Operation Whiplash Read online

  Kaiser was asleep in the front seat and Hazel in the back when I returned to the Ford. I opened the rear door and climbed in beside her. She roused slightly, wriggled over to make room for me, kissed me sleepily, and fell asleep against me, with her head on my shoulder. I held her in my arms, my hands tracing the broad contours of her back and the swelling rondures of her ample hips as far as I could reach them. Trucks roared by scant yards away, the suction caused by the rush of air rocking the Ford’s back seat.

  For the first time in days my brain was functioning at something less than racetrack speed. I continued to stroke Hazel’s warm back. When Frenz called back with his acquired information, I’d do what I had to do. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  I overdid the relaxation.

  The imperious ring of the telephone woke me from a light doze. I disengaged myself from Hazel without waking her, got out of the car, and went to the booth. “Kessler,” I said when I picked up the receiver.

  The phone again sounded as though our connection were being put through an intricate switching system. “I’ve got two words of advice for you, Kessler,” Frenz’ mechanical voice said at last.

  “Yes?”

  “Cut out.”

  “It can’t be that bad,” I protested. “Even rattlesnakes can be useful sometimes.”

  “Not that pair of rattlesnakes.” The Schemer sounded positive. “You did say they came to you? That suggests they’ve got something going where you’ll be used, but not necessarily benefited. Rubelli is a killer, pure and simple. Colisimo’s supposed to have brains, but that seems questionable because of some of his activities. Not many maverick types are found in The Family, but Colisimo’s one. He’s tried several—”

  “Maverick?” I tried to slow him down.

  “Yes. Most Family operations permit no deviation from the presented script. Lately Colisimo hasn’t held to this. He takes care of Family business, all right, but he also sets up his own deals outside the code. He seems to think—”

  “How does The Family feel about what he’s doing, Schemer?”

  “They don’t like it. They wouldn’t lift a finger to help him awhile back when he got in trouble over one of his outside activities. He did three and a half years, very unusual for a Family type in his situation.”

  “What does he have backing him in his private operations?”

  “Six or seven men loyal to him personally.”

  Six or seven men. Rubelli was gone, courtesy of Colisimo. I’d scragged Chris. There was no way Frank could have escaped when the falling fire escape went under the truck. The truck driver, Tony, wouldn’t be in very good shape after his brodie into the windshield. That left only the other two goons I’d seen at the Barbarossa. That was probably the extent of Colisimo’s private gang.

  And Colisimo himself.

  The word that Colisimo was a maverick explained his matching himself against the federals in the gunrunning scheme, something totally contrary to Family protocol. It gave me hope that if I dealt with him myself there’d be no Family aftermath. If Frenz was right, there should be a few upper-echelon Family members who wouldn’t be averse to Colisimo’s being found in a hole with shit in his face.

  “Thanks, Schemer,” I said at last. “I think I’ll pass on this one.”

  “Now you’re showing your usual good judgment,” the hollow-sounding voice said approvingly. “Now if you’re really in the mood for action, I happen to have packaged a beautiful little scheme, ideal for a two-man team. If you could locate Slater Holmes—”

  “It would be quite a trip, Schemer,” I interrupted. “Slater was machine-gunned in Havana with two million still covered with museum dirt in the back of the bullet-ridden truck.”

  “Ahhhhhh,” the voice regretted. “I’ll update my file. A pity. There’s so little fresh talent coming up the ladder.”

  “I’ll send the money,” I said. “And I’ll be in touch.”

  “Do that,” Frenz said cheerfully.

  A drop of rain fell on the back of my hand as I went back to the car.

  ten

  Fast-moving clouds were beginning to obscure the stars when I slipped under the wheel. Hazel was still asleep in the back seat. Kaiser sat up beside me and surveyed the road through the windshield. A glance at my watch showed it was 4:20 A.M.

  Frenz’ information had left me in an ambiguous frame of mind. It was a relief to know that Colisimo was a maverick who could call for little or no syndicate help for his own disrupted operations set up outside syndicate channels. It meant Hazel and I wouldn’t have to be hiding from one branch or another of the omnipresent Family groups for the rest of our lives.

