“Me for the happy home, the family, the peachy frau, the lawn-mower, hose, garden, an’ all thereto appertain-in’. An’ when it’s time to blow my light out, no crocus carvin’ me an’ no pine board, but a right pebble over me, plumb respectable, Ben—past all squared an’ forgotten—A-1 turn-out with a dozen hacks, an’ the ‘Sacred to the Memory of’ just as big as any of ’em!”
Pause. Silence. In the moonlight a close observer could have perceived the huge fellow’s Adam’s-apple working convulsively, while a tear gleamed in his blinking eye.
Ben seemed pondering. Up to the pals, from the asphalted side street, rose a clack-clack-clack of hoofs. A trolley-gong clashed on the avenue, and, farther off, the roar of an L train broke the evening calm.
Ben, his face very grim, yet with a certain air of relief, tossed his cigar out of the window and turned toward his side-partner.
“Straight dope?” he demanded sternly. “No phony gag, but the real thing?”
“Realest ever! I got the love-bug, kid. It’s put this con life of ours on the fritz, for fair! I’m goin’ to square it, an’ be a hick, myself. Why? You ain’t peeved with me, are you?”
“Peeved nothing! Delighted! Here, let me mitt you, old boy. Go to it!”
Ben thrust out his hand, which Pod wrung with a sudden burst of gratitude and affection.
“That’s the way to pass it out!” exclaimed the big fellow, in a choking voice. “I been leary of pullin’ it on you, kid, ’cause I didn’t know but you’d sit up and howl. But I see now—”
“You’re on. Congratulations! Fact is, old boy, the same idea has been flagging me, too, some time past. Only I didn’t hardly dare to pull it on you. But now—”
“You?” blurted Pod, gaping. “You stung, too? My Gawd! So then, if we split, it’ll be O. K. on both sides, an’ both of us in the clover-bed? Fine! Who’s the skirt, Ben? Who, what, an’ where?”
A knock on the door interrupted this heart-to-heart.
“Come!” boomed Slats.
A bellhop appeared with the usual evening tray, neatly overspread with a spotless damask. As though well used to the task, he switched on the light, and deftly spread the festive board on the pals’ center table.
The two old friends and co-grafters watched the proceedings with satisfaction. Evidently, love as yet had not advanced to the stage where appetite had begun to fail.
His work done, the hop departed. Pod and Ben drew up to the bounteous feast, but something was on the big fellow’s mind. He gazed on the pudding and shook his head, then glanced at his pal inquiringly.
“Ben?”
“What?”
“You didn’t know I was some writer, did you?”
Ben, just unfolding his napkin, stared in amazement.
“Writer? Scratch-work, or how?”
“No, billy-doo’s. Say, Ben, I—I don’t feel like the eats till I’ve got this off my chest, like. I want you to listen to this here letter I’ve doped out for—for her, you tumble.
“Listen, an’ then throw me the straight spiel. Is it the right goods or ain’t it? Is it billed to make a center-shot an’ ring the bell, the weddin’-bell, or—or is it a frosty freeze? Is—”
“You mean you’ve been framing some love-stuff?”
Slats nodded.
“Just hold back on the feeds till you let this trickle into your think-tank,” he adjured, producing a folded sheet of scented lavender paper from his breast pocket, left side, nearest the cardiac apparatus.
“Go ahead and fire!” exclaimed Ben, eagerly eying the tray.
“All right, kid. Now, you just listen to some proposal!”
Hotel de Luxe,
Today and Every Day.
My Own Hummingbird!
My Bunch Of Velvet Taffy!
Oh, you kid! This is to Wise you that you have certainly Put one over hard on Yours Forever. For many years I thought I never would Kick in on this here Love whirl, but you have Sloughed me for fair. To say you are the Goods, is putting it so feeble it’s almost an insult. When I gaze upon you, I am just Nuts to tear into the Sweet Home racket, with Ivy round the door. Do you get me, Hun?
I am truly Dippy to throw my Net over you and cop yon off, all for my lonesome. I’ve got the strong Hunch we could lope to where the Roses bloom and the robins nest again, and you would be my Dove and I would be your Pouter pigeon for life.
“Say, Ben, ain’t that some poetical?”
