KILL Calvin, kill Calvin. Oh God, how I'd love to kill Calvin.
Just about everyone in the Cockatoo Lounge was thinking murderous thoughts about Calvin Weiss, and some of them were saying it out loud. As Weiss worked his way from table to table, greeting the first-timers on the cruise as well as the regulars, someone shouted from across the room, "You're dead, Weiss, your ass is mine," and someone else countered with, "I'll get you this time, Calvin, right between the eyes." There was laughter in the room, and Weiss paused long enough to flash the finger at each of the shouters before going back to his meeting and greeting.
The second purser, whose name was Fleckmann, saw the look on my face, and smiled. "It's a game," he explained. "We do it every trip. We call it Killing Calvin."
I didn't want to believe it. "You're kidding."
"Not at all. You see, it started a number of years ago on one of these trips. As soon as we cleared port, Calvin got up to his usual tricks, popping in and out of various beds and enjoying the favors of the ladies, and a time came when he didn't pop out quite quickly enough. Outraged husband, you know, caught a glimpse of him fleeing the scene, and wrung a confession out of his wife. That night the husband, a doctor from Pittsburgh as I recall, loudly and publicly announced that he was going to perform a rather exotic piece of elective surgery on our funnyman, and then he was going to kill him entirely. Well, Calvin got the word of the threat almost as soon as it was uttered, and, being a genuine coward and no fool to boot, he immediately went into hiding. It was our last night at sea, we were due back at Port St. James at eight in the morning, and all he had to do was lie low through the night."
"Did he?"
"Easily. There are dozens of hidey-holes on a ship this size, and, after all, there was only the one man looking for him. Calvin hid out, to this day he won't say where, and he didn't show his face until after the ship had docked and all of the passengers had gone ashore. He was pale and shaken, I can tell you. He said it was the most frightening experience of his life, and he swore that he'd never go through anything like that again, but of course he was wrong. The passengers saw to that."
"How so?"
"I don't know who actually started it, some of the regulars no doubt, but they turned it into a game. The idea of Calvin cowering under a bed was just too tempting to them, and so they announced that on the last night at sea, from eight in the evening until eight the next morning, Calvin was fair game. They made up a pool, each one kicked in a hundred dollars, and whoever killed Calvin won it all."
"You don't mean that they actually tried to kill him, do you?"
"No, no. In the beginning it was more like a game of hide-and-seek. Whoever uncovered Calvin, wherever he was hiding, would simply tap him on the shoulder, say, 'bang, bang, you're dead,' and go off to collect the cash. But it's grown into something far more sophisticated. There are rules, and time limits, and weapons. Not real weapons, of course. There are three allowable methods of killing Calvin: shooting, stabbing and strangulation. The ship supplies the weapons. We use those pistols that shoot pellets of paint, we use a Hollywood-type dagger where the blade slides back into the hilt, and for those who prefer strangulation we have a tasty little noose made out of black nylon. It's a little silly, I know, but the passengers love it. And for the winner, it can be highly profitable."
It may have started as a gag, but it was big business now. The ante was still a hundred apiece, but, according to Fleckmann, at least two hundred people signed up for the game every trip, which meant a jackpot that was never less than 20K. Registration took place in the Main Lounge on the last day at sea, the weapons of choice were distributed, and promptly at eight the hunt was on.
"Does he ever get killed?" I asked.
"Ever? He always gets killed. It has to be that way. I don't doubt that he could stay hidden all night, but that would never do. The passengers would never stand for it, and what would we do with all the money? No, Calvin knows how to play the game. Sometime during the night, usually on toward morning, he shows himself, and somebody pots him. It never fails."
"That leaves room for some chicanery, doesn't it?"
Fleckmann looked puzzled, then he got it. "You mean collusion between Calvin and a passenger?" He shook his head firmly. "The man may be a bastard when it comes to women, but he would never cheat that way. I can assure you that Killing Calvin is strictly on the level."
