The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Penzler, Otto

  The man back of the counter shook his head again. He tapped his right ear with a big finger. Joey Deth said softly:

  “You’ve been working that line for years, Andy. But I know it’s the bunk. You ain’t deaf— not unless you want to be. You’ll even hear this gun crack—before you drop. What did Rands say—to you?”

  He raised the gun a little. Old Andy’s lips were twitching. He stepped close to the counter.

  “He’d found a man dead—Barney Nasser,” he said. “He asked—about you, Kid.”

  Kid Deth said: “What did you tell him?”

  Old Andy shook his head. “Told him I hadn’t seen you—for a week or so. Said you used to come in, after theatre time. Rands was wised up—he figured some of the boys talked things over—around here.”

  Kid Deth said: “Yeah?”

  There was a little silence. The rain made a soft patter on the glass windows of the lunch-wagon. Kid Deth looked towards the cab again. He got his face close to the door glass, looked towards the Avenue. The street was empty of everything except the cab. Joey faced the lunch-wagon owner again. He spoke in a very low voice. It was toneless.

  “You’re lying, Andy—and I’m sick of lies. You squealed on me—and you framed me. I’ve never killed a guy—not until now. You know that, Andy. But you’re lying. Lou Rands shot out Barney Nasser—and you know it. And you know why. But you’re still workin’ with Lou—still trying to frame me. Maybe you’ve done enough—maybe not. Anyway— you’re through. To hell with you—Andy— straight to hell—”

  The finger next to his left thumb started to pull back on the trigger. Old Andy’s face was ghastly—his eyes were wide with fear.

  “For God’s sake—wait—Kid!” he breathed hoarsely.

  Joey Deth said: “Wait—for what? For more lies?”

  Andy Poison shook his head. “No—I swear I’ll give it to you, Kid! I didn’t know—”

  He broke off. The Kid eased off pressure on the trigger. He said in a hard voice:

  “You didn’t know—I’d pack a gun, eh? You thought I’d never hurt—right to the finish. Well—you got it wrong, Andy. I’m walking down to Headquarters at four in the afternoon, see—and before I walk in—”

  He checked himself. Old Andy stood leaning against the wall, back of the counter. There was a color in his face now—red streaked the white of his skin, his eyes were protruding, he was breathing heavily.

  “Barney—an’ Rands—they was together, Kid,” he muttered. “They was workin’ the slot machines together. Then Rands—he got scared. When you went across the river Barney wanted Rands to—get you, Kid. But the dick—he was afraid. He was getting’ worried—about bein’ so thick with Barney. And he was—”

  Kid Deth said in a hard voice: “Wait—how do you figure to know so much?”

  The lunch-wagon owner said in a whisper: “I passed the coin—from Barney—”

  Kid Deth stood tensely, his eyes narrowed on the staring ones of Andy Poison. He cut in sharply:

  “And Rands—gave Barney the dose? Because he was afraid of a break.”

  Old Andy shook his head. His eyes were on the gun that the Kid was holding a little lower now.

  “Barney tried—to get Rands,” he said thickly. “I seen you go along First Avenue. Rands came close to the car—passed it. Barney got out and followed him. The lights were out in here—something went wrong with the power. Maybe Barney didn’t think I was inside. I was watchin’ ‘em come up.”

  Kid Deth said: “Don’t lie, Andy—this counts big.”

  The lunch-wagon owner stared at the gun. He moved his head from side to side.

  “I ain’t lyin’, Kid,” he said. “I’m an old man and—”

  “What happened—with Barney Nasser back of Rands?” the Kid cut in.

  “He opened up,” Poison muttered. “But Rands was swingin’ around—maybe he heard him. He got Barney right away. I seen him pick him up. He carried him to the coupe, then he come back here. The lights went on while he was comin’ back, and he was sore as hell. He swore he’d kill me if I crossed him up. He said it was a chance—to get you. Barney had wised him that you was ridin’ with him. He’d been hidin’ out— an’ he’d seen you get clear of the car.”

  Kid Deth said slowly: “I didn’t figure that Barney tried for him first,” he muttered. “But I figured he got Nasser—and wanted to frame me—”

  Old Andy nodded. “I swear I give it to you straight, Kid—”

  Joey Deth lowered the pistol. “Who gunned out Rands?” he said slowly.

