The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“He’s drunk — maybe,” he said.

The detective narrowed his eyes on Kid Deth’s. They held a grimly amused expression.

“Yeah?” Rands said. “You think so, Kid?”

Joey Deth forced a smile. He felt cold. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes away from the right-hand pocket of the big detective’s coat. He nodded.

“He looks that way,” he said thickly.

Lou Rands nodded his big head slowly. The bulk in his right coat pocket moved a little.

“Dead men look that way, too,” the detective said slowly. “Move over near him, Kid.”

Kid Deth moved over near the coupe. He kept his eyes on the arms of Barney Nasser. They were half closed, and he tried to make them expressionless. He was thinking of the night that Nasser had turned Charlie Gay up, almost five years ago. And he was remembering that Charlie had come down the river from the Big House, three days ago. He was thinking of four or five other humans that had hated the man slumped over the wheel.

His eyes went to the eyes of Rands. The detective was smiling down at the dead man; he reached out a hand suddenly, jerked the head up from the arms. The arms of the dead man slipped off the wheel. Lou Rands sucked in his breath sharply, let the dead man’s head fall forward again. He swore.

“It’s Barney Nasser,” he breathed grimly. “He’s — dead!”

Kid Deth stood motionless. He didn’t speak. He was thinking that the big detective was a pretty good actor. He was afraid, and fighting fear. He said, after a little silence:

“Dead?”

Lou Rands reached into the coupe with his left hand, lifted an automatic from the seat beside Nasser. He swung towards Kid Deth, held out the gun.

“That got him,” he said softly.

The Kid stared at the automatic. Rands took his right hand away from the pocket, caught Deth’s left wrist. He was strong, and his movements were swift. Instinctively the Kid tried to twist loose. He spread his fingers — the grip of the gun struck against his palm. For a second the muzzle pointed towards the detective.

The Kid closed his fingers, felt for the trigger. Even as he squeezed he realized that the detective was framing him. He hated Rands — he had hated him for years. He had never killed — and Rands had always been trying to frame him. He squeezed hard. The trigger clicked.

Rands made a chuckling sound. He said fiercely as he pulled the Kid towards his big body.

“Got you — this time, Kid — with the goods — the gun—”

He struck out with his right hand. Joey Deth jerked his head to one side — the blow caught him high on the left temple. He went backward, releasing his grip on the gun. He stumbled, sprawled to the broken pavement. Rocking on his knees he saw Lou Rands through a blur before his eyes.

The detective had something white in his hands — a handkerchief. He was wrapping the gun in it. And the gun had the imprint of his fingers on it. And Barney Nasser was dead in the coupe.

Kid Deth said bitterly:

“You’re — framin’ me — you dirty, yellow—”

Rands cut in, sharply staring down at the swaying figure before him.

“You tried to squeeze me out, Kid. If the rod had been loaded—”

The big detective broke off. His body half turned away from the kneeling Kid. Two figures were in sight, just beyond the coupe. They had crossed the street under cover of the coupe — and the detective’s back had been turned to them. Rands swore hoarsely — said something Joey Deth failed to catch.

The Kid got to his feet. He saw Rands’ right hand move towards the right pocket of his coat. Then the bullets whined from two guns. They made sharp, echoed sound in the quiet street. Rands’ body jerked; he wheeled away from the two men. He turned jerkily towards Kid Deth, his face white and twisted. His lips were bared in pain. He said hoarsely:

“You dirty — mob hiding — rat—”

The material of his right pocket jumped — the bullet ricocheted from the pavement close to the Kid’s feet. Then Lou Rands’ head fell forward — he dropped. He went down heavily, and Joey Deth knew he was dead, even before his body rolled over and was motionless.

Blocks away, towards Forty-second Street, a police whistle made a shrilling sound. There was the patter of feet, near First Avenue. They died away. The Kid lifted his right hand and touched the bruised spot over his left temple. He said softly, with fear in his voice:

“Jeeze — Jeeze — they got him!”

Then he came out of it. The police whistle shrilled again. A truck rolled along First Avenue, making back-fire racket. But it was a different sound than that of the guns that had crashed. And the police in the distance knew it.

Joey Deth got a soiled handkerchief from his pocket, put it over the fingers of his left hand. He twisted Rands’ gun from his grip. He took the gun wrapped in the handkerchief, from the detective’s pocket. He was breathing heavily — there wasn’t much time. His brain was clear — the dead detective had been right about one thing — Kid Deth had been close to dead humans many times.