*
You are my great, big beautiful Doll, believe me! This is no needle monologue, but the goods, and I have the Wad to back it. The first time I ever Lamped you, it was a knockout, and I took the mat for ten. I could see you Coming, even then, and ever since, you’ve been Getting it on me, worse and more of it, Now, Dear heart, don’t Crab a loving soul by no icy Mitt gag, for believe me, though I may not be such a Romeo to look at, my heart and Bundle are in the right place.
I know I could carry some class, myself, with you for a running-mate. When I get my front on, I’m not half hard to behold. And I’m strictly on the Level in this deal, no Phony. You tie up to me, and you’ll know you’ve got a real man, no Shrimp half portions, but the 18-K article.
The Rose is red, the Grass is green,
You are my Queen,
The fairest ever Seen,
So be mine, or I’ll repine,
Be my Love, my beautiful Dove,
And forever I’ll be true to you,
With Ivy twining round the door!
Pod paused, breathing heavily, and swabbed his brow with a napkin.
“How about it, kid?” he demanded anxiously. “Is it the goods, or ain’t it? Poetry, too!”
“Some literature, all right!” asserted Ben, gazing away, “But do you think ‘you’ and ‘door’ make an O. K. rime? ‘You’ and ‘in the stew’ would go, but—”
Slats snorted with disgust.
“Stew, you lob!” he cried. “That shows how much poetic feelin’ you got! Why, this here’s blank verse, the last two lines. Blank verse! That’s the swellest kind!”
“Oh, that’s so, too. I forgot. It’s blank, all right. Yes, it’s the goods. Any more?”
“Some! And it ought to be the hot stuff, too. Took me the best part of ten days to frame it! There’s better comin’, too. Just take a slant at this, will you?”
If you think you could fall for me, Kiddo, say the word and you’re on, for life! Cupid has went and handed you my whole flock of goats, that’s no pipe. What do you say we bunch our play, from now on? You’d sure be some Classy pal for me! Any time you want to frame up with me, working Double harness, I’m your Pippin. Can’t you see me, Dovey? If we hitch, I know we can give the Census and the course of Human events a right Sassy push, all right, so don’t Shy off. But be my Molasses Bunch, till death us do pry Apart!
All I ask is your Heart and hand, and a Continuation of the swell Eats, as per this last month.
Ben started suddenly, with a quick glance at Pod, but the latter was far too absorbed in his reading to notice anything.
No use for you to be a side stem in this Hashery, when you can be the main tent in a Cottage with Ivory—Ivy—round the door. Shed that apron, kid, and I’ll show you the real silks, cut on the Bias, with fringe and doll-fixings all from Paris. Get me? Cut out the tay-ta-tay confabs with that fresh new Night clerk, same as I’ve been wise to, the past Week, and accept a Loving heart that beats only for you.
Ben leaned forward, his face darkening, fist clenched, and eyes staring. His mouth was set in a thin line. Pod blissfully pursued the letter.
Your blue lamps and hair and the Way you Double up on the rice pudding have won my heart, Baby. The coin I’ve staked you to, for that stock-game, and the eats-money I’ve slipped you, is only a taste beside what I’ll slide your way when we’re Hitched, So say the word, and—
The letter was never finished, for with a wordless cry Ben started up. His fist fell on the table with a bang. The dishes rattled. A cup fell crashing to the floor.
&n
bsp; Pod, startled, dropped the letter and stared, wide-eyed.
“Wh— wh— why, what th—” he stammered blankly.
“You—you!” hissed Ben, shaking a passionate forefinger right under Pod’s nose. “So that’s your game, is it, you scab? Rat! You—I—”
“For Gawd’s sake, Ben!”
“Copping my girl right under my very eyes, you sneak!”
“Your—your—”
“Yes, mine! For three weeks now—”
“But—first thing we blew in here, Ben, I slid her a V! Every week since, another one! An’ I’ve slipped her coin for a stock-deal she’s in—an’ these here classy feeds she sends up are all for me, an’ she’s mine—”
“Ah-ha! So, eh?” Ben’s fist shook violently in the huge fellow’s astonished face. “So? But we’ll see about that, we’ll see! These feeds are for you, are they? Why, you poor boob, they’re mine! Ten a week she’s had from me—ten bucks per, you tumble? An’ as for the deal in stocks—”
“You been touched, too?”
