Try This One for Size

three

For the next two days, Carroll was extremely busy and loving every minute. She took Lepski to Harry Levine, one of the better tailors in the city, and supervised his kitting out for the trip. Lepski had flamboyant tastes, but Carroll would have none of it. She chose a charcoal-grey suit for evening wear, a sports outfit, a pair of extra dark blue stacks, four conservative shirts and three conservative ties. Although Lepski argued, she stamped on his objections, announcing that if he wanted that godawful shirt he kept Angering, then he would pay for it himself.

Finally, satisfied her husband would travel as a suitably dressed escort, she told Harry Levine to deliver the purchases and she paid by cheque.

“I need a new hat,” Lepski said. “Got to have a hat.”

“Lepski!” Carroll snapped. “Only cops and old, bald men wear hats these days! You don’t need a hat! I don’t want you to look like a cop!”

“Goddamn it! I am a cop!” Lepski shouted.

“No hat!” Carroll said firmly, “and if you dare to take that abortion you are now wearing on your head, I’ll destroy it! Now, go back to work. I’m going to have my fitting.”

Leaving Lepski muttering to himself, she walked the two blocks to Maverick.

She had a dreamy two hours with two fitters who pinned and smoothed and murmured compliments about her figure. To Carroll, this was living! Finally, the fitters told her the dresses and the travelling suit would be delivered in two days’ time.

Leaving the fitting room, Carroll found Maverick waiting.

“Mrs Lepski! I do hope you are happy,” he said with his wide, white toothy smile.

“Marvellous!” Carroll exclaimed. “I can’t thank you enough!”

“Now the handbags and the shoes.”

After another hour, guided by Maverick, Carroll bought three pairs of shoes and two handbags. She was nearly delirious with happiness.

Money! she thought. What it is to have money!

“Mrs Lepski, there is one other thing,” Maverick said.

“Nothing more,” Carroll said firmly. “I said seven thousand and I mean seven thousand.”

“So far, you have spent six thousand, five hundred dollars,” Maverick told her. “Have you thought about luggage? You and your husband will need smart-looking luggage when arriving in Paris. Alas, hotels judge people by their luggage no matter how well they are dressed. Have you thought of this?”

Carroll hadn’t. She remembered the last time she and Lepski had gone on vacation what a sorry state their suitcases had been in. She remembered with a shudder Lepski’s awful suitcase which he had inherited from his grandfather.

“Well, no. I hadn’t thought... I suppose...”

At a signal from Maverick, one of his smartly dressed sales girls came in with two splendid-looking suitcases in dark blue leather with dark red bands.

“Now these cases have a little history,” Maverick lied. “They were ordered by one of my very rich clients who is extremely difficult to please. I had them made specially for her and to her specifications. She returned them, complaining they were not large enough. We had a little argument.” He paused to give Carroll his toothy smile. “Since she had ordered them, she paid for them and I made larger ones for her. So, Mrs Lepski, I can offer you these two magnificent suitcases for one hundred dollars. What do you say?”

Carroll examined the suitcases. She thought they were the most beautiful suitcases she had ever seen, and she longed to possess them.

“But that is almost giving them away,” she said.

“Well, not quite. I have been paid for them. I would like to do you a little favour.”

Carroll didn’t hesitate.

“It’s a deal.”

“How wise. Then, Mrs Lepski, I have a vanity box to match these two suitcases, and this I propose to offer you as a present. It is really rather nice.”

The sales girl produced the vanity box. When Carroll saw how it was fitted, she could only gape at it.

“You mean you are giving it to me?”

“Why not? It’s been paid for and your kind order deserves a slight return. Please accept it.”

“Why, thank you! It’s just marvellous!”

“I will deliver the dresses and the cases to you on Wednesday. I understand you will be leaving on Thursday.”

“Oh, I can take them with me.” Carroll was reluctant to be parted from her purchases.

“Please, Mrs Lepski. I would like to put your initials and Mr Lepski’s initials on the cases. I would also like to furbish the vanity box with our special selection of cosmetics. Do leave it to me.”

“I can’t thank you enough, Mr Maverick. Then Wednesday?”

