Devil May Care Read online

  Biggo is a guy you should meet-once. He is a fast-talking, heavy-fisted Biggo; fast with a small cannon, fast with a buck, fast with a girl. He did all right on all counts until he saw an easy $20,000 to be had in Ensenada, Mexico. It never occurred to him that there would be any difficulty getting the money, until he picked up a hungry blonde in a bar; hungry for Biggo, that is.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sunday, September 10, 9:30 p.m.

  He hurried out of the lighted foyer of the church into the cool night, hoping that the girl with the insolent red mouth had waited for him. He had amused himself during his lecture by staring at her meaningfully. And she had returned his gaze, the only one of the faces-the attentive, bored or blank faces-to which he'd paid any attention.

  But the faces were gone now and so was the girl. The man with her, probably her husband, had taken her away. He stopped by the bulletin board on the lawn and swore to relieve his disappointment. The bulletin board was a glass-front case with white plastic letters set against black felt. Under the permanent heading of Northside Open Forum, it read: Biggo Venn-Soldier of Fortune-"What is India's Destiny?" Then tonight's date. Below that a reminder: Don't Forget the Picnic Sept. 17-Everybody Welcome.

  It occurred to Biggo that maybe she'd thought he was too old. He didn't believe it. He looked about like any other healthy, husky man who wasn't young any longer and still hadn't gotten old. He had a habit of lying about his age, never admitting he had passed forty. Part of that was vanity but most of it was common sense: nobody wants an old soldier.

  His body gave an impression of more strength than could be possible. He wasn't tall and his barrel chest and slightly bowed legs caused him to appear shorter than he was. In uniform-any uniform-his squareness seemed less awkward than now. But tonight, in Cleveland, he wore a double-breasted tropical suit and though it was well-cut it made him look a yard wide.

  Except for his flattened nose he showed no visible scars. He had easy-going undistinguished features which enjoyed life while his squinting amber eyes priced it. There was some gray in his sand-colored shock of hair but it was hard to detect. He had big hands with sandy hair on their backs and big feet. His teeth were good except for a broken molar which showed when he laughed.

  Biggo didn't laugh now. He had counted on the red-mouthed girl being there. Now the evening was just another speech, just another fifty dollars.

  Somebody else laughed, behind him. A cigarette butt flipped against the glass case and sparked before it fell at Biggo's feet. A voice said, "Even if I wanted to know India's destiny I sure as hell wouldn't ask you."

  Biggo wheeled and regarded the tall old man who stood in the glare from the church entrance. He said, "So you can read at last." Then he grinned and put out his hand. "What are you doing in Cleveland, Toevs?"

  "What's wrong with Cleveland? A fellow has to come home some day."

  "Haven't seen you since Marrakech."

  "Last I saw of you was your backside running away from those French bayonets." Toevs looked at the glass sign-case and good-humoredly spat on it. "Soldier of fortune, huh?"

  Biggo just grinned and glanced him over. He was glad to see Daniel Toevs but vaguely disturbed at the changes. A short time before, perhaps even so short a time as a year or two, Toevs had been a fierce and rugged man. But the long hard life had caught up with him. It had stolen away his stock in trade, his commanding air of strength. It had puffed Toevs' belly and narrowed his shoulders. It had bagged his clothes, caused his gray hair to need cutting, perfumed him with cheap rum and left him standing in Cleveland for Biggo to see. Biggo didn't like the idea but he grinned and said what he thought had happened to Toevs.

  "The rope hasn't been made yet," the old man said. "'Did you actually tell them you were a soldier of fortune?"

  "It was free. You should have come in and learned something." In his mind, Biggo was estimating the touch that Toevs was obviously after. And in his mind, he shrugged. Money was only money and friends were friends, after all. It had been ten years since Marrakech. Toevs must be deep in his sixties by now.

  "Well," said Toevs, "I have a deal that is made for a soldier of fortune. So simple even a dumb mick could handle it. Even you could handle it, Biggo, I think." He was too anxious; it still looked like a touch. But talking to Toevs would make up for missing the girl. "All it involves is a run down to Mexico for a couple of days where you collect the money. No work at all. I've been waiting all week for you-I saw this sign and I said-"

  "You bet. How much is it going to cost me?"

