Chapter 11
The next day he checked out of the Hotel Metropole and moved in. Carola didn't put the idea in so many words-she never put any kind of an idea in so many words-but it was her idea as much as it was his, just the same. He thought of putting the cash in a bank under the name he had given at the hotel, Robert Simson of Muscatine, Iowa, but that was too dangerous. There was always the chance there was a record of the serial numbers, although he had examined the bills carefully and they were not consecutive. He finally bought a small strongbox, kept it locked and his suitcase always locked, and never let Carola know that he kept any money there. What she didn't know didn't hurt her.
The second day he bought her a mink cape, although he couldn't see why the hell anybody should want fur in April but she wanted it all right, although she said she couldn't accept it. It made a hell of a hole in the money he had stashed, but there was always more where that money came from, and, with the necklace and the fur cape, he had Carola just about where he wanted her. She still tried to put on the great-lady act with him, and put up a show of sharing all expenses equally in the apartment, but it was only a show.
So this was the little babe who always gave him the brush-off. He would think about it, when he was talking to her, or when he had her in bed, and it gave him a good little feeling. It was an achievement, to have overcome her, subdued her, and it didn't matter a damn to him how he had done it. She was his, he was the boss, and she had better not forget it. And she didn't forget it, either, for all that bull about sharing everything equally, and all that bull about how she loved him. He guessed every woman in a spot like this had to cover it up with that bull about love; but it wasn't love that he wanted and it was not love that she gave him.
He had to keep up a front of his own, too. He didn't want her getting suspicious. Not at this point, anyway. He still had that gag about the plumbing business to keep up. So he generally left in the mornings and came back in the evenings, picked her up at the Rococo Room or sometimes waited for her in the apartment. Where he generally went was to the races or the movies or just bummed around. One day at noon he bumped into her on Sixth Avenue and she gave him that quick suspicious glitter in her eyes.
"Did you move the plumbing business to Times Square?" she asked.
"Not so you could notice it," he said.
"Maybe there isn't any plumbing business."
"Don't be silly," he said.
He took her to lunch and they didn't mention it anymore. But he wondered if she knew anything. Yet how in hell could she know anything? She might have bumped into the Mauser in his coat pocket some time or another, but even that wouldn't tell her anything for sure. All kinds of people packed guns now and then. Bankers, even. Maybe even successful master plumbers. But she didn't say anything like that again, and as for him, well, he was on his guard. He was always on his guard, at all times, from every quarter.
He was spending a lot of money. On himself. On Carola. On just putting up the front he wanted to put up. She kept asking him about the Cad, and finally he bought one, second hand. He told her he'd had to trade the other one, but he paid cash for it. He didn't want any hot cars in his hands, just now. Better to pay for it, but it made a hell of a hole in the money he had left.
April became May and May became June and then July. The hot New York weather settled down and it was really summer. It was sultry, restless weather and Sal felt sultry, and restless, too. He got nervous and irritable, and he didn't like himself too much these days. Carola noticed it, too.
"What's the matter with you?" she asked. "You're jumpy."
"I'm always jumpy," he said. "I was born jumpy."
"Not like you've been lately," she said.
"I don't know. Maybe it's the weather."
"Maybe it's something else," she said. They were having coffee in the apartment, about four in the morning, as usual, with all the windows open although there was no air stirring and it didn't make a damn bit of difference whether they were open or not.
"All right," he said. "Maybe it's something else."
They went to bed, but he was still jumpy. He got up after she was asleep, prowled around the apartment, smoking cigarette after cigarette, drinking more coffee, going to the window and looking down into Sixty-eighth Street which, at this time of the morning, didn't have much to look at anyhow.
Carola was one of the reasons he was jumpy. Maybe the main reason. What in hell was it? There was something more he wanted. What the hell was it? He didn't know. There was something more he wanted of her, but he didn't know what it could be. He already had everything there was. He had done the primal thing to her that he knew, and yet somewhere there was something else he wanted to do to her. Some other primal thing.
He ground out his cigarette, threw the stub into the wastebasket, and walked softly to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at Carola. She moved slightly in her sleep, the lower lip twitching, an arm flung suddenly outward so that it hit him in the face. It was not hard enough to hurt, but it stung, surprised, angered him. Suddenly he was on his knees on the bed, his fingers pressed against her throat.
"Sal! Sal! Stop!" Her eyes were open, wide, frightened. He let the fingers relax, sat on the edge of his bed in his pajamas, his head in his hands. She sat up.
"What's the matter with you, Sal?"
His breath was short and he could hear the razor edge in his own voice. "I don't know," he said. "I was having a nightmare."
She felt her throat, "That hurt, Sal. That really hurt."
"I guess it did. I'm sorry."
"I told you, you were getting jumpy. Now you get a glass of milk and try to go back to sleep, Sal."
