Dig My Grave Deep Read online

  “Not him,” said Simon. “He just come along for the...”

  “Just one word with you, Port,” Fries blinked the eye with the tic.

  “Honest, Dan, I wouldn't play you a trick like that,” said Simon. “I brought you the car. Stoker's present.”

  They all looked at the car by the curb, and Fries had to wait while Port went close to admire it. The car was a long convertible with a black nylon top and metallic gray body.

  “It's a rare one, all right. No two-tone,” said Port.

  “And did you see the antennas?” Simon went to the rear. “One on each fender.”

  “For tuna fishing,” said Port. “Fries, did you ever go tuna fishing?”

  Fries wasn't in the mood. “Just one word,” he said.

  “Say it.”

  “I see you talked around the old man and you're back.”

  “That's right.”

  “Beat it, Simon,” and Fries waited till Simon had walked out of earshot.

  “And you want to tell me to take a powder.”

  “No. Nobody leaves,” said Fries.

  “I'm back. What more do you want?”

  “Stay in your place. Just do your job and quit shining up to the old man.”

  “I should shine up to you. Right?”

  But Fries didn't treat it as a joke.

  “You can do that, if you think you know how. Might as well learn sooner than later.”

  Port stuck his hands in his pockets and grinned at Fries.

  “Am I mistaken, or am I talking to the heir apparent?”

  “I don't care what you call it...”

  “But I might as well face the facts.”

  “That's right.”

  “So when the time comes, Fries, when Stoker doesn't make it with an attack, that's going to be my time?”

  “That's going to be my time,” said Fries. “That's when I take over.”

  “That's what I meant when I said...”

  “I know what you meant. I'm correcting you.”

  “You sound like you're giving me a sentence. Am I gonna get killed?”

  Fries made an impatient noise. “What's good for the organization is good enough for me. Just work like you have been and we're fine.”

  “And we might even be friends.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” said Fries, and waved at Simon to come back.

  They all nodded at each other and Simon nodded at the car too, and then Port got in behind the wheel. On his way down the street he passed Fries and Simon, who was walking a few steps behind, and the sight made the ward business that much more urgent to Port.

  Most of the slum houses were frame, but a few were brownstone, and the one in the best repair had a clean, sandblasted front with a small sign that saidSocial Club. The inside was mostly new. There was an addition which held a gym, a foyer with a cloakroom, and past some columns varnished dark brown was a bar, the room with the easy chairs, and a bare place with a stage and some folding chairs stacked by the walls. Upstairs there were more rooms.

  The whole place had been paid for and built for Boss Stoker. He had never been there, which made little difference as long as the place was for Stoker.

  Daniel Port left his car in the front by the No Parking sign and headed for the stairs. Before he got to them he turned back, locked both doors of the car, and then went into the club.

  Downstairs looked empty. In the room with the easy chairs Port found two men sitting by the fireplace. They had a small volley ball and kept tossing it back and forth. Port said, “Is Lantek in?” and the men looked around at him.

  “Should be,” said one of them. They kept tossing the ball. Port went upstairs without seeing anyone else, until he came to the back corridor. The man at one of the doors paid no attention to Port.

  “You seen Lantek?” said Port.

  The man looked up and nodded. Then he leaned back against the wall and looked at his magazine. Port tried again.

  “Where is he?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  Port had never seen the man before. He was slight and dark, and Port guessed what the man lacked in strength he might well make up in speed.

  “You new here?” said Port.

  “Yes. Perhaps a month.”

  With Lantek at the club, things could mostly be run by phone, and Port hadn't been there in over a month.

  “All right. Where's Lantek?”

  “He's busy. Come back in half an hour.”

  “You're new here,” said Port. “You don't know who I am. Just tell me where Lantek is.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Dan Port.”

  The man closed his magazine quickly and looked attentive. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know who you were. If I can do anything...”

  “You can tell me where Lantek is.”

  The man was uncomfortable. He wanted to please, but he couldn't.

  “He told me—he said not before half an hour. I'm new here, and maybe you better...”

  “He's in there?” and Port looked at the door, because the new man had edged himself in front of it.

  “He is, Mr. Port, but he said nobody, or nothing, for half an hour.”

  “You're eager,” said Port. “I bet Lantek likes that.”

  “I hope so,” said the man.

  “Don't be so eager it makes you scared. Open that door.”

  The new man stepped aside and let Port go in.

  The room had a table, some chairs, and a couch. They were all by the couch, backs to the door, and they didn't notice Port right away. Only the girl did, because she was facing his way. She got off the couch and looked sullen. She said, “He's extra. He's not part of the deal.”

  She wore shoes and a blouse—and nothing else.

  Port closed the door and they all looked at him. There were Lantek and several others.

  “Jeez,” said Port. “It's only ten in the morning!”

  The girl walked up to Port and stopped with her hands on her hips. She said, “Don't act like I asked you to take a drink before noon. All I said was...”

  “Put your clothes on,” said Port.

  Lantek stepped up, a big man with his hair cut down to a stiff stubble and a jaw like a trap. He smiled at Port and shrugged one shoulder.

