Stiletto Page 11

  Ileana sank back into her chair. “I won’t do it. I can’t. The whole idea makes me sick to my stomach.”

  Dearest laughed scornfully. “What are you talking about? Don’t make me laugh. You’re no innocent little virgin. I know what went on at that precious school of yours. You’ll do as I say or I leave right now and you can explain to your father why I won’t live with him anymore. See if he appreciates your actions then—or even if he believes you!” She turned and swept out of the room.

  Ileana sat for a moment, then got up slowly and walked out into the corridor. She stumbled against a table in the dark hallway. Her mother’s voice came from the living room.

  “Is that you, Ileana?”

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “Be a dear, will you, and fetch us some more ice?”

  “Yes, Dearest,” Ileana replied. Her mother’s tinkling laughter followed her into the kitchen.

  ***

  A faint sound made her bolt upright in the bed. She cast a quick glance at her mother. Dearest was sleeping, an arm thrown over her eyes to shield them from the light. The American lay next to her on his stomach, breathing stertorously.

  There was the sound again. A faint squeak as if from the wheel of a rolling chair. A cold fear clutched at her heart. She reached out and touched her mother quickly.

  Dearest sat up. She rubbed her eyes. “What, what?”

  “Hurry, Mother,” she whispered, “into the next room! Hurry!”

  Dearest was wide awake now, her eyes frightened. She began to get out of bed then stopped. It was too late. The door was opening.

  The Baron sat there in his wheelchair, looking at them. His face was white and impassive, his eyes were cold.

  The American got out of bed, reaching for his trousers with trembling hands. “I—I can explain,” he stammered.

  The Baron’s lips scarcely moved. “Get out!”

  Frightened, the man ran from the room. A moment later they heard the front door slam behind him.

  The Baron sat there in his chair, looking at them. They stared back at him, Dearest shrinking back against the bed, Ileana, leaning forward and holding a sheet to her bosom. At last, her father spoke.

  His eyes tore at his wife. “It is not enough for you that I looked away from what you are, because I loved you once and somehow felt responsible for you. But do you hate me so much that you have to turn your own daughter into a whore?”

  Ileana spoke. “Father, it was I who—”

  Her father looked at her. His eyes were the saddest she had ever seen. “Put something on, Ileana,” he said gently, “and go to your room.”

  Silently, she slipped into her robe and started through the doorway. He rolled back his chair slightly to let her pass and his hand brushed her arm. His hand was cold as ice.

  She went out into the corridor and he rolled his chair into the room and closed the door behind him. She was almost at the door of her room when she heard the shots. She ran back and opened the door. She screamed. Her mother lay dead across the bed, her father in his chair, the gun still smoking on the floor near his outstretched fingers.

  Her father left her no money but her mother left an estate of more than sixty thousand dollars. Ileana took the money and went to Monte Carlo and lost it all in a week. She felt better when the money was gone. Cleaner. Then she went to Nice and visited with her friend.

  It was there she first met Cesare. He had placed second in the annual race. It was also there she found a new way to live. Like her mother, there was always some rich man who was willing to help her. And somehow when she realized how like her mother she had become nothing much mattered anymore.

  The only thing that mattered was today. And how much living she could squeeze out of it—or into it.

  14

  Cesare walked back into the living room. “Tonio!” he called.

  Tonio appeared in the dining-room archway, a bag of groceries still in his arms. “Excellency!” he cried. “You are home early!” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and looked meaningfully toward the bedroom. “The Baroness de Bronczki is—”

  “I know,” Cesare interrupted him. “I’ve already seen her. Where have you been?”

  Ileana’s voice came from the bedroom door. “I sent him out to get some things in for dinner. I thought it would be nice if we had dinner in tonight.”

  Cesare turned to look at her. She was wearing black-velvet toreador pants that clung to her body, a gold lamé blouse and gold shoes. “You did, eh?” he asked. “What made you think I want to eat in? How did you know that I didn’t have plans to dine at El Morocco?”

  She laughed, shaking her head. Her long black hair shone in the light as she came into the room. “Oh, no, Cesare. We couldn’t do that. Not tonight.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked up into his face. “I could not go to El Morocco in these clothes. And they are all I brought with me.”

  He stared at her. “All? Where are the rest of them?”

  She put her arms up to his face and kissed his cheek. Then she crossed to the couch and sat down.

  “Tonio, bring us some cocktails,” Cesare said.

  Tonio bowed, shaking his entire frame. “Yes, Excellency.” He went back into the kitchen.

  Cesare looked down at her. “What happened to the rest of your clothes?”

  “They are in California,” she said simply. “All I have with me are these—and the mink coat. The hotel manager was not very understanding either. He locked me out of my room when my credit was cut off by that woman. Fortunately I still had the return ticket to New York in my purse. So I came to the airport and here I am.” She smiled up at him. “Wasn’t I lucky?”

  Before he could answer, Tonio was back in the room. “Cocktails, signore,” he announced.

  ***

  Tonio placed the silver coffee pot and the tiny cups on the small table in front of the couch and, bowing, went back into the dining room. Cesare heard him clearing away the dishes.

