Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

“Okay.” Albert spoke in a low voice, looking down at his hands. “I report every day by telephone or cable. Where we are, where we plan to go. If I miss, they come looking. They figure you might run.”

Johnny’s fists tightened. “Why?”

“Cantino says you been ratholing cash. It’s a good sign.”

Johnny leaned back slowly, feeling trapped. They’d sweat him first, he decided. What they finally did would depend on how he handled this job. He’d be watched like a chain-smoker in a gunpowder plant.

“Okay,” he said. “The gun’s out. What do they use here?”

“Knife, electric cord. Best is a bicycle chain, then you dump the guy in the road and they call it hit-run. Happens all the time.”

“Except that Laborie has no roads.” He leaned across the table and drew Albert’s shirt apart. He’d noticed the scar when the kid fell; now it was revealed as a puckered furrow slashing across his chest from right shoulder to left rib cage. “How’d that happen?”

“A brawl down in San Fernando. Fella tried to give me a heart operation but he stood too far away. He didn’t get another swing.”

He sounds proud as a kid with a new car, thought Johnny. He’s hard for a kid — and the pratfall hadn’t bothered him at all.

“I meant the weapon, kid,” said Johnny.

“Oh. Cutlass.”

“They use ’em in Laborie?”

“It’s universal, man. The handy-dandy all purpose tool for cutting bamboo, cane, firewood, wives and other guys.”

“Okay. Here.” He drew his baggage check from his pocket. “Get my bags and a cab.”

Albert took the check and bobbed up. “What about the woman?” Cantino says you’ll have to take her out too.

“We’ll see. The man comes first.”

Albert nodded thoughtfully. “You take your time with her, huh?”

“Get the bags, kid.”

“Okay. But when the time comes...” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Let me do it, huh?”

Johnny felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. “Get the goddam bags. Now.”

He watched the kid go, feeling a faint sickness in his stomach. Everybody seemed to want the woman dead; now they even wanted to kill her for him.

In room 114, the telephone rang. It was the desk clerk again, asking Norma if she needed anything.

“No.” her voice rose. “I told you I’d call if I did.”

“Yes, madame.”

“Has anyone asked about me?”

“No, madame.”

“If they do, you’re not to tell them anything.”

“Yes, madame.”

She hung up, her nerves jumping. She wasn’t sure the five dollars she’d given him would buy his silence. She was beginning to hate Trinidad with its close, heavy air; its quick-moving people with their weird, sing-song English. Her skin crawled as she thought of the young porter who’d flaunted his horrible chest scar. In some strange way, he seemed to mutilate her body with his black, bouncing eyes.

She sagged into the chair at her dressing table and rubbed her eyes. Her lids felt gritty. She needed sleep, but she couldn’t unwind after twelve hours in the air. Leaning closer to her mirror, she could see tiny lines crossing and recrossing the skin below her eyes.

She stood and stripped off her blouse and skirt. The suit was unwearable now. Too bad her good summer things had worn out first. Those she’d bought were cheap and looked it. She thought of her furs and jewelry and furniture, sold for the sole purpose of staying alive. Sometimes even that had seemed a waste...

She lay down on the bed in her slip. The noisy air-conditioner blew cool air across her body. She debated spending the entire two days in her room; having her meals sent up, reading... It would distract her from the worry of seeing Howard again. You never knew what three years would do to a man, especially to Howard, with his leaps of enthusiasm and plunges of despair. Once he’d told her, “A dependable man would bore you, Norma.” And she’d answered, “Then please, Howard, bore me now and then.”

Was that before or after the nightclub? Somewhere in there; the nightclub was youth’s Big Dream, except that he’d lost money and a friendly guy had offered to help him if he opened up a little casino in back. From then on, the organization had owned him.

In the three years since he’d disappeared, she’d begun to wonder if they’d killed him. He’d always thought they would, eventually. Then a week ago she’d received a note with a West Indian postmark. The note had said: Laborie, B.W.I. Howard.

That was all. Now here she was, four thousand miles from home and nearly broke. She wasn’t even sure he meant for her to come. Oh, God... She sat up and lit a cigarette. If he sent her away, she’d divorce him. Thirty was too old to be alone.

Suddenly she had to know.

She lifted the phone and got the desk clerk on the line. “You remember I asked about Laborie? Is the airline the quickest way to get there?”

“No, madame. A Grumman float plane is available for charter during daylight hours only. It will deliver you to St. Vincent.”

“How much?”

“The fare is arranged with the pilot. I believe it usually runs something over two hundred dollars — Beewee.”