The Floating Outfit 47

by J. T. Edson

  Since arriving in Dallas, like the other eight members of the gang who had fled with Francis Wright, Bradshaw had been compelled to accept far less affluent conditions than those to which he had grown accustomed while they were running things around Philadelphia. Because the sum was far lower than he had grown used to receiving, it had become increasingly irksome to exist upon the money doled out to them through the Talker. Nor could they supplement it in their new location as they had been able to previously. No longer could they go into a bar, restaurant, or shop, and expect service without payment because they were known to be Big Frankie’s ‘top boys’. Instead, they were reduced to paying cash for every purchase and were barred from doing anything illegal to augment their finances. While they accepted that the Talker required a better standard of living, in order to acquire the opportunity to make the required contacts for them to start operating again, they were less enamored of their boss still indulging in his tastes for a luxurious existence and also his insistence on not dealing with them personally.

  Nor was the situation improved by the latest news to have reached Bradshaw. For the fourth time in as many days, a member of the gang had been arrested for a crime committed before their enforced departure and was being held for extradition to Philadelphia. What was more, each of them was picked up within a couple of hours of the enforcer having seen his boss in conversation with the big blond peace officer. Despite having heard the explanation that the Texan was the ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ sought as a prelude to taking over the town, Bradshaw, prompted by hints from the Talker, was becoming increasingly suspicious of the reason for the meetings.

  Like Michael Buffong and the rest of the gang, Bradshaw never forgot that Wright alone knew where the money brought from Philadelphia was located. That, rather than believing his services as a bodyguard might be needed, was the reason he had continued to follow his boss since coming to Dallas. Therefore, despite having been told he must quit, he had done as the Talker suggested and kept up the observation without letting himself be detected by Wright.

  That evening, Big Frankie had collected the blond giant and the girl from an apartment in downtown Dallas and had brought them to this expensive night club. It was the sort of place Bradshaw had frequented in Philadelphia and he was annoyed that his financial condition was insufficient for him to follow them inside. Instead, he had been compelled to remain in his car and wait for them to come out. To help pass the time, he had smoked a succession of cigarettes made from marijuana and these always had an adverse effect upon his temper and judgment. By the time his boss and the girl put in their appearance, he had worked himself into a state of anger which overrode every other consideration. He did not even wonder where the big Texan might be. Instead, thrusting himself from the car, he lurched towards the couple.

  ‘Who’s it to be this time, Frankie?’ the enforcer snarled.

  ‘What the—?’ Wright began, as he and the girl came to a halt. Peering through the gloom he recognized the speaker and revised his first assumption that a hold up was contemplated. Starting to move forward and trying to prevent his seething anger from being noticed by his companion, he went on, ‘You’d best go ho—!’

  ‘Don’t try to brush me off, you bastard!’ Bradshaw warned, shooting out his left hand to catch his boss by the arm. ‘Every time you—!’

  Before the words ended, there was a dramatic interruption!

  Rising from behind and vaulting across the hood of the nearest car, the big Texan continued to move with a surprising speed for one of his size and bulk. Releasing Wright, the enforcer let out a profanity and sent his right hand under the left side of his jacket. The movement was duplicated at an even greater speed by the blond giant. Twisting the big British-made Webley-Fosbery .455 automatic-revolver from the spring retention shoulder holster with the deftness indicative of much practice, he did not use it as a firearm. Instead, continuing the swing which brought it clear, he slammed the six inch long hexagonal barrel against the side of Bradshaw’s jaw. Spun around with his weapon still not clear of leather, the rig being less suited for rapidity of withdrawal than that of his assailant, he pitched face down and unconscious to the ground.

  ‘I saw this yahoo dogging us all the way here,’ the Texan commented as he rolled the unresisting enforcer over and took handcuffs from a pouch at the back of his belt. ‘So I figured he might be planning a stick-up. Which being, I let you and Alicia come on down this way to smoke him out and snuck along the other side of the cars to take him when he did.’

