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CLEAN BREAK

by

Lionel White

CHAPTER SIX

1

Randy Kennan sat in back of the wheel of the sedan, a newspaper held in front of his face. He hadn’t long to wait. At exactly eight forty, the front door of the apartment house opened and Marvin Unger walked out and turned west, looking neither to right or to left. Randy gave him an extra minute or two after he had passed the corner and turned downtown. Then he climbed out of the car and entered the building.

Johnny had a cup of black coffee in his hand when he answered the soft knock on the door.

“Glad you got my message,” he said, smiling at the other man and quickly stepping aside to let him enter.

Randy smiled back.

“Gotta ‘nother cup?” he asked.

Johnny nodded and went into the kitchen. Randy followed him.

“What’s the rub?” the cop asked. “I thought we planned the meet for tonight?”

“No rub,” Johnny said. “It’s just that I want to talk to you first—alone.”

Randy took the cup of coffee Johnny held out and reached for a chair.

“Everything all right with the others?”

“Everything’s set,” Johnny said. “I just wanted to talk to you alone.” He hesitated a second, watching Randy closely, and then went on.

“It’s like this,” he said. “When the cards are down, here’s the way it stacks up. You and I are the ones who are really carrying the ball. And you are the only one I can actually count on. Not,” he added quickly, seeing the suddenly startled look on the policeman’s face, “not that the others aren’t all right as far as they go. The trouble is, they just don’t go far enough.

“Right now, Unger’s out getting the five grand I’m going to need today to tie up the boys who are helping me out at the track. That’s fine. We need Unger and that’s why he’s in. We need Big Mike, too, and we can count on him. He’s old, he’s tired and discouraged and God knows he probably has plenty of problems of his own. But he’s invaluable to us and won’t let us down. The same goes for Peatty.”

He stopped then for a minute and refilled his cup. 

“What’s on your mind, kid?” Randy said. “We already been over all that.”

“Right. We have,” Johnny said. “But coming to Peatty, we come to another problem. Peatty’s wife. As far as George goes, he knows what he has to do and he’ll do it. We can trust him. But that business of his wife showing up still bothers me. Let me tell you exactly what happened after you guys left the other night.”

For the next ten minutes Johnny talked and as he went over the details of the scene between himself and Sherry Peatty, Randy once or twice grinned widely. He didn’t interrupt until Johnny was through talking.

“So what,” he said at last. “The kid’s got hot pants and George can’t take care of her. That’s all it amounts to. That and the fact that she’s nosy.”

“You may be right. On the other hand, the dame worries me. It’s a little too pat.”

“Well,” Randy said, “you say she’s going to show up at two o’clock? Right? You’ll have all afternoon then to find out what it’s all about. So you should kick? She may be a dizzy broad, but hell, Johnny, she’s…”

“You miss the point,” Johnny said. “She’s going to show up, but I don’t think I’m going to find out anything. I don’t even like the idea of her showing. In the first place, I got other things to do today. I gotta meet Unger at one thirty and pick up the dough. I got to spread that money around.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Randy said. “You mean you don’t want to meet the girl? My God, Johnny, those years up the river must have done something to you after all. Anyone would take a crack…”

“You don’t get the picture,” Johnny said shortly. “In the first place, if you’d talked to her, you’d realize that she’s wide open. Anybody can take a crack at her. I don’t want to go into details; I just think I’m the wrong guy for the job. There’s too much else on my mind.”

“Another dame?” Randy said, looking up sharply.

“What it is doesn’t matter,” Johnny said. “Try and get the idea. I don’t think I can handle her. On the other hand, you’re a guy who has a reputation for handling broads. I’m suggesting that you be here when she shows up this afternoon. Play her along and see what you can learn. If she’s up to something, we have to know. I can’t tell you why, but for some reason I got the feeling something is sour with her.”

Randy looked thoughtful for several moments before he spoke.

“You think Peatty is in on a double cross of some kind?”

“No. No, George wasn’t putting on an act the other night. He was probably more surprised than we were when she showed up. But I can’t get over the idea that she’s up to something. Whatever it is, we have to know about it.”

Randy got up from the chair and rattled the coffeepot. He put it down and then turned back to Johnny.

“And you say she’ll be here at around two this afternoon? And that she likes Scotch?”

“Right. And Randy, remember one thing. She may be an oversexed little lush, but you have to handle her with kid gloves. She wants to be romanced, not raped. Probably gets enough of that at home.”

Randy Kennan grunted.

“Well, boy,” he said, “you don’t have to tell me how to handle that kind of dame. Is there any booze in the joint?” 

Johnny laughed.

“You forget whose joint it is?”

Randy smiled.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll pick up a couple of jugs and be back here at one thirty.”

Johnny took the key off his ring.