Which was what I was afraid of. I stood there trying to digest what I had heard, and what I came up with was mental indigestion. The assignment had been a bitch to start with, but there had always been a chance, a slim chance, that I would be able to pick the killer out of the crowd by tapping his head. Now that chance was gone. I didn't have a single person on board with murder on his or her mind, I had a couple hundred of them, and there was no way I could filter out fact from fantasy. My only edge was gone, and I felt like swimming back to Port St. James.
Fleckmann said brightly, "If you feel like risking a hundred, you might sign up for the game. You might get lucky."
I nodded absently. That's what Sammy would have said. My luck. Where was it now? There was a ship's brochure on the bar, and I fingered through it.
Wait until you venture out shopping. Whether it's for straw baskets in Nassau, or for Spanish crafts in San Juan, for French haute couture in St. Maarten or just about anything in St. Thomas, you're sure to get a good price. So pack an empty fold-away bag for all the gifts, and don't forget your suntan oil.
Right. No straw baskets for Ben Slade, and no suntan oil, either. With my edge gone, my only chance was to latch onto Calvin and stay as close to him as I could. I was going to have to be his shadow. I was going to have to be his… friend. It was not a pleasant thought, but it had to be done. The only question was how to do it.
I watched as Calvin completed his circuit of the room, and left to repeat the performance in one of the other lounges. "Quite a guy," I said to Fleckmann. "Aside from chasing women, what does he do with his spare time?"
"He doesn't have all that much of it. You can say what you will about our Calvin, but he's a hard worker. He's on the go all day in the lounges and at poolside, and at night he emcees the two shows in the Steamboat Club."
"And after that? He has to do something to relax."
"You mentioned the ladies."
"All night?"
"No, not even Calvin. At about two every morning you'll find him in the casino, but the way he gambles, I'd hardly call it relaxation. He can be rather intense."
"What's his game?"
"He fancies himself as a poker player."
I managed not to smile. "Is he any good?"
"He thinks he is."
"But?"
Fleckmann shook his head. "A born loser, a hustler's delight. They stand up and salute when Calvin walks into the casino. There are men who have put their children through college on what they've won from Calvin. There are women who have supported a lover on what they take from him."
"And he keeps coming back for more?"
"I told you. He thinks he's good."
This time I didn't try to hide the smile. My luck had just kicked in again.
Seven hours later I sat across the poker table from Calvin Weiss and watched him squint at his hole cards. I had been sitting there for three hours, watching him get his head beat in. I figured he was down about three thousand, which wasn't a fortune by casino standards, but which was much too much if you made your living in a clown suit. Fleckmann was right, the man was a loser. Everything about him screamed loser, from the sweat on his face when he studied his cards to the way that he nervously riffled his chips. He played a fast, aggressive game. He rarely folded a hand, he rarely failed to call, and his raises were often silly. He played as if he wanted to lose, and he did a good job of it. I have seen this at tables all over the world, and it is always a sad sight to see, but never so sad that I don't take the money. In the past three hours I had taken my share, but I wasn't the only one. Everyone at the table was eating him up.
It was five in the morning, but the casino was running full blast. Once outside the U.S. territorial waters it was never closed, and it was never empty. It was filled with the people who weren't along for the straw hats in Nassau or the Spanish crafts in San Juan. They weren't along for the sun, or the pools, or the saunas, either. They were there for the action, and they kept the casino rolling around the clock.
The casino was a good-sized room on the Restaurant Deck, but like any other casino, very little space was set aside for poker tables. The people who run casinos want the gamblers going up against the slots and the blackjack, the craps tables and the roulette wheels. Those are the games that the house has to win. But poker players don't go up against the house, they bang heads with each other, and there isn't much in it for the management. Not that the house loses money on poker. For a few sticks of furniture and a couple of decks of cards, a table that charges ten dollars an hour for each seat should show an annual income of half a million dollars in any well-run casino. But that's small change by the standards of the times, and so they put the poker tables off in the low-rent section of the room where they won't interfere with the steady flow of money to the slots and the wheels.