"All right." He got a glass of milk and lay down beside her. In ten minutes she was asleep, but he was still lying there staring at the ceiling. He got out of bed again and began prowling around the apartment. What the hell was the matter with him, anyway? Nervous as a cat. He went to the bedroom door again, but he was afraid to stand there looking at her. He shut the door very quietly.
He made some coffee and he felt a little better but not much.
He sat in a chintz-covered chair-the kind of junk Carola had all over the place-and looked out into Sixty-eighth Street, watching it come to life. There was a taxi pulled up at the place opposite and a little old lady tottered out and got into it, followed by a nurse. Sal looked at his watch; it was five-thirty, a hell of a time to be going to a hospital, which was probably where the little old lady was going. Memorial Hospital was just a few blocks down, and, beyond that, New York Hospital. The taxi took off with the little old lady sitting straight and prim on the back seat. Sal could almost see the firm set of the little old lady's jaw. Memorial Hospital? He hoped it wasn't that. A bullet between the eyes would be a lot better than that. Well, what the hell was a little old lady to him? What the hell was the difference to him whether she had cancer, angina pectoris, gout, or a bullet between the eyes?
He got up, prowled around the room again, got his suit quietly out of a closet in the bedroom, laid it on the sofa. He got his shoes, socks, shirt, everything, laid them all out. He took the clippings out of his wallet and read the story about Rosa del Valle over again. It gave the address where she lived with her family in North Newark. Four eighty-four Mount Hope Avenue. He knew about where it was; he saw it in his mind's eye, saw the old-fashioned white frame houses set far back from the street, the white houses with green trims, the leafing trees of April, the bright April lawns, here and there a hedge, here and there a picket fence, white against new green spring lawn and the green shrubbery. Four eighty-four Mount Hope Avenue. He could almost see the house itself. Then he thought of the place he had lived as a kid, farther down toward the Passaic River, an apartment over a store, no lawn, just the sidewalk in front and down in back a weed-grown lot filled with cans, old stoves, junk, and beyond the lot the Erie Railroad tracks.
Four eighty-four Mount Hope Avenue ... He put the clippings back, the wallet back, and got dressed. He looked like what a successful head of a big plumbing company ought to look like. Well, what the hell, a little, anyway. Close enough.
He went north and crossed the George Washington Bridge, and although it was early morning yet and the great river flowed beneath him, and there were masses of green on the New York side and other masses of green on the Jersey side, still there was no freshness: the river looked hot, the green looked hot, the sky looked hot. He drove roundabout in New Jersey, not caring a hell of a lot where he was going or when he got there, but at last ended up in North Newark. He parked the Cad out of sight behind the diner. It was five minutes past eight.
Sal sat down on a stool and looked at the little old guy eating his oatmeal. Then he looked at Wally Winter.
"What'll it be?" Wally asked. "Same as usual?" There was nothing in his expression to show that he knew Sal hadn't been around for months. Well, Wall Winter was that kind of a guy.
Sal lighted a Camel and sat waiting for his breakfast. When it came out on the platter, sizzling hot, he put out his cigarette and said: "Long time no see."
"Yup," said Wally. "That's right."
"You seen any of the kids around lately?"
Wally looked at him for a moment, and then he said, "Not lately. You mean guys like Pee Wee Schoenfeld and Pete Koscki?"
"Yeh. Guys like that."
"I ain't seen them lately," said Wally. "There was a holdup out here, I don't know if you remember-" Wally Winter's eyes were looking out at a Number 13 bus which had stopped just beyond the Erie overhead-"and after the holdup I heard the cops picked up Shoney and Pete Koscki. Turned 'em loose, though. Didn't have nothing on them, I guess. But I ain't seen them since then."
"Yeh?" Sal said. He saw Wally's bleak gaze rove around the inside of the diner and then rest on him. The gaze told him that Wally knew that the cops had picked up Sal, too, but the bleak gaze also told him there was no comment. Well, Wally Winter had been around long enough.
"Only one of the guys you know I can think of is still around is Squarehead Johanson. He's still around. Got a job swamping at Pop Venizia's joint."
"Yeh?" Sal answered. Then he spent the rest of his meal thinking, planning, deciding how he could fit Squarehead into his schemes.
As he left Wally's diner, he thought that before he did anything he wanted to fit some pussy into his schemes. It had been too long since he had been laid last.
After having fucked Carola in the ass so many times, he was beginning to yearn for some good pussy for a change. And the best pussy he knew about was Patricia. Before going to see Squarehead, he knew he just had to try for a quick fuck at Patricia's place.
When he got there, he found the front door open. He jauntily walked inside and was just about to call out her name when he heard a familiar rhythmic grunting sound coming from her bedroom.
