Send Lu Berilli!"
"I'll do it myself," Andy said firmly. He was sick of staying in the office listening to Massino cursing Johnny. "I'll . . ." Then he stopped as he saw Massino glaring at him, his little eyes like red, flaming buttons.
"You stay here!" Massino snarled. "Don't forget you're the only punk who had the key to the safe? So, you stay here until I find Johnny and the money!"
Andy was expecting this.
"And if you don't find him?"
"Then I'll start looking at you! Tell Berilli to go to the cafe and ask around."
"You're the boss, Mr. Joe," Andy said and reaching for the telephone he instructed Lu Berilli to go to Reddy's cafe.
Three hours later, Lu Berilli came hurriedly into Massino's office. Berilli was a tall, thin Italian, around thirty years of age with a moviestar profile and a success with women. Massino considered him a bright boy and he was right. Berilli had a good brain, but Massino knew his limitations. There was a yellow streak in Berilli: he had no stomach for violence, and that meant he couldn't rise very high in Massino's kingdom.
"You've taken your goddamn time!" Massino snarled.
"I wanted to get this dead right, Mr. Joe," Berilli said quietly, "And I've got it right." He produced a one inch to the mile map and spread it on Massino's desk. Leaning forward, he tapped with a manicured finger nail. "Right here, Mr. Joe, is where I guess Bianda is at this moment."
Massino, surprised, stared at the map, then up at Berilli.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"From my information, Johnny got a ride with a punch drunk trucker," Bern said. "Heading south. I was told this trucker was due to blow his top. That's what he did. The truck went off the freeway around seventy miles an hour just here." Berilli again tapped the map. "The trucker was killed. There was a hell of a smash. There's no trace of Bianda, but he has to be hurt. If we act fast, it's my bet he's holed up someswhere in this bit of jungle I've marked. If we get the mob down there pronto, we could flush him out."
Massino's lips came off his teeth in a snarling grin.
"Good work, Lu," he said, then raising his voice, he bawled for Andy.
Johnny felt cold water on his face that trickled into his mouth. He became aware of a shadowy figure bending over him. Fear clutched at him and he struggled up, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into focus. Then the figure bending over him became clear: a thin, bearded man, wearing a bush hat and khaki drill. He had a hooked nose and the sharpest, clearest blue eyes Johnny had ever seen.
"Take it easy," the man said gently. "You've found a friend."
Johnny struggled up into a sitting position. He was immediately aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his head and a sharp, grinding pain in his right ankle.
"I've busted my ankle," he said, then grabbed hold of the water bottle the man, was holding and drank thirstily. "Phew!" He lowered the bottle and regarded the man suspiciously.
"You have a bad sprain," the man said. "No bones broken. Just take it easy. I'll get an ambulance. Do you live around here?"
"Who are you?" Johnny asked. His hand slid inside his coat and his sweating fingers closed around the butt of his gun.
"I'm Jay Freeman," the man said and smiled. He was squatting on his heels. "You take it easy. I'll get you fixed."
"No!"
The snap in Johnny's voice made Freeman look sharply at him.
"Are you in trouble, friend?" he asked.
Friend?
No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny's turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.
"You call it that," he said. "I'm in a spot, but I've got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?"
Freeman patted Johnny's sweat-soaked arm.
"I told you . . . take it easy. Is it police trouble?"
"More than that."
"Put your arm around my neck. Let's go."
With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the
"I'll do it myself," Andy said firmly. He was sick of staying in the office listening to Massino cursing Johnny. "I'll . . ." Then he stopped as he saw Massino glaring at him, his little eyes like red, flaming buttons.
"You stay here!" Massino snarled. "Don't forget you're the only punk who had the key to the safe? So, you stay here until I find Johnny and the money!"
Andy was expecting this.
"And if you don't find him?"
"Then I'll start looking at you! Tell Berilli to go to the cafe and ask around."
"You're the boss, Mr. Joe," Andy said and reaching for the telephone he instructed Lu Berilli to go to Reddy's cafe.
Three hours later, Lu Berilli came hurriedly into Massino's office. Berilli was a tall, thin Italian, around thirty years of age with a moviestar profile and a success with women. Massino considered him a bright boy and he was right. Berilli had a good brain, but Massino knew his limitations. There was a yellow streak in Berilli: he had no stomach for violence, and that meant he couldn't rise very high in Massino's kingdom.
"You've taken your goddamn time!" Massino snarled.
"I wanted to get this dead right, Mr. Joe," Berilli said quietly, "And I've got it right." He produced a one inch to the mile map and spread it on Massino's desk. Leaning forward, he tapped with a manicured finger nail. "Right here, Mr. Joe, is where I guess Bianda is at this moment."
Massino, surprised, stared at the map, then up at Berilli.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"From my information, Johnny got a ride with a punch drunk trucker," Bern said. "Heading south. I was told this trucker was due to blow his top. That's what he did. The truck went off the freeway around seventy miles an hour just here." Berilli again tapped the map. "The trucker was killed. There was a hell of a smash. There's no trace of Bianda, but he has to be hurt. If we act fast, it's my bet he's holed up someswhere in this bit of jungle I've marked. If we get the mob down there pronto, we could flush him out."
Massino's lips came off his teeth in a snarling grin.
"Good work, Lu," he said, then raising his voice, he bawled for Andy.
Johnny felt cold water on his face that trickled into his mouth. He became aware of a shadowy figure bending over him. Fear clutched at him and he struggled up, shaking his head, forcing his eyes into focus. Then the figure bending over him became clear: a thin, bearded man, wearing a bush hat and khaki drill. He had a hooked nose and the sharpest, clearest blue eyes Johnny had ever seen.
"Take it easy," the man said gently. "You've found a friend."
Johnny struggled up into a sitting position. He was immediately aware of a dull, throbbing pain in his head and a sharp, grinding pain in his right ankle.
"I've busted my ankle," he said, then grabbed hold of the water bottle the man, was holding and drank thirstily. "Phew!" He lowered the bottle and regarded the man suspiciously.
"You have a bad sprain," the man said. "No bones broken. Just take it easy. I'll get an ambulance. Do you live around here?"
"Who are you?" Johnny asked. His hand slid inside his coat and his sweating fingers closed around the butt of his gun.
"I'm Jay Freeman," the man said and smiled. He was squatting on his heels. "You take it easy. I'll get you fixed."
"No!"
The snap in Johnny's voice made Freeman look sharply at him.
"Are you in trouble, friend?" he asked.
Friend?
No one had ever used that word to him. Friend? It was now Johnny's turn to look sharply at Freeman and what he saw was reassuring.
"You call it that," he said. "I'm in a spot, but I've got money. Can you put me under the wraps until this goddamn ankle is okay?"
Freeman patted Johnny's sweat-soaked arm.
"I told you . . . take it easy. Is it police trouble?"
"More than that."
"Put your arm around my neck. Let's go."
With surprising strength, he got Johnny up on his left foot, then, supporting him, he helped him hop along the path until they reached the
Similar Books
