Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  Better not give him a chance. If this Mitchell had a chance to work his arms at all he might mark the face up, break a tooth.

  And the girl. This cool queen. She was government-stamped Extra Choice, man. He’d hurt her. Sometimes they like that. Sometimes they don’t. No way of telling until afterwards. But whether the doll liked it or not, he liked it.

  Moving. A big truck, or a bus, or a tank, rolling faster and faster downhill, knocking over fences and houses, rolling.

  The car climbed a long, easy curve around the blackness of a hill. They were outside of town. Erika had to try again. She’d been thinking of the best way through the terrible minutes.

  “Big Tom—” She guessed that he liked to be called that.

  He didn’t answer. The chick was going to try and sweet-talk him now. Chicks had tried sweet talk before. Sometimes it made him angry and he gave it to them hard and fast to the face, and they didn’t sweet talk any more. Sometimes it made him laugh. He wasn’t sure yet which way it was going to be now. He could backhand her with his right, but he didn’t want to spoil her face. Not at this time in the fun.

  “Big Tom, I’ll make a deal.”

  “You can make a deal?”

  “This is an old car. Not your style of car at all.”

  HE DIDN’T like that much. The anger was beginning to spark in him. So if he smashed her face, so what? He could remember what she looked like before. Talking down this clunker as if he didn’t know it was a clunker. Smart, big-mouth chick.

  “Your style of car is a Jaguar, something like that.”

  Maybe not so big-mouth, this chick. Kind of cool, a doll with understanding. “How right,” he said.

  “Do you want to be driving your own Jag tonight, Big Tom? An XK, you know? Two-seater, open?”

  “Yeah, I know about XKs. You think I didn’t know?” The sparking anger again.

  “You can have it.”

  “Talk some more, and I believe you, doll, but thousands wouldn’t.”

  “It’s Arthur’s car. Then turn around and go back and we’ll make the deal. No trouble, and you get the keys.”

  This was funny. “You think ol’ Tom’s real stupid, chick? What a stupid deal!” The headlights cut into blackness. They were in open country on a lonely road. Erika knew that any second now the car would stop.

  “How about a bill of sale, Big Tom. Arthur, would you give him a bill of sale?”

  Mitchell had been working on the idea of swinging open the front car door and rolling out. They’d stop and maybe he could try them one at a time. But he knew it was no good. It wouldn’t work. He felt sick with anger and fear. He listened to what Erika said. Maybe there was a chance here.

  “That’s nearly four thousand dollars’ worth of car,” he said. He wanted to sound businesslike, and there was unfunny humor in that. He wanted to bargain, and there was no bargain.

  “You got the pink slip?” asked Big Tom.

  “I’ve got it on me,” said Mitchell.

  Kuppfen could see the car in his mind. Long, low, fast, all sports car. Shake this tired town arid roll to Vegas, or maybe Phoenix. Find some wealthy woman. Hang around the swimming pool with the car where it could be seen, and make the big chest, the big arms. Wealthy, beautiful dolls.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’ll go this Jag route. I buy it from you for a couple thousand and you sign over the pink slip.”

  “A couple of thousand?” asked Mitchell. His mind wasn’t working well.

  “In the mind, in the mind only,” said Big Tom. “You give me a receipt for that much loot, and the pink all signed. No beef. Nobody hurt. You and the chick here back at your pads all well and swell. I have me a nice length of iron. I make the deal. Okay?”

  “All right,” said Mitchell. The pink slip would be the last move, if it had to be made. He didn’t want to think of his car in this big ape’s hands even for the lime it took to call the police. But on the way back, there would be police cars, lights, chances.

  The Buick was slowing down. Kuppfen pulled it across the road into a wide shoulder, backed it, and headed back to San Francisco.

  “You know it’s for laughs.” he said softly. “You’re thinking, and I’m thinking, and we’re both figuring on a cross, and who do you suppose is going to win?”

  Mitchell turned, but in the dim light of the dash he could see only a shadow face.

  “Yeah, buster, you’re figuring on getting me back in town and getting away. Sure, you are, buster,” said Big Tom. “But let’s figure on going along on our little deal. You sign over the car, and nothing happens. You blast to the cops—then something happens. They roust me and somebody rousts you.”

