by Jerry eBooks
And then they were apart. “Oh . . .!” she began, breathless, hands covering her mouth.
A red mantle of embarrassment stained Gil’s tanned features to the roots of his ash blond hair.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” he mumbled tritely, lamely. Myrna Bruce quickly recovered herself. “You knew”—a little sob back in her throat—“Jack was dead?”
“Yes. That is—his letter said he would be. He must have known.”
The girl looked away. In profile, Gil saw the slightest suspicion of moisture in her eyes. A wave of pity seized him and, were it not for the remembrance of what just had happened when he’d touched her, he would have tried to soothe her.
“He was buried—yesterday,” she explained brokenly. “He was so young, so alive.” She turned savagely toward him. “Why should my brother to killed? An innocent onlooker in a common street battle! It isn’t fair!”
Gil’s blue eyes watched her, more sleepy than ever. Jack had covered the real cause of his death well; had left it up to Gil to carry on and save his sister from Smoothy Rand.
Gil said, low, “He didn’t say in his letter what had happened. He just asked me to—”
Myrna’s hand fell on his, its soft warmth sending ripples of excitement through him.
“Jack left a package for you.” Her smile was wan, brave. “His room is next to mine on the balcony. You’ll find it on his bureau. I’ll mix a drink while you’re up there.”
She turned toward a door across the room. For an instant the dying light of day was behind her and she was almost as if nude. Cursing himself for the trend of his thoughts, Gil strode to the balcony, up its four steps and into Jack Bruce’s room.
It was dim and cool and very peaceful within. Almost reverently Gil let his eyes fall on the bed, the half-opened closet showing male attire in neat array, Jack’s framed picture on the bureau. Beside the portrait was a bulky package done up in white paper.
Gil unwrapped it, opening a leather case to reveal two forty-fives. They were oiled, clean, dully agleam with brute efficiency. Gil’s thin lips curled approvingly away from his teeth. He hefted one of the heavy weapons, thrilling at the familiar contact of chill steel in his hand again. About to replace the gun, he saw an envelope in the case.
Inside was nothing but a folded newspaper clipping. The paper was a little yellowed, bearing a date some eight years ago. Gil’s hands shook a little as he read it. A nervous tremor coursed through his big frame, although he was only too familiar with the article. In the simple, clipped phrases of a bored reporter, it told how a man from the southwest had, single-handed, killed three members of an East Side gang.
There was vague reference of this man having had a brother who, in some way, had been framed by the three dead gangsters. There was even more aloof mention of a perfunctory police search for the killer; but only casual, for the slain men had been three thorns more out of the law’s side.
The Texan , this reporter had dubbed the killer . . .
Gil Markham carefully folded the article and thrust it in his pocket, his bronzed face an implacable mask. Behind almost closed lids, his sleepy eyes glinted with a blue, cold light.
Voices from the stepped down living room outside caught his attention. A man’s . . . and Myrna’s. Tucking the gun case under his arm, he left the room, brought up suddenly against the balcony rail at what he saw.
In the center of the room, oblivious to everything except their own passion, Myrna and a man were welded in a torrid embrace. So closely were their bodies joined, the resultant curve was like a lazy letter “S.” Slowly, possessively, the man’s hands were roaming over Myrna’s back . . . Gil could hear her making soft moans of delight back in her throat.
Unreasoning rage gripped Gil Markham. The man must be Smoothly Rand.
“Break!” he barked.
The two figures sprang apart, startled. Gil went down the steps toward the man who was thin and tall with utterly colorless cheeks and soft, feminine eyes.
“You louse!” he rapped out. “I’ve got a good mind to break this”—shaking his big knuckled fist—“between your eyes.”
“Gil—!” Myrna cried, protestingly.
The thin man’s lips smiled as he backed swiftly away from Gil.
“Don’t worry, baby—he won’t.” And with a striking, snakelike movement of his hand toward his armpit, a blue-steeled automatic appeared and was leveled toward Gil. “Back up, punk!” he ground out in a deadly monotone.
Gil froze. There was no softness, no femininity in the man’s eyes now. They glittered balefully, evilly.
