Shoot It Again

CHAPTER 6

“... so many people enter the USA, or any other country, it's a physical impossibility for Customs to thoroughly check everybody. When they do bag a smuggler, it's the result of a tip-off, the reward for informing. Most smugglers work on a small scale, making regular trips—word gets around and they're caught. We're only doing it once—one big haul. Few people are in on our deal—no chance of anybody blowing the whistle. I myself don't know who's the top man, and no one can know you're the courier—I hadn't picked you until an hour ago, when I read you were being deported. There's no reason for you to be suspected: you'll have a bill of sale, dated last month, showing you bought the cat at a small shop in Cagnes, for 72 NF. The statue is perfect, cloudy crystal with the inside mirrored —to all appearances a solid piece of cheap crystal. In New York you go to the Hotel Tran, on West 46th Street, register and wait...”

“Not under my right name!” I cut in, hoping my voice didn't shake. Sitting beside Henri on the front seat of his car, I felt numb—unreal. I'd done many petty and lousy things, but never anything outright criminal... like this.

Hank's slim fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. “This must be as uncomplicated as possible. What name will you use?”

“Collins. Stanley Collins.”

“All right, you are now Stanley Collins—an ordinary name. You register and simply wait in your room—not more than a few hours, but wait there. Whoever calls to see you, will merely ask for a cat statue, hand you an envelope with your money in it; you give him the cat. That's the end of the matter, as far as you're concerned. Your job is to be sure the statuette is neither lost nor broken in transit.”

“But... what do I do with it at Customs?” I asked, feeling like a spectator listening to my own voice.

Henri smiled. “Clayton, again you're not listening to me: you are to do absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. You'll declare the cat, of course, along with a few cheap ash trays, perfume—the usual tourist junk. I'll give you everything, including the necessary bills of sale. Far as the weight and craftsmanship goes, you have nothing to worry about. And there can't be any informer—that's the beauty of the plan. Various criminal elements here, and undoubtedly the French authorities, know a quantity of heroin has been brought Into France over the past year. They don't know where it has been stored—and, most important, how it will leave the country! As I told you, this is a one shot deal—a big score—and no one with a criminal record is connected with this—here. There is one other element of risk—a tiny risk if you keep your fat mouth shut —should it become known you were carrying the junk, other... eh... crooks... in the States might try to hijack it. However there is little chance of that, you'll have delivered the cat and be through with your end in a matter of hours. I can assure you this has been a long time in the planning, and whoever is in charge has waited patiently for the right man, the right opportunity.”

If my guts were in a knot, the food I'd eaten— lead; to my surprise I heard myself ask calmly, “Isn't this a lot of cabbage to pay for a simple operation like carrying a statue into the States?”

“You have no idea how big this deal is, Clayton. Heroin comes eighty-seven per cent pure, and worth about three thousand dollars per kilo at its source. In other words, to start with, you will be carrying twenty-one thousand dollars' worth of heroin. In the States the value leaps to about seventy thousand dollars, but whoever is handling this has the organization to carry through the distribution: when the heroin is diluted and peddled, it's final price will be about three million dollars! So what you are being paid, and even my share... is relatively small change.”

If still shaking with fear, the thought I was about to put my meathooks on anything worth three million bucks was staggering. Hand read my mind. Patting my knee he said in his precise English, “Clayton, please don't try to be 'clever.' You're being well paid and any double-cross would certainly result in your death. While I think you're a bit of the fool, I wouldn't have approached you if I considered you stupid.”

Under my numbness I was angry at the way he kept calling me a fool. “Just to be sure I'm getting that well founded picture, how can you be certain I won't inform?”

“For several reasons. Your cut for informing would only be a thousand or two. Secondly, while but a few people are in the deal, at this stage—obviously a large and efficient organization is behind it: you wouldn't five long enough to spend your first Judas dollar. Thirdly—and this indeed makes you the ideal courier—you've been involved in a dope case with a Monsieur Parks. Should you inform I doubt the U.S. government would believe your story—far too much of a coincidence you're being innocently dragged into two dope cases within twenty-four hours. The net result is you'd certainly do time, never leave jail alive. Now, I'll drive you back to my shop, pick up the real cat.”

