boats, so we have boats too.’

Leaving the harbour, he led Frost towards the villa. Frost was absorbing the scene, missing nothing. Finally, they came to the villa, and Marvin led Frost along a broad sandy lane until they paused before an oak, nail studded door.

‘This leads to the guardroom,’ Marvin said, producing a key. He unlocked the door and Frost followed him into a large, air-conditioned room. There was a battery of TV sets against a wall. By them was a big panel covered with red, yellow and green lamps. On another wall was a gun rack. The arsenal was impressive: two shotguns, two automatic rifles, a tear gas exploder and a range of handguns. A table and two chairs occupied the centre of the room. Two lounging chairs stood before the TV sets.

‘Here’s where you work nights,’ Marvin said, closing the door. ‘You sit in one of those chairs and watch the panel and the monitors. You keep awake. Joe went to sleep, and Old Creepy caught him. If you want to stay with this job, you don’t go to sleep. You have the night shift this week, I take it next week.’ He went to a big closet, opened it to reveal a refrigerator. From it he took two cans of beer, gave one can to Frost and waved him to a chair.

Frost sat down, saluted Marvin and drank.

‘Old Creepy? Frenzi Amando? Solomon mentioned him.’

Marvin nodded and sat down.

‘Right. The original sonofabitch. I like this job. The bread’s fine. The conditions are good. Wait until you see your living quarters: very, very nice. I’ve been here now for three months, but old Creepy spoils the scene. There have been times when I’ve nearly banged his rat teeth through the back of his neck. He looks for trouble. The sonofabitch loves trouble. He loves waving his power.’ Marvin drank from the can. ‘So if you want to keep this job, and it’s worth keeping, watch it with Amando.’

‘Solomon said there was a snatch threat,’ Frost said. ‘Right?’

‘That’s the reason for this operation.’ Marvin took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and offered it. They lit up. ‘I’ll put you in the photo. Grandi — he’s the boss — has lots of dollars. Just to give you an idea, if he lost five million, it would be the same as you losing twenty cents, and I’m not kidding. Five months ago, when he was in Rome, an attempt was made to kidnap his daughter. Let me tell you about her. She’s young, something to look at, spoilt, a bit of a hellion, and until this kidnap attempt, had the run of Rome. Grandi is besotted with her. The kidnap attempt scared the crap out of him. It ended with four thugs getting killed and two cops died later. Grandi decided to get his daughter out of Italy. He rented this place, fixed the security and the daughter now lives here.’ Marvin grimaced. ‘I’m sorry for her. She is virtually a prisoner. She never leaves the island. She has swimming in the pool, two new movies a week, and TV, but that is a hell of a bore after living wild in Rome. Grandi visits her every six weeks. Old Creepy makes sure she remains on the island, and makes sure you and I do our job.’ He looked at Frost. ‘Got the photo?’

Frost waved to the TV monitors and the panel.

‘So all I have to do is sit tight here and watch? Suppose the red comes up?’

Marvin pointed to a door.

‘That leads into the living quarters of the villa. You don’t use it unless the red goes up. If it does, you grab an automatic rifle and go to the bottom of the stairs, leading to the sleeping quarters. You stay right there so no one gets up to Gina’s room — that’s the daughter. When the red light goes up, the cophouse is alerted, and within a couple of minutes, the cops arrive.’

‘And the dogs tear them apart.’

‘The dogs are well trained. If they haven’t already fixed any intruder, then another red light goes up. There is an electronically controlled whistle that only the dogs can hear, and when they hear it, they go back to their compound and the gate automatically shuts. Give or take, five minutes, you’ll have the cops in your lap, and I’ll be around too.’

‘Sounds as if I’m going to earn my bread the easy way.’

‘Sounds like it, doesn’t it? The trick is always to be alert so Old Creepy doesn’t stick a knife into you, and don’t kid yourself it’s easy to stay alert through a long, dull night.’

Frost shrugged.