Myrna Bruce was at Gil’s side, her hands gripping his arm.
“You—you misunderstand,” she said. “This is Mr. Rand. He and I are—engaged.”
Rand didn’t take his eyes from Gil. “Who’s this big clown, baby? What’s he doing here with you?”
“Lay that gun down,” Gil grated, crawling with impotence, “and I’ll show you.”
Myrna came around in front of Gil, her back to Rand. Scorn had replaced the anxiety in her eyes. Her widely-spaced, throbbing, breasts were almost free of her negligee.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Gil Markham!” she said scornfully. “A man your size!”
“You’re the one to be ashamed!” Gil snapped. “Letting yourself be pawed by a slimy louse like this. Why he’s nothing but—”
The girl swung toward Rand. “You’d better go, Fred,” she told him, her voice low, caressing. “I’ll meet you—in an hour.”
“Okay, baby.” Rand, smiling coldly at Gil, backed away toward the door. “You know where you can get me if this ox gets tough.”
Myrna faced Gil again. “The sooner you leave, the better I’ll like it.” She fairly quivered with anger. “I don’t ever care to see you again!”
“Listen to me, Myrna Bruce!” Gil growled, tossing his gun case on a chair. “Rand is a rat and a killer.” His hands grabbed her rounded shoulders. For an instant he let his stare devour the shadowy space between her breasts, their lusciousness so thinly veiled by the filmy silk. Then: “Jack wasn’t killed watching a street brawl. Rand shot him. Murdered him because of you. He—”
“Shut up!” the girl screamed, writhing from under his grip. “You’re lying just as Jack did. I love him. We’re getting married. Now—get out!”
Whirling furiously, she went up the steps to the balcony and slammed the door to her room. Gil, staring after her, heard the key twist in the lock. God! he thought—the passion and beauty of this girl being handed on a silver platter to such a slimy lug as Rand!
He left.
The Parrot Club, buried in Greenwich Village, was the goofiest of that sector’s bumper crop. It flaunted a flaming neon sign over the sidewalk, fashioned into a wild-eyed parrot thumbing its nose—a gaudy prelude to the dizzy atmosphere inside.
Gil Markham, bronzed and bulking in immaculate linens, was piloted through sardined tables to a tiny one in a corner. The low ceiling held a mushroom of smoke, reverberating dully with jangly noise. Men were yelling; women were screaming at dirty jokes and intimate prods from their escorts’ hands; the thin band was rasping what never could have been called music.
“Joyce Drake works here,” Gil told the waiter, palming a five dollar bill. “I’d like to see her . . . now.”
The sight of the bill stopped the waiter’s protest. He was a wild haired, pop-eyed Pole. “Shu shu,” he grinned, pocketing the bill “Right away!”
Gil rested his walking beam shoulders against the wall, his eyes almost closed, but not missing a trick. More than one woman ogled at his bronzed, lean frame, his smooth crest of ash blond hair in striking contrast.
Someone tapped him on his shoulder. He twisted his head . . . stood up, reaching at the same time for an empty chair at the adjoining table. A willowy girl in a brilliant green gown and slicked back reddish hair was standing before him. The “V” in the front of her dress was long, narrow, loose. As she leaned over a little to take the chair Gil held for her, he
saw her breasts sway forward from her body like lush fruit.
Gil said: “You’re Joyce Drake.”
“Check, mister.” Her voice held the quality of brass though not unpleasant. “What’s on your mind?” She began looking him over, some warmth lighting her mascaraed eyes. “Make it snappy . . . I’m on in ten minutes.”
“Doing anything after the show?”
Her lids drooped, “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what”—she lowered her voice—“you have to offer.”
Gil smiled faintly. “Name your own poison. I’ve got it.” His blood began to race.
“Yeah?” she breathed. Slowly. “Maybe you have at that.” Softly she drummed the table cloth with blood red nails. “I’ve got expensive tastes, big boy,” she warned.
“Okay, beautiful.” He stood cupping her elbow. “I won’t see you lose. Where’ll I meet you?” For an instant his gaze dropped, seeking the shadowed treasures behind the “V” in her dress.
