Make a Killing

  NO ANSWER

  I dialed again to make sure. It rang a dozen times before I hung up. A vague feeling of anxiety stirred deep down inside me. Kit and I had a date, and she wasn’t the kind of girl to forget it. I paced the floor and went back to the phone again.

  It rang three times and suddenly there was a click as someone picked up the receiver. But that was all.

  “Kit,” I yelled. “Are you there?”

  Then the back of my neck suddenly went cold. I heard an odd sound, a kind of ragged breathing. Something that sounded very much like my name…

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  959 Eighth Avenue

  New York, N. Y. 10019

  © Copyright, 1964, by Harold Q. Masur.

  Published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 64-10294.

  All rights reserved.

  First Avon Printing May 1965

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  About Harold Q. Masur

  Bibliography

  Make A Killing

  1

  In his senior year at college Hamilton Mack was voted “the man whose personality was most likely to split.”

  At the time, his classmates lauded themselves on having originated a rather whimsical conceit. They had no way of knowing that the jest was more prophetic than fanciful. Now, thirty years later, Hamilton Mack misunderstood his own function. He had been appointed to the Criminal Court bench, a job that requires temperate reactions, an impartial attitude, and an open mind, qualities in Mack conspicuous by their absence.

  He believed he was a judge, but he acted more like an inquisitor at a kangaroo court.

  He leaned over the desk, glared down, leveled a stem finger in my direction, and spoke with an abrasive edge to his voice.

  “In all my experience, Counselor, I cannot remember a single instance of such callous brutality. Look at the complainant. Look at his condition. You’re supposed to be a lawyer, not a barbarian. You took the law into your own hands, you resorted to violence, and now you have the temerity to stand here and ask this court to release you on your own recognizance.” He banged the gavel. “Request denied. Bail is set at twenty-five hundred dollars.”

  It was a grandstand play, of course, for the benefit of any reporters who might be in the courtroom. He was endeavoring to project an image—the upright jurist, the stern defender of law and order. Behind the facade I saw only a sanctimonious hypocrite, fat, bald, and splenetic.

  Theoretically, judges are supposed to maintain a scrupulously impartial attitude, but a wide gulf exists between theory and practice. In practice you find that judges come in a large variety of shapes, wisdom, and previous conditions of political servitude. His Honor Hamilton Mack belonged near the bottom of the list, a long-time party hack, feeding at the public trough, hungry for scraps of publicity.

  “In all my experience…” he had said. His experience consisted of four months on the bench, having been appointed to fill out the unexpired term of a suddenly deceased magistrate.

  Even so, he must have seen injuries far more extensive than those displayed by Ben Mornay, though I must admit the man was a sight. Yet the fact remains, I had struck him only once, a glancing blow, purely in self-defense. So I stood my ground and entered an objection.

  “Twenty-five hundred dollars seems rather excessive, Your Honor. Under the circumstances, perhaps five—”

  “Are you instructing the bench how to run this court, Mr. Jordan?”

  “Not at all, Your Honor. But we have here only a simple charge of—”

  “Simple?” he broke in. “What law school did you attend, Counselor?” His tone was sarcastic. “The charge is felonious assault in the second degree. Inflicting serious bodily damage on this complainant, knocking out one front incisor, closing his left eye, dislocating his right shoulder, with other assorted bruises and contusions and a possibility of internal injuries besides.”

  “But he was prowling around my office, Your Honor. I caught him rummaging in my files. When I tried to detain him, he swung on me. I had a right to defend myself.”

  “Self-defense does not justify irresponsible brutality.” He gestured toward the victim with sympathy and compassion.

  Ben Mornay nodded his agreement with a bland and noncommittal expression. A sling of black silk cradled his injured arm. His left eye was barely visible through the puffed and discolored lids. The corner of his mouth was swollen, diagonally patched with adhesive. I saw no gap between his teeth because he was not smiling.

  Otherwise, Ben Mornay had the look of an aging Ivy Leaguer doing postgraduate work on Madison Avenue. Slender and dapper in a narrow-shouldered suit. About thirty-five, with neatly defined features and dark close-cropped hair, the tight-skinned clever face gave an impression of cynical competence. Nothing about the man appealed to me.

  I turned back to the judge.

  “That’s just the point, Your Honor. I concede that Mornay was brutally handled. But not by me. He already had most of those injuries when he came to my office.”

  “You’re still under oath, Counselor. Do you deny you struck him?”

  “No, sir. But—”

  “Do you deny you knocked him down?”

  “He slipped.”

  “Or that you dislocated his shoulder?”

  “I deny it emphatically. The floor dislocated his shoulder.”

  A corner of the judge’s mouth turned up. He realized he was on the bench and suppressed the smile. “Would you deny shooting a man after you had pulled the trigger, on the ground that a bullet was responsible?”

  A ripple of laughter moved through the spectators. I fought to keep my self-control. “The complainant was a trespasser, Your Honor. I had every right to exercise whatever force—”

  “You had a right to call the police. Period. Mr. Mornay testified that he went to your office on a legal matter. He said he found the place empty and entered the file room, looking for an occupant. He claims you stormed in and without warning or provocation launched an attack.”

