Frenchy was annoyed. The last man on the last team. He was backup on the rear-entry team, the third fire team. That made him sixth man through the door. It did get him a tommy gun, however. He felt it wrapped under his coat as he crossed Ouachita, huge, oily and powerful. He waited for the cars to part, then dashed across, as the others had done, one man at a time, the tommy gun secured up under his suit coat, the heavy armored vest rocking against him as he ran. No car lights shone on him; nobody from the Horseshoe saw him, or could be expected to.
He ran to the Horseshoe's northwest corner, then threaded back alongside the west wall of the casino. Inside he could hear the steady clang of the slots, the calls of the pit bosses and the more generalized hubbub of a reasonably crowded place.
He slid along the edge of the building, ducking the wash of lights that shone from the shuttered windows. His eyes craned the parking lot to his right for movement, but there was none at all. Five men had passed this way before him, and at last he joined them, in a little cluster at the southwest corner of the big, square old building.
"Six in," he said.
"Time check," said Slim, who as the second-most-senior man of the unit was running the rear-entry team. Slim was a heavyset, quiet fellow from Oregon, a State Trooper out there. He was one of three actual gunfight veterans on the team.
"2150," said his number two, Bear.
"Okay, let's hold here," Slim said, trying to control his breathing. "We'll move to the door at 2158."
They hunched, tensing, feeling the sultry weight of the air. It was all going so fast. Getting across the street and reassembling at the rallying point seemed much simpler than it was supposed to be. No screwups at all.
"One last time, let's go over assignments. I'm one; when the door goes, I pile through it first, with my.45, covering the right side of the rear hall, turning right, moving into the main room and covering the right again."
Two, three and four ran through their assignments, droning on about turns to left or right and sectors to cover with pistol or tommy gun.
"I'm five," said Henderson finally. "I go down the hall, past the casino, turn right, take the stairs up to the manager's office, which I cover. Securing that, I work the men's and women's rooms."
"I'm six," said Frenchy. "I grab the blonde, I fuck her fast, then I spray the room with lead, killing everybody, including you guys. Then I light up a smoke and wait for the newspaper boys and my Hollywood contract."
"All right, Frenchy," said Slim. "Cut the shit. This ain't no joke."
"All right, all right," said Frenchy. "I'm six. I support five up the rear stairs with the tommy, covering the left-hand side of the stairwell. I cover him in the manager's office, and then we check the two rest rooms. I hope there's a babe on the pot in the lady's."
"Cornhole," someone muttered.
"Now what's the last thing we heard?" asked Slim. "What should be freshest in our minds?"
There was stupefied silence.
"Damn, you guys already forgot! Mr. Earl is going to be in there. He'll be at the bar. So you guys especially, three and four, you make sure you do not cover him. No accidents. Got that?"
Taking the silence as assent, he then said, "Time check?"
"Uh, 2157."
"Shit, we're late. Okay guys, single file, follow me. You ready with that sledge, Eff?"
"Yes I am."
"Let's move out."
They scooted down the rear of the building and came to rest in the lee of the door. The alley was dark. All was silent.
"On the tommies, safeties off."
Silently, the men found the safeties of their weapons and disengaged them, while three edged around with his sledge, getting ready to give the door a stout whack just above the handle.
Slim looked at his watch. The second had ticked around, until it reached straight up.
"Doit,"he said.
Earl stepped into a well-lighted space. It wasn't nearly as crowded as the Ohio had been that night. A big guy eyed him as he walked through the doorway, clearly a muscle-man or some kind of enforcer, but he was so close to the door he felt the palooka would have no chance to react when the fellows spilled through in a few minutes.
He moved on into the big room, which was simply the majority of the building. It was just a space to house the sucker-swindling machinery, decorated along horse-racing lines, with jerseys and crops and helmets and horsehoes festooning the walls. The lights were bright, the smoke heavy, and the slots were set against the walls where a number of weary pilgrims fed them coins to what appeared to be very little financial gain on their part. In the center of the room a couple of tables offered blackjack, there was a poker game going on but without much energy and a roulette wheel ticked off its reds and blacks as it spun to the amusement of another sparse crowd. But the main action was craps, where the players were louder and more excitable.