Calvin squeezed his hole cards again, and took another peek at them. If he had asked me, I could have told him what was there. Two kings. I could have told him every card that had been dealt. The game was seven-card stud, and he and I were the only ones left; the other players had folded. There was about three grand on the table, enough to pull Calvin even for the night, and he was sweating it out. This was the way our hands looked with the last card still to come.
Calvin: (Kh Kd) 10s 2c 9h 7d
Me: (Ah 6c) 6s 5d Jc 6d
Looking at the cards tells you the kind of game that he played. He was in love with those kings wired, and he was riding all the way with them. When I pulled the third six, he should have figured me for trips, and he should have dropped. In his spot, I would have. Of course, you could also ask what I was doing chasing along with a pitiful pair of sixes, but I wasn't trying to win. Just the opposite. Some people have to beat you in order to love you. Others have to be beaten. Calvin fell into the first category. Unless he could beat you, dominate and win, he didn't want to know you. If he could beat you, then you could get close to him, and that was what I had in mind.
I was high, and I bet five hundred, praying that he wouldn't fold. No fear. He was riding those kings all the way, and he called.
On the seventh card, I caught a useless seven of clubs. Before I tapped Calvin's head to see what he had drawn, I said another prayer that he had pulled his third king. I tapped, and he hadn't. It was the ten of hearts, and all he had was what he had started with, two kings. He waited for me to make my move. I checked. His eyes widened with surprise. He was expecting a heavy bet to force him out or make him pay, but I didn't want him out. I wanted him in, and I was the one who was going to pay.
"Those sixes not so strong," he muttered to himelf. "This guy Benny, he's been pulling my posey."
"The name is Ben," I said. I had said it before.
"Yeah, sure." He was still muttering to himself. "He's just rubbing my rhubarb with that shitty little pair. He raises and he raises, and now he checks. Horseshit poker, but maybe not. Maybe cute." He looked at me. "Which is it, Benny?"
"Ben."
"Yeah, sure."
He rubbed his chin. He scratched behind his ear. He was fighting greed. A pair of kings in seven-card is not a great hand, and he knew that he should check along and get a free ride, but if he did he might be costing himself money. If he bet instead of checking there was the chance that I'd call, and he wanted every dollar of my money he could get. On the other hand, if he bet, I might raise. He made up his mind, and pushed in a pile.
"One thousand," he said.
Something inside of me screamed raise, but that wasn't my job. This time I was supposed to lose. I could have simply folded, but I wanted him to win big. Besides, it was the company's money, not mine.
"Call," I said, and pushed chips.
He nodded. "What have you got?"
"I called you."
"Yeah." He flipped over his two hole cards. "You're looking at it."
"Kings wired." I tried to sound surprised. "That's all?"
"Look who's talking. It isn't much, Benny, but it's a hell of a lot stronger than your sixes."
It was a good deal stronger than two of my sixes, not three of them. I said, "You're a hard man to hustle, Calvin. A hard man." I folded my hand, and flipped the cards into the deadwood before anyone could see them.
Calvin grinned like a happy wolf, his relief written on his face. He pulled in the pot, and said, "Beautiful. Last hand of the night, and I finally hit."
One of the players asked, "What's this last hand business?"
"That's it, I'm out." There were a few unhappy voices around the table. Calvin said sharply, "Quiet, you vultures. You beat on me all night, and I finally get even. You can pick my bones tomorrow."
"Take it and run, I don't blame you," I said. "That's enough for me, too."
He gave me that wolfish grin again. "That last hand got to you, huh? Took some of the starch out of your shorts."
I shrugged.
"Come on, let's cash in, and I'll buy you a drink." He had beat me, and I was his.
We visited the cashier's cage, and then went to the bar. At five in the morning, we were the only customers. He ordered a scotch, I had the same, and he sank onto a bar stool. Some of the air went out of him then. "Sweet hand," he said when his drink came. "Lousy pair of kings, but they held up. You gotta have faith." He raised his glass to me. "That last hand saved my ass, Benny. I thank you, my wife thanks you, and my children thank you."