  “He’s lying.”

  “You’ll have a chance to prove that before a jury. Now, I’m not going to prolong this colloquy any further, Counselor. Mr. Mornay is a businessman, a respected member of this community. If you did not believe his explanation, you should have detained him with reasonable force. Instead you took the law into your own hands. You—”

  Boilers have a safety valve to relieve dangerous pressure. Human beings often accomplish the same purpose with a verbal explosion. Suddenly, without volition, I blew a gasket. What came out, in utter exasperation, was an improper word. The courtroom fell into shocked silence. Judge Hamilton Mack sat rigid, his lips whitely compressed, then he leaned slowly forward and concentrated a steel-blue glare. His voice sank ominously, the words measured and spaced.

  “What did you say, Counselor?”

  I did not repeat it, of course. “I am prepared to post bail,” I said.

  “No doubt. Your answer, however, is not responsive. I have half a mind to hold you in contempt.”

  “Half a mind is right,” I muttered to myself.

  I did not think it was audible. I did not mean it to be audible. Perhaps the judge was a lip reader. At any rate, he caught the
comment and I caught his judicial wrath.

  “Step up to the bench, Counselor.” He forestalled my words with a raised hand. “No apologies. Not another word. I herewith find you in contempt. One hundred dollars or five days in jail.”

  I held my tongue. There was no point in irritating him further. He might raise the fine and keep on raising it until he forced me into bankruptcy. Whatever ailed the judge—indigestion, insomnia, a nagging wife, itching ambition—he was taking it out on me. So I turned to the clerk, reaching for my wallet. It held exactly one hundred and four dollars. I counted out the money and handed it over. In return I got a receipt and a grin.

  “That covers the fine, Counselor. How about bail?”

  I swiveled. Ben Mornay was just disappearing through the door. On a rear bench I saw Augie Spelvin and beckoned. He came, shuffling, a sour small-boned man with collapsed jaws and disillusioned eyes. Augie’s trade, bail bondsman, had imprinted a permanently dour cast to his features.

  “You heard the judge, Augie. I want you to post bond for me.”

  “On what security?”

  “No humor, Augie, please. Not this morning. I get twenty advertising calendars a year from your colleagues. You’re in a competitive business. Has one of my clients ever hung you up?”

  He grunted. “How much?”

  “Twenty-five hundred. And send the bill to my office.”

  Augie handled the routine and presently I was free to leave. I glanced at my watch. I was due at a stockholders’ meeting of American Theaters at noon and it was almost that now. Outside, on Foley Square, I flagged a cab. While the driver fought traffic, I settled back to consider my predicament. A very awkward one for any lawyer trying to maintain a dignified posture in his profession. Reamed out by a third-rate judge for second-degree assault. How could it possibly happen? I thought back to the events of yesterday afternoon…

  It was almost five o’clock when I walked into the reception room of my office. Hildy Carter, my secretary, was not behind her desk. When she had come to work that morning, sniffling, eyes red, nasal passages clogged, throat hoarse, I had ordered her to go home, insisting over her protests.

  “If you get really sick, you’ll be out for a week. Doctor yourself. Take some aspirin and get into bed.”

  She agreed reluctantly. “I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “Only if you feel up to it.”

  That left the office untended. So when I returned from court shortly before closing, it was deserted, or should have been. I was moving toward the inner room when a figure suddenly materialized at the door of the cubicle that houses my filing cabinets.

  His clothes were neat and custom-tailored. His face was badly damaged. He had one brown eye and one black eye. The brown eye had been inherited from ancestors. The black eye was a recent acquisition, consigned by a large hard fist. He was surprised to see me. He stood very still, blinking sheepishly, a contrived smile in possession of bruised lips. I saw the empty gap of a missing tooth. He had the look of a citizen who had been outweighed and outclassed in a ten-round bout with a merciless opponent.

  He also had extraordinary brass. “Er… good afternoon. Are you Scott Jordan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve been waiting for some time. I was just about to leave for another appointment. Can I see you tomorrow morning?”

  I went close and peered over his shoulder at the filing cabinets. The drawer of one was pulled open, with several folders protruding untidily.

  “You were looking for something?” I asked.

  “For somebody. Your secretary. Nobody was in the reception room.”

  “Did you expect to find her in that filing cabinet?”

  “Not me.” Offended innocence widened his good eye. “She must have left in a hurry, without putting things in order.”

  “You’re a double-tongued liar, my friend.”

  “Now, wait a minute. You can’t talk to me like—”

  “I can and I am.”

  “Then I’m leaving,” he said huffily.

  And he tried to brush past me. But I do not dislodge easily and held my ground. So he used his hands. Which was a mistake since it always starts my adrenalin. I gripped his arm and spun him around. He made a fist and threw it. Whatever talents the man had, boxing was not one of them. The blow was clearly telegraphed and lacked both muscle and co-ordination. I fielded it with my left palm and shoved him back.