Quietly, Sal walked up to her door and opened it just a crack. When he looked inside, he was treated to the sight of Patricia on all fours on her bed giving some young guy an intense blow job.
Feeling his cock go hard instantly, Sal decided on a plan of action. Ripping off his clothes, he walked into Patricia's room with his dick sticking up hard and thick. He saw the young woman's eyes bulge out when she saw him enter the room, but Sal motioned for her not to stop, that everything would be all right.
The young man with Patricia had his eyes locked tight, concentrating on the wonderful suck job that he was getting. His hips were moving swiftly back and forth, and the whole bed was shaking. But Patricia managed to keep her lips locked tightly on his slippery cock.
Sal quietly slipped up onto the bed and took up a place behind Patricia. He watched delightedly as her hips moved from side to side. Her pussy was exceedingly wet, and juices were leaking out down her thighs. Gripping one of her asscheeks in each hand, Sal moved in between her legs, preparing to fuck her dog-style.
Just then, the guy Patricia was blowing opened his eyes and stared with shock at the naked man about to fuck his lover from behind.
"W-what are yyyou doing here?" he asked, his voice quivering with both fear and impending orgasm.
"Don't worry about it, buddy. Just let the little lady keep sucking and you'll be that much better off. Understand?"
"S-ssure," he answered.
It took a few moments for him to get back into the groove, but when he did the young man was fucking into Patricia's face with renewed fervor.
Returning to the object of his desire, Sal lunged forward and eased the tip of his cock into Patricia's wet cunt. He felt her quiver all over as he entered her. She moaned onto the cock trapped into her mouth, causing her young friend to twitch almost out of control.
Sal was the strongest of the three, and when he began pumping into Patricia's cunt, he destroyed the rhythm of her blow job. But Sal was patient, and it wasn't long before the three of them had successfully orchestrated their menage a trois.
"Now that's what I call fucking," Sal gasped, "and sucking!"
Each time Sal humped up into Patricia's pussy, she moved forward and took in the full length of her young lover's cock into her mouth. And when Sal pulled back, she allowed the young man in front of her to withdraw his penis, also. The three of them worked in a perfect flowing motion like this until it became too much for the young man to take.
"I'm coming!" he shouted, gripping the back of Patricia's head and pounding his hips into her face. "Oh, damn, it feels too good!"
Sal watched, thoroughly turned on, as the young man shot his cream into Patricia's mouth. His load of jizm was too much for her to take, and before long, strands of the white sticky stuff were leaking out of her mouth, dangling from her chin.
When the young man fell back exhausted and spent, Sal picked up the slack and began fucking into Patricia with all his strength.
"Harder!" she whimpered, her voice thick with gooey sperm. "Fuck me harder!"
Gripping her sides intensely, gouging his fingers into her ribs, Sal gave her what he thought she wanted, and then some. Each time he smacked into her cunt, driving his cock in balls-deep, a loud slapping sound filled the room. They were both growing very sweaty and their bodies were slick, the sweat highlighting their rippling muscles and grimacing faces.
"Ohhh, shoot it!" she cried. "I want to feel your cum inside me! Shoot it!"
With his cheek pressed hard against her shoulder blade, Sal held on while he spurted his cum into her clenching pussy. He struggled to keep his shooting cock inside her until he had emptied his balls.
Then he fell to the side, exhausted. When his cock slipped out of Patricia's cunt, a long string of jizm came with it, tangling up in her thighs and legs, trailing finally across her ankles.
"Damn, that was good," Sal gasped. "So fucking good."
At the other end of the bed, the young man whom Patricia had sucked off was still trying to catch his breath. Tapping him gently on the shoulder, Patricia said, "Jimmy, I think you better leave now. I want to say something to Sal in private. Okay?"
"Sure," the young man said, and just like that he was gone.
Patricia returned to Sal and put her arms around him. Kissing him on the cheek, while inhaling the musky odor of his body, she said, "Even though I had two of you, I still didn't get to come."
"Oh, is that right?" Sal said. "Well, let's see if we can't fix that, all right?"
Patricia giggled while Sal tossed her over onto her belly. And her giggles soon turned to loud sighs of pleasure as Sal fucked her in the ass until she came three times.
On his way down the street toward Pop Venizia's place, Sal happened to go by the church. Father Callaghan was outside talking with a crowd of small children.
"Sal! Sal!" Father Callaghan called out. "I haven't seen you for a long time. Come on over here and talk to me for a while. To me and the children."
Sal obliged, trying as best he could to restrain his anxiety. He wanted to get out of there as soon as he could, but knew in order to save face he would have to stay and talk to the priest.
They exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and Sal even went so far as to tousle the hair of one of the little boys, playing with him cheerfully. But when a police car drove by, Sal was suddenly reminded of his plans. He had to get over to Pop's and talk with Squarehead as soon as possible.
