Sampson said, “You heard enough of this, boss.”
“Gag him,” I said impatiently. “Listen, McGuire. There may be some people you don’t need, but I’m not one of them.”
“This is all very interesting,” said McGuire, “and sounds in spots rather unfortunate. But what do you suggest?”
I smiled. “Are we talking openly?” I asked. “Can we assume we all know I’m in a frame?”
“Let’s assume that for the moment,” said McGuire.
Sampson jeered, “How do you like the fit?”
McGuire said, “What’s your suggestion, Roney?”
I grinned. “Enlarge the frame. It ought to fit someone else – in fact, I have a pigeon in mind.”
Narrowing his eyes, McGuire said, “Let us look at this thing for a moment. Yesterday you were too honest to want a syndicate branch in your restaurants. Today you are perfectly willing to frame a man for murder. Isn’t this something of a change?”
I said, “Not as much as you might think. As your stooge here has said, I came up fast. A man in a hurry almost always resorts to – let us say – expedients. Also,” I forced a smile, “I’d be something of a fool if I were not slightly swayed by the pressure you’ve applied.”
“Anything else?” McGuire said tonelessly. I could tell nothing from his voice.
“Money,” I said. “I have always been open to suggestions that would help me make more. Only” – I pointed to Sampson – “I did resent your sending this jerk with a business proposition.”
Sampson said desperately, “McGuire, don’t let this guy—”
“The purpose of this organization,” McGuire said coldly, “is to make money. All other considerations are secondary. Try to remember that – as long as you are working for me.”
Sampson returned to his chair.
“As I said,” I began, “I have a man in mind a man who will have no alibi. He was home alone when Malcolm and the girl were killed.”
McGuire said, “His motive?”
I thought of the girl crumpled pathetically on the floor of my bedroom. I put the thought out of my mind. “Love,” I said. “And revenge. The girl was his, and when he found her at my house with Malcolm, he blew his top and killed them both.”
Sampson snorted. “He’d have to be a dope to fit that picture.”
“He is,” I answered quietly. “He’s a slob.”
McGuire said, “Sampson’s right. If your man has any brains, he can wriggle out.”
“He hasn’t any,” I said. “But why don’t you look him over? I can arrange a meeting tonight.”
McGuire said nothing for a moment. His eyes seem to turn inward, inspecting possible gain and loss. When he looked at me again, it was obvious he had made up his mind.
“What time,” he said, “and where?”
“Ten tonight,” I said. “His apartment’s Number 7, at 210 West Nautilus. I’ll see that he’s there.” I got up, and my shaking legs reluctantly held my weight. Not until then did I know how much I’d been afraid. “See you then,” I said.
“Roney.”
“Yeah.”
“Before you go – remember. Don’t play it too smart. Compared to some ways I know, the chair can be an easy way to die.”
“I believe you.” I said soberly. I glanced at Sampson.
The little man said softly, “I almost hope something does go wrong, so I can get one more crack at you.”
I let it go. I said, “Thanks for your time, McGuire. I think you’ll find it’s worth it.”
“I hope so,” McGuire answered. His cold gray eyes bored into mine. “I get very upset, Roney, when it turns out I’ve made a mistake. What’s this fellow’s name?”
“Lester,” I said. “George Lester.” I watched the two of them. Neither did a take. I got out of there in a hurry and headed for a phone.
4. Date with Death
Pug Lester’s voice came coldly over the wire. Outside the booth I could see the waitress behind the counter, methodically chewing her gum. Lester was saying, “What about it, bright boy? When are you coming in?”
“I’d rather meet you,” I said.
“All right,” he said shortly. “Say where.”
“Your apartment. Ten o’clock tonight.”
“My apartment,” he repeated. “Why there? We’ve got some business, boy – remember? This won’t be a social call.”
I said, “Pug, I’m going to ask for the biggest favor you ever did any man.”
“Go on,” Pug Lester said.
“I want you to remove anything from your apartment that would indicate you’re a cop. Pictures. Pistol trophies. All that kind of stuff.”
