Together We Kill

I’ll Die Tomorrow

The friendly-looking gentleman in the neat charcoal grey suit was a killer. But like any good predator, his disguise was excellent. To all appearances, he was a moderately successful businessman with offices, perhaps, high in a Manhattan building, where the street fumes and noises didn’t reach.

Offhand, you would guess his age in the late forties, and if asked to describe him, could do little more than say he was, well, average. No, there was nothing suspicious in his walk or talk or behavior and if you had any reason to trust anyone it would be this gentleman. Why, he even looked happy.

And with all of that, his disguise was perfect, simply because it was not an artificial disguise at all. It was real. He did have an office, although not in Manhattan, and he was happy. Rudolph Less was a man well satisfied with life, especially when he was working, and now he was on a job again.

Upstairs was a man he was going to kill and the going price on his demise was to be 10,000 lovely dollars that would go toward supporting his single secret pastime in his converted summer house on the Island. He smiled at the thought, feeling a tiny, vicarious thrill touch his parts. Women, he thought, could be taught... or even forced... to do such wonderful things.

Yes, life was fine. Only the select few knew of his true nature and of his niche in life. Through these few, others could come by his services — and many had.

How many now? Was it 46 times? Or 48? Sometimes it was difficult to recall. Once he had kept track, but as in all other businesses, tabulating inventory became boring. Now it was better simply to look ahead.

It was a good business and of all those engaged in it, he was the best. No doubt of it. (He smiled at the doorman who smiled back, but the smile was only a gesture.) He was thinking of the many times he had read the accounts in the papers of his work. Always, the police were puzzled, or another was taken in custody. He chuckled when he thought of the three who had already died in the chair mistakenly. Wouldn’t that shake up the administration if it ever came out! But they were only punks and the error of their death was really a boon to society, doing earlier what would have happened later anyway.

Things like that only added to his business reputation, though. It had paid off, really it had. He thought again of Theresa of the dark flesh and darker hair who had loved those things he had done to her. She really had. She had done things to him that in his frenzy of wild emotion he couldn’t even recall. He could only remember the terrible pleasure of the experience. Well, he could get Theresa again now.

That’s what being the best meant. They hired him because he never failed. For a brief second his face clouded as if he were angry with himself, then he shook his head dismissing the thought because it couldn’t be.

It was too bad, he thought, that he hadn’t checked further, but experience wasn’t on his side then. He had cleared out too soon. He wasn’t absolutely certain. He smiled again, tentatively. But they had paid him, so everything must have gone all right.

He couldn’t help but think about it and try to recall the details merely to satisfy his desire for perfection. It had been his first contract, and a simple one. A kid called Buddy... he couldn’t remember his last name, but he had a dime-size hole through his right ear that was supposed to be from a stray .45 bullet during the war. Buddy had hijacked seventeen grand from the paymaster to the Jersey City group and rather than remain a laughing stock to their pseudo-dignity, Buddy had to go, but with no apparent connection to the group, of course.

It hadn’t been difficult. Buddy was a talkative guy so he simply engaged him in conversation, walked him close to the water, enjoyed the final moment of conversation by telling Buddy who he was and what he was about to do and while Buddy stood dumfounded, with his mouth open and a light from the opposite shore visible through the hole in his ear, he chest-shot him and watched the body smash back into the water.

If only they had found the remains he could be satisfied. However, the river was running fast, it had been blowing up a storm, and the ocean was close by. Buddy (what was his last name?) never showed up, not even to reclaim the bundle of money he had left behind in his room. At the thought Rudolph Less breathed deeply and smiled, satisfied that his record was perfect. Yes, a good record. Big Tim Sheely of Detroit and the western Senator and Marco Leppert who was a Mafia courier were on that list. He chuckled again. How the Mafia had searched for him! They killed four men thinking they had the right one each time and he was never even suspected. After their last failure it was the Mafia itself who gave him the job of axman to rid the organization of their own killers who blundered.