“Without fail, Mrs Lepski,” and Maverick escorted her to the elevator.

Three minutes later, he was speaking to Kendrick on the telephone.

“No problem, dear Claude,” he said. “She is happy with the suitcases, and I have promised to deliver them and the vanity box Wednesday morning.”

“Splendid!” Kendrick exclaimed. “The object is eight inches by nine and half an inch thick.”

“I will personally dismantle the vanity box. The object, of course, will add to the weight, but not unduly.”

“Yes. That is a small problem.”

“She didn’t pick the box up. She won’t know the difference. I plan to fill the box with our most deluxe cosmetics. She will be dazzled by the contents. Even if the box weighed a hundredweight, she wouldn’t be parted from it.”

“Splendid work, Roger.”

“You owe me three thousand dollars, Claude.”

Kendrick sighed.

“Yes.”

“And one hundred thousand when the object is paid for.”

Again Kendrick sighed.

“Yes.”

“Good. Send Louis to me Tuesday evening. Bye now,” and Maverick hung up.

Kendrick replaced the receiver, took off his wig and polished his bald head with his silk handkerchief. Then slapping the wig on anyhow, he called for Louis.

There was a delay as Louis was engaged with a client, but twenty minutes later, he slid into Kendrick’s office.

“The replica, chéri.” Kendrick said. “Is it ready?”

“Of course... a beautiful job.” Louis looked uneasily at Kendrick. “This is dreadfully dangerous, baby. It really has me worried.”

“Bring it to me!” Kendrick snapped. He was far from being happy about this operation, but he kept reminding himself of the three-million-dollar profit.

When Louis returned with the replica of the icon, Kendrick’s confidence rose.

“You are a craftsman, chéri,” he said. “This is very good.”

He carefully compared the replica with the illustration of the original.

“I couldn’t match the colours exactly,” Louis said, “but it is near enough.”

“Yes... near enough.”

“Do be careful what you are doing, baby,” Louis said. “There will be a horrid uproar. We could land in jail.”

Kendrick silently agreed, but he put the replica in his briefcase, straightened his wig and made for the door.

“Relax, chéri. Think of the money you will be making.”

He left the Gallery and drove to the Spanish Bay hotel where he found Ed Haddon sunning himself on the terrace.

“Let us go to your apartment, Ed,” Kendrick said after the two men had shaken hands.

In Haddon’s luxury apartment, the door closed and locked, Kendrick produced the replica.

“Your man is good,” Haddon said, taking the replica and examining it. “This is just what I want.”

“Let us sit down. I have found a possible solution to get the original to Switzerland. If this doesn’t work, nothing will. There is a risk, of course, but I think a minor one,” Kendrick said as he sat down in a comfortable chair.

Haddon grinned and rubbed his hands.

“I felt sure you would come up with an idea, Claude. How is it to be done?”

“First, you are certain you can get the icon?”

Haddon sat by Kendrick’s side.

“Don’t let’s waste time. I said you will have the icon Tuesday,” Haddon said irritably. “You’ll have it! How do you get it to Switzerland?”

Kendrick told him about his cousin, Roger Maverick.

“By the sheerest luck, the wife of a police officer came to Roger’s shop to buy clothes. She has inherited money. She and her husband, Lepski, are going to Europe on vacation. They go to Paris, Monte Carlo and Switzerland. This means they will go through the French and Swiss customs controls. My cousin has sold her suitcases and a vanity box. My cousin will take the vanity box to pieces, insert the icon and put the box together again. What do you think?”

Haddon stared at him.

“You mean you are using a cop to smuggle the icon out?”

Kendrick nodded.

“What better and safer person? Who would suspect a first grade detective on vacation smuggling the icon out of the country? Lepski is well known to the customs’ officials at Miami airport. They will wave him through. He has only to show his shield for the French and the Swiss officials also to wave him through. Do you like the idea?”

Haddon brooded for a long minute, then grinned.

“Looks like you and I, Claude, are going to make a great deal of money. I love the idea!”

“Yes.” Kendrick shifted uneasily, “but there are still problems.”

Haddon gave him a sharp look.

“What problems?”