“O.K.,” he said. “Here’s the key; I’ll be gone. And whatever you do, get her the hell out of here by six, before Marvin gets home. And clean up after yourselves.”

# # #

2

They arrived within fifteen minutes of each other, first the short, heavy-set one with the dead, half smoked cigar between thick over-red lips and with his sweat-stained, gray felt hat tipped on the back of his completely bald, round head. And then the little man with the thin consumptive body and the oversized ugly head which hung forward from his stringy neck and always looked as though it were about to drop off altogether.

They had walked through the barroom, nodding at the big man sitting on the stool as they passed through the doorway leading into the long narrow hall. Each one had gone to the last door down and knocked softly three times.

Val Cannon, his lean, wide-shouldered frame covered with a Chinese silk dressing gown, his silk clad ankles thrust into half slippers, had opened the door leading into the air conditioned apartment, himself. The three of them were alone and although Val had a Scotch and soda in his hand, he had not offered the others anything. He sat back, in a large leather club chair, his long legs crossed. The window of the room was closed and covered by a large pull curtain. Looking around at the modern, almost sparse furnishings, it was hard to tell whether it was a living room or an office.

The heavy-set man was speaking.

“So I talked with Steiner,” he said. “Leo knew him, all right. In fact, like I figured, he owes Leo dough. Quite a chunk of dough.”

“It figures,” Val said. “Go on.”

“Leo couldn’t tell me much, but he did give me this. This cop, this guy Keenan, told him, Leo, that he was expecting to come into a considerable chunk of dough by the end of the month. Well, I had Leo get a hold of him on the phone and put on the pressure. The way it ended up was the cop says he absolutely won’t be able to pay off until the end of the week. He didn’t make a flat promise, but Leo got the feeling that he would get his dough before next Monday.”

Val nodded, thoughtfully. He lifted the glass to his thin lips and took a sip. He turned to the other man. “So?”

The thin man tensed, seemed suddenly to stand at attention.

“It was easy,” he said. “Easy. I got hold the janitor. The joint belongs to a guy named Marvin Unger. He’s some kind of clerk down at the Municipal Building. Been living there since the place opened up several years back. He’s a bachelor and lives alone. Never has any guests what the janitor can remember. No dames. A straight-laced guy.”

“Now about…”

“Getting to that,” the thin man said. “He don’t play the neighborhood bookie; don’t hang out in the bars. Gets the Wall Street Journal so I guess maybe the market is his weakness. Outside of that, I couldn’t find out nothing.”

“The others?”

The little man shrugged.

“God only knows,” he said. He walked over to a desk and took a cigarette from a box. The heavy-set man took a silver lighter from his pocket and held it to the half smoked cigar.

“How about you, Val?”

Cannon leaned forward in his chair.

“I got a little,” he said. “Saw the girl yesterday. She’s going back again this afternoon. Seems a guy staying in the place is making a play for her. Guy’s name is Johnny Clay. I checked on him. He got out of the big house a short time back. A smalltime punk who did a jolt on a larceny charge. I’ll have a run-down on him in a day or so. Seems to be the leader of the mob, if it is a mob.

“All she knows now—and this she got from her husband and not the Clay guy—is that they’re definitely going to knock over the track office. How they plan to do it, and when they plan to do it, is anybody’s guess. But she’s sure they will make the pitch. Her husband’s a cashier out at the track and he’s mixed up in it. You can bet there are a couple of more inside men. What part the cop’s going to take, I wouldn’t know. That’s one angle I can’t figure. Also this guy, Unger. I can’t figure him, unless maybe he’s putting up the nut money. One thing is sure, this is no professional mob. So far the only one who seems to have any sort of record is this Clay guy and he’s strictly small time.”

The fat man grunted.

“Nobody planning to knock off the track is small time.” Val went on, looking irritated.

“The best guess I can make at this point is that it will be along toward the end of the week. One thing, we can probably keep a pretty accurate tab on what they do so that we’ll have a little warning as to when they make their move. That’s all we got to know. There is just one chance in about fifty thousand that they’ll get away with it, although I still can’t see how it figures. On the other hand, that guy Peatty must know all the handicaps and if he’s still going in on the deal, they may have some gimmick which I can’t figure.”

He stopped then and stood up. Without saying anything more he left the room and came back a couple of minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand. He continued talking where he had left off.

“One thing is for sure,” he said. “Any move we make will have to be after it’s all over and done with. For my dough, I don’t think they’ve got one chance in a million of getting away with it. And it’s a sure bet that none of us want to be seen around Long Island on the day they try this caper. If by any, god damned chance they do do it, and do get away with it, this town is going to be hotter than the rear end of a jet plane and for a long time to come.”

The little man squashed out his cigarette and smiled. 

“It’ll be hot,” he said. “How about a drink, Val?” 

Cannon stared at him.

