You've Got It Coming

IV

On the afternoon of the nineteenth, Ben sent for Borg.

For the past two years Borg had been in charge of all Ben's illegal activities. Ben completely depended on him to carry out his instructions, handle the gang, take care of the rough stuff, organize a killing if a killing was necessary, and see there was no drop in the vast income that came to Ben from his vice and extortion rackets. ,

During those two years, Borg had never made a mistake and had never failed to carry out an order: no matter how difficult the order had been. Looking at him as he sat like a big fat toad in the chair opposite Ben's desk, Ben marvelled at the deceptiveness of Borg's appearance. He knew him to be a cold-blooded and utterly ruthless killer who thought no more of taking a life than he thought of killing a fly. He knew him to be as swift as a striking snake, incredibly fast with a gun and an expert shot. There was no other member of his organization who could handle a car as Borg could. He not only drove at fantastic speeds, but his sense of anticipation and judgment of distances were incredible. Ben had been with him when he had been ambushed by the Levinski mob. Two cars, spraying gunfire, had converged on them, and Borg had got away only by brilliant and unbelievable driving.

Unable to beat the other two cars for speed, he had swung off the side streets into the thick traffic of Figueroa Street and Ben had never forgotten that drive, and never would as long as he lived. Moving at sixty miles an hour, Borg cut through the traffic as if it didn't exist, leaving Levinski's cars standing. He had darted all over the road wherever there was an opening and shooting up on to the sidewalk when there wasn't. The ride had lasted three minutes. It had been the most shattering experience of Ben's life, but he knew Borg was saving him from certain death. No one got hurt, no car got smashed, and when Borg whipped the car again into the side streets, having shaken off Levinski's cars, he had been as placid and as unmoved as he always was.

It was difficult to guess Berg's age: he might have been thirty or even forty-five. He was a mountain of soft, white fat. His complexion was greenish-white like the belly of a toad. His eyes were hooded and black, as expressionless and as hard as knobs of ebony, His black hair looked like a piece of astrakhan draped over his skull. He had a black moustache that drooped like a rat's tail either side of his mouth.

Although Ben paid him a thousand dollars a month, plus a percentage on his vice and extortion rackets, giving Borg a considerable income, he never looked as if he owned a nickel. His clothes were stained and shabby and invariably too tight for him.

His shirt was always grubby. His hands and nails were so dirty that Ben, who was fastidious, often complained.

Looking at him now as he sat slumped in the chair, his dirty hands folded across his gross belly, a cigarette drooping from his thick, almost negroid lips, ash on his vest, the buttons of which threatened to fly off under the strain of keeping the gross body controlled, Ben thought he had never seen a more unpleasant and disgusting object.

“Well?” he said. “Let's have it.”

His ebony eyes staring up at the ceiling, Borg began to talk.

His voice was hoarse and breathless. All the time he talked he seemed to be struggling to breathe. From where he sat, Ben could smell his stale sweat and his dirty clothes. He fancied he could smell the threat of death in him.

“This guy's a phoney,” Borg said, speaking hoarsely and softly. “He has no background. He doesn't exist as you and I exist. Suddenly, out of the blue, is Harry Green. There are no records of him. The Army Air Force don't know him. The cops don't know him. No one knows him. I haven't dug into any guy's background as I've dug into his and found so little. I've traced him from New York, though he says he comes from Pittsburgh. No one knows him in New York. As soon as he hits Los Angeles, he starts making an impression. He tips a taxi driver five bucks. He has his photograph taken and starts a fight with the photographer. He gets tough with Lamson. He goes to the same bar every night and talks big and tough. He brags about what a hot pilot he was and how he wants to get into the air again. He acts like a man who wants to be remembered. That stinks to me. A guy who is planning a three-million-buck steal doesn't act that way unless he's crazy or has a damn good reason for doing it.”

Ben knocked the ash off his cigar while he stared at Borg.

“Think we can trust him?”

Borg lifted his massive shoulders.

“I guess so. He won't get the chance to double cross us. I’ll take care of that. I think he can handle this job. But he isn't Harry Green. It's up to you whether you care who he is or not. If he delivers, it doesn't matter who he is. If he doesn't, then it does. He's being smart. He is taking care of himself. It's my bet when the job's been pulled, Harry Green will vanish because Harry Green doesn't exist.”

Ben nodded.

“Yeah, that's the way I figured it. Maybe it'll be a good thing if he does vanish. If the cops catch him, he might squeal.” He stared into space for a long moment. “I don't give a damn who he is so long as he delivers. Have you any dope on the diamonds?”

“They exist. The Far Eastern Trading Corporation is run by a guy called Takamori, who represents a big industrial group in Japan. He has bought three million dollars’ worth of industrial diamonds. He has got government permission to release the diamonds and he is shipping them to Tokyo from San Francisco. This is the consignment Green is talking about. The diamonds are there all right. It depends on Green if you get them or not.”

“What about the three guys who are to help him?”

“I've got them fixed, Joe Franks and Marty Lewin will ride with him. Sam Meeks will handle the car.”

Ben frowned.

“Who are they? They're not our men, are they?”

Borg shook his head. Ben could almost hear the thick fat around Borg's neck creak as he moved his head.

“We don't want our guys on this job. These three will be seen by the crew and the passengers. They could be identified. We don't want to give the cops any trouble. I picked them from San Francisco. They go back as soon as the job is done. We don't want the cops to hook us to the job, do we?”

“That's right. They're okay?”

“They're okay.”

“So you think we're going to get away with this job?”

Borg lifted his black, heavy eyebrows.

“It depends on Green. If he isn't a bluffer as well as a phoney, we will get away with it.”

Ben nodded.

“He may be a phoney, but I'll stake my life he isn't a bluffer. He's just as keen on this job as I am. I think he'll pull it off.”

Berg's fat, puffy face remained expressionless, but there was an edge to his breathless voice as he said, “He'd better pull it off.”

“You've been over his plan with him?”

“Sure. He's certainly got it figured out. The guy's smart. He's taken care of everything I can see. It depends if he can bring the plane down without a smash-up. He says he can, but if it's dark, he'll have a job. He's picked a good spot. I've been out there. The sand's hard and flat. It's about thirty miles from Sky Ranch airport. I'll meet him at the airport and collect the diamonds. Our three guys will fly from there to San Francisco. I've fixed for them to go in an air taxi. Green says he's arranged his own transport.”

Ben grunted, brooded for a long moment, then asked, “Did you get anywhere with Glorie Dane?”

“She's skipped.” Berg's eyebrows came down in a frown. “She never went back to her apartment after seeing you. Want me to take it further?”

Ben shook his head.

“No: to hell with her. I don't think she's hooked up in this. Forget it.” He opened a drawer and took out two pink slips of paper and pushed them across the desk to Borg. “That's Green's pay-off. What's to stop him jumping the gun as soon as he's got the money?”

“I’ll stop him,” Borg said. “I've talked to Lewin and Franks. They know the setup. They'll watch him. If he looks like trying a double cross, they'll put a slug into him. I'll stick with him until he's on the aircraft. Lewin and Franks will take care of him until they get to Sky Ranch airport. They're good boys. He won't pull anything on them.”

Ben nodded.

“Okay. Looks like I'm going to make me some money,” he said and got to his feet.

Borg looked at him from out of his ebony, hooded eyes.

“That's what it looks like,” he said.