Well Now My Pretty

Hp turned off the ignition, opened the glove compartment and took out a .25 automatic. He slid the gun into his jacket pocket, then he opened the engine cover. He peered into the dark interior. His heart was slamming against his ribs alarmingly and his breathing was coming in short, jerky bursts.

Cursing, he went to one of the sidepockets of the car, took out a flashlight and returned to the engine. He peered at the mass of wiring which meant nothing to him. He jerked at one or two of the cables in the hope that one of them had come loose, but he only succeeded in burning his hand on the hot cylinder head and getting black grease on his shirt cuff.

"You got trouble?"

The sound of a man's voice just behind him sent such a stab of alarm through Maisky's frail body that he thought he was about to have a heart attack. He leaned against the wing of the car, cold, shocked with fear, as the voice went on, "Could be oiled up, you know. It's the heat."

Very slowly, Maisky turned.

A young man . . . not more than eighteen or nineteen, wearing only a bathing slip, his tall body so deeply suntanned, he looked almost black in the moonlight, was standing close to him.

"I guess I startled you," the young man went on. "Sorry. I saw you trying to start her. . . I'm pretty good with cars."

Maisky was aware that the moonlight was falling directly on him. This young man with his young eyes and his young memory would be able to give the police a dangerous description of him. This was something Maisky had planned all along must never happen.

"You . . . are . . . very . . . kind," he said slowly, trying to control his breathing, trying desperately not to alert this young man that he was terrified. "Perhaps you could see what is wrong." He offered the flashlight.

He felt the warm, firm flesh as their hands met. The young man took the flashlight.

Maisky stepped back. He glanced again up the beach, aware of the passing minutes, aware that Chandler, Perry or even the police might arrive at any moment. He was also aware of three $500 bills lying in the sand close to the young man's feet. His hand crept to his jacket pocket. He drew the .25 gun and snicked back the safety catch. He held the gun down by his side.

"Your points are dirty," the young man said. "Have you a rag?"

With his left hand, Maisky gave him his handkerchief.

"Use that . . . it doesn't matter." He was surprised to hear how shaky his voice sounded.

The young man worked for several minutes, then stepped back.

"Try her now."

"Perhaps you would," Maisky said, moving away from the car.

The young man slid under the steering wheel, turned on the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator.

The engine fired immediately and Maisky drew in a sharp breath. For a long moment, he hesitated, then he remembered

Lana Evans. He had killed her. One more death now didn't matter.

"It's okay," the young man said as he got out of the car. He suddenly stared down at his feet, seeing the three $500 bills in the sand. "Hey! Are these yours?"

As he bent to pick up the bills, Maisky took a quick step back, and then aiming his gun at the young man's bent head, he squeezed the trigger.

* * *

Mish Collins was shutting the lid of his tool box when he heard the distant sound of a gunshot. He straightened, a red light flashing in his mind.

That meant trouble! In a few minutes, the place would be swarming with police and security guards. He snapped off the light in the control room, then, leaving the tool box, he began to walk quickly up the narrow alley. Then he heard another shot and he flinched, his hand groping for the butt of his .38 automatic, stuffed into his hip pocket.

He paused at the head of the alley. Across the way, he could see his parked car. The doorman of the Casino was looking tensely away to his right. A scattering of people, enjoying the hot, night air, stood motionless, also looking in the same direction. Then Mish saw two Security guards, guns in hand, come running down the steps of the Casino and go off to the right.

Mish gave up the idea of using his car. He turned left and, not walking too fast, he made his way under the arc lights that floodlit the face of the Casino. During the seconds he had to walk under the blazing lights, he expected to hear shouts or the bang of a gun.

What the hell happened? he wondered, wiping the sweat off his face. Then suddenly he was out of the light and into the shadows.

A familiar voice said, "Keep moving. I'm with you."

Chandler had appeared and fell into step beside him.

"What happened?" Mish asked, not pausing.

"Shut up!" Chandler snapped. His face was white and his eyes glittering. There was an edge of panic in his voice that set Mish's nerves tingling. "Let's get down to the beach! For God's sake, don't run!"

"Who said I was going to run! Goddam it! What happened?"

"Shut up!" Chandler repeated, slightly hurrying his stride.

In a few moments, as the wail of a police siren cut the air, the two men reached the promenade. They plunged down on to the beach.