by Dan Marlowe
Johnny could see the hardening of Daddario's features and the almost imperceptible swing of his gun hand. “Lowell, I've had enough of your vanity. When it's compounded with murder-”
A thunderous knocking at the locked door interrupted him, a prolonged furious drumming on the wood. “Open up in there!” a bull-elephant voice blared.
Johnny had been estimating the distance between himself and Jim Daddario's gun hand. At the sudden outbreak of sound Richard Lowell started violently. He backed away tugging at a jacket pocket. “You're not selling me out!” he screamed. “You sent Rudy out to get someone to help you! I'll show you — ” His right hand emerged with the largest revolver Johnny had ever seen. Johnny went floorward as the wild-eyed man pulled the trigger five times, the large-caliber gun in the inexperienced hand jerking Lowell's arm up convulsively at each shot. In the enclosed space the. 45 sounded like a miniature cannon.
The wooden door went down with a tired screech of metal hinges as Jim Daddario doubled over with his arms wrapped around himself. Richard Lowell took one ashen-faced look at the broken down door and raised the revolver to his head and pulled the trigger. He was on his back on the floor before Jim Daddario finally lost his equilibrium and plunged forward on his face.
Johnny edged cautiously to his feet as a tall, skeleton-thin man in civilian clothes pushed through the uniformed men in the doorway. The tall man knelt swiftly beside Richard Lowell, feeling for a pulse. Almost at once he eased the wrist he had taken down to the floor again. “Dick,” he said gently, his sharp, homely features tight with concern. “Dick, you poor fool. It wasn't worth it.”
Johnny approached, but remained silent while the kneeling man struggled for self-possession. He spoke finally into the quiet. “Sorry, Toby. I thought I had it under control.” Toby Lowell looked up and nodded, his lined face tired. “How'd you get here?” Johnny asked.
“The young lady tracked me down at Lowell House.” Johnny looked and saw Micheline Thompson in the rear of the uniformed group. From its center Jack Riley's beefy figure emerged and strode up to join them. “From what she said, reinforcements seemed in order. I stopped for them.”
“We'll take care of everything here, sir,” Chief Riley said quickly. He didn't look at Johnny. He turned and started to beckon to the doorway.
“Just a goddamn minute.” Johnny caught the arm and spun the bulky-bodied chief about. His hand closed on the chief's gold badge and he ripped it from Riley's chest. It came free with half a yard of uniform attached. Johnny stripped off the cloth, centered the badge in his hands, and bore down. As they had in the hotel room that other day his hands crept down between his knees. They came up with the badge in two jagged pieces. Johnny slapped one of them into Jack Riley's nerveless hand. “There's your thirty pieces of silver, Jack.” He turned to Toby Lowell. “He's resignin'.” He swung around to the red-faced chief. “Tell him, Riley.”
“I'm-resigning.” Jack Riley spoke with difficulty.
“You'll have to put the pieces together again around here, Toby,” Johnny told him. “The merry-go-round broke down. In the cleanup you'll run across the name Burger. Don't bear down too hard.”
Toby Lowell nodded. “I'll have to take some leave.” He spoke as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Obviously, I should have done it before. Will you be around for a few days?”
“I've got to get back to New York,” Johnny began, and turned as a small, warm hand slipped into his. He looked down at Micheline Thompson's dark hair and the shadows beneath her luminous eyes. “Well, maybe for a few days,” he amended. “Till I get the stitches out.”
“How can I ever thank you, Johnny?” she asked quietly. “If you hadn't thrown that stone-”
“Ash tray,” he corrected her. He transferred from his own hand to hers the remaining half of Jack Riley's torn badge. “You can tell your grandchildren about it some day.”
He glanced once more about the room illuminated only by the single droplight at the gambling table. He looked at the canvas-covered roulette wheels, at the bodies on the floor, at the white-flaked bits of fluorescent tubing underfoot. He turned and caught Micheline Thompson's eye.
Arm-in-arm he walked with her out to the street.
Here's Killain, smooth as a ripsaw and gentle as a jackhammer, the happiest avalanche you'll ever meet, who spends his quiet moments riding herd on the hoods and hopheads, the hard guys and devilish dolls of New York's night side, just a knife's throw from Times Square.
Trouble's no stranger to Killain; when an out-of-town mob started making corpses in Johnny's room, he began to get annoyed.
Then the boys tagged him for the big fall, and there was only one thing to do-find the brain and shake his molars loose!
So Killain came to racket-ruled Jefferson, and the boys were there to welcome him-with clubs, knives, guns, and enough hired muscle to carry off Grant's Tomb.
When Killain kept coming, the boys turned mean.
They finally forced Killain to run… but they forgot to get out of his way!
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