  KUPPFEN was trying to think ahead of the man and the girl. To have a Jaguar was worth a lot of risk, a lot of heat. Cross the state line into Nevada tonight and it was made. The pink slip and the receipt were as good as gold. After he had them he’d play it as it lay.

  Erika was sitting slumped and loose. The terrible blackness was behind them, the lights of San Francisco were ahead. She felt lightheaded, as if the whole thing were over.

  “Where is this new car of mine?” asked Kuppfen.

  “Downtown. I’ll show you.” Mitchell was building up his anger carefully, like a fighter going into training. Sometime before tonight was over he would make this big ape wish he had never met Arthur Johnstone Mitchell.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE headlights picked out the small, snug homes at the edge of the city. Kuppfen kept the gas pedal halfway down, driving as carefully as a lawyer.

  Play it as it lay, Kuppfen was thinking. But there was a big joke he’d just figured out. Real terrific. And what a deal it would make! He laughed big and hearty.

  “So what’s funny?” Asked Kicks.

  “Driving,” said Honey, in her crisp, delicate voice. “Driving all over the town and nothing happening. No music, no fine times. Driving with a couple of apples. Stinking dull. Awfully stinking dull.”

  “Don’t forget who-all owns the heap when you get it,” said Gage. His hands were trembling. Thinking all the way out into that blackness on the empty road about his knife. Wondering if he’d make out when the moment was there in front of him. Wondering if he’d chicken. Getting hot and tight as if he was choking, feeling the light, cool sweat on his hands and face. Working up to it, and then the car turns around and it won’t happen like that. He hated Big Tom Kuppfen.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. Everybody cuts in.” said Big Tom. The excitement at his big joke made it hard for him to keep from pushing the gas pedal right through the floor and barreling through town like a rocket. What a deal he’d figured! The rest of his life was going to be high and fine, higher and finer than the weed ever sent you. ’Way up there.

  Money. Money. Money. Fine cars and beautiful chicks. London and Paris. Big Tom laughed.

  “It’s a straight deal, isn’t it, Big Tom?” asked Erika. The laughter was horrible.

  “Straight and great.” He laughed again.

  Kicks pulled Honey over to him. Nothing much mattered. Another crazy night, and he had a thing for crazy nights. Crazy, man, crazy.

  Erika reached for Arthur’s hand again. They were in town, there were cars, occasionally people on the sidewalks. Bars getting ready to close, but the lights still on. There must be something to do now, some way of breaking free into the normal, ordered world again.

  Once she saw the lights of a police car a block away but Kuppfen had seen them, too. He swung around a corner.

  “Don’t go wild, chick,” he said, almost in a whisper, and the back of his right hand was as fast as a whip, as big as a club. It stopped just before her face, and Arthur Mitchell was swinging around.

  Gage had the knife point under his ear before Mitchell could raise his arms.

  “Don’t go wild, doll,” Kuppfen whispered. “We got too much to lose to take a fast fall to the cops. You have been playing cool. Keep it cool. Right now I don’t want a bad thing to happen to either one of you. Not o
ne bad thing.” The knife point hurt, but Mitchell held his head steady. Soon now, soon, and these rats would be squealing in fright. His hand tightened on Erika’s.

  “Where you headed?” asked Gage, his hand wet and shaking, but the knife steady. “You passing up O’Farrell?”

  “We’re going to the pad, and close the deal there.”

  “You’ve flipped, man. We don’t want these apples to know where the pad is.” Big Tom didn’t answer. He was in love with himself right now. Like he said, like he said, he thought. Big Tom Kuppfen always said he was smart, that he could figure the play. He’d figured this one. It was going to be real hard waiting for tomorrow’s sun. When the chick had talked up the Jaguar deal his mind must have started in top gear. Going to be hard to wait for morning.

  The car rattled across the cable slots and pounded as it climbed the hill. Kuppfen cut it into the curb in front of an old building.

  “I’ll get out and this girl will slide out on my side. You keep the shiv on this character, Gage, until Kicks and Honey are out. Then he gets out after your door has been opened, you keep the shiv close to his kidney, and we all go up to the pad happy. Then we do business.”

