“I’m just mad, that’s all. Besides, I hate to see a town taking the tossing that Amberton has been taking. This guy Stobe Farner has figured out a hundred variations of taking graft. I bet you this city could be run for half of what it’s costing. And if you could halve that tax rate, this town would start to come to life again instead of slowly drifting off the deep end.”
“Well, you’ve done your job, Davo. You better leave all this in my hands. Get out of town. It won’t be healthy for you here. I’ll get some men in and we’ll go to work quietly. If we make a fuss, Benet Brothers will get the tip and handle the present road job the way the contract reads instead of putting that thin coating on top. Then we won’t have anything to go on. Better let them think that they’ve scared you out of town. I imagine that Arthur K. Wescott is pretty astute.”
Bill Davo looked up from the floor and studied Berman for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. Of course, they won’t suspect you unless we’re seen together. You’ve never been in this town before, and you don’t know a soul in it.”
“Not a soul.”
“That’s odd.” Davo looked at Berman intently. As Berman looked up, Bill Davo put his shoulder behind a short right that smacked neatly against Berman’s jaw. The dark man bounded backward off the chair. His shoulders hit the floor and he moaned as he tried to lift his head.
Davo picked him up off the floor by the lapels and threw him on the bed. He held the man down and pulled a flat .38 out of a shoulder holster. Then he moved over and sat where Berman had been sitting. Davo was breathing hard. In a few seconds Berman sat up, his eyes narrowed. He felt his jaw with gentle fingertips.
Davo said, “If you’re really Berman, I’m going to be doghoused. But you’re a stranger to this town, and you came out with Wescott’s middle initial. You didn’t hear it from me. Empty your pockets and throw the stuff on the floor between us.”
Berman said, “Look here, Davo. This has gone far enough. You can’t—”
“Empty your pockets!”
Berman eyed the steady muzzle of the automatic. As he did so, Davo noticed that he tensed slightly. With quick comprehension, Davo worked the slide, jacking a shell into the chamber. Berman began throwing papers on the floor.
When the man’s pockets were empty, Bill Davo said, “Now stretch out on that bed. On your face. And don’t move.”
After a full minute, Davo said, “Okay, Vittano. Sit up. What did you do with Berman?”
Vittano grinned. “Go find out if you know so much. Berman decided to take a longer train ride than he thought. He talked a lot. Hell, I told him I was you.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have a little friend in the capital who gave us the tip. I went a hundred miles up the line on the train with Berman. Told him the thing had blown up and I was leaving town. Told him there was nothing to go on.” Vittano laughed, seeming to regain most of his poise. “He got off at Frereton, fifty miles up, and caught the limited back, sore as hell.”
Davo got up and paced the floor, careful to keep the gun ready even though Vittano showed little inclination to try anything. Checkmated. He cursed himself for not having the sense to exchange descriptions with Berman over the phone.
“Stobe Farner’s going to get a bang out of this,” Vittano said. “What’re you going to do now, chump? You better take my advice and leave town. You gave me all your ammunition on a silver platter. For example, that Fay woman.”
“Shut up!”
“And Stobe’ll be happy to know about Vincens. There isn’t much room around this town for guys like that.”
Davo whirled, raising the gun. Vittano shrugged his shoulders and said, “Go ahead, sucker. Slug me. What’ll it get you? You can’t keep me from reporting to the boys.”
“I can slow you down a little. Take off your necktie and roll over on your face.”
In three minutes Vittano was securely bound—his wrists were knotted behind him, his ankles tied with a strip of sheeting, a face towel crammed into his mouth and secured by another towel tied around his head. Davo picked him up easily, dropped him on the closet floor and shut the door. He slipped into his raincoat and shut the door to the room quietly behind him. Not much time. A few hours. No more.
It was raining again and the bars had closed. The neon had clicked off and the streets were dark, wet, soiled. The gun in the side pocket of his raincoat thumped against his thigh. He crossed the street and paused. The station was a few steps away. He had a thousand dollars in cash. Time to take any train. Anyplace. Time to get away. A new job somewhere else. Forget the whole dirty deal. A new start.