"Eighter, eighter, eighter from Decatur."
"No, no, Benny Blue's coming up, here comes the big Reno, I can feel it in my bones."
Perhaps because it was built around dynamic movement, this game seemed to draw the most passion. Its players crowded round, and gave their all to the drama.
"Yoleven, yoleven, yoleven!"
Earl slid to the bar and ordered a beer, which was delivered by a plug-ugly without much sentimentality.
"First one's on the house, long as it ain't the last one."
"Oh, it's going to be a long night, trust me, brother," said Earl, taking a sip of the brew.
He measured the bartender, who looked like a tough cracker and thought he might have to cool him out. When the man's attention was on other customers, Earl snuck a peek down and under the bar, where he saw, among the bottles and napkins, a sawed-off pool cue, and a sawed-off 12-gauge pumpgun. The weapons were hung under the bar right next to the cash register. At 2159, Earl thought he'd mosey down and set up there.
Meanwhile, he scanned the crowd, looking for security types. So far only two: the big guy at the door and the bar-keep. Maybe there was another someplace but he sure didn't see him.
Smoke heaved and drifted in the bright room. He picked up his beer and moved on down to the cash register, until he was parked just above the cached weapons. The hand on the clock on the wall said ten o'clock, straight up.
Three's sledge hit the door, rebounded once. He caught it and being a strong young Georgia vice detective, swung again, to the sound of wood shattering and ripping. A blade of light fell into the alley as the door was blasted from its hinges and fell wretchedly to one side.
The men scrambled in.
There was a sense of craziness to it, as they stumbled over each other and no one could quite get his limbs moving fast enough-Their eyes bugged as the hormones of aggression flooded through their bodies. They rushed along, bringing the guns to bear, looking hungrily for targets to kill.
Slim was shouting "Hands up! Hands up! This is a raid!" and others took up the call, "Raid! Raid! Raid!"
Frenchy had but a glimpse of the first two teams as they fanned out and dispersed into the casino's main room. But he churned along in the wake of Carlo Henderson, his partner, who was strangely animated to grace by all the excitement and moved ahead purposefully, quickly found the right-hand stairwell, and began to assault the stairs, screaming "RaidI Raid! Hands up!"
Frenchy was with him when a man appeared at the top of the stairs. Frenchy knew in a second he'd shoot if Carlo weren't in the way, but he couldn't fire and he sat back waiting for Carlo's shots to ring out. But Carlo didn't shoot.
"Hands up! Get those hands up and you won't get hurt!" he screamed, thrusting his.45 in his two hands before him, aimed straight at the heart of the figure, who threw his hands skyward and went to his knees.
Carlo was next to him like some kind of sudden athlete, spun him, leaned him against the wall, spread him and searched him. A Colt.32 pocket model came out and was tossed down the stairwell.
"You stay put!" Carlo demanded, reached up, gracefully snagged the gu
y in one half a pair of cuffs, wound him quickly around and clipped the other wrist and sat him down with a thump. He was wearing a white tuxedo and Frenchy bet he'd be the manager.
Perhaps that's why when the two men kicked open the casino manager's office and scanned it quickly for threats, they found nothing.
"Clear!"
"Clear on my side!" replied Frenchy.
Next they did the washrooms. A fairly drunk guy was propped against the urinal; Frenchy gave him a nudge and he fell backward, spraying pee in a wide arc, but the two young policemen, though encumbered in vests and with weapons, were so horrified of the prospect of being splashed, they leapt back and missed the dousing. Frenchy felt a flare of rage, and stepped forward to club the drunk with his tommy gun butt, but Carlo interceded and brought him under control. The drunk lay in his own piss, screaming, "Don't hurt me, don't hurt me!"
"You stay here till we come get you," Carlo screamed. Then he turned to Frenchy. "Come on, goddammit!"
They ducked next into the ladies'. It was clear, except for a closet, which they tried and found locked.
"Smash it?" asked Frenchy.
Carlo pulled really hard. It wouldn't open.
