The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  The girl’s face was white. She swore at him. She said shakily:

  “Listen—Kid—you’d better go out back— keep your rod handy—”

  He shook his head. “I don’t use a rod—and you know it,” he cut in steadily.

  Her eyes went to the waiter’s. He spoke in a thick tone.

  “We’re all right—an’ I got to let this guy inside. I got to—”

  Kid Deth narrowed his eyes on the blue, wide ones of Bess Grote.

  “Sure,” he said. “Let him in. It’s Sarlow, Rands’ partner. They worked together most of the time. Let him in, Mac.”

  The girl looked at Kid Deth. “You damn’ fool,” she said. “He’ll take you downtown. They’ll beat hell out of you.”

  Joey smiled. “That’ll suit Charlie Gay fine, Bess,” he said. “But maybe not so well as if I went out the back way, alone.”

  She turned towards him—took a step in his direction. The Kid shook his head.

  “Don’t,” he warned. “I know what I’m up against. You wanted to quit a month ago— now’s the right time. If you want to give me a break, just because we went places and did—”

  He stopped. She faced the waiter. Her voice was hard and certain now.

  “Talk to the quiet clothes bull a little—before you let him in,” she said. “I’ll ease out the back way—and maybe the Kid’ll go with me.”

  The waiter nodded. “He’s not dumb,” he said. “He’ll go.”

  He went towards the speakeasy door. Bess Grote bent forward across the table. She said in a low voice:

  “Gil’s sure you did for Barney. I don’t know what the bulls think about Rands’ kill. But what Gil got from Old Andy—the police can get. A crook and a copper are dead— and you’re sitting in between them, Kid.”

  Kid Deth nodded. “And you lied to me about Gay,” he said quietly. “He didn’t go West—and he did hate Barney Nasser. And his mob—”

  Her eyes held anger again. She spoke in a low, bitter tone.

  “You can’t pull Charlie in this, Kid. I was with him until an hour ago. We went to a show. He never even—”

  The voice of Sarlow reached them. It was a slow voice, almost a drawl. It was asking questions. The Kid spoke in a whisper.

  “Better call—as you go out back, Bess. There might be a mistake—”

  She turned away from him abruptly. But near the door she stopped. She half turned towards the wet-surfaced table.

  “If you get a break—get clear, Kid,” she said in a whisper. “You’ve been lucky—too long—”

  He lifted his right hand a little, made a small gesture. Then she was out of sight—she was moving towards the alley in back. Her footfalls died.

  The Kid lighted a cigarette and smiled bitterly. He touched the bruised spot on his temple, finished his drink. He moved his chair back from the table. He remembered that this partner of the dead detective had shot down Eddie Birch, less than a year ago. Sarlow was a veteran. He was hard, cold. And his partner had been killed, murdered.

  Joey said slowly, half aloud: “Another guy—looking for a chance—to frame me—”

  There were footfalls in the hallway beyond the room. The outside door slammed. The waiter was whistling loudly. The Kid raised his eyes and looked into the dark eyes of Sarlow. There was a half smile on the dick’s face; his right hand was buried in the pocket of his coat—his left arm swung a little at his side. He leaned carelessly against a wall, ten feet from the Kid.

  “Hello, Deth,” he said in a casual tone. “Just drinking alone?”

  Joey Deth nodded. “Just drinking alone,” he replied slowly. “How’re things, Sarlow?”

  There was a flicker of light in the black color of the detective’s eyes. But he kept smiling.

  “Not so good, Kid,” he said softly. “They— got Lou.”

  Joey Deth parted his lips and widened his eyes. He swore softly and said in a surprised tone:

  “You mean—Lou Rands—your sidekick?”

  Sarlow’s lean body twitched. His eyes looked hurt. He lifted his left hand and took off his hat. He had gray hair; it was rumpled. A few locks were sticking damply to his forehead. His thin face was white.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Lou Rands.”

  Kid Deth said: “Hell—I’m sorry. Jeeze— that’s tough, Sarlow.”

  Sarlow half closed his eyes. “Think so?” he said in a strange tone.

  Joey Deth nodded a little. “I guess Rands was all right,” he said slowly. “He tagged me a lot, but I guess—”

  Sarlow looked at the Kid’s hands—they rested on the surface of the table. He took his right hand from the pocket, held his gun low.

