The Cool Man Read online

  W. R. Burnett

  The Cool Man

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  B. (scanning and OCR) and P. (formatting and proofing) edition.

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  THE COOL MAN

  Dear Joker,

  You've had a long run. Don't call it luck. Luck can turn. Five years can't be luck. And if you've figured everything right for five years, you can do it for five more. Keep cool.

  1

  FOR A LONG TIME Willie Madden had been hunted. At one time the spectacular details of his crime had received wide attention in the national press, but five years had passed since the first great hue and cry, and now he felt reasonably secure.

  For some weeks Willie had been staying at the Pearl of the Orient, the newest and most elaborate motel in Tropico Beach, a plastic and chrome wonderland in the blue-white world of Southern California. He had a suite at $25 a day-cheap in Willie's opinion, compared to the prices he'd paid in Miami Beach. He could live cheaper, but why should he? To live cheaply had never been his intention. He'd always wanted the best, even as a boy, outraging his thrifty father, his careful brothers. He was to outrage them far more; Willie, at age 40, had managed with the help of six others to steal a little over a million dollars. This crime was Willie's lifework, and now finally he could afford to go first class and forget the sacrifices, hardships and humiliations of the past. Now he could live it up. Then why did he write those strange notes to himself?

  In Tropico he was known as James Shannon-a dapper, dark, blue-eyed man, who wore fashionable and very expensive clothes, who had been fortunate enough to retire relatively young to live out this dream of the good life. He was liked. He was also envied.

  From his windows he could see Tropico Harbor, where numerous small sailboats and cabin cruisers were moored, and beyond them, over the housetops of the further shore, a faint line of vivid green, from which glanced dazzling diamond-points of lights-the Pacific.

  It was a bright hot summer day, and Willie felt lazy. He changed into shorts and an expensive Italian knit shirt and went out for a stroll. A true loner, he often went for long walks by himself. It was a trait that caused some to resent him. Even the famous gimp, Johnny Quait, the king of the loners, had resented Willie's solitary habits, an inconsistency Willie had once found amusing. But there was no longer anything about Johnny Quait that Willie could view with amusement, and Willie knew that strange, huge lame man was somewhere thinking about him, and his thoughts would be murderous.

  Passing the hotel beach, Willie caught sight of Waldo, the lifeguard. A big blond boy whose life was made miserable by the amorous attentions of middle-aged female guests. Waldo's shyness was almost pathological, and Willie often amused himself by watching the old girls trying to make Waldo. They tried everything, from lavish tipping to insistent and frivolous demands for service, and Waldo would stagger around, his big face boiling red, laden with backrests, beach umbrellas, tables, towels, to be greeted by seductive smiles and arch glances.

  Now Waldo hailed him and came over, his large shoulders deliberately slumped, diminished, but his eyes searching Willie's face with a new boldness.

  "Hi, Mr. Shannon. Hot enough for you?"

  "Just about," Willie said.

  "Bet you don't get weather like this in Chicago?"

  "Chicago?" Willie repeated carefully.

  "Sure, Mr. Turley said you were from Chicago." Willie shrugged. "Haven't been back in some time. I'm retired. Following the sun."

  "Good deal," Waldo said, nodding wisely. "Very good deal. Wouldn't mind that myself-except I can't afford it."

  Willie thought he detected a look of forced shrewdness in Waldo's round blue eyes, as if Waldo were consciously playing some role. "You'll never be able to afford it working at a job like this," Willie said. "Unless you plan to grab one of these old broads."

  Waldo colored. "That's too hard a way to make it."

  "Maybe," Willie said, studying Waldo from under his lashes. There was something about this he didn't like. He felt some warning buzzing faintly in his nerve ends. "Maybe," he repeated, "but there are harder ways."

  One of the women called Waldo, and Waldo winced, seeing her as a huge white creature with tiny bright black eyes and dozens of bracelets on each thick arm shaking like potential shackles. "Excuse me, Mr. Shannon," Waldo said, shifting around uneasily, "but could I see you after work? Say, around six?"

