Well Now My Pretty

Not far from them was a party of young people, grouped around a barbecue, its charcoal fire making a splash of red in the moonlight, the smell of grilling steaks savoury in the hot, still air. They were too busy laughing and talking to notice the two men as they slid into the shadows of the languidly swaying palm trees and sank on to the sand.

"What the hell happened?" Mish demanded, ripping off the blouse of his uniform. He felt stifled.

"Trouble . . . it's a murder rap now," Chandler said, trying to steady his voice. "That punk Perry shot a guard!"

Mish had spent too many years of his life mixing with killers to be impressed by violence.

"How about the money?"

Chandler took a long, deep gulping breath. His body was now jerking and shuddering as he remembered how Perry had slaughtered the tough Irish guard.

"We got it . . . Maisky ran out on us . . . he took the money with him."

Mish regarded him, his small eyes narrowing.

"What's the matter with you? What are you so worked up about?"

Chandler swung around and grabbed hold of Mish's shirt front.

"Didn't you hear what I said? That bastard Perry killed . . ."

Mish's heavy, fat hand slapped across Chandler's face, sending him flat on his back. Chandler lay motionless, staring up at the brilliant stars that pinpointed the dark sky. He lay there for some moments, then with a shuddering breath, he sat up.

"Okay, Jess," Mish said quietly. "Relax. So Maisky has the money. Fine . . . I told you he was a bright boy. You don't have to worry about him. Never mind Perry . . . that's just too bad. What happened to Wash?"

Chandler fingered his aching face.

"I don't know."

Mish stared at him, stiffening.

"What do you mean . . . you don't know?"

"There was a guy there . . . an old man . . . he let off a gun. He nearly nailed me. We ran for it. I didn't worry about Wash or Perry . . . they are big enough to look after themselves. I don't know what happened to either of them."

Mish didn't like this, but he guessed he would have done the same thing.

"How much money do you reckon we've got?" Mish asked.

"We haven't got it! Maisky's got it!" Chandler exploded. "The little rat took off as soon as there was trouble!"

Mish stared at him.

"What are you talking about? What the hell did you expect him to do . . . stick around so they could grab the money back?"

Chandler hadn't thought of this possible explanation. He asked more hopefully, "You think that's what happened? I got the idea he was ratting on us."

"Oh, for Pete's sake! Maisky wouldn't do that. I know him. You think for a minute . . . trouble started: he knew you guys could look after yourselves so he took care of the money . . . he beat it. I would have done the same. I'll bet he's right now at the bungalow, waiting for us to join him . . . that's what we arranged, isn't it?"

Chandler began to relax.

"Yeah." He shook his head, trying to convince himself. "When he took off, I really thought . . ." He paused, then shrugged. "We had better get back to the bungalow. It's a hell of a walk."

"How much do you reckon you got?"

"I don't know. We crammed that carton full of money. Exactly how much I have no idea. We had to work fast." Chandler pulled from his hip pockets two thick rolls of bills. "There's quite a lot here . . . all in five-dollar bills."

Mish eyed the money and drew in a deep breath.

"Looks nice, doesn't it?"

Chandler hesitated, then gave him one roll and put the other back in his hip pocket.

"We'd better get moving." He looked uneasily across the beach. There were still too many people in the sea and on the beach for comfort. "These damn uniforms . . ."

"Take 'em off," Mish said and stripped off his khaki shirt. "Turn the pants into shorts and no one will take a second look at us." He found a penknife in his pocket and, taking off his slacks, and using Mish's penknife, he also completed the same operation.

When they had buried the shirts and the cut-off trousers' legs in the sand, they got to their feet.

"Let's go," Mish said.

They moved out of the shadows and headed towards the sea. They had to pass close to the group around the barbecue. One of the girls, in a bikini and slightly drunk, waved to them. Mish waved back, but kept moving.

The two men, walking easily, not hurrying, headed towards Maisky's bungalow.

* * *

Jack Perry shed his I.B.M. blouse and dropped it behind a flowering shrub. The moment the truck had taken off, he had slid away with the swift, silent movements of a jungle cat, not up the path, but through the hedge, across the soft earth, moving away from the Casino. As he slid through the trees and bushes, he unscrewed the silencer on his gun and dropped it into his hip pocket. He knew that within minutes the police would seal off all exits from the Casino. He knew also the old man would sooner or later give the police a description of him. He should have killed him, he thought. He now had to make his own way back to Maisky's bungalow. This was a two-mile walk, and it would be dangerous.