  Ileana leaned forward and poured the coffee. He watched her. In some unfathomable manner, he felt good. He was relaxed. That was a good thing about her. There was no need for pretenses between them. They understood each other. That was one advantage of being European.

  She held the coffee cup toward him. “Sugar?”

  He shook his head and took it. He sipped at his coffee slowly. The slightly bitter espresso tasted good in his mouth.

  “You are very quiet tonight, mon cher,” she said in French.

  “I am tired,” he answered in the same language. “I have been very busy.”

  She came over and sat down next to him. She stroked his temples gently. “See,” she said softly. “It is a good thing I decided that we should eat in, no?”

  He nodded, soothed by the light touch of her fingers.

  “We shall retire early,” she continued. “I shall see that you rest well. I will take care not to disturb you. I will be very small in the bed.”

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Tomorrow, we shall make arrangements to get you a room in the hotel.”

  “That will not be necessary,” she said quickly, still stroking his temples. “This apartment is comfortable. There is room enough.”

  He smiled. “Americans are different, Ileana. You know that. It will be better if we get you a room.”

  She kissed him lightly. “All right. Anything you say.”

  He sipped at his coffee. Tonio came back into the room. “Will there be anything else, Excellency?” he asked.

  “No, thank you, Tonio. Good night,” Cesare answered.

  “Good night, Excellency.” He turned to Ileana. “Good night, Baroness.” He bowed.

  “Good night, Tonio.” She smiled and watched the little servant walk from the room. She turned back to Cesare and refilled his coffee cup. “I have just been thinking,” she said. “We cannot eat in every night.”

  A smile began to come to his lips. He knew what was coming. His hand started for h
is pocket. “Of course,” he said. “How much will you need?”

  Her face grew thoughtful for a moment. “Since I will be working for you, it will be proper to get a small advance on my salary?”

  He nodded, still smiling. “Absolutely proper. It is done all the time.”

  She smiled. “Good. I am relieved. Let me have one thousand, no, better make it two thousand dollars. You can deduct it from my salary.”

  “Two thousand dollars?” His voice was incredulous.

  She nodded her head seriously. “I will try to make that cover everything. I will be very careful.”

  “What are you going to buy?” he exploded. “The House of Dior?”

  “Don’t make jokes, Cesare,” she said. “Surely you don’t expect me to go out in these clothes?”

  He began to laugh. It was completely ridiculous. She really had no conception of money. “All right then. I’ll give you a check,” he said.

  He crossed to the small desk and wrote a check, then brought it back to her. “This should do,” he said, holding it out to her.

  She took it from him and placed it on the coffee table. It was for twenty-five hundred dollars. She looked up at him. Suddenly she felt very sorry for him. He was such a strange tortured man. She held out a hand to him and drew him down on the couch beside her.

  “Thank you, Cesare,” she said softly.

  His eyes were somber. “It is nothing,” he replied. “After all, we must stick together. We’re the last remnants of a dying civilization.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” she said quickly. “You make everything sound so hopeless.”

  He looked at her and in his eyes she could see the emptiness of futility. The inexplicable sorrow welled up in her. She kissed him and her hand dropped to his thigh. Her fingers felt the quick response of his muscle to her touch. She tightened her grip.

  “Come,” she said gently, a peculiar maternalism stirring inside her. He was tortured as her father was tortured. “I’ll help you to relax.”

  Of this one thing she was sure. She knew everything that could make a man forget. And make herself forget too.

  ***

  Big Dutch, looking back through the rear window of the limousine parked near the corner, saw them come out of El Morocco. “Start your motor,” he said to the driver.

  The tall doorman signaled for a cab. Big Dutch saw Ileana say something to Cesare. Cesare smiled and shook his head at the doorman. They turned and began to walk up the block away from him.

  He swore angrily. Four nights they had cased the job and every night they had taken a cab. “They’re walkin’,” he said. “Go up Fifty-Third. We’ll try to pick them up on Lexington Avenue.”

  But when they turned north on Lexington and sped toward the corner, they shot right past them. Ileana and Cesare were on the far side of the street and just turning up Fifty-Third toward Park Avenue. Big Dutch caught a glimpse of them as they turned. “Damn it! We missed them!” He swore. “Get over to Fifty-Fifth and come down Park. We’ll try to pick ’em up there.”

  The driver turned a white anxious face back toward him. “I don’t like this, boss,” he said nervously. “Maybe we better hit ’em another night.” He turned forward just in time to miss colliding with a milk truck. The big limousine swerved up Fifty-Fifth Street.

  “You keep your eyes on the road,” Big Dutch snarled. “I said it’s gonna be tonight.”

  He stared down the street impatiently as they waited for the traffic light on Park Avenue. It had to be tonight. His wife was blowing a fuse. He had been out every night casing this job and he didn’t know if she would stand for another.

  The light changed and the car began to move. “There they are,” he said. They were just crossing the pavilion in front of the Seagram Building. They stopped to look at the lights playing on the fountain.

  “Turn at Fifty-Second,” Big Dutch said, reaching for the tommy gun on the seat beside him. “We’ll hit him when he comes down the steps!”

