by 12 Chinamen
He went out and shut the door behind him.
Fenner, Carlos, Reiger and Bugsey entered a coffee shop an hour later. The place was full, and curious eyes watched them walk to the back, through a curtained door and out of sight.
Fenner found that Bugsey was ready to be friendly. He was a short, thick-set man, very much inclined to fat, with a round mottled face, gooseberry laughing eyes, and lips like sausages.
Reiger hated Fenner, and they both knew it. He walked with Carlos, and Fenner and Bugsey tagged along behind. They went down a short passage and down a flight of stairs. It was dark and rank in the passage, and very silent. At the bottom of the stairs was a door. Carlos unlocked it and went in.
The room was very large and Fenner noticed, when Bugsey pushed the door to, he had to use a lot of beef. The door was solid and shut to with a thud.
The room was dark but for two clots of brilliant light at the far end. Carlos and Reiger went towards the light and Fenner stood still. He looked inquiringly at Bugsey.
Bugsey pursed up his mouth. “This is his office,” he said in a low voice.
“What do we do—just stand around?”
Bugsey nodded.
Carlos sat down at a big table under one of the pools of light. He said to Reiger, “Bring him in.”
Reiger went into the darkness, and Fenner heard him unlock a door. A minute or so later he came back dragging a man with him. He led him by the front of his coat just like he was a sack of coal, not looking at him, not seemingly aware that he was bringing him in. He went over to a chair close to Carlos and dumped the man into it.
Fenner wandered a little nearer. The man was a Chinaman. He wore a shabby black suit and he sat huddled in the chair, his hands under his armpits and his body bent double.
Fenner looked at Bugsey, who again pursed his lips, but this time he didn't say anything.
Reiger came round and knocked the Chinaman's hat off. He took the rolled pigtail in his fist and dragged the Chinaman's head back.
Fenner made a slight movement forward, then stopped. The Chinaman's face glistened in the bright light. His skin was so tightly stretched that his face was skull-like. His lips had shrunk off his teeth, and only black shadows showed where his eyes were.
Carlos said, “You goin' to write that letter now?”
The Chinaman just sat there, silent. Reiger jerked on his pigtail, wrenching his head back and then jerking it forward.
Carlos smiled. “An obstinate bastard, ain't he, Reiger?” He pulled open a drawer and took something out, which he put on the table. “Put his hand on the table.”
Reiger put his hand on the Chinaman's skinny wrist and pulled. The Chinaman kept his hands hidden under his armpits and Fenner could see the tremendous effort he made to keep them there. There was a long silence while Reiger struggled. Fenner could see the hand coming inch by inch from its sanctuary. Beads of perspiration started out on the Chinaman's face and a low moaning sound came through his teeth.
Fenner said to Bugsey, “What the hell's this?”
Bugsey waved at him, but said nothing. He just stared at the group at the table as if fascinated beyond speech.
The thin claw-like hand gradually came into view and Reiger, his mouth set in a hard grin, forced the hand on to the table. From where he stood, Fenner could see red-stained rags tied round each finger.
Carlos pushed a cheap pad of notepaper, a small bottle of ink and a brush towards the Chinaman. “Write,” he said.
The Chinaman said nothing. He did nothing.
Carlos looked at Reiger. Reiger, with his free hand, pulled the rags off the Chinaman's fingers. Fenner sucked in his breath sharply. All the fingers were sodden lumps of red oozing pulp.
Fenner said, “For God's sake!”
Carlos started and looked in his direction. “Come here,” he said; “I want you to see this.”
“I can see where I am,” Fenner said evenly.
Carlos shrugged. He picked up the object that he had taken from the drawer and carelessly fitted it on to one of the Chinaman's fingers. The Chinaman made no effort to take his hand away. He sat huddled up, moaning like a dog in pain, his hand held by Reiger.
Carlos said spitefully, “I'm gettin' goddamn sick of you. Will you write that letter, or won't you?”
The Chinaman said nothing. Carlos savagely twisted the butterfly screw, crushing the sodden flesh. Reiger then took the Chinaman's wrist and, lifting it up, smacked his hand several times down very hard on the table-top.