“We are handing Lepski’s wife six million dollars, Ed,” Kendrick said. “Of course, she doesn’t realize that, but nevertheless, she will have charge of six million dollars. I know nothing about her. She may be a pea-brain. She may be one of these women who leave things behind, lose things, forget things. Suppose she left the vanity box somewhere? You follow my thinking?”

“She would leave her pants behind, but she’s not going to leave a valuable vanity box behind.”

“All the same... women do do awful things like even leaving their diamonds behind.”

Haddon nodded.

“You’re right. Okay, Claude, I’ll fix it.” He looked at his watch. “I’ll fly up to Washington and talk to Bradey. We must arrange for someone to be with the Lepskis until they reach Switzerland. Bradey will take care of that.”

Kendrick relaxed.

“That’s it, Ed. Someone who will never let her or Lepski out of his sight, but warn Bradey that Lepski is a smart cop. They will have to be tailed with care.”

“Leave it to me. I’ll personally deliver the icon to your Gallery around five o’clock Tuesday and I will let you know what I have arranged. Don’t worry, Claude, this is going to work.”

Four hours later, Haddon was talking to Lu Bradey, still disguised as a clergyman. They were sitting together in Bradey’s motor hotel room.

Bradey nodded approval when he heard of Kendrick’s plan to smuggle the icon to Switzerland.

“That’s real smart,” he said.

Then Haddon explained Kendrick’s fears.

“This is where we have to help, Lu,” he said. “I will check that the Lepskis get through the Miami customs. When they reach Paris we will need someone to tail them and stick with them, making sure the vanity box remains in their possession. Any ideas?”

Bradey thought, then nodded.

“No problem. Pierre and Claudette Duvine. They are my French agents and smart. You can leave this to me, Ed. It’ll cost, of course, but they will stick to the Lepskis like glue all the way through the Swiss frontier.”

“Sure?”

Bradey smiled.

“My dear Ed!”

Haddon nodded, satisfied.

In a comfortably furnished duplex apartment on rue Alfred Bruneau in the 16th arrondissement, Paris, Pierre Duvine was counting the remaining money he had in his wallet, and in the world.

Duvine, dark, around thirty-seven years of age, was often mistaken for Alain Delon, the French movie actor. He was an expert in antiques, jewellery and 18th-century paintings. Working on a profitable commission, he kept Lu Bradey informed of sound, possible steals.

As everyone knows, Paris is a dead city during the month of August. It was only just coming alive in this first week in September. Even now, there were plenty of parking places, and the best restaurants were only just beginning to stretch their limbs for yet another profitable season.

Usually, Pierre and his wife spent August in the Midi where the action was, but Pierre had had an unpleasant motoring accident, and was only just out of hospital. Claudette, his wife, who was devoted to him, had stayed in their Paris apartment so she could visit him in hospital every day.

He fingered the bank notes and frowned.

Claudette came in from the bathroom.

“Money?” she asked, looking at the bank notes Pierre was fingering.

Claudette, five years younger than Pierre, even at ten o’clock in the morning, even having just rolled out of bed, presented a charming picture. She was tall, slender, with Venetian red hair and emerald-green eyes. Long legged with a superb, lithesome body, she played an important part in Duvine’s machinations. Time and again, she had sexed some rich old man into inviting her to his home, noted with expertise anything; worth stealing, allowed the old man to take her to bed, then returning home, gave Pierre a detailed description of the articles worth stealing, the kind of locks, the alarm system and so on. This information was passed to Lu Bradey who then organized the steal.

The Duvines had been happily married now for five years, and although there were times when Pierre was moody, and sometimes bad tempered, Claudette, recognizing the signs, soothed and sexed him into a good mood. Not once had they quarrelled, due to Claudette’s calming influence.

“We are getting short of cash,” Pierre said gloomily. “After paying that awful hospital bill, we’ll be down to practically nothing.”

Claudette stroked his face lovingly.

“Never mind, my treasure, something always turns up. Give me five minutes, and I’ll have coffee for you.”

Pierre patted her bottom and smiled.

“Sugar, you are my heart and my life.”

