by Otto Penzler
They were near the coupe now. Rands smiled with his lips, turned his big head towards the Kid’s.
“You’ve been mixed up with killings since you were able to shove over pedlers’ carts, down in Rivington Street,” he said slowly. “They put an a in that name of yours—and you rate it, Kid. I’ve been on your tail a long time. And I’ve got you right.”
The Kid widened his dead-gray eyes. He said very softly:
“Like hell you have!”
Rands nodded. He stopped smiling, stopped walking. He looked towards the wheel seat of the coupe. He backed up a step, moved around to the left of Kid Deth. His right coat pocket bulked a little.
“Jeeze,” he said softly— ”that guy back of the wheel looks sick, Kid!”
Joey Deth didn’t look at the figure of Barney Nasser. He’d seen Barney too many times when he’d been alive. He hated Barney, dead or alive. And he was fighting down fear now. He suddenly realized that Rands was mocking him, that Rands knew Barney Nasser was slumped across the wheel of the coupe—and that the detective knew Nasser was dead.
Instinct drove words from between his lips. They were uncertain words.
“He’s drunk—maybe,” he said.
The detective narrowed his eyes on Kid Deth’s. They held a grimly amused expression.
“Yeah?” Rands said. “You think so, Kid?”
Joey Deth forced a smile. He felt cold. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes away from the right-hand pocket of the big detective’s coat. He nodded.
“He looks that way,” he said thickly.
Lou Rands nodded his big head slowly. The bulk in his right coat pocket moved a little.
“Dead men look that way, too,” the detective said slowly. “Move over near him, Kid.”
Kid Deth moved over near the coupe. He kept his eyes on the arms of Barney Nasser. They were half closed, and he tried to make them expressionless. He was thinking of the night that Nasser had turned Charlie Gay up, almost five years ago. And he was remembering that Charlie had come down the river from the Big House, three days ago. He was thinking of four or five other humans that had hated the man slumped over the wheel.
His eyes went to the eyes of Rands. The detective was smiling down at the dead man; he reached out a hand suddenly, jerked the head up from the arms. The arms of the dead man slipped off the wheel. Lou Rands sucked in his breath sharply, let the dead man’s head fall forward again. He swore.
“It’s Barney Nasser,” he breathed grimly. “He’s—dead!”
Kid Deth stood motionless. He didn’t speak. He was thinking that the big detective was a pretty good actor. He was afraid, and fighting fear. He said, after a little silence:
“Dead?”
Lou Rands reached into the coupe with his left hand, lifted an automatic from the seat beside Nasser. He swung towards Kid Deth, held out the gun.
“That got him,” he said softly.
The Kid stared at the automatic. Rands took his right hand away from the pocket, caught Deth’s left wrist. He was strong, and his movements were swift. Instinctively the Kid tried to twist loose. He spread his fingers—the grip of the gun struck against his palm. For a second the muzzle pointed towards the detective.
The Kid closed his fingers, felt for the trigger. Even as he squeezed he realized that the detective was framing him. He hated Rands—he had hated him for years. He had never killed— and Rands had always been trying to frame him. He squeezed hard. The trigger clicked.
Rands made a chuckling sound. He said fiercely as he pulled the Kid towards his big body.
“Got you—this time, Kid—with the goods— the gun—”
He struck out with his right hand. Joey Deth jerked his head to one side—the blow caught him high on the left temple. He went backward, releasing his grip on the gun. He stumbled, sprawled to the broken pavement. Rocking on his knees he saw Lou Rands through a blur before his eyes.
The detective had something white in his hands—a handkerchief. He was wrapping the gun in it. And the gun had the imprint of his fingers on it. And Barney Nasser was dead in the coupe.
Kid Deth said bitterly:
“You’re—framin’ me—you dirty, yellow—”
Rands cut in, sharply staring down at the swaying figure before him.
“You tried to squeeze me out, Kid. If the rod had been loaded—”
The big detective broke off. His body half turned away from the kneeling Kid. Two figures were in sight, just beyond the coupe. They had crossed the street under cover of the coupe—and the detective’s back had been turned to them. Rands swore hoarsely—said something Joey Deth failed to catch.