That job got him Joan, he remembered. Such a woman, such a hungry, hungry woman. She was so big all over. So big, so big. Everything so big. Yes, he would have Joan again too. Perhaps even Theresa and Joan together. Who knew what he could do then. It might be bad for his constitution, but he was in good health yet, he thought wryly. There were still some things to be experienced that he could stand.

He had no need to look at the wall directory before going into the elevator. He was part of the crowd now, seen, yet unnoticed. He coughed gently from the smoke of the cigar in the mouth of the man next to him but said nothing. Instead, he thought suddenly, I’d like to kill him!

Like Lew Smith who stood right in front of him in the back of the darkened theatre and never felt the ice pick slide into his heart. He simply collapsed and they carried him out thinking that he had fainted, and no one saw Rudolph leave at all. Lew smelled of cigar smoke too. And Lew had bought him Francie who would make him sit back and watch while she did the damnedest dance he ever did see until his eyes were bugging out and he could hardly breathe and when by the time she let him get his hands on her he had lost almost all his senses and had to be slapped back to normal. But Francie had smiled then and loved what he had done to her although she pouted a while over his bite marks.

He was breathing too heavily, and down the neck of the woman in front of him. She almost turned around, when he caught himself and forced his breath to come easier.

It was because he was getting close to his business arrangement again. It was like that lately. He tasted the fruits of success before the actual planting. But the conclusion was foregone anyway. Success was not problematical any longer. It was a certainty. That was why he could ask for so much to do so little.

Sometimes he wondered about those who lingered a few moments. What did they think? Who was he? What had they done to him that he should snuff out their lives? Oh, there were those who knew. He remembered that two even seemed relieved. For years they had lived in fear of this day and now it had come. There was no more fear for them. Actuality had arrived as a medium-sized man with a friendly smile and it was over very quickly without much pain at ail because he was an expert at his work. He was quite sure that one man even whispered a quiet “Thank you” before he died.

Well, that was one thing about his method. There was no flight involved, no loud histrionics. They didn’t know him, there was nothing fearful about his appearance and if anything registered at all, generally it was surprise.

Someday, maybe, he thought he might like to change his method. If he could get his assignment in the proper place he would like to try a few experiments. Like extensions of the things he had done with Lulu who had some savage blood and liked to be beaten in certain ways. Pain peculiarly indicted with her fullest cooperation was her delight and she had taught him things his mind had begun to dwell on lately. He shrugged off the thought impatiently and looked up at the indicator over the operator’s head. The car had stopped and the doors opened.

Sixteen.

He remembered his number 16.

She was a showgirl named Cindy Valentine who knew too much about the operations of another group through an already dead boyfriend. The District Attorney had her secretly marked for investigation, but money, being able to buy anything, bought the tip and now Cindy was being canceled out.

Cindy Valentine, number 16, had been somewhat of a pleasure. In fact, it had been Cindy who had showed him the ultimate use to which he could put the many dollars he had accumulated. So far he merely rented an office from which he sold, and profitably, trinkets and novelties via pages of certain magazines. One employee really did all the work but it gave him a sense of well being, a place in society. Daily, he commuted from his house. It wasn’t much, but it was secluded. There was nothing he couldn’t do there at his pleasure and he was so situated that there were no prying eyes at all. To the world outside, he lived a simple and secluded life. Sort of a friendly recluse, he thought.

Yes, Cindy had brought new meaning into his life. He had called ahead and said he was a jeweler who was instructed to let Miss Valentine have a single pick from his collection. She had been overjoyed at the thought and although she tried to cajole the name of his sponsor from him, he said he was sworn not to tell. Hers was a secret admirer. No doubt she had had many. She believed everything he told her. She squealed with delight when she admitted him to her apartment, seeing the flat sample case under his arm.

At first she didn’t notice the flush in his face. She was too excited, then, in the living room, she saw his consternation and smiled. The filmy nylon negligee was all Cindy had on. Her smile grew impish and she had said, “Since you’re going to give me something, I’m going to give you something.” Then she let the negligee fall to the floor and when she was done he was a shaken but strangely elated man. She said, “Now you give me something,” and looked at the case on the table. Well, he gave her something, all right. Very quickly and there was hardly any blood and he picked up his case and went out. They all called it a passion kill and in a way it had been.