  Willie smiled, "If it's a touch the answer is no."

  "Well, it's more than that, sir. I think you'll be interested."

  Willie laughed, but his mind was going like a computer, and an inner voice was whispering: blackmail. It could be nothing else. But what could this ass know?

  "All right," Willie said. "I'm not going anywhere tonight. Come up to my room at six."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Waldo said, a little too broadly, releasing some of his dumb malice, before he started toward the woman who was still demanding his attention.

  Willie went back to his room and arranged his clothes so he could pack in a hurry. Then he went down to the little beach town and made a number of small purchases in different stores, cashing in most of his current supply of traveler's checks. He held back only enough checks to cover his hotel bill, and his wallet was now full of cash. He was now ready to drop the James Shannon alias.

  Earlier he'd made plans to spend several hours in the evening with one of the girls from the Chez Paree, but that was no great matter and could be canceled or not as things fell out.

  He returned to his room and sat down to write:

  Dear Joker,

  Well you've had a long run of good luck. Sometimes it runs in cycles. So does bad. Don't ask me why, but any crap-shooter or horse player will tell you the same thing. Once a priest cuffed me for saying as much. The bastard had a hard hand.

  He crumpled the note, dropped it in an ashtray, lit it and thoughtfully watched it burn.

  ***

  Waldo, in sweat shirt and tight cotton pants, came sidling crablike into Willie's suite. The blond stubble on his head seemed pure white in contrast with his peeling sun-boiled red face. His blue eyes were bloodshot. Waldo didn't thrive on the sun. Waldo was carrying something in a large flat manila envelope.

  "What's that?" Willie asked.

  Waldo flushed and squirmed, hesitating, as if he'd had second thoughts. Willie noted this and quickly closed the door. Whatever it was, Willie wanted it over and done with. There was far too much hanging over his head as it was.

  "You understand, Mr. Shannon," said Waldo, "it's only… well, I guess it's pretty silly, really. Crazy, I mean."

  Willie regarded him coldly with his blue eyes and Waldo seemed to shrink almost to Willie's size (he outweighed Willie by nearly seventy pounds) and then to cough nervously.

  "Come on, Waldo," said Willie peremptorily.

  And Waldo almost automatically obeyed. He took a gaudy crime magazine from the envelope and showed it to Willie.

  "It's in here. Page ten," said Waldo, offering the magazine to Willie.

  Willie masked his surprise, then took the magazine from Waldo and turned to the dog-eared page. The first thing he saw was a younger picture of himself, staring straight into the camera. The face was leaner than now, but the eyes were unmistakable. Yet he did not show a quiver of anything, and in a moment looked up at Waldo blandly.

  "What is this, a joke?" he asked.

  Waldo squirmed, "I told you it was pretty silly, Mr. Shannon."

  Willie continued to look at Waldo blandly.

  "What is it?"

  "The picture-the criminal, Madden," stammered Waldo. "I thought… well, don't you think he looks like you, Mr. Shannon?"

  Willie held the magazine off and put his head to one side to study it. After a moment, he said: "Yes, maybe he does. Looks
smaller. Face more narrow. Hair doesn't seem to be black, like mine. But… yes. There's a resemblance."

  Waldo took the magazine back hastily. "Well, that's all, Mr. Shannon. Just thought you'd like to see…" He moved crabwise for the door, completely fooled and overawed by Willie, who had fooled and overawed far smarter men than Waldo.

  "Seems to me, Waldo," said Willie, "you went to a lot of trouble just to come up here and show me a picture in a magazine. Seems to me you had something else in mind, from your tone down at the beach."

  "Oh no, sir," said Waldo hastily.

  "Waldo," said Willie, "if I was a different kind of man I'd go to Mr. Turley about this. But I don't like to cause people trouble, so we'll just forget it. But, Waldo, let me tell you something. I lived for a long time in Chicago. We have a lot of criminals there, and I used to know several crime reporters who covered the crime beat. Waldo, all I can say is that it's a good thing for you I'm not that man. Do you know why?"