The Kid got to his feet. He saw Rands’ right hand move towards the right pocket of his coat. Then the bullets whined from two guns. They made sharp, echoed sound in the quiet street. Rands’ body jerked; he wheeled away from the two men. He turned jerkily towards Kid Deth, his face white and twisted. His lips were bared in pain. He said hoarsely:
“You dirty—mob hiding—rat—”
The material of his right pocket jumped—the bullet ricocheted from the pavement close to the Kid’s feet. Then Lou Rands’ head fell forward—he dropped. He went down heavily, and Joey Deth knew he was dead, even before his body rolled over and was motionless.
Blocks away, towards Forty-second Street, a police whistle made a shrilling sound. There was the patter of feet, near First Avenue. They died away. The Kid lifted his right hand and touched the bruised spot over his left temple. He said softly, with fear in his voice:
“Jeeze—Jeeze—they got him!”
Then he came out of it. The police whistle shrilled again. A truck rolled along First Avenue, making back-fire racket. But it was a different sound than that of the guns that had crashed. And the police in the distance knew it.
Joey Deth got a soiled handkerchief from his pocket, put it over the fingers of his left hand. He twisted Rands’ gun from his grip. He took the gun wrapped in the handkerchief, from the detective’s pocket. He was breathing heavily— there wasn’t much time. His brain was clear— the dead detective had been right about one thing—Kid Deth had been close to dead humans many times.
He moved close to the coupe, wiping the grip of the automatic carefully with the handkerchief. He wiped the barrel, too. Lou Rands had tried to frame him with this gun—that meant that a bullet or bullets from it had killed Barney Nasser. Perhaps Rands had murdered Nasser, perhaps not. But he had known that the gangster was dead—and he had tried to frame the Kid.
Joey dropped the weapon from the handkerchief to the coupe seat, beside Nasser’s right hand. The handkerchief he slipped in his pocket. He turned away from the car, glanced at the body of the detective. Then he crossed the street, went down an alley that ran through to Fortieth Street. He was halfway through the alley when he looked back and saw the lights of a car shining on the slush near the spot where the coupe rested. The siren wail died to a low whine.
The Kid smiled twistedly, patted the dead dick’s gun. On Fortieth Street he went towards the river, reached a small, wooden dock and tossed the gun into the water. He kept away from the few lights, found a stone and wrapped Rands’ handkerchief around it. There was a splash as East River water swallowed the fabric. The Kid moved along the river’s edge to Forty-second Street. He walked westward and picked up a cab at First Avenue. The driver looked sleepy and dumb—and that suited Joey Deth. He gave an address in Harlem, on the edge of the Black Belt.
The cab had traveled three blocks before the Kid remembered something. It pulled him up straight in the seat. He swore shakily. Then he sat back and swore softly and more steadily. Until this moment he had forgotten the lunch-wagon and Old Andy. Andy might have seen him with Lou Rands, might have heard them talking. Probably he had. And the police would see the lunch-wagon—they would question Andy. And Andy would talk.
Kid Deth sat on the seat of the cab and swayed with the motion of it. There were several things he didn’t know—and each thing had to do with death. But there was one
thing he did know—he was in a tough spot. That had to do with death, too. A hot spot on the electric chair. If Old Andy had seen, heard—and talked—
He sat up straight and lighted a cigarette. His left temple ached, throbbed. He looked through the rear window of the cab and saw only the lights of a big truck, far behind. He closed his little fingers tightly and showed white, even teeth in a smile.
“Like hell—they’ll get me!” he breathed.
2
At one o’clock the Kid kept the date he had spoken about to Lou Rands. He sat at a small table near the piano, in the cellar speakeasy just beyond the Black Belt—and the girl came to him. She was a blonde of around twenty-five, with blue eyes and a face that had once been babyish. Kid Deth reached under the table with his right foot and kicked out a chair for her. She sat down, got her chin resting on cupped palms and leaned towards him.
“Well—” she said in a voice that wasn’t too pleasant— ”there’s hell to pay, Kid.”
Joey Deth widened his dead-gray eyes and tried to look puzzled.