“Have I? Why, sure! But—I didn’t know you—you—had! Why—er—see here, Pod—”
“Huh?”
Ben’s fist fell, and over his pale face a strange expression passed. His eyes sought Pod’s, and for the space of ten heartbeats their looks met in silence.
At last Ben spoke:
“Pod!”
“Ben?”
“Whoa, back! Back up, both of us!”
“You mean—”
Pod was leaning forward now, gripping the table-edge with a fat though powerful hand. On his brow the sweat had started thicker than ever, and his breath was coming hard.
“Ben, you mean we—we’re in wrong?”
“Wrong—dead wrong, so help me! There’s more behind all this soft-soap biz and all this swell night-lunch racket than we’re wise to yet.
“Pod, we’re being played against each other, both ends toward the middle! A skirt is trying to do the oceana roll over us and con each of us into thinking we’re it!
“I had it all doped to land solid with Birdy two or three weeks ago. So did you. Each of us has been passing the gilt to her—”
“Don’t, Ben—don’t!” Pod’s eyes were leaking and he stretched out an imploring hand. “I’m wise a plenty, so cut that explanation stuff! But—it hurts, Ben; hurts like—jus’ same; when I had it all doped I was goin’ to bust into married bliss—ivy round the door—”
“No more o’ that now! We’re both leery, now we’ve got a peek at the works. Just a throw-off she was steering us, Pod—that’s all. How big a haymow of the green has she raked off you already?”
“Oh, maybe four, five hundred—on Consolidated Copper. She said her cousin in Wall Street—”
“I’m in for a thousand. Only it was her uncle!”
“Ben! An’ we, we are—supposed to be—the smoothest con-workers in the U. S. A. or out!”
Bender stared a moment, then burst into a laugh of mingled bitterness and relief.
“My feed I thought it was all the time!” he cried. “You thought it was yours. Both wrong—just as wrong as in our size-up of Birdy and her affections. Who’s nuts now? Pod, Bender & Co.! And the answer is—”
Pod Slattery arose, with all the dignity of his three hundred and fifty-seven pounds, and faced his old-time pal. In his eyes still gleamed the dew of heartfelt disappointment, but his lips were smiling as he spoke.
“Ben, old boss,” said he, “the answer is, a new deal and reorganization of the film on a long lease Birdy’s. smooth O. K.
“We’ve let a skirt near trim us and if it gets out our rep ain’t worth a hoot in Tophet. She’s no ordinary poke-getter or cold hand worker, Birdy ain’t. No, this was no penny ante game she was up to, she was stakin’ to make a kill, what with all them kind woids an’—an’ juicy raisins an’ cream—
“A classy hex, all right aimin’ to fetch down a big bundle when she had us hog tied right. In a while longer she’d had our whole roll an’ us spoutin’ our sparks for pad-money! Oh an onion, kid! But now we’re hep—an’ it’s one big hike for ours!”
“ ‘Hike’!” echoed Ben enthusiastically. “The quicker, the sooner—far, far away!”
“Pack your keister!” Pod directed dramatically, with a sweep of his arm. “This very night we flit! See her again after all them ivy visions? Nix! Us for the big getaway, P.D.Q!
“I can’t pull much of this here sentimental stuff on friendship, kid, but you know what I mean.”
“That time you dug me out o’ Sing Sing I ain’t passin’ up. No, nor the times we carried the banner in India, did a Marathon on the African veldt, dodged a smash in Yokohama, an’—an all the hundreds of other times, some velvet, some sand paper, we been through together.
“What? Let a peek-a-boo and a hobble pry us apart? Nix not! We must ha’ been pipes, Ben, you an’ me, to even think it! All over kid! It’s you an’ me again, with no Buttinskies, to the finish! An’ my mitt to bind it!” In silence Ben took the huge and generous hand. For a minute their eyes met. Then Pod turned away.
“Ivy, hell,” he whispered under his breath and with a kind of savage joy began routing his effects out of closet and chiffonier and hurling them into his suitcase.
Untouched, the tempting night lunch stood on the table. The savory pot of tea grew cold, the sherbet melted, and the fat raisins oozed out their juice forsakenly into the thick cream, which now had lost all its charm.
