The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“You read the papers. Be careful you don’t look a Gorgon in the face — and die.”

“Well — it’s ugly enough,” I told him. “Why don’t you take it down to Headquarters and use it to frighten policemen?”

“Yeah... yeah?” He wasn’t the sort of a guy who went in for light banter — not him. He took himself very seriously. “Yeah?” he said again, and then, “Well — it’s been down to Headquarters many times — see? And no dick dared to lay a fist on it. They didn’t ‘third degree’ me, buddy — not me, a Gorgon.”

“Been stealing milk cans?” I raised my voice, for his was fairly loud now and others were listening. Maybe I’m not so hot at the repartee, but talking around this lad was like talking around a clothing store dummy. I knew him, of course. Eddie Gorgon, who had more than once beaten the rap for murder.

“Milk cans!” he said. “Not me.” And when some one laughed he lost his head slightly and cut loose. “The yellow dick, Williams,” he raised his head for the few others to get the remark, “let’s his moll hide out in a dirty dump. When she was making the grade and turning over the big shots he lived off her and—” My hand shot up and fastened on the lapels of his coat. I jerked him straight and gave him the office.

“If you don’t want that face of yours mussed up for a change, why—” and as too many others were taking an interest I tried hard and got a smile over, though I was boiling. “Since I never trail with a woman I guess you’ve got your dates mixed or you’re thinking of yourself,” I finished. There was a chance for him to pull back, but he didn’t take it.

“Face mussed up!” he repeated, in what he considered great sarcasm. He rather liked his twisted map, I guess. “Don’t trail with women! You? No — not with women who can’t pay their way — and your way. No women! Why, all the boys on the Avenue know about The Fla— Take your dirty hands off’a me.” He jerked free, and throwing open his coat let me see the gun beneath his armpit. “You’d like a name for her? You’d like to muss the face of Eddie Gorgon? You’d like to chuck the front that you have the guts to cross me — Joe Gorgon’s brother?” A slight pause as he shoved his face out. “Well... the little moll was called The Flame — Florence Drummond. The Girl with the Criminal Mind. The—”

And I pasted him. Maybe I lost my head. Maybe I didn’t. Certainly though, there was nothing definite in my mind when I let him have it. Maybe I should have provoked him into drawing a gun. Maybe it would have saved a lot of later unpleasantness. But it’s not what you should have done that counts in life. It’s what you do. And truth is truth. I had nothing in my mind but his glaring eyes and protruding chin and quivering lips. If I had any desire at all, it was to shut his lying, foul mouth — and perhaps that’s even stretching the truth a little. The desire, after all, was just to sock him.

Now I won’t say that he was “out” before he hit the floor, though I like to think that he was. No, he wasn’t dead — just out. To put it simply: I landed flush on his protruding button and... and he hit the floor like a thousand tons of brick. Maybe, if he hadn’t landed on his thick head he would have been badly hurt. As it was, he stretched himself out on his back and listened to the birdies chirp.

But one birdie chirped a final message to Eddie Gorgon as he opened his eyes and looked dazedly around. That birdie was yours truly — Race Williams. I simply bent over him.

“All right, Eddie,” I told him pleasantly. “You’ve made your next to last crack about The Flame, in this life. Remember that. The next one is your last.”

“I’ll kill you for this. I’ll kill you for this,” he said over and over again, in a dazed sort of way. But though I lingered by his side for a moment he made no effort to reach for his gun.

People were gathering now. The manager had run in from the main dining room, two burly waiters behind him. I didn’t expect trouble — but then I’m always ready for it, so I sort of got my back to the wall and stood smiling at the manager.

The manager looked from me to the still prostrate Gorgon. It wasn’t a memory that would linger pleasantly in his mind. Eddie Gorgon was a big shot, with his brothers behind him. But then, I was something of a big shot, with nothing but myself behind me — or maybe a gun or two, though they’re generally before me.

I think the manager would have decided in my favor, for I was on my feet and the more immediate danger. But he didn’t have to decide. The crowd sort of fell back. A giant of a man had entered the doorway. There was something of resemblance between him and the man on the floor. Eddie Gorgon was sort of a replica of the big man in the doorway, though the face of the reclining gunman was younger and less lined. It was also less controlled. Yep, I knew the big bozo. Joe Gorgon, the active member of the feared and fawned upon Gorgon brothers. Joe Gorgon, New York’s most deadly racketeer, most politically prominent — and reputed to be one of the fastest-drawing gunmen in the country’s greatest city — or out of it, for that matter.

Well — maybe he was. I stood, so, with my back against the wall. If he was sure that he was faster than I, here was his chance to prove it. I don’t give way to any man when it comes to pulling rods. That’s my living. If it’s going to be my death — well — I folded my arms and waited.