  It was hard for him to keep the excitement out of his voice. He had to say something about the plan he’d worked out. It was bursting inside him. “Man, I’ve got a dream scheme.”

  “I don’t want schemes, I just want dreams,” said Honey, her voice flat. It was an old phrase around the places that had been her life for the past year.

  Big Tom put a hand on Erika’s arm, opened the door, and half pulled her out of the car on the driver’s side. He was surprised to find himself shaking a little.

  Erika stood beside the giant in the yellow-streaked darkness. The rear door opened and Harry and Honey slid out.

  “Mugg this doll,” said Kuppfen, and Erika struggled as Harry stepped behind her and locked his left arm under her chin, pulling her head back. Kuppfen walked in front of the car and opened the door beside Arthur Mitchell.

  “Get out, dreamboat,” he said. As Mitchell climbed out and straightened up, Kuppfen hit him just below the breastbone with a blow that came almost straight down. As Mitchell doubled over Kuppfen hit him behind the ear, catching the boy before his face smashed into the pavement.

  “Put the shiv to the doll, Gage. Walk her to the pad. I’ll drag this meat in.” Honey walked down three steps to a basement entrance in the old building, took a key from her purse, and opened the door.

  Erika felt the knife point in her side, urging her toward the dark doorway. She walked stiffly. For the first time tonight she prayed, silently. Kuppfen half carried, half dragged the unconscious Arthur down the stairs. When the six people were all inside Honey closed the door and flipped on the light switch.

  Erika had one moment before her eyes adjusted to the light, then a moment while she looked without understanding, and then a moment of horrible shame. The walls of the tiny front room of the basement apartment were covered with obscene photographs, many of them enlarged into monstrosities. She covered her face with her hands.

  “Art work, chick. Just think of it as art work,” said Big Tom, rolling Arthur face down on a sagging, stained couch.

  He walked over to Erika, pulled her hands from her face. “If you want to scream some more, chick, I’ll tell you how it works. This is a neighborhood where just one scream from a girl isn’t big news. And one scream is all you’d ever get out.”

  “What’s the matter with you people? Are you all insane? Aren’t you human? You’re like devils, mad, insane, dirty devils!” Erika was close to hysteria.

  The other four were looking at her. Harry—Kicks—was amused, his sallow face twisted a little. Duane—Gage—was watching her with a cat’s intentness on a bird, his pale tongue caressing his pale lips, his eyes darting away when she looked at him, coming back to her at once.

  Honey’s eyes were on Erika, but her lovely face had no expression. “This is I he pad,” she said. “We have lots of fun here, but it isn’t much to look at. You get with it, and it’ll be heaven. Heaven.”

  Arthur was trying to push himself up from the couch. Big Tom stepped over, swung a short, heavy right to the small of the boy’s back, and a left with the heel of his hand to Mitchell’s ear. Then as the young man flopped like a broken doll, face down into the musty couch, Kuppfen walked back to Erika.

  WE’LL kid around for a little bit, chick. Then we’ll get the apple to sign over those papers on that fine line of metal. That’s our deal, isn’t it, doll?”

  “You agreed not to hurt us. You were going to let us go.” Erika fought back the hysteria and won. She needed every bit of strength and sense that she had.

  “I haven’t hurt you, chick. I’m a big man, I can hurt lots, but I haven’t hurt you. I just slapped the boy around like in play. I didn’t break anything.”

  “Let him sign the papers on the car, and then let us go.” She was surprised that she could speak so clearly, without her voice breaking again into sobs. “There’s some news for you, chick.”

  “News?”

  “Me and you are eloping to Reno tonight. Your folks may kind of think that you’re running off with the apple, so they maybe won’t worry too much. Before we get a license, chick, I’ll fix it so you’ll think marrying me is a great idea.”

  “What’s this?” asked Kicks.

  Big Tom smiled. “I worked me out a deal. After a little I want you and Honey to dig out the folks’ addresses for these two. You go to the all-night Western Union and you send a wire. The wires say something about love and that it’s off to Las Vegas to get married.

  “When you come back, the chick and me will be friends already. We pick up the Jag and head for Reno. We rack out for whatever time it takes the chick to see that marrying ol’ Big Tom is great, and we get married. Like in pictures.”

