Free Operation Bamboozle by Derek Robinson Page B

neat and lithe, built like a welterweight, dressed entirely in black, even the shirt and tie. Murphy was 24 and he had a thin black mustache as sleek as sealskin.
    â€œYou probably won’t have to say anything,” Fitzroy told him. “He’ll just look at you and go.”
    â€œIf he asks, you’re Eddie Lutz,” Tony Feet said. “Don’t let him in. Then call us.”
    â€œBe sure and shut the fridge door
firmly”
Eugene said.
    â€œAnything goes wrong, don’t touch the guy,” Fitzroy said. “No violence. Chicago wants to ask him questions.”
    Murphy listened carefully. His gaze moved from one man to the next. He gave a very small nod. He said nothing.
    â€œThe phone rings, answer it,” Tony Feet said. “You’re Eddie Lutz. The caller asks for Eugene, you never heard of him, hang up.”
    â€œDon’t fool around with the TV settings,” Eugene said.
    â€œEddie Lutz,” Fitzroy said. “I wrote it down for you. See?” He gave him a piece of paper. “Practice. Get so it sounds natural.”
    â€œEddieeee …
Lul-Lutz.”
Slug Murphy sang it softly. “Gotcha.”
    â€œDon’t slam the shower door. Treat it nicely.” Eugene gave him the keys. Murphy tossed them in the air and caught them behind his back.
    On the way down, Tony Feet said: “You sure he’s the right guy for the job?”
    â€œHe just has to remember his name,” Fitzroy said. “Besides, I thought you should meet him. He was a sniper in the army in Korea. Got a dishonorable discharge. Wants to work for you in Chicago. He never says much.”
    â€œSo I noticed. Maybe he’s saving up the words until he has a full sentence.”
    Upstairs, Slug Murphy was checking out the apartment. He went into the bathroom, saw the shower cubicle, opened the door and slammed. It. It fell off its hinges and smashed. Dumb stupid fuckin’ door. He didn’t want a shower anyway.

    Frankie Blanco left the rifle in the motel. He drove to town and bought a secondhand Police .38, plus bullets. Then he bought two bottles of Coke, drank one and stopped at a coffeeshop, went to the men’s room and stuffed the bottle with toilet paper. The neck made a snug fit over the muzzle of the .38. A poor man’s silencer.
    He’d had breakfast at a diner but this coffeeshop offered a 99-cent special, scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast, coffee, so he took a break and ate that too. What’s the rush? Nobody ever got whacked before the hitman arrived.
    The address was an apartment block. He parked the Chevy, found
Lutz
on the directory board in the lobby, and took the elevator. He held the .38 under his jacket, with his right thumb hooked inside his shirt pocket to take the weight. If anybody looked, he was scratching his left armpit. His other hand held the second bottle of Coke. Nobody suspected a guy strolling along, scratching his armpit, swinging a half-empty bottle of Coke. It was better than a clipboard.
    He pressed the buzzer for Lutz’s apartment. The door opened and the kid in black standing there was saved from taking three slugs in one heartbeat by Frankie’s sheer professionalism. That, and the face that the kid had a Second World War British Army Sten gun in his hands.
    â€œLookin’ for Eugene Lutz,” Frankie said.
    The kid was holding a piece of paper between his teeth. He released it, unfolded it, looked at it and said: “Eddie Lutz.”
    â€œThat’s your problem, pal. I want Eugene.” Frankie tried to see past him. A black shoulder blocked his view. “Eugene asked me here special. He’ll kick your ass, you don’t let me in. Who’re you, his nephew?”
    â€œEddie Lutz.” He glanced at the paper, to make sure.
    â€œYeah, terrific, but what’s your goddamn name?”
    â€œEddie Lutz.” This time, Frankie said it with him, in a high, flat, empty