Chapter 5

It was time to make a report. Jim Collitch took out his wallet and removed a two-inch square of white paper. On that paper was written only a date. That date was a week more than four months ago.

Yes, he'd report today.

He tore up the square of paper and dropped the pieces into the wastebasket beside his desk. From one of the drawers he took out a blank sheet of paper and tore off another square exactly like the first. On that square he wrote the present date, folded it, and put it in his wallet in place of the old square.

In the bedroom of his apartment he selected his clothes with care. He chose the cheap dark suit that didn't quite fit, a plain, white cotton shirt with button cuffs, and a dark knit tie which neither blended nor contrasted with the suit. The socks he took out of the drawer were of still a third dark shade and the shoes he chose were brown, worn at the heels, and in need of a shine. The hat he took out of the closet matched the tie instead of the suit.

Dressed, he transferred his wallet and keys and loose change to the pockets of the suit. He shoved a fresh pack of cigarettes into the handkerchief pocket of the jacket and dropped a heavy lighter into the side pocket to distort the drape of the cheap poorly-fitted garment.

He checked his appearance in the mirror and made only one minor adjustment, setting the hat back farther on his head to show a little too much forehead. He seemed to carry himself differently now, too. And he took a couple of trial steps before the mirror.

His walk was heavier and he rolled slightly from side to side with each step. Satisfied at last, he left the apartment. In the street, he turned and walked to the furtherest corner, and went down into the maw of the subway.

There was nothing really different about him nothing specific. But in some subtle way he'd undergone a complete transformation. He seemed broader, beefier. There was a suggestion of a double chin and a redness about his face.

So complete was the transformation that only the closest acquaintance would recognize him. And even then, in a crowd, or at a quick glance, there was a good chance he would go undetected.

It was mid-afternoon and the subway trains and platforms were neither too crowded nor too empty. Most of the passengers were women shoppers. Collitch changed trains three times on the short ride uptown. Each time he got off one train and waited on the same platform for the next train. By the time he reached midtown he was certain there was no one following him. He'd been almost certain of that fact even before he left his apartment but there was no reason not to be careful.

In the midtown area he walked around until he found a luncheonette in the arcade of one of the big office buildings. He had a sandwich and a cup of coffee there, taking his time over a cigarette and the last of the coffee. Then he paid his bill and walked directly to the bank of telephone booths.

All the booths were occupied and he had to wait until one chattering woman finished describing bargains to someone on the other end of the line. She ran out of change before she finished her conversation, opened the booth door, and looked up at him.

"Have you got two nickels for a dime?" she asked in a whiny voice.

"No," he snapped.

Leaving the door still opened the woman put the receiver back to her ear and shrilled into the mouthpiece, "I got to go, Janice. I got no more nickels. I'll call you when I get home."

She hung up, squeezed herself and all her packages out of the booth, and threw Jim a nasty sneer. He gave it right back to her and stepped into the vacated booth. She stood beside the door until she heard him drop the two nickels into the slot, then walked away in a huff.

Jim Collitch dialed a memorized phone number, let it ring twice, hung up and dialed the same number again. This time he let it ring until it was answered.

The voice at the other end said only, "Go ahead."

"I want to make a report," Jim said.

"What was the date of your last report?"

Jim gave it.

"Wait."

Jim waited. He knew the date he'd given would serve both to identify him and to verify his identity. In short time the voice was back.

"Routine?"

"Routine."

"Where and when?"

"I'm downstairs now. Are you clear up there?"

"No. Do you know the Columbia Theater? It's one of those grind houses on Forty-second Street. They show nudist movies and barely legal foreign films."

"I can find it."

"Twenty minutes. First balcony, center aisle, fourth row left side. There'll be a hat on the second seat. You'll ask if it belongs to me. I'll say no. You'll pick it up and try it on for fit."

"I've got it"

"Twenty minutes."

"Right."

