Read Online Lemons Never Lie by Richard Stark - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Stark
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from a heavy like Barnes. He said, "You married?"
"Not at the moment," Barnes said. He said it flat, and he kept looking out the windshield at the traffic, and Grofield didn't pursue the subject.
4
Route 3 drops south through Illinois, ricocheting from time to time off the Mississippi River, cutting through little towns called Red Bud and Chester and Wolf Lake and Ware. Grofield, sitting beside Hughes in the pale gray Javelin, noticed that the red speedometer needle always pointed exactly at the posted speed limit. Along with setting this job up, Hughes would be their driver, and from all indications he would be a good one.
The car, for one thing. American Motors had done its part for the nation's fantasy life by putting out a car that looked like a Ronson lighter and had more cute tricks than a Boy Scout knife, for children everywhere who liked to play James Bond on the way to work; but they hadn't put much under the hood. They'd called this car Javelin, maybe because you could throw it about as fast as you could drive it. Fred Hughes had taken this car, which had a certain comicbook handsomeness, and had done something to it. The big cat that purred under the hood hadn't come from Kenosha, Wisconsin, not without modifications. The brakes, the shocks, everything about the car felt different from anything that had ever rolled off any assembly line anywhere. Now the car was sleek and powerful and perfectly under control, and Hughes drove it as though it were part of himself – as though it were a prosthetic device attached to his fingertips. Grofield, watching him in silent admiration, felt that Hughes could make the car do what he wanted simply by looking at it and raising an eyebrow.
The best driver for anything, including going quickly away from where you no longer want to be, is not the guy who will kick the car across the state, the guy who loves speed – the best driver is the guy who loves cars. He'll get more out of the car, and he'll live longer.
They did very little talking together on the drive south. Hughes at one point told him about the financing. "I'm doing it on two grand. That's probably cutting it close, but I don't want to waste money."
"I agree." The normal thing was for the string that actually did the job to repay the financer two hundred percent, if the job worked out. The risk was high enough to make that kind of repayment necessary. The two thousand Hughes had borrowed would be paid back with four thousand off the top of whatever the job brought in.
"I got a local man," Hughes said. He never looked away from the windshield, but his face changed expressions just as though he were looking at the person he was talking to. "A doctor," he said. "Can you feature that? A guy I know told me about him, two three years ago."
"As a matter of fact," Grofield said, "a guy I've used a couple of times is a doctor, too. In New York. If you ever need any financing there, look him up. Doctor Chester Ormont, on East Sixty-seventh Street in Manhattan."
"My man in St. Louis is Doctor Leon Castelli, on Grove Avenue." Hughes looked a question at the windshield. "How come doctors? I can't figure it."
"Unreported income," Grofield said. "I don't think I've ever worked a job that wasn't financed by somebody's unreported income. There's certain classes of people that tend to get paid in cash, without records, so they don't report their entire earnings to the income tax people. Like doctors, they get a lot of patients that pay cash."
Hughes grinned at the windshield. "Everybody's got a hustle," he said.
"There's safety deposit boxes all over this country," Grofield said, "packed with cash that was never reported to Internal Revenue. And these people can spend a few hundred of it, but if they start to spend in the thousands over their reported income level, they might attract the wrong kind of attention. So it's all just sitting there, in cash, in safety deposit boxes."
"Wouldn't you like the master key?" Hughes
"Not at the moment," Barnes said. He said it flat, and he kept looking out the windshield at the traffic, and Grofield didn't pursue the subject.
4
Route 3 drops south through Illinois, ricocheting from time to time off the Mississippi River, cutting through little towns called Red Bud and Chester and Wolf Lake and Ware. Grofield, sitting beside Hughes in the pale gray Javelin, noticed that the red speedometer needle always pointed exactly at the posted speed limit. Along with setting this job up, Hughes would be their driver, and from all indications he would be a good one.
The car, for one thing. American Motors had done its part for the nation's fantasy life by putting out a car that looked like a Ronson lighter and had more cute tricks than a Boy Scout knife, for children everywhere who liked to play James Bond on the way to work; but they hadn't put much under the hood. They'd called this car Javelin, maybe because you could throw it about as fast as you could drive it. Fred Hughes had taken this car, which had a certain comicbook handsomeness, and had done something to it. The big cat that purred under the hood hadn't come from Kenosha, Wisconsin, not without modifications. The brakes, the shocks, everything about the car felt different from anything that had ever rolled off any assembly line anywhere. Now the car was sleek and powerful and perfectly under control, and Hughes drove it as though it were part of himself – as though it were a prosthetic device attached to his fingertips. Grofield, watching him in silent admiration, felt that Hughes could make the car do what he wanted simply by looking at it and raising an eyebrow.
The best driver for anything, including going quickly away from where you no longer want to be, is not the guy who will kick the car across the state, the guy who loves speed – the best driver is the guy who loves cars. He'll get more out of the car, and he'll live longer.
They did very little talking together on the drive south. Hughes at one point told him about the financing. "I'm doing it on two grand. That's probably cutting it close, but I don't want to waste money."
"I agree." The normal thing was for the string that actually did the job to repay the financer two hundred percent, if the job worked out. The risk was high enough to make that kind of repayment necessary. The two thousand Hughes had borrowed would be paid back with four thousand off the top of whatever the job brought in.
"I got a local man," Hughes said. He never looked away from the windshield, but his face changed expressions just as though he were looking at the person he was talking to. "A doctor," he said. "Can you feature that? A guy I know told me about him, two three years ago."
"As a matter of fact," Grofield said, "a guy I've used a couple of times is a doctor, too. In New York. If you ever need any financing there, look him up. Doctor Chester Ormont, on East Sixty-seventh Street in Manhattan."
"My man in St. Louis is Doctor Leon Castelli, on Grove Avenue." Hughes looked a question at the windshield. "How come doctors? I can't figure it."
"Unreported income," Grofield said. "I don't think I've ever worked a job that wasn't financed by somebody's unreported income. There's certain classes of people that tend to get paid in cash, without records, so they don't report their entire earnings to the income tax people. Like doctors, they get a lot of patients that pay cash."
Hughes grinned at the windshield. "Everybody's got a hustle," he said.
"There's safety deposit boxes all over this country," Grofield said, "packed with cash that was never reported to Internal Revenue. And these people can spend a few hundred of it, but if they start to spend in the thousands over their reported income level, they might attract the wrong kind of attention. So it's all just sitting there, in cash, in safety deposit boxes."
"Wouldn't you like the master key?" Hughes
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