The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  “It’s no good, Charlie,” he said quietly. “You wanted Barney Nasser out—and you wanted to frame me. Your mob didn’t get Barney, but they got Lou Rands. They got him because I was close to him—and it was a deal to finish me. Maybe it did—I’m giving myself up at four.”

  “They’ll give you—the hot spot, if you go down there,” Gay said softly.

  The Kid shook his head. “I’ve got things they’d like to know,” he said. “I’ve got coin, Charlie. I can get Berman.”

  He was mocking Charlie Gay, and he could see the rage in the other man’s eyes. McLean said slowly:

  “It was just—that you were there, Kid— there with Barney.”

  Joey Deth nodded. “I never framed a guy for the chair,” he said. “I never even cut in on the other guy’s territory. I’ve worked the rackets— but I worked them right.”

  There was a little silence. Charlie Gay moved the fingers of his left hand.

  “How much do you want, Kid?” he asked.

  Joey shook his head. “You haven’t got enough to stop me, Charlie,” he said. “I’m giving you the dose right in here—and maybe Mac can squirm out of it. Maybe not.”

  The waiter stared at him, fear widening his eyes. His voice was hoarse.

  “Jeeze, Kid—you wouldn’t fix it like that!”

  He looked at the gun. Charlie Gay stared at it, too. His hands were restless at his side.

  Joey Deth nodded. “Why not?” he said softly. “Gay and the Nassers—they tried to frame me. I never hurt them. And when they started to jump me—all of you started to quit or squeal. You were tipping Charlie off, Mac—you knew he was coming here. Old Andy—he got yellow when I made him talk. Even the dicks—Sarlow is after me. You all want to see me burn— because a burned guy don’t talk. But Charlie here—he’s not too anxious for me to get inside Headquarters.”

  Charlie Gay said slowly: “Listen, Kid—I ain’t lying. I sent the guns down to get Barney. He turned me up—and Lou Rands was the dirty dick that took me in. The boys knew that—and they got him, after he’d finished Barney. That’s straight.”

  Kid Deth was silent for several seconds. He kept his dead-gray eyes on the flickering ones of Gay.

  “How about—Bess?” he asked finally.

  Charlie Gay shook his head. “It wasn’t my deal,” he breathed. “I swear to that, Kid. I used her for an alibi. I had to have someone—”

  Kid Deth said with contempt in his voice:

  “Maybe if I had a gun on me—like this one’s on you, I’d lie for my life, too.”

  Charlie Gay said: “I ain’t lying, Kid. I heard about her getting the dose a half hour ago. I called Mac and told him I wanted to see him and was coming over. I wanted to know how she got it.”

  Kid Deth leaned forward, sat on the edge of the divan.

  “All right, Charlie,” he said. “That just means one thing—Gil Nasser got her. One of you did the job. I’m giving you a choice.”

  Gay stared at him. There was faint eagerness in his voice, but it was the eagerness of trickery.

  “What do I do, Kid?” he asked.

  Joey Deth sighed. “We go and find Gil,” he said slowly. “It’ll be light pretty quick—and that’ll make it harder. We’ve got the coppers to beat. Know where Gil is, Charlie?”

  Charlie Gay’s eyes were slits beneath his bushy brows.

  “He might be—at that black boy’s place— drinkin’.”

  The Kid smiled with his eyes half closed. He looked beyond McLean, at the cuffs of steel on the table in a corner. He nodded.

  “Sure,” he said. “He might be there. Mac— you know where it is?”

  McLean hesitated, then shook his head. The Kid chuckled. He stood up and held the automatic in front of his left thigh.

  “Listen, Charlie—” he said slowly— ”we don’t want to make any mistakes. Get those cuffs and put Mac’s arms around something. The end of that iron bed, Charlie. You still usin’ it, Mac?”

  McLean nodded. He was frowning. “You don’t have to fix me like that, Kid,” he said.

  Joey Deth moved his right arm towards the steel cuffs.

  “Fix him—like that, Charlie,” he said slowly. His voice got hard. “It’s a lot easier than being fixed—like some other guys I know.”