Jim broke the connection and left the phone booth. He was only one block away from the meeting place and killed the time looking at pictures of nude women which were offered for sale in a bookstore. He leafed slowly through the packets, came across one that was vaguely familiar, and looked harder.

He was surprised, almost shocked, when he recognized Francie Jordan. He bought that packet and dropped it into his pocket. There was no time to look at it now.

The rendezvous went off smoothly, both sign and counter-sign. And they were virtually alone. The nearest person was five rows back and four seats over closer to the center of the section.

Jim put the hat down on the floor and slipped into the second seat.

"Take it easy with that hat," the man beside him said. "It's my own."

"Be a sport," Jim cracked. "Buy yourself a new one. Put it on the account."

"This is not the time for banter," the other man said, his voice cold, and low, and sharp. "You've got a report to make."

"Right. Sorry."

"Get on with it."

"I'm making progress slowly, as ordered. And it's not hard at all. I don't even have to hold back. Some of the competition is very good. At the present rate I should make the inner circle in about six months."

"That's fine. Just about perfect, in fact. There's a major upheaval on the way. It should occur around then. Did you pick up any tips?"

"Nothing at all. These are bigger fish up here. They don't do as much loose talking as the small fry. There's one thing, though. I'm not sure of it yet and I'm not even sure it's the kind of thing you're interested in."

"Well decide that. What is it?"

"I may have a connection into the picture racket. It's only a possible."

"How'd you make the connection?"

"A girl I met about seven months ago. Strictly a social contact. She told me she was a model. I just discovered what she modeled for."

"What?"

"Those packets of photos they sell in the bookstores along the street. That might be all or there might be more. You interested?"

"Does it interfere with the other things?"

"Not at all. i gave her the writer routine and she swallowed it."

"How sure of her are you?"

"Completely I followed her into a movie, watched her for an hour, then picked her up."

"All right," the other man said. "See where it leads."

"What about combining the two things."

"How?"

"I'll let her find out I'm a gambler. If she's really involved in the worst stuff she'll be more disposed toward reciprocating my confidence with one of her own."

The other man thought for a minute. "No. It's too risky. It might reach the point where she'd want to meet some of the others and there'd be no easy way for you to refuse "

"All right then, I'll need some things."

"What kinds of things?"

"I'll want a fairly diversified assortment of material. Movies, books, slides, the works. She can discover them in my place and we'll see where that leads."

"The idea is good but we can't supply."

"Why not?"

"She might want names of salesmen. And she might do some checking. Best we can do is an address where you can buy whatever you need, just like any other jerk off the street."

"Whose money do I spend?"

"Whose have you got?"

"My own."

"Exactly. You'll have the address by tomorrow afternoon. Anything else?"

"Nothing right now. If anything comes up I can always make an emergency report."

"Look, on this picture business."

"Yes?"

"Don't push it. It's not that important. I'm giving you the okay on my own hook. We might get a veto from higher up. Move slowly so you can break off if the veto does come down."

"Right."

Without another word the man sitting in the aisle seat, got up and left. Jim remained in his seat and for the first time focused his attention on the screen. The picture was in Technicolor and appeared to have been filmed by a nervous cameraman using a hand-held camera. The giant screen was filled with naked bosoms and heaving buttocks as a group of far-too-pretty young women faked a volleyball game in a nudist camp setting.

There was no dialogue to the picture, only narration. But Jim knew he had to stay for the rest of that picture and all of the co-feature. He slumped lower in the uncomfortable balcony seat and let his eyes unfocus. There was nothing really worth watching.

Jim Collitch lived a double life. Primarily, almost totally, he was a gambler. The other side of his existence only came into being four or five times a year, at most. The gambling side of him has already been seen. This other side bears some explanation.

Many years ago someone, somewhere in the vast bureaucracy of the federal government, discovered the advantage of having a friend in the enemy camp. This was a fact that had long been known to the bureaucrats of the major foreign powers.