She flashed a brief, provocative smile. “Right after my routine. In my dressing room. Ask the waiter to show you.” And she left.
Some thirty odd minutes later Gil Markham rapped softly on the wooden panels of Joyce Drake’s dressing room.
“Okay . . .!”
He went in. It was a cubbyhole of a room, hardly large enough for one person. There was a rude wooden table with a cracked mirror; a wall bracket with a dirty bulb; hooks on the wall. As he entered, Joyce was turning from a mirror with a final flirt of a lipstick.
“Where to?” Gil asked. His watch said twelve-thirty.
She came toward him, slim body writhing like gelatin under her green gown, very close—so close an intoxicating perfume began to dull Gil’s wits. She stopped.
Softly, challengingly, she whispered: “First . . . let’s see what you got on the ball.”
He pulled her to him. Her flesh burned him through its silken prison. There was a mocking set to her eyes, her gleaming mouth; and through she didn’t resist neither did she surrender. A little irritated, Gil tightened his grip, his temples beginning to throb.
Gil went to town . . .
The kiss probably only lasted a matter of seconds. To Gil, it was a roaring eternity of passion. For, when his mouth clamped on hers, she wilted completely and gave herself entirely to his savage, exploring embrace. One hand of hers dug into his hair, pulling down fiercely; the other she ran lightly along his cheek, his ear, the back of his neck. Gil could feel every detail of her quivering body against him.
They parted at last for breath. Gil thrust her gently at arm’s length, dropped his hands. She swayed a little, breathless.
“How’s that?” Gil asked, a little thickly. She spoke with effort. “Let’s go . . . home!”
Joyce Drake lived alone in an a apartment uptown that cost more than chicken feed to maintain. It was hot in the living-room and Gil sat drinking a long highball in his shirt-sleeves. Joyce, sitting opposite him, eyed him curiously over the edge of her glass, her crossed legs revealing milky white thighs.
“You sound like you come from out of town,” she said. “Some place south.”
Gil laughed lightly, shelving his drink. “Pardon my southern ancestors. But I was born and raised right here.” He went to her; stopped, his fists on his hips looking down. “You know,” he said, brow lowered, “I just happened to remember. You’re Smoothy Rand’s girl. That guy’s a red hot. Suppose he walks in and catches me?”
Joyce Drake’s face became a hard, carefully tinted masque reflecting soft light.
She slumped a little in her chair. “I’m not any part of his now!” She got up, eyes flashing. “He’s running around with some tramp with a lotta dough. Some kid uptown.” She made a vicious movement with hands, her mouth. “And it’s gonna cost him plenty, too. I got enough on him to—” She broke off, catching her underlip with her teeth.
Gil suddenly reached for her, savagely, hungrily. He knew he’d not get any further talking about Rand—now.
Joyce Drake’s hot mouth and damp, burning body met his in a fusion of passion. Gone were Gil’s poise, his coolness as the girl squirmed against him, moaning softly. Not taking his mouth from hers, he gently eased her body a little away from his, bringing up an eager hand. One of her limpid breasts was scorching his chest. The other he sought and found through the opening in the front of her gown.
The contact against his eager palm almost paralyzed him. Soft yielding flesh that rose in a bold swell, flesh softer than down, than velvet. Flesh that throbbed over the hammering of a desirous, delirious heart. Beads of moisture—not altogether from the thermometer’s lofty perch—bathed him.
Roughly he pulled his mouth away from her clinging, open lips . . . dropped his head. As he did, he felt her breath in his ear, felt the tip of her tongue flit over the lobe.
“Oh . . .!” she breathed in his ear. “You’re—wonderful.”
Staggering blindly away from her, Gil turned off the lights . . .
A long time later he put on the lights, but didn’t speak. Neither did the girl. He stood up and got ice cubes from the electric box in the kitchen, mixing two tall Tom Collinses. Both drank gratefully.
Finally Gil said: “You sure you’re all washed up with Rand?”
Joyce Drake laughed a little harshly. “You scared of that punk? Why, you could break him in half with one hand.”
