The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Others took up the cry. Somebody flung a bottle and it crashed against a house front, the glass spattering.

“Dammit,” yelled MacBride, “you’re starting a riot! Get a move on!”

One of the cars started moving. Others honked their horns. Many of the occupants had piled out and several of them, far gone with walloping liquor, hilarious as sailors on a spree, were trying to tear down the banners of the Krug-Bedell faction. The supporters of Alderman Bedell objected strenuously, and fists began flying about promiscuously. It was, now, anybody’s and everybody’s carnival. Admission fees were waived. The two bands continued to add to the din and clamor. The tempo of their combined efforts went far toward heightening the strain of hysteria that had taken hold of the mob. The streets were jammed with motor cars, and the horns honked and bleated.

Women screeched, and men began striking out without apparent provocation. The crowd surged this way and that, but never got anywhere. Nightsticks rapped more frequently on stubborn heads. Somebody heaved a brick that crashed through an automobile windshield and knocked the man at the wheel unconscious. The machine swerved, bounded and banged head-on into a doorway.

“Good God Almighty!” groaned MacBride.

He plunged through the mob, fought, pounded, hammered his way to the big touring car that carried the musicians. He leaped to the running-board, wrenched a trombone from the player’s hand.

“Stop it!” he yelled. “I’ll cave in the next mouth that pulls another toot!”

He silenced them.

He turned and weaved toward the bandstand, and on the way ran into Alderman Bedell.

“Who started this, MacBride? What is it? What’s going on?”

“What the hell does it look like, a May party?”

“Don’t get sore — don’t get sore!”

“Listen to me, Bedell!” MacBride gripped his arm hard. “You’re no friend of mine, but I’m giving you a tip. Get out of here! Jump in your car, go home and lock all the doors. Some pup is out to get you!”

“He is, eh?” snarled Bedell, a big whale of a man with gimlet eyes. “Let him!”

“Don’t be a blockhead all your life! I tell you, man, you’re in danger!” A whiff of Bedell’s breath told him the man had been drinking. Drink always made Bedell cocky, and he spoke best from a platform when he was moderately soaked.

“I’m going to d’liver a speech here tonight, MacBride—”

MacBride snorted with disgust and went on his way. He reached the bandstand and ripped the baton from the leader’s hand. He kicked over the drum and shot out short, sizzling commands. He left a silenced bandstand.

The policemen had managed to club into submission the instigators of the riot. Swollen heads, black eyes and bruised jaws were in abundance. The best argument in a riot is a deftly wielded nightstick. A clout on the head is something a temporarily crazed man will understand.

The hysteria was dwindling. A dozen of the rioters were hastily escorted away from the scene by four policemen and taken to the station house. The crowd quieted, took a long breath generally, and waited.

MacBride climbed back upon the bandstand, rumbled the drum in plea for silence, and then raised his voice.

“Please, now, everybody go home!” he demanded. “The party is over. It’s too bad, but nothing can be done.” He waved his arms. “Clear out, everybody — now!”

A figure bulked at his elbow. It was that of Alderman Bedell, and before MacBride could get a word in edgewise, Bedell roared, “La-dies and gentlemen, it grieves me to see this sociable gathering break up because of the undignified actions of the hirelings — yes, hirelings, I say — of the party which is trying to drive me out of office. As alderman of this district, I want to say — I... ugh!”

He clapped a hand to his chest, swayed, then crumpled heavily at MacBride’s feet.

“Heart attack,” cried someone in the crowd.

MacBride knelt down, turned the alderman over, felt his chest, ran his hand inside the shirt. It came out stained with blood. Bedell twitched, stiffened, and was dead.

Cohen said over MacBride’s shoulder, “Headlines, Mac, in the first edition. Hot diggity damn!”