The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“I’m going to meet The Flame by one o’clock, you know.”

Rudolph Myer snapped out his watch.

“It’s twenty minutes to eleven. You’re to meet... er... our client at eleven. He promises to keep you only half an hour. You’ll be back here before twelve, and on your way as soon after as you wish.”

I nodded at that. “But — how come this man picks you to pick me? Why don’t he come straight to me?”

“I’ll tell you this much. More, I’d consider betraying the interest of a client; and at present it’s to my best interest not to. This client came to me, spoke of my familiarity with the underworld, and asked me to deliver a message to a certain party.”

“And the party was—?”

“That you will probably learn later.”

“And the message?”

“That I didn’t find out. The name of the party who was to be the recipient of that message was quite sufficient for me. Even though I didn’t learn the contents of that message, my — or rather — our client was honest enough to tell me that the delivery of that message would gain the animosity of the greatest menace in the city of New York. I like money. But I like life better. I turned him down flat.” Rudolph Myer grinned across at me. “But I did tell him there was only one man fool enough to take the chance. Of course, Race, I named you.”

“And then?”

“He walked about a bit and said, ‘I have thought of him. I have often thought of Williams.’ And half to himself, ‘But if it had to come out, I wonder how the papers and the people — and even the officials — might take it.’ ”

“Tell me some more.”

“That is all. Name yourself a good price if you go on with the thing. But make no promises until you are sure of the circumstances. And get yourself a job chasing pickpockets before you decide to cross the man our client names.”

Now, if Rudolph Myer had not wanted me to mix myself up in this thing he couldn’t have gone about it in a worse way. I may be fussy about the cases I take and don’t take, and where the lack of money won’t always keep me out of a job — the lack of danger might. When I get mixed up in a case I like things to happen.

When there was no more to come out of Myer I grabbed up my hat, was rather amazed at the place I was to meet my unknown client — which was in front of a drug store — and with a final sentence to Rudolph Myer, left the table.

“See you some more,” was all I said.

At the main street door of the dining room I met the head waiter, and parted company with a yellow boy that brought a smile to his face. And when you can buy a smile out of Russett, the head waiter at the Golden Dog, you’ve spent some real money.

“Who’ll be the party at the next table to Mr. Myer tonight?” I asked him. I don’t invest money in smiles alone. I like talk.

“Tonight!” Russett looked down at the bill in his hand before he spoke. “Tonight — and most every Monday night — who else but Mr. Gorgon — Mr. Joseph Gorgon.”

“Ah — yes,” was all I said. But I must have liked it, for I repeated that bit of eloquence, “ah — yes” to myself again as I sought the street.

The Gorgons, for some time prominent in the city of New York, were suddenly shoving themselves into my life — or perhaps, to be more exact — I was shoving myself into their lives. But, any way you take it — things looked promising. That is, if you look on sudden and violent death as promising.