She ran off to the bedroom while Pierre recounted his money. He had a little over ten thousand francs. He grimaced. Among his many talents, he was an expert pick-pocket. Since working with Lu Bradey, he had dropped dipping into pockets, but maybe, he thought uneasily, he would have to begin again until the rich returned to Paris. He didn’t like the thought. There was always a risk, and he was out of practice.

As Claudette brought in a tray with coffee, the telephone bell rang.

They looked at each other.

“Now, who can this be?” Pierre got to his feet. He lifted the receiver. “Pierre Duvine,” he announced.

“This is Lu Bradey.” The voice came clearly over the trans-Atlantic line. “I’m in Washington. I have a job for you. Meet me at the Charles de Gaulle Hilton bar at 23.30 tonight. Bring Claudette,” and the line went dead.

“Bradey!” Pierre exclaimed, beaming at Claudette. “A job!”

Both of them knew, when working with Bradey, the money was always good.

“See, my treasure?” Claudette cried, setting down the coffee tray. “I said something would turn up,” and she threw herself into Pierre’s arms.

At exactly 23.30, Pierre and Claudette walked into the crowded Hilton bar. They looked around and found no one resembling Lu Bradey until a hand touched Pierre’s arm. Turning, he found a small, insignificant-looking businessman, wearing a beard and moustache, his complexion sallow, his half-moon glasses at the end of his nose, at his side.

Both the Duvines were used to Bradey’s many disguises, but for a moment, the disguise was so good, they hesitated.

“We’ll go to my room,” Bradey said quietly.

Nothing was said until they reached the third floor, and Bradey unlocked the door of his room. Once inside, Pierre said, “You are fantastic, Lu.”

“Of course.” Bradey waved Claudette to the only arm chair, waved Pierre to an upright chair and sat on the bed. “I have an urgent and important job for you two. Now, listen carefully.”

With no mention of the icon, Bradey told them that they had to remain in constant touch with Tom and Carroll Lepski as soon as they arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport on this coming Friday.

“They are doing Paris, then Monte Carlo and the Midi, then going on to Switzerland,” he told them. “Your job is to stick closer to them than a baby to its mother’s tit. The woman will be carrying a vanity box. In this box, unknown to either of them, will be an object that has to reach Switzerland. It will be built into the box and I don’t anticipate any trouble with the customs, but it is your job to see the woman does carry it through the Swiss customs.”

Pierre’s expression became thoughtful.

“What is the object?”

“That you needn’t know, but it is valuable.”

“Not drugs?”

“Of course not! It is an objet d’art.”

Pierre and Claudette exchanged glances.

“Doesn’t sound difficult. What’s in it for us?” Pierre asked.

“Twenty thousand Swiss francs, and all expenses paid,” Bradey said, who had been doing calculations on the flight to Paris. “You can regard this job as a paid vacation.”

“Let’s get this clear,” Pierre said who was cautious when dealing with Bradey. “We are to follow these two, stay at the same hotels, make sure the woman always leaves with her vanity box when they move to another hotel, and when they pass through the Swiss customs, we get paid twenty thousand Swiss francs. Right?”

Bradey stroked his false beard.

“A little more than that, Pierre. You will stay with them at their Swiss hotel. You will take the box when they are out of the room and bring it to me at the Eden hotel, Zurich, and I will pay you off.”

“Who are these people?” Claudette asked.

“A good question. Yes, you must know. The man is a first grade detective attached to the Paradise City, Florida, police force. She is his wife.”

Pierre stiffened.

“Are you telling me I am to steal a vanity box from the wife of a top-class cop?”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Plenty. As soon as the box is missing, the cop will raise hell. I don’t like this, Lu.”

Bradey smiled.

“Relax. He won’t know it has been taken.”

“But his wife will,” Claudette said sharply.

“Neither of them will. I have arranged for an exact replica of the box to be made and I will deliver it to you in Switzerland. All you have to do, Pierre, is to get into their room while they are out, open Mrs Lepski’s vanity box, put her personal stuff into the replica, then walk out with the original box. Neither Lepski nor his wife will have an idea the boxes have been switched.”

Duvine considered this, then nodded.