Cindy certainly had introduced something new to his life. Now, rather than merely having the satisfaction of a job well done, he had an end result that was far greater than anything he had ever dreamed of. The satisfaction he would gel tonight would be far greater than the satisfaction of job perfection he used to consider enough. Perfection was quite a word. It gnawed at him like a little mouse. If only he could have been sure of that first one. Buddy, the one with the hole in his ear.

Well, the one upstairs would merely add to his list of accomplishments. This was a curious one. Different insofar as he never had time to study the man. He would be alone in his office counting the weekly take, a secret office he used solely for bookkeeping and accounting purposes. He rented it under an assumed name and made a deliberate point to go there disguised. His operation was illegal and deftly concealed. Only after long and arduous investigation did Rudolph Less’s client discover his whereabouts. Since his connection with the dead man would be obvious, it was necessary for his client to have an airtight alibi at the time of the kill, making Rudolph’s talents necessary.

Ordinarily he wouldn’t have gone for the second part of the arrangement, but lately he was beginning to enjoy new facets of an old thrill. The client said he could keep whatever money he found there in addition to his regular pay. Thousands extra! Enough to buy... well, if that man was right about that one down in Cuba he could bring her here at once. Complete muscular control, he had said. Think of it! He swallowed hard and dimmed the mental picture. Not yet. Later he could sit in his room savoring the anticipation when the job was done, but first the job.

He got out at 20 with two others but before the doors shut a giddy young girl ran up and grabbed his sleeve and said too loudly, “Mr. Brisson? Are you Mr. Brisson... they just called from downstairs and said...”

“I’m not Mr. Brisson,” he smiled. Inwardly he swore, something he hadn’t done in years. He saw the elevator boy grinning at the girl’s stammer of embarrassment before the doors closed. An incident like that could cause that boy to remember his face. But nevertheless, he’d never be back again, never see the boy again, and if he described anyone at all, or did the girl, it would be the average man of the street.

The girl walked off, her buttocks in violent motion. Ordinarily he would feel a warm glow at such a sight, but the momentary pleasure of another sort ahead that could be completely consummated overrode such a simple delight of watching a girl from behind.

Yet the sight introduced a new thought, something that had been on his mind for months now, something that touched him whenever he saw a young and pretty girl on the street. So far he had bought his pleasures. Oh, they had been expensive, but worth every bit of it. But the thrills and sensations they provided finally reached a limit. Repetition turned original wonders into almost commonplace boredom and it was getting more difficult all the time to find something really different.

There was one thing. Supposing, and it shouldn’t be difficult, that he could lure some unsuspecting girl... on the promise of a job, perhaps... or really, if one was honest about it, by actual force... that would take a car, maybe drugs; there would be untold risks but that would only add to the delicacy... yes, it was something to think about. Maybe after the one from Cuba. He would like to experience one with complete muscular control first.

Annoyed at himself he stopped and adjusted his coat, although there was no one in the corridor to see him. He held the leather folio more securely under his arm, feeling in it the flat contours of the Browning and the extended length of the silencer he had gotten from that odd man in Germany. Silencers were fine. Why didn’t they fight wars with silencers? It shouldn’t be expensive and think of how quietly and efficiently the war could be fought. Ah, the advantage of the bow and arrow. Too bad it was such a clumsy weapon.

He stopped at the door marked STAR DISTRIBUTING, smiled to himself and fitted the key he had been given into the lock. It opened easily and he stepped inside. As the diagram showed, he was in a small anteroom, and facing him was the lighted square of a frosted glass door. That had no lock. Rudolph Less smiled again.