I shivered as he started the Citroen. Hank's hand was still on my knee. “Frightened?”

I started to say no, then nodded.

“You are lucky—I've been involved in this for a... your period of fear will last but a day. I know what else you must be thinking—dope is dirty business. How often I've wished it was precious stones, gold, anything but this cursed junk! Still, remember this; every fast buck, lira, mark, or franc has dirt on it. I can only assure you that your biggest danger is yourself—not a word or smallest hint of this to anyone.”

“If that's the greatest danger, I'm safe.”

“As of this second, no one but myself knows you are the courier, and nobody else will know until minutes before your plane is due to land in Idlewild. Nor will it matter if New York City is fogged in, the plane forced to land at... say, Washington. Stanley Collins is to remain at the Hotel Tran until contacted. Is that clear, Clayton?”

“Yeah. But now that I'm in, one more condition,” I told him, the tension in my belly relaxing. “Since you're in a position to help my painting career, don't forget bringing my work to your buddy in Paris, the write-up in the papers.”

Hank nodded his tanned head. “I promise to do what I can. Needless to add, you are never to mention this to anybody when it is finished, and it also would be stupid to attempt any sort of blackmail on me. Always remember, it would be nothing for 'them' to have you killed.”

“Just do what you can for me,” I told him. He squeezed my knee but my thoughts were so full of three million dollars, I barely was aware of his hand.

Stopping at the gallery, Hank picked a cat from his stock which didn't look any different than the other statues. Hefting the ugly figurine—it weighed about thirty-five pounds—I told him, “Doesn't seem heavier than the cat in the back of the car.”

“Clayton, two hands for beginners,” he said, gently placing it on the counter. “As I told you, it's perfect in every detail. I won't talk about the best laid plans of men and mice... but the only way this deal can sour win* be due to some minor hitch we couldn't have foreseen... such as you dropping this while horsing around.”

“I'll be careful.”

“Be damn careful, with your big hands and bigger mouth. Now, here are a few bottles of cheap perfume, some ash tray souvenirs—sales slips for everything, each slip carefully wrinkled and aged. You'll breeze through Customs, you're under the one-hundred dollar duty-free limit.” Hank held out his hand. “I won't see you again, Clayton. You'll probably be watched by 'them,' for all I know—we both are at this second. Just act normal.”

Shaking his hand, glancing at my water colors on exhibit, I picked up the cat, told Hank, “Guess I should thank you for this... opportunity.”

“Thank me if you wish... when it's all over... if we're still alive.”

“Aren't we moody, now? Minutes ago you were full of we-can't-fail-cheer.”

Toying nervously with his wild scarf, Hank said in French, “He who handles dynamite must expect death. I have this advantage: with my blocked heart veins, death is never far from my mind or... I am an ass, there's no reason for such talk—I'm positive this will not fail! Clayton be careful, but above all—act normal: you're merely bring home some cheap souvenirs.”

“Don't worry.” I felt slightly giddy—holding three million bucks' worth of anything is a hell of a boot.

Hank said sadly, “I'd worry less if you were more frightened. Bravado is another way of spelling stupidity.”

“I'm plenty scared and worried, but on top of it all the way.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then slapped my back. “It may sound blasphemous but—God's speed, Clayton.”

Hank wrapped the cat in newspaper and I left the gallery with the statue cradled in my arms. It was minutes before eight and I wanted to phone Syd, tell her not to see me at the airport. She was now my hole ace—Australia would be a perfect hideout—if I double-crossed 'them.' I wasn't seriously considering it, three million bucks was far too much action for me to try alone... but the idea was lingering around the back of my mind.

