Stop This Man!

by Peter Rabe

  He grinned.

  “Throw me my blouse, Daisy,” she said.

  Catell threw her the thin blouse. She put it on and Catell watched how it buttoned tight across the front.

  “Now the shoes. Under your chair, Mary.”

  “You don’t need ‘em,” Catell said.

  “The shoes, Mary. I’m a respectable woman. I wear shoes.”

  “The hell with the shoes. You look more sexy with your feet naked.”

  “Come on, faggot, the shoes,” and she stamped her foot.

  “Do that again, baby. It makes you wiggle so nice.” Catell grinned at her. She came at him with mouth curled back over her teeth and her loose hair flying. When she reached out to claw at him, Catell caught her wrists and pinned her arms to her sides. Trying to wrench free, she popped a button and the blouse fell open.

  “I get more cooperation from that button than I get from you,” he said.

  “I told ya I’m a respectable woman,” she hissed, kicking at him.

  The Turtle had picked up his bathrobe and was just opening the door to go out.

  “Leave some dough on the table. Millie’s going to earn it.” Catell leaned over to reach her mouth and she bit him. He jerked back and laughed. “Millie’s gonna make whoopee with a fruitcake, ha, Millie?”

  The door shut behind the Turtle and Catell reached for the woman’s straps. She stepped back fast, knocking his hands out of the way and lashing at his face. Her nails cut a fine line of blood down his cheek and her other hand caught him flat on the nose. Catell stumbled back, cursing, and fell over the chair. When he looked up she was standing near the rim of the red reflection. Her skirt was a heap on the floor, and the light made dim patterns on her bare legs and belly. Then the blouse fell off, and the brassiere. When the woman was naked she came at him again, but she didn’t try to scratch this time.

  Chapter Nine

  Catell left for Burbank at nine in the morning. For the next five hours he shuffled back and forth in one bus after another, missing stops, rooting around for a connection, letting a bus go by to catch a bite at a street stand. By the middle of the day the hot sun had brewed up a smog that burned in Catell’s eyes and made the inside of his nose feel like shoe leather. When he got out on Victory and found the Quentin Machine Company, he was grimy with sweat and sore.

  Inside the shop it felt hotter than outside. A couple of big fans swished the oily air around so that the draft made you feel prickly with dirt.

  “Yes, sir, you lookin’ for somethin’?”

  A thin man in clean, starched suntans came up to Catell and stopped in front of him.

  “I’m looking for Smith,” Catell said.

  The thin guy took his rimless glasses off, put them back on again, and patted himself on his bald head. Catell noticed how the man looked dry all over. Why didn’t that bastard sweat like everybody else?

  “We got two Smiths here. Kind of a common name, I guess. Which Smith you innerested in?”

  “S. Smith.”

  “Sherman!” the man yelled. “Come here once.”

  A man who had been working on a drill press came down the aisle between the machines and looked at Catell.

  “Yeah?”

  “You S. Smith?” Catell asked.

  “Yeah. Who are you? Do I know you?”

  “I just came in from Detroit. Friend of Paar’s.”

  “Paar? You got the wrong guy, feller. I don’t know no Paar.”

  “Sorry, my mistake,” Catell said. “Perhaps the other Smith is the one I want.” He turned back to the man in suntans.

  “Might be, except that he ain’t here today. Hurt his hand on the shaper. Hot chips, ya know, burned a hole right in his arm. You go back, Sherman. Guess you’re the wrong guy.”

  Catell watched the machinist walk back to his drill press. That wasn’t the Smith he wanted, and his Smith hadn’t got hurt working on a shaper, either.

  “There’s another Smith here,” Catell said. “He doesn’t work on a machine. He’s got an office here and I want to see him.”

  “Well, now, I’m the foreman here and there’s no other Smith works here. Who’re you, anyway?”

  “Where’s the office?”

  “I guess you didn’t hear me, mister. What’s your name and business?”

  Catell gave the foreman a bland look. “I guess you didn’t hear me, either. Where’s the office?”

  “Mister, I don’t need to tell you anything, but just to get rid of you, I got my desk right over yonder.” He pointed to a windowless corner with a desk and files separated from the rest of the shop by some badly tacked beaverboard.