  "For what, you son of a dog? This is a break for you. This is bigger profit than guns and a lot easier to transport. You thickheaded-"

  Biggo laughed. "Let's get down to my hotel where the bottle is."

  "Sure," said Toevs happily. "Just wait till I get rid of her and-"

  "Her?" asked Biggo sharply. He followed the direction of Toevs' thumb and saw the girl on the corner near the streetlight. At first, he thought it was the red-mouthed girl, after all. But it wasn't; it was another girl. Biggo felt better. He cut across what the old man was saying with, "Never mind getting rid of her, Dan'l. Bring her along."

  "Well," said Toevs doubtfully, "I don't know that we can talk with…"

  But Biggo was already walking toward her so he shrugged and tagged along.

  Toevs made the introductions. Her name was Felice something. She was young, almost over-stacked, like a caricature of a girl. Her eyes had seen a lot and right now they were seeing Biggo. She held onto his hand after they had said hello. Biggo didn't mind. Felice's red hair was possibly dyed but the thrust of her breasts was real. She wore a cheap cloth coat which she left unbuttoned to show how tight was her jersey dress around her boyish hips.

  "We're going up to my room for a drink," said Biggo, looking her up and down. "Want to come along, honey? You'll be safe."

  "If I wanted to be safe, I'd join the YWCA," Felice said. She wiggled slightly. "Besides, I don't think anybody should drink alone, do you, Biggo?" They understood each other instantly and hotly.

  Toevs was busy shouting down a cab. They rode to the downtown hotel where Biggo was registered, Felice squeezed in between the two big men. Her slim leg pressed against Biggo's thigh, rubbed occasionally. Her dime store perfume filled the cab and he thought it might be a pretty good evening at that.

  If Toevs had anything special to talk about, he didn't bring it up in the taxi. His hands were nervous. He didn't relax any until the three of them were in Biggo's room and the door was locked behind them. He wandered around while Biggo stripped off coat and tie.

  Felice shed her coat and kicked off her shoes. She bounced on the bed. Then she made herself comfortable and pulled down her skirt until it was only a little way above her knees. "Say, this is high class," she said. She liked the wallpaper.

  Toevs said, "How'd you get into this public speaking business, Biggo?"

  "Marking time, Dan'l. When I got out of the Caribbean-I was with that bunch that figured to light a fire under Trujillo…"

  "Cuba kind of stopped you cold, didn't they?"

  "Cuba-and that money from next door never did come." Felice was stretching out a nylon-sheathed leg, examining a run near the stocking top. Her toes pointed directly at Biggo. He got his eyes away with difficulty. "Some of the boys are still locked up down there. Paget and Sammy Winter, you knew them, didn't you? I was broke but I had something the commandante wanted so I bribed my way out and when I lit in New York I hooked up with this agent for a tour. Matter of C.O.D., two or three speeches a week."

  "I think that's wonderful, simply wonderful," cooed Felice. "Do you make much money that way, Biggo?"

  "Enough to have my fun." Biggo sat down at the writing desk and addressed an envelope. "Trouble is the agent gets
twenty per cent." He put a ten dollar bill in the envelope and sealed it and put it where neither of his guests could steal it. "Well, that's enough business."

  He looked down at Felice. She arched her back, lidded her eyes briefly. "What I want is a little drinkie," she announced.

  Biggo got out his bottle of bourbon and found glasses in the bathroom. He decided he couldn't stand much of the girl's voice. He wasn't interested in her conversation anyway. He asked Toevs, "What are you doing, Dan'l?"

  Toevs had a drink first. "Well, I've been thinking about China."

  Felice exclaimed over that and Biggo said fine and they all drank to China. Biggo wasn't fooled. China was just another way for Toevs to say he was going nowhere, had nowhere to go.

  The girl picked up the small leather-bound Bible that was lying open on the other pillow. She said, "For goodness sakes, what's this doing here?" She thought it was funny. She looked at Biggo. "A church-and now this? You're a character, Biggo."

  Toevs remembered. He laughed too. "I see you're still carrying the Good Book around with you. Looks like the same one you had then. Turned holy yet?"

  Biggo kidded him. "Not a boy like me. That's for old goats with one foot in the grave, like you." Then he said seriously, "Good fighting in that book. Those Hebrews were tough ones when they had a decent command staff. Makes good reading."

