The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

Hurley slammed the entrance door.

Putting a cigarette in the middle of his pink face, Roy Cruikshank said, “Hurley isn’t a bad guy.” He laughed from his belly up. “Tonight the vice detail raids Melrose’s Spanish Shawl. The Mayor goes along. Metz has rolled up the bar and there’s checkers in the gambling room. Hizoner drinks his lemonade and makes his little speech, entitled, Everything’s Rosy in Our Town. Some’dy ought to give us a new deal.”

McFee went into the bathroom. He swabbed his face with hot water, took a shower. He rubbed his shoulders with linament, got into clean pajamas, a bathrobe. He had a mouse under his left eye. His lips were bruised and broken. The hot violence still glinted on the surface of his eyes.

In the kitchen McFee prepared coffee, ham and eggs and flap-jacks; set the food on a tray with mess-gear. Cruikshank had righted the card table. He was dealing himself poker hands. “Boy!” said Cruikshank. They ate without talk, McFee believing in food first. Cruikshank was careless with his eggs. His neckties said so.

After they had cleaned up the tray, Cruikshank began to fool abstractedly with the cards. McFee suggested they cut for nickels. Cruikshank thought it a good idea until McFee had won around five dollars; then he muttered sourly, “I guess I’ve paid for my breakfast.”

McFee said abruptly, “Who’s the Trib backing for district attorney?”

“The Trib—” Cruikshank cut a ten-spade to McFee’s heart-queen. “What you got on those girls, damn your hide—” He shoved across a chip. “The Trib — oh, yeah. Why, Jim Hughes, I guess. Jim’s a good egg, and he’d give the county a break.”

“Jim isn’t bad,” McFee admitted, “but Luke Addams is better; Luke knows the political set-up. Jim’d have to learn too much.”

“Well, it don’t matter who the Trib backs. Melrose has written the ticket — Dietrich. The Mayor endorses Dietrich and it’s count ’em and weep.”

McFee stacked chips. “Dietrich elected’ll throw the county Melrose.” He looked at Cruikshank, eyes cold. “That’ll give him the county, City Hall and police machines. Larrabee is soft, but he’s got church backing and while he’s D.A. he’s never been more than half Melrose’s man.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’ll tell you.” McFee spoke harshly. “If Melrose’s heels had kept their hands off me this morning, I’d have kept mine in my pants pocket. But they didn’t.” His words made a bitter, drumming sound. “So I’m out to give Melrose a ride.”

“On what?”

“The Damon murder.”

“You think he or his heels killed Damon?”