Fenner turned his back slowly on the group and took Bugsey's arm. “If you don't tell me what this means, I'm going to stop it,” he said hoarsely.
Bugsey's face was like green cheese. He said, “The old guy's got three sons in his home town. Carlos wants him to send for them, to hook them up in his racket. Those three guys are worth four grand a head to Carlos.
A sudden exclamation came from the other end of the room. Fenner turned his head. The Chinaman was writing. Carlos got to his feet, his dull eyes watching every stroke of the pen. When the letter was finished, the Chinaman fell back in the chair. He said in a thin, cracked voice, “Take it off . . . take it off . . . take it off.”
The thumb-screw still dangled from his finger. Carlos said very softly, “Of course I will. You shouldn't have been so obstinate—you lousy fool.” He put his hand on the thumb-screw and jerked it. Fenner felt his stomach heave and he shifted his eyes. The Chinaman gave one little squeal and fell forward on his knees.
Distastefully, Carlos tossed the thumb-screw on the table. It slid a little on the white wood, leaving a red smear. Then, without looking at anyone, Carlos put his hand inside his coat and pulled a .25. He took a quick step towards the Chinaman, put the muzzle of the gun at the back of his head and squeezed the trigger. The crash of the gun sounded incredibly loud in the silent room.
Carlos put his gun away and walked over to the table. He picked up the letter, folded it carefully and put it in his wallet. “Tell Nightingale to get rid of him,” he said to Reiger, then walked directly over to Fenner. He stood and looked at Fenner narrowly. “Now do you like my racket?” he said.
Fenner itched to get his hands on him. He said very gently, “Maybe you've got a reason, but right now I think it's a little too tough.”
Carlos laughed. “Come upstairs. I'll tell you about it.”
The coffee shop had an air of reality, not like the room downstairs that gave Fenner the jitters. He sat down at a small table in a corner and took three quick deep breaths of hot air. Carlos sat down opposite him. Bugsey and Reiger went out and disappeared down the street.
Carlos pulled out a pouch and began to roll a cigarette. The tobacco was stringy and yellow-brown. A mulatto girl with enormous eyes brought two small cups of very strong black coffee. When she had gone, Carlos said, 'You're in this game now. If you don't like it, say so, and you can get out. If you want to go ahead, I'll tell you how it works. Once you know how it works, you'll have to stay in. Get the idea?” He smiled bleakly.
Fenner nodded. “I'm stickin',” he said.
Carlos said, “Don't rush it. A guy who knows too much about my affairs is likely to run into a lot of grief if he wants to get out sudden.”
“What have you gotta worry about? If I don't like it, that's my funeral.”
Carlos sipped his coffee and stared across the cafe with blank eyes. Then he said abruptly. “There's a big demand on the West Coast for cheap Chinese labor. When I say cheap, I mean cheap. The authorities look on Chinks as undesirables, so they won't let them in. Now that's a cock-eyed way of doin' things. The demand's there, but the guys who want them can't get them. Well, that's my racket. I get 'em in.”
Fenner nodded. “You mean you smuggle them in?”
“It's easy. On this coast there are hundreds of places I can get them in. The coast guards don't give me no trouble. Sometimes I'm unlucky, but I get along.”
Fenner scratched his head. “There ain't any dough in this line, is there?”
> Carlos showed his teeth. “You ain't quite got the angle,” he said. “Look at it this way. First, the Chinks are crazy to get in here. I've got a guy in Havana who contacts them. They pay him to smuggle them across the Gulf. These Chinks are so hot to get in that they'll pay as much as five hundred to a thousand dollars. We take a load of twelve Chinks at a time. Once those guys have got on one of my boats and have coughed up the dough, they become my property. I see them to the West Coast, and a good Chink will fetch again as much as five hundred bucks.”
Fenner frowned. “You mean the Chinks pay to get in, then you sell them once they're in?”
Carlos nodded. “That's it,” he said. “A two-way pay-off. It's quite a game. I've shipped fifty Chinks over this week. Taking everything into consideration, I'll pick up around thirty grand for that bit of work.”
This quite startled Fenner. He said: “But why in hell don't these Chinks squawk? What happens to them?”