  Felice thought that was funny too but Toevs sighed. "Ah, we knew some tough ones, didn't we, Biggo?" In silence, he savored his memories as he did the whiskey. "How long's it been?"

  "Since Marrakech? Ten years, I guess. Maybe less."

  "Ten years?" said Felice as if it were the end of time. "Damn, that's…"

  "Must have been less," said Toevs hurriedly. "Must have been because I'm still in mighty good shape. You can see that for yourself. This around the middle could come out in a hurry, if need be."

  "You bet. You haven't changed a bit, Dan'l." Biggo was sorry he had kidded about one foot in the grave.

  "Just because a man is coming into sixty doesn't mean I don't have a couple of wars left in me yet." Toevs was lying about his age but Biggo couldn't see correcting him. Especially with the girl there. "When I see some of the young fellows they're hiring to fight their wars these days…" He shook his head dolefully.

  They drank to something turning up. They talked about the old days and enlarged them. Toevs seemed in no hurry to mention his proposition now. He was acting important while he had the opportunity. Biggo didn't rush him. He sat on the bed and Felice curled up beside him with her head on his leg. He ran the tips of his fingers along her back. She was warm like an alley cat and she squirmed excitedly under his hand. He patted her idly and played with the fastener of her brassiere through the thin dress.

  The two men drank to the foreign place names, liking the taste of them on their lips, more familiar than their home country to them. And eventually, Biggo told of a happening that was since Marrakech. It was a happening with a cruel and bloody ending.

  "I still feel bad about those twenty Arabs," Biggo said. "I was responsible for them, Dan'l. He didn't have to do that to them."

  "I didn't know him. Seen him since?"

  "I heard he was down in Bolivia. I'll run across him some day and we'll settle it. It's one of those things that has to be settled."

  Felice rolled over, shivering. "Aw, honey, they were only Arabs."

  Toevs shrugged. "Fighting's fighting and it doesn't matter whether men are shot in cold blood or hot blood. They're just as dead either way."

  "That's right, honey." Felice linked her arm behind Biggo's neck and began to pull him slowly down towards her. "Don't think about Arabs. Think about me."

  Toevs cleared his throat. "Biggo, how you fixed for money?"

  Biggo let himself be drawn closer to the painted young mouth in his lap and answered, "I can let you have some."

  Toevs snorted with dignity. "You think I came all the way up here to listen to you gab so I could make a touch? I'm talking about some big easy money for you."

  Felice was whispering to him, just barely moving her lips an inch away from his, "Kiss me, Biggo, kiss me." Her tongue beckoned insistently and her dress was disarrayed again.

  "How about it?" Toevs demanded.

  "I never turned it down yet," Biggo murmured, still not looking at the other man. He brushed over the open mouth briefly, teasing her.

  Toevs took his shoulder. "Come on, come on," he said impatiently. "This is important stuff, Biggo." Biggo raised up and Felice said something under her breath. She rolled off his leg and lay back on the bed, pouting. Toevs said to her, "Kid, we've got business to discuss. You wait for me somewhere, in the bathroom maybe. And run the water."

  She met Biggo's eyes and shrugged. She swung off the bed with a display of nylon and bare flesh and the tailored edge of pink panties. She said, "Don't be too long," and strolled into the bathroom. She took another drink with her.

  Biggo watched her trim buttocks twitch out of sight. He had to have Toevs repeat what he'd said.

  The water started in the bathroom so the girl couldn't overhear but Toevs lowered his voice anyway. "Ever hear of Tom Jaccalone?"

  Biggo thought about it and said no.

  Toevs rummaged in his pocket for a newspaper clipping and handed it over silently. It was from an old newspaper but not very worn; Toevs had probably torn it from a library file somewhere.

  Biggo looked at the picture of Tom Jaccalone who was coming out of a courtroom between two policemen. Jaccalone was a short bald fellow with a hook nose. At that time he had been going to prison on extortion charges. Before his fall he had been the controlling factor in most of the gambling in the midwest. Before his rise he had been a Sicilian immigrant.

  When Biggo tried to hand the clipping back, Toevs said cryptically, "Keep it."

  "Why?"

  "Let me tell you, Biggo. This Jaccalone served about two years in prison and then the government deported him to Sicily as an undesirable alien. Well, Sicily wasn't for him so he came back across the ocean and settled in Mexico, on a ranch in a southern part. He's been living there ever since. He's not easy to get in touch with."