  “Get up, Kid,” he said slowly. “I got a cab outside.”

  Kid Deth shrugged his shoulders. He said very softly:

  “I didn’t get him, Sarlow. I’m givin’ it to you straight.”

  Sarlow straightened his lean body. “You’ve been giving things straight—for a long time, Kid,” he said in a hard voice. “And squirming loose.”

  Joey Deth got up. He shook his head. “Two guns got him, Sarlow,” he said. “I know how you feel—he was your side-kick. I know how you think. But it’s wrong. And he tried—”

  He checked himself, thinking of the gun in Sarlow’s grip. No use telling the dick that his partner had tried to frame him.

  “You’ve been lucky—for a long time, Kid.” Sarlow’s voice was almost toneless. “We gave you rope. Lou figured you’d get the dose from the inside. But you were getting coin, across the river. Barney Nasser didn’t like that. He got careless—and you gave him the works. Then Lou grabbed you—”

  Kid Deth kept his eyes on the dark ones of Sarlow. He shook his head.

  “I didn’t get Barney,” he said. “I’m giving it to you straight—”

  His words died; Sarlow’s body jerked as the first shot sounded. It came from somewhere out back. There was a second’s pause—then the scream reached them. It was a woman’s scream—short and high pitched. Then the gun clattered. It beat a staccato song, died abruptly. There were no more screams.

  Sarlow, his body tense, kept his eyes on the Kid. When the waiter came into the room he got his back to the wall and moved his gun a little.

  “Get over there—by Deth!” he ordered.

  McLean walked over and stood beside the Kid. His eyes were wide and he rubbed the material of his trousers with the fingers of his right hand. The man across the room muttered to himself and rolled his head. Sarlow said:

  “Who—got clear, when I came in?”

  The Kid got his left hand fingers on the back of the chair from which he had risen. His face was very white. There was no color in his thin lips.

  Sarlow smiled. “Whoever it was—they got the long dose,” he said. “Tommy gun. Sounded like a frail, Kid. Was she yours?”

  Kid Deth closed his eyes and tried not to rock from side to side. One thought was beating into his brain—Bess had screamed after the first shot. And then the Tommy had been turned loose. It had been no mistake.

  Sarlow made a chuckling sound. “Cheer up, Kid,” he said. “Maybe it was a miss—maybe she got clear.”

  Joey drew in his breath sharply. At his side the waiter muttered to himself.

  “We oughta—get out there—we oughta—”

  Kid Deth tried to smile. “Like hell we oughta!” he breathed. “It’s a frame—”

  Sarlow stopped smiling and moved his gun hand a little.

  “That yelp sounded as if someone was hurt,” he said grimly. “Want to go out—and look around, Kid?”

  Joey shook his head. He took his left hand away from the back of the chair. He didn’t speak. Sarlow listened for several seconds. He looked at the waiter.

  “A blackjack hurts,” he said slowly. “Who went out of here—when I came in?”

  McLean wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. He shook his head.

  “The Kid—was alone,” he breathed.

  Sarlow swore. His eyes flickered to
Joey Deth’s; they held hate. He looked at the waiter again.

  “You tried to stall for time,” he said. “And the Kid waited for me to come in. Who went out back—and got that dose?”

  The Kid said softly: “Mac ain’t in this, Sarlow. He’s—all right.”

  The lean detective swore at him. “Getting big hearted, eh?” he mocked. “But you look sick, Kid.”

  A door slammed beyond the room, out back. The three men who were standing stood motionless. The Kid and the waiter stared towards the darkness beyond the room. A narrow corridor ran to the rear door. Sound came from it now—the sound of a body falling, not too heavily.

  Joey said fiercely: “Listen—let Mac go out there, Sarlow! He’ll be all right—”

  The waiter took a step forward, but the lean-faced detective moved his gun arm swiftly.

  “You—stick where you are—both of you!” he gritted.

  Joey Deth turned his twisted face away from Sarlow. The detective changed his position slightly—he was listening to a faint sound that reached the room. It might have been the sound of a human trying to drag along the wooden floor. It stopped. A half-sobbing voice came faintly into the room.

