Free The Crossroads by John D. MacDonald Page B

looked out the window and saw her there. He’d known it would work. Some of them you could slam around. She was that type.
    Now, on this sixth or seventh visit, he sat cross-legged on the cot watching her put her clothes on. He was a lean, narrow-headed man with very pale skin, and odd eyes of a very pale shade of gray-blue. His thin back was knobbed and knotted with small muscles that writhed and bulged under the skin with each random movement.
    “When did you say you dated the punk?”
    “Last night,” she said listlessly.
    “That’s right. Good old Pete was away. Did he make out again? Look at me when I ask you a question. Did he make out?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where did you two lovebirds go?”
    “We just stayed in the car, Mark. Over by the state park.”
    “You keep one thing in mind all the time, baby. You can’t be seen with me. And you better not be seen withthe punk, either. How far did you get with selling him on the deal?”
    “Just about … going away together.”
    “That’s all? Nothing about money? Baby, you’re going to make this last too long. Maybe you’re getting a big kick out of stretching it out. You got me and Pete and Glenn Lawrenz.”
    “I hate it! I don’t like it at all.”
    “Then you better move, baby. You better get off your duff.”
    “Mark, I keep thinking about what will happen to that poor old man. I mean it seems like …”
    She backed up suddenly as Mark Brodey came swiftly off the cot, his face pale and set. As she cringed away he slapped her heavily on the side of the face. It knocked her down and dazed her. She began to cry.
    “I want this to get through to you, baby. I’ve figured this thing out my way. You’re going to do it my way. I told you about the punk and told you how to get him on the hook. The old man is going to get a bump on the head. And you and me are going to be rich. Stop blubbering, for God’s sake. All you do is blubber. I taught you the lines. They’ll work. You’ll do it if I have to beat on you until my hands are sore. Now date that punk fast and give him the whole picture, just like I told you. I get Thursday off next week. You be here by three, and you have the message that he’s ready to roll, or you’re going to be a sorry kid. I’ve put a lot of thought into setting this up. And you aren’t going to goof me.”
    He took her hand and helped her up.
    His voice changed to silky persuasion. “Baby, this thing can’t miss. You know I checked it out complete. Lawrenz is nervy enough to go for it. He just needs bait. You and the money. That’s the bait he needs. I sized him up six months ago when he first went to work there. Nobody gets hurt. A lot of money changes hands. Then you and me, we’ll take off. I won’t bat you around any more after that. Honest.”
    “I don’t know how I got into such a terrible mess. I didn’t want to be in a terrible mess like this.”
    “Don’t you worry. Let me figure things out. You just do like I’ve taught you, baby. You better run along now. It’s a little after six.”
    After the car drove out he stretched out on the cot, his hands behind his head. He wondered how much the old man had in that box. Everybody knew about it. But nobody had figured out a good way to take it away from him, except Mark Twain Brodey. And he was the boy to do it without a bit of risk. Too bad the Droveks would never find out who was behind it. It would be enough, have to be enough, to know he had gotten even.
    By six-thirty on that misty blue Friday evening the traffic flow was lighter. The Midland and the Motor Hotel were full up. There was a short waiting line at the Crossroads Pantry. The Starlight Club was busy. A baby spot shone upon a girl with tan shoulders and long coppery hair, dressed in a gray sheath, sitting at a small piano on a small platform to the left of the bar, playing show tunes above the constant jumble of conversation. The Truck Haven lot was crowded with big rigs. Walter Merris was cursing