  “Hell, Danny—you want in on it?”

  “Not if you don't raise the ante,” said the girl. One of the seven others was trying to shush her but she pushed him aside and got louder. “When I make a deal—” she started, but Port interrupted.

  “Lady, there's no deal. Put your clothes on and go.”

  They all started talking together and they all had the same thing in mind. Lantek couldn't keep them quiet and Port didn't try. He waited a while longer till they were all looking at him.

  “Put your clothes on,” he said to the girl.

  She put on the skirt and a jacket and buttoned up, not looking happy about it. “I didn't get paid yet,” she said.

  “For what?” said one of the men, and another voice, “Nothing happened. Why should...”

  “I come up here!” said the girl, angry now. “What about wasting my time and—the indignity!”

  “Get out,” said Lantek.

  His voice made her jump and she started for the door.

  “She gets paid half,” said Port. “For her time—and the indignity.”

  He lit a cigarette and waited while the girl collected the half-fee and then left the room. Then the men stood in the room, without talking, waiting for Port.

  “Which one of you guys handles the phone in this place?”

  One man raised his hand, but didn't say anything. Then Port wanted to know who did the soliciting, who made the rounds on the charity cases, which one ran the errands, and who kept the books. He nodded each time a man raised his hand, and when he was finished he left a moment of silence, making them all hope he was through. Then he dismissed them.

  They were out of the room in short order, leaving only P
ort and Lantek, who was rubbing one hand through his hair and looking back and forth between Port and the window. Port looked at him briefly. He mumbled, “Jeez. At ten in the morning,” and opened the door. The new man was still standing there. “Bring him along,” said Port. He went into a room fixed like an office, sat down at the desk, and waited for Lantek and the new one to come in. Lantek sat down by the desk, but the new man stood.

  “I never asked you your name,” said Port.

  “I'm Ramon. Calvin Ramon.”

  “You say Calvin?”

  “He's Mexican,” said Lantek, as if that explained it. “Or Spanish.”

  “My parents were,” said Ramon. “I was born here. I mean in Los Angeles. And my parents had it in their minds —they always said, 'A new country, a new name. Make a break with the past.' You know what I mean.”

  Port said, “Oh,” and crossed his legs. He turned to Lantek. “I need a man to head up a team collecting signatures. Can you spare him?” He nodded at the new man.

  “Sure,” said Lantek. “But he's new. I can get you Cholly—or how about Tim, if it's really important I been keeping my eye on Tim for a while now, and the way I see it...”

  “Look,” Port sounded resigned. “We fix men tip with jobs all the time. We do it all over the city and with some of the county jobs.” Then Port sat up, talking more clearly, “But we don't horse around like that with jobs in the organization! Try to remember that.” He looked back at the new man.

  “Here's what it is, Ramon.” He handed Ramon a typed sheet of paper. “It's a questionnaire. Have that mimeographed and then get twenty men from Lantek to make the rounds. It says yes and no, behind the answers. They should all be marked. On the bottom I want signatures. Real, original signatures. Okay with you, Lantek?”

  “Sure, Danny, sure.”

  “Hand them out tonight, starting at six, and have them ready for me here at nine in the morning. Okay, Ramon?”

  “Sure thing, Danny. I'll start now.”

  “Have the mimeograph done by Schuster, on Lane Street and Scranton. Know where that is?”

  Ramon was so anxious to say yes, he started to stutter. He didn't know where the place was.

  “I'm driving by there,” said Port. “Come along.”

  Port told Lantek to line up twenty men for six sharp, and left with Ramon. When they got to Port's car Ramon hadn't stopped talking once. He apologized for being new, he was grateful for being given the chance, he would do all he could, and when they got to the car he started admiring that. “And back here,” he said, walking around to the trunk, “what lines, what antennas! You know something, Dan? I've lived in California. Did you ever see those boats they have, those boats they rig up for tuna fishing? These antennas here...”

  “Is that so?” said Port. Then he offered Ramon a cigarette. “Come on across the street. I'll buy you a coffee.”

  They went into the short-order place with the grocery counter in front and sat down near the grill. Then they waited for someone to show.

  “You know why I picked you?” said Port.

  Ramon shook his head.

  “Because you're eager.”

  “I am, Dan. I think this town has opportunities. What I mean is, I can really do something for this—in this club, because when I have half a chance...”

  “I know,” said Port. “I know what you got in mind.”

  “With half a chance...”

  “Sure, Ramon. I use you and you try the same with me and we both win. That what you mean?”

  “I don't really mean...”

  “Ramon, listen. I'm in a hurry, and you're eager. That's why I picked you, and you like it for your own reasons. Okay? Don't bring it up again.”

  Ramon didn't answer, just nodded his head.

  “Now listen close,” said Port. “Here's the rest of the deal.”

  “About the mimeographing?”

  “After the mimeographing. This is something else.”

  Ramon got very attentive but Port didn't say anything else. He watched the waitress come in from the back, seeing the red carnation before he had seen her face. She put a soup pot on the grill. When she recognized Port her face stayed as bland as he remembered it from the street. Then she smiled, and it was an easy smile which changed her face in a beautiful way. “Nino,” she said. “You didn't come home last night.” Then she got two cups of coffee without asking.