  “There’s another office. Where is it?” Catell took a step.

  The thin guy in suntans stuck his arm out and held Catell by the lapels. “No further, mister.” He pulled Catell close.

  The two men stared at each other, almost nose to nose.

  “Tell me, foreman, how come you don’t sweat?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “I said, how come you don’t sweat?” Catell jabbed two fingers into the man’s stomach.

  The foreman let go of Catell’s lapels. “You lookin’ for trouble, mister, you got it.” Wheezing in his throat, he swung at Catell with a flabby roundhouse. Catell just stepped back, right into the arms of two machinists. They twisted Catell’s arms in opposite directions and, with his feet hardly touching the ground, walked him to the rear of the shop.

  There was another door there. Through the tool crib and past a noisy pump motor there was another office. The foreman opened the door, the two machinists gave a light push, and Catell stumbled into the room. The foreman kicked the door shut and Catell couldn’t hear the pump motor any more. He suddenly felt pleasantly cool.

  Aside from the soundproofing and the air conditioning, there was nothing special about the room. White composition walls, a leatherette couch, a small desk with three phones, no windows. The light came from fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.

  “Don’t try anything, mister. You and I ain’t alone here.”

  “I figured we weren’t,” Catell said. He got off the floor and watched the foreman go through another door. Catell sat down on the couch. He couldn’t hear a sound except for the faint humming of the air conditioning. Then the foreman came back. Without bothering to look at Catell he walked past and out through the soundproofed door. A while later the inner door opened again.

  The man was well built and well tailored. He had glossy hair and his mouth was very red. If this was a syndicate man, Catell figured him for one of those smart young kids who came up fast because he knew how to take orders without questions, and how to follow through without scruples.

  Tailor-made stopped opposite Catell and gave him a dead look.

  “What’s your name?”

  “What’s yours?”

  For a second the dead look came alive and Catell thought the guy was going to jump him, but then he relaxed and sat on the edge of the desk.

  “You got this wrong, Blue Lips,” he said. “I don’t answer, I ask. And you, Blue Lips, you answer what I ask. Now, what’s your name?”

  “If you’re Smith, I’ll talk. If not, I don’t talk.”

  “I’m Smith, Blue Lips. Mr. Smith, that is.”

  “O.K. My name’s Catell. Tony Catell. I got your name from a friend of mine in Detroit. Paar’s his name. If you got the time, I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “I got the time, Blue Lips. Talk.”

  Catell didn’t like the way things were going, and the tailor-made punk was getting under his skin. What made Catell really hot was the fact that he’d been had. This punk wasn’t S. S. Smith any more than the foreman had been a big shot. No big shot talked tough like a punk.

  “Call me that name once more and the next time you look in the shaving mirror you won’t recognize the face you see. Now where’s Smith?”

  Catell noticed that the guy didn’t move after the speech. He saw him go stiff and his chin started to
quiver, as if he wanted to cry. He didn’t cry, though. The next thing Catell saw was the business end of a banker’s special, and Tailormade was holding it. He was holding it very steady.

  “What name you talking about, Blue Lips?” His voice sounded very gentle.

  Catell looked at the steady gun and then there was the sound of shoes creaking. The gun came closer. It was very still in the room, just the slow creak of the new shoes. Catell’s shirt felt wet and clammy on his back, and he started to rise.

  “Go ahead, Blue Lips. You can get up if you want.” That voice was as smooth as silk.

  Then it was very quiet again. The shoes had stopped creaking, the gun was very close. Suddenly there was a sharp, nasty sound, loud like a splintering tree. The gun was cocked now. Cold with sweat, Catell looked up at the man’s face. The lidded eyes looked soft, the mouth was lax and very red, and nothing moved but the chin, still quivering. Then Catell saw the man’s neck. It was a smooth neck, and with a weird fascination Catell could see how the neck was swelling. Slowly it started to bulge over the starched collar and a thick vein grew under the skin, like a glistening worm.

  Then the mouth moved and the soft voice said, “Now, Blue Lips?”

  “Now what, gentlemen?”

