The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

When we get outside, he’s waving his yellow cane at a taxi cab. By luck there’s another parked across the street. Even though it is facing the wrong way, I want it and want it bad. I grab hold of Betty’s wrist. “Come on!” She jerks away. “What’re you going to do? You louse, you can’t double-cross your — your client, like that.”

“Double-cross, hell!” I snort. “That’s the only game the prince understands. We’re following him!”

I drag her across the street and heave her into the cab. “Follow that yellow taxi!” I tell the driver. “Five bucks if you keep on his tail.”

“For ten bucks, I’ll run him down!” says the cabby.

He makes a beautiful U turn, just missing a street car. Then we are off, up Halsted Street.

“Some fun,” Betty says to me. But she doesn’t mean it.

I grin at her. “Now, kid, you got to take the good with the bad. I work like a dog all week for Oscar Berger. I do things that make me ashamed to look in a mirror and what do I get? Twenty, maybe thirty measly bucks a week. And now comes a chance to make some real dough — and you squawk!”

“It’s dirty money,” she says.

I reach into my pocket and pull out Tony Druhar’s five thousand dollar promissory note. “Look, Betty, I almost got thrown in the can this morning, because a guy was killed. I found this on his body.”

She looks at the piece of paper. “Why, it’s an I.O.U. for five thousand dollars!”

“Uh-huh, and every one of these Serbians tonight has at least one chunk of paper like this. Prince Pete’s one of the higher-ups in as lousy a racket I ever heard of. That’s why I’m working on all these angles. I’d do it even if I wasn’t getting a cent.”

Well, maybe I would at that. But I know it is a lot more fun doing with a flock of fifties in my pocket, and the promise of some more.

It goes over. Betty hands the note back to me and her eyes are shining. “I didn’t understand, Sam. I think... I think you’re swell!”

“So’re you, kid!” I say. I throw my arm about her. And then the cab stops all of a sudden and the driver yells, “Here, buddy!”

“What? Where is he?”

“He just went into The Red Mill.”

I look around and see that we are on Lawrence near Broadway. I climb out of the cab and help Betty, then hand the cabby a five dollar bill.

I say to Betty, “Maybe we’ll get a chance to do some of that dancing you wanted.”

We go inside and the headwaiter looks at Betty’s silver evening dress and gives me a big smile. “Good evening, sir. A table near the front?”

“Umm,” I say, looking around as if night clubs were regular stuff with me. “Something not too public, if you know what I mean?”

“Yes, sir!”

He starts off down the side along the booths. At the fourth booth I stop. “Well, well, Prince!”

He’s in the booth with as dizzy a blonde as I ever saw. He looks up at me and the monocle almost falls from his eye. “You!” he says.

“Yeah, me. Ain’t it a coincidence?”

Then he sees Betty and catches hold of himself. He comes to his feet and bows. I say: “Betty, allow me to introduce his royal highness, Prince Peter Strogovich... or something.”

So help me, he takes her hand and kisses it. Then he says, “But won’t you join us? Ah, Mitzi, this is my old friend, Mr. Cragg. And Miss—”

“Betty Marshall.”

The headwaiter is disappointed. He’s losing a tip. I wave him away. “We’re joining our friends.”

Mitzi is giving Betty the once-over. She says, bluntly: “I saw him first.”

“My eyes aren’t very good,” Betty gives her back.

It’s over the Prince’s head. He gives Betty an eye-massage, his face still sad, but lecherous. “That is a beautiful dress you are wearing, Miss Marshall.”

I say, “Ain’t it? Look, Betty, your nose is shiny. Why don’t you and Mitzi go spruce up?”