  The big car turned and stopped near the east corner. Big Dutch looked around. The street was deserted. He looked up at the pavilion. Cesare and Ileana were just strolling casually toward the near fountain.

  He picked up the gun and lined them up in his sights. It would be a cinch. He smiled. If you wanted a job well done, you had to do it yourself. There was no use in trusting the punk kids nowadays. They were always horsing around, never paying enough attention to business. Another moment and the couple would be just where he wanted them.

  Cesare and Ileana reached the top of the steps next to the fountain. He had Cesare squarely in his sights. “Now!” he shouted and squeezed the trigger.

  The driver stepped on the accelerator and the motor roared together with the gun. The submachine gun fired twice and jammed. He saw Cesare’s face turn toward him in the lights from the building; at the same time, the car began to move.

  Frantically he tried to clear the jammed gun. He stole a quick glance at the building in time to see Cesare pushing Ileana into the fountain and diving behind the small wall. He cursed, pulling the clear lever. It was no use.

  By this time they were turning the corner at Lexington Avenue. Through the rear window, he saw Cesare pull the girl out of the fountain. Then they were hidden behind the buildings as the car raced down the street. Angrily he threw the useless tommy gun on the seat beside him.

  The driver turned the car down another street. “Yuh get him, boss?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Nah!” Big Dutch growled.

  The driver turned the car onto Third Avenue. “Where to, now, boss?” he asked almost cheerfully.

  “Downtown to the union office,” Big Dutch said. As he spoke there was a loud report and he grabbed for the gun in his pocket.

  Almost immediately the big car began to bump and lurch. The driver pulled over to the curb. “We got a flat,” he announced.

  Big Dutch stared at him for a moment. “So what else is new?” he snarled, getting out of the car. He flagged down a passing taxi.

  “It was no use,” he thought, getting into the cab. There were some nights that nothing went right.

  15

  “Are you all right?” Cesare asked, as he pulled her, dripping, from the fountain.

  Her eyes were wide and frightened. “Cesare, those men were shooting at you?” she asked.

  He glanced around quickly. People were starting to come out of the building. “Don’t talk,” he said, quickly moving her down to the curb and into a cab.

  “The Towers, driver,” he said. The taxi started and he turned to her. “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  She was still dazed. “I’m all right,” she answered automatically. She looked down at herself. “My new dress! It’s ruined!”

  He smiled grimly. “Don’t complain. You were lucky.”

  She stared at him, a growing knowledge in her eyes. “Those men were shooting at you!” she said.

  “I don’t know,” he answered sarcastically. “I didn’t have time to ask them.”

  She began to shiver. He took off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. His eyes were cold and hard. “I don’t want anyone to know about this. Understand? Anyone,” he said harshly.

  She nodded. “I understand,” she said, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Her hand sought his and a hint of sadness came into her voice. “Maybe you’re in more trouble than I am, my friend,” she said softly.

  The taxi stopped in front of the hotel and they got out. The doorman looked curiously at Ileana as she walked into the building while Cesare paid the driver.

  He held a twenty-dollar bill in his hand so that the driver could see it. “You never brought us here,” he said.

  The bill disappeared in the driver’s hand. “I never even picked you up,” he said cheerfully, driving off.

  Cesare opened the door to her room. He stepped back to let her enter. “Get into something dry,” he said.

  She hesitated in the doorway. “Maybe I’d better go ups
tairs with you,” she said. “I’m afraid to be alone tonight.”

  “No,” he said quickly. Then he looked at her. It might be a good idea to spend the night with her. “Let me change my clothes too,” he said. “Then I’ll come back in a little while.”

  ***

  Big Dutch sat in his empty office in the Union Hall and stared at the bottle of whisky on his desk. He picked it up and poured himself another drink. From downstairs came the faint sounds of the morning check-off. He picked up the glass and swallowed the liquor. It burned its way down his throat.

  Maybe the others were right after all. He was too big a man to go out on jobs like these. It was better to leave them to the punk kids even if they weren’t as good as he was. They had less to lose.

  Nostalgically he thought about his youth. They were the good old days. Everything was wide open then. You called a spade a spade, and if somebody crossed you, you went after them. You didn’t have to wait for no lousy council to have a meet first and then decide what to do.

  He remembered the time that Lep called him and Sam Vanicola down to the little speakeasy in Brooklyn. “I want you and Sam to take a little drive up to Monticello and burn Varsity Vic,” he had said. “He’s getting too big for himself.”

  “Okay, Lep,” they answered and went over to the bar and got six bottles of whisky to keep them company on the long ride.

  When they got outside, they had an argument over whose car to take. He didn’t like Sam’s Chevy and Sam didn’t like his Jewett. So they compromised and heisted a big Pierce from in front of one of the mansions on Brooklyn Heights.

  It was about a five-hour drive in those days and close to two o’clock in the morning when they pulled up in front of Varsity Vic’s roadhouse. They had about three bottles of whisky left in the car.

  They got out of the car and stretched. “Take a whiff of this air,” Sam had said. “It smells different than the city. Clean. Boy, this is the place to live.”