Operation Bamboozle by Derek Robinson Page A

beer,” she said.
    â€œWhere the hell did you come from?” Julie asked.
    â€œNew Jersey. Well, Paris before that. This place looks good.” She sat on the floor.
    â€œWe have chairs,” Luis said. “No extra charge.”
    â€œNo, ain’t gonna mess up your furniture.” She took a beer from Princess, and drank hard. “Yeah … See, I thumbed a ride here an’ some of those trucks are kinda stinky.”
    â€œYou
hitched
here?” Julie said. “From
Jersey?”
Stevie was drinking again, but she nodded. “How did you know we were here?”
    â€œWell … The Mob, you know how it is. People talk. Dad told me. He’s pissed at you guys, wants his Chrysler back, I dunno. Wouldn’t give me a red cent to come here, so …” She finished the beer.
    â€œYou look like you slept in that outfit, honey,” Princess said.
    â€œFact is …” Stevie yawned. “Ain’t slep much for a week or more. Had to walk the last two-three miles.”
    â€œI’ll run a bath,” Luis said. “You’re somewhat ripe.”
    First Stevie ate an omelet; then soaked in the tub; then fell asleep in the guest bedroom.
    Princess said: “If I was built like that, I wouldn’t thumb a ride with a hearse, let alone a horny truckdriver.”
    â€œStevie’s different,” Julie said. “When we met her she was the only three-times-married-virgin in New York City. Mess with Stevie, she’ll break your fingers one by one.”
    â€œShe covets my body,” Luis said. “Women will cross half a continent for the thrill of being rejected by me.”
    â€œSuppose I don’t cross the road, even,” Princess said. “Does your special offer still stand?”

    Fitzroy went to the Hotel Bristol late in the afternoon. “Your guy is at the Glades Motel,” he said. “We tailed him all day, he just drove, nowhere special, just drove, sat in his car, ate burgers. Drove, sat, ate, drove, sat, ate. Sometimes he looks at his gun, sometimes not. Finally—home.”
    â€œThen let’s go and grab him,” Tony Feet said. “You brought some hardware for Gene?”
    Fitzroy gave Lutz a small automatic. Lutz held it between two fingertips. “I’ve never fired a gun,” he said.
    â€œIt’ll be our little secret,” Feet told him. “If Blanco can count up to three, he’ll figure he’s outnumbered.”
    â€œFour,” Fitzroy said. “Slug Murphy’s in the car.”
    â€œHe can stay there. The black car?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œGood. He’ll blend in nicely. Tell him to keep his mouth shut. His teeth spoil the effect.”
    They took the elevator.
    â€œWhy d’you bring him?” Feet asked. “I didn’t tell you to bring him.”
    â€œHe’s crazy about moving to Chicago. He knows guns, you could educate him.”
    â€œNot in those clothes,” Eugene Lutz said.
    â€œThe kid is not Chicago,” Feet said. “He’s Hollywood. He’s the young punk who gets cut down by a hail of bullets in the ninth reel.”
    Lutz put the little automatic in his coat pocket. His hands were wet with sweat and his lungs felt tight. This wasn’t why he’d moved to El Paso.
    He got in the back, alongside Murphy, who sat with his fingers linked and looked at nobody. Tony Feet sat in the front. Fitzroy drove. “Take twenty minutes,” he said. Thick cloud had blown in from the west and without sun the city looked old and tired. This day would end early. Already, streetlights were coming on.
    â€œIt’s the other side of town,” Fitzroy said. “Beats me why they called it Glades Motel. No glades out there. More like desert.” Nobody spoke. Nobody cared. “Maybe a guy called Glade built it,” he said. Nobody cared about that either.
    Ten minutes later they stopped at a red light. No