  Suddenly he wanted out with a kind of fierce urgency. The corners of his mouth pulled down in ugly determination and he started swinging with both fists. So I let one go, purely in self-defense. But he was pivoting unexpectedly and my blow caught him high on the shoulder, increasing his momentum. He skittered precariously, lost his balance, and fell heavily. Instinctively, he stretched an arm for protection, but the angle was awkward and his elbow struck first, catching the full brunt. He opened his mouth and filled the room with a bellow of pain.

  I bent over for a look. He was squeezing his right shoulder, writhing on the floor like a snake. Luckily, I was able to make a quick diagnosis. Three months ago I had tried a negligence case involving shoulder injuries. There are times when a lawyer, to be effective in cross-examination, must know almost as much about a particular subject as the experts. Two doctors had briefed me exhaustively. So I was able to recognize the man’s injury. He had a dislocated shoulder.

  The tendons and ligaments holding the joint in place are strong. But his elbow had acted as a fulcrum, with some one hundred and forty-odd pounds of avoirdupois exerting pressure on the lever of his arm. The pain, I knew, was excruciating, and his face was instantly bathed in moisture.

  I got down on one knee beside him. “Easy now. I’m not going to practice medicine. This is first aid. Hang on.”

  I braced my left hand at the point of his collarbone, where the scapula meets the clavicle. With my right hand I raised his elbow, turning the forearm slowly and forcing the upper end of the humerus back into its socket. It is a painful procedure and he was no stoic. It wrung an anguished howl from his throat that must have been audible all the way to Moscow.

  As luck would have it, at that precise moment, two misguided Samaritans happened to be passing my office. They heard the cry and came barging in.

  You can’t really fault them for what happened next. Under the circumstances I myself might have reacted in a similar fashion. One glance and they completely misinterpreted the scene. They saw a man on the floor, presumably a victim, sporting a black eye, a swollen mouth, a missing tooth, and a tortured expression, while I kneeled over him in what must have seemed a menacing posture. As red-blooded Americans, they instinctively favored the underdog. So they came charging to the rescue, a pair of competent-looking halfbacks.

  “Careful, gentlemen,” I warned.

  Too late. They were already on top of me, pulling me off, one with a hammer lock, the other with a half nelson behind my neck, hanging on with grim enjoyment.

  The intruder was on his feet instantly. “This man is crazy!” he yelped. “He jumped me without warning. Better hold him while I call a cop.”

  He whirled toward the door. When I saw that the damn clown was going to make good his escape, I heaved desperately against the Samaritans, managing to wrench free. He was at the threshold when I brought him down. But the halfbacks had excellent reflexes and they piled on top.

  Across the hall a jittery tenant, having heard the yelling and the noise, had used his telephone. It brought a pair of cops. They broke up the melee and sorted us out. There were accusations and denials, charges and countercharges, with neither of the city employees capable of assessing facts.

  So of course we all wound up at the station house.

  2

  The desk sergeant was no Solomon. He possessed neither the acumen nor the jurisdiction to settle our dispute. He listened to conflicting accounts, merely acting as a referee.

  My intruder identified himself as Ben Mornay, a public relations consultant. Public relations, a profession
that involves services peculiar to our times—the era of big corporations and celebrated personalities—contriving an image for public consumption, disseminating propaganda that is generally favorable and often illusory. A talent that requires imagination, press connections, and gall.

  Mornay vehemently insisted that he had been attacked without cause or warning. His outrage, I felt, was an act. I had the impression he would have been willing to call it quits right there. Perhaps I should have let him off the hook, gone after him in some other way. But I was stubborn and he was forced to press charges. The two Samaritans backed him up, swearing they had seen me in the act. Three against one—clearly a democratic majority.

  So the desk sergeant uttered his traditional remark: “Tell it to the judge,” and booked me for assault and battery.

  Routine procedure requires arraignment of an accused before a magistrate on the following morning. To insure his appearance in court, the city supplies lodgings for the night—behind bars. But not for me. As a lawyer, I knew the measures involved in getting sprung. They allowed me one call. I dialed Ed Solomon, a former classmate. He caught the urgency in my voice and came right down. Criminal practice was not Ed’s métier, so I briefed him quickly on the necessary steps.

  In thirty minutes he had a transcript of the arrest and a copy of the fingerprint record. He hustled these papers down to Night Court, waived a preliminary hearing, and then made application for bail. Since there was no record of any previous conviction, the magistrate signed an order releasing me on my own recognizance.

  Ed went back to his wife and I went home to my apartment. My mood was an odd amalgam of persecution and frustration. Also, I was hungry. I raided the refrigerator and found some edibles, sliced ham and cheese. I constructed a hero sandwich and brewed a pot of coffee. Thus fortified, I settled back in a horizontal position on the sofa and reached for the telephone.

  I dialed a number and waited. After eight rings I had a voice in my ear, a voice blurred with sleep.