Not My Thing

‘Don’t give me that crap!’ the man snapped. ‘I need a man like you, and the pay-off is big. I’m talking of two hundred thousand dollars.’

Lucan sucked in his breath. For two hundred thousand dollars he was prepared to accept any insult. He relaxed back in his chair.

‘That sounds interesting,’ he said.

The man regarded him, his steel-grey eyes showing contempt.

‘I want to hire you to get rid of my wife.’

Lucan became completely relaxed. In the past, he had fixed more than a dozen divorces, and the pay-off had been peanuts in comparison to this man’s proposal.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘You want a divorce… I’ll fix it.’

‘Pay attention!’ The snap in the man’s voice made Lucan stiffen again. ‘I didn’t say anything about a divorce. I said I wanted to hire you to get rid of my wife.’

Lucan stared at the hard, ruthless face and felt a qualm.

‘I don’t think I understand,’ he said slowly.

‘I want you to arrange that my wife has a lethal accident for which I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars in cash,’ the man said.

A lethal accident!

Was this man a nut? Lucan wondered. He was telling him he wanted his wife murdered!

His voice unsteady, he said, ‘I don’t think I’m with you. I don’t understand what you are saying.’

The man glared at him.

‘I can’t put it plainer. I want you to arrange that my wife has a lethal accident for which I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars.’

Lucan gulped.

‘You – you are proposing that I murder your wife for two hundred thousand dollars?’

This was incredible!

‘It seems at last, Lucan, you understand what I am proposing,’ the man said.

Lucan’s first reaction was to jump to his feet and leave the bar, but the inbred greed in him restrained him.

Two hundred thousand dollars!

Don’t rush this, he told himself. Hear what this man has to say. There’s always time to duck out.

‘Well, I wasn’t expecting this,’ he said, taking out his handkerchief and touching his sweating temple. Then he drank all the Scotch in his glass. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Don’t fart about!’ the man snapped, moving impatiently. ‘This is a proposition. Is it yes or no?’

Lucan’s quick, cunning mind moved into action. This would be murder and he had no intention of having anything to do with that kind of thing. Stupid, rich old women, yes, but murder, no! All the same the pay-off couldn’t be dismissed. Such a sum would clear his gambling debts and allow him to remain in this city of luxury for the season and forget the dreary old women.

‘Yes or no?’ the man repeated.

Lucan hesitated, then said cautiously, ‘I think I might be able to help you.’

For the first time since they had met, the man gave a wry, grim smile.

‘It’s remarkable,’ he said, half aloud, ‘what money can buy.’

Lucan scarcely heard him. His mind now was in top gear. Among his numerous underworld associates, he knew several who wouldn’t hesitate to waste anyone so long as the price was right. He would act as go-between, take his share of the loot and then forget the whole business.

Now, relaxed, he looked at the man who was staring watchfully at him.

‘You must understand that this kind of thing isn’t my scene,’ he said, ‘but I have connections. It can be arranged. Would you give me a couple of days to look around?’

‘And you must understand,’ the man said, menace in his voice, ‘this has to be utterly foolproof. A convincing lethal accident, and no come-back. Yes, have a couple of days. I expect a watertight, foolproof plan. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Star Motel.’

‘Then the day after tomorrow, we will meet there at eleven in the morning. I expect you to have arranged this to my satisfaction.’ The man stood up. ‘Good-night to you,’ and he walked swiftly out of the bar and out of sight.

Lucan gave him three minutes, then, leaving the bar, he went to the entrance of the Casino.

The doorman touched his cap.

‘Can I call your car, sir?’

Lucan extracted a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

‘No, thanks.’ He folded the bill. ‘Who was that tall gentleman who has just left? I seem to recognize him.’

‘Why, that’s Mr Sherman Jamison,’ the doorman said, eyeing the bill.

‘I thought it must be.’

The bill exchanged hands, then Lucan hurried to the car park, got in his rented Mercedes L 200 and drove onto the boulevard.

***

In the Casino’s VIP car park, Sherman Jamison sat in his Silver Ghost Rolls Royce, his mind active.

‘I have started the operation,’ he thought. ‘It now remains to see if this man can fix the problem.’

He admitted to himself that he was uneasy about dealing with Lucan: a greedy, slimy gigolo, but he had no alternative. He had no connections with likely killers who could be hired, although he was sure there must be many of them. He had to depend on Lucan who would be reasonably safe as a go-between, and seemed confident he could find the right man. What he had been told by a frustrated, elderly rich woman that ‘That scoundrel will do anything for money’ seemed to be proving correct.