He heard someone cough and nodded to himself. Feet shuffled and a chair scraped back. He heard a phone picked up and dialed and held his position. He could not enter while the phone was on. There was no need for someone else giving an alarm. The way it was, if done right, the body wouldn’t be found until it started to stink and that would be several days. No, he could wait a minute.

Inside, his assignment said, “You got everything ready for tonight... yeah... yeah... okay, I’ll call you. I’m going to make up the payroll now. Sure... sure... so long.” The phone clicked and the man coughed again.

Rudolph said softly, “Now,” and opened the door.

He smiled at his assignment.

His assignment looked startled, then frowned uncomprehendingly at the Browning with the silencer pointing at his chest. He was a big man, thick through the chest and neck, his hair grey at the sides. He was well dressed and from first glance Rudolph wouldn’t have taken him for someone in the rackets. But appearances were deceiving, weren’t they? Who would take him for an eliminator? Now that was a good word.

The man said, “What do you want?”

Rudolph’s eyes took him in quickly. He was big, all right. Most likely it would take more than one shot. Two quick body hits to stop him if he tried to move, then a head shot to complete the job. One thing about a silencer, you could hear the bullets hit too. Not so much in the stomach, of course, but if they went through a rib or in the skull...

“What I want is your money,” Rudolph said. It sounded peculiar to him. Shoddy, somehow. “Where is it?”

“In the safe, that’s where, and if you expect...”

“If I don’t get it I’ll kill you anyway,” Rudolph told him.

There was no mistaking the tone of his voice. The big guy nodded, was about to say something and stopped. He walked across the room to the safe and dragged out a small, obviously heavy, steel box. Rudolph saw the combination lock on it and waved the gun to the desk. He surely couldn’t carry the box out of here. “Open it,” he said.

The guy sat down and began spinning the dial. Outside there was a burst of laughter and a key rattled the lock. The door opened and two girls laughed again. A male voice joined theirs.

Rudolph’s heart jumped, but then quieted. He had been in situations like this before. He put the gun into the folio, keeping his hand on it and casually sat down. The door to the office opened and a girl said, “Mr. Riley, your friend Mr. Brisson is here. Do you want...” She glanced around the door and saw Rudolph. “Oh,” she giggled, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had company. I thought this man was Mr. Brisson before.”

“That’s all right,” Mr. Riley told her. “I’ll be out shortly.”

The girl giggled again and closed the door. Outside several more people came in and typewriters began to rattle. Two men were discussing a sales meeting.

Rudolph could feel the dryness of his skin, but still he could smell sweat. Sweat? Or was it fear? Someplace something had gone wrong. This was supposed to be an empty office. Just one man. Damn! Why didn’t he do the job the way he had done all the others. That’s what happens when you leave the details up to somebody else. Damn it all to hell! But you wouldn’t know that was what Rudolph Less was thinking because he was smiling in a very friendly fashion.

The big man said softly, “You’re in trouble, friend,” and as he said it opened the lid of the box. The money was there as it was supposed to be. Packets of hundreds and Riley was dumping it out on the desk. He looked across the room at his smiling visitor. “You can’t get out very well and pretty soon somebody will be coming in here. If you do get out you won’t be a hard one to identify. Those girls out there are all artists and could sketch you to perfection. Show it to the papers and you’d be turned in in no time.”

“That is problematical,” Rudolph said.

“You picked a lousy time for a stickup, mister.”

Rudolph smiled again. “Yes, I did.” The smile didn’t last long because Riley was smiling too.

He said, “Buddy, if I could get the jump on you, you’d be in a mess.”

“Oh?” His teeth flashed and he lifted the Browning out of the folio.

“You had a key to this place, you came on a day when the payroll was being made up and you came armed. A planned stickup. I kill you...” he shrugged... “one day in court is all. Self defense.”