  “Joey—”

  Kid Deth swayed a little, in front of the partner of Lou Rands. His lips were twitching. Bess Grote called again. Her voice was very weak.

  “Kid—Deth—”

  The Kid said fiercely: “Let me—go out there, Sarlow—they got her—”

  Sarlow shook his head. “And you got Lou,” he said grimly. “And you lied—like you’ve always lied—”

  There was no more sound from the dark corridor. McLean said in a husky voice:

  “You’re killing—that woman, Sarlow. You can’t keep us in here—”

  The detective looked at the Kid. “What did you send her out back for?” he said softly. “Maybe you—wanted her—to get that dose, Deth!”

  Kid Deth smiled at the detective. It was a peculiar, tight-lipped smile. He nodded his head.

  “Sure,” he replied, and his voice was strangely calm. “Sure—anything you say, Sarlow. But I’m going out there, see? And if you squeeze lead—”

  He broke off, walked towards the door. His movements were swift, steady. He read indecision in Sarlow’s eyes. The gun muzzle came up a little. Then he saw the veins of the detective’s right wrist stand out—he was squeezing the trigger—

  The Kid sprang at Sarlow—swinging sideways and downward with his left arm. The gun crashed—the bullet seared Deth’s right thigh. Sarlow went back under his weight, went off balance. McLean was on him now—the two of them battered him to the floor. The Kid twisted the gun from his grip.

  “Outside, Mac—” he breathed heavily, getting to his feet. “Bring her—in here—”

  Sarlow pulled himself to his knees and swore at Joey.

  “And I held—back on you!” he muttered thickly. “I should have—”

  Kid Deth backed against the wall. He heard the foot-falls of McLean, heard the breathing of the waiter as he moved towards the room from the corridor. The man breathed heavily, as though there was a weight in his arms.

  Kid Deth watched the detective as he got to his feet. He didn’t look at the body of the girl, when McLean carried her into the room. He said slowly:

  “Any chance—Mac?”

  There was a little silence. Then the waiter’s voice reached him.

  “She’s finished, Kid—”

  Joey Deth nodded. His eyes were expressionless. He kept them fixed on the dark ones of Sar-low.

  “I’m taking the lead out of your rod,” he said after a few seconds. “You go out the front way— and keep moving. When you get outside I’ll toss the rod out. Be at Headquarters tomorrow at four. I’ll walk in.”

  Sarlow wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. There was a thin streaking of red across his chin.

  “Yeah,” he said heavily. “Sure you will.”

  Kid Deth smiled. It was a bitter, twisted smile.

  “I didn’t get Barney Nasser. I didn’t get your partner. I’m givin’ it to you straight. I never squeezed a rod on a bull—”

  He stopped, thinking of Lou Rands trying to frame him, jamming the gun in his hand. He had squeezed the rod then. And it had been empty.

  “Tomorrow—at Headquarters. Four o’clock. I’ve got—something to do—”

  He jerked his right hand towards the door. Sarlow said slowly:

  “That’s a lot of time—for a getaway.”

  The Kid shook his head. “I’ll be in—at four,” he said. “I’ve got something—to do.”

  Sarlow glanced towards the body of the girl. But the Kid didn’t look in that direction. He half closed his dead-gray eyes.

  “Get out, dick!” he gritted. “I need—all the time—that’s left!”

  3

  ID DETH stopped the taxi at Forty-second Street, near Sixth Avenue, slipped from behind the wheel. His face was pale and his gray eyes were streaked with red. He I was tired and something inside of him was hurt. He hadn’t thought any dead woman could hurt him so much.

  He went into the coffee house and sat at the counter. He drank two cups of coffee, black— and tried to eat a doughnut. The waiter stood back of the counter and read an early edition of a tabloid. It was after four, and there was a light rain falling.

  After a while he finished the coffee, tossed a quarter on the counter and went outside.

  He slid back of the wheel, got the cab going. He drove down Sixth Avenue, swearing softly. He didn’t think he’d been recognized, but he couldn’t take a chance. The papers were carrying his pictures—he knew it would be worth a lot to any copper to bring him in. And the quiet clothes boys were out, too.