“Nice idea. Okay, let’s go further into this. Where will they be staying? In Paris and in Monaco, you just can’t get a room without a reservation. If we are to stay at their hotels, I must know in which hotel to book.”

“I have that covered.” Bradey took from his wallet a folded sheet of paper. “Ed worked it. Kendrick’s cousin went to the American Express in Paradise City and told the girl who is handling the Lepski’s trip that he wanted to send flowers to each hotel where they stop. She gave him a copy of their itinerary. They stay at the Excelsior hotel, Paris, for four days, the Metropole hotel in Monaco for three days, and at the Montreux Palace, Montreux for three days. You will switch boxes at the Palace hotel. Here are the dates,” and he handed Pierre the sheet of paper.

“Twenty thousand Swiss francs and all expenses?”

“Yes.”

Claudette gave an ecstatic sigh.

Pierre studied the itinerary. After a few moments, he looked at Bradey with a smile.

“I have an idea. Suppose we happen to be at Charles de Gaulle when the Lepskis arrive. Suppose Claudette gets chatting with the Lepskis, then I arrive. Staying at the Excelsior? What a coincidence! We are staying there too, then we are driving to Monaco. My car’s outside. Let’s all go together to the Excelsior. I know Americans. I assure you by the time we get to the Excelsior, we will be old friends. Americans want to be loved. I will then offer to show them Paris, then drive them down to Monaco. I will be able to iron out all their problems with the language. This way we will never let the vanity box out of our sight. What do you think?”

“I like it, but be careful of Lepski. He’s a cop.”

“Yes. Now how about some money, Lu?” Pierre said. “I’m short.”

Bradey took out his wallet.

As Gustav Holtz was packing documents in a briefcase, Herman Radnitz came in.

“You are to see Kendrick and find out from him exactly how he is proposing to smuggle the icon to Zurich and who his confederates are. Don’t stand any nonsense with him. Unless I am convinced he can get the icon to Zurich, I will drop the business.”

“Yes, sir,” Holtz said. “I will go now.”

“Wait.” Radnitz lit a cigar. “I need a replacement for Lu Silk.”

For a brief moment, Holtz’s eyes narrowed.

Lu Silk had been Radnitz’s hired killer: a ruthless hit-man who removed people who threatened to upset Radnitz’s various deals. Only a few months ago, Silk had been killed while working on an operation in which Radnitz was not implicated.[2]

From long experience, Radnitz had discovered that Holtz invariably came up with an immediate solution for many of his problems, but he was surprised when Holtz nodded.

“Certainly, sir... my nephew.”

“Your nephew? Explain yourself.”

“My brother and his wife were killed in a motoring accident. Their son, Sergas, then aged three, survived. As his only relation, I arranged his upbringing,” Holtz said quietly. “He has had an excellent education. He speaks fluent English, French, German and Russian. At the age of eighteen, against my wishes, he became a mercenary soldier. I lost contact with him for some ten years, then one day, he came to me. He was bored with the Army and wondered if I could do something for him. He reminded me so much of Lu Silk, that I have been financing him in case Silk ever disappointed you or was killed as he has been. Sergas has all the qualifications you need, sir. I guarantee him.”

“You are a remarkable man, Holtz,” Radnitz said. “You appear always to look ahead for my requirements. What is your nephew doing now?”

“Improving his technique in arms, and waiting to serve you.”

“Very well. Since you guarantee him, he can consider himself hired on the same terms as I hired Silk. Now, go and talk to Kendrick.”

Half an hour later, Gustav Holtz was sitting in Claude Kendrick’s room. Kendrick, flustered by Holtz’s macabre appearance and alarmed to hear that Radnitz might, at the last moment, pull out of their agreement, explained to Holtz how the icon was to be smuggled to Switzerland. He also gave Holtz details about Haddon, Bradey and Duvine.

Holtz listened, then he said, “This vanity box. I will need a photograph of it to show Mr Radnitz.”

“That is no problem. I have photographed it for the replica,” Kendrick said and produced a series of coloured photographs.

“I feel sure Mr Radnitz will approve of your planning,” Holtz said, rising to his feet. “I congratulate you.”