"Yeah," he said. "You smash it open since you want to hit something. I'm going to take that drunk and the guy in the tux downstairs before they run away."
He disappeared.
Frenchy had a weird need to spray the door with the Thompson. Nah, he knew that would be wrong.
Instead, he beat at it until the jamb gave, and pulled it open. Nothing inside except a wash bucket and a mop.
He heard a thump or something coming from outside. He ducked out, searched, saw nothing. He looked into the casino manager's office and it appeared empty.
He thought nothing of it and downstairs he could hear the loud voice of D. A. Parker, "Now, ladies and gendemen, you just stand clear, we are from the Prosecuting Attorney's Office and don't mean no harm to any citizens. You just relax and you'll be able to go home in a bit."
There was a quiet moment when the world seemed to hang suspended. Then it exploded.
Earl sat calmly as the doorway burst open and the first man through swung his.45 like a scythe and neady clipped the security man at the door. Great anticipation, great reaction. Earl watched the hand with the gun invert, then flash outward toward the stunned piece of beefcake, heard the odd, meaty sound as the gun made contact with the face, and watched as the enforcer dropped into a puddle. Other raiders spilled into the room, fanned out, and took over the room.
It was good. He was proud. No one was out of control, no one was gesturing crazily or screaming. They simply asserted command. They were professional, and Stretch, who was doing the shouting, had an authoritative voice untarnished by fear or doubt.
"Hands up! Hands up! Show us hands!"
Hands went up; people froze. Even the croupiers and the pit bosses froze with the sudden, overwhelming display of force.
That is, except for the bartender.
Earl knew his man. The bartender reacted with his guts instead of his brain, and, alone among them, he spun and grabbed reflexively for a weapon under the bar.
Earl probably could have broken his arm with the sap. Instead, he thumped him lightly and perfectly, intercepting the plunging limb and striking it at the nearly fleshless bone along the arm's top.
"Ah!" the bartender groaned, driven to his feet by the agony of the blow that had turned the whole left-hand side of his body numb. He sat back, clasping the bruise to him and in pure animal terror recoiled and tried to go tiny and harmless.
"You be a good boy!" Earl warned.
Earl turned back and saw that the situation was now in complete control. Nobody else moved.
"You okay, Mr. Earl?" asked Slim.
"B'lieve I'm fine," Earl said, taking his badge out of his pocket and pinning it to his lapel.
"You were one inch from catching a tommy gun burst in the guts," one of the raiders said to the bartender, who still groaned at the pain.
Earl leaned around the bar, plucked out the pool cue and threw it across the floor. Then he pulled out the sawed-off pump, pointed it down, and jacked the pump hard, ejecting six twelve-gauge shells. He dumped the empty thing on the bar, its pump locked back to expose the unfilled chamber.
D. A. was there next.
"Now, ladies and gendemen, you just stand clear. We are from the Prosecuting Attorney's Office and don't mean you any harm. You just relax and you'll be able to go on home in a minute."
"Can we keep our winnings?"
"Anything on your person you may keep. Sorry, but anything on the tables will be confiscated by the Prosecuting Attorney's Office."
There was some grumbling, but as the guns came down and the hands came down, everybody seemed to be making the best of it.
In another second Carlo Henderson appeared with a squawking guy in a white tux, hands cuffed behind him.
"Who the hell are you? What the hell is going on? I am Jack McGaffery, manager of the Horseshoe, and Owney Maddox is going to be plenty jacked at this."
"Reckon he will be, sir. Are you aware there are illegal gaming devices on the property?"
"Naw, do tell? Never noticed a thing, there, Sheriff. By God, Owney Maddox will have your ass for this. You ask these folks. He won't―"
"Well, sir," said D. A., "you tell Owney Maddox if he wants to make an appointment with Mr. Becker, to go right ahead. Meanwhile, soon's we get these folks out of here, we're going to destroy the illegal―"
"Destroy! Jesus Christ, man, you must be crazy! Owney will hunt you to your last day on earth!"
"Don't think you get it yet, McGaffery. He ain't hunting us, we're hunting him. We're the new boys in town and by God, he will wish we'd never come. All right, fellows, let's get it done!"
