The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Did you see him stare at that man? Did you see the glare in his eyes? A superstitious lot, these warm-blooded people. I tell you, Race, Joe Gorgon was marking that poor unfortunate for death. Not consciously, perhaps — just that he half believes in his own power. Did you hear what the man said? His final words? ‘Don’t have me — killed’ was what he would have said. I saw it in his eyes, before fear kept the words from his lips. And Joe Gorgon. He’s a man, Race — a brute without pity — without fear — without nerves. See him now. No emotion of any kind.”

“Well—” I came to my feet, grinning at Myer. “We’ll see if we can’t knock a bit of emotion into him.”

“You’re not — not now!” Myer half leaned forward to clutch at my coat, thought better of it and watched me cross to the other table. I made a hit too as I approached. Billy Riley smiled uncertainly. Jamison gulped his drink. Joe Gorgon turned and looked lazily up at me.

“You — Gorgon!” I flipped a finger against Joe’s chest. “I want a word with you.”

“And you are—?” He pretended not to know me.

“Williams — Race Williams.” I fell into his humor. I didn’t intend to cross him or rile him. I wanted him in an open, happy mood. I wanted the emotions, if any, that came from my message to start from scratch.

“Williams?” He seemed to think, then grinned at the others. “Not the boy detective?”

“Exactly. It’s nice, Mr. Gorgon, to think that you remember me. I’m flattered indeed.” And I grinned like a school boy who has gulped his cake in one swallow and not burst before the horrified gaze of the principal.

Joe Gorgon frowned slightly. I wasn’t one to take anybody’s lip, and Joe Gorgon knew it. Or if he didn’t know it, Eddie must have told him. Then I guess his own conceit got the better of him, and he figured out that he and Eddie were two different people and that I’d think twice before I tried that game on him. For his frown disappeared and he smiled, his huge head bobbing up and down.

“Well—” he looked around to see that the others appreciated his high class humor, “let us hear what you have to say. Surely I shouldn’t mind. Already one of your breed — at least, one who sells his information to the highest bidder — has—. But, come — don’t stand there grinning like an ape.”

“I’ve got a message for you.” And I leaned down suddenly, twisted my lips slightly, and shot the words at him like any gangster, with deep secret meaning behind them.

“Joe Gorgon,” I said. “The Devil is Unchained.”

Now, there didn’t seem to me much sense in the words, or much for a man to get gaga over. But they paid a grand to deliver and therefore must carry some weight. And they did. If ever a lad got a thousand dollars’ worth out of a message, that lad was my client. Those words wiped the smile off Joe Gorgon’s face like you’d run a vacuum cleaner over it. There was a sudden quick flash of bright red to his heavy jowls, that gave place almost at once to a dull white. His right hand stretched out and gripped at the table. He half came to his feet, and sank back again — reached for his untasted cup of coffee, slopped it over his vest, set it down again, and gave the sickest smile that ever a gangster pulled off.

“All right, Mr. Joe Gorgon.” I guess there was elation in my voice. “Laugh that one off — or play the look of death, and—” I stopped dead and jerked erect. From outside on the street came a shot; another — half a dozen in quick succession, with the rapidity of machine gun action. People jumped to their feet. I stepped back from the table. Billy Riley had taken Joe Gorgon by the arm. People were going toward the door. The head waiter was trying to tell the customers in a high pitched voice that a tire had exploded, and urging them to keep their seats or they’d give the place a bad name. A bad name for the Golden Dog! Not bad comedy, that.

Some one pushed the head waiter in the stomach and walked out the door. Others hesitated. The music broke into life, and I stepped out on the street. A few buildings down the block a tiny crowd had gathered. They were standing around something on the sidewalk. A harness bull was ordering them back. Another was running up the street, and a man in his shirt sleeves stood in a doorway, wildly blowing a police whistle.

From the small private entrance to the Golden Dog came two men. Joe Gorgon walked by himself, though the man beside him — Billy Riley — held his arm. I saw Gorgon wave him aside as he climbed into a taxi, but I saw something else with a grin of satisfaction. Another taxi pulled suddenly from the curb down the street. Through the back window a hand waved to me. Like his namesake in the papers, my boy — Jerry — was also on the job.