  They both jumped. A portly man stood by the inner door, his short arms folded across his front, and he was smiling around a cigar.

  There was no emotion in the way the gunman moved. He stepped back slowly, turned his head toward the open door, and slipped the gun very smoothly under his tailormade jacket.

  “Mr. Smith,” he said. “I didn’t know you were there.”

  “I know,” Mr. Smith said. “I was just watching.”

  Catell wasn’t taking the whole thing so lightly. When the gun had disappeared he had suddenly felt very weak. He sank back on the couch, wiping the sweat from his face. He noticed that his hands were shaking when he dropped them back to his lap. There was a fine sharp pain running up his arm from his left hand. There, on the back of it, he saw the reddish skin of the healed wound where the sheriff had sapped him. Only the skin wasn’t all healed. It had cracked again and a little dark blood was running out.

  “Did you hurt Mr.—ah, Mr.—?” Smith looked concerned.

  “I didn’t touch him. His name’s Catell.”

  “Is this true, Mr. Catell?”

  “You Smith?” Catell was back on his feet, but his voice had a sudden crack in it.

  “Mr. Smith,” said the punk. He stepped up to Catell and grabbed him by the lapels. “The name to you is Mr. Smith,” and he jerked the lapels hard. Catell didn’t try to resist. His head had started to spin and he felt like a rag. Then his strength came back as suddenly as it had gone, but now Smith had come up close.

  “You may stop that,” he said to the gunman, and there was a hint of coldness in his voice. “And you, sir, I’m sure you will overlook our hot-blooded friend. Would you care to introduce yourself properly now?”

  Catell shook his jacket back into shape and ran his fingers through his hair.

  “Sure. As your friend said, my name’s Catell. Tony Catell. A friend of mine in Detroit—”

  “Paar,” said Smith. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. And you wanted to speak to me?”

  “If you got the time.”

  “Come in, come in. There’s been too much ceremony already, so let’s sit down and get to it.” He laughed with a short, hiccuppy gurgle.

  The inner office was larger than the anteroom, but it looked much smaller, full with a large desk, couch, chairs, files, and telephones.

  Smith sat down behind the desk and Catell settled himself into an easy chair. Tailor-made put his hand on the back of the chair, the knuckles touching Catell’s shoulder.

  Smith looked at Catell with a winning smile on his round face, and Catell looked back at Smith, trying to get his bearings. For a while nobody said anything.

  “Well, Catell, let me help you along. I understand from your good friend Paar that you have something to sell. Now you, of course, know nothing about me, except that I’m a friend of Paar’s, that I do business on the West Coast, and that I might be able to help you. Now then, what’s your story?”

  “How about Monkey Boy here? How about him getting the hell outa here?”

  “Oh, well now,” said Smith, and he made benign sounds.

  Catell turned around in his seat, looking up at the gunman. They stared at each other without moving.

  Smith said, “You were saying, Catell?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything. And I’m not saying anything, Smith, unless Monkey Boy gets out.”

  A knuckle dug into Catell’s shoulder from behind and the gentle voice said, “It’s Mr. Smith, Blue Lips.”

  Catell jumped up, kicking the chair backward. It didn’t move much, but the gunman stumbled. Half crouched, he was reaching into his jacket when Catell gave the chair another kick. The back of the chair slapped the gunman’s knees, making him buckle again. With the edge of his hand Catell knifed down on the man’s neck, jamming his face down against the top of the chair. But when the man rolled over, half on the floor now, the gun was in his hand and coming up fast.

  “Enough!” Smith’s voice was sharp.

  Catell saw that the gun stopped moving instantly and then disappeared again under the jacket.

  “In fact, I think you’d better leave. I won’t need you now. I feel Mr. Catell and I will get along quite nicely. I can reach you at the club?”

  “Sure, Mr. Smith.” The gunman got off the floor. His face was soft and calm. Without looking at Catell he turned and went out. Catell noticed he was carrying his head at a slight angle.

  “I’m sorry you had this little brush,” Smith said. “Topper is a very fine young man. A little too exacting sometimes, but perhaps for that reason particularly valuable to me.”