  "Why, sir?" stammered Waldo.

  "Because," said Willie, "if I was him, tomorrow morning you'd wake up dead."

  Waldo's big red face went white.

  "But, Mr. Shannon, I didn't…"

  "Blackmail, Waldo," said Willie, "is a tough proposition, even for experts. Don't ever try it again."

  Waldo swallowed hard. Willie stood looking at him. "Mr. Shannon," said Waldo finally, "I hope you won't say anything to Mr. Turley. Please, I've got a fine job here. I'm not getting rich, but there are the tips and I'm saving up for my degree…"

  "Your what?" exclaimed Willie, taken by surprise for once.

  "In Phys. Ed.," Waldo explained. "Physical education. I go to college all winter. I hope to be a coach."

  "Well, coach," said Willie, "stick to your job and don't try to stray and poach."

  "You won't say anything, sir?"

  "I said I wouldn't."

  "Thank you. I told you it was silly. I almost left without saying a word. You see, there's a waiting list for these jobs on account of the tips. I was one of the lucky ones."

  "Well, remember that, Waldo; and stay lucky," said Willie.

  Finally, with a huge sigh of relief, Waldo vanished crabwise through the door, his face still pale.

  Although Willie looked calm enough, even after the door had closed on Waldo and he was alone, he was seething inwardly. He tried to calm himself; he talked good sense to himself in a monotone, but finally his emotions broke loose and he began to rage up and down the room, a desire for violence, for reprisal, tearing at him. For a long time, while the rage was on him, he gloated over the idea of sending the editor of that so-called magazine a bomb through the mail. Digging it all up again-for what? Just to get a lousy two bits out of a few thousand tame suckers!

  Finally he managed to control his emotions. Then he sat down to write himself another letter.

  Dear Joker:

  Keep your head. This is nothing. You've had it soft too long. You're getting slack. This was a good reminder. Nothing has happened. Nothing will happen, if you don't blow your stack.

  To hell with the editor. It's done now. If a bomb would have stopped it, fine. But why a bomb now? Stupid, Stupid.

  He'd stay on for another week, and then retreat in good order and put the name James Shannon into mothballs. He was reasonably certain that Waldo would cause him no further trouble.

  2

  AND HE KEPT HIS MOTEL DATE.

  Adele, from the Chez Paree, was a large plump pale brunette, a little on the languid side, but pretty and responsive enough when finally aroused; and Willie spent a pleasant hour and a half, 'running the gamut,' as he put it.

  It was a game he never tired of year after year, but when it had been played, he usually became less interested in the girl than in a piece of furniture.

  While she dressed, Adele began to tell Willie about her two-year-old daughter. Willie didn't even listen. She turned to look at him.

  "Don't you have any children?"

  "No," said Willie.

  "You're married, of course."

  "Why 'of course'?"

  "They're always married."

  "Are they?"

  "I mean, it's convenient for them-an arrangement like this. Variety. Single guys can pick and choose; they've got time. Married men, no."

  "Very interesting," said Willie, wishing she'd get the hell back to the Chez Paree.

  "Vera told me you were an odd one," said Adele thoughtfully.

  "You mean I'm some kind of nut?" Willie demanded.

  Adele broke out into giggles, her large bare breasts quivering.

  "No, of course not," she said. "Sort of a loner. Vera likes you. I think she's a little put out with me. But it's not my fault."

  Willie made no comment. Adele pulled on her dress, then turned her back and said coquettishly: "Zip me, honey."

  Willie zipped her, then handed her an envelope. Adele hesitated, then, flushing slightly, turned her back to him while she looked to see if it contained what she'd been promised. Willie was not offended. It was a rough world for girls like Adele and Vera and all the rest; a few short years of reasonable prosperity and then what… a hash house?

  Suddenly Adele turned, flung her arms around him and tried to kiss him. Willie evaded her and eased her off.

  "Why, it's twice what you said!" cried Adele.

  "You were worth it."