“We’re partners in getting money,” he said, “not in spending it. Go out to the bar and buy your own god damned drink.”

# # #

3

Walking east to Broadway where he’d get the subway which would take him down to Penn Station, from where he in turn would get the train going out to Long Island, George Peatty began to think over the last twenty-four hours.

At eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, freshly shaved and wearing a white shirt and a blue serge suit with polished black shoes, he’d been standing hatless in a delicatessen store at the corner of Broadway and One Hundred and Ninth Street.

He’d ordered three hard rolls, which he liked, and a half dozen French doughnuts, which Sherry liked. Then he’d asked for two pint containers of coffee, with sugar and cream. He saw a jar of sour pickles and ordered that as well. It would be nice later in the day.

George was going through his usual Sunday morning ritual. He always got up first, showered, shaved and dressed and went down to the delicatessen for his and Sherry’s breakfast. By the time he had picked up the morning papers and taken a short walk along the Drive before returning, Sherry would be up and waiting.

He saw a can of imported sardines and was about to order that also when he suddenly reflected that he probably wouldn’t have enough change to pay for it if he wanted to pick up the Sunday newspapers.

Tucking the bag under his arm as he was leaving, he began thinking how nice it was going to be to really have money. Money to burn. They’d live in a hotel, he figured. Sherry would like that. And on Sunday instead of getting a breakfast from the nearest delicatessen, they’d order it up from room service.

They could spend the day laying around in bed reading the papers and doing other interesting things.

George thought he knew what Sherry wanted; all it took was the money to make it possible.

He hurried home; thinking of Sherry gave him an irresistible desire to see her.

The note had been waiting for him, pinned by a thumbtack to the outside of the apartment door. One of Sherry’s girl friends was sick and had called to ask Sherry to stop by. The note didn’t name the girl friend.

George Peatty had breakfast alone.

In fact, George had spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening alone. Along about six o’clock he had begun to worry a little and he’d called a couple of numbers where he thought she might be. But he’d been unable to trace her.

By the time she did finally get in, around ten o’clock, he’d been so glad to see her that he hadn’t even asked where she’d been. They’d had a couple of drinks together after Sherry told him she’d already eaten. And then they’d gone to bed.

It had been like that other night.

He hadn’t been able to understand why she had been so curious about the stick-up plans. But in order to satisfy her, and also for other more personal reasons, he’d finally told her a little. Not the exact day, but just that it wouldn’t be more than another week or ten days. And then he had fallen asleep.

It was only now, the next day, as he was on his way to work, that he began to wonder. That certain, persistent thought kept crossing his mind and refused to go away. He tried not to think about it, tried to drive it from his mind, but it refused to go away.

When he got off the subway at Penn Station he looked up at the clock and saw that he had about eighteen minutes in which to catch his train. He had a splitting headache.

Turning, he went up the ramp and out onto Thirty-Fourth Street. A moment later and he found the bar.

For the first time that he could remember he ordered a drink of straight whiskey before noon.

By the time he had finished his second drink he realized that he had missed his train. George Peatty was not a man who had often become drunk. By the same token, he was a man who very rarely had faced the truth and recognized it as such, if the truth should happen to be unpleasant.

Standing there at the bar, with two shots of straight rye under his belt on an otherwise almost empty stomach, George suddenly no longer refused to face the little bothersome thought which had persisted in annoying him on the way downtown in the subway.

Sherry had lied about seeing a sick friend. There was simply no doubt about it; she had lied. He realized now, in thinking it over, that he had known all along that she was lying. But he had been too cowardly to face the reality of proving it to himself.

Looking up, George suddenly beckoned the bartender.

“Another shot,” he said. And then, without fully realizing he was going to do so, he added, “And I am not going to work today.”

The bartender looked at him skeptically from under heavy, overhanging brows, but turned nevertheless and reached for the bottle. He was used to them all—every kind of a screw ball that there was. The worst of them, he usually got before noon.

Between his third and fourth drink, George went to a telephone and called the track. He told them that he wouldn’t be in, that he was home sick and expected to be all right the following day.

Then he went back to the bar and ordered another drink. There was no point in kidding himself. Sherry was a tramp. She was a tramp and she was a liar.

She’d come home last night with lipstick smeared all over her face. Her breath reeked of liquor. She had been with no sick girl friend. She’d been with some man, lapping up whiskey and God only knows what else.

George ordered another drink.

He wasn’t, at the moment, curious as to who the man might be. It was enough to finally admit that Sherry was running around with other men. But the fact, once he was willing to accept the truth, was irrefutable.

At once George began to feel sorry for Sherry and to blame himself. If she was running with other men, it could only mean that he had failed her. George felt a tear come to the corner of his eye and he was about to beckon the waiter to refill his glass. It was then that he caught sight of his face in the mirror behind the stacks of pyramided bottles. In a split second he sobered up completely.