“So I may expect payment in Zurich?” Kendrick asked, a little anxiously.

“When the icon is delivered, payment will be made.”

Back at the Belvedere hotel, Holtz explained to Radnitz in detail Kendrick’s plan.

Radnitz listened, and from time to time, nodded approval.

“Yes. It is a clever idea,” he said after examining the photographs of the vanity box. Then his toad-like face turned vicious. “Ever since Kendrick failed when trying to get those Russian stamps, I promised myself to teach him a lesson. I want a replica of this box made. Your nephew is to bring it to my villa at Zurich.”

Ever alert, Holtz said, “If you will excuse me, sir, that would not be wise.”

Radnitz glared at him.

“Why not?”

“A young man carrying a lady’s vanity box would be immediately suspect by the security people. He would have to pass through the Swiss customs. It would create dangerous difficulties. I know a man in Zurich who can make the box. All I have to do is to send him these photographs. I assure you there will be no problems.”

Radnitz nodded.

“You seem to think of everything. Very well. I leave it to you. I expect your nephew at the end of the week.”

Holtz inclined his head, took the photographs and went away.

The coloured girl moved in her sleep, releasing a soft moan of pleasure. She lay naked on the grey-white sheet on the bed, her slim body glistening with sweat, her long, black hair a silky shield across her face.

Her movement brought the man lying by her side awake with the awareness of a jungle cat.

He looked around the small sordid room, then at the girl sleeping at his side, then across the room to the rotting shutters that partially kept out the glare of Florida’s sun. His eyes took in the cane stool, the chipped enamel basin on the rickety table, supported by bending bamboo legs, and to his sweat shirt, Levis and loafer shoes, dropped on the dusty rush mat as he had stripped off.

He half-turned and lifted himself on his elbow to look down at the girl, his eyes running over her body. He liked black meat. White women now bored him. They expected so much before they gave out, and even when he did go along with their stupid teasing and demands, there were times when they dodged the final issue. Black girls either meant business or said no. That he appreciated. Since coming to Miami, he had shunned the spoilt, vapid white girls and had hunted in West Miami where the action was.

At the age of twenty-eight, Sergas Holtz was a splendidly built male animal who took a fanatical pride in keeping his body in peak condition. Tall, with shoulder-length straw-coloured hair, boxer’s muscles, long-legged, when seen from behind, he aroused female interest, but the interest became cautious when he turned.

Sergas Holtz’s face scared, yet fascinated women. His face narrow, a short boxer’s nose, small ice-cold grey eyes and a sensual mouth was a sexual challenge for girls who wanted excitement. Even when he laughed, his eyes remained mirthless. He was a man who didn’t invite friendship. During the years, serving as a mercenary soldier, murdering, looting and raping with others in the Congo and other parts of Africa, none of his comrades took to him. Even, although an excellent student, none of his teachers were ever friendly, sensing uneasily that there was something evil in him.

Sergas preferred being a loner. When not fighting in the jungle, he spent hours in the Army gymnasium, boxing, learning karate and all the tricks the Army could teach him of the quick, silent kill.

TV Westerns fascinated him. He became the fastest gun draw in the Army and the best marksman. Satisfied with his marksmanship, he turned his attention to knife fighting. He became an expert knife-thrower.

There was only one man with whom Sergas found he could talk frankly: his uncle, Gustav Holtz. Apart from the fun of killing ruthlessly and chasing women, Sergas’s only other interest was money. Tired of Army life, he had returned from Africa to Paris where his uncle worked for Herman Radnitz. From what Sergas learned from his uncle, Radnitz impressed him. Radnitz’s enormous wealth, his ruthless power, his association with the Heads of various governments made a big impact.

Sergas and his uncle had had a long discussion about his future. Sergas was inclined to join one of Castro’s groups, and go to Cuba, but Gustav had counselled patience. He would supply Sergas with enough money to live on. Sooner or later, Gustav promised, he would find a place for him in the Radnitz kingdom. He told him about Lu Silk.