  The cab was Bennie Golin’s—and Bennie was all right. They were about the same size—he had borrowed clothes from Bennie. It was to Bennie’s flat that he had taken the battered body of Bess Grote. He’d set the man up in business—and Bennie was paying him back a little. But Golin had been afraid; the Kid had seen the expression in his eyes when he had told him what he wanted.

  “If they wise up—it’s my finish, Kid,” Bennie had said.

  And Kid Deth had smiled grimly. “If who wise up?” he had asked. “The bulls?”

  Golin had shaken his head. “To hell with them” he had said. “You ain’t worryin’ about them.”

  Joey turned the cab eastward on Thirty-fourth Street. He drove slowly, carefully. Golin had been right. The Kid wasn’t so worried about the police. But there was something he wanted to do. Something important. He wanted to rub out the murderer of Bess Grote. He wanted to do that job, and do it right. Then he wanted to walk into the Center Street building and hand himself over. He could beat the rap. Berman was a smart mouthpiece. He would come high but he would see that he wasn’t framed. And he would give himself up.

  He cruised northward, hunching low back of the wheel. He had spent an hour in the cab, driving past spots where he might have seen something that would have helped. But he hadn’t seen anything. It was still a toss-up. Gil Nasser—or Charlie Gay. One of the two had done for Bess Grote. One of the two had bossed the kill of Lou Rands. One of the two had finished Barney Nasser, perhaps. He wasn’t so sure of that. Rands might have got Barney, working for a frame. It wasn’t likely that Gil had drummed out his own brother.

  At Thirty-ninth Street he took a chance and looked towards the river. The street was deserted, but there was a light shining from Old Andy’s lunch-wagon.

  He sped the cab down the street. Near the wagon he turned it around, headed it towards First Avenue. The street was a cul de sac—there was only one exit for machines.

  He slipped from the wheel, leaving the engine running. For a few seconds he looked towards First Avenue. Rain made pattering sounds on the street surface. There was no clattering of dishes from the lunch-wagon.

  He moved towards the few steps—opened the door. Fingers of his left hand gripped the gun in his pocket. His eyes searched the narrow aisle before
the counter, as he looked in through the misted glass of the door. He saw no customer.

  He opened the door, stepped inside. He was breathing quickly, and the one thought running through his head was that he was a fool to have come. But he had come.

  There was sound at one end of the counter— Old Andy got to his feet. He was a big, round-shouldered man. His eyes blinked as he looked at Joey Deth. He had sandy colored hair and big features.

  Joey said: “Yeah, Andy—it’s me. How’re things?”

  He smiled a little. Andy’s eyes went to his left pocket. The lunch-wagon owner shook his head from side to side.

  “I didn’t—want to tell ‘em, Kid,” he said. “I didn’t want—”

  Joey Deth kept on smiling. “That’s all right,” he said. “Who got Barney Nasser, Andy?”

  The lunch-wagon proprietor stared at him blankly. Kid Deth stopped smiling. He spoke in a low, hard voice.

  “Give me a break, Andy—the bulls are after me. Lou Rands tried to frame me—he’s been trying for a long time. But not this hard. Something was up—and something went wrong. Give me a break, Andy.”

  The lunch-wagon owner shook his head. “You ain’t usin’ your head—comin’ here, Kid,” he breathed. “The police—they come every few hours—and ask me something they forgot—”

  Kid Deth turned and looked out towards the cab. There were no lights beyond it, near First Avenue. He faced Old Andy again.

  “Listen, Andy—” he said slowly— ”someone got Bess Grote tonight. Got her rotten-like. I’m being framed, Andy—and the job’s being done tough. I may not be able to beat it. I got to know things. What did Lou Rands say to you, just before he grabbed me?”

  Old Andy shook his head. Kid Deth took the automatic from his pocket. He watched the lunch-wagon owner’s eyes get wide, watched fear creep into them.

  “You had a good memory—when Gil Nasser got to you,” he said slowly. “And you talked to the bulls. Now—you’d better talk—to me.”

  Old Andy nodded his head. His eyes were on the gun. He said shakily:

  “You never—used to pack a rod, Kid—”

  Joey Deth smiled grimly. “And I never used—to be framed,” he replied. “What happened—after I left Barney Nasser in his coupe, Andy? Better talk!”