He waited and the rain whipped against his cheek. For a moment he wanted to laugh. Melodrama. Bill Davo stowing a gunman in a hotel closet. Bill Davo walking the night streets with a gun in his pocket. Somewhere Stobe Farner would be dreaming of large profits, sleek cars, imported liquor. And Jane Fay would be …
That thought stopped him. He suddenly knew that he couldn’t go—couldn’t leave Jane to the political wolves of Amberton. He walked to the station and startled a dozing cabdriver as he climbed in and slammed the door. He gave Jane’s address and settled back into the corner, his jaw set. The tires made a swishing sound on the wet pavement.
Davo climbed out of the cab and said, “Wait here.” His heels were loud on the wooden porch. He leaned on the bell and waited. Rang it again. At last lights clicked on in the hall and he saw her come down the stairs, a robe held around her, trying to see who was standing outside the door. Her blond hair was tousled and her makeup was off—but she looked good to him. Very good.
The porch lights snapped on and he saw the worried recognition. She unlocked the door and opened it. “Bill! What in the world?”
“I’ve got to talk to you. I’ve messed everything up.”
“Come on in.” She grinned crookedly. “At least they haven’t put you in bed again.”
They sat side by side on the couch in the darkened living room.
“This is worse than a beating,” Davo told her. “I reported the whole deal, including your willingness to testify, to a man from the Attorney General’s office. He turned out to be a plant. The real guy never showed up. I was a fool.”
She was silent for a long minute, not looking at him. She said softly, “I don’t care much for myself. I can always get work in some other city. But my mother owns this house. They won’t stop at driving me away. Her assessment will go up a few thousand. There’ll be building inspectors here, forcing her to make unnecessary repairs. They’ll find a dozen ordinances to make her life miserable.
“And they may do more than drive me away. There was a girl in the assessor’s office once. She tried to make a stink. They found two hundred dollars’ worth of office supplies in the back of her car. She went to the county jail for six months.”
He said hoarsely, “Okay, then! Tell me I’m a fool! Tell me I’ve ruined things for you! Tell me to get out of here!”
She reached over and her hand was warm against his. “It’s a little late for that, Bill. Maybe we can still fight.”
“How? Johnson Vincens is going to get it too. He’s right in the soup with us. Our only chance was surprise and I muffed it. Oh, I’ve done a great job. A wonderful job.”
She snatched her hand away. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Does Farner know yet?”
“No. I made like a tough guy and put the plant in a closet down at the Amberton. I don’t think he’ll get out until morning. I thought it would give us more time. More time to run.”
“I have a hunch that neither of us is the running type, Davo boy.”
“Any ideas?”
Jane said slowly, “There’s three of us in the soup. Right? Well, three heads are going to be better than two. You phone Johnson Vincens while I get dressed. Tell him we’re coming over. And phone a taxi.”
“Got one outside. All this doesn’t make much sense to me—”
“Can you think of anything better?”
“Go get dre
ssed and stop needling me. Maybe the three of us can still make some kind of stink.”
She ran up the stairs. He went into the hall, looked up and dialed Vincens’ number. The phone rang six times before it clicked and he heard Vincens’ sleepy “Yeah?”
“Mr. Vincens, this is Bill Davo. I’m coming over to talk to you.”
“Look, Davo. I need my sleep. It can wait until morning.”
“Maybe it can, but you can’t.”
A few seconds’ silence. Then: “What does that mean?”
“You may be out of a job in the morning.”
At last the weary voice said, “Come on over.”
Davo hung up.
When the cab pulled up in front of Vincens’ house, the downstairs lights were on. Vincens met them at the door, looking very small and very helpless in a gray robe that matched his gray hair.
“Come back to the kitchen. I’ve got some coffee on. You’re Miss Fay, aren’t you?”
They followed Vincens back through the house and sat around the kitchen table while Bill Davo told once more the story of the deception.
