Luciano's Luck by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page B

standing in line at the bottom of the stairs every morning.’
    One of the guards approached, an ageing Irishman named O'Toole, with the weary, bitter look of one who had long since faced up to defeat.
    For Luciano, he managed a smile. ‘The warder would like to see you in his office, Mr Luciano.’
    ‘Now?’ Luciano said.
    ‘That's what he told me.’
    Luciano got up, still holding his book, and nodded to Franco. ‘See you later, Johnny.’
    They moved across the yard, O'Toole in the lead. He said, ‘They're waxing the entrance hall so we can't use the main door. We’ll go through the showers and up the back stairs.’
    His forehead was damp with sweat and his hand shook a little as he unlocked the door to the shower block.
    Luciano smiled easily, every sense sharpened. ‘Something bothering you, O'Toole?’
    O'Toole gave him a sudden quick push inside and slammed the door and Franco, halfway across the yard, started to run, already too late as O'Toole turned, back to the door, the club ready in his hand.
    Walton moved out of the first shower stall. He stood there, no expression on his face at all, no light in the dark eyes.
    Luciano said easily, ‘I thought that story of yours was strictly from the corn belt. They send you up here specially?’
    ‘That's right.’ Walton's right hand came up holding an ivory Madonna. When he pressed her feet, six inches of blue steel appeared, sharp as a razor on both edges. ‘Nothing personal, Mr Luciano. With me, this is strictly business.’
    ‘Who sent you?’
    ‘Fiorelli. He sent you his regards and gave me strict instructions to leave you with your prick in your mouth. He said being Sicilian, you'd know what that meant.’
    ‘Oh, I do,’ Luciano said and kicked Walton under the left kneecap.
    Walton shouted in agony as bone splintered, and slashed out wildly. Luciano seized the right wrist with both hands, twisting it so cruelly that the knife dropped to the floor.
    ‘You're going to cut someone up, kid, do it, don't talk about it.’
    He twisted round and up, locking the arm as in a vice. Walton screamed as muscle started to tear and Luciano ran him face-first into the wall of the nearest stall. The boy slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the tiles.
    Luciano picked up the knife and closed the blade. The Madonna was about eight inches long and obviously extremely old, carved by some master of ivory and chased with silver. He slipped it into his belt against the small of his back and picked up his book.
    Walton crouched at the base of the stall, moaning. Luciano turned on the shower and the boy clutched at the wall.
    ‘So long, kid,’ Luciano said softly and he opened the door and went out.
    O'Toole swung to face him, instant dismay on his face. Franco dodged past him. ‘You all right, Mr Luciano?’
    ‘Oh, sure,’ Luciano said, ‘But that Walton kid looks as if he's slipped in the shower in there. I'd say he needs a doctor bad.’
    Franco moved inside without a word and Luciano turned to O'Toole. ‘I'd better get moving or the warden will wonder what's happened to me. You did say he wanted to see me, didn't you?’
    O'Toole licked dry lips. ‘Oh, sure, Mr Luciano,’ he said feebly. ‘Right away.’
    Luciano smiled and moved off across the yard and Franco came out of the showers and leaned against the door, lighting a cigarette.
    ‘Heh, O'Toole,’ he said softly, a terrible smile on his face. ‘I don't know what they paid you, but I think maybe you just made the biggest mistake of your life.’
    Harry Carter, wearing a dark blue suit in place of his uniform, stood at the window of the Warden's office and looked down into the yard.
    The Warden said, ‘He doesn't like to be called Lucky. He's supposed to have got the name because of an incident in 1929 when rival mobsters kidnapped him, took him to a deserted wood in Staten Island, hung him up by his thumbs and tortured him. Left him for dead.’
    ‘I wonder how he paid them off?’ Carter