by Milton Ozaki
I agreed with him and kept an eye on the Silver Cloud. Minutes crawled by. Gold began to shuffle his feet impatiently. After a while, he moved out of the doorway uncertainly, started toward the Silver Cloud, then thought better of it and returned to the doorway. More minutes crawled past. At last three cops came out of the Silver Cloud, patting their lips with handkerchiefs, and climbed into the squadrol. They drove off.
Gold clenched his fists and moved his lips in a way which suggested that he had made an emphatic comment of an ugly nature. Without any further dilly-dallying, he strode to the corner and unlocked the door of a blue Cadillac sedan.
"There goes your man," the cabby commented. "That's some boat he's got. Seems like all them women-chasers have Caddies. You ever noticed?"
I was intent on Gold's movements. "They got to have something to impress them," I said.
"Yeah, it's dough that they go for these days, the bitches..."
Gold's sedan pulled away from the curb, moving slowly, as though he were taking a final, regretful look at the Silver Cloud; then he made a U-turn into Ontario Street. The cabbie slapped his meter flag down and followed. The Caddy went west to LaSalle, north to Division, then straight west again at a steady clip. When we reached Kedzie, the cabby growled: "Any idea where he's headed, mister?"
"I live out this way," I told him. "Looks like he's going to pick her up or maybe visit her for a while."
"You got any kids?"
"Three of them."
"The louse. You oughta shoot him." He settled down to the chase with increased sympathy.
At Pulaski Road, Gold turned north and continued to Diversey. The Caddy began to loiter, as though uncertain as to its exact destination. It crossed Diversey, idled along for another block, then abruptly swerved to the curb and halted.
"Drive on past," I told the cabby. "Turn the next corner, then let me out."
"You live around here?" He eyed the dark, ramshackle buildings skeptically. "It doesn't look to me like—"
"Back a ways," I told him. I tossed a ten-spot at him. "He's playing it smart. Going to walk back, you know."
"Oh, yeah—I get it." He winked. "Give him hell, huh?"
"Sure." I got hurriedly out, strolled to the corner, then crossed to the other side of the street. I faded into the shadows surrounding a loft building, turned up the lapels of my jacket so the white of my shirt was concealed, then edged out to where I could get a view of the street. Gold's lights were out and the street was deserted. No lights were visible in any of the buildings. I was staring at the Caddy, wondering where he could have gone, when a shadow moved beside the sedan and the click of a closing door disturbed the morning silence. I froze into the shadows and waited.
He walked briskly north on the opposite side of the street, paused on the corner, then turned in the direction the cab had taken. I waited a moment, then followed. He walked another half-block, then crossed the street, apparently heading for a large building which bore the painted legend: POLJAKO GARAGE. I stopped in a deep shadow and watched. He walked past the two large car entrances and stopped in front of a small side door. My ears caught the faint metallic jingle of keys. He unlocked the door and faded into the darkness within. I continued to watch the building, but no lights came on.
Puzzled, I went back to the corner and circled around to the alley. It was blacker than my thoughts, unpaved and littered with trash. Cursing every time my stumbling feet kicked a can or stepped into muck, I made my way to the rear of the garage—a concrete wall, broken by a single double-doored car exit. The doors were solid, barred, and chinkless. I pressed my ear against them and listened, but the only sound was that of my own heavy breathing. Disgusted, I made my way back to the street and found a friendly shadow near the side door through which Gold had disappeared.
I waited, each minute increasing the desperation welling inside me. For all I knew, the answer to everything lay inside the garage, and there I stood, stuck outside and sizzling in my own juice, while Gold cooked up more deviltry.
I was cursing my helplessness, when the side door opened without warning and Gold stepped out. The keys jingled as he turned to lock the door. Without conscious planning, I darted toward him. My left arm snaked around his neck, pulling him backward against my chest and throttling his cries. He struggled frantically. I brought my right fist up and administered a solid punch behind his ear. He went limp and his body sagged in my arms. With the side of my hand, I chopped him where I thought it would do the most good. His keys were still in the door. I pushed it open and walked inside. I found myself in a glass-enclosed office, surrounded by desks, gloom and silence. Far to the rear of the garage, a small bare bulb burned. I walked between the desks to a half-open door and ducked behind a panel truck. A thump sounded against the ceiling, high above me. I stood still, listening, but the sound was not repeated. Moving more quickly, I dodged among trucks and cars until I was near the area lighted by the bulb. The rear of the garage became visible. It was deserted.