“And then?” Pug said without warmth.
“At ten, I come in with some friends. You play dumb. You’re not a cop. You sell – coffee. Sure. Coffee’s good enough.” I stopped talking. The waitress in the coffee shop was craning her neck for a better view, idly trying for a better view of something out on the street.
I said sharply. “Pug, you still there?”
“Yeah,” he said, “but, I dunno—”
The waitress nodded lazily, and then Sampson came into view. He had seen me, and he was grinning as he headed for the phone booth.
I said, “Pug! I can’t talk any more!”
There was a long silence. I held the receiver against my ear while Sampson came right up to the booth and pressed his face against the glass. Then Pug Lester’s voice said, “Okay, Roney. See you at ten.”
I said, “Fine,” and hung up the phone.
“What’s fine?” Sampson said, as I opened the door.
I said, “My girl still loves me. What are you doing here?”
“Trailing you,” he said promptly. “You left so fast I had trouble picking you up.”
“You might have had more trouble,” I told him. “Sometimes, after I talk to my girl, I take off like a jet plane.”
Sampson patted his shoulder holster. “Why don’t you try it?” he said softly.
There was no point in bickering with the little gunman. I said, “Look, Sampson. I’ve got to keep off the streets. Haven’t you got a place to stay? You could save wear and tear on your feet, and I could phone McGuire.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Come on.”
He took me to a fancy apartment that looked like a chorus girl’s dream. We stayed there all through the afternoon and evening. At 9:45, McGuire’s chauffeur rang and said McGuire was waiting downstairs in his car. We didn’t keep him waiting. We went down right away.
Pug Lester’s apartment was on the second floor of an old house that had submitted to remodeling. Pug Lester let us in, and, when I inspected the living room, I saw nothing that would indicate a police officer lived in the place. There were several light patches on the walls where pictures had been removed, and I was grateful to the detective for attending to this detail.
Pug closed the door behind us, and went back to the chair. His fat cheeks almost hid his eyes as he sat there, looking up. “Scuse me,” he said, “if I seem to sit down. I had a busy day.”
Sampson said nothing; he remained standing to one side of the apartment door, wary and unconvinced.
McGuire went to Pug Lester, and stood, eyeing the fat man critically. “He looks stupid enough,” he said finally.
Pug Lester said lazily, “You boys playin’ some kind of a joke?”
“A little one,” said McGuire. “You can play too. Know where you were last night?”
“Right here,” Pug Lester said, “mostly.”
“Anyone with you?”
“Nope, I was all alone.” Pug Lester sighed heavily, and his eyes opened wide enough for me to see the impatience in their depths.
Suddenly, I knew it would not go off as planned. Pug Lester, with me there before him, was not going to wait through a lot of what to him was aimless talk. In that same moment I realized that my position had not changed. McGuire and Sampson could walk out. The detective would have no reason to hold them. That would
leave me where I began – with a ticket for the chair.
For a second time that day, I cursed myself for a chump. If I had given Lester some idea of what I was doing, my chances would have been better. Right now my chances were zero. I knew Pug wasn’t going to wait.
Into the silence, I said. “What about it? Think he’ll do?”
McGuire swung his head impatiently. “We’ll see,” he said. “Let’s not hurry.”
Pug Lester said, “Do for what?”
“You had a girl,” I said, talking desperately, “who sometimes called herself Elaine Watkins. It was a secret thing – nobody knew. And the reason you killed her and Malcolm was jealousy – an old reason, but always good. Malcolm was taking your girl away, and you, a coffee salesman, couldn’t compete with him.” I glanced at McGuire. The gambling czar was frowning at my awkward pitch. I looked back at Pug Lester.
The detective’s chins were pleated on his neck. His mouth was open slightly. He said, “What’re you tryin’ to do, Roney? Cop an insanity plea?”
Nothing moved in the room. I grinned tautly, thinking of McGuire’s bewilderment. It was not easy to frame pigeons who talk about copping a plea.
Then McGuire said, “Sampson!”
