Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956
- Автор: Дил Борден, Томпсон Джим
- Год: 1956
- Язык: английский
- Год: H.S.D. Publications
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 1, No. 12, December 1956». Краткое содержание книги:
“No cut, Matt. You won it. It’s yours.”
“Then what’s the angle, Maggie?”
“Does there have to be one?”
The ashes on my cigarette were getting long. I did something about that and that took a little time. When I looked up, the blonde’s eyes caught mine and held on.
I said, “I think there has to be one, Maggie. Take the first hundred truckers you see on any highway. Keep the seven that look a little Irish and let the rest go. Now line up the seven and take the one in the middle. That’s Matt Brady — strictly average in money, marbles, and all the rest. I’m not going to add a lot of drivel to the stuff you must hear every day. Let’s just say I couldn’t wear this license on my hat unless I could see well enough to drive, so I know where you stand in the line. You’re not in front of the guy in the middle.”
She laughed.
“And the angle we were talking about?”
“Matt, you won that money! Any other way would be — would be pretty bad for me. I mean if Bart Akers found out.”
“Okay. I won it. But just between the pair of us — why?”
She ground out her cigarette and this time she didn’t look at me. “Maybe I like one of the seven. Maybe I like the one in the middle.”
That stopped it. I couldn’t push it any farther without fishing for a bucket of compliments. She made a quick but expert repair job on her lips, snapped shut her bag, and we stood up. I dropped a bill to cover the tab and started for the door. But we didn’t make it.
We didn’t make it because about half-way there Maggie’s slender fingers clamped tightly around my arm and she stopped short.
“Matt!”
I glanced at her frightened face, then followed the line of her vision to a sedan along the curb. The husky looking our way wasn’t making any effort to get out of his car.
“Matt! He’s from the Silver King. He’s one of Bart Akers’ men.”
“Maybe he’s hungry,” I said and tried a small laugh.
“Don’t joke, Matt. We... we might have stepped into something.”
I turned her around casually and we started toward the rear exit. Her fingers hadn’t loosened any and I could hear the tight breathing in her throat. We slipped through a door marked EMPLOYEES, hesitated long enough to spot the door ahead of us and picked up speed again. Through a screen door, past a line of tall refuse cans and we were in the alley — and facing a tough gent who blocked our way. He stood with his feet apart and a sardonic grin on his ugly mug, heavy arms folded across his chest.
“Going somewhere, Maggie?”
She gasped. I didn’t say anything; he wasn’t here to talk. My left hand came over and gently worked Maggie’s fingers off my arm.
“Bart wants to see you, kid. You and this smart lug here.”
I led with a short hard right to his breadbasket, heard the grunt of pain, and started a full throttle left to his jaw. But halfway there, the left weakened and fell ineffectually on his shoulder. I was pitching toward the dirty concrete and the lights were going-out. Meanwhile, I smelled kitchen grease and motor oil and the alley felt hard against my face. Then there was nothing.
Now, it felt like the floor of a car. I didn’t stir, just lay still as I tried to pick up the thread of events. But before I could get everything ironed out the car stopped. I closed my eyes again, and waited. Someone got my knees, another man my arms. We bumped through a door and they dumped me unceremoniously on a soft carpet. I heard water running out of a tap, moaned, twisted a little, and opened my eyes.
“Get up, mister.”
I struggled to my knees. The blonde sat in a big chair, a handkerchief pressed to her face. Three of those present were overdressed and a little too tough. Hats pulled down. They could have been three torpedoes, some holdovers from the gangster years. Behind an out-sized oak desk, a fat hunk of suet in a gray pinstripe tilted back in his chair and eyed me with distinct distaste. He had two extra chins and a flabby lip. When he spoke, his eyes snapped.
“I said, ‘Get up!’ All the way up, mister.”
The pain in my head wasn’t eased by standing, but I made it. I ran fingers gingerly over the back of my noggin and found the tender spot. The fat one leaned toward me, his fat hands flattening out on the glass-topped desk.
“I ain’t even going to ask ‘Did you do it?’ mister,” he said sourly. “My boys saw it all. I don’t know how long it went on, but I know it did go on and that’s enough for me. And I ain’t a bit happy about it. Understand?” He finished with a glare, then turned toward Maggie. “What’d I ever do to deserve this?” he asked harshly. “I pay same wages as any other joint in Reno. I treat the dealers right. Ain’t no payoff after hours connected with workin’ for Bart Akers; nobody chases you around the tables after closing-time. Ain’t that so, Maggie?”
“Cut the hearts and flowers,” I said. I was feeling better and didn’t want the kid to take any more guff than she had to. Even another working-over would be better than letting Akers rant at the blonde. “So I corrupted one of your dealers. I got her to throw me a few bucks out of the Silver King. And now you’re broke, that it? A couple of hundred and the King is cleaned out. Jeez!”
That brought the fat boy’s attention back to me in a hurry. The thin jerk holding the glass of water threw it at my head. He opened the side of his face and said, “Let me smear this joker, Bart.”
I beat the boss to a reply. “You got a deal, tough guy. Toss your gun on the desk and I’ll try you for size.”
“Shut up!” It was fat-boy again, only now he had lunged to his feet, his face the color of a split beet. He glared across the desk at the pair of us. “We’re wasting time. I run this show.” Then he swung back to the blonde. “You’re through. Not just the King; you’re through in Reno. Get out of town. Get out by tomorrow noon. I’ll personally look up your address in the employees’ file and check to see that you’re out of wherever the hell you live. Understand?”
Maggie nodded, her eyes down, the handkerchief still pressed tightly against her face.
“And you, mister — we won’t be needing you any more either. I don’t give a damn when you leave town, but stay out of the Silver King. You hear me, boy? Stay away from my place.”
Before I could get in any deeper, Maggie got up and came over to me. Her fingers found my arm. “Come on, Matt. We’d better go.” Her voice was low and a little scared. She was right, of course. We’d played with fire and we were getting off with only a small burn.
Akers sat behind his desk, a nasty scowl on his thick face. Two of his hired help ranged behind him. The other, the thin jerk with the side-of-the-mouth talk and an over-tough look was leaning against the door. He didn’t move.
“Let them out, Varney.” It was the boss speaking from behind us, but Varney had to give us one more sneer. I worked my arm free of Maggie’s hand arid Akers saw me do it;
“Varney!” he snapped out.
Hard-boiled moved over to let us pass.
3.
The blonde had a second-floor apartment and a cool evening breeze was beginning to roll in from the desert. We sat on the lounge, a couple of empty coffee cups on the glass-topped table in front of us. I leaned back and tried to see how things had been and what thread ran through the whole thing that tied it all together. Wirth was holding up my truck. A blonde tossed four hundred bucks my way in a crooked card game and we were caught. She lost her job.
“I’m sorry as hell about your job, Maggie—”
“Thanks, Matt. Thanks, but we both know where we stand. It was nice of you to take the blame back in Akers’ office. I’ll always remember that, Matt. But this one was really on me all the way. I started it; you didn’t. Your head feel all right?”