Gil looked doubtful, but his sleepy eyes were sharp. “Maybe,” he drawled. “But I hear he’s fast and straight with a gun.”
The girl swung bare legs over the edge of the divan, bending over to draw on silken hose. Her naked breasts made Gil catch his breath.
“Forget that punk,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I told you I had enough on him to put him away for keeps.”
“Hope you got it in writing,” Gil said carelessly, looking down into his glass as he drank.
She spurted angry smoke. “Don’t you worry about yours truly. It’s all down and where nobody but little me can get it.”
Gil uncoiled his big frame from the chair. “Okay, sister!” he snapped. “But I’m getting it. Let’s have it. Come on—I’m not playing now!”
Joyce Drake’s face fell idiotically. “Wh-a-at?”
“You heard me!” Gil pulled her off the divan, shaking her. “I’ll take that dope about Rand and take it in a hurry!”
“Who the hell are you?” she whispered, suddenly haggard. “A copper?”
He tightened his grip and she winced, pain twisting her mouth.
“Are you going to get that stuff!” he snarled. “Or do I break you in half?”
Her answer to that was action. Sudden, clawing action. Gil fell back under the lash of her red claws, shielding his face until he could get his bearings. She was making throaty, animal-like sounds as she hammered at him, kicking, raking with her nails.
“Hey—!”
Joyce Drake fell away, breathing hard. Gil saw a man in the doorway and, even as he looked, the man took a gun from under his arm. A name leaped into Gil’s brain—a name Jack Bruce had mentioned in his letter. Buster Lemand.
“What’s all this, Joyce?” the man said.
The girl ran to him, trembling. “He’s after the stuff we got, Buster!” she sobbed, holding to his free arm. “Rand’s.”
Gil, half crouching, saw Buster’s eyes widen. For an instant they turned toward the girl. “Rand’s,” he echoed. “Who—?”
Gil dove forward in a slashing tackle.
The three of them went down together, the girl with a choking scream. Gil felt one hand dig into the flesh of her leg. He tore it away, managed to grab Buster’s gun hand, drive a fist somewhere into Buster’s body. Then his hair was yanked almost from his scalp as the girl, reaching her feet, came back to the scrap.
Buster Lemand, rolling clear, got to his feet. “Now, monkey!” he snarled down at Gil. “I’m—”
“Buster!” the girl cried. “Don’t—not here. I got an idea.”
Buster Lemand backed o
ff. The girl stood a little behind him, pulling his head down and whispering. Wallowing in rage on the floor, Gil saw the man’s hard eyes light and a sly grin split his features as he listened.
“Swell, Joyce!” he said as she finished. “Grab a couple of my ties and we’ll wrap this cookie up.” He waved his gun toward Gil. “On the couch, dummy.”
There was nothing for Gil to do but obey. While Joyce held his gun, Lemand made him roll on his stomach and then began strapping his wrists together behind him. Ankles came next. Flexing his muscles, Gil cursed savagely into the cushion. He’d play hell getting out of this!
He hear the girl laughing. A phone made noise as someone dialed. Then: “Fred? . . . I know who stole those papers of yours . . . He’s in my apartment right now!” A handkerchief was looped around Gil’s mouth, cutting into the corners, thrusting his tongue back. The girl was repeating: “In my apartment . . . yeah . . .” and the phone was hung up.
“Get dressed,” Lemand ordered. “I’ll call the cops.” He lifted the phone. “Spring 7-3100.” A pause during which Gil could hear sounds of Joyce getting into her clothes. Then Lemand saying: “Smoothy Rand’s planning a kill here in a half an hour . . . better send the boys around.” He hung up.
“So long—sucker!” Joyce called . . . and then the lights were clicked out.
Gil worked his way over to his back, straining at his bonds. What a spot! If the cops didn’t get here before Rand, after tracing the call, it would be too bad.
Moments later Gil let his fighting body grow limp. His wrists were raw. The gag felt like a circlet of molten steel. He was soaked to the skin with the heat of his efforts. Feverishly, almost choking, he tossed, strained, his breath whistled through his nostrils; blood hammered dully at his temples, behind his eyes.