This country entered that aspect of international politics somewhat late in life and has always made a decidedly poor showing in the world of spies and counter-spies. But, we make the effort. And sometimes, though not usually, those efforts bear fruit. The particular department which controls those fruits is known throughout the world.

Despite our singular lack of success the principle is sound At another time another bureaucrat in another place donned his thinking cap and pondered this and several related problems. He ascribed our lack of success to the fame of the department and to our seeming inability to identify our true enemies.

These conclusions called for action. First, the famous department known only by its initials, was allowed to continue operations in the same bungling manner and at considerable expense to the taxpayer. Second, another organization was formed. This one was highly secret. Outside of the members themselves, of which there are relatively few, only half a dozen men in the world are aware of its existence. This organization is so secret it doesn't even have a name. How could it ever become famous without a name? Therefore, it is highly effective, though the results it achieves are always ascribed to other departments ... well-known departments.

Sometime after this nameless organization was formed one of the six non-members who knew of it he was then the President of the United States made some further decisions. He decided, and rightly so, that not all our enemies were across the oceans and borders. We had an enemy within This enemy was not the American Communist.

The internal enemy was the American arm of an international criminal organization with its roots in Palermo, Sicily. Once this real and present danger was identified, further decisions concerning it had to be made. It was granted that it would be virtually impossible to stamp out the enemy completely. Any mass attack would only drive him deep underground. It was decided that in the long run it would be to the best advantage of the society to allow this organization to function almost in the open so that a constant watch could be kept on it. But limits were set. There were certain kinds of activities which would be ignored at least on a federal level and there were other kinds which would not be tolerated.

Now, remembering that a friend m the enemy camp was tactically advantageous, it was decided that a long-range plan of infiltration was logical, necessary, and worth any cost.

Jim Collitch was one of the infiltrators.

He had not the slightest idea of who the others were, or how many there were. He had no knowledge of them whatsoever, whether they were trained men or men who'd been recruited as he'd been. In fact, he wasn't even sure there were any others.

Someone, somewhere, had taken note of Jim Collitch very early in his gambling career. His entire background was quite carefully investigated. Then he was offered the job. Being young at the time, and a patriotic citizen, he accepted the offer. And it was a lucky thing he had. For so high was the priority on this plan and so great was the need for secrecy that had he refused he would have been executed on the spot to keep the knowledge of the plan from spreading.

Jim did his jobs well: both of them. His little niche was perfect for the kind of work he did The casual and friendly relationship between real, professional gamblers that is, men who gambled rather than men who operated gambling establishments and members of this criminal organization was such that the gambler was usually in a position to hear, or overhear, bits and pieces of highly valuable information.

For instance, Jim had been instrumental in intercepting several multi-million dollar shipments of smuggled narcotics. In one case even diplomatic couriers were involved. Then too there were pieces of information concerning the relationship between racketeers and certain labor organizations which had proven invaluable to the federal government.

The relationship between Jim Collitch and his civil service superiors was a loose one. Except for a minimum of four reports per year which had to be made in person Jim was on his own. The system worked well. A phone call could pass along information without the slightest chance that Jim could be discovered by the enemy.

It was, all in all, a good life. Only one or two minor points troubled Jim. Sometimes he felt foolish playing the spy game. And there were other times, albeit rare ones, when he felt the lack of social and emotional ties and responsibilities. He bad no family. He had no real friends. He had no roots, no status. He was little more than an efficiently functioning machine.

The financial relationships and contractual agreement between himself and the government were relatively simple. He paid his own way out of the money he made at gambling. This was his sole source of support. If he should lose all his money, then he would have to do what every other losing gambler in the world did. But, at the same time, there was paid into a secret bank account every month, the sum of one thousand dollars tax free! At the present moment there was in that account, including accrued interest, almost exactly one hundred thousand dollars.