  It meant also, though, that Bolts Colisimo must now be a desperate man. The men loyal to him personally had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Nothing in his record indicated that Colisimo was the type to accept such a state of affairs without rebuttal.

  A few hard drops of rain began to spatter the windshield. A puff of damp, rain-laden air came in the open car window, which I then rolled up. The rain increased in intensity, and the car swerved in a sudden gust of wind. Dust blew across the highway, followed by tufts of grass, twigs, and small branches broken from trees. A sharp clap of thunder crackled overhead, and zigzag lightning streaks rippled through the abrupt blackness of the sky. We’d run into a Gulf squall of the type that can be so devastating on the open water.

  The wind blew fiercely and the rain came down as though a giant hand were dumping endless buckets of whitish-looking water. Visibility diminished sharply as the headlights’ range shrank under the onslaught of wind-driven rain. The thunder grew louder, and the lightning increased. I slowed the car almost to a crawl, peering through the nearly opaque glass in an effort to find a place where I could get off the highway and avoid being run down from behind.

  The car rocked wildly in each renewed gust of wind. I heard Hazel stirring in the back seat as I risked a cautious edging off the road into a lighter-looking area which was seemingly unbordered by the usual trees along the edge of the road. I pulled off until I felt the wheels leave the macadam, then stopped, wary of an unseen ditch. As though the application of the brakes had been a signal, the rain came down in an absolute torrent, its loud thrumming an unpleasant dissonance against the body of the car. Kaiser looked out at the rain, looked at me, then whined.

  “We’ve got to wait it out, boy,” I told him.

  “Are you sure you didn’t drive into a waterfall?” Hazel inquired from the back seat. Her tone was only half-joking.

  “No waterfalls shown on the road map,” I assured her.

  She tried unavailingly to peer out a side window. “This is sure a ding-whistler of a thunderstorm,” she observed after a particularly loud clap of thunder which appeared to be a foot above the car roof. “And I don’t like it.”

  “Okay, I’ll turn it off,” I said. I had noticed that the deluge was slackening slightly. In another moment the decrease was noticeable to Hazel, and in a third the rain almost stopped. The car’s headlights pierced the night again, disclosing that I had almost driven into a roadside picnic bench. I backed up and got out onto the highway again while the world around us dripped steadily.

  “Thanks, magician,” Hazel said.

  “Think nothing of it,” I returned airily.

  For a couple of miles, water spurted from beneath the front wheels in a bow wave as we proceeded, but then the highway began to drain. Wind and rain-driven debris littered the road, and I steered around several larger broken-off branches. Florida’s sandy soil drains efficiently, though. By the time we passed the Lazy Susan Motel, south of Hudson, the countryside was sodden but no longer under water.

  I drove on into town.

  My destination was Hazel’s cabin.

  All we had to do now was get out of Florida. If Colisimo didn’t have us in his hands, he had nothing. Now that I fully appreciated the fact, Hudson held no charm. We’d throw our combined few items of clothing into a couple of bags and take off before the r
ising sun lightened the horizon.

  But man proposes and God disposes.

  When we passed Jed Raymond’s office, I saw a light.

  Two cars sat on the street out in front, Jed’s yellow Porsche and a car I didn’t recognize.

  Even for Jed a light on at five in the morning was a bit much. And that second car—

  Fifty yards beyond Jed’s office I pulled the Ford into the curb. “What is it?” Hazel asked at once. “Why did you stop?”

  “There’s a light on in Jed’s office,” I said casually. I was already getting out of the Ford. “Something I should ask him before I forget it.” More than most women, Hazel has a sensory-radar system I didn’t care to test at the moment. “Lock up the car,” I said over my shoulder. I turned and closed the door as quietly as I could, aware how sound travels in the mild Florida night.

  I walked back up the street, avoiding an occasional puddle. Toward the east the first hint of dawn was in the sky, but in Hudson’s business section it was still full night. Streetlights and an occasional store-light reflected from the wet street.