“Yeah?” he replied. “What about?”
She made a clicking sound with tongue and lips. Her blue eyes narrowed; she took one hand away from her chin and tapped pointed nails against the wood of the table. She said:
“Someone got that Rands dick. I’m thirsty— how about a beer?”
Joey ordered a beer and watched a dark-skinned man at a table across the room talk to himself as he drank. He sipped his own whiskey and frowned.
“Rands, eh?” he said softly. “Well—he had it comin’.”
The girl nodded. There was an expression in her eyes that Joey didn’t like; he hadn’t been sure of her for weeks now. Since Barney Nasser had stated that he was out to get Joey—the girl had changed. She was more cautious. She was playing safe.
The waiter brought her beer. Kid Deth smiled a little.
“Who got him, Bess?” he asked quietly.
The waiter went away and the girl drank half her beer in one try. Her fingers were shaking a little when she set the glass down on the table.
“You did, Kid,” she said very slowly.
Joey Deth slitted his eyes on hers. He breathed through his nose, was silent for a short time. Then he shook his head.
“Like hell I did,” he said almost pleasantly. “Who says so, Bess?”
She kept her blue eyes steady on his. She downed half of the remaining half glass of beer.
“Barney Nasser’s brother,” she said quietly. “I ran into him at Alma’s flat. He’s sore as hell.”
The Kid drew a deep breath. Barney Nasser’s brother—Gil Nasser. A killer who had been tried three times for murder without a conviction. A gun who hated only a week or so, and then stopped hating because there wasn’t any percentage in hating a dead human.
Joey Deth said slowly: “Gil’s hopped up— he’s talkin’ wild.”
The girl shook her head. “He doesn’t use the bad stuff, and you know it,” she said. “He says Barney Nasser picked you up over near Times Square—you had some talk to get finished. He drove you over between First and the East River, and you didn’t like what he said. You gave him the works. The Rands dick went over on a chance—to talk with a lunch-wagon owner named Andy Poison. Old Andy, he’s called. He spotted you and took you to the car. He had the goods on you, and you gunned him out. Then you slipped the gun beside Barney’s body and made a duck. That’s the way Gil figures.”
Kid Deth shook his head, smiling with his narrow lips.
“It’s no good, Bess,” he said. “I never killed in my life, you know that. I don’t pack a gun.”
She smiled grimly. “Barney Nasser did,” she said. “A .38 automatic. Gil thinks there were those kind of bullets in his lungs—and a flock of them in the dick’s body. He thinks you got Barney—and when Rands grabbed you—you got him.”
Kid Deth stopped smiling. He ordered another whiskey and a beer. When the waiter went away he said:
“They’re framing me, Bess—maybe we’d better try Chi for a look around.”
The girl shook her head. “I’m putting you wise—and I’m quitting, Kid,” she said. “You told Barney you’d lay out of New York—but Brooklyn’s a part of the big town. Maybe you forgot that. From now on—where you are it won’t be too healthy. I’m quitting.”
Kid Deth shrugged. “It’s quiet across the bridges,” he said. “But Barney didn’t want it that way. I went in there first—”
He broke off. The waiter brought the drinks. Joey said:
“Mac—let me know who comes in—before they start the walk, will you?”
The waiter nodded. “Sure, Kid,” he said. “An’ we ain’t seen you tonight.”
Joey Deth nodded. “That’s it, I ain’t been around,” he replied.
The girl chuckled mirthlessly. “You never did have luck with the slot machines, Kid,” she said. “Even at Coney—”
Kid Deth leaned across the table and bared his lips. Bess Grote’s eyes got big and frightened. She didn’t like to see Joey looking at her this way.
“You know too much,” he said in a hard voice. “And you’re pretty anxious to quit. Maybe you know that Charlie Gay has been out of stir for three days—and that it was Barney Nasser who turned him up for the stretch.”
He watched the girl’s lips tremble. She lifted her beer glass and drank.
“Charlie didn’t do for Barney,” she said, as she set the glass down again. “Charlie went—out West—right away.”