Walking toward Rue du France, I thought of Hank's stress on my acting normal... certainly not having any girl see me off wouldn't be normal. Even if Hank knew about Syd, he probably thought she was merely another female sucker I was working. And the only way I could persuade Syd to stay away from the airport would be to see her now: if I was being followed—I couldn't chance calling 'their' attention to Syd.

Her coming to the airport, the tearful farewell, would be in character, nothing anybody would remember... And in a few days Syd would leave Nice, be in London.

I waited on Rue de France for the airport bus, which stopped within a street of my hotel. It gave me a charge to sit in the half-empty bus with more money in my arms than the entire city of Nice saw in a week, or months. But I wasn't merely daydreaming—I was watching the various gift shops along the street. Out near Avenue de Californie there are a few starving ceramic shops full of cheap tourist stuff... and in one window I saw, finally— another cat like the one in my arms.

Reaching my stop, I seemed to be alone. Walking quickly to the hotel, I told madame I was leaving and paid my bill. She hadn't read about me in the paper, still mumbled about her lousy hot water as she counted my francs. Going to my room I started packing, taking my easel-sketch box apart, telling myself if this deal went through I'd burn the damn thing up—even though I once paid seventy-five dollars for it. I wrapped my paintings, throwing out a lot of unfinished and lousy stuff. The cat was standing—almost carelessly, most of the newspaper torn off—on the floor beside my bed. After a few minutes, madame came in to see what I was taking—as I knew she would. I told her, “I'm in a hurry to leave and there is something I forgot to buy. Is the porter's son around?”

“I do not know. You cross the back yard to his rooms, if you wish to find out: he lives behind the shoe repair shop on the next street... Ah, what a beautiful and lucky cat!” She rushed over to put her crooked hands on the junkie cat.

“Careful, it's heavy,” I said, taking it from her. Why lucky?”

“I've seen many such cats, although never this big. They are said to be a copy of a cat on an Egyptian tomb, perhaps the beautiful Cleopatra's, considered a good luck omen. You take this to the States, Monsieur Biner?”

“Yeah, for bookends, but I need another. I don't have time so I thought the boy might buy me one. I know a shop which sells them, not far from here.”

“I can not leave my desk, or I would see if the boy...”

“Thank you, Madame, but I am in a hurry,” I said, glancing at my watch. I still had over thirty minutes. “I'll find him.” Taking the cat I went out the dingy kitchen door, crossed the dark patch of ground and garbage they called a yard. The sky was starting to fill with stars and I thought how wonderful—I'd soon be up there in the plane... and how absolutely silly it would be if I stumbled, spilled three million bucks' worth of junk on the real junk in this tiny yard. If there was a 'they' behind all this, and there had to be, I could be found face down in some other yard.

I walked with great care.

The boy was having supper but stopped when I showed him the cat, told him the address of the shop, and 100 new francs. I impressed upon him that if the store was closed, he was the find the owner's flat—undoubtedly in the rear of the shop— and explain it was a rush sale.

“I will bring it to your hotel room, monsieur.”

“No, I'll wait here.” I gave him a hammy wink. “Madame is raising the devil about the state of my room, the paint stains—it will be easier for me to wait here. Now hurry.”

“I take my bike.”

When the boy left, I talked to the porter for a moment, then giving him a tip, said I'd better go to my room after all and finish packing, to tell the lad to bring the cat up there.

Crossing the filthy yard again, holding my cat statue like a lover, I thought I'd been clever. If the hotel was being watched, 'they' couldn't possibly know of my visiting the boy on this other street. On returning and finding me gone, he would certainly come to my room via the yard—unseen by anyone watching outside.

Finishing my little packing, I was trying to smooth out my one jacket, when madame broke her heart by offering to iron it. I told her the coat would only be wrinkled again on the plane, but the way she kept eyeing the cat so much, gave me the jitters: I let her take the coat to her kitchen.

The boy returned with the other cat statue and thirty-one new francs. He was breathing hard, really a sturdy, well-built thirteen-year-old youngster. Giving him a large tip, I had him get me a cab. I wrapped the new cat in newspaper, rolled it inside an old sleeping bag I'd brought from the States with tie jazzy idea of walking through Europe.