“How can they squawk? They got no right to be here. They can't go to the cops. It'd mean jail and bein' deported again. We send them up the coast and they get their food and that's all. You can find 'em workin' everywhere. In wash places, restaurants, laundries, everywhere.”
“Why did you want the old guy to write that letter?”
Carlos looked at him. “I'm tellin' you quite a lot, ain't I?”
Fenner met his glance. “Be your age. You don't have to worry what you tell me.”
“That old guy's got three sons in China. We ain't gettin' enough Chinks over. I got him to write to his sons askin' em over. You know the stuff, sellin' them the idea of what a grand time he's havin' and what a lot of dough he's makin'. They'll come all right. Those Chinks are suckers for that stuff.”
Fenner pushed back his chair. “Where do I come in?” he said.
“Maybe you'd like a trip over the Strait and collect some cargo for me. I'm sendin' over in a day or so.”
Fenner nodded. “Sure, I'll do that,” he said. “I'll look in each day. Your joint's a little too elaborate for me. It makes me feel coy. I guess I'll stick to the Haworth for a while.”
Carlos shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said; “Bugsey'll keep in touch with you.
Fenner nodded and pushed back his chair. “Sure,” he said.
He went out into the street, leaving Carlos still sitting at the table.
Bugsey suddenly appeared from nowhere and tagged along behind Fenner. Fenner turned his head, saw him and stopped. Bugsey drew up with him, and they went on together.
Fenner said, “Quite a racket this, ain't it?”
Bugsey nodded. “It's all right if you're some big-shot,” he said, without enthusiasm. “I ain't gettin' places.”
Fenner looked at him sideways, thoughtfully. “Ain't you gettin' anything out of this?”
“Sure, sure,” Bugsey said hastily. “I'm not grumblin'.”
They wandered along the waterfront. Fenner thought this guy looked simple. He began to get ideas. He said, “What's your rake-off?”
Bugsey said, “A hundred bucks.”
“That's chicken-feed.”
“Sure, but it's tough these days.”
Fenner agreed that it was.
They moved along the waterfront, idly watching the shipping. Fenner paused suddenly. He regarded a large luxury motor-launch that was lying off the short jetty. He said, “Swell boat.”
Bugsey screwed up his eyes. “Yeah,” he said wistfully. “I'd like a tub like that.”
Fenner looked at him curiously. “What in hell would you do with it, anyway?” he asked.
Bugsey heaved a sigh. “Me? I'd get a flock of dames an' I'd take 'em out in that tub. When I got in the middle of the Strait every one of 'em would have to jump through the hoop or swim home. That's what I'd do.”
Fenner wasn't listening to him, he was staring at a girl who had come up from the big cabin. She was a red-gold blonde with a high-breasted body, long legs, and long, narrow feet. She wore white trousers, red sandals and a red high-necked jersey. Fenner felt a little prickle of excitement. He knew who she was. He could see the points of likeness. He had come upon Marian Daley's sister.
Bugsey noticed her too. He whistled softly. “What a frill!” he said.
Fenner said, “Know who she is?”
“Me? Don't make me laugh. Think I'd be standin' here if I did?” Bugsey looked at her wistfully. Then he said, “Think the breastworks are the McCoy, or is it a French trick?”
Fenner didn't hear him. He saw the name on the boat, Nancy W, and he wandered on. “Havin' you around cramps my style,” he said. “Alone, I'd've made that dame.”
Bugsey sneered. “You wouldn't've got to first base. A frill like that's class She's got no time for hoods.”
Fenner led him to a bar. “All the same, pal, I'm goin' to have a try,” he said.
When the barman came to take the order, Fenner said, “That's a swell boat out there.”
The bartender stared vacantly out through the open door and nodded. “What'll you have?” he said.
Fenner ordered two gin slings. When the bartender brought them back he tried again. “Who owns her?”
The bartender scratched his head. “What boat is it?”
“Nancy W.”
“Sure, that's a swell boat. Thayler's the guy. He's gotta heap of jack.”
Bugsey sighed. “You'd wantta heap of jack to rate a dame like that.”
“Thayler? What's his line?” Fenner went on.
