The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

There was no excuse for it. I wasn’t proud of myself at that moment. Certainly I didn’t trust The Flame, but at the same time I didn’t expect — even if she did decide to hate me — that she’d shove me on the spot so quickly. Truth is truth. I didn’t trust The Flame. Hadn’t trusted her when I came. But a mind like The Flame’s doesn’t lead a man to a trap in her own apartment. And the reason why isn’t “good ethics” or even “good sportsmanship.” It’s just common sense. Even in a city where gang murders have ceased to be front page news it’s not quite safe to decorate your own room with a corpse.

Now, as I say, the thing was surprising — but not unexpected. And maybe “unexpected” is not the correct word there. Maybe it might be a better choice of words to say that I was simply not unprepared for such an emergency. If I happened to be looking down the nose of Eddie Gorgon’s gun, my gun was drawing a bead some place along about the center of Eddie Gorgon’s stomach. And my finger too was tightening upon the trigger as I raised my jacket pocket slightly and picked out the spot where any ordinary man, according to Gray’s Anatomy, would wear his heart.

I won’t mince words. And I won’t say that there aren’t heroes in the pictures, and in real life too, for that matter, who can knock a gun out of a man’s hand even when shooting from a jacket pocket. I can do it myself — probably could have done it right then. But “probably” isn’t enough. And where a bullet through Eddie’s arm or leg would have been noble and high minded, it wouldn’t have interfered with the quick pressure of his finger upon the trigger of his automatic.

No. I know gangsters. I knew Eddie Gorgon. There was death in those bloodshot eyes. Bum hooch in them too, but I didn’t get that then — and his twisted lips were cut and raw, where I’d leaned on him a few hours before.

But truth is truth. I was going to kill Eddie Gorgon — kill him before he killed me. Nothing saved him now but his tongue, which licked at his lips — and his eyes, that gloated before he talked. He was a lad who liked to shoot a little bull before he shot an enemy — especially when he had that enemy covered.

I wasn’t worried. A single roar, a prayer for the dead, and the stiff on the slab in the morgue would be labeled EDDIE GORGON. Eddie Gorgon, the racketeer who had beaten his last rap. I like to see a lad go out with a gun in his hand — a gun gripped tightly in a dead hand. It has a soothing effect on a jury.

Eddie didn’t say, “Throw up your hands.” He was lucky there. Those simple words would have been the same as the medical examiner’s signature on his death certificate, though he didn’t know that.

“So,” and there was a sort of snap to Eddie’s lips when he spoke, “I was right about the dame and you. She’s to step out again — so you’re back. And I was right about myself too. Me — Eddie Gorgon. There ain’t a guy living who’s mussed up Eddie Gorgon and lived to tell about it. The boys will know who done you in. The boys’ll know why. They’ll say it took a Gorgon to step in and smack a gun against Race Williams’s chest and blow hell out of him.” The grin went, the gun came forward more menacingly. His face shot closer to mine, and his whisky sodden breath made halitosis seem like a rare perfume from the Orient.

“Don’t move!” Eddie almost spat the words as I half drew my face back. “I want you to know the truth before you go out. I’ve not only taken your life but I’ve taken your dame. The Flame won’t be sorry for the message she sent me that you were coming here. She’ll be Big Time now. No one will bother Eddie Gorgon’s woman.” And with a sneer or a leer — or just a twisted pan, call it what you will, Eddie sputtered on. “She’s a neat piece of goods, Race — but they don’t come too good for Eddie Gorgon. A guy’s life and a guy’s woman! Well — it ain’t so bad for a bust in the mouth when I wasn’t looking. I guess, Race—”

My finger tightened upon the trigger, hesitated a moment, and I shot the words through the side of my mouth at The Flame.

“Is what this rat says true? I don’t mind the trap so much.” I half shrugged my shoulders and glued my eyes on his finger that held the trigger of the automatic. “But I do think you might have grabbed yourself off a pickpocket, or even a stool-pigeon. Besides which—”

“All right — now,” Eddie Gorgon horned in. I had seen the sign in his face while I talked. Just the lust to kill, that so many gangsters work up with dope, or hatred, or passion — but which Eddie Gorgon didn’t need to work much in order to bring it to the surface. He was an alley rat; a great guy to hide behind an ash can and shoot a lad in the back. A great guy to—

But no more words. He was a killer. And my finger started to close upon the trigger of my gun. Just a sudden tightening, and—

I held back, my finger half closed, my eyes glued on Eddie’s gun. The Flame spoke.

“He lies, of course. Eddie, drop that gun!” There was the single movement of The Flame’s right hand, a flash of nickel and ivory, and the girl had jammed a gun against the racketeer’s ribs. There was nothing of fear or desperation or hysteria in her action or her words. Just that single movement — and the slightest grunt from Eddie. He didn’t have to look down to know. And what’s more, he didn’t look down.

The sudden impulse to raise my left hand and twist the gun from his died without a movement. I’ll give Eddie credit for that much. He wasn’t the movie villain, who, at the first disturbance or even suggestion to look up, lets his gun be taken from him. It takes time, you know, to raise your hand and grab a gun — a second or two. And a second or two may not be much time in life, but it is an eternity in death. Even a novice can close his finger upon a gun trigger in a second. But as I said, Eddie knew his stuff. He saw the danger — from me more than The Flame, and cried out his warning.

“Don’t you make a move, Race, or I’ll plug ya. The girl ain’t got the guts to put a Gorgon on the spot. She ain’t—”

“Drop your gun, Eddie.” The Flame’s voice was hard and cold. “The Flame fears neither man nor devil, and that last, I guess, throws in a Gorgon. I’d rub you out like a dirty mark. Where do you get that stuff about me? Where—”

“You! What did you bring me here for? Why did you send for me?” His gun dropped from close to my head to my chest, and flattened there. “Why, I was smack on the fire-escape.” And half incredulous — half pleading, “What’s eatin’ ya, kid? Didn’t I set you up handsome? Didn’t I get you rocks and—”

“You! You talk too much. You bought my mind, not—” She laughed. “The Flame your woman! Drop that gun.”

“Not me.” Eddie Gorgon jabbed the gun harder against my chest. “You ain’t still got a yen for this yellow dick, eh? I drop my gun, get knocked over, and you send me a wreath!”

“Talk sense, Eddie.” The Flame seemed to try to reason now. “Suppose I did send for you. I didn’t expect you to come up here to my rooms; to have the police drag me over the coals just when I’m ready to step out again. And, you—”