What kind of god damned idiot was he? Good God, here it was the most important week in his life and he was standing at a public bar getting drunk. He should have been at the track. The last thing in the world he should have done was to have failed to follow the usual routine of his days.

Quickly he turned from the bar, not bothering to pick up his change. Well, it was too late now to make the track, but at least he would go out and get some food into his stomach and some hot coffee. Then he would go to a movie and take it easy. He fully realized how essential it was that he be completely sober before evening.

Tonight was the big meeting. And he, George, wanted to get there a little before the meeting. He wanted to talk to Johnny alone for a minute or two before the others arrived. He wanted to assure Johnny that they would have nothing to worry about as far as he, George, was concerned.

# # #

4

Watching her through half closed eyes as she lay back on the bed, her arms spread wide, her breasts slowly rising and falling with her deep breathing and the long lashes closed over her own eyes, he thought, my God, she’s really beautiful.

It was a nice thought.

He pulled deeply on the cigarette and then slowly exhaled, still looking at her through the veil of smoke.

His next thought wasn’t so nice.

A tramp. A god damned tramp. A push over. Jesus—it hadn’t taken an hour. Less than sixty minutes from the time she had walked through that door until they were in bed together.

That was the trouble. She was beautiful. She was a bum. He was nuts about her.

For a minute he wondered if he was blowing his top. Anybody had told him, Randy Kennan, that he could run into a girl, especially some other guy’s wife, talk to her for a few minutes, end up in bed with her and then convince himself he was half in love with her and he’d have said the guy was simply plain crazy.

Randy was a cop and he had the psychology of a cop. There were good women and bad women. This one there was no doubt at all about. She was bad.

And by God if he hadn’t gone and fallen for her—hook, line and sinker.

Maybe it was because he was bad, too.

Suddenly he threw the cigarette into the far corner of the room without bothering to butt it. It landed in a shower of sparks. He leaned down across her and found her slightly parted lips. They felt like crushed grapes under the pressure of his hungry mouth.

She didn’t open her eyes but in a moment she moaned slightly and then her arms went up and over his shoulders.

It was exactly five-fifteen when Randy finally got back into his clothes. He poked his head into the bathroom as he finished pulling on his coat.

“So I’ll call you tomorrow, honey,” he said. “Sorry I can’t wait now, but I just have to report in within the next fifteen minutes. If I don’t call in there’ll be hell to pay and I don’t want to call from here.”

“You run on,” Sherry told him. “I’ll be out of here in another ten minutes myself. I want to be back home anyway by the time George gets in tonight.”

She looked up from where she was kneeling, pulling on a shoe, and blew him a kiss across the top of her overturned palm. Randy twisted his mouth in a smile. And then he was gone.

Pulling on her second shoe, Sherry realized that she’d have to hurry if she was to keep her appointment with Val Cannon. She had arranged to meet him in a cocktail lounge on the upper East Side at exactly five-thirty. Val wouldn’t be inclined to wait if she was late.

Suddenly it occurred to her that she didn’t really care whether he waited or not.

There was a startled look on her face as the idea hit her. It was the first time in months that she had become even slightly indifferent to Val and to what Val might do.

And then her mind went back to Randy. Randy Kennan. A cop.

My God, what was wrong with her that she never seemed able to resist falling for heels? And there was no doubt about it; she had fallen for Randy. The thing had hit her as suddenly as it had hit him.

Putting on her lipstick in front of the bathroom mirror, she made no effort to hurry. If Val waited for her, well and good. If he didn’t, it wouldn’t make the slightest difference.

She then decided that even if he did wait, he would learn nothing further as far as the track stick-up was concerned. At the thought, she couldn’t help smiling. She had, in fact, learned nothing herself. She and that handsome six foot two Irishman had spent the afternoon discussing much more personal problems.

Carefully she wiped up after herself and dusted the powder off the washbasin. She threw several dirty pieces of kleenex into the toilet bowl and then flushed it.

She was careful to see that the door was left unlatched, as Randy had instructed her to do. The keys were lying on the table in the living room.

She took the elevator down to the ground floor and hurried from the building. Looking neither to right nor left, she started east.

George Peatty, stepping from the curb on the opposite side of the street, suddenly stopped with one foot in mid-air. His face became deathly pale and for a moment he thought he might faint. And then, like a man in a slow motion picture, his foot again found the ground and he stepped back on the curb.

As he slowly followed his wife from a half a block’s distance, there was but a single thought in his shocked mind.

“So that was why Johnny didn’t beat her up.”

He would have followed her into the subway, but he had to duck into a nearby doorway instead. The tears were running down his face and people were beginning to look at him. Even George himself didn’t know whether it was self-pity or hatred which caused those tears.

# # #

Tune in next week for the next chapter of Clean Break!

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