Saying goodbye to madame, who suddenly put on a tearful act, actually tried to kiss me, I reached the airport at nine-fifteen. Parks was already there, along with two reporters. My luggage was overweight and the clerk insisted the cat could not be considered hand luggage. I had to call Robert over to pay for the extra weight. Pointing to the cat, he asked, “Man, you actually taking this glass monstrosity home? I was anxious to see some of your work, but if your taste runs to this—I don't know.”

“Stop the shellack, it's merely a good luck omen.”

“The newsmen want a picture of us waving goodbye. Corny as hell but... you think all this will be in the States papers? I hope to hell not. Figure if I play ball with the press here, make like it's all nothing, the whole mess will cool sooner.”

He paid the extra weight charges and the clerk took my bags, the easel and canvases. I held on to the real cat, placing it on a bench—while I posed with Parks—feeling rather smug at being so damn off-hand with millions.

Syd came in looking like hell; eyes red—face pale and drawn. Glancing around—casually—I couldn't see anybody especially paying any attention to us. Walking over to Syd, I pulled her down onto a seat, sat beside her—the cat carefully on the floor between my big feet. Squeezing her hand, I said loudly, “Baby, how sweet—you came to see me off!”

“What?” Syd asked, on the verge of tears. “Are you daft, lugging this bloody glass horror with you?”

“This—I have an aunt who unfortunately judges gifts by size.” Still keeping a big grin on my puss, I whispered, “Listen to me, Syd: received a wire from the States—some wealthy art patron is crazy about my stuff.”

“Yes.”

“Come on, smile. Honey, you're not getting my message: if things work out, I may sell a few thousand dollars' worth of paintings!”

“Of course I'm happy for you... Clay, I've been so sick at the thought of your leaving.”

“Get will, you skinny dope, with this money we may go to Australia, see what cooks on your land!”

Her small face came awake—slowly. “Oh God! Clay, this isn't more of your bloody talk, is it? I couldn't take it if...”

“Syd, if I swing the deal fast, I may wire you at your pension here before the week is out! If not, I'll write you in London, care of the American Express.”

Syd looked bewildered. “Clay, you do mean this?”

“Of course. A few hours ago, before the wire, well—I didn't think we could make it because I was stony, couldn't put up my share. Now it's a new deck of cards—with the happy ending due on the next deal.”

She took my hand, kissed it, began to weep gently. “You do love me!” Syd mumbled, almost to herself.

Pulling my hand away, I told her, “Stop it, honey, I hate public scenes. The score is—some rich cat (I had to grin) who's pee'd off at a modern art museum for not placing him on their board of directors, —plans to open his own. He's buying up paintings—secretly—if it gets out the other museums might put the screws on artists not to sell to him. All very complicated. The point is, with all the artists and Americans around Nice, don't talk about the deal, not a word about the... eh... money, my contacting you, our going to Australia. It's such an unexpected break, I wouldn't want anything to spoil it.”

“Not a peep from me, darling,” Syd said, reaching for my hand again. “Time your talent was recognized, the blasted critic bastards!” She sighed. “Darling, how I wish we had time to go to my room!”

“We haven't and everything depends on your playing it cool,” I said, wondering how all this nonsense I was spouting could make any sense to her. “A week or two, at the most, and we'll be set for life...” I saw Parks coming our way. “Remember now, mum's the word.”

I introduced her to Parks and even clean-cut type from the U.S. consulate was on hand. Parks and I went to the boarding gate. I certainly looked a character, my wavy hair needing a haircut, sloppy clothes, holding the silly cat statue as if it was a loving cup I'd won... but I merely grinned at the other passengers: I could afford to look this way now—I was the richest joker in line.