They began to herd the citizens out the front doors, while a few other raiders moved the casino staff to one side. Earl stood watching and noted that Frenchy finally arrived from upstairs with his Thompson gun. He hadn't shot anyone yet; that was good.
"All right," Earl commanded. "Peanut, you bring the cars up close and we'll get the axes out and go to town. Y'all, you just sit down over there, and watch what we do so you can give Owney Maddox a good report. Mr. Becker will be here soon. We'll see if you're gonna be arrested or not. I want―"
Earl had a thought before him which was something like "I want you to pay close attention to what a thorough job we do, because we're going to do a lot more thorough jobs before we're done," which was meant for the casino staff as a note of intimidation for Owney Maddox and the Grumley boys. That way he'd know he had some problems and he'd get serious about them.
But that thought never got out.
Instead, from the corner of his eye, he saw something move that shouldn't move at all. It was a shape, a form, a shadow, and no clear oudine was visible, for it seemed to emerge from the back entrance in a flash of a second. Earl only recognized that it was a human form and that a hard, cold thing that rose at an angle above it was the double barrels of a shotgun.
Earl could not command himself to draw and fire. No man could move that fast from the rational part of his brain. He simply swept aside the coat, drawing the gun, his thumb flying to and pushing off the safety, his other hand clasping the grip and cradling the first hand, his elbows flying and then locking, almost as if he'd willed it rather than done it, and in the next billionth of a second the pistol reported loudly, kicked against his tight double-handed grip and ejected a spent brass shell.
In the close room the noise was tremendous. It bounced off walls and its vibrations sprang dust from rafters and countertops. It unleashed energy from everywhere, as citizens dove for cover, raiders dropped and pivoted, aiming their weapons off the cue from Earl, and even D. A. got his gun out fast and into play. Only Frenchy stood rooted in place, for Earl's bullet had passed within a foot or so of him before it plowed into the center chest of what appeared to be a vacant, doughy-faced young man in an ill-fitting Sunday-go-to
-meeting suit.
His eyes locked on Earl's as the shotgun fell from his hand, and implored him for mercy. The request was too late, for it wouldn't have mattered if Earl fired again or not. The young man went down like a sack of spring apples falling off a wagon, hitting the floor with the crack of bones and teeth breaking; his blood began to pump from his heart across the floor in a spreading satin puddle.
Everybody was yelling and diving and moving at once, but Earl knew it was over. He'd seen the front sight on the chest at the moment he'd fired.
"Goddamn, Mr. Earl," somebody said.
"That damn boy!" said McGaffery. "He didn't have the sense of a mule. You didn't have to kill him, though."
"Maybe he ain't dead," said a raider.
"He's dead," said D. A., holstering his automatic. "When Earl shoots, he don't miss. Good shot, Earl. You boys see that? That's how it's done."
Earl himself felt nothing. He'd killed so many times before, and not only yellow men. He'd killed white men in Nicaragua in 1933, with the same kind of gun that Frenchy carried.
But he felt it in his heart right away, the difference: that was war. This was―well, what was it?
"You killed a Grumley," said the bartender, still holding his bruised wrist. "Now you got the Grumleys on you. Them boys don't forget a thing. Not never. The Grumleys will mark you and dog you the rest of your days, mister."
"I been dogged before, mister" was all Earl said; then he turned to the raiders and said, "Okay, let's get going. You got some busting up to do. Come on."
But he didn't like the killing either. It wasn't a good sign, Grumleys or no Grumleys.
Chapter 15
Owney knew the most important thing about his situation was to pretend he had no situation.
Thus, though Hot Springs' insular, gossipy little business, gambling and criminal communities were literally aflame with speculation about the raid, and the Little Rock Courier-Herald and the Democrat had run pieces, it was important for him to suggest that nothing was really amiss. He got up, dressed dapperly―an ascot!―and went for a stroll down Central, saying hello in his best Ronald Colman voice to all those he knew, and he knew many people. He was especially British today, even wearing a Norfolk jacket and flannels, with a dapper tweed hat.
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