  ‘I’m pleased you did,’ Wright replied, being so disturbed by the implications of what Bradshaw had said that he did not notice the girl had behaved in a remarkably calm way all through the incident. ‘What’re you going to do?’

  ‘Call a paddy wagon and have him hauled off to the pokey,’ the blond giant replied, having handcuffed the unconscious man.

  ‘Do you have to?’ the gang leader inquired, his words stemming from the thought that such a procedure might be unwise rather than from any sense of loyalty to his enforcer.

  ‘I thought you ‘d want it that way.’

  ‘I suppose I should, but that would lead to a trial and I’d rather not have the publicity there’s sure to be if I have to go to court as a witness.’

  ‘Have it your way, Mr. Anstruther,’ the blond giant assented. ‘Way you’ve treated Alicia and me so good, I reckon I owe you that favor. There’s one thing, though. You know that stuff you wanted me to find out?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wright agreed eagerly.

  ‘Well, I’ve just about got it all,’ the Texan announced. ‘I’ll know for sure tomorrow night. Only I reckon it’ll be worth something.’

  ‘Something!’ the gang leader queried and darted a glance at the girl who had drawn back a short distance.

  ‘Oh sure,’ the blond giant drawled, apparently taking the hint. ‘This isn’t the time and place to talk about it.’

  ‘How about my place after we’ve dropped her off?’ Wright suggested, wanting to get an idea of what the information entailed and discuss how much it would cost.

  ‘Not with the way she acts after a night like we’ve had,’ the Texan refused with a lecherous grin, looking briefly in the red head’ s direction. ‘It’ d be a mortal sin to waste that. Anyways, I can’t tell you anything until tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Very well,’ the gang leader conceded. ‘Come around to my place tomor—!’

  ‘Come around my ass!’ the blond giant refused bluntly. ‘My momma didn’t raise no stupid children. I’m not saying there would be mind, but I don’t talk any place where there could be folks near to hand listening in to what I say. We’ll do the talking where there’s no chance of that.’

  ‘And where would that be?’ Wright inquired, having meant to have the Talker listening in the next room so they would have something incriminating upon which they could blackmail the Texan into complying with future demands instead of requiring payment.

  ‘The house next door’s empty,’ the blond giant answered, gesturing towards the wall surrounding the grounds of the Banyan Club. ‘You be waiting just inside the front gate at half past eight tomorrow night and I’ll drop by to give you everything you want.’

  ‘What the hell was Dirty playing at?’ Francis Wright demanded in a furious tone. ‘I know he was hopped up on muggle, but, the way he talked, he’s blaming me for the boys getting picked up.’

  ‘The idea’s been getting around,’ Michael Buffong replied. ‘It’s been noticed that one of the boys gets the arm put on him not long after you’ve been seen talking to that big blond cop.’

  ‘Hell!’ the gang leader snapped, staring at the mouth-piece of the telephone. ‘I’ve told you why I’m seeing him. He got a traffic ticket squared for me and, even though he hasn’t been able to find anything out about the arrests, he went along with me when I said I didn’t want Dirty taken in.’

  ‘Sure, you told me,’ the Talker replied, but his voice indicated a lack of conviction. ‘Now get on
to Headquarters and ask for him, then call me back.’

  After the unconscious enforcer was sent home in a taxi procured by the blond giant, Wright had hardly been able to control his eagerness to contact Buffong. Saying the incident had had an unsteadying effect on his nerves, he had avoided having his guests accompany him to his apartment. On arriving there alone, he had made the telephone call to Buffong. Now, glaring furiously at the instrument as its line went dead, he decided to do what the Talker had demanded, rather than merely suggested before he had hung up on him.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Longley,’ the gang leader requested, on making the connection he required.

  ‘ Who-all’re you wanting?’ the desk sergeant at the Headquarters of the Dallas Police Department asked in a Texan’s drawl.