Kid Deth shook his head. “Better be careful, Bess,” he said in a hard tone. “I saw Charlie tonight—while I was—”
He checked himself. But the girl had a quick mind. That was one of the things he had liked about her. She was shrewd.
“While you was ridin’—with Barney,” she finished.
The Kid looked at her for several seconds. He did some thinking and reached a decision. He leaned across the wet table surface.
“I’ll be right with you, Bess,” he said slowly and very softly. “You’d better be that way with me. Things are getting tight. I never used a rod in my life. I’ve been around killings—and dead guys. But I never knocked a guy out. You know that.”
She wasn’t afraid of him; he could see that in her eyes. And it worried him. Weeks ago she had been afraid of him. But she figured another way now.
“You never did for a guy—until tonight, maybe,” she said slowly.
He kicked back his chair suddenly, stood up. Her eyes stayed on his; they got hard. She made a quick movement with her right hand half out of sight, and he heard the lock snap in the gray bag she always carried. He stared down at her. She said slowly:
“Sit down, Kid—and keep your hands in sight.”
He pulled his chair up, sat down. He smiled at her. After a few seconds he spoke slowly.
“So you’re playing for Gil Nasser?”
She shook her head. “Don’t get rough, that’s all. I’m not playing for anyone. But I’m quitting you. And I wouldn’t start for Chi with you. You wouldn’t reach the station, Kid.”
Joey Deth tried not to shiver. The tone of her voice was so certain. He said very quietly:
“Barney Nasser sent word he wanted to see me. I didn’t want to see him. I’ve been working the racket across the river—and I put the slot machines in. I didn’t cut in on Barney. He was on this side—and in Jersey. But he got sore because I was takin’ coin out of Brooklyn. He wanted to buy me off. He wanted to talk.”
She just smiled. Kid Deth said, with his eyes on her tired blue ones:
“He picked me up in the coupe—and we drove over near the river. We talked on the way, but we didn’t say much. I got the idea he was going to boost the price he was offering. Maybe I’d have taken it and cleared, Bess.”
She said: “Maybe,” in a doubtful tone, and lighted a cigarette. She smiled at him.
He narrowed his dead-gray eyes on hers. He said in a toneless voice:
“I needed cigarettes. We don’t smoke the same br
and, and there was talking to be done. I remembered a speak two squares up First Avenue. We figured it would be better not to drive. I got the cigarettes, and when I came back—Barney was dead across the wheel. I hadn’t heard a shot, but there are always trucks along First Avenue, and I’m used to back-fire racket.”
Bess Grote’s eyes closed momentarily. When she opened them she had stopped smiling.
“You’re lying, Kid,” she said softly. “You’re lying—and you’re in—for the works!”
He stiffened a little, and her right hand went to the bag. He shrugged.
“I saw the lunch-wagon, went down to question Old Andy. Rands came out and grabbed me. He took me back to the car, tried to frame me. He knocked me down.”
Kid Deth touched the bruised spot on his left temple. The girl watched him closely.
“Two guns came around the far side of the car—and opened on him. I didn’t see their faces—they didn’t come in close. They were medium sized, Bess. That’s—what happened.”
The girl finished her beer and nodded her head. She said slowly:
“That’s what you say, Kid. But I’m quittin’ you, just the same. The others may not think the same way.”
Joey Deth looked beyond the girl. A bell jangled outside. The waiter nodded to the Kid and went towards the speak-easy street door. The one who had been talking to himself was sleeping, his head pillowed in his arms. Kid Deth muttered to himself as he looked at the man—he reminded him of Barney Nasser.
“You always did—like Charlie Gay,” he said softly.
The girl’s mouth tightened. She shoved back her chair a little. There was rage in her blue eyes. It told the Kid a lot.
“You always did hate—Barney Nasser!” she snapped. “Only you never had the guts—”
She broke off as the waiter came into the back room. He reached Joey’s side.
“It’s that—tall, skinny dick!” he said. “I seen him through the peephole. The one that’s tied up with that Rands dick—his partner!”
The girl shoved back her chair and got to her feet. Her movements were quick, jerky. Kid Deth looked at her and chuckled without amusement in his tone.
“Going to—tip off Charlie?” he mocked.