  Biggo said fine and had a drink and thought, but not about Jaccalone. "Say, did I ever tell you about the time this alcalde's wife in Yucatan-"

  "No, listen to me. Jaccalone wants to get back in this country."

  "Okay. I can bring him in. Anybody could. How much?"

  Toevs shook his head. "But he wants to get back in legal. A lot of his money is tied up in his business here in the States. A fellow named Silver Magolnick is running Jaccalone's business up here now. He was the second-in-command before Jaccalone got sent away." Toevs stuck a thumb in his own chest. "Through me, Tom Jaccalone can come back in legal. There's money in it, Biggo. You want some of it?"

  "All depends." Biggo lay down where Felice had been lying; the spread was still warm. "Keep talking, Dan'l. You're doing fine."

  The story was simple. Jaccalone's prison term had been the result of extortion charges brought by a pool hall owner named George G. Noon. After the conviction, Noon had dropped out of sight. Silver Magolnick had paid him enough for the frame-up so that he could live as he had never lived before. Noon went through his money and his health rapidly and ended up in a cheap rooming house in Gary where Toevs had met him.

  Toevs paused, stared, then said slowly, "Kind of odd what things will prey on a man. With you it's those twenty Arabs. With George Noon, it was one Sicilian-Jaccalone. You tell me why. Jaccalone's a son of a dog ten times over. But he was still on Noon's conscience. Well, before he died Noon wrote out a confession in his own hand. A regular legal deathbed confession which I've got. Right here in my pocket, Biggo."

  He leaned back proudly and poured as if he owned the bottle.

  Biggo said, "The confession makes the conviction illegal. Which makes the deportation illegal. Talk about the money."

  "Twenty thousand dollars when this Noon paper is delivered. I managed to contact Jaccalone
by letter."

  "Where do you deliver? And collect?"

  "I picked Ensenada. Know where that is? South of San Diego, California, about sixty-five miles across the border. I picked Ensenada in case Jaccalone wanted to come himself. But he writes like he'll send an agent. Ensenada is close enough to the border in case he tries any fancy maneuvers."

  "What if Magolnick tries any fancy maneuvers? I can't see how Noon could write all this stuff down without using Magolnick's name a few times. If I were Jaccalone, I'd kill Magolnick."

  "That's right, but give him time. How's Magolnick going to know about this little paper of mine?" Toevs said it almost pleadingly. "You let Jaccalone worry about settling that later. Will you take this little paper down to Ensenada, Biggo?"

  "Why me?"

  "You're my friend. Didn't we soldier together?"

  Biggo laughed and the bed shook. "For twenty thousand dollars, you don't have a friend in the world."

  "You get a quarter-share."

  Biggo laughed louder. "You shouldn't throw your money around like that." He got up off the bed and unlocked the hall door. "Dan'l, I don't want to take advantage of you in any way. Take your tart with you."

  Toevs looked scared. "Just footwork is all this job is. All you have to do is go to Ensenada and collect some money. What's hard about that?"

  "What's hard about sitting here in Cleveland waiting for me to come back? Jaccalone sounds like the kind who would as soon take the Noon paper off my cold dead body. Why should I run all the risk for a quarter-share?"

  "But I got the confession and I set the whole thing up. And I set it up so there's no risk."

  "Then finish the job yourself if it's so bloody simple." Biggo opened the door wide.

  Toevs stared into the hall and asked, "Please close the door, Biggo." He had another quick one while the door was being shut. It calmed his hands. The old man said, "Look, I've got this friend in Ensenada. Named Zurico. Runs a saloon down there. He'll give you the lay of the land and he's already watching for the signal. The signal is anything connected with peacocks." He chuckled at the memory. Practically everybody knew the story of Toevs and the royal peacocks. A story, of his younger days which involved a beautiful native woman and a good fight. A fine story which anybody would be proud to tell about himself and it had almost happened the way he always told it. "So the Jaccalone agent or agents will flash a peacock signal around somehow; that's up to them. Then all you have to do is pick your moment to trade. They don't know anything about you so you can make the trade and be out again with the money before they have time to reneg or try anything. As you say, they're nothing more than gangsters but you'll run no risk."