  ‘Detective Longley,’ Wright repeated. ‘William A. Longley. You’d maybe know him better as “Bad Bill”.’

  ‘Somebody’s been greening you, mister,’ the desk sergeant declared. ‘The only Bad Bill Longley I’ve ever heard tell of was an old time gun fighter and he got hung back in the 1870’s. Who’s this calling?’

  ‘All right,’ the gang leader said, having hung up without supplying the requested information and having contacted Buffong again, ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘Your “rotten apple” isn’t a detective, as you’ll know by now,’ the Talker replied. ‘And his name isn’t Longley. It’s Ranse Smith. He’s one of the Counter family and, even though he’s worth well over a million bucks, he’s a sergeant in the Texas Rangers. What’s more, it’s them and not the local law who’ve been putting the arm on the boys.’

  ‘How long have you known that!’

  ‘I only heard about it tonight and I’ll tell you one thing, Frankie, the boys don’t like what’s going on!’

  ‘And what is going on?’ Wright challenged, despite being able to guess at the conclusions drawn by his men.

  ‘They aren’t sure,’ Buffong answered, but his tone implied the opposite. ‘Only they reckon no cop like him would need to do favors just for money.’

  Having long experience of the way gangsters thought, Wright did not take the matter further. Promising he would rectify the situation to the satisfaction of his men on the following evening, he concluded the conversation. Then, sitting slumped in a chair by the telephone, he turned all his attention to thinking over everything that had happened since his first meeting with the blond giant.

  Being possessed of considerable intelligence, everything soon became clear to the gang leader. It was obvious that Longley—or Smith—had deliberately set out to make his acquaintance. For some reason, he had failed to do so at the race track. However, he had been successful at the North Dallas Golf and Country Club. With the ploy accomplished, including a comment intended to arouse the Talker’s suspicions as they were leaving, the arrests of the other members of the gang were timed to coincide with later meetings. Although he had not considered such a possibility earlier, he realized now that—without the fear inspired by their presence—tongues would have started to wag once he and his men had taken their departure. The Philadelphia Police Department must have gathered all the information needed to make the arrests and would have applied to the authorities in Texas for assistance. Clearly the men were being picked up in accordance with a scheme to create suspicion and animosity, rendering them more susceptible to suggestions of betraying the others still at liberty—even himself—in return for personal amnesty.

  A sense of fury bit into Wright as he thought of how he had fallen into the trap. It was, he told himself, all the fault of the Talker. If their relationship had continued the way it was while they were in Philadelphia, he would not have succumbed to the temptation to put one over on Buffong. However, he turned his thoughts from taking revenge on his contact man. Before he could do that, he had to reinstate himself with the rest of the gang. He knew there was only one way he could bring them back under his domination. Although it had been some time since he last needed to resort to such measures personally, in earlier years, he had built himself a reputation for being a ruthless killer which eventually elevated him above the rest of the gang and led them to accept him as their leader. Only by showing he was still ready, willing, and able to carry out his own executions, could he prove he had not become too soft to maintain his position as boss.

  ‘All right, you smart-assed son-of-a-bitch!’ the gang leader snarled and all trace of the urbanity he had acquired since his rise to power disappeared. ‘When you come to see me tomorrow with whatever faked up news you’ve got, I’m going to show you the only thing to do with a rotten apple in a barrel.’

  Standing in the darkness concealed by a stone pillar at the side of the open gate leading to the obviously unoccupied colonial style mansion next door to the Banyan Club, Francis Wright looked at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. Seeing the time was almost eight twenty-five, he pulled a heavy caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from his waistband. Although he had done so before leaving his apartment, he checked that its cylinder held six cartridges and was moving smoothly. Then, despite the mechanism being double-action, he set the hammer at fully cocked so as to be able to fire a split-second faster when the time came. He had not forgotten how swiftly the blond giant had drawn when striking Dirty Kev Bradshaw down and had no intention of offering an opportunity for it to happen again.