  "I'll bet Vera didn't get this much," said Adele.

  But Willie made no comment. It was like tipping. Big tip, good service. Normal tip, fair service. Small tip, resentment. Generosity had nothing to do with it Willie still had a week to go, and he'd made up his mind to have another bout with Adele before he left Elementary!

  "Honey," said Adele, at the door, "you call me, anytime, hear? It's a pleasure to meet a gentleman like you."

  Willie gestured vaguely and shut the door after her; then, feeling a little sad, a little empty, a little depressed, as he always did after such bouts, he took a long shower, dressed leisurely and strolled back toward the Pearl of the Orient. He liked to walk at night, when he felt safe from attack. In fact, Willie loved the night, but was of two minds about the daytime.

  It was a night of stars. The sky was swept completely clear of clouds, except for a big bank at the sea horizon, and the stars winked and vibrated, as if agitated by some immense universal force. A cool salty breeze was blowing in from the inner harbor, rustling the tops of the tall royal palms along the roadway.

  Tropico had been a good place. Willie had been happy there. But Willie was a drifter by nature and could move on without regrets. Good food, good accommodations, good service could be found everywhere; and the country was full of Adeles and Veras-you could hardly tell one from another after a while. All you needed was money; and Willie had plenty of it, nearly half a million dollars.

  ***

  Back in his suite at the Pearl of the Orient, Willie turned on the TV set and languidly watched a few reels of the Late Show but little by little he lost interest and began to read the evening paper, which he had neglected except for the sports section. But the miseries of the world did not hold his attention for long, and in a moment he began thinking about the magazine Waldo had brought to his attention, with the scare-head: MILLION DOLLAR ROBBERY.

  It seemed long ago in another world. Leon Bellini dead, shot by the police in a running gunbattle; Rick Novak dead, from a three-story fall in the same scramble; and Willie holding their money for them, which they never came to claim, of course, although their relatives were still eagerly hoping that Willie would send them the shares of Leon and Rick. Fat chance!

  Orley Peters, Joe Wicks, and wild Fallon O'Keefe, all in prison-their shares confiscated and returned to the Kenmore Trust, making the insurance adjusters a little less miserable.

  Carl Benedict? He had escaped with his share of the money, but the police in Willie's hometown had claimed that a body fished out of the river two months later was his. But how could anyone really tell? The police only hoped it was Carl Benedict! Carl's
share of the money? Apparently lost.

  And as for Johnny Quait, who had helped Willie manage the operation-well, Johnny had never expected a share, but had taken his slice out of the front money, content with that. Johnny had not wanted to be too prominent in the business, realizing the repercussions would be serious. The Gimp had a reputation to preserve and a license to protect. Old Johnny, the private investigator!

  According to the papers you would think that the robbery had been a huge, an unparalleled, success, but actually the whole operation had been bungled from the first. And look at the score? Two dead; three in prison; one supposedly dead; and three-sevenths of the money recovered.

  The police had done well with a difficult case, but they were still smarting from the reaming they'd received in the press. The fact that Willie Madden had gotten off scot free with nearly half a million dollars, or so it was said, was the bone stuck in everybody's throat. Willie Madden, of all people! A man with no criminal record, except for a stretch in a correctional youth camp at the age of sixteen; a soldier with an honorable discharge; a private investigator for the famous detective, John Q. Quait; a former investigator for the District Attorney's office; and finally a trusted security officer for the Kenmore Trust.

  "He was laying back all along," Detective Lieutenant Art Kramer had told a police reporter. "Can you imagine? All those years, he was laying back, waiting to pull the big one. Brains, brains. What a cunning little bastard. Even after the robbery, we didn't suspect him for a long time. He disappeared, and we thought maybe he'd been kidnapped by the strong arm guys and killed. And even now, he hasn't been named. Those three poor slobs that went to the joint wouldn't name him. He got away clear."

  "Amazing!" the reporter had said.

  It was very late, nearly 2 a.m., but Willie sat down to write himself a letter.