And it don’t matter much,” I went on to Ben, “how good your steer is. They’ll be watching out all the way.”
Stokes stood up.
I picked up the gun. “Don’t move so far, Skinny,” I said. “It makes me nervous.”
He stood there staring at the gun. The water was running off his raincoat and it had formed into a little dark pool at his feet.
He said: “What the hell do you want?”
“I wanted you to know that one of the kids you shot up last week at Four-mile was my boss’ brother. He went along for the ride.”
I don’t think Stokes could move. I think he tried to move sidewise or get his hand into his pocket, or something, but all he could do was take a deep breath. Then I shot him in the middle of the body where he shot the kid, and he sank down on the floor with his legs crossed under him, like a tailor.
The old man didn’t get up. He sat a little deeper in his chair and stared at Stokes. Ben moved very fast for a fat man. He was up and out the door like a bat out of hell. That was OK with me—he couldn’t get to the coffee place before the trucks got there. I had the keys to his car, and it was too far away anyway.
I got up and put the rod away and went over to the table and picked up my cigarettes. I looked down at the old man, said: “Things’ll be a little quieter now, maybe. You’ll get the dough for haulage through your territory, as usual. See that it gets through.”
He didn’t answer.
I started for the door and then there was a shot out in front of the house. I ran on down to the front door. It was open and Ben was flat on the threshold—had fallen smack on his face, half through the door.
I ducked back through the hall and tried a couple locked doors. When I came up through the hall again, the old man was on his knees beside Ben, and was rocking back and forth, moaning a little.
I went through another room and into the kitchen and on through, out the back door. I crossed the backyard and jumped a low fence and walked through another yard to a gate that led into an alley. I sloshed along through the mud until I came to a cross street, and went on down to the corner that was diagonally across the block from the McCary house.
A cab came down the street and I waited until it was almost to the corner, stepped out in front of it. The driver swerved and stepped on the gas, but he had slowed enough to give me time to jump on the running board.
I stuck my head in to the light from the meter. That turned out to be my best hunch of the evening because in another second, the driver would have opened up my chest with one of the dirtiest looking .45s I ever saw, at about two feet. It was the kid who had picked Lowry and me up. He hesitated just long enough when he saw who I was.
We nearly ran into a tree and I had time to reach in and knock that cannon out of his hand. He stepped on the brake, and reached for the gun, but I beat him to it by a hair and stuck it in my overcoat pocket and got in beside him.
I said: “Shame on you—almost crashing an old pal like me.”
He sat tight in the seat and got a weak grin working and said: “Where to?”
“Just away.”
We went on through the mud and rain, and turned into a slightly better lighted street.
I said: “How did you know Ben shot Lowry?”
The kid kept his head down, his eyes ahead. “Lowry and me have lived together for two years,” he said. “He used to be in the hack racket too, till he got mixed up with McCary… .”
“Lowry won a lot of jack in one of Ben’s crap games a couple days ago, and Ben wanted him to kick back with it—said everybody that worked for him was automatically a shill, and couldn’t play for keeps. But Lowry’s been dropping every nickel he made in the same game, for months. That was okay with Ben. It was all right to lose, but you mustn’t win.”
I nodded, lighted a cigarette.
“Ben shot Lowry tonight at the joint on Dell Street. I know it was him because Lowry’s been afraid of it—and
Stokes stood up.
I picked up the gun. “Don’t move so far, Skinny,” I said. “It makes me nervous.”
He stood there staring at the gun. The water was running off his raincoat and it had formed into a little dark pool at his feet.
He said: “What the hell do you want?”
“I wanted you to know that one of the kids you shot up last week at Four-mile was my boss’ brother. He went along for the ride.”
I don’t think Stokes could move. I think he tried to move sidewise or get his hand into his pocket, or something, but all he could do was take a deep breath. Then I shot him in the middle of the body where he shot the kid, and he sank down on the floor with his legs crossed under him, like a tailor.
The old man didn’t get up. He sat a little deeper in his chair and stared at Stokes. Ben moved very fast for a fat man. He was up and out the door like a bat out of hell. That was OK with me—he couldn’t get to the coffee place before the trucks got there. I had the keys to his car, and it was too far away anyway.
I got up and put the rod away and went over to the table and picked up my cigarettes. I looked down at the old man, said: “Things’ll be a little quieter now, maybe. You’ll get the dough for haulage through your territory, as usual. See that it gets through.”
He didn’t answer.
I started for the door and then there was a shot out in front of the house. I ran on down to the front door. It was open and Ben was flat on the threshold—had fallen smack on his face, half through the door.
I ducked back through the hall and tried a couple locked doors. When I came up through the hall again, the old man was on his knees beside Ben, and was rocking back and forth, moaning a little.
I went through another room and into the kitchen and on through, out the back door. I crossed the backyard and jumped a low fence and walked through another yard to a gate that led into an alley. I sloshed along through the mud until I came to a cross street, and went on down to the corner that was diagonally across the block from the McCary house.
A cab came down the street and I waited until it was almost to the corner, stepped out in front of it. The driver swerved and stepped on the gas, but he had slowed enough to give me time to jump on the running board.
I stuck my head in to the light from the meter. That turned out to be my best hunch of the evening because in another second, the driver would have opened up my chest with one of the dirtiest looking .45s I ever saw, at about two feet. It was the kid who had picked Lowry and me up. He hesitated just long enough when he saw who I was.
We nearly ran into a tree and I had time to reach in and knock that cannon out of his hand. He stepped on the brake, and reached for the gun, but I beat him to it by a hair and stuck it in my overcoat pocket and got in beside him.
I said: “Shame on you—almost crashing an old pal like me.”
He sat tight in the seat and got a weak grin working and said: “Where to?”
“Just away.”
We went on through the mud and rain, and turned into a slightly better lighted street.
I said: “How did you know Ben shot Lowry?”
The kid kept his head down, his eyes ahead. “Lowry and me have lived together for two years,” he said. “He used to be in the hack racket too, till he got mixed up with McCary… .”
“Lowry won a lot of jack in one of Ben’s crap games a couple days ago, and Ben wanted him to kick back with it—said everybody that worked for him was automatically a shill, and couldn’t play for keeps. But Lowry’s been dropping every nickel he made in the same game, for months. That was okay with Ben. It was all right to lose, but you mustn’t win.”
I nodded, lighted a cigarette.
“Ben shot Lowry tonight at the joint on Dell Street. I know it was him because Lowry’s been afraid of it—and
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