  Satisfied with the precautions he had taken, the gang leader leaned forward to peer around the pillar at the generally well lit, but deserted, surrounding area. Just as he was about to withdraw and hide once more, he saw a big black limousine approaching. He expected it to enter one of the other properties which flanked the street, particularly the Banyan Club, but it kept moving until opposite his hiding place. Although the street lamps were working elsewhere, the one nearest to the gate was out and he was unable to see inside the vehicle. However, he felt sure it must be carrying the man for whom he was waiting.

  ‘Is that you, Smith?’ the gang-leader inquired, keeping the revolver concealed behind his back and stepping forward as the limousine stopped.

  ‘No, you god-damned double-crosser!’ replied a voice Wright recognized as belonging to Michael Buffong.

  There was no time for the gang leader to realize the mistake he had made. It had been his intention to announce he had learned the young Texan’s true identity before opening fire. Instead, he had given the occupants of the limousine what they considered to be the final proof of his perfidy and proposed betrayal.

  Already suspecting Wright was planning to get rid of all the gang, then head for somewhere safe with their money, the Talker had received what he regarded as proof that afternoon. He was visited at his apartment by a red-haired and Indian-dark young Texan. Giving the name, ‘Comanche Blood’, and saying he knew of the connection between Buffong and Big Frankie Wright, he had announced he had information for sale. Admitting he was there with robbery in mind, he had told how he was at the parking lot of the Banyan Club the previous night and, in addition to seeing what had happened to the enforcer, had overhead the subsequent conversation between the gang leader and Sergeant Ranse Smith of the Texas Rangers. In return for being given twenty-four hours in which to get away, Wright was going to turn over to the blond giant sufficient evidence to ensure the conviction of every member of the gang still at liberty in Dallas. Pressed for further details, in return for all the money Buffong had on the premises, the visitor had disclosed the time and place at which the betrayal was to take place. He had also claimed that Smith had said he was going to handle the whole deal personally and alone so as to be the sole beneficiary of the credit which would accrue from its success.

  On being informed of their leader’s intentions, the remaining members of the gang were in agreement that he must be prevented from putting the betrayal into effect. They also concurred with the Talker’s supposition that Wright would have all their money somewhere safe so he could pick it up before his flight and, therefore, it was already lost to them. Even if he could b
e taken alive, when he failed to keep the appointment, Smith would suspect what had happened and would start the hunt for them too quickly for them to be able to induce Wright to tell them where they could collect it.

  However, warning them that killing Wright earlier would allow the law to commence searching for them in daylight, the Talker had proposed that it was done just before the rendezvous was to take place. Then, with their revenge achieved, they would have a far better chance of escaping in the darkness. While they all agreed with this plan, he had been less successful with his other proposal. Although he had acquired a foul reputation for his mistreatment of women, albeit unproven as far as the law was concerned, it had always been his policy to avoid personal participation in the gang’s various illicit activities. But they were determined that he must become an accessory during the killing, so he could not betray them at some later date and they had insisted that he accompanied them. Because nobody would agree to anybody else being left behind, they were all in the limousine. However, once the killing was done, they intended to collect other vehicles and scatter.

  Even as Michael Buffong replied to Francis Wright, Kevin Bradshaw, holding a Thompson submachine gun despite his face being swathed by bandages supporting his broken jaw, thrust its muzzle through the open rear passenger window and squeezed the trigger. Set for automatic fire, the heavy caliber weapon chattered harshly in the silence which followed the words. Spreading out like an invisible fan, the .45 caliber bullets engulfed the horrified gang leader. A scream burst from him as several of them tore into his body and flung him backwards through the gates. As he went, the Smith and Wesson crashed once to send lead harmlessly into the air before it was released by his lifeless hand.

  ‘Beat it!’ the Talker screeched, confident that Wright could not have survived the hail of bullets.