by 12 Chinamen
Then he felt inside his coat, took out his wallet and peeled off five ten-dollar bills. He got up and put the bills under a plate on the dresser. Somehow he thought the woman wouldn't like to take money from him, and from the look of the room she needed it.
After a few minutes she came in. She nodded to him. “They've gone,” she said.
Fenner got out of the chair. “That's mighty nice of you. Now I guess I'll run away.”
She said, “Wait a minute, stranger. Was that Carlos's mob?”
Fenner looked at her thoughtfully. “What do you know about that mob?” he asked.
Her eyes grew hard. “Plenty. If it weren't for those bastards, my Tim would be here now.”
Fenner said, “Yeah, it was them all right. What happened to Tim?”
She stood still, a massive figure of granite solidness. “Tim was a good guy,” she said, looking straight at Fenner. “He wasn't rich, but he got by. He had a boat and he took parties out in the gulf fishin'. Then this Carlos wanted him to take Chinks in the boat. He offered to pay, but Tim wasn't playing. He was like that. He was strong and tough, and he told Carlos no.
“Carlos couldn't get his own way, so he kills my man. Well, it ain't what happens to the one who gets killed. It's what happens to the one who gets left. Tim died quick; went out like a light. But I don't forget quick. I guess in time I'll go dead inside and I'll find things working out easier than they are now, but right now I'd like to do things to that Carlos.”
Fenner got to his feet. He said gently, “Take it easy. Carlos'll pay for that all right. It wouldn't get you anywhere if you did kill him. Leave Carlos to me. I gotta date with him.”
The woman said nothing. She suddenly stuffed her apron in her mouth and her face crumpled. She waved Fenner to the door wildly, and as he went out, she sank on her knees by the rocking-chair.
When Fenner got down to the harbor, Schaife was waiting for him outside the San Francisco Hotel. They went in and had two quick drinks and then Fenner followed him down to the waterfront.
Schaife said, “I've got two Thompsons and a lotta shells. Scalfoni's brought a bag of bombs. God knows if those bombs are any use. He makes 'em himself. That guy's been itchin' to throw them at someone ever since he got the idea.”
Fenner said, “He'll get his chance tonight.”
Kemerinski's boat was of a good size. Alex and Scalfoni were smoking, waiting. Fenner stepped aboard as Kemerinski appeared from the engine cockpit. He grinned at Fenner. “Everything okay,” he said. “We can go when you say so.”
Fenner said, “Sure. We've got nothing to wait for. Let her go.”
The other three got on board, and Kemerinski went below and started the engine. The boat began to throb and Schaife shoved her nose off from the harbor wall.
Fenner said, “We'll land on the village side and walk over. Maybe we'll have to leave in a hurry.”
Kemerinski grunted. “This old tub ain't too fast,” he said, nosing the boat carefully through the lights towards the open gulf.
Scalfoni came up and climbed into the cockpit. His greasy skin shone in the dim light. “I got the bombs,” he said. “Gee! I'm sure goin' to get a kick when they go bang.”
Fenner took off his hat and scratched his head. “These other guys've got bombs too,” he said. “They threw one at me about an hour ago.”
Scalfoni's jaw dropped. “Did it go off?” he asked.
Fenner looked at him and nodded. “Sure, it wrecked a house. I'm hoping you've made a good job with your home-made bangs. We might need them.”
Scalfoni said, “Jeeze!” and went away to have another look at his bag.
It didn't take much longer than fifteen minutes before Fenner spotted distant lights. He pointed them out to Kemerinski, who nodded and said, “Black Caesar.”
Fenner stretched and climbed out of the cockpit. He walked over to the other three who were sitting on the foredeck, watching the lights. “Let's get this right,” he said. “We've come here to put Carlos's boats out of action. We've got to do this quick and with the least trouble. Scalfoni, you carry the bombs. Schaife and me will have the Thompsons, and Alex will cover us with his rod. Kemerinski will stay with the boat. Okay?”
They grunted.
As the boat ran into the small natural harbor, Schaife unslung the two Thompsons and passed one to Fenner. Scalfoni came up from the cabin, a black bag in his hand. “Don't you guys crowd me,” he said. “These pineapples are touchy things.”
They all laughed.
Alex said, “Some guy'll put a slug in that bag, sure thing. It'll save you a burial, anyway.”
The boat swept in a half-circle, and came up to the side of the harbor wall as Kemerinski reached forward and cut the switch. The engine died with a little flurry.
Schaife, standing in the stern, jumped on to the wall and Alex tossed him the bowline. He held the boat steady until the others landed. Kemerinski handed up the bag of bombs tenderly to Scalfoni.
Fenner said, “Watch out. Soon as you hear the bombs, get the engine started. We might have to leave in a hurry.”
Kemerinski said, “Sure, that'll be okay. Watch yourselves, you guys.”
They moved towards the village. The road leading from the harbor was rough and narrow. Big stones lay about and once Scalfoni tripped. The others swore at him uneasily.