  5

  ANK SARLOW sat in a corner of the speakeasy that “Blackie” Wade ran for Gil Nasser. There were a half dozen men in the room; two of them were standing at the bar. It was almost dawn, and Sarlow sat with his rain-soaked hat pulled low over his forehead. He was drinking beer and muttering to himself. At intervals his head rocked from side to side, across his narrow shoulders. It was the first time he had been inside the place—he had come in pretending to be drunk. A card that he had taken from the clothes of the dead Rands had been offered to Blackie—and he had been admitted.

  Sarlow knew none of the men present. He had been in the place almost an hour, and he was there because he remembered that Rands had once told him the Negro ran the place for Nasser. And because of the fact that Barney Nasser had been murdered—and Bess Grote had been shot out. Sarlow had been to several places; now he was waiting, swaying in the chair, and watching out of the corners of his eyes.

  Hank Sarlow swore softly. A woman laughed shrilly, from one of the rooms above. A tall man with broad shoulders and reddish hair stepped around the corner of the bar. Sarlow had not noticed him before—he guessed that there was an entrance back of the bar. The man’s eyes went around the room and Sarlow kept his head low and swaying a little. He saw the man beckon to the negro he had heard called Blackie, saw his lips move swiftly. Blackie left the room, and Sarlow could hear him faintly, climbing stairs.

  There was another peal of laughter, and then sudden silence. The one with the reddish hair turned so that light struck his sharp features clearly.

  Sarlow said in a whisper: “Gil—Nasser.”

  A voice called from below. “Oh, Blackie—”

  There were footfalls on the stairs that led to the third floor—Blackie was descending. The speakeasy was on the second floor—a straight, narrow flight had to be climbed to reach the barroom. The voice below called again:

  “Hey—Blackie!”

  The Negro came into the room and nodded towards the red-haired one. Then he went on down the stairs. There was a sudden burst of laughter from the group about the slot machine—one man wheeled away from it.

  “Drinks are on me!” he announced loudly. “The big shot—turned up!”

  The men moved towards the bar. Sarlow kept his eyes on the red-haired one. A short man with a growth of beard went over to him and touched him on the shoulder. He said something, and the red-haired one shook his head, made a gesture with his right hand. Then he turned away and went to a table behind the slot machine. He sat with his body half facing the entrance from the stairs.

  Sarlow breathed: “Gil Nasser, all right. Feelin’ pretty bad—”

  He raised a dirty hand and pulled his wet hat brim lower over his face. There were footfalls on the stairs again—more than one person was coming up.

  Sarlow kept his head low, but his eyes were narrowed on the entrance from the hallway. His body stiffened as the first man came into the room, moved towards the bar. It was Charlie Gay.

  The detective felt his heart pound as he saw Kid Deth, close beside Charlie. The left pocket of the Kid’s coat was pressing against Gay’s right side—the two men walked to the bar almost as one human. Gay’s face was white; there was a strained expression in his eyes.

  The Kid was smiling a little. He didn’t see Sarlow, but he did see Gil Nasser. The detective knew that, and he knew that Gil Nasser recognized the Kid—and the man his brother had turned up.

  At the bar Charlie Gay turned his white face towards the Kid, who had the ex-convict between him and the seated brother of the dead crook. He tried a smile that looked bad. He said something that Sarlow didn’t catch. The Kid spoke to the bartender, who was staring at him.

  “Two—whiskey s
traight,” he ordered.

  He kept his body close to the bar, but he looked around the room. Gil Nasser was sitting low in his chair—his big shoulders hunched forward. Sarlow lowered his head and slitted his eyes.

  “It’s going to be—a killing!” he breathed to himself. “The Kid has guts—he’s got a rod on Charlie Gay—he went after him—”

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw that Gil Nasser was watching the Kid. Suddenly he saw the brother of the dead crook rise. He moved slowly towards the door. He was within ten feet of it when Kid Deth saw him in the mirror, swung around. The Kid got his back against the wood of the bar—his left hand shoved the material of his coat pocket out.

  “All right, Nasser!” he said in a hard voice. “That’s far—enough!”

  Gil Nasser swung around. He smiled with his lips bared.

  “Jeeze!” he muttered. “If it ain’t—Kid Deth!”

  There had been the sound of voices, the clinking of glasses in the room. Now all sound died. Men stood or sat motionless, watching the Kid or Gil Nasser.

  Joey Deth said: “Yeah, Nasser—it’s Kid Deth. How’re things?”