When he was through, Vincens said, “That was a broken promise, Davo. I don’t know why I trusted you. Should have kept my mouth shut … Well, it’s done now. I can see why you thought it wouldn’t go any further.”
They sat and looked at Vincens. His shoulders slumped and he stared down at the porcelain top of the table, his mouth slack. He murmured, “A long time ago I figured that I’d be a crusader. I’d use the power of the press to clean up the rotten spots in this fair land. Hah! Ended up as a hack dancing on the end of a string. Three kids. One in the first year of college. Come home, laddie. Daddy’s unemployed.”
Suddenly he balled his small fist and banged it on the table so hard that the cups danced. He looked up with a mad light in his eyes. “You know, damn it, I’m almost not sorry! I’ve been on the dirty end of the stick for so long that I began to think I belonged there. Then, after eight long years I make one little gesture of revolt and that’s the one that creams me. Hell, I’ll become one of those guys that clean out sewers with a long pole. It’ll be cleaner work … Run along home, kids. Let an old man lick his wounds.”
They didn’t move. Davo bit at dry lips.
Jane said softly, “How about really doing it, Mr. Vincens? How about going out in a blaze of glory? How about hitting this town tomorrow morning with a front page that’ll tear the heart out of the organization?”
For a moment, the fervor of her words got him, and he straightened up, a new light in his eyes. He slumped again and shrugged. “Grandstand stuff. What good will it do? Maybe if I get down on my knees in the morning and lick Stobe Farner’s shoes he’ll let me stay on. I’m too beat to do anything else.”
Jane leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Stobe doesn’t know about it yet. Bill locked up his man down in the Amberton. We still have time. Maybe the people of this town will come to life and lick Farner if they know the facts.”
“Look, lady. The morning edition is locked up, ready to roll. Stobe has got spies all over the place. And besides, the public wouldn’t give one single damn. Not in this town. The ones that vote throw it just the way Farner wants it thrown.”
Bill said, “But if you get tossed out in a blaze of glory trying to upset Mr. Big, won’t that give you a better rep to land a good job on a real paper? At least you would be taking a shot at killing the dragon.”
Vincens scuffed at the gray stubble on his chin with the edge of his thumb. “That’s not a bad thought, Davo. Hmmmmm. Not bad at all. But it’s going to be rough. Very rough.” He glanced up at the kitchen clock. “Nelly! Not much time.”
They heard him at the phone. “Sam, is she rolling? Not yet? Good! Unlock the first page. No, leave it as is. We’ll give ’em a bargain. Two first pages. Who cares? Wait till I get there.”
Vincens dressed in a matter of minutes. Davo had the cabdriver gun it on the way to the newspaper building. Vincens ran up the stairs ahead of them, filled with sudden and surprising energy. His gray cheeks were flushed and his voice had a new edge in it. He shucked off his coat and shoved Davo and Jane into a small office adjoining the newsroom.
“Miss Fay, you type out Bill’s statement and your own in detail. Put everything in you can. Names, places, times, people. Everything. I’ve got to yank some people out of bed and get them down here. Tonight we’re putting out a paper!”
Jane sat at the typewriter. Davo paced back and forth in front of her. He started: “Up until thirteen days ago I was employed in the city engineer’s office. The following story explains why I was fired, beaten up, threatened. It is a story of graft on a large scale. It is a story of little men who are planning to milk the public of hundreds of thousands of dollars …”
The typewriter rattled, and the words spread across the paper. Facts. Figures. Names. An indictment of all that was vicious in Amberton. And all that was sly and diseased in the hearts of Farner, Wescott, Danerra, Hoe …
The rain had stopped. The gray dawn touched the mists rising from the river. The specialists, giving Johnson Vincens odd, sidelong glances, had slipped into their coats and left. The trucks were lined up at the side entrance for the morning edition. The drivers were across in the bean wagon, drinking coffee. The building was shuddering with the thump and roar of the big presses. As the copies piled up, men slid them away from the press, tied them and slid them down the chute to the waiting trucks. The first truck was filled and roared away.
