witness!”
Toni cursed him.
“You’re sure the boss picked me?”
Berilli sneered at him.
“You call him. Don’t you want the job?”
Toni licked his lips, aware the two men were watching him and grinning. He got to his feet and left the bar.
Johnny got back to the houseboat around midday with three fairsized Black Crappie. He had been uncomfortable wearing his bush jacket but he had to wear it to hide his gun and holster. From now on, he told himself, he wouldn’t move without his gun. His instinct for danger was alert. While fishing, he had thought of Salvadore. The fat man had been friendly, but that didn’t mean a thing. Everywhere there was a Mafia contact. He remembered Salvadore saying:
All the same the peace of the lake, the quietness, the fact no one came near, although he could see distant boats, gave him a feeling of security, but he would carry his gun.
He dumped the fish into the kitchen sink. There was no sign of Freda. He went into his room, then kneeling, he looked under the bed and he smiled.
He had placed the suitcase at a slight angle and now it was straight. That could only mean Freda had touched it. He pulled it out and examined the locks. They were flimsy enough and it was possible she had a key that could open them. He unlocked the case and counted the ten dollar bills. Of Sammy’s money, he had left $2,857. He relocked the case and pushed it under the bed, then he went up on deck.
He sat in the sun for more than an hour, then he heard Freda crossing the creaky jetty.
“Hi! Where have you been?” he asked as she came around the deck and joined him.
“A walk. Did you get any fish?”
“Three Black Crappie.”
“God! Crappie again!”
“The bass were shy.”
She went to the rail and stood against it, her hands on the rail, her body slightly bent forward. Johnny eyed the soft, sweep of her buttocks. He came up behind her, his hands cupping her breasts, his body against her softness.
She slid away from him.
“Skip it!” she said, her voice hard. “We can’t spend all the week…” She used the ugly four letter word and it shocked Johnny.
“Take it easy,” he said. “This is a game of patience.”
“I’ll fix the fish.” He had a definite feeling that she was now hostile. “Eggs and bacon for lunch.”
“Fine.”
He watched her walk into the kitchen. This woman could be tricky. He thought of Melanie: no trickiness there. He sat for a long moment, his mind active. Freda must learn he was the boss. If she didn’t recognize this fact, he could be in danger.
Getting to his feet, he walked into the kitchen. Freda was washing the fish and she glanced over her shoulder.
“What do you want?”
“Dry your hands.”
“I’m busy… go sit in the sun.”
He jerked her around and slapped her face. He was careful not to hit her too hard, but the slap was hard enough to jerk her head back. Her blue eyes blazed and her hand dropped on a kitchen knife by the fish.
He caught her wrist, squeezed and the knife dropped to the floor, then he caught hold of her, pinning her arms to her sides and shoving her out of the kitchen, he forced her along the passage to his room.
“Let me go!” she exclaimed.
She was strong and hard to hold but he handled her. He got her into his room, kicked the door shut, then released her.
“Get them off or I’ll rip them off!” he said.
“Who do you imagine you are?” Her eyes were blazing with fury. “You’ll have me when I want you and not before! Now get out!”
To Johnny who in the past had been in many brawls, she was pathetically easy. He weaved as she struck at him, her clawed fingers hopelessly out of range. Then he had her on her back on the bed. Her wrists now gripped in his hand.
“Going to behave, baby, or do I really get rough?” She stared up at him, then relaxed.
“I’ll behave.”
He released her wrists, undid her belt and pulled the stretch pants off her.
Later, she said, “I’m starving.” She ran her fingers down his hard back. “I love you. You’re all man. Whatever you say, whatever you do is all right with me.”
She slid off the bed and went away.
While he dressed, he heard the sizzling sound of bacon cooking. He went into the kitchen. Freda, naked, was cracking eggs into the pan.
He came up behind her and stroked her buttocks. “Stop it, Johnny, or we don’t eat.”
While they were eating, Johnny said, “In five days from now, you and me will be on the road together… starting a new life.” Freda smiled at him.
“I want it! Johnny… you don’t know how much I want it!”
They spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the deck, soaking up the sun. Around 18.30, Freda said, “I’ll start supper. You take a walk. Don’t get back for an hour. I must convince Ed.”
“I’ll take the boat, maybe I’ll catch a bass.”
“If it’s Black Crappie, put it back.”
Well away from the houseboat, Johnny sat in the boat and
thought of her. He wondered too what Melanie was doing. If she had found someone to replace him. He wondered what Massino was doing. Probably taking his fat, spoilt wife on some shindig. During the hour, he caught four Black Crappie and put them back, then he turned the boat and headed back to the houseboat.
As he got on deck, he saw Scott hosing down his IF truck. He waved and Scott waved back. He went into the kitchen.
Freda nodded.
“It’s all right. There’s nothing for us to worry about. He’s dropped it.”
Johnny drew in a slow deep breath.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A little after 11.15 an air-taxi landed at the New Symara airport and from it came Toni Cappelo.
Ten minutes later a taxi dropped him outside the Waterfront Bar. He regarded the outside of the building and was surprised. This joint, he decided, had a lot of style. Situated opposite the yacht basin, the swank district of New Symara, the Waterfront Bar was the haunt of the rich. Tables, shaded by gaily coloured umbrellas, stood before the building which was painted white with sky-blue wooden shutters. There was a red carpet leading into the bar over which was a blueand-white, barrel-shaped canopy. The tables were crowded with fat, rich-looking people off their yachts.
Toni felt a little shabby as he walked into the bar, carrying his suitcase. He was aware people were staring at him and he now wished his clothes matched theirs.
An Italian in a white jacket and blood-red trousers, intercepted him.
“You want something?” The contempt in the man’s voice gave Toni a rush of blood to his head.
“Luigi, you punk,” he snarled, “and hurry it up!”
The waiter’s eyes bulged.
“Signore Moro is busy.”
“Tell him Massino,” Toni said. “He’s expecting me!”