  The lunch-wagon owner shook his head. “That’s all I know, Kid,” he said. “If I can square you—”

  The Kid swore softly. “You can’t—not that way,” he said in a hard tone. “They’d figure it was a deal—in court.”

  There was silence except for the patter of rain against the lunch-wagon windows.

  Old Andy said slowly, breathing with an effort:

  “Maybe they was—tryin’ for you, Kid—and got Rands.”

  Kid Deth grunted. “Like hell they were!” he breathed. “They were guns—and they didn’t miss. They wanted Rands—and they got him. And they wanted—”

  He smiled grimly. He knew something now—something important. Barney Nasser and Lou Rands had been working together. Nasser had tried to finish the detective—but the dick had got him. He’d tried to frame the Kid, but he’d been gunned out. Why?

  The Kid thought: I’m getting closer. Either Gil Nasser or Charlie Gay got Rands. The mob of one of them, anyway. Or maybe Gil wasn’t in on it, and Barney had his men close by, in case something went wrong in our talk. They saw Rands carry Barney to the coupe—and they got him. There was a chance of getting me framed, so they didn’t turn loose on me. If Charlie Gay pulled the shoot—it was straight hate. He was wise that Rands had been working with Barney.

  Old Andy said in a monotone: “Barney Nasser tried to get Rands in the back. Rands got him. And there are a lot of guys—that hate the dick. You better get clear, Kid—you better jump town. I’ve put you wise—”

  The Kid shook his head. “Someone got Bess Grote,” he said slowly. “It wasn’t a mistake, Andy. They tricked her. Maybe she was supposed to send me out back. She didn’t do it. When she went out—they got her. That’s what I’ve got to do, Andy—get the one—”

  He stopped. Old Andy half closed his eyes. He touched his sandy hair with shaking fingers.

  “You never used a rod, Kid—” he started. His voice died abruptly.

  The Kid heard the sound, too. He swung around, half opened the door of the lunch-wagon. But the car was coming down the center of the street. It had bright lights—and it skidded to one side as the driver worked the brakes. Figures spilled to the wet street pavement—they moved swiftly and without sound.

  Kid Deth stepped back and shut the door. He snapped the bolt.

  “Bulls!” he breathed fiercely. “Out the back of the wagon—”

  He turned. Old Andy was close to the counter. His right arm was lifted. The fingers held a gun leveled low, above the wood. The gun was shaking a little. The trigger finger was moving. Kid Deth let his body slump forward and downward, dived towards the counter. The gun crashed as his hands and knees hit the floor— wood spurted from the counter.

  The second shot sent a bullet through the glass of the lunch-wagon door. The Kid crawled towards the end of the counter on the left, pulled himself up from his knees. He muttered huskily:

  “You—crazy Swede—”

  From outside of the lunch-wagon two shots sounded. Something clattered, behind the counter. Old Andy made a heavy, grunting sound. He swore weakly. Two more shots sounded from outside.

  There was a low cough from Old Andy. Then his body struck the floor back of the counter. Kid Deth crawled around behind—saw the outstretched hands, the half-opened eyes. There was red on Old Andy’s lips. Coffee hissed downward from the percolator.

  The Kid crawled around past the body of the man who had tried to kill him. Poison wa
s dead; crouching low, the Kid went through the door that led to the small room back of the space where Old Andy lay. There was a narrow door on his right—he opened it, stared out into the rain. No one was in sight.

  There were no steps. He dropped to the street, kept the lunch-wagon between himself and the men on the far side. He crouched low, and held the automatic in his left hand. At the end of the street there was a dock; the Kid worked his way northward of it, along the river bank. He found a narrow alley that led back from the river, traveled along it. There was no sound of voices.

  He could guess what had happened. The men who had come up in the car were detectives. Either they had blundered into him, or Old Andy had been expecting them. Joey could see no way that he had tipped them off. There was no phone in the lunch-wagon; even if the proprietor had seen him before he got inside there would not have been time for him to have called.

  Old Andy had tried to get him—to kill the story he had just told—and his second shot had crashed through the door of the lunch-wagon. Perhaps the bullet had hit one of the men outside. In any case, they had opened up—and Andy had dropped.