The contractual agreement was equally simple. Jim could quit, resign, chicken out-depending upon your point of view at any time he so desired. If, and, or when he did so, the money in that secret account would be turned over to him in total. Hands would be shaken, thanks would be given for service rendered, and the entire matter would be immediately forgotten. There would be no medals, no pictures in the newspaper. Then, as now, Jim would have no special standing. Right there, sitting in that cheap theater, a policeman could walk up and arrest Jim and there were no strings to be pulled. In fact, Jim could possibly be arrested, charged with a crime, tried and convicted, and sent to prison without his superiors ever discovering it.

There was one other clause to the agreement. Should Jim come to an early end, through malice or accident, while still in the employ of the government, the money in the secret bank account would automatically revert back to the coffers of the nameless organization.

On a more personal plane, Jim Collitch took certain parts of his job more seriously than others. He kept himself in top physical condition, all the while blessing the man who'd discovered the principles of the isometric exercises which enabled him to keep in condition with a minimum of sweat.

The physical conditioning served, of course, a dual function. It helped him be a better gambler, and it maintained him in a state in which he could best cope with any unforeseen circumstances. It was because of his excellent health that he appeared to be fully ten years younger than his true age of thirty-five.

He'd begun his dual life with no formal training in the skills of espionage. He'd asked questions about weapons and had been told that he wouldn't require any. This answer he never accepted. He considered for a long time before finally selecting the proper weapon for himself a knife. A gun was more powerful, but not really more effective than a knife in the hands of an expert. And there were psychological aspects of six inches of cold, gleaming steel which were valuable. The average man was more frightened when threatened with a knife than when threatened with a gun. There is something vicious and deadly about a knife. A gun is only ugly. And, what's more, a gun is difficult to conceal on one's person.

Jim selected the knife as his weapon and trained himself in its use. He purchased two dozen identical knives, six-inch replicas of a samurai sword, which were intended for decorative desk top use as letter openers. They had four inch, high-carbon steel blades, and two-inch wooden handles. He ground the blades until they were double-edged razors and almost paper thin. It took almost two years of intermittent practice before he became expert in throwing the weapon. Now he could put the point of one through the center of an ace of hearts at thirty feet, and could hit a moving target with the same accuracy.

Concealment offered no problem with the weapon. He merely carried it in hij pocket. When anyone noticed it, he said it was a souvenir he'd recently purchased. It was not deadly looking, nor was it of great enough length to be considered a concealed weapon. He did not always carry the knife and had never been in a situation which required its use. But he was confident that if he should have to use it he would have it with him and would use it effectively

Of course, Jim's success at both endeavors was due, in large measure, to certain native talents. He had a good mind; observant, cautious, quick. He had large strong hands which helped in the manipulation of cards when such a thing was necessary. It hadn't been either necessary or feasible in more than five years, though. He was an instinctive actor. He could don the proper costume and play the role to perfection.

When the Technicolor breasts came onto the screen again, Jim roused himself from the depths of his thoughts and left the theater. It was evening by then and he went to a nearby restaurant for supper. After giving his order to the waiter he went to the men's room and locked himself in one of the cubicles.

There he removed from his pocket the cellophane wrapped package of photos, opened it, and inspected each one carefully. There was no doubt in his mind that the girl was Francie He was too familiar with her naked body not to recognize pictures of her.

Having satisfied himself, he replaced the pictures in his pocket and returned to his dinner. Even with dawdling over each course there was still more than four hours to kill before the earliest possible starting Te of that night's poker game.

He took the subway back to his apartment and considered various possibilities. He could call Francit but thought better of it. He changed into his gambling attire and left the apartment again. There was a restlessness in him that needed to be exorcised before he played that night.

A cab took him uptown to Hernandez' place and the Spaniard looked surprised when he let Jim in.

"It is the wrong time of day for you," the man with the scarred face said.

"I don't think so," Jim said. "There's some big action tonight and I've got to go into it real relaxed, know what I mean?"

