been there.”
Andrews stepped to the telephone as Van Wylie walked to the window. Van Wylie stared out, his hands gripped behind his back. Andrews talked quickly and efficiently. After a few minutes, he said, “Miss Zelda didn't arrive at the hairdresser's. She hasn't been seen at the club. Shall I call the Federal Agents?”
“No,” Van Wylie said, a snarl in his voice. “Say nothing to anyone about this! Now, get out! I have some thinking to do!”
CHAPTER SIX
R iff stood on the veranda of Wastelands, a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. He watched the approaching car as it came up the long winding drive and he fingered the butt of Dermott's automatic that he had thrust into the hip pocket of his leather trousers.
It was a few minutes past noon. Riff had locked the Dermotts and their baby in the front room. The windows were open, but there was no other exit. From where he stood he could see the windows and he had no worry that they could escape. By hitting the man so hard, he had knocked the guts out of him and also out of his wife.
But Riff was savagely uneasy. He had killed the Vietnamese. This, he told himself, was the result of moving too fast from small-time into big-time. He cursed himself for hitting the little man so hard. A man of Dermott's build could take a crushing blow, but a shrimp like the
yellow-skin just couldn't. Well, it was done now. Riff had decided to say nothing to Moe about the Vietnamese. He had come to realize during his short association with Moe that clever as this Wop was supposed to be, he was soft. If he knew Riff had killed the Vietnamese, he was likely to flip his lid.
The car pulled up a few yards from him. Moe was driving. Chita and the kidnapped girl sat at the back. Riff looked curiously at the girl, letting smoke drift down his thick nostrils. He was disappointed. He had hoped for something more glamorous, but when she got out of the car, he saw her broad hips and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she mightn't be so bad after all, he thought, as he walked down the veranda steps, deliberately exaggerating his rolling swagger.
“Okay?” Moe asked anxiously as he got out of the car.
Riff raised a dirty thumb.
“Nothing to it . . . and you?”
“Yeah.” Moe paused, then looked at the car. “I had better get it under cover. Where's the garage?”
Riff pointed.
“Lots of room in there.”
Moe got into the car and drove it over to the garage. Riff looked at Chita who was standing beside Zelda. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded. He then looked at Zelda who was eyeing him curiously. She had got over her scare now and was relaxed. From what Moe had told her, she hadn't anything to worry about. It was just a matter of how long it would take her father to pay out the ransom.
This dirty-looking man in the shabby black leather uniform with his scarred face intrigued her. He was the kind of thug she so often saw on the movies: the type who sent hot blood through her body and gave her erotic dreams.
Riff saw the hot flush that stained her face and the way her eyes darkened. He knew he had set off a spark in her.
He leered at her.
“I'm Riff,” he said. “What's your name, baby?”
“Zelda Van Wylie,” Zelda said. Her flush began to recede. For her age, she was pretty self-possessed. This could be fun, she was thinking. God! What a hunk of a man! If only he were a bit cleaner! Those shoulders! Those brutal hands! “You in this too?”
“Sure, baby,” Riff said, eyeing her over. “We're all in it. Come on in and make yourself at home.” He took three swaggering steps forward and put his hand possessively on her arm. Now he was close to her, she could smell his dirt and see the grime on his neck, his black fingernails and the dust in his close-cropped hair.
She jerked away from him, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Don't touch me!” she said sharply. “Keep away from me! You - you smell!”
Riff stood very still. The muscles of his face moved under
Andrews stepped to the telephone as Van Wylie walked to the window. Van Wylie stared out, his hands gripped behind his back. Andrews talked quickly and efficiently. After a few minutes, he said, “Miss Zelda didn't arrive at the hairdresser's. She hasn't been seen at the club. Shall I call the Federal Agents?”
“No,” Van Wylie said, a snarl in his voice. “Say nothing to anyone about this! Now, get out! I have some thinking to do!”
CHAPTER SIX
R iff stood on the veranda of Wastelands, a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. He watched the approaching car as it came up the long winding drive and he fingered the butt of Dermott's automatic that he had thrust into the hip pocket of his leather trousers.
It was a few minutes past noon. Riff had locked the Dermotts and their baby in the front room. The windows were open, but there was no other exit. From where he stood he could see the windows and he had no worry that they could escape. By hitting the man so hard, he had knocked the guts out of him and also out of his wife.
But Riff was savagely uneasy. He had killed the Vietnamese. This, he told himself, was the result of moving too fast from small-time into big-time. He cursed himself for hitting the little man so hard. A man of Dermott's build could take a crushing blow, but a shrimp like the
yellow-skin just couldn't. Well, it was done now. Riff had decided to say nothing to Moe about the Vietnamese. He had come to realize during his short association with Moe that clever as this Wop was supposed to be, he was soft. If he knew Riff had killed the Vietnamese, he was likely to flip his lid.
The car pulled up a few yards from him. Moe was driving. Chita and the kidnapped girl sat at the back. Riff looked curiously at the girl, letting smoke drift down his thick nostrils. He was disappointed. He had hoped for something more glamorous, but when she got out of the car, he saw her broad hips and his eyes narrowed. Maybe she mightn't be so bad after all, he thought, as he walked down the veranda steps, deliberately exaggerating his rolling swagger.
“Okay?” Moe asked anxiously as he got out of the car.
Riff raised a dirty thumb.
“Nothing to it . . . and you?”
“Yeah.” Moe paused, then looked at the car. “I had better get it under cover. Where's the garage?”
Riff pointed.
“Lots of room in there.”
Moe got into the car and drove it over to the garage. Riff looked at Chita who was standing beside Zelda. He lifted his eyebrows and she nodded. He then looked at Zelda who was eyeing him curiously. She had got over her scare now and was relaxed. From what Moe had told her, she hadn't anything to worry about. It was just a matter of how long it would take her father to pay out the ransom.
This dirty-looking man in the shabby black leather uniform with his scarred face intrigued her. He was the kind of thug she so often saw on the movies: the type who sent hot blood through her body and gave her erotic dreams.
Riff saw the hot flush that stained her face and the way her eyes darkened. He knew he had set off a spark in her.
He leered at her.
“I'm Riff,” he said. “What's your name, baby?”
“Zelda Van Wylie,” Zelda said. Her flush began to recede. For her age, she was pretty self-possessed. This could be fun, she was thinking. God! What a hunk of a man! If only he were a bit cleaner! Those shoulders! Those brutal hands! “You in this too?”
“Sure, baby,” Riff said, eyeing her over. “We're all in it. Come on in and make yourself at home.” He took three swaggering steps forward and put his hand possessively on her arm. Now he was close to her, she could smell his dirt and see the grime on his neck, his black fingernails and the dust in his close-cropped hair.
She jerked away from him, her nose wrinkling in disgust.
“Don't touch me!” she said sharply. “Keep away from me! You - you smell!”
Riff stood very still. The muscles of his face moved under
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