“Careful, you punk,” Alex said; “watch how you walk.”
Scalfoni said, “I'm watchin' okay. The way you're goin' on, you'd think these pills were dangerous. Maybe they won't go off at all.”
Fenner said, “We'll take the back streets. Two of you go first, and Scalfoni and I'll follow you. We don't want to attract attention.”
It was a hot night with a bright moon. Both Fenner and Schaife carried the Thompsons wrapped in a piece of sacking. They skirted the village and crossed the island through a series of small squares and dark alleys. The few fishermen they did meet glanced at them curiously, but could make out nothing except shadowy outlines.
After a steep climb they suddenly came to the sea again—sparkling several hundred feet below them.
Fenner said, “I guess this is it.”
Down the steep incline they could see a large wooden cabin, a long concrete jetty and six big motor-boats moored to rings set in the reinforced wall. Two lights gleamed through two windows of the cabin, and the door stood half open, sending a strip of light on the oily water.
They stood silently looking down. Fenner said, “Get the bombs out. Each of you take a couple. Scalfoni has the rest. We'll attack the cabin first. When it looks safe enough tackle the boats. They're all to be sunk.” .
Scalfoni opened the bag and took out two bombs. He handed them to Fenner. The bombs, were made of short sections of two-inch pipe. Fenner stood waiting until Scalfoni had given each man a couple of the stuffed pipes, then he said, “Schaife and I will look after the cabin. You, Scalfoni, get down to the boats. Alex, stay here and come down if we get into trouble.”
Scalfoni opened his shirt and piled bombs inside.
“You have a fall now, an' you'll certainly be in a mess,” Fenner said with a little grin.
Scalfoni nodded, “Yeah,” he said, “it makes me nervous to breathe.”
Fenner held the two bombs in his left hand and the Thompson in his right. “Okay,” he said, “let's go.”
Moving slowly, Schaife and Fenner began to slide down the incline. Fenner said, “You go to the right and I'll take the left. I don't want any shootin' unless it's necessary.”
Schaife's thin face sneered. “It'll be necessary all right,” he said.
Halfway down, they both paused. A man had come out of the cabin and he walked along the wall.
Fenner said, “That complicates things.”
The man stood on the wall, looking out to sea. Fenner began sliding down again. “Stay where you are for a bit,” he said softly to Schaife. “He might hear two of us.”
Down Fenner went silently. The man stood, his back turned, motionless.
Fenner reached the waterfront and stood up. He put the two bombs inside his shirt. He was so conscious of the man that he didn't shrink at the coldness of the metal against his skin. Holding the Thompson at the ready, he walked softly down the wall. When he was thirty feet from the man, his foot touched a small stone which rolled into the water, making a loud splash. Fenner froze. Standing quite still, his finger curled round the trigger.
The man glanced over his shoulder, saw Fenner and jerked round. Fenner said, “Hold the pose,” jerking up the Thompson.
In the moonlight, Fenner could see that the man was a Cuban. He could see the whites of his eyes as they bolted out of his head. The Cuban shivered a little with shock, then he dropped on his knees, his hand going inside his coat. Fenner swore at him softly and squeezed on the trigger. He gave him a very short burst from the gun. The Cuban fell back, his hands clutching at his chest; then he rolled over into the water.
Fenner moved fast. Two big drums of petrol stood close by and he ducked behind them. He got there a split second before a machine gun opened up from the cabin. He heard the slugs rattle on the drum, and a strong smell of petrol told him the drum was pierced.
The machine gun kept grinding and there was such a hail of bullets that Fenner had to lie flat, his face pressed into the sand, expecting any second to feel the ripping slugs tear into his body. He put his hand in his pocket and took out the two bombs. He balanced one of them in his hand, then tossed it over the drum in the direction of the cabin. He heard it strike something and then drop to the ground.
He thought, “So much for Scalfoni's home brew.”
The machine-gun had stopped and the silence that followed its vicious clatter was almost painful. He edged his way to the side of the drum and peered round cautiously. The lights of the cabin had been put out and the door had been shut. He groped for the other bomb, found it and threw it at the door. Even as his hand came up the machine-gun spluttered into life, and he ducked back just in time.
The bomb hit the door and a sheet of flame lit up the darkness, followed by a deafening noise. Brick splinters and wood whizzed overhead, and the force of the concussion made Fenner's head reel. He revised his opinion of Scalfoni's bombs after that. The machine-gun stopped. Again looking around the drum, Fenner saw that the door had been ripped so that it hung on one hinge. The woodwork and paint was smoke-blackened, and splintered. Even as he looked, two more violent explosions occurred front the back of the cabin. He guessed Schaife was doing his stuff.
Resting the Thompson on the top of the drum, he fired a long burst into the cabin and ducked down again. Someone replied from the wrecked cabin with a straggly burst from the machine gun and then Fenner gave him half the drum. After that there was a long lull.