  “I'm five years older than she is,” said Ramon, “and she still calls me Nino.”

  “Yeah,” said Port. He picked up his coffee, burned his mouth, because he wasn't used to drinking it hot.

  “Meet my sister,” said Ramon, and to her, “this is Daniel Port.”

  She smiled again, but less than before, and said, “How are you? You look better today.”

  “Thank you,” said Port. “You look the same. It's hard improving on you.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him, giving a half-smile, and went to the grill to set the soup into the steam table.

  “You know each other?” asked Ramon.

  “No,” she said. “We just met on the street.”

  “I asked her the time,” said Port.

  Ramon nodded and drank his coffee. He watched his sister and he tried watching Port, but he couldn't tell a thing. If they knew each other they didn't show a thing. It might be nice if they did. There would be no harm done, if Port would show interest.

  “Finish up and we'll go,” said Port. He put thirty cents on the counter and got up.

  “You were going to tell me something else,” said Ramon. “Some other deal you had in mind.”

  Port waved at Ramon's sister and said, “See you again.” She smiled and nodded. You could make of it what you wanted.

  Outside, Port crossed the street to his car and got behind the wheel. Ramon sat next to him. Port started the car.

  “You never told me her name,” he said. “I'm sure it can't be anything like Dolores or Carmen.”

  “Her name is Shelly.” Ramon looked out the window. “You like Shelly?”

  “It's better than Calvin,” said Port.

  Chapter Five

  Ramon came back to the club at eight the next morning. He pushed the front door open with one shoulder, because he was carrying the questionnaires with both hands. In the front hall he put the stack on the counter of the cloak room and took a deep breath. He felt like sitting down; he wanted a cup of hot coffee and afterwards some sleep. The job had been more work than he'd figured. It had taken all night. There were only three questions with only a “yes” or “no” answer, but it had taken all night to tally them up. Shelly had come into the kitchen twice and offered to help him. He had told her to go back to bed, the job was too important.

  Ramon stood behind the counter and stacked the sheets. Then he went to the bar and found a carton with empty whisky bottles. He put the bottles on the floor, took the carton and put the stacked sheets inside it.

  At eight-thirty Lantek came in. He nodded at Ramon and came over to look into the box. The top sheet had the totals on it.

  “What you got here?”

  “The questionnaires. You remember, Dan told me....”

  “This here,” and Lantek took up the sheet with the totals.

  “I added the whole thing up. I was sure we'd need the whole thing tallied, so I did it last night. Don't you think...”

  Lantek looked ill-humored and put the sheet back.

  “You're wasting your time,” he said. “Dan don't impress.”

  “We need the tallies, don't we?”

  Lantek looked up at the tone but didn't say anything. The whole thing was done, anyway. “You're done,” he said, and picked up the box.

  “Leave it. I'll give it to him. I'm supposed to wait for him anyway.”

  Lantek put down the box. “You're done, I said.”

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  “Out, Ramon. And don't come back.”

  Ramon felt suddenly weak, with a filminess getting into hi
s vision. His effort to get back his strength made the sweat come out on his forehead. But then he couldn't talk.

  “Don't look at me,” said Lantek. “I get my orders, same as you, straight from Port.”

  He picked up the box with the stack of papers inside and went to the stairs. Before going up he turned and called back. “You waiting for me to throw you out?” He stood at the bottom step, watching, till Ramon had gone out of the door.

  At first he was not going anywhere, just walking away, but when he got down to the street he had to stop because the tension would not let him walk any further. To leave now would make the break physically final. From one day to the next—and all night, working to get it done for the next big day—Shelly sleeping in the next room, plans and thoughts about what he would do with—for—Shelly. He was going to throw her at him. His own sister. He was going to get her messed up with mat Port bastard who had it in his hands to make or to break him.

  Ramon sat down on the steps of the club and scraped his nails over his scalp. His throat pained, as if he had been screaming. He raked his nails through his hair, made two fists and held on. Whom would he kill first? Port? Of course Port, and then that swinehead back in the club. And there were a few more that might get in his way and the thing would be... But first back to Port.

  Ramon heard footsteps on the pavement and sat up immediately. He coughed hard, distorting his face. He did this without thought, but it served to blank out what he had been doing, as if it was necessary to blank it out or else it might show. Whoever was walking on the street would see Ramon on the steps, coughing.

  Across the street a boy was walking by and he looked at Ramon only because he was coughing.

  Now that Ramon was not thinking about the murder any more he felt lost and aimless. Ramon did not feel that he wanted to see anyone he might know, because his feelings were out of hand, confused and painful. Of course with Port it would be different—there would be the sharp, clear, incisive thing. When Ramon turned to cross the street the car slid up and cut off his view. The two antennas dipped and weaved over the massive hulk of the car. If heraldic standards had flown from the antennas it would not have surprised Ramon.

  Port looked at Ramon over the top of the car while he slammed the door shut.

  “Morning. You been inside?”