the journey back to the bathroom, when a thought slid slyly into his mind. Picking up his discarded trousers he fumbled for the small set of keys left carelessly in a pocket. Finding them, he pulled the tan Revelation from the wardrobe, unlocked it and unzipped the special compartment built into the lid. Slipping his hand into the cavity, Boysie pulled out the small pearl-handled automatic pistol and checked its mechanism. It was a pistol which could in no circumstances be regarded as heavy artillery—a Saur & Sohn Type IA adapted for .22 ammunition—but it always gave him that smug feeling of satisfaction; an added sense of superiority and power. He carried it quite illegally; and, while Mostyn would have had a dozen fits—in variegated colours—had he known that Boysie even possessed such a weapon, its psychological value paid off dividends of colossal proportions. The pistol was loaded. The safety catch on. Boysie smiled and carried the gun into the bathroom. He would keep it handy, he resolved, for the rest of this American jaunt.
*
Cirio was tall with full undulating grey hair which seemed to set a standard colour to his personality. By birth he was Italian, though it was many years since he had seen the terraced vineyards around his family’s home near Castel San Pietro. By trade he was a restaurateur: owner and manager of the Club Fondante — a medium-class nightspot in the East 70s. By profession, Cirio was a Communist.
Cirio sat at his desk in the back room office at the Club Fondante , the long square-tipped nails of his right-hand fingers drumming an agitated tattoo on the stained woodwork. To his left, the strong-arm boys who had called on Boysie earlier that evening were seated side by side. The one with the scar below his eye was quietly picking his teeth with his free hand—the right arm hung interestingly in a sling; the other merely looked into space, as though locked in some private, and ghoulish, nightmare.
Across the desk from Cirio, a man in his late thirties was engrossed in lighting a cigar. He was a person who radiated authority—expensive authority, and, as he drew on his cigar, he looked up at Cirio with steel-grey eyes which cut into the Italian like an oxyacetylene lamp burning into soft metal.
“ You are a lot of goddam prissy bastards,” announced the steel-eyed man with feeling.
“ Look, Ritzy, the boys did their best. We’re sorry, but it just couldn’t be helped.”
“ Damn broad turned up and started screaming her lousy little head off,” muttered the hood with the scar.
“ Their best ain’t enough. They gotta do better than their best.” Ritzy spoke with the chill of a deep freeze—outside, at the North Pole. “Now, I suppose, you bums expect me to get ya out of the mess.”
Cirio did not answer. Ritzy spoke again: “Look, howdya think I feel? This organisation is expected ta carry out assault operations. That’s its function—its purpose. We’re all paid good money—good American dollars—because we’re supposed to be professional men. We’re supposed to be proficient. Get me? Ya do know what proficient means?” Once more nobody spoke. “I got six assault groups working under me in this city alone. And I choose you boys ‘cause I reckon you’re the best in the business. What are the contractors goin’ ta say ta me when they find that we loused up the deal? Waddam I goin’ to say to them? Goddam it, Cirio…”
The telephone burred out its alarm. Cirio spoke into the mouthpiece:
“ Yea? ... He is? ... OK, just stay there and watch ... Good boy, you’re doin’ a swell job.”
Ritzy looked questioningly.
“ Young Skull Face,” said Cirio. “The subject’s returned to his hotel. Said goodnight to the broad outside Saks. Necking like crazy the kid says.”
“ Sexy bastards, the English!” spat Ritzy. “OK. We can’t get him outa there. So he’s gotta be eliminated. So there’ll have ta be an accident. I wanted t’avoid it but ... Gimme
*
Cirio was tall with full undulating grey hair which seemed to set a standard colour to his personality. By birth he was Italian, though it was many years since he had seen the terraced vineyards around his family’s home near Castel San Pietro. By trade he was a restaurateur: owner and manager of the Club Fondante — a medium-class nightspot in the East 70s. By profession, Cirio was a Communist.
Cirio sat at his desk in the back room office at the Club Fondante , the long square-tipped nails of his right-hand fingers drumming an agitated tattoo on the stained woodwork. To his left, the strong-arm boys who had called on Boysie earlier that evening were seated side by side. The one with the scar below his eye was quietly picking his teeth with his free hand—the right arm hung interestingly in a sling; the other merely looked into space, as though locked in some private, and ghoulish, nightmare.
Across the desk from Cirio, a man in his late thirties was engrossed in lighting a cigar. He was a person who radiated authority—expensive authority, and, as he drew on his cigar, he looked up at Cirio with steel-grey eyes which cut into the Italian like an oxyacetylene lamp burning into soft metal.
“ You are a lot of goddam prissy bastards,” announced the steel-eyed man with feeling.
“ Look, Ritzy, the boys did their best. We’re sorry, but it just couldn’t be helped.”
“ Damn broad turned up and started screaming her lousy little head off,” muttered the hood with the scar.
“ Their best ain’t enough. They gotta do better than their best.” Ritzy spoke with the chill of a deep freeze—outside, at the North Pole. “Now, I suppose, you bums expect me to get ya out of the mess.”
Cirio did not answer. Ritzy spoke again: “Look, howdya think I feel? This organisation is expected ta carry out assault operations. That’s its function—its purpose. We’re all paid good money—good American dollars—because we’re supposed to be professional men. We’re supposed to be proficient. Get me? Ya do know what proficient means?” Once more nobody spoke. “I got six assault groups working under me in this city alone. And I choose you boys ‘cause I reckon you’re the best in the business. What are the contractors goin’ ta say ta me when they find that we loused up the deal? Waddam I goin’ to say to them? Goddam it, Cirio…”
The telephone burred out its alarm. Cirio spoke into the mouthpiece:
“ Yea? ... He is? ... OK, just stay there and watch ... Good boy, you’re doin’ a swell job.”
Ritzy looked questioningly.
“ Young Skull Face,” said Cirio. “The subject’s returned to his hotel. Said goodnight to the broad outside Saks. Necking like crazy the kid says.”
“ Sexy bastards, the English!” spat Ritzy. “OK. We can’t get him outa there. So he’s gotta be eliminated. So there’ll have ta be an accident. I wanted t’avoid it but ... Gimme
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