"Well, Father, it's been nice seeing you again," Sal announced. "But I gotta be goin' now."
"Fine, my son," the priest answered. "But why don't you go in and pray for a while? It'll do you good, don't you think?"
"Sure, Father, whatever you say," Sal mumbled. Reluctantly, he walked into the church and went through the motions. Then he charged out the side door of the church as fast as he could.
A few minutes later he was talking with Squarehead Johanson. And when Sal revealed his latest plan, Squarehead's eyes lit up and he smiled broadly.
"This sounds great, Sal," Squarehead said. "You know, I'm still on probation, and if I didn't think this plan was foolproof I wouldn't chance it. But this is great, Sal. You're a damn genius."
Sal beamed with pride. Yeh, he had always thought that about himself. The perfect plan. He thought he had finally done it. This was going to be big money. The last holdup was just practice for this one. And he knew that in Squarehead Johanson. he had a worthy accomplice. Shoney and Koscki were big risks compared to Squarehead.
Two nights later, Squarehead and Sal met in an alley two blocks down the street from the church. There was no moon that night, something Sal had considered. And there was also going to be a transfer of money that night, something else Sal had considered.
The two young men were busy loading their guns behind a large dumpster. And right next to them was one of the biggest clothing factories in the city. It just so happened that this time once a month an armored car drove up to this factory, the last stop on its run, to pick up cash that would be deposited in a local bank.
Sal knew that since this was the last stop of the night the men in the armored car were tired and hungry and were apt to be off their guard. Smiling wickedly while thinking about how flawless his plan was, how intricate and devious, he turned to Squarehead and said, "You ready? Truck's gonna be here in five minutes."
"Ready as I'll ever be," Squarehead answered. Then they slapped palms and shook hands one last time.
When the truck arrived, Sal and Squarehead ran out from their hiding places and took up positions near the street. They could see everything, and they waited with bated breath and pounding hearts until bags of cash and change were brought out of the building. Right before the guard closed the back of the truck, Sal and Squarehead leaped out with guns drawn.
"Okay," Sal commanded, "we're taking over."
Squarehead held the door open while Sal pointed his gun inside the truck. The guard quivered, unsure what his next move would be.
Then a shotgun blast lit up the street. Squarehead fell to the pavement, a gaping hole in his chest. The guard up front had fired the shotgun after jumping out of the cab.
Sal panicked. Seeing his friend dead on the street caused him to react irrationally. He stuck out his gun and pulled back the trigger, intending to shoot the guard who was in the back of the truck. But when he heard the guard with the shotgun coming around toward him, Sal recovered his senses. Grabbing the guard out of the truck, Sal hooked his arm under the man's chin and pressed his forearm hard into the guard's throat. Holding his gun to the guard's temple, Sal backed away toward the alley, just when the other guard came around the side of the truck brandishing his shotgun.
"Drop it or your buddy gets it," Sal said coolly. "I said drop it!"
Reluctantly, the second guard tossed his shotgun to the ground. It clattered right next to Squarehead's bloody body. By this time, some people had arrived and were looking on from the doorways of the buildings up and down the street. Realizing that he had an audience, Sal began acting his role to the hilt, trying to prove to everyone in the neighborhood just what a man he was.
While Sal dragged his hostage down the street slowly, the young man could see a man running down the street toward them. As the man drew closer, Sal saw that it was Father Callaghan. For some reason, Sal panicked again. Looking around, he saw that he really didn't have anywhere to go. His hostage was essentially useless to him.
"Stop, Sal! Don't!" the priest cried out.
Sal felt like his world was closing in on him, and the only thing he wanted to do was get out of there fast. Pushing the hostage guard away, he tried to make a run for it. When the guard came after him, struggling to get his pistol out of his holster, Sal fired and sent the man reeling into the street.
Then he started running blindly, on impulse, hoping his instincts would get him through this one.
Sal was captured a few hours later just before he reached Carola's apartment. Five squad cars were on the scene in seconds, and Sal was apprehended quickly and violently. Hearing the commotion down in the street, Carola came running out of her apartment. She arrived just as Sal was being slammed into the back seat of a police car, his arms handcuffed behind him and his head bruised and bloody.
"Oh, Sal!" she yelled. "What have they done to you?"
Despite his battered appearance, Sal looked up at her and grinned defiantly.
"Don't worry, honey," he said. "I'll be back. They might throw the book at me, but there's always parole. You just wait, baby, and I'll be back for you."
Sal was still smiling when the police officer slammed the door in his face. As the squad car streamed off down the street, fighting its way through the crowd of curious onlookers, Carola began weeping.
But somehow she knew that Sal had been telling the truth. Intuitively, she knew that he knew something that the police didn't.
She knew that he would be back, true to his word.