Wooden steps against a side wall led to an open trapdoor in the ceiling. As I eyed it, a sense of danger made the hair of my neck prickle. Just then the ceiling thumped again, and a short, sharp cry swung in the stale air for a split second. I slipped off my shoes, pushed them under the nearest truck, and ran toward the steps. I went up fast, the .38 poised in my hand.
I rose over the edge of the trapdoor, bent in a low crouch, and ducked behind a pile of tarpaulin-covered boxes. Black shadows opened their arms and enveloped me. Toward the front, a bulb of high wattage cast a sharp circle of light. As I started toward it, the thump was repeated and a woman's sob, shrill with agony, rent the silence.
A man's voice urged: "Tell us where he put it!"
"No!" It was a gurgled syllable, thick with pain and mucous.
"Maybe she's got a girdle on," another voice suggested. It laughed with bored humor.
"She ain't going to have nothing on in a minute," the first voice said grimly. "Pet her again, Sam."
There was a faint whistle, then thump—and a muffled shriek.
I crept around another stack of covered crates and lifted my head cautiously. The backs of two of the men were toward me. The third man was Sam, the barrel-chested pug I'd met before. He was stripped to the waist and stood, legs apart, with a pleased grin on his stupid face. His right hand held a thick wooden handle to which were affixed several long narrow thongs. His little pig-eyes were fastened on something on the floor, something obstructed by the backs of the other two men.
"We oughta take a picture of this," the humorist suggested.
"Yeah, we got the film," the other agreed. "Too bad we ain't got a camera."
"I know a guy who sells these kind of pictures."
"Hell, I'd buy one myself. Sam would, too; wouldn't you, Sam?"
Sam grinned and licked his lips. The others laughed.
"Pet her again, Sam. She's going to sleep."
Obediently, the big guy raised the whip and brought it down with a smooth, vicious sweep. The air murmured with the passage of the thongs, and thump. The woman shrieked pitifully. Sucking in my breath, I felt my way around the pile of crates until I was to the side of the seated men. Again I lifted my head cautiously. The sight which met my eyes made my heart stop pumping for several seconds.
Ginny Evans, clad only in shreds of the blue dress, was lying over a huge oil drum. Her hands were roped together and tied to a stanchion in the oil-slaked floor. Her naked back, once smooth and white, was streaked with livid welts.
"How about it, baby?" one of the guys asked. He was a young kid in loose slacks and a sport shirt. "Better tell us where he put it."
Ginny's long blonde hair, now loose and dragging on the floor, jerked a violent negative and she sobbed, "No, no, no...!"
"Stubborn, ain't she?" the other guy asked. He had slick, sandy hair and a doll of a mustache. "I still think she's gotta girdle on."
"See if she's got a girdle on, Sam," his pal directed. "Give it to her good."
The whip rose and fell swiftly. As the thongs wrapped themselves around her hips, biting at the remains of the blue dress, Ginny squirmed in agony and jerked at the ropes. The shifting of her weight rocked the heavy drum slightly and it thumped against the wooden floor. As a scream started to tear loose in her throat, the gun in my hand spoke twice.
Sam jerked violently and spun half around, dropping the whip from suddenly nerveless fingers. He stumbled a step, then crashed forward on his face with his hands clawing at the rough floor.
For several seconds, the other two stood as though paralyzed. Mustache was the first to react. With a warning shout, he sprang to his feet and snapped a hand toward his hip. His gun was out and beginning its upward arc when my .38 spoke again, and again. Mustache yelped and dropped the gun as a round red hole, looking like a large ornamental button sewn to the fabric of his shirt appeared on each of his shoulders. He screwed his thin face into an expression of mingled torment and chagrin and fell backward as though blown by a gigantic blast of wind.
