The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

He slid back of the wheel, got the cab going. He drove down Sixth Avenue, swearing softly. He didn’t think he’d been recognized, but he couldn’t take a chance. The papers were carrying his pictures — he knew it would be worth a lot to any copper to bring him in. And the quiet clothes boys were out, too.

The cab was Bennie Golin’s — and Bennie was all right. They were about the same size — he had borrowed clothes from Bennie. It was to Bennie’s flat that he had taken the battered body of Bess Grote. He’d set the man up in business — and Bennie was paying him back a little. But Golin had been afraid; the Kid had seen the expression in his eyes when he had told him what he wanted.

“If they wise up — it’s my finish, Kid,” Bennie had said.

And Kid Deth had smiled grimly. “If who wise up?” he had asked. “The bulls?”

Golin had shaken his head. “To hell with them,” he had said. “You ain’t worryin’ about them.”

Joey turned the cab eastward on Thirty-fourth Street. He drove slowly, carefully. Golin had been right. The Kid wasn’t so worried about the police. But there was something he wanted to do. Something important. He wanted to rub out the murderer of Bess Grote. He wanted to do that job, and do it right. Then he wanted to walk into the Center Street building and hand himself over. He could beat the rap. Berman was a smart mouthpiece. He would come high but he would see that he wasn’t framed. And he would give himself up.

He cruised northward, hunching low back of the wheel. He had spent an hour in the cab, driving past spots where he might have seen something that would have helped. But he hadn’t seen anything. It was still a toss-up. Gil Nasser — or Charlie Gay. One of the two had done for Bess Grote. One of the two had bossed the kill of Lou Rands. One of the two had finished Barney Nasser, perhaps. He wasn’t so sure of that. Rands might have got Barney, working for a frame. It wasn’t likely that Gil had drummed out his own brother.

At Thirty-ninth Street he took a chance and looked towards the river. The street was deserted, but there was a light shining from Old Andy’s lunch-wagon.

He sped the cab down the street. Near the wagon he turned it around, headed it towards First Avenue. The street was a cul de sac — there was only one exit for machines.

He slipped from the wheel, leaving the engine running. For a few seconds he looked towards First Avenue. Rain made pattering sounds on the street surface. There was no clattering of dishes from the lunch-wagon.

He moved towards the few steps — opened the door. Fingers of his left hand gripped the gun in his pocket. His eyes searched the narrow aisle before the counter, as he looked in through the misted glass of the door. He saw no customer.

He opened the door, stepped inside. He was breathing quickly, and the one thought running through his head was that he was a fool to have come. But he had come.

There was sound at one end of the counter — Old Andy got to his feet. He was a big, round-shouldered man. His eyes blinked as he looked at Joey Deth. He had sandy colored hair and big features.

Joey said: “Yeah, Andy — it’s me. How’re things?”

He smiled a little. Andy’s eyes went to his left pocket. The lunch-wagon owner shook his head from side to side.

“I didn’t — want to tell ’em, Kid,” he said. “I didn’t want—”

Joey Deth kept on smiling. “That’s all right,” he said. “Who got Barney Nasser, Andy?”

The lunch-wagon proprietor stared at him blankly. Kid Deth stopped smiling. He spoke in a low, hard voice.

“Give me a break, Andy — the bulls are after me. Lou Rands tried to frame me — he’s been trying for a long time. But not this hard. Something was up — and something went wrong. Give me a break, Andy.”

The lunch-wagon owner shook his head. “You ain’t usin’ your head — comin’ here, Kid,” he breathed. “The police — they come every few hours — and ask me something they forgot—”

Kid Deth turned and looked out towards the cab. There were no lights beyond it, near First Avenue. He faced Old Andy again.

“Listen, Andy—” he said slowly — “someone got Bess Grote tonight. Got her rotten-like. I’m being framed, Andy — and the job’s being done tough. I may not be able to beat it. I got to know things. What did Lou Rands say to you, just before he grabbed me?”

Old Andy shook his head. Kid Deth took the automatic from his pocket. He watched the lunch-wagon owner’s eyes get wide, watched fear creep into them.

“You had a good memory — when Gil Nasser got to you,” he said slowly. “And you talked to the bulls. Now — you’d better talk — to me.”

Old Andy nodded his head. His eyes were on the gun. He said shakily:

“You never — used to pack a rod, Kid—”

Joey Deth smiled grimly. “And I never used — to be framed,” he replied. “What happened — after I left Barney Nasser in his coupe, Andy? Better talk!”

The man back of the counter shook his head again. He tapped his right ear with a big finger. Joey Deth said softly:

“You’ve been working that line for years, Andy. But I know it’s the bunk. You ain’t deaf — not unless you want to be. You’ll even hear this gun crack — before you drop. What did Rands say — to you?”