We were traveling first class: waving at Syd as I boarded the front of the jet, I wondered how many of 'them' were also watching me. Once we were seated, I insisted on holding the cat between my feet, which amused Parks. He looked absolutely normal, including his eyes, and while the plane taxied to the end of the runway and the cool babe in the chic hostess uniform gave us a practiced smile—made sure we fastened our safety belts... Parks again went into the routine of thanking me for coming, offered to pay me. In the grand manner of the newly rich, I told him to forget it.

I always sweat out take-offs, and I suddenly had a hunch this was the outside event—the damn jet would crash and so would my last chance of leaving the rut which was strangling me! And how many other people were also sweating out my takeoff?

But we left in a smooth rush, a brief glimpse of the lights on the Promenade before turning out to sea to gain altitude. We unlocked our seat belts and Parks lit a cigarette. The hostess came around with champagne which Parks refused, but I had a drink of the fizz, relaxed—a little. An hour later we had a compact, if lush, supper, including steak and lobster. Parks ate as if he hadn't seen food before, while I forced myself to put it away. Robert talked about his writing, the little literary magazine he'd hoped to start in Italy—probably to publish his own poems—finally talked himself asleep.

Trying to be casual I studied the other passengers, wondering if one of 'them' was tailing me. All the first class cabin people looked exactly that—plump tourists, business types.

I must have dozed off: I awoke suddenly—thighs cramped from hugging the hard head of the cat. Parks was breathing heavily, saliva bubbling at the corners of his thin mouth, which curved downward in pain. The silly face was very pale. We still had three hours flying time.

Standing to stretch my legs, I sat down again quickly—afraid the plane might hit an air pocket, the cat would tumble to the floor and break. Staring at the cat's face sticking up between my knees —the bright eyes seeming to stare back at me—I thought of New York City. Would it be possible—and safe—to give whoever contacted me the wrong cat? He might break open the statue to be sure he had the right one before paying off—in which case my pay would be a bullet. Picking up the cat, I examined it carefully—again—couldn't find any mark or coloring which stamped it as different from the other one in my luggage.

Of course what was worrying the hell out of me in the double-cross line, was the cute thought I might be paid off with a slug in any event. It would be a simple way of saving 'them' fifty big bills, plus making sure I never talked. Or if Stanley Collins was flung out of a hotel window, who would know or care whether it was suicide or not? Still, taking 'their' view, murder was messy and why screw three million bucks for a lousy fifty grand? But I couldn't dismiss the idea—the second cat might well be my guarantee I wouldn't be rooked or...

Robert suddenly bent over as* if about to vomit, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes glassy, hands pressed to his flat belly. Stupidly, I asked, “What's wrong?”

“A fiery cramp... in my guts!” Parks gasped.

Reaching into his pocket, I took out a box of the ersatz junk. Parks shook his head. “No, man... I'll never be able... get anything... down.”

The stewardess came over to ask if she could help—did we want any airsick pills? I told her we could manage and Parks motioned he wanted to go to the john. We stood, and holding him with one hand, I reached for the cat with the other mitt. Robert snarled, “Goddamn it, man, can't you forget that dumb toy for a lousy moment!”

I could have cracked that the 'toy' contained what he wanted most out of life at the moment. Those passengers still awake were watching us and I realized it would look odd if I made too much of a fuss over the cat.

Leaving the statue against the back of my seat, I walked Parks into the head. For a long time he leaned over the commode, trying to throw up. Opening the door, I glanced down the aisle—saw the tips of the pointed glass ears sticking above my seat. Closing the door, I asked, “Sure you can't swallow these pills?”

Shaking his head, he looked sicker than ever. “Parks, we have to get them inside you fast—suppose I crush a couple in a cup of water and you drink 'em down?”

Making a retching sound, he frantically opened his collar and tie, eyes popping. All that happened was he began sweating more than ever, mouth open like a fish sucking air. Straightening up, he leaned against the wall, glaring at me wildly.

I was feeling sick myself—three million bucks alone on my seat outside. I gave him a slight poke in his belly. Parks doubled up, vomited a horrible mess the color of yellow ochre. I put five of the pills in a paper cup of water and when he stood up again, panting, I told him, “Drink this and keep it down.”