The little gunman seemed to flick a hand at his lapel, and then the gun was in his hand. He swung it slowly, saying nothing, letting his lips draw back from his teeth.
“That wasn’t smart of you,” McGuire said softly. “It wasn’t bright of either of you. In fact, if I were asked to say what had caused your death, I should have to say stupidity.”
Pug Lester said placidly, “You mean you’re going to kill him and me too?” His small nod included me.
McGuire inclined his head. “I’m afraid Sampson will insist.”
“Just askin’,” Pug Lester said.
I thought, but I couldn’t be sure, that one of Lester’s plump hands brought the gun up from under the cushion. It was a large gun, a 45. It made a hellish roar in the room, and it blew out a section of Sampson’s head.
The slender little hood made no noise as he fell forward on the worn carpet.
McGuire lunged at me. I spun away to avoid being used as a shield. As I whirled, I clipped McGuire on the side of the head.
The man stepped back nimbly. He was far from soft, I observed – probably kept in condition by handball and boxing at his club. I moved toward him, carrying my hands low, swinging precisely. McGuire gave ground slowly, dodging and weaving. Then, abruptly, he landed a straight left that snapped my head back, followed it with a right cross that drove me to the floor.
Falling, with the pink mist in front of my eyes, I could see Pug Lester still sitting in the chair. The mist was still there, but some of it went away when I bounced on the carpet. Digging my nails into the short pile, I hauled myself to my feet.
McGuire came in again, and I had to shake my head to get his image clearly. Then I saw the smooth pink face, red now, and fiercely contorted. One of McGuire’s fists lashed along my cheek.
I took a deep and shuddering breath. Then, with both arms pumping, I began a slow walk forward. McGuire’s blows were landing freely, but I didn’t feel them now. The pink haze was all around me, and in the middle of it a face danced and bobbed, a face that sometimes blended with the haze, but was redder, and could therefore be seen.
The face went away. I stood swaying waiting for the haze to dissolve.
It was clearing, and from somewhere off to my left, Pug Lester was speaking to me.
“I figured you’d want to do that,” Pug Lester said. “I figured you had it coming.”
I shook my head, and then I could see the floor. McGuire was lying there, and as I watched him groggily, he rolled over and staggered to his feet.
I brought my hands up, but I knew they wouldn’t be any good against the heavy ashtray clutched in McGuire’s hand.
McGuire was drawing back for a swing when Pug Lester’s gun barrel caught him and sent him down for the count.
“Let me,” Pug Lester said. “I get paid, you know – and I like to earn my keep.”
I heard myself say, “Thanks, Lieutenant,” and my voice seemed far away. I found myself thinking of Pug’s lonely life, and of the girl who had been a greedy gertie, the one who’d been nobody’s doll. She might have made a wife for Pug if things had been some other way.
Pug said, “Hey, boy. You all right?”
I said, “I wonder if she could cook?”
“Golden boy,” Pug said, “you look mottled. You’re all washed up for the day.”
I shook my head and the haze dissolved. “Where’s your phone?” I asked Pug. He pointed, and stood by while I dialed Lola Grashin’s number. “Gotta tell a girl a story,” I said. “Back me up, and I’ll buy you a steak.”
His mouth had begun to water by the time Lola said hello.
THE SECOND COMING
Joe Gores
“But fix thy eyes upon the valley: for the river of blood draws nigh, in which boils every one who by violence injures other.”
Canto XII, 46–48, The Inferno of Dante Alighieri
I’ve thought about it a lot, man; like why Victor and I made that terrible scene out there at San Quentin, putting ourselves on that it was just for kicks. Victor was hung up on kicks; they were a thing with him. He was a sharp dark-haired cat with bright eyes, built lean and hard like a French skin-diver. His old man dug only money, so he’d always had plenty of bread. We got this idea out at his pad on Potrero Hill – a penthouse, of course – one afternoon when we were lying around on the sun-porch in swim trunks and drinking gin.
“You know, man,” he said, “I have made about every scene in the world. I have balled all the chicks, red and yellow and black and white, and I have gotten high on muggles, bluejays, redbirds and mescaline. I have even tried the white stuff a time or two. But—”
“You’re a goddam tiger, dad.”