  He lowered his head, moved rapidly westward across the avenue. When he had reached the far side he did not look back. He guessed that the detectives were getting inside the lunch-wagon, but doing it cautiously. He was halfway to Second Avenue when he heard the shrill of a police whistle. Almost immediately it was followed by the wail of the car siren.

  4

  OEY DETH kept close to the fronts of tenements, reached Second Avenue. He went northward, and heard the siren wail again : as he climbed the Elevated Station.

  When the train reached One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street the Kid got off, descended from the station. He walked westward, got a cab, gave the address of a flat less than four squares from the speakeasy in back of which Bess Grote had been gunned out.

  McLean’s flat was a half square from the address he gave. The cab driver was sleepy; he came close to hitting a milk wagon at an intersection, and the Kid swore at him beneath his breath.

  He gave the driver a half dollar, walked past McLean’s place once, then turned back and went inside. The waiter lived alone on the top floor—the Kid pressed the button four times, and the last time it was a short buzz. The lock made a ticking sound almost immediately, and the Kid went inside.

  He climbed the stairs slowly—they were dimly lighted and there were many odors drifting through the hallways. A baby was crying fretfully as he started up the last flight. When he made the turn at the head of the stairs, to go along the hallway, he saw that McLean’s door was opened on a narrow crack.

  Instinctively he hesitated; his left hand reached towards his left coat pocket. Then the door was opened a little more—he saw the waiter’s face. He moved up close, said softly:

  “You—alone?”

  McLean nodded his head. He opened the door most of the way, stepped to one side. The Kid walked inside the flat.

  He went over to the uncomfortable divan and dropped down on it. He said grimly:

  “The dicks—almost got me, Mac.”

  McLean stood with his back to the door and narrowed his eyes on Kid Deth.

  “Where—at Bennie Golin’s?”

  Joey shook his head. “At Old Andy’s,” he replied in a low tone. “Maybe they were tipped—maybe they just drove in. I had a cab— stopped in to get Andy to wise me to what Rands had been spilling, before that dick grabbed me. Andy came through.”

  McLean said: “Yes?” His voice was low and husky. His eyes kept shifting around. Kid Deth looked at him and remembered that he didn’t know the man well, that six months ago he hadn’t known him at all. He wondered if Bennie Golin wouldn’t be better for the job. Then he remembered that Bennie had a wife and a kid.

  The Kid lighted a cigarette, tossed the pack towards the other man. McLean shook his head, tossed the pack back.

  Joey Deth said: “I got to be sure, Mac. You sittin’ in with me, or just playing safe?”

  McLean smiled. It was a hard smile. “Didn’t I go out—and bring Bess into the room, Kid? Ain’t I taking a chance in having you in here?”

  Joey nodded. “Sure,” he agreed. “But that don’t answer the question. I’m in the way, Mac— and a lot of guys want to get me. But they’re being careful—and that means something.”

  McLean grunted. “What?” he asked.

  Kid Deth pulled on his cigarette. He shrugged. His eyes were on the waiter.

  “What you sticking so close to that door for?” he asked, his voice very soft.

  McLean looked surprised. He stepped away from the door, halted suddenly. He turned his body a little, so that he half faced the door. The Kid listened too. And while he listened he got his automatic out of his pocket.

  He said: “Yeah—someone’s coming up, Mac.”

  McLean’s body jerked. He faced the Kid— his breath made a sucking sound as his eyes spotted the weapon. Joey smiled.

  “Who’s coming up, Mac?” he asked coldly.

  The waiter stared at him. “What are you— getting at, Kid?” he muttered. “F m a little shaky—that’s all. With you—in here—”

  Kid Deth nodded. “I know,” he said. “Who’s comin’ to see you, Mac? It’s a funny hour—for a call.”

  The steps on the stairs were not heavy—the creaking sound ceased now. The Kid had made a guess, and he knew now that it was a good one. He could read the answer in McLean’s eyes.

  “You, too,” he said softly. “Jeeze—but the quitting came fast when it got started. You’re all crowdin’ for the kill—crowding or squealing—or quitting.”

