Bates brought the passenger list and a handful of notes on_ the names. It wasn’t much help.
In the dining room that first evening, Arnie looked over the crowd. Many had stayed in their cabins, queasy. He saw no one who might be the guy. It wasn’t till the next day that he spotted a man who looked vaguely familiar. The man was chunky and dark, had black hair and a deep tan. He was immaculate in a silk suit with a vacuous blonde on his arm. He walked with a slight limp and carried a heavy cane.
Arnie’s eyes narrowed. He had a better than average memory for faces. He had seen this customer somewhere before, but where? And if he had noted him, the guy was probably in the rackets. Only not in the Big Town. Philly or Chicago maybe. He couldn’t place the circumstances, which was curious because he should remember a guy with a limp.
On the promenade deck that afternoone he asked Bates to put names to a half dozen couples, the man with the cane among them. The guy’s tag was Sandeman. It didn’t ring a bell. He looked up Sandeman on the passenger list. Sandeman, Walter, traveling with his wife, Cleo. They were from Allentown, according to the list, and Sandeman was in construction.
Constructing cemeteries, maybe, Arnie thought grimly. At dinner that evening he managed to sit where he could keep Sandeman in view.
Now and then Sandeman looked his way too. Was he a trifle top interested? He wasn’t much of an actor. A hit guy didn’t have to be an Academy Award winner, but Sandeman was overplaying his role. He ought to be cool and detached. Of course, Arnie reflected, he himself had been around a long time. Maybe the guy was a little nervous going up against an old hand. But Sandeman had mob written all over him, and his wife didn’t help. She was an ex-chorus cutie if Arnie had ever seen one. She looked as out of place in a cruise ship as a snapping turtle in a top hat.
Why had the guy picked a handle like Sandeman? Arnie paused, a soup spoon halfway to his lips. That was Nutchy’s little touch. Nutchy was noted for his pratt-fall type jokes; this was the kind of humor Nutchy was crazy about. Sandeman for sandman, the guy who puts you to sleep. Arnie could see Nutchy falling down laughing as he told the boys how he had put Arnie Warga to sleep with a sandman.
During the next days he surreptitiously studied and avoided Sandeman. What was in the cane, a sword? He was wary of the cane. Sandeman was never without it. If Sandeman was good with it, he could slug a guy, hook him with the curved end and have his victim over the side in a split second.
Arnie rubbed his chin reflectively. He had no weapon at all, hadn’t thought he’d need one on a cruise. But Sandeman didn’t know that. The guy would have to figure Arnie to be heeled.
Arnie studied all the passengers, just to be certain. But no one else on board fitted the bill. Bates told him there had been no change in ship’s personnel for months except for those people who could not get topside to mingle with the passengers.
He made his plan. He would take Sandeman unexpectedly; he would hit the guy on the boatdeck late at night, sap him and slide him to the sharks.
Sandeman and the overdressed blonde had fallen into shipboard habits, as many did. They took regular walks around the decks in the forenoon and played cards after lunch. Cleo was always close, Arnie noted. She was given to batting her long lashes at males, so Sandeman kept her on a tight leash.
Late at night the two of them went for more turns about the deck, sometimes talking, sometimes arguing.
When the ship called at Bermuda, Arnie went ashore and bought several small souvenir ashtrays, the kind that fitted over the arms of couches and are loaded with small lead pellets. In his cabin he slit them open, loaded a black sock with the pellets and gave the covers the deep nine. The sock made a perfect sap, easy to get rid of.
During the first few days all passengers had been introduced. Arnie had nodded to Sandeman and the cutie several times since. The day the ship left Bermuda he was standing at the rail near the Sandeman couple. The blonde was chattering about some trinket or other she had bought in one of the stores, and when Sandeman’s attention wandered, Arnie heard her say, “Mick, you’re not listenin’...”
She called him Mick. It seemed to catch in his memory, just beyond recall. Where had he seen this guy? It was frustrating that he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t till the next day that it came to him.
Sandeman was about to sit down in a deck chair. He slammed his shin into the hard wooden end of the chair and instead of reacting to pain, made no sign. The shinbone made a sound very unlike flesh.
Amie turned his head, smiling out to sea. Sandeman had a wooden leg below the knee! It all fell into place. He had seen the guy’s picture in the papers — five years ago. No wonder Nutchy was sure Sandeman’s cover was secure. Five years is a long time. Sandeman’s name had been Mick Ricavali then. He had been involved in a gang wipe-out and had been one of the few survivors.
Arnie avoided the bar that afternoon and evening. He wanted to be cold sober, in complete command. There was no sense in waiting longer. He’d do it that night.
But watch out for the cane.
He had already picked out the place. When Sandeman and the wriggling blonde went out on the misty deck for the midnight walk, Arnie waited for them on the boatdeck. He stood in the small space between two lifeboats, the loaded sap held lightly in his right hand, at his side. It was dark and shadowy on the deck. An orchestra was playing inside where one of the endless ship-arranged parties was winding down.
Arnie felt keyed up. It was like the old days again, a long time ago, when he was on the way to the top. One of his first jobs had been that of convincing guys to pay what they owed — or else. He would do this one quick, then slug the girl too. He couldn’t afford a witness. It was too bad about her, and it would cause a sensation when both Sandemans disappeared into thin air, but there would be no evidence, nothing. Nothing to connect him to the affair. Nutchy, you lose again.
When the strolling couple came close, Arnie Warga stepped out of the shadows.
“Mick,” he said.
Sandeman stopped short, leaning forward, peering at him.
“Who’s ’at?” The cane rose.
“It’s me,” Arnie growled. He clipped Sandeman on the side of the head, smoothly, very expertly. The guy made hardly a sound. The cane clattered on the deck, and the blonde gave a little Squeak, staring as though terror-stricken. She seemed frozen. Arnie caught Sandeman as he slumped, pushed him against the rail and tipped him over. It was done in one slick, fast motion.
Arnie glanced down, catching a glimpse of the dark body as it hit the water in a pinkish phosphorescent splash.
Then he heard the sharp reports of a twenty-five auto at close range. He felt the slam of the slugs, and he knew instantly that Sandeman had been a decoy. He had one fast look at the blonde, smiling.
“G’bye, baby,” she said, “Nutchy sends his love.”
Arnie was conscious long enough to feel the first shock of the water.
Death and the Single Girl
by Gary Brandner
She was a delectable cookie, fashioned for man’s sampling. Now she was dead. Could I find the man who had done it?
It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light in the Golden Goose. Then it took a while longer for me to recognize Gil Foster sitting alone in a rear booth. In the three years since I last saw him Gil had grown deep sideburns, added a moustache, and mod-styled his hair.