Sport Shirt was slow—but smarter. He half-rose, twisted around, and flung himself toward an aisle between the crates. I snapped the gun around and squeezed the trigger, aiming at his hip. The gun clicked emptily. With an oath, I hurled the useless weapon at him. It struck the calf of a rapidly disappearing leg and clattered to the floor. I heard him squeal frantically, then scramble on the floor as though he had momentarily lost his balance. I leaped toward the prone body of Mustache and scooped up his gun. Sport Shirt was on his feet again, and, judging by the sound of his retreat, was fleeing toward the trapdoor. I fired a warning shot.
He got the idea. Screaming that I should do an act which was physically impossible, he changed course and ran toward the other wall where the stacks were higher and the shadows deeper. I lunged after him, stalking the sound of his noisy shoes, herding him toward a corner.
He became quiet suddenly. I stood stock-still, listening to the sound of my own breathing and Ginny's spasmodic whimpering. As near as I could figure, he was in the far corner, separated from me by three huge stacks of piled cartons, probably taking off his shoes and waiting for me to betray my position so he could make a break down the other aisle. With a grim smile, I pushed the carton beside me. It felt solid. I reached for the edge of the first tier, and pulled myself up. Dust assailed my nostrils, but with the gun in my hand, I crept forward to the other side of the stack. I was rising to peer into the other aisle when, with a crash which reverberated against the low ceiling like nuclear fission, he announced that he was waiting and had a gun. The bullet ripped into a carton only inches to my left. I rolled instinctively and fell flat, cursing softly. The next instant there was a second crash as, unbalanced by my hasty movement, a stack of heavy cartons toppled into the aisle. I grunted and, with a bright idea forming, kicked at another stack. It teetered precariously for a moment, then spilled over on top of the others. When the aisle was choked, I slid down, the side nearest him and began scaling the stack still separating us.
He anticipated my strategy and tried to nullify it by sneaking down the aisle to my right. My ears caught the rustle of clothing against dry paper and I fired blindly at the aisle. He was yellow. He scampered back, not so quietly, and showed his desperation by wasting another bullet. I rolled toward the aisle and kicked at the corner cartons until they toppled in a crashing cascade. Immediately, I rolled back and put a bullet into the other aisle for luck. With an audible sob, he ran back and began to warm his fears with hot oaths. I kicked two more stacks into the left aisle.
He was hemmed in, now, with an obstacle course of tumbled cartons blocking each avenue of escape—and even a rat will fight when cornered. His hands and feet tore at the other side of the stack as he sought to scale it, wildly attempting to meet me head-on. I flattened myself and waited. A shadow darkened and moved. I fired at it. He cursed hoarsely and fell back pulling a column of cartons with him.
I scrambled toward him. He got to his feet, sobbing with frustration, and the entire heap of cartons quivered as he flung himself upon it, fighting his way up. I waited until it sounded as though he had nearly reached the top, then I dug my hands between two stacks and shoved toward him. They rocked and began to move away from me. I heard him curse and jump back—and then a short, terse cry of fear trembled on his lips. With a papery groan, the entire side of the pile toppled, shooting a choking cloud of dust toward the ceiling. I was blinded for a second. Then, choking and spitting dust from my parched lungs, I flung myself down upon him.
THIRTEEN. Damsel in Distress
I GOT my hands under one of the cartons and attempted to lift it. It was damned heavy. With a grunt, I forced it away from his shoulder. He moaned and flung an arm toward me. With the butt of my gun, I tapped him smartly on the side of the head. He relaxed. I stood there, studying the situation. He was pinned down by four or five of the cartons, which would mean a lot of back-breaking lifting on my part, and getting him over the other piles in the aisles would be a feat for a weaker brain and a stronger back than mine. I decided to hell with him. I located his gun, pushed it into my other pocket, and began to climb out of there.
When I got to Ginny, she was kicking her legs and sobbing quietly. Sam, obviously, had departed this world. Mustache was lying on his side in a widening pool of blood. His eyes were those of a man whose hope has been gnawed away by inner panic. I stepped around him, avoiding the blood, and knelt beside Ginny.
She sensed a presence and began to whimper. "No, no, no—!"
"It's Rusty, honey. You're okay," I said softly. "I'll take care of you."