Half an hour later an envelope lay on the table, addressed to the hotel management. Within it reposed coin of the realm to pay the bill up to and including the following Saturday night.
Down the fire escape, meanwhile, Pod, Ben, and the suitcases wended their way to the alley at the rear of the hotel.
And the friendly September night received them; and the great world opened out once more ahead of them—the world of ventures and of games, of losses and of winnings, of honest grafts and touches—best of all, of friendship and the brotherhood of long-tried pals.
Damon and Pythias, David and Jonathan, Pylades and Orestes, Nisus and Euryalus had nothing on these two incomparable running mates as they hailed a taxi on the avenue and sped toward the Grand Central in time for the Bombshell Limited for Chicago and all points West.
Midnight found them still consuming fat cigars in the luxurious smoking-compartment of the Pullman and basking in the newfound joy of freshly consolidated partnership.
“Some getaway this time!” murmured Ben, lighting another panatela. “Speaking of narrow cracks, this latest riffle sure has all past performances riveted to the post. I seem to be sitting on a leather cushion, bo; but really I’m down on all fours, thanking Heaven!”
Pod smiled, drew from his pocket a scented, lavender sheet of paper, set it afire with a match and with it fired up afresh his smoldering cigar. He held the paper carefully till it was but a crinkling bit of black, run through with crawling sparks.
Then with great precision and gusto he dropped it into the cuspidor.
Leaning back with a huge sigh of comfort and relief he exhaled a cloud of smoke and cheerfully contemplated the roof in eloquent silence.
The pals’ great joy would without fail have leaped up one thousand per cent had they known this simple fact, viz.: that in the rice pudding on the table, back in the De Luxe, reposed at that moment enough chloral hydrate or knockout drops to have put them sound asleep for many hours.
The drops had been considerately added unto the pudding by said Birdy McCue, in view of a large prospective reward from the new night-clerk, who—let me tell you confidentially—was none other than William J. Shearns of the Cosmos Detective Agency, which had long “wanted” them for several little matters.
“Where ignorance is bliss,” eh?
You’re on!
EVEN IN DEATH
Originally published in All-Story Cavalier Weekly, Dec. 12, 1914.
CHAPTER I
Harsh, clamant, wild, the braying of the long tin horn that hung by a rawhide la
shing from the tamarack on the American shore of the Madawaska ferry hurled echoes over the far reaches of the river.
At its second blaring call, imperatively eloquent of deadly haste, the door of the little ferry-shack swung wide and a girl looked out—a girl clad strangely and for rough toil, in faded blue overalls and a checkered mackinaw of felted stuff.
For a moment she stood there in the fading light of that chill October evening, peering out across the waters that slid away, cold, dark, foam-streaked, toward the tumbling whirls of Tobique Rapids, four miles below—the white-lashed, thundering leap whose sullen roar never by day or night was still from shuddering through that northern air.
As she gazed away over the swift swirl of the current, straining her eyes at the far bank where the road plunged steeply to the water’s edge, the winds of the north country fingered the black hair lying over her strong shoulders.
Keen-visioned, this girl; of hardy, vigorous race. One hand held open the cabin door, the other rested on her lithe hip. Behind her, lamp-shine from within silhouetted her sinuous outlines.
And ever the wind, wantoning with her bare, brown throat where the mackinaw gaped wide, flung her hair across her full bosom, modeled like a statue’s.
Again the horn brayed its urgent call across the Rivière St. Jean; and now a far voice hailed—“Hal-loo-o-o! Hal-loo-o-o!” with wild insistence.
“Comin’! Comin’!” she exclaimed impatiently. “Seems like you’re in a most amazin’ hurry!”
Another horn, rust-red, dangled beside the ferry-house door. On this she blew a single, full-lunged blast.
Then, waiting only to pull a coarse-knit lumberman’s cap over her shapely head—for the evening chill of the northland had already risen from the flood and breathed down from the spruce-cloaked mountains that raggedly notched the sky—she ran down the steep and curving road to where the cumbersome flat-boat nosed against its moorings on the bank.
Far overhead, striding like a colossus beside the road—the trail, rather, so rutted, stony, and narrow it was—the three huge, rough-hewn firs that formed a tripod for the hempen ferry-cable rose against the darkening sky.
The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01 Page 9