  Beside the Kid, his body crouched a little, was Charlie Gay. The muscles around his lips were twitching—his eyes were on Gil Nasser’s right hand. The hand was only half in sight—the fingers were buried beneath the material of his left coat lapel.

  Gil Nasser said in a voice that was very hard:

  “Lousy, Kid.”

  Joey Deth kept a smile in his dead-gray eyes. He nodded his head.

  “Sure,” he agreed. “Lousy is right.”

  Nasser’s right elbow came up a little, but his hand didn’t go deeper behind his coat lapel. Kid Deth said in a voice that barely filled the room.

  “Charlie here—he says you gunned out Bess. You figured the bulls would grab me, so I was fixed for the hot spot or a life stretch. And Bess knew too much—so you made her quiet.”

  Nasser said: “Yeah? Did Charlie say that?”

  Charlie Gay was breathing heavily. His nerve broke—he cried out.

  “That’s a—dam’ lie, Nasser—he’s got a gun on me. I never said that—”

  His voice broke. The Kid looked at Gil and kept on smiling.

  “He’s going yellow, Nasser. The Rands job got him. His mob did for the dick, trying to frame me.”

  Gil Nasser stood motionless. He said in a grim tone:

  “Yeah? Did he do that job?”

  Sarlow sat up a little straighter, stared at Kid Deth. But the Kid was looking at only one human in the room—and that human was watching him in the same manner.

  The Kid nodded. “After your brother tried to get Rands—and missed,” he said.

  Gil Nasser’s eyes widened a little. He closed his lips and moved the hand inside the coat just a little. Kid Deth said:

  “Don’t swing that rod, Nasser. I don’t have to swing mine—just a squeeze—”

  Gil Nasser bared his teeth in a smile that wasn’t pretty.

  “You—dam’ fool!” he breathed. “You’d never get out of here.”

  Joey Deth nodded. “I’d get out—just like you would,” he said. “In the coroner’s basket. And that’s better—than being framed.”

  Gil Nasser narrowed his eyes again. He took his right hand away from his coat lapel, let it fall at his side. He shrugged.

  “You got me wrong, Kid,” he said. “When did you start packin’ a rod?”

  There was a half smile on his face. Joey Deth didn’t smile.

  “When you started rubbing out women!” he said steadily.

  Nasser took his eyes away from Deth’s and looked at the white face of Charlie Gay. He said with a hard smile:

  “Tryin’ to put that deal off on me, eh? Dirty rat!”

  Charlie Gay said in a voice that held a half sob of fear:

  “I never said—you done it. I swear to God I never said—”

  His voice died away. A woman’s voice from somewhere up above called:

  “Blackie—come up here—”

  Kid Deth smiled almost gently. His eyes were on Gil Nasser’s.

  “Blackie’s quiet—from a butt rap,” he said. “Tell her to shut up—we’re talkin’.

  Gil Nasser said: “Sure, Kid—anything to keep you—”

  He turned his back to the Kid, took a step towards the door that led to the hallway. But Joey saw his right arm crook—the hand flash upward. As Nasser’s words died he swung around. The first bullet from his gun got Charlie Gay in the stomach—the second got the wood of the bar.

  Charlie Gay staggered out—and Kid Deth stepped behind him. The third bullet caught Gay in the left arm—it battered him off balance. He screamed.

  “You—lyin’—”

  Sarlow stood up and aimed his gun low at Nasser, squeezed the trigger steadily. The crash of his first shot and Gil Nasser’s fourth sounded simultaneously. The Kid’s body jerked; he swore through clenched teeth. Gil Nasser sagged downward.

  Sarlow shoved his hat back and faced the men in the room from his corner.

  “The riot squad’s outside,” he said hoarsely. “Now—you just keep still—all of you.”

  Charlie Gay turned towards the bar, tried to grip it with his hands, failed. He went to his knees, swayed before the Kid for a second, pitched forward. He lay on the wooden floor, less than five feet from the motionless body of Gil Nasser.

  The Kid leaned against the bar and took his left hand from his coat pocket. He said to Sarlow:

  “Why in hell—didn’t you let him—keep shooting?”

  Sarlow said: “Keep your mouth shut, you!”

  The Kid grinned. He said softly: “Jeeze— lead hurts when it scrapes your ribs.”