“That could hardly happen,” Rudolph said. For some reason he felt edgy. Events weren’t at all like they should be. His assignment, a better word than victim, was being too aggressive. What had to be done had to be done quickly and his mind raced over the possibilities. Several were available to him. He would take the money, of course. He would tell them outside that Mr. Riley would be busy all day and not to disturb him. He’d hate to leave his house, especially his paraphernalia he had so carefully assembled, but he lived there under a fictitious name and he could do it over again, perhaps this time with certain innovations he desired. Suntan, hair dye, whiskers in any number of combinations could alter his appearance sufficiently. No it wouldn’t be an insurmountable problem at all.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts, that although his eyes were on Riley, the big man’s voice came to him as a steady drone.

“...it took so long to find you. You’re mighty clever, I guess you know. Proof for a court of law would be impossible to obtain. And me, I don’t want to stick my neck out. I’m not going to kill somebody who needs killing bad then pay for it myself. I’m a little on the smart side too.

“But contacts I made. Finally the right guy put me through. In returning a big favor I did him he put me in touch with you. We made the arrangements together, you and I. Clever, eh?”

The big guy smiled and sucked in his breath. He was too big, Rudolph thought. Maybe even two chest hits wouldn’t do it. He carried five in the Browning so what he’d have to do was give him four in the chest quickly and then hold the last one for the coup. Nobody could take four. The smashing impact in the lungs even prevents a yell and the only sound would be the body falling. However, the noise outside would cover that up.

Somehow the droning voice made sense. His mind, charged now to frenzied activity, raced back over the words, picked them up and went over them again. There was something here now that shouldn’t be at all. Something terrible if he heard right. The smile seemed frozen on his face now and for the first time his eyes made a little rat’s movement around the room.

“I hired you to kill me,” Riley said. “I never knew who you were or where you were and I finally figured out the only way to have you in front of me so you could die where I can see it happen without any heat coming my way at all.”

Rudolph’s voice was strained. “You can’t!”

“I have, pal, I have. But first let me tell you thanks. I have a nice straight business going for me and there won’t be any heat. In fact, I’ll be a hero. How about that.”

He felt cold. He had never felt so cold as now. There was no spit in his mouth and his insides were rolling. Had he eaten earlier he was sure he would have vomited at that moment. For some reason he could hear the voices of Cindy and Lulu and Francie and Joan and all those others and far away mocking him with a Cuban accent the untasted one he hungered after, and somewhere from a deep invisible fog came the scared bleatings of the ones he would have had by cajolery or by force if necessary.

Would have had! Not at all! Not at all, Mr. Riley. “You forgot something, Mr. Riley,” Rudolph said, bringing the Browning into line with his chest. “I have the gun.”

“And I have one in this box under my hand, friend. A big fat .45 automatic for which I have a license.”

Rudolph nodded sagely. “The moment you move your hand toward it I’ll shoot you,” he said softly.

“Fair enough,” Riley said.

Rudolph was on his feet. What was the matter with this man? Was he mad! Then his hand moved and Rudolph pulled the trigger. The Browning jumped once... twice... three times... four... he could see the shots hitting his chest right in the heart area. Go down, damn you, go down! He had to go down. The big guy had the .45 out of the box when Rudolph Less pulled the trigger on the last shot and saw it rip into his arm, but it was the wrong arm. The other one had the .45.

And he was grinning, damn him!

He looked at the blood pumping from his arm. “This makes it all the better,” he said, then laughed again and ripped open his shirt.

With mouth agape, Rudolph saw the overlapping plates of the bulletproof vest. Riley brought the gun up and pointed it at his head.

Rudolph was old looking now, sallow, his cheeks sunken in fear. His invincibility shattered for no reason, no reason at all. All those wonderful pleasures gone, gone, because this big fool in front of him had tricked him. Where had he made his mistake? It had to be somewhere. Where then?

He said, “Why?” His voice was weak, faltering.

Riley lifted a hand to his ear and felt for the piece of cosmetic wax that fitted so cleverly. Then he squeezed the trigger of the .45.

In the awful blast of the gun that Rudolph could still hear while his skull was shattering into tiny bits his last remembrance was that the round hole in the nose of his final lover, the terrible .45, was exactly the same size as the one in the big guy’s ear and that Riley’s first name had to be Buddy.