Free Operation Bamboozle by Derek Robinson Page A

maybe gave Lutz a gun, told him to … No. Bookkeepers never did that kind of stuff, wouldn’t know how. Crazy idea.
    Lutz shouts his name, beats it in a taxi. Explain that. Doesn’t add up.
    Cars came and went.
    Maybe Lutz was here on Mob business, just visiting, just bad luck they met. Business doing what? Putting in the fix on the rodeo shows? Chicago wouldn’t waste its time on El Paso. Small potatoes. Forget it.
    He was jimmying the smokes machine to get a few packs of Pall Mall before he locked up, when a fresh idea slid sideways into his brain and dazzled him, it was so brilliant. If Lutz was just visiting, he’d go away again, good, no problem. If not, that meant he lived here. Frankie found a phone book. Not a common name. And hey! There it was:
Lutz, E. B.
and an address, the only Lutz in town. Soon there’d be none. Frankie rejoiced.
Keep it simple, kid.
That was his mother’s advice too.
Don’t get in a pissin’ contest with a polecat.
A boy’s best friend, people said. Damn right.
    Tonight was too late, he’d have to get Lutz out of bed, it would be noisy, neighbors might interfere. But Frankie was restless. He drove out into the desert and did some target practice, shooting at cactus plants under the full moon. He felt good, in command again. He drove home and quit the roominghouse, it was a dump, and he went and checked into a motel. From now on it would be motels for Frankie. He could afford it. Lutz must be loaded. He’d make it look like robbery. This was his trade, for Chrissake. God bless you, ma. Sleep came easy.
5
    â€œSo you slept on it. I have to say your decision surprised me. Worried me too. Considerably.”
    â€œI don’t see why,” Luis said. “Freddy Garcia’s your client. I’m his get-out-of-jail card. You should be pleased.”
    â€œIt’s not as simple as that.” They were in James de Courcy’s office, facing each other across the glossy slice of redwood. “Asa lawyer I’m an officer of the court. I have a duty to act …” He frowned, and looked about the room, searching for the right word.
    â€œCorrectly.”
    â€œYes, that of course, and more. Decently, honorably. You don’t know a lot about oil, do you, Luis?”
    â€œSo what? I know a lot about Freddie.”
    â€œAnd even Freddie doesn’t know everything about this oil well he’s buying. Nobody does, because nobody can. He’s not just gambling, he’s gambling
blindfold.
That takes guts, more guts than I’ve got.” He stood up, and winced as the weight went on his right leg.
    â€œFreddy never shirked a fight.”
    James took a silver-topped cane and limped around the room. “They couldn’t get all the bits of bullet out,” he said. “The debris wanders hither and yon, making a bloody nuisance of itself … Now: I wasn’t going to tell you this until I heard your decision. Your ten-thousand-dollar investment buys you fifty thousand dollars’-worth of stock in Hanover Fields. If Freddy’s right, you’ll double that in a year, maybe less. If he’s wrong …”
    â€œThat’s out of my hands,” Luis said. “And now this is in his.” He put a fat envelope on the desk. “One hundred hundreds.”
    â€œI’ll wire it to him within the hour. He’ll exercise his option, by nightfall you’ll be part-owner of an oil well.” James came over and they shook hands.
    â€œTell me one thing,” Luis said. “Why did the Russian shoot you in the leg?”
    â€œThere could have been many reasons. By the time I’d put a bullet through his head it was too late to ask.”
    â€œGood shooting, in the circumstances.”
    â€œYes. He had a very small head.”

    Fitzroy installed a man named Slug Murphy in the Lutz apartment. The name was wrong, it suggested someone squat and loud. In reality he was