Carlos was young. Maybe he was twenty or maybe he was twenty-four. His face was the color of old parchment and he had very red lips. Thin lips, paper-thin lips, and red, just like someone had slit his throat with a razor and moved the wound above his chin. His nose was small, with very wide nostrils, and his ears lay tightly against his head. His eyes were large and fringed with dark curly eyelashes. He had no expression in them. They were like dull pieces of black glass. His hair grew away from his forehead on either side of his temples. It was black, glistening and inclined to wave. Take a quick look at Carlos and you’d think he was a pretty handsome guy, but when you looked again you got an eyeful of his mouth and his lobeless ears, and you weren’t sure. When you got to his eyes you were dead certain that he was bad.
Reiger said, “This is Ross,” then he went out with Bugsey.
Fenner nodded to Carlos and sat down. He sat a little way from the sickening smoke of the marihuana cigarette.
Carlos looked at him with his blank eyes. “What is it?” he said. His voice was hoarse and unmusical.
“This mornin’ I came round to see you, but your hoods told me you were busy or somethin’. I ain’t used to bein’ handled that way, so I went back to my dump. I ain’t sure I wantta talk to you now.”
Carlos let his leg slide off the couch on to the floor. “I’m a cautious man,” he said; “I have to be. When I heard you’d been in, I got on long-distance to Crotti. I wanted to know more about you first—that’s reasonable, I think?”
Fenner’s eyelids narrowed. “Sure,” he said.
“Crotti says you’re all right.”
Fenner shrugged. “So what?”
“I can use you. But you gotta show me you’re my type of guy.”
“Let me hang around for a bit. Maybe, you ain’t my type of guy either.”
Carlos smiled. There was no mirth in it. “You’ve got a lot of confidence. That’s all right in its way.”
Fenner stood up. “I get along,” he said abruptly. “Where do we go from here?”
Carlos got off the couch. “Go out an’ talk to the boys,” he said. “Then we’ll go down to the waterfront. I’ve got a little job to do. It’ll interest you.
Fenner said, “Do I come on your pay-roll?”
“Suppose we say a hundred bucks until we get used to each other?”
“We’ve got to get used to each other pretty quick,” Fenner said without humor. “That’s chicken-feed to me.”
He went out and shut the door behind him.
Fenner, Carlos, Reiger and Bugsey entered a coffee shop an hour later. The place was full, and curious eyes watched them walk to the back, through a curtained door and out of sight.
Fenner found that Bugsey was ready to be friendly. He was a short, thick-set man, very much inclined to fat, with a round mottled face, gooseberry laughing eyes, and lips like sausages.
Reiger hated Fenner, and they both knew it. He walked with Carlos, and Fenner and Bugsey tagged along behind. They went down a short passage and down a flight of stairs. It was dark and rank in the passage, and very silent. At the bottom of the stairs was a door. Carlos unlocked it and went in.
The room was very large and Fenner noticed, when Bugsey pushed the door to, he had to use a lot of beef. The door was solid and shut to with a thud.
The room was dark but for two clots of brilliant light at the far end. Carlos and Reiger went towards the light and Fenner stood still. He looked inquiringly at Bugsey.
Bugsey pursed up his mouth. “This is his office,” he said in a low voice.
“What do we do—just stand around?”
Bugsey nodded.
Carlos sat down at a big table under one of the pools of light. He said to Reiger, “Bring him in.”
Reiger went into the darkness, and Fenner heard him unlock a door. A minute or so later he came back dragging a man with him. He led him by the front of his coat just like he was a sack of coal, not looking at him, not seemingly aware that he was bringing him in. He went over to a chair close to Carlos and dumped the man into it.
Fenner wandered a little nearer. The man was a Chinaman. He wore a shabby black suit and he sat huddled in the chair, his hands under his armpits and his body bent double.
Fenner looked at Bugsey, who again pursed his lips, but this time he didn’t say anything.
Reiger came round and knocked the Chinaman’s hat off. He took the rolled pigtail in his fist and dragged the Chinaman’s head back.
Fenner made a slight movement forward, then stopped. The Chinaman’s face glistened in the bright light. His skin was so tightly stretched that his face was skull-like. His lips had shrunk off his teeth, and only black shadows showed where his eyes were.
Carlos said, “You goin’ to write that letter now?”
The Chinaman just sat there, silent. Reiger jerked on his pigtail, wrenching his head back and then jerking it forward.
Carlos smiled. “An obstinate bastard, ain’t he, Reiger?” He pulled open a drawer and took something out, which he put on the table. “Put his hand on the table.”
Reiger put his hand on the Chinaman’s skinny wrist and pulled. The Chinaman kept his hands hidden under his armpits and Fenner could see the tremendous effort he made to keep them there. There was a long silence while Reiger struggled. Fenner could see the hand coming inch by inch from its sanctuary. Beads of perspiration started out on the Chinaman’s face and a low moaning sound came through his teeth.
Fenner said to Bugsey, “What the hell’s this?”
Bugsey waved at him, but said nothing. He just stared at the group at the table as if fascinated beyond speech.
The thin claw-like hand gradually came into view and Reiger, his mouth set in a hard grin, forced the hand on to the table. From where he stood, Fenner could see red-stained rags tied round each finger.
Carlos pushed a cheap pad of notepaper, a small bottle of ink and a brush towards the Chinaman. “Write,” he said.
The Chinaman said nothing. He did nothing.
Carlos looked at Reiger. Reiger, with his free hand, pulled the rags off the Chinaman’s fingers. Fenner sucked in his breath sharply. All the fingers were sodden lumps of red oozing pulp.
Fenner said, “For God’s sake!”
Carlos started and looked in his direction. “Come here,” he said; “I want you to see this.”
“I can see where I am,” Fenner said evenly.
Carlos shrugged. He picked up the object that he had taken from the drawer and carelessly fitted it on to one of the Chinaman’s fingers. The Chinaman made no effort to take his hand away. He sat huddled up, moaning like a dog in pain, his hand held by Reiger.
Carlos said spitefully, “I’m gettin’ goddamn sick of you. Will you write that letter, or won’t you?”
The Chinaman said nothing. Carlos savagely twisted the butterfly screw, crushing the sodden flesh. Reiger then took the Chinaman’s wrist and, lifting it up, smacked his hand several times down very hard on the table- top.
Fenner turned his back slowly on the group and took Bugsey’s arm. “If you don’t tell me what this means, I’m going to stop it,” he said hoarsely.
Bugsey’s face was like green cheese. He said, “The old guy’s got three sons in his home town. Carlos wants him to send for them, to hook them up in his racket. Those three guys are worth four grand a head to Carlos.
A sudden exclamation came from the other end of the room. Fenner turned his head. The Chinaman was writing. Carlos got to his feet, his dull eyes watching every stroke of the pen. When the letter was finished, the Chinaman fell back in the chair. He said in a thin, cracked voice, “Take it off . . . take it off . . . take it off.”
The thumb-screw still dangled from his finger. Carlos said very softly, “Of course I will. You shouldn’t have been so obstinate—you lousy fool.” He put his hand on the thumb-screw and jerked it. Fenner felt his stomach heave and he shifted his eyes. The Chinaman gave one little squeal and fell forward on his knees.
Distastefully, Carlos tossed the thumb-screw on the table. It slid a little on the white wood, leaving a red smear. Then, without looking at anyone, Carlos put his hand inside his coat and pulled a .25. He took a quick step