"No, no-!"
"Hush, honey, I'm going to take you home."
I untied her hands and lifted her drooping body away from the drum. She continued to cry and protest. Holding her gently against me, I smoothed the tangled blonde hair away from her face and kissed her lips. She stopped struggling and the sobbing became deeper and more normal. I stroked her forehead and whispered encouragingly to her between kisses. Her eyelids fluttered and began to slide open.
"You're okay," I kept saying, over and over. "You're okay, honey."
The words got through to her, finally, and, with a deep sigh, she murmured, "Thank God—!" and clung weakly to me.
"Try to stand up," I urged. "I know it hurts like hell, but see if you can't stand. Somehow, we've got to get out of here."
She tried. At first, her knees trembled and bent, but I could feel her forcing her muscles to obey, and her legs slowly straightened and remained rigid. I led her to one of the piles and leaned her against it. Then I took off my jacket and gently helped her into it. Her eyes glistened gratefully and her arms hugged the jacket about her.
I went to Mustache and grabbed him by the thin, sandy hair which covered his head like a moth's runway. "You're on the way to meet the Big Boy, kid," I said harshly. "You're dying. Understand? You're nearly dead. Who sent you here? Who put you up to it?"
His eyes rolled loosely and his lips slipped back in a sad smile.
"Gold?" I asked. "Was it Gold?"
The smile faded, as gently as autumn becoming winter, and his eyes drifted shut. I released him. Even in death the kid was a sucker.
"Come on, honey, let's get out of here." I put an arm around her and led her to the trapdoor. She stumbled and swayed, but I held her and steadied her until we were downstairs. The accomplishment seemed to give her more confidence and, while I got my shoes back on, I let her try a few steps by herself. She walked slowly forward, steadying herself by grasping the sides of the trucks we passed.
We were approaching the glass door of the office, when suddenly the silence was shattered by the peal of a telephone. The unexpected sound startled her, and, as though her bones had turned to rubber, she started to sink to the floor. I caught her and held her for a moment, giving her nerves a chance to stop trembling and her brain to take command again.
"It's the damned phone." I told her. "Buck up, kid, we're nearly out."
The phone kept pealing, as though th
e person at the other end knew we were there and was determined that we should answer.
I leaned on a desk and reached for the instrument. "Yeah?" I murmured.
A voice, strained and expressionless as though disguised, said: "I've been waiting."
I stared at Ginny. My tongue wet my lips. Again I said: "Yeah."
"Hasn't she talked?"
"No." I wet my lips a second time, and added: "Not yet."
"How much longer?"
There was something vaguely familiar about the voice, as if I had heard it a long time ago. I said carefully: "She isn't going to."
Quickly: "Why not?"
"Sam's dead."
"What?"
I could visualize lips drawing back in startlement and I could imagine a vague blur of a face behind the lips, but the face wouldn't sharpen. "Yeah," I said slowly, "Sam's dead."
"Who killed him?" It was a thoughtful, anxious voice now, impatient for details.
"Leo." I smiled a little. "Leo did."
"Leo killed Sam?" The whisper became incredulous. "Who is this?"
I took a deep breath and gently laid the receiver on its cradle. Ginny asked nervously: "Who was it?"
"The boss," I said.
"The boss? Who's the boss?"
"I wish I knew," I told her. "One thing is certain, though—it isn't Leo Gold."
"How do you know?"
Before I could answer, a hand began pounding feebly on the outside door. Ginny shrank against me. I smiled grimly and put my arm around her. The pounding became stronger. I squeezed her gently and said: "Because here comes Gold now. He probably thinks he got jack-rolled." I went to the door and growled: "Who's there?"
"Leo. Let me in!" His fist beat the door.
I jerked the door open and stepped back. As he plunged past me, I reached out and gave him a cut behind the ear. The blow, added to his own momentum, sent him sprawling. I caught Ginny's arm and pulled her toward the open door.
I had Gold's keys in my pocket and his Caddy was a hell of a lot more convenient than a streetcar or a taxi. I led Ginny to it and helped her in. She seemed strangely subdued. When we were headed east, I felt her watching me.