Read 1955 - You've Got It Coming for Free Online Page A

honeymoon. We'll wait until this job's over.”
    She nodded, feeling deflated.
    “Yes,” she said. “We'll wait.”
     
     

chapter two
    I
     
    B en Delaney had come up a long way since Glorie's time. Then he had been an ambitious gangster with an eye for the fast buck, who moved into any profitable field, milked it dry and moved on again in search of something else as easy and as profitable. If he had met with opposition, he had retaliated with gunfire. But now it was different. He regarded himself as a successful business man with innumerable irons in the fire. Some of these irons were actually legitimate, such as his two nightclubs, his taxi-hire service, his wire service to bookmakers, and his swank motel at Long Beach. These profitable sidelines had been financed by the proceeds of his less legitimate activities that included drug peddling, blackmail, organized vice and extortion. Another of his profitable sidelines was the distribution and marketing of stolen jewellery, and he had gained a reputation for himself as one of the best-paying fences on the coast.
    He lived in a luxurious mansion that stood in a two-acre garden on Sunset Boulevard. The right wing of the twenty-bedroom house had been equipped as a suite of offices, and it was here that Ben ruled his little kingdom.
    No longer did he have to carry a gun: he had enough money now to employ a small army of thugs to watch his interests and discourage any competition or anyone foolish enough to attempt to horn in on his territory. His annual pay-off to the police was considerable and gave him complete immunity from trouble. He lived well, entertained lavishly, and if it were not for the Press, he would have long ago been accepted as a worthy member of Los Angeles society. But certain sections of the Press refused to forget his gangster days, the fact that three times he had been tried on a homicide charge, although each time a clever attorney had blasted a hole in the evidence against him large enough for Ben to crawl through. Nor could they forget that he had been involved in the call-girl scandal of a year ago, although there had been no evidence offered against him. Every now and then, when news was slack, the editors of several newspapers wrote scathing leaders about Ben's past activities and hinted darkly that his present activities should be investigated. There were also hints of police protection and the need for an administrative shake-up. This was something Ben could do nothing about. He had been tempted to silence the most hostile of the editors, but remembering the Jake Lingle episode, decided the risk was too great. He pretended to ignore the Press, but seethed with fury inwardly. Because of the Press he remained on the outer-fringe of Los Angeles society knowing that the people he entertained and who flocked to his parties were second raters, hangers-on, the indiscriminate who went anywhere so long as the drinks were free.
    On this Monday morning, he sat at his big desk in a lavishly furnished room whose big bay windows overlooked the swimming pool and the sunken rose garden. He was examining the monthly balance sheet that had been prepared by a qualified accountant he kept on his pay roll.
    The results of the examination displeased him. Profits were down: expenses were up. From the look of the figures some of his staff had been throwing money about like drunken sailors, and his fleshy, hard face looked bleak as he noted down the sum he had to play with after he had met his current expenses. The sum fell alarmingly short of what he had hoped it would be. Not that it wasn't impressive. At any other time, he would have been satisfied, but it so happened that this year he had decided to fulfill a life's ambition. The hallmark of a successful man, in his opinion, was to own a yacht: not one of those toy things with sails, but a five-thousand tonner with accommodation for twenty people, a ballroom and maybe a swimming bath. To own a yacht of that size