The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Perhaps Mort Mitchell would not have been so eager for the smiles of the flashing Vi had he known of the scene which was being enacted at the time he was dressing for his night’s pleasure. For the dazzling Vivian, her face unsmiling now and her musical voice harsh in emphasis, was talking angrily and excitedly, not with one of her society friends, but with Blackie Rango himself, the greedy mob leader, who seemed perfectly at home amid the luxuries of Vi’s apartment.

And Blackie Rango was no sheik. He puffed from the exertion of crossing one fat leg over the other and his language seemed very much out of place in the tasteful surroundings. His beady eyes peered from beneath thick, bushy brows in a beetling forehead that wrinkled as he talked. Vi’s anger he passed unnoticed.

“You messed it up again, didn’t you, broad?” he asked, interrupting her. “Everything set to give the works to Mort Mitchell, his frail with him an’ all his mob an’ instead o’ him getting’ his’n he’s still around, getting’ in my hair.”

“Yes! He’s still around because you and your gorillas didn’t have the guts to take him when I put him right in your hands!”

“Maybe,” answered Blackie, evenly, “an’ then again, maybe not. Now, see here, broad.” His gimlet eyes glowed as he thrust his ugly face closer to hers. “It’s got to be me or Mort Mitchell. They ain’t room in this town for his mob an’ mine, an’ mine ain’t goin’ to be the one to go out.”

He reached over and grabbed the red-haired moll by the wrist.

“Get this,” he said, and there was murder in his tone. “I’m puttin’ up for you. There ain’t no limit. You can play this society gag an’ you sock away plenty of jack. Yes, I know you’re doin’ it, but I don’t care, so long as you’re on the level with me. Your job is to frame Mort Mitchell—

he’s got to go. An’ don’t think I don’t know how friendly you are with him, too!”

The moll started as Blackie’s eyes bored into hers. She started to speak, but he went on:

“An’ when Mort goes, you’d better see to it that his frail goes, too. Maybe you don’t know her. An’ maybe you do. Anyhow, she’s with him on all his jobs an’ she’s a fightin’ fool. Carlotta Wynn, that’s what they call her. But that ain’t her name. She ain’t no ordinary moll. Nobody knows where she come from, but she’s a moll for a reason — and nobody but her knows why.”

“What do I care about his moll?” asked Vi angrily.

“Maybe you don’t, but you’re monkeyin’ with her man, an’ she looks like poison to me. Anyway, get this through your skull. Three times now you’ve slipped info to the Hag to send Mort Mitchell and his mob into a jam. An’ three times you’ve made a fine mess of it. Now, dame—”

Blackie’s manner was menacing and he twisted the moll’s wrist to emphasize his words.

“Get that guy! Tell the Hag to slip him a certain one, a tip he won’t pass up — an’ leave the rest to me. I’ll see they’s a load o’ hot lead waitin’ for him when he steps into it. An’, broad, don’t miss this time! Make it right, so Mort and his whole mob will go, includin’ the moll, for if you don’t—”

“Well, if I don’t?” challenged the girl defiantly.

“Here’s your answer,” replied Blackie ominously, “that moll Carlotta, in swimmin’ suit or evenin’ clothes, never was known to bare her right shoulder! Does that mean anythin’ to you?”

Vi Carroll cried out hoarsely. There was terror in her eyes.

“What’s her name?” she screamed. “Tell me, you big ape — what’s her name?”

“You guess it,” replied Blackie brutally, with a half-smile. “She come from Chi, too.”