  There was a noticeable undertone in Smith’s words, the kind of tone that Catell would ordinarily resent. But he hadn’t caught it. He’d caught only the name Topper, and there was a thin twitch in Catell’s left cheek. He ran a hand over his face and sat down again.

  “Do you know what I’m selling, Smith?”

  “No, I have no idea. I am interested, though, because of Paar’s—ah—recommendation. He doesn’t phone me too often, but he did feel obliged to tell me about you. What are you selling, Catell?”

  “Gold.”

  Smith didn’t answer right away. He just sat with his hands folded, smiling at Catell.

  “Did you say gold? Plain gold?”

  “Yeah, plain gold.”

  There was another silence while Smith pulled his lower lip and looked at Catell with that smile.

  “Let’s understand each other, Catell,” he said finally. “What you have isn’t plain gold. It’s radioactive gold.”

  Catell didn’t back down under the voice. He leaned forward in his chair and looked at Smith with a plain, hostile stare. “All I know for sure is I got gold. Maybe it’s radioactive, maybe it isn’t. When it’s radioactive, the stuff makes you sick, doesn’t it? Well, I’m not sick. I’ve had it with me for a while now and I’m O.K.”

  “You still have the gold then?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Have you seen it lately?”

  “I’ve got it and I want to sell it.”

  Smith swiveled his chair to face in the opposite direction. With head back, he sat like that for several minutes, thinking. There were a lot of things that Smith knew about. He knew about business, about organizing men, about demand and supply, he even knew about scientific things. When he’d organized his territory for prostitution, he’d got together information on incidence of venereal disease, on percentages of income groups patronizing whorehouses. When he’d heard about Catell’s heist, he’d studied the properties of radioactive substances, gold in particular. What he was not sure about was whether the gold had actually been made radioactive. Scientists and FBI men were the worst sources of information.

  “So you say you have this go
ld, eh, Catell?”

  “Look, Smith, like you said, let’s understand each other. Either you want it or you don’t. Say no, and I leave. Say yes, and we talk terms.”

  For just a moment Smith didn’t move at all. Then he leaned forward on the desk and chuckled with a wet sound. “Catell, I like that. Of course I believe you. Not only because you are that kind of man, but also because, after all, there’s no percentage in your lying to me. In fact—But let it go. So you want to sell your gold. I want to buy it. How much have you and how much do you want?”

  “I got thirty-six pounds—regular pounds like in weighing machines, not troy pounds. At thirty-five dollars a troy ounce, that comes to twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty dollars. On the market, I understand, it’s worth more. About twenty-eight thousand. I’ll give it to you for twenty even. Well?”

  “Mr. Catell, I’d like to help you, but that’s more than I can pay.”

  “Whaddaya mean, more than you can pay? You broke or something?”

  Smith hiccupped and gurgled his laugh for a while and then stopped abruptly.

  “No, Catell, it’s not that I’m broke. I’m experienced, though, and while I’ve never handled this large a piece of gold, I predict it’s not going to be easy to move. Please don’t interrupt. You want to tell me that lump gold is one of the easiest things to move. Perhaps. But are you forgetting that this stuff may have radioactive properties? And even if it doesn’t, it still has that reputation. All in all, Catell, the circumstances of the entire deal you pulled tend to limit the number of potential customers quite radically. And that, you know, means more work for me, more risk, and therefore less money for you.”

  “How much less?”

  “Twelve thousand dollars.”

  Catell jumped out of his chair and leaned over Smith’s desk. “Smith,” he said, “why don’t you go drop dead?” Then he straightened up and started to turn.

  “Wait a minute. Sit down, Catell. Now, look. The least you should get out of this is some good advice. How long have you been out of stir?”

  “Two months.”

  “And you act like it. I can see your point of view. Here you get out, pull a brilliant piece of work, and naturally expect your recognition. Well, times have been changing. First of all, your lone-wolf type of operation doesn’t mean so much anymore. We work by organization these days. Secondly, things have got tight. In money and everything else. Did you know Slater, biggest fence operation in the Frisco area? Well, he’s locked away. Or Jensen in New Orleans, imports and exports, if you know what I mean? He got life. And so it goes. Let me advise you, Catell, count your friends, take your pay, and learn to play ball.”