  “Sounds great, except where do we come in for the cut?” asked Gage.

  Big Tom pointed to Arthur Mitchell. “This pigeon is yours. After the chick and I take off for the rest of our honeymoon in a couple of hours, you and Honey can work on the college boy. You got a camera, you got weed here, and you got Honey. That ought to be enough to work with for a nice steady take for years to come. This pigeon probably thinks he’s respectable.”

  “COULD be. Could work,” said Kicks thoughtfully.

  “I never believed there could be people like you,” said Erika slowly.

  “There are, chick. There are. All over this town, all over all towns. Real solid bad people, just like us,” said Kuppfen.

  He put his big fist against Erika’s cheek. She did not flinch. With increasing pressure he turned it, the knuckles grinding into her cheek. It was the same gesture he had used at the Bada.

  “The big surprise, Erika, is that you might even get to loving me. You kind of danced a little that way. When I peel off all this outside junk they’ve taught you, and get down to you, maybe you might even surprise yourself. Hey, doll?” With his rough hand hurting her cheek, Erika still stood straight, her eyes narrowing as she looked at him.

  “Big slob.”

  There was no sound in the room except a rasp of breath from Mitchell, and her words.

  The fist stopped turning, pushed at her in angry violence, and she went over.

  Erika put her hands on the dusty rug, rose on one knee. Her face hurt, and she had a bruised shoulder when Kuppfen knocked her to the floor.

  Six people in the small room. Arthur Mitchell rolling on his side, one hand to the back of his head, his mouth hanging open in pain. Harold Johnson and Duane Freeposter watching this as they had watched things much like it before—some new girl getting roughed by Big Tom. Honey was standing by a table, picking up records from a toppling stack. There was a small record player on the smeared and cigarette-burned table top. She had been roughed around by Big Tom, and she rather liked it.

  Big Tom was standing above Erika, his hands knotted like immense fists. He was trying to look amused, not angry, and so h
is face had a curious rigidity.

  Erika was still on one knee, her stole fallen on the floor, her bare shoulders bright in the light of the ceiling bulb.

  Kuppfen took a long look at her, then turned suddenly and walked to Mitchell on the couch. The boy tried to get up swinging, raising his arms, and Kuppfen straight-armed him, knocking Mitchell against the wall, his head bouncing. Again the big fist smashed into the boy’s face and Mitchell fell forward, still conscious but hurt. He didn’t move.

  Erika was on her feet, and she reached for Kuppfen’s eyes with her fingernails. He slapped her with an open hand, and she went back across the room, still standing. Gage grabbed her, locking her arms behind her with his left hand, and lacing his right hand into her hair.

  Kuppfen reached into the breast pocket of Mitchell’s jacket and brought out the boy’s wallet. He leafed through the money by running his thumb from one side of the wallet to the other, took out the card folder and tossed the wallet to the seat of a broken easy chair.

  “Where’s the chick’s purse?”

  “Maybe still in the car.”

  “Okay. You go see, Kicks.”

  Erika stumbled across the room, badly shaken, to Mitchell. The boy had one hand over his bleeding mouth. Erika put her arms around him, her fingers gentle.

  “Don’t try to fight him, Arthur. Please don’t. He’s like a tiger, too big, too strong. He’s crazy. He wants to kidnap me, and he thinks I’ll marry him in Reno if he messes me up enough.” There was a keening hurrying to her words, as if by saying them the craziness would be apparent and Kuppfen’s scheme would fall apart from its own nonsense.

  “They’re going to wire our folks, so they’ll think we’ve run away together. Then they’re going to do something terrible to you and Honey so that they can blackmail you. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur—we’ve got to do something!”

  COUPLE ATTACKED, BEATEN. Erika could see the headlines, remembering suddenly how often she had seen them in the Chronicle. COUPLE ATTACKED, BEATEN. And sometimes a picture on the front page, the girl in a hospital bed, her face covered with bandages. COUPLE ATTACKED. BEATEN. “After being held for several hours by a sadistic gang of young hoodlums, the girl was found wandering . . .” How many times had she read this? But as her fingers caressed the swollen face of the boy, the exploding fear within her was that there would be no headlines.