  He put his right hand down to his left side and pressed the ripped portion of his coat. Sarlow said in a steadier tone:

  “One of you look at those two on the floor.”

  A short, round-shouldered man kneeled beside Charlie Gay. He lifted a wrist, felt it. He said thickly:

  “He’s—out.”

  Kid Deth said: “I won’t miss him—a dam’ bit.” His voice was grim.

  Sarlow spoke more quietly. “Kick that gun away from Nasser,” he ordered. “Call an ambulance—one of you.”

  Gil Nasser groaned and tried to sit up. Sarlow said to Joey Deth, keeping his back against the wall in his corner:

  “Slide your rod—across to me, Kid.”

  Kid Deth smiled. “You’re lettin’ me hold it,” he said grimly.

  Sarlow nodded. “I gave you a break,” he said. “I got Nasser. Slide it over—”

  The Kid leaned down, felt pain from his left side, and slid the automatic across the floor. It stopped near the detective’s feet.

  Gil Nasser sat up and held his stomach. He turned dull eyes towards Sarlow, who held his gun low. He said thickly:

  “A dick—got me—”

  Kid Deth looked at Nasser and smiled with his dead-gray eyes.

  “When you get where Barney is—tell him you heard Bess scream—and kept working the Tommy,” he said in a low, hard voice. “He might have guts enough left—to hate you—for that.”

  Nasser stared at Joey. He wiped his lips with the back of his right hand. He swayed a little.

  “She didn’t send—you out—” he breathed weakly, “She put you wise—”

  Kid Deth said softly, “Jeeze—you did get her. You did—”

  Gil Nasser spoke in a whisper. “That rat— Lou Rands—takin’ the slot graft from Barney— waitin’ for the chance to turn him up—”

  Sarlow swore softly. His eyes were on the Kid’s. Joey nodded his head.

  “That’s one—truth,” he said simply.

  Gil Nasser went down on the floor and lay on his stomach. The bartender was calling a number in a high-pitched voice. The Kid shivered a little. After a few seconds Nasser’s body relaxed.

  Sarlow said: “We won’t need that ambulance—but let it come—”

  Kid Deth touched his left side. “There’s m
e—and the black man, downstairs,” he said.

  The detective stepped out from the corner, with his eyes narrowed and the gun held low.

  “The rest of you—stay quiet,” he warned. “Come on, Kid.”

  Kid Deth walked out from the bar. They went downstairs and to the street. Blackie was leaning against an iron rail holding his head. Sar-low patted him for a rod, didn’t find one. Blocks away there was the clang of an ambulance bell. Sarlow said:

  “Was Lou workin’ with Barney Nasser, Kid?”

  Kid Deth shrugged. “Maybe,” he replied. “I don’t know. But I didn’t get him, Sarlow. I’ve never done a job—”

  Sarlow swore softly. “It’s a lousy racket, Kid,” he said. “You comin’ down—at four?”

  The Kid’s eyes widened a little. “You turning me loose?” he asked.

  The lean-faced detective listened to the louder clang of the ambulance gong, stared towards the entrance of the speakeasy. It was quiet inside.

  “You come down—tomorrow, at four, Kid.”

  His voice was tired. He was thinking of a man he’d thought was white—and who hadn’t been white. He was thinking of crooks who had used guns, and one who hadn’t. He was thinking of the Kid’s woman.

  “Get going, Kid,” he said softly.

  When the Kid climbed out of the taxi it was clear and cold. The photographers crowded up, and the chubby-faced Berman grinned at them.

  “What’s all the shooting for?” he asked. “The Kid’s just down for a chat.”

  They went inside and the Kid saw Lieutenant of Detectives Cardigan and Hank Sarlow standing side by side. Berman kept a smile on his face.

  When they got inside Cardigan’s office the lieutenant of detectives said slowly:

  “We got a slot machine racket charge against you, Kid. The D.A. wants to push it. He thinks we’ve got you nice.”

  Berman passed the cigars. “Yeah,” he said. “The D.A. always thinks that. It’s what costs the taxpayers coin.”

  The Kid said softly: “I’m quitting the racket, Cardigan. It’s lousy.”

  Cardigan looked at Sarlow. The lean-faced detective said:

  “Straight, Kid?”