The Spaniard nodded "I heard about you moving up. There isn't much higher to go, you know."

"Yeah. Is Lotus available?"

"I'll check and see."

The Spaniard picked up the phone, dialed a three digit number, and spoke in a whisper. Then he returned the receiver to its cradle.

"She's available. She was on her break. But I told her who it was and it's all right. Room seventeen."

Jim dropped two fifty-dollar bills on the desk and said, "Call me exactly at midnight."

The Spaniard nodded.

Jim went up to room seventeen and found Lotus already waiting for him. She moved immediately into his arms, her soft, naked body warm beneath the thin fabric of her silken robe. They kissed and his hands wandered over her body.

"You haven't been here in more than a week," she chided when the kiss was ended.

Jim said nothing, knowing no answer was required. He slipped out of the jacket of his suit while the Oriental girl locked the door.

"I've got the biggest game of my life tonight," he told her when she came back to him. "And I'm a little jumpy. That's no good."

"Leave that to me," she told him. "I'll fix you up just perfect."

She removed her own robe, then helped him out of the rest of his clothes. When they were both naked she led him into the tiled bathroom and helped him up onto the massage table. Her hands were feather light and she worked over him foi the better part of an hour. There was no strong tension and most of the effect was psychological.

When she finished they went back into the bedroom, turned out the lights, and crawled onto the bed. He lay beside her in the darkness, still and relaxed, and let her take the initiative. Her hands found him and discovered that he was not prepared.

"What's this?" she asked in the darkness. "You sick?"

"No. Just relaxed. You're going to have to work hard tonight."

"That kind of work I love," she answered, crouching beside him.

Her hands squeezed and in the darkness her mouth found his collarbone. From there her lips knew the route to every part of his body. They took first one path, then another, until his passion trembled on the brink of urgency.

The last caress was the most exciting. She was kneeling beside him, her hair fanned across his bared body. Her lips pursed for a kiss, tickling him.

With that caress she brought him almost to the peak of pleasure before she stopped once again. And her voice was husky in the darkness when she spoke.

"How do you want me?" she asked. "Easy, or wild?"

"I thought I wanted you easy," he answered. "But I changed my mind. Let's make this wild. The wilder the better."

"All right, baby. Get up and stand on the floor close to the edge of the bed."

He did as she ordered in the darkness of the room she was only a shapeless shadow He stood with his knees pressed against the edge of the mattress, waiting for something to happen.

The bed dipped and bounced as she moved around, and when he felt her he understood.

He caressed her curves with his hands, bending forward quickly in the darkness to plant a kiss on her. This brought a gasp from her and she began slowly to move.

He straightened and pressed himself against her. Her hand reached out, found him, and helped him.

That was wild. Wilder than ever before. And that lasted so wonderfully long. And though he enjoyed every second to the fullest, he remained always in complete control of himself. This constant control augured well for the evening ahead.

Then they lay down again and she began the deliciously slow process of preparing him again.

Jim Collitch had been at that particular house of pleasure many times before. Enough times to run the entire list of all the pleasures they had to offer. And of them all he found Lotus the most appealing.

Lovely, lush, Lotus who had worked so diligently to turn room seventeen into an exotic passion pit, the-likes of which had never existed in reality outside the darker byways of Hong Kong and, in certain selected alleys, in San Francisco and New York's Mott Street.

But all her efforts at interior decoration fell to unseeing eyes as far as Jim Collitch was concerned. After all, he needed Lotus for one thing only.

Her special favors...

The incredibly exciting things that Lotus could have performed for him, equally well, from the center of Madison Square Garden, or even the matinee stage oi the Winter Garden, between acts.

And perform she did. Collitch hardly even had time to recover from her last efforts before he found the lovely Lotus working eagerly again. Striving, urging him ever nearer to the passion peak from which it is impossible to turn back . , .