"Look, I asked you before. Would you stop calling me Benny?"
"Yeah, sure. What do your friends call you?"
"Ben. Just Ben."
"You're lucky. You know what my friends call me?"
"What?"
"Collect. They call me collect." He looked at me expectantly, his eyebrows jerking. "Get it?"
"No."
"Ben, it's funny. My friends call me collect. On the telephone."
"Now I get it."
"So how come you're not laughing?"
"Because it isn't funny."
"It is, believe me it is. I know funny, and that's funny."
"It isn't. Actually, it's very sad."
He thought about that, staring into his glass. He looked up, scowling. "What's that supposed to mean? You trying to say that I don't have any friends?"
"Do you?"
"You gotta be kidding. You see the way they treat me around here?" He did a Durante. "I got a million of 'em, a million of 'em."
"Name one."
He laughed. It was a bitter, unpleasant sound. He was muttering to himself again. "My friends call me collect. I like it, I like it. You're wrong, it's funny." He called for another drink, and when it came he gulped it. "What's all this about friends and friendship? You some kind of a philosopher?"
"No, just another poker player making conversation after a long, hard night."
"A horseshit poker player. You should have raised on the last card. You would have knocked me out."
"Not you. You were in love with those kings."
"Yeah, maybe." He looked at me directly. "Friends. You got any friends?"
"Four of them."
"I mean real friends."
"We're like a family."
"Lucky." He motioned to the bartender for a refill. He had been drinking steadily at the table, but he wasn't showing it yet. "Benjamin, the philosopher. You're right, don't let them call you Benny. Who ever heard of a philosopher called Benny? Well, you're right, Mister Philosopher, I don't have any friends. I got a million guys want to call me Calvin and shake my hand. I got a million broads want to hop into bed with me. And I don't have a friend in the world. I got zilch. Zero. Nada."
"You have a wife and children. That's a lot."
"Bullshit. What do you know about my wife and kids?"
"Not a thing."
"I've got a wife who hates my guts, and I've got kids I never see. That's what I've got." He put his face close to mine. "You see, Mister Philosopher, I'm not exactly stupid. Maybe I talk too loud, and I act like a shmuck sometimes, but that's part of my job. I'm not unintelligent, and I know exactly how empty and sterile my life is." He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "This is your life, Calvin Weiss. The S.S. Carnival Queen."
"You're breaking my heart."
He looked surprised. "What's with the tough guy? You started this friendship shtick."
"I just hate to see a grown man feeling sorry for himself."
"Well, fuck you and your four friends. You think I never had a friend in my life?"
"Did you?"
"Like this." He held up two fingers pressed together. He looked at the fingers, and laughed. "The short one is me. You remember the old comic strip, Mutt and Jeff?"
"Sure, the short guy and the tall guy."
"Right, so let me lay a piece of trivia on you. You ask ten people today who was the short one and who was the tall one, and nine out of ten they'll say that Mutt was the short one. Mutt, short-right? Wrong. Mutt was the tall one. Don't ask me why, but he was. I know, because my friend was the tall one, and he was Mutt. Mutt and Jeff, that's what they called us. We went everywhere together, we did everything together, and nobody ever had a better friend. So it wasn't always this way, Mister Philosopher. I had a friend once, a damn good friend."
"When was this?"
"Oh, Christ, a long time ago, back in college. A little place you never heard of, Van Buren in upper New York state. Yeah, Mutt, Jeff, and the Pom-Pom Queen, we were a team. Later on there was the Poodle, but she really didn't count. It was just the three of us, two guys and a girl, the classic triangle. It would have made a great soap. The all-star jock, the campus comic, and the prettiest girl in seven states. Here, take a look."
He got out his wallet, and laid a snapshot on the bar. It was an old picture of June, and she had been stunningly beautiful. The woman I had seen in the motel room was a beauty, but the girl in the photo took your breath away. I murmured something appropriate, and Calvin nodded.