In the office of the managing editor, Davo and Jane Fay stood behind Vincens reading the new page one, the ink still damp.
FARNER AND WESCOTT ACCUSED OF FRAUD … DANERRA IMPLICATED … FORTUNE IN HIGHWAY SWINDLE
Fat, wet headlines. Pictures of Farner and Wescott. Facts. Figures. A cut of Western Boulevard.
Vincens smacked his palm against the wet sheet and said, “I like it!” At that moment the presses stopped. They looked at each other. Vincens’ face suddenly acquired new lines. He led them in the crazy run down the stairs, down to the room where the presses stood silent. The pressmen stood in a small group. Two stocky men, their faces shadowed, stood by the presses, hands shoved deep in their pockets.
“What goes on here?” Vincens demanded.
“Stobe Farner’s orders,” one of them said flatly. “No paper published today.”
Davo stood motionless as Vincens took a slow step toward the two men. And another. “There will be a paper today.”
“Not this one,” the nearest said, and spat on the top one of the pile by the press.
Vincens took another slow step toward them. His face was a gray mask, his eyes wild. His fists were clenched tight.
“Don’t get excited, mister. Back up. Back up, I said!”
Vincens took another step. He was five feet from the nearest one of the two. The man’s hand came out of his pocket, gray morning light glinting on the blued steel of the gun he held.
“Back up!” the man shouted.
Vincens reached for the gun, moved in close. The sound of the shot smashed hard against the concrete walls, the silent presses.
Vincens backed up then. He took two slow backward steps, holding both palms tightly against his stomach. He didn’t fall. He let himself down slowly and carefully, bracing with his elbows and knees. He went over onto his side and died with his eyes open, with his face suddenly washed into the cool and placid look, that familiar look—of the battlefield … or the morgue.
The man who fired the shot looked stupidly at the gun in his hand.
The other said, “You poor damn fool!”
The man with the gun wheeled and crashed two shots into the intricate gears of the press, walked with quick steps to the door. They left without a backward look.
Jane Fay sobbed then. She sobbed, turned and half ran from the room. Davo felt ill. One of the pressmen walked, as if in his sleep, toward the phone on the bench along the wall.
There hadn’t been time for Stobe Farner to have gotten a co
py of the paper. Davo realized that somehow Vittano had gotten loose, had gone to Farner with his information. Farner had probably phoned Vincens’ home, found he was out and guessed at what had happened. Then he had moved fast, sending two men with instructions to find out what was being printed and stop the presses if they thought it necessary. It wasn’t the sort of job Farner would tackle himself. Not with the tough intelligence on his payroll.
The drivers had heard. They came in, gawped at Vincens’ body. Davo went to one of them. “Did a load of papers go out?”
“Huh? Yeah. One truck. Sammy Bart.”
“Do you know his schedule?”
“Sure. Residential stuff.”
“I want you to drive me after him in your truck.”
“Mister, I’m on company time. I don’t take any runs like that. I’ve got the sheets to deliver and—”
“Hold your hat, mister.”
The tires screamed as the man yanked the panel delivery around the first corner. The dawn streets were empty. A similar truck headed toward them, going back to the plant.
The driver said, “What the hell! That was Sammy! He hasn’t had time to drop his sheets.”
“Follow him.”
He spun the truck around in a roaring U-turn and caught Sammy’s truck just as it stopped near the delivery chute. Sammy Bart climbed out, another man beside him.
Davo hurried over and said, “What goes on?”
The stranger with Bart said, “Orders from Farner. These newspapers go back in.”
“That’s what the man says,” Bart sang out cheerfully.
Davo looked for a long moment at the narrow, silent face of the man with Bart, then turned and walked back into the plant.
The police were there. Somebody had thrown a worn blanket over Vincens’ body. Bart struggled past Davo with some bundles of papers. A stranger was standing near the press, giving orders. “Bring them all back in and round up two other drivers. These all get carted into the furnace room.”
More Good Old Stuff Page 16