He shook his head.

“Drink it!” Placing the paper cup to his lips, I pushed his teeth apart with my fingers and he drank. For a second Parks seemed okay, then started to throw up once more. Clamping a hand over his little mouth, I growled, “Damnit, keep it down!”

Although he twisted as if choking, eyes strained to leave their sockets, I kept my palm over his mouth. Finally, he swallowed and I took my hand away. Parks fell against the wall as life returned to his chalk-pale skin. After a moment he smiled, said, “Thanks, old life-saver.” Then he rested for several minutes while I washed up, ran a comb through my hair.

Parks washed his face. “Take a few more of them,” I said, making another goof-ball cocktail.

He drank this slowly, fixed his tie and shirt, brushed his sandy hair with his fingers. It was amazing how quickly he'd recovered. “I'm fine now. Best I take a pill every half hour, or the monkey will bug me.”

“Okay. Can you make it to our seats?”

“Dryden had the junkie in mind when he wrote, “Ill habits gather by unseen degrees...”

“You're pack to par—let's go.” Stepping out of the john my heart flipped—I didn't see the glass ears I Rushing down the aisle like a lumbering idiot —I found the figurine had slipped to one side of the seat. It occurred to me I'd been a dummy, 'somebody' could have easily substituted another cat—although this looked like the cat. When Parks lost himself in a magazine, I used my nail file to scratch a tiny # inside the cat's right ear.

I started worrying again: how I'd handle the pay-off man... plus new thoughts—suppose Hank had crossed me? If the cat was empty it would be assumed I'd crossed 'them,' and 'they' would certainly kill me. Could I switch cats, claim Hank had done it? Although it's supposed to be as easy to steal a million as to swipe a dime, I didn't know enough about crime methods.

My head began to ache. The main idea was to protect myself against any possibility of a double X on 'their' part. The best thing I could do now was rest—be able to think clearly when 'der tag' came.

The balance of the flight was a snap—Robert took a pill every half hour and except for being nervous, seemed his usual stupid self. I managed to doze off for minutes at a time, the cat always in my hands.

No sooner did we step off the plane at Idlewild— in the middle of the night—when a lawyer named Mac Wyckoff ran out to greet Parks. Wyckoff was a short man, with a distinguished face; in fact, somehow he looked like a lawyer. Parks introduced me and Wyckoff shook my hand abruptly, told Parks his mother was too upset to come to the airport. As his lawyer led him away, Robert called back I must look him up when he was released from the hospital.

Since this was before the Customs and other officials reached us, I was impressed. I didn't see Parks when the rest of us went through Customs. I was amazed and proud I wasn't the least bit nervous as the Customs agent poked through my things. I showed him the bills of sale, and of course in my declaration, I'd listed both cats, plus the souvenirs Hank had given me. When he came to my paintings, the Customs man merely grunted, “You an artist?”

I said yes, trying to figure if it was a form of negative criticism.

Within an hour after I'd landed, I was in a Manhattan-bound cab, without the slightest idea where I was going to stay. On reaching 59th and 3rd Avenue, I paid the taxi off, looking like a real greenhorn with the Custom seals half falling from my shabby bundles. Hailing another cab, I had him drive me to an office building on West 26th Street, where I'd once worked as a summer office boy.

The street was absolutely deserted at that hour of the night, as I expected it to be. Paying the hackie, I carried my stuff into a dark doorway and waited. If I was being tailed, 'they' would stick out like that famous sore thumb on this empty business street.

A half hour passed with not a soul showing, not even a car went through the block. I tried to remember friends I could bunk with, but I'd been out of the country too long for that. Finally, moving my stuff from doorway to doorway, I reached 9th Avenue and took a cab to the old Hotel Talbert on East 10th Street. Registering under my right name, I rented a room without a bath, locked the door, and placing both cats carefully under the bed, fell off into a hell of a sound sleep without bothering to undress.