  I circled the unknown car to make sure no one was hiding in it. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the first-floor variety store and listened. I could hear nothing upstairs. Jed might have a girl up there, and my appearance could earn me a cold welcome.

  I moved toward the weatherbeaten wooden stairs leading upward to Jed’s second-floor office.

  And at once the die was cast.

  Damp spots on the worn stair treads showed where large shoes had squeezed excess moisture from the wood. Someone had climbed those stairs just minutes ago.

  I climbed the stairs, too. The footsteps ended in front of Jed’s office door. I could hear voices now, although not clearly enough to distinguish what was being said.

  Voices, and sounds.

  A sobbing moan split the night air. It was so animalistic it raised the hackles on the back of my neck. I had a sudden vision of Casey Deakin’s battered features superimposed upon Jed Raymond’s handsome young face. Or Nate Pepperman’s knife-sliced countenance.

  The voices rose. A scratchy-sounding one was speaking. “—boss says Drake’s been seen witcha, Raymond, so if ya wanna look nice to the girls tell us where to find ‘im, like right now!”

  “Lemme give him a little more of the treatment,” a second voice said eagerly.

  Two voices.

  There should have been three, if my mental countdown of Colisimo’s gang was correct. But there was no time to check the accuracy of my arithmetic.

  I drew my automatic.

  “Give it to ‘im, Carlie!” Scratchy rasped. “No, I’ll do it!”

  “Okay, Ricardo,” the second voice said, plainly disappointed.

  There was a gasp, and Jed’s voice rose in a half-scream. “I don’t know where he is!” he shrieked. “I don’t know!” Even through the closed door I could hear his sobbing breath. “I already told you I don’t know!”

  I didn’t try the doorknob. I didn’t want to lose time finding out it was locked. I backed off two steps, then charged. In the second before my shoulder hit the door I heard Jed whimper.

  The door burst inward with a shriek of shattered wood. Across the counter I could see the tableau I’d expected. A tall, greasy-looking type, waving a thin, five-inch blade in front of Jed’s white, terrified face, was standing in front of the office swivel chair in which Jed was being held down by a second man holding both Jed’s wrists, twisting each in an effective double armlock.

  Little things stood out in the instant the knifeman was turning to confront me. The tip of his knife had a droplet of blood on it. The shirt covering Jed’s chest was slit and blood oozed through it. A single thin-looking gash ran down Jed’s left cheek where the point of the knife had been traced across it.

  I put a hand on the counter and vaulted over it. “It’s ‘im!” the knifeman rasped, his face contorted in a grotesque look of surprise. I wasn’t too concerned about Ricardo, the knifeman whose voice had just identified him. I was watching the man behind Jed. He had already released Jed’s wrists, and his right hand darted inside his jacket.

  The gunman crouched to put Jed between himself and me. I went around the desk, away from the knifeman, toward the gunman. Not even the butt of his gun had cleared his shoulder holster when I fired. The Parabellum cartridge seriously disarranged Carlie the gunman’s face. He went down while still trying to draw. He rolled over partway onto his side, then was still.

  Jed was still sitting in his chair, crying hysterically. He kept rubbing his hands over his face as though trying to reassure himself that it was still there. “I’m s-sorry. I’m s-sorry,” he kept repeating in a sobbing monotone. “Th-they were g-going to c-carve up my f-face just like they did N-Nate Pepperman’s.”

  Ricardo, the knifeman, was staring at the fallen Carlie in disbelief. The knife was slack in his hand, its point dipping toward the floor. If he had a gun he’d forgotten all about it. The knife-point came up, and he began to shuffle toward me, ignoring the automatic in my hand.

  “Drop it!” I ordered, motioning with the automatic toward the knife. I doubt he heard me. His slow brain was still trying to catch up with the sudden reversal in his personal fortune and the necessity for avenging his friend. I could see him draw a deep breath.

  “Drop it!” I commanded again.

  His knees tensed, and I leveled the automatic. Then his dull-looking features showed a glow of excitement, and he took a step backward, not forward. Ricardo and Jed, still sniffling in his chair, were both staring at the shattered door which was behind me. “Hazel!” I heard Jed gasp.