  McLean said: “I don’t get you, Kid. I told you to get clear—”

  Joey Deth smiled. “But you didn’t tell me few,” he cut in. “Now shut up—and when you hear the tap—”

  The sound of footfalls was very faint. It died away abruptly. There was a short silence—then knuckles rapped against the wood of the flat door. They knocked four times.

  Kid Deth looked at McLean’s white face and smiled. He slumped on the divan, held the automatic low between his knees. He got a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over the gun. Then he nodded at McLean, made a sign with his right hand.

  McLean whispered: “For God’s sake, Kid— you never packed a rod before—”

  Joey Deth smiled with half-closed eyes. He motioned again for the waiter to open the door. The handkerchief moved a little. McLean opened the door and stepped to one side. A voice said:

  “It’s Charlie, Mac—”

  McLean’s face was twisted. He said in a husky voice:

  “Yeah, Charlie—all right.”

  Charlie Gay stepped inside the flat. For a second he didn’t see the slumped figure of the Kid. When he did see it he muttered an exclamation, dropped his right hand towards his left coat pocket.

  Kid Deth said: “Don’t, Charlie!”

  Gay stopped. He stood with his head shoved forward a little; his eyes on the handkerchief that was over the automatic. His breath came in short, hissing sounds. The Kid said:

  “Close that door, Mac—snap the lock. Expecting anyone else?”

  McLean closed the door, shook his head. He said in an uncertain tone:

  “Watch what you do, Kid.”

  Charlie Gay said nothing. He was medium in size with a pallid face and eyes that were set back of bushy brows. His fingers moved nervously as his hands strayed at his sides.

  Joey Deth chuckled a little. “You do the watching, Mac,” he said.

  He looked at Gay. He spoke in a low, easy tone.

  “You got brains, Charlie—even if you did let Barney Nasser do a squeal on you. What did you mob out Lou Rands for?”

  Charlie Gay shook his head. “Take that rod off me, Kid,” he said. “I wasn’t in on the deal, an’ you know it.”

  His voice was thin, rasping. When he talked he showed no fear. He kept his eyes on the white handkerchief. McLean stood close to him—both men faced the Kid.

  Joey D
eth said: “You got brains, Charlie— use ‘em now. Talk straight to me. There isn’t too much time, for what I’ve got to do.”

  Charlie Gay narrowed his eyes until they were narrow slits under his brows.

  “I don’t get you, Kid,” he said. “I’ve been away a long time—”

  Joey Deth nodded. “It’ll be a longer trip, this time,” he said. “And there won’t be picture shows on Saturdays, Charlie.”

  McLean said: “Listen, Kid—”

  Joey moved the gun slightly, and the material of the handkerchief wavered. McLean kept quiet. Joey looked at Charlie Gay.

  “You got yourself a sweet alibi, Charlie—and then you got afraid—”

  His voice shook a little. He stopped. Charlie Gay’s eyes flickered on the dead-gray ones of the Kid, beneath the bushy brows.

  “Take the rod off me, Kid,” he said again.

  Joey Deth smiled. “Why should I?” he asked. “You didn’t take the Tommy gun off Bess Grote—even when she screamed, Charlie.”

  Gay’s body twitched. “You don’t think—I ran that job, Kid?” he muttered.

  Joey said: “You know about it, Charlie.”

  Gay’s eyes flickered towards McLean. He said harshly:

  “If you sucked me into this, Mac—it’ll go tough with you! The Kid’s all hopped—”

  Joey Deth interrupted. “Mac’s all right, Charlie,” he said quietly. “He’s just like the rest—tryin’ to play in between. He didn’t suck you in. Old Andy—he did the talking.”

  Charlie Gay widened his eyes. “Old Andy—” he started, and checked himself. “Listen, Kid—” he muttered. “Bess—she said she was—off you. I always did—like her—”

  The Kid sucked in his breath. “Yeah?” he said sharply. “And you gunned her out just the same.”

  Charlie Gay swung on McLean. “You squealed—you dirty—”

  Joey Deth said: “Shut up, Charlie! You’ll wake the neighbors.”

  McLean showed fear in his eyes. “He got it— from Old Andy,” he said shakily. “I’m tellin’ you, Charlie—I didn’t squeal.”