“Mr Radnitz has many enemies. Some of them a little too powerful. Silk is told, and the enemy dies. Silk is paid four thousand dollars a month as a retainer and for a successful disposal a lump sum of fifty thousand dollars. He is no longer young. He will either retire or be killed,” Gustav said. “You could take his place. We must wait, but in the meantime perfect yourself,” and he went on to tell Sergas of Lu Silk’s qualifications.

“Why wait? Tell me where I can find this man and I’ll get rid of him,” Sergas said.

Gustav shook his head.

“Right now, you are not yet in Silk’s class. You are very good, but he is perfection. I won’t have you risking your life. Besides, Radnitz would be suspicious. Wait.”

So Sergas remained in Paris, honing his killing technique, chasing girls and reading biographies of the world’s leaders. When Radnitz moved to Paradise City, Sergas moved to Miami where he rented a modest one-room apartment. In Miami, he spent hours on the beach, swimming, jogging and keeping in trim, hunting girls and throwing knives at the palm trees.

He had faith in his uncle. Sooner or later, he would become a member of the Radnitz kingdom. If his uncle said so, it would be so.

This afternoon, he had needed a woman. He had gone to West Miami on his Honda motorcycle and to the black quarter. He had found this girl, now sleeping by his side. He had bought her a coke. She had told him her man was in Key West on business and wouldn’t be back before the evening. They had looked at each other, and Sergas knew she meant action. Clinging to him on the Honda, she had directed him to a shack where she lived.

As soon as his lust was released, Sergas always lost interest in his sexual partners. He slid off the bed and put on his Levis. As he was reaching for his sweat shirt, he heard a car pull up with screeching brakes. Moving swiftly to a rotting shutter, he peered through the slats.

A battered, dusty Lincoln was before the shack. From it sprang a big black, wearing a cream-coloured suit and a panama hat. His brutal face with its fuzz of beard, shiny with sweat, was a vicious, frightening mask. He came storming up the path as the girl came awake. She sat up, her face turning grey with terror as the black flung his weight against the door.

Sergas looked at her as the door quaked under the shoulder impact. Screws from the lock flew into the room. An evil little smile flitted across his mouth. He moved swiftly against the wall to the left of the door. As he did so, the door burst open and the black, snarling, his knife blade flashing in the sunbeams coming through the shutters, rushed in.

The girl on the bed screamed, covering her breasts and cringing back.

Moving like a striking cobra, Sergas came from behind the door. The side of his open hand cut down on the black’s bull neck in a vicious karate chop.

The shack shook as the black went down like a pole-axed bull.

The girl screamed again.

“Relax,” Sergas said. “Don’t excite yourself.”

“Is he dead?” The girl scrambled to the foot of the bed and peered down at the vast, inert body.

“No... no. Just asleep.” Sergas put on his sweat shirt.

“When he wakes, he will kill me!”

Sergas bent to put on his loafers.

“No, he won’t. I’ll fix that for you.”

“He’ll beat me!” the girl moaned.

Sergas shook his head, his long hair like a yellow flag.

“He won’t.”

“He will! He’ll beat me until I bleed!”

Sergas bent over the unconscious black, then taking one of the black’s enormous hands, he fastened on to the little finger. With a quick jerk, he wrenched back the finger, breaking the bone. Taking the other hand, he again broke the little finger, then smiling at the girl, he said, “He won’t be able to touch you now, baby. He’ll be too sorry for himself, but just in case he feels like kicking you, I’ll fix his feet.”

As the girl stared in horror, her body shivering, Sergas pulled off the black’s shoes and broke the two little toes of the black’s enormous, stinking feet.

“You take care of him, baby. He’ll be glad of your care.” Then giving his mirthless smile, he walked out, got astride his Honda and roared off back to his Miami apartment.

As he entered the small shabby room, he saw the answering light on his telephone was glowing. The girl at the reception desk told him there was an urgent call for him and gave him a Paradise City number.

Sergas’s eyes lit up.

His uncle!

He dialled the number.

“Sergas,” he said when he heard his uncle’s voice.

“Come immediately to the Belvedere hotel, Paradise City,” his uncle said. “You are now a member of Mr Radnitz’s staff,” and he hung up.

Sergas replaced the telephone receiver. He stood still for a long moment, then began hurriedly to pack.

The long wait was over.