‘I’ve had worse jobs. Talking about jobs, did Joe Solomon fix you here?’

Marvin shook his head.

‘I don’t give ten percent of what I earn to a smart shyster. I was a State trooper for fifteen years. My wife and I fell out.’ He took a drink and grimaced. ‘I guess we got married too young. On my own, I found it was no fun being a cop in a rented bungalow. I got talking to Tom Lepski, a good friend of mine. He’s a first grade detective at the cophouse. He told me about Grandi needing a bodyguard. I sold myself to Old Creepy and got the job, and I fixed Joe Davis, a buddy of mine, to be second guard. I earn eight hundred a week. I have a cabin to live in with a Jap to take care of me. All meals — and good ones — are provided.’ He grinned. ‘As long as it lasts, it’s the best.’

Frost mentally noted that Marvin didn’t belong to the ‘fast buck’ people. They finished their beers, then Marvin got to his feet.

‘I’ll show you your cabin.’

Frost followed him around the back of the villa, past a vast swimming pool, equipped with lounging chairs and a bar where a small Japanese, in a white coat, was rinsing glasses. He eyed Frost, then bowed to him.

‘That’s Suka. He looks after us,’ Marvin said, without stopping. He went down a narrow path. They hadn’t gone far before they heard the savage, spine-chilling sound of barking dogs.

Around a bend in the lane, they came upon a wired-in compound where four enormous Doberman Pinschers stood in a threatening row, barking and snarling.

‘Wrap up!’ Marvin shouted at them, and the dogs immediately became silent, their eyes on Frost.

‘Keep clear of them,’ Marvin said. ‘They are killers.’

Frost believed him.

Passing the compound, they came on two wooden cabins.

‘This is yours. The one next is mine.’

Marvin pushed open a door, and they entered a big living room, comfortably furnished, plus a TV set and a stereo radio, then through to a big bedroom, a well-equipped bathroom and kitchenette.

‘Nice, huh?’

Frost looked around. It was more than nice: it was luxe.

‘Just one thing to remember,’ Marvin said, his expression serious. ‘No women here, even if you could smuggle a woman in which you can’t.’

Frost nodded, thinking what a hell of a waste of a luxe cabin.

‘I hear you,’ he said.

‘When you are on day shift, which will be next week, you clock off at 20.00, then your time’s your own, but you must be back here by 02.00, that’s danger time, but be back before, in case Old Creepy checks.’

‘How about transport?’

‘There’s a T.R.7 in the garage. We share it.’

‘So I drive back late and get chewed up by the dogs.’

Marvin grinned.

‘No problem. You keep the car windows closed and drive straight into the garage. The door is electronically controlled. Maybe the dogs will bark around the car, but they have been trained not to enter the garage. When the door shuts, you get out, and there’s a door from the garage into your cabin.’

‘Quite a setup.’

‘I guess.’ Marvin shoved his hat to the back of his head. ‘Well, Mike, you’d better get your uniform, and then go to the cophouse for your pistol permit. Harris on Trueman Avenue will fit you out. He knows what you’ll want. Get back here around 19.00. We’ll have dinner together in the guardroom. You won’t complain about the food. You take what comes, but it’s always good. I guess that’s it. I’ll get back on the job. See you,’ and nodding, he left.

Frost drove the VW to the outfitters and came away with three sets of uniform and an Australian style hat. Then he went to the policehouse and picked up his pistol permit, then he drove to the Sea Motel, settled his check, got a taxi and was driven back to the Grandi estate.

He felt relaxed and happy. He thought of Marcia. She had done him a good turn. At six hundred a week and all found, on the face of it, the job appeared to be a beautiful steal.

Long may it last, he thought as the taxi took him towards Paradise Largo. Man! Am I on the gravy train!

Gravy train?

He was to find out later how wrong he could be.

Tough as he was, money conscious as he was, if he could have looked into a crystal ball and seen what was coming, he would have got the hell out of Paradise City on the first available plane.