“– but there is one kick I’ve never had, man.”
When he didn’t go on I rolled my head off the quart gin bottle I was using for a pillow and looked at him. He was giving me a shot with those hot, wild eyes of his.
“So, like, what is it?”
“I’ve never watched an execution.”
I thought about it a minute, drowsily. The sun was so hot it was like nailing me right to the air mattress. Watching an execution. Seeing a man go through the wall. A groovy idea for an artist.
“Too much,” I murmured. “I’m with you, dad.”
The next day, of course, I was back at work on some abstracts for my first one-man show and had forgotten all about it; but that night Victor called me up.
“Did you write to the warden up at San Quentin today, man? He has to contact the San Francisco police chief and make sure you don’t have a record and aren’t a psycho and are useful to the community.”
So I went ahead and wrote the letter, because even sober it still seemed a cool idea for some kicks; I knew they always need twelve witnesses to make sure that the accused isn’t sneaked out the back door or something at the last minute like an old Jimmy Cagney movie. Even so, I lay dead for two months before the letter came. The star of our show would be a stud who’d broken into a house trailer near Fort Ord to rape this Army lieutenant’s wife, only right in the middle of it she’d started screaming so he’d put a pillow over her face to keep her quiet until he could finish. But she’d quit breathing. There were eight chicks on the jury and I think like three of them got broken ankles in the rush to send him to the gas chamber. Not that I cared. Kicks, man.
Victor picked me up at seven thirty in the morning, an hour before we were supposed to report to San Quentin. He was wearing this really hip Italian import, and fifty-dollar shoes, and a narrow-brim hat with a little feather in it, so all he needed was a briefcase to be Chairman of the Board. The top was down on the Mercedes, cold as it was, and when he saw my black suit and hand-knit tie he flashed this crazy white-toothed grin you’d never see in any Director’s meeting.
&nb
sp; “Too much, killer! If you’d like comb your hair you could pass for an undertaker coming after the body.”
Since I am a very long, thin cat with black hair always hanging in my eyes, who fully dressed weighs as much as a medium-size collie, I guess he wasn’t too far off. I put a pint of Jose Cuervo in the side pocket of the car and we split. We were both really turned on: I mean this senseless, breathless hilarity as if we’d just heard the world’s funniest joke. Or were just going to.
It was one of those chilly California brights with blue sky and cold sunshine and here and there a cloud like Mr Big was popping Himself a cap down beyond the horizon. I dug it all: the sail of a lone early yacht out in the Bay like a tossed-away paper cup; the whitecaps flipping around out by Angel Island like they were stoned out of their minds; the top down on the 300-SL so we could smell salt and feel the icy bite of the wind. But beyond the tunnel on US 101, coming down towards Marin City, I felt a sudden sharp chill as if a cloud has passed between me and the sun, but none had; and then I dug for the first time what I was actually doing.
Victor felt it, too, for he turned to me and said, “Must maintain cool, dad.”
“I’m with it.”
San Quentin Prison, out on the end of its peninsula, looked like a sprawled ugly dragon sunning itself on a rock; we pulled up near the East Gate and there were not even any birds singing. Just a bunch of quiet cats in black, Quakers or Mennonites or something, protesting capital punishment by their silent presence as they’d done ever since Chessman had gotten his out there. I felt dark frightened things move around inside me when I saw them.
“Let’s fall out right here, dad,” I said in a momentary sort of panic, “and catch the matinee next week.”
But Victor was in kicksville, like desperate to put on all those squares in the black suits. When they looked over at us he jumped up on the back of the bucket seat and spread his arms wide like the Sermon on the Mount. With his tortoiseshell shades and his flashing teeth and that suit which had cost three yards, he looked like Christ on his way to Hollywood.
“Whatsoever ye do unto the least of these, my brethren, ye do unto me,” he cried in this ringing apocalyptic voice.
The New Mammoth Book of Pulp Fiction Page 82