"We were both in love with her," he said quietly. "Mutt and Jeff, we both wanted to marry her. One of us did."
"You?"
"Ta-da." He raised a fist in a victory sign. "I got the girl, and I lost my best friend."
"Sore loser."
"Ah, come on, it had to be that way. We didn't think so, but it had to be. He wouldn't have been human otherwise."
"At least you got the girl. He got nothing."
"Lucky me."
"You don't sound happy about it."
"It was a mistake, Mister Philosopher. My mistake, and hers. She married the wrong guy, and she's been letting me know it ever since." He looked at his watch. "Jesus, I gotta get going."
"To bed, I hope."
He grinned. "Definitely to bed, but I didn't say what bed."
"At six in the morning?"
"Nothing like a sunrise shtup to start the day off right." He slid off his stool. He smiled shyly, and it changed his face. "Good talking to you. Almost like talking to a friend."
"Get some sleep."
"All in good time. Stop by the casino tomorrow. I can use the money."
I didn't want him to go just then. There was more that I wanted to know about him, but there was no way that I could hold him there. I decided on a quick tap, a grab bag to see what I could come up with. I went in as he was standing there, and I came out as he walked away.
It was a grab bag, all right, with all sorts of surprises in it. I stood there trying to absorb what I had gathered, and Fleckmann walked into the casino. He saw me at the bar, and came over. He looked neat, clean, and disgustingly well-rested.
"You look awful," he told me. "Up all night?"
I snarled at him.
"That bad? Been playing poker?"
I snarled again.
"Oh dear, someone needs his breakfast and a few laps in the pool."
"Sounds good, but not right now. How does one make a telephone call, you know, ship to shore?"
"Ship to shore, how quaint. What century are you living in? You go to your cabin, you pick up the telephone, and you make your call."
"That's all?"
"Electronic wonders."
I found some coffee on the way to my cabin, and took it with me. I called the Center, and asked for Sammy. The duty officer said that he was sleeping. I told him to roust the bum out. As I waited, I regretted, not for the first time, Sammy's carefree attitude about codes. He refused to use them. That was spy stuff, not for us.
Sammy came on, and said, "Where are you?"
"At sea."
"As usual."
"Cute. Something came up that's bothering me."
"Is this an open line?"
"Yes, and I'll be careful. If I say Pagliacci, do you know who I mean?"
"Yes."
"It seems that Pagliacci went to college at a small school in New York called Van Buren. That bothers me. Do you think that it should?"
There was a silence, then he said, "I don't like talking about this on an open line."
"Yeah, and you're the one who won't use codes. Loosen up, who do you think is listening?"
Another pause. "Van Buren is the school that's playing Polk in basketball. Vince's assignment."
"That's what I thought. Coincidence?"
"It damn well better be, because if it isn't…"
"I know, it makes it a whole new ballgame. If these things are connected…"
"They can't be. Ogden was out of his skull when he made those assignments."
"That's been our assumption, but what if he wasn't?"
"I don't want to think about it."
"I'm afraid that we have to. If these things are hooked up…"
"Hold it, you're jumping too fast. All you have is a coincidence so far, a tenuous connection between two of the assignments. What do you expect me to do about it?"
"I don't know, but I don't like it. I just tapped Pagliacci's head and came up with some names that should be checked out. Will you do that for me?"
"Let's have them."
"Back in Van Buren, he had a couple of close friends in his senior year. One of them was a girl named June Honeywell, aka the Pom-Pom Queen. She later became Mrs. Pagliacci."
"I'll check her out. What else?"
"A guy named Hassan Rashid, his best friend. He was an exchange student from Lebanon, a jock. Do you want to know what sport?"
"No."
"Basketball."
Sammy sighed. "I'll check it. Go ahead."
"One more. There was another girl that they called the Poodle. Her name was Julia Simms."
"Shit."
"What?"
"I don't have to check that one. Julia Simms has been dead for years. She was the mother of Lila Simms, the kid that Ogden set up for the rape."