The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

McCarthy pointed out a half-dozen holes in the bloody shirt. “Maybe an ice pick, I don’t know. But they’re in his belly, and that means he shouldn’t be moved. Get going.”

Marge took his keys and opened the office.

The police came, after a little while, cars full of them, as did the ambulance. McCarthy watched Doctor Solari straighten up from the wounded man, and that smart young man said to him:

“Maybe we’re in time. Unless the fellow gets a transfusion inside the next few minutes he’ll be shaking hands with Saint Peter.”

“How bad, Doc?” McCarthy asked.

Solari had a smooth and unlined face. He looked to be about twenty — but he had ten years and a reputation of being an authority on the sort of violence police are faced with added to the innocent look. He stared up at the ceiling, as though looking at something new and different, and said:

“Well, he’s been pierced, through and through, with something. I’m not prepared to say exactly just what, but if this had happened down in colored town I’d say the weapon was an ice pick. They favor that down there; ice picks don’t come under the head of concealed weapons. Now this man has twelve wounds in his abdomen and has lost some blood. The shock was slight, owing to the nature of the wound. He will most certainly have peritonitis as his intestines are most certainly pierced through and through. He may get through it if he isn’t too far along to react to a transfusion. Now does that answer you, Mr. McCarthy?”

McCarthy said, “In a big way, Doc. It means the guy’s got a chance, don’t it?”

“If he gets a transfusion immediately. I’m having him removed to the hospital at once.”

Two husky white-coated men came in with a stretcher. They lifted the now unconscious man on this with Dr. Solari assisting, and then there came an outraged bellow from the outer office. A voice came out distinctly with:

“Hey! Miss Marge! I got to see the Chief.”

McCarthy muttered, “That damn Benny!” and went through the knot of policemen and into the outer office.

Benny Cohn, McCarthy’s pet cabbie, was at the door. He apparently didn’t want to stay there but two policemen, who had him by the arms, were winning the argument about just where Benny was going. Or staying. Benny saw McCarthy and stopped struggling and said:

“Hey, Chief! I come up to see you and it seems I can’t. They tell me I got to stay outside, they do, Chief.”

McCarthy said, “Let him go.”

Marge, who’d been awaiting the doctor’s report, said, “Personally, I think one of us ought to see about a transfusion for this man. He fell into our arms in front of your office. How is he?”

“He might make it... What d’ya want, Benny? I’m busy.”

Benny said, “And so am I busy, Chief. Like I say, these cops won’t let me in and see you. I got to see you, Chief. No fooling, I got to see you.”

“What about?”

Marge broke in with: “Does the doctor think he’ll live if he gets a transfusion?”

Benny brightened and broke away from the two policemen. He said to McCarthy, “Hey now, Chief! If it maybe is the guy needs the same kind of blood that I got, maybe you can fix it for me. I took the test — they give you thirty-five bucks for it and I got my name on the list for giving it. Maybe you can fix it for me, Chief; I got to have the dough.”

“What d’ya want to see me about?”

“That’s it, Chief. Dough.”

McCarthy said, “Then I certainly will try to fix it. If you can earn it, it’s better than me having to give it to you.”

Marge said, “But, Lord, what will the harvest be? With the man full of Benny’s blood!”