The bartender shrugged. “Just spends dough. One of these rich playboys, I guess.”
“Does he live around here?”
“A gay don't want to live around here when he's got a boat like that, does he?”
Fenner lowered half the gin sling. “Who's the dame?”
The barman grinned. “I can't keep up with them,” he said. “I guess that guy's got a contract with the authorities to test them.”
Bugsey said, “That's a swell job. Maybe he could do with a little help.”
Fenner said, “Where can you meet a guy like that?”
“Meet him? He gets about. He's out a lot at Noolen's Casino.”
“So, Noolen's got a casino, eh?” Fenner said, looking at Bugsey.
Bugsey sneered. “Noolen's the south-end of a horse.”
Fenner put his glass down on the counter. “I'm beginning to believe that,” he said, and putting his hand under Bugsey's arm, he led him into the sunlight.
Noolen's casino was close to Hemingway's house at the corner of Olivia and Whitehead.
Fenner stopped his cab to get a look at the Hemingway house. Then he went on to the casino.
It was a hot evening, full of noise and river smells. The casino stood back in a landscape garden, with a half circular drive leading to the big double front doors. Double porches and arched windows, fitted with yellow slatted shutters, gave the big house a touch of distinction.
A lot of cars crawled up the drive, unloaded, and crawled on back to the street.
Fenner paid off his cab and wandered up the long flight of broad stone steps. The front doors were open, and he could see a brilliantly lighted lobby as he mounted.
There were two men standing by the door who looked at him hard. He put them down as Noolen's muscle men. He went on through the lobby into a big room where two tables were in action. He wandered around, keeping his eyes open and hoping to find the girl on the boat.
He hadn't been in the room five minutes before a short Cuban in evening dress came up to him. “Mr. Ross?” he said politely.
“What of it?” Fenner said.
“Will you come into the office a moment?”
Fenner smiled. “I'm here to enjoy myself,” he said. “What do I want in your office?”
The two men who had been standing at the door suddenly moved through the crowd and stood each side of him. They smiled at him, but the smile didn't reach their eyes.
The Cuban said softly, “You'd better come, I think.”
Fenner shrugged and moved wi
th him. They crossed the room, went out into the lobby and into a small room on the left.
Noolen was walking up and down, his head on his chest, and a big cigar clamped between his teeth. He glanced up at Fenner as he came in.
The Cuban shut the door, leaving the other two men outside.
Fenner thought Noolen looked in better shape. He seemed cleaner and his tuxedo suited him.
Noolen said, “What are you doin' here?”
“This is public, ain't it? What's bitin' you?”
“We don't have any of Carlos' mob in here.”
Fenner laughed. He went over and sat in a big leather arm-chair. “Don't be a mug,” he said.
Noolen stood very still. “You better get out an' stay out. . . .”
Fenner raised his hand. “Send the monkey away—I want to talk to you.”
Noolen hesitated, then he gave a sign to the Cuban, who went out.
“You're not going to get anywhere being tough with Carlos,” Fenner said, stretching his long legs. “Why don't you get wise to yourself?”
“What's your game?” Noolen said. “There's something about you I don't trust...”
Fenner said seriously, “I don't know. But string along. If my bet comes right, I may have to bust this town wide open. To do it, I might want you. I don't like Carlos and I don't like his racket. I think I'll wash him up.”
Noolen laughed. “You're crazy, Carlos's big enough to smear you.”
Fenner nodded. “That's how it looks, but that isn't the way it'll pan out You'd like to see that guy go, wouldn't you?”
Noolen hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah,” he said; “but he ain't goin' in my lifetime.”
Fenner studied the toes of his shoes. “You got a mob if I wanted one?”
Noolen came and sat down. “I've gotta mob,” he said cautiously, “but they're not in the same class. They'd be scared to start anything.”
Fenner grinned. “Not when Carlos starts to slip. That's when your mob's got to go to work.”
Noolen clasped his hands. There was a long silence while he brooded. Then he said, “You're playin' a tricky game. Suppose I have a little talk with Carlos.”
Fenner shrugged. “Why should you? You've got everything to gain by just sittin' on your can waitin' for me to clean up the town.”