  I spun around.

  She was standing just inside the shattered door.

  There was blood spattered on the front of her dress.

  Then I saw the man behind her holding a gun in her back.

  Short and fat. Pouches under bulging eyes whose dark pupils were framed by whites with a yellow cast. Long sideburns of gray hair beneath a broad-brim straw hat. Tailor-made suit, cranberry-colored shirt, white silk, wide-knotted tie. And most incongruously of all at that hour of the morning—in the lapel buttonhole of the rumpled but expensive-looking suit, a fresh-looking pure white carnation.

  Angelo “Bolts” Colisimo.

  He was the reason I’d checked out the back seat of the strange car. I would have liked to check further, but what I’d heard outside Jed’s door had prevented. Now Colisimo was in an excellent position to make me sorry I hadn’t taken the time.

  “He smashed the car window with the butt of his gun,” Hazel said quietly. “And when Kaiser tried to jump into the back seat with me, he hit him on the head twice.” She touched the front of her dress. “This is Kaiser’s, not mine.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I said.

  “Shut up, both of you!” Colisimo growled from behind Hazel. “Where’s Carlie?” he demanded of Ricardo.

  “Behind the desk,” Ricardo answered. “This guy shot him.”

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked Colisimo as though I didn’t know.

  He sneered at me, then jammed his gun into Hazel’s back, forcing a grunt from her as she took an involuntary step forward. “You, Drake,” Colisimo snarled. “Put that gun on the counter. Slowly. An’ goddam carefully, if you care anything at all about what happens to this big-assed redhead.”

  I moved toward the counter in slow motion, itching to get a snapshot off. Hazel’s tall figure obscured the short-statured Colisimo almost completely, though. He was deftly using her as a shield. With the greatest reluctance I laid the automatic down on the counter top and then slowly backed away.

  “Now that’s a damn nice change of scenery!” Ricardo declared jubilantly. Knife firmly clasped in his palm, he moved toward me.

  “Hold it, you jerk!” Colisimo said hurriedly. “Don’t get between me an’ him!”

  “Just let me touch ‘im up a little, Bolts,” Ricardo whined.

  “When I say so, an’ not before,” his master growled. Ricar
do’s tall figure slumped disappointedly. Colisimo prodded Hazel farther into the office, then stood himself in the doorway where he could keep an eye on everyone. “You punks got about as much brains as you can pour in a shotglass,” he berated Ricardo. “Don’t it ever occur to you to look behind you once in a while? If I hadn’t been along with you, you’d already be on the floor there with Carlie.”

  Ricardo nodded dumbly.

  “Find somethin’ to tie up the real estate man,” Colisimo continued. “I’ll keep the broad covered.”

  Jed was still sitting limply in the swivel chair behind his desk. Panic flooded his expressive features at Colisimo’s order. I think it was only Hazel’s presence that kept him from again breaking completely. His state of mind precluded my expecting any help from him. He looked as if his entire nervous system was thoroughly unhinged.

  Ricardo had found a shirt on a hanger in a closet filled mostly with office supplies. He tore the shirt up into strips, went behind Jed’s chair, pulled his hands behind him again, and knotted his wrists together. Colisimo moved slightly away from Hazel for the first time to supervise this operation, but he kept his gun trained upon her, correctly assuming it would immobilize me more surely than if it were aimed at myself.

  The squat Colisimo turned and grinned at me expansively when he was satisfied that Jed’s bonds were secure. “Now, you bastard,” he said to me almost jovially, “I’m gonna arrange a nice little party for you. But first you an’ the broad are gonna sign a few papers I just happen to have with me. An’ no fuss. Unnerstand?”

  “You’ve got the gun,” I replied.

  He glared at me. “An’ when the papers are signed, you an’ me are gonna have a little talk about where a he-wolf like you come from.” While speaking he was removing a sheaf of legal-looking documents from the inside jacket pocket of his expensive-looking suit. He swept my automatic several feet away along the counter top before flattening out his papers on it. He was still barely a yard away from Hazel. I wanted him on my side of the counter.