Chapter 1

Three hundred and fifty five dollars! Hardly a princely sum in a nation as rich as the U.S. Yet men have been killed, in fact, will be killed, for much less than that. Mothers have sold their flesh and blood for fewer dollars. Children have turned their parents in as criminals for a fraction of that much money. Soldiers and diplomats have even betrayed their nation's secrets for less.

All these less-than-reassuring notions had filled the thoughts of Carla Jones for nearly an hour now, ever since that phone call interrupted a Gunsmoke rerun on the television. She had guessed it was Clark, calling to tell her that he would be late again, or really, later than usual, as her husband never managed to pull himself away from the work at the office before eight or nine in the evening. But it wasn't Clark. It wasn't Sandy, her best friend, her ex-college roommate and trusted confidant, making her nightly or so call just to gossip and compare miseries from their respective dull marriages. In fact, it wasn't anyone she would ever have guessed. Not even someone she really knew, except from one brief introduction at the Shangri-La Inn where she and Sandy played bridge with some other Coral Gables housewives on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

His name was Stu Watson and he was not the sort of individual you wanted to cross. He had a face like some character Carla remembered from a gangster movie she'd seen on the late show once when Clark was working later than usual, and it was pretty widely rumored that Watson's friends included some of the west coast's biggest underworld figures and that, just maybe, he was involved somehow in the rackets himself. All in all, not the kind of guy to talk back to. So when his raspy voice came over the line so suddenly, full of veiled threats and hints of worse things to come, Carla had listened and uttered not a word of rebuttal.

Not that she had any real grounds to protest. Stu Watson was right enough, she did owe three-hundred and fifty dollars to the Shangri-La Bridge Club, her accumulated losses from six trips down to the beachside resort club that June Botts had invited her to join just over a year ago. June was Watson's girlfriend now, though things weren't so cozy when Carla first joined the group. Then, June was married to Tom Botts, the night manager at the Shangri-La, and running the bridge club was just a sideline. Fourteen months later, Tom was gone, and Stu was the new love interest in the brassy blonde's active life. Some people, the more gossipy ones, conjectured that Tom might have killed himself when he found out what everybody else had known for months that his wife was having an affair with the Inn's manager behind his back. That maybe he just walked into the Atlantic one night and ended all his pain once and for all. But that was all just talk.

Tom was gone, though. Vanished overnight just after he had his big dramatic scene with June in the lobby at the Shangri-La. And now June was a permanent fixture in Stu Watson's tenth floor luxury suite.

But the moneywhat could she do? She had to pay it, certainly, but how could she come up with that sort of money all at once? Clark's earnings were enough to keep them well fed and make all the payments on time, but there wasn't any left over. Not this month, for sure, as the car insurance had to be paid for another half-year and Clark was already worrying about where they'd find enough to buy groceries. And besides all that, Clark Would go straight through the roof like a rifle shot if he found out about this. His family were all Bible Belt fundamentalists, and though he was not nearly so conservative as his brothers and sisters, he had little use for her dallying in the card lounge at the Shangri-La, especially when there was money changing hands. She had never even told him that she was behind in paying this gambling debt, as it would have been the end of their marriage if he heard how much she owed.

And that was why Watson's call frightened her so much. She was not afraid for her life, not fearful of being beaten up like some gangster's moll in a thirties movie. Carla knew that sort of thing had ended with prohibition. Like the man said, " ... we only kill each other." But the underworld had other ways, blackmail and extortion being a couple of notables, and that was hitting closer to home. Stu Watson was just the sort of unsavory character who would not hesitate to go straight to her husband if need be to collect his money.

Carla picked up the phone, brushing the long black hair from her face as she dialed her best friend's number. Only then did she notice that her hand was shaking like a drunk's on the morning after. It seemed to ring an interminably long while before she heard a click on the other end as Sandy Liebt picked up her white Princess phone a few miles away in North Miami.

"Hello."

"Sandy, hi, this is Carla," she began hurriedly. "Listen, I've got a problem. And a real biggie this time."

"All right, shoot. We've weathered some pretty nasty ones before between the two of us, so it won't be anything new."

Carla bit her bottom lip absent-mindedly, trying to pick her words. Sandy was fond of their afternoons at the Shangri-La also, but she did not owe them any money. "Stu Watson called about the money," she blurted, coming straight to the point. "He said he's waited long enough and he can't let me have any more time to get it together. I've got until tomorrow or ... or he's going to talk to Clark. And you know what that means."

"Yeah, all hell'll break loose. How much is it, anyway?"

"Three hundred and fifty."

"Whooee, that's a lot of bread! I had no idea it was that much. You got any ideas on how to get it by tomorrow?"

"No, not a one. I haven't got a cent and there's nobody who could lend it to me on such short notice." There was a long pause on the North Miami end of the telephone lines. "Tell ya what, Carla, let the old pro sleep on it and I'll come over in the morning after Clark's gone to work. Maybe we can go see Stu Watson together, sort of gang up on him."

"Oh really, Sandy, do you mean that?" bubbled Carla excitedly. "That would be just great! I mean, you're always so good at handling people and I'm just hopeless. I don't know how to thank you. See you tomorrow, and thanks again!"

Carla replaced the receiver in its cradle and flopped onto the nearest soft chair, feeling almost human again for the first time since Watson called earlier this evening. Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad after all, she told herself. Now, all I have to do is keep from blurting any of this to Clark when he comes and I'm set ... Sandy, old pal, what would I do without you?