Glancing up, Fenner could just make out Scalfoni crawling down the slope, clutching his chest with one hand. He looked very much exposed as he moved on down, but Fenner could imagine his triumphant grin. He must have been spotted coming down, because someone started firing at him with an automatic rifle. Scalfoni didn't lose his head. He put his hand inside his shirt, pulled out a bomb and heaved it at the cabin. Fenner followed the bomb in flight, then flattened himself in the sand. He had a horrible feeling that the bomb would fall on his head.
The bomb struck the cabin and exploded with a tearing, ripping noise. A long flash lit up the sky and then the roof of the cabin caught on fire. Scalfoni came down fast without drawing any more shooting. Bent double, he ran past the cabin and joined Fenner behind the drum.
“Jeeze!” he said excitedly. “They work! What a night! I wouldn't've missed this for all the janes in the world.”
Fenner said, “Watch out! They'll be coming out.”
Scalfoni said, “Lemme give 'em just one more. Just one more to make up their mind for them.”
Fenner said, “Sure, enjoy yourself.”
Scalfoni slung the bomb into the open doorway. The explosion that followed was so violent that although they were crouching down behind the drum, they both suffered a little from the concussion.
A moment later someone screamed, “I'm done. I'm comin' out. Don't do any more—don't do any more.”
Fenner didn't move. “Come on out, with your mitts high.”
A man came staggering out of the blazing cabin. His face and hands were cut with flying glass, and his clothes were almost all torn off. He stood swaying in the flickering light of the flames, and Fenner saw that it was Miller. He came out from behind the drum, his lips just off his teeth.
Schaife came running up, his thin face alight with excitement. “Any more of them?” he asked.
Miller said, “The others are dead—don't touch me, mister.”
Fenner reached out and grabbed him by his tattered shirt. “I thought I settled your little hash a while back,” he said unpleasantly.
Miller gave at the knees when he recognized Fenner. “For God's sake, don't start on me!” he blubbered.
Fenner curled him with his free hand. “Who else's in there?” he said. “Come on, canary, sing!”
Miller stood trembling and shuddering. “There ain't any more,” he whined. “They're all dead.”
Alex came running up. Fenner said to him, “Take care of this guy. Treat him nicely. He's had a nasty shock.”
Alex said, “Yeah?” swung his fist and knocked Miller down, then he booted him hard.
Fenner said, “Hey! Don't get too tough. I want to talk with that punk.”
Alex said, “That's all right. I'll have him in the right frame of mind.” He went on booting Miller.
Fenner left them and went down the wall towards the boats. Scalfoni was waiting for orders.
Fenner said, “Scuttle 'em. Keep one. We'll go round the island an' pick Kemerinski up. It'll save walkin'.”
He went back to Miller, who had dragged himself off the ground and was imploring Alex to let him alone. Fenner told Alex to go and help Scalfoni. Fenner said to Miller, “I told your little louse what would happen. This is only the start of it. Where's Thayler?”
Miller didn't say anything. His head was sunk on his great chest and he made a strangled sobbing noise. Fenner rammed the Thompson into his ribs. “Where's Thayler?” he repeated. “Talk, you punk, or I'll spread your insides.”
Miller said, “He don't come here. Honest to God, I don't know where he is.”
Fenner showed his teeth. “We'll see about that,” he said.
Scalfoni came running up. “They're fillin',” he said. “Suppose I toss in a few bombs to make sure.”
Fenner said, “Why not?”
A few minutes later the shattering roar of the bombs exploding filled the silent harbor, and clouds of dense black smoke drifted from the boats.
Fenner said to Miller, “Come on, punk, you're going for a ride.” He had to shove Miller in front of him at the end of the Thompson. Miller was so terrified that he could hardly walk. He kept on mumbling, “Don't give it to me. I want to live, mister, I want to live.”
The others were already in the boat waiting for them.
When they got on board, Schaife started the engine. “Gee!” he said. This is the grandest night's work I've ever done. I never thought we'd get away with it.”
Fenner groped for a cigarette and lit it. “The fun'll start as soon as Carlos hears about it,” he remarked. “I said shock tactics would succeed and they have. Now Carlos knows what he's up against, the rest isn't going to be so easy.”
They ran the boat round the island and signaled to Kemerinski, who started up his boat and joined them outside the harbor. They all got into Kemerinski's boat, Alex dragging Miller along with him. Scalfoni was the last to leave and, before he did so, he opened the cocks and scuttled the boat.
As he climbed on board Kemerinski's boat he said, “I guess it's tough sinkin' these boats. I could have done with one of them myself.”
Fenner said, “I thought of that, but Carlos still has a fair size gang, an' he'd have got them back. This is the only way.”
As Kemerin
ski headed the boat out to sea he wanted to know what had happened. “I heard the uproar,” he said excitedly. “It certainly got the village steamed up. They guessed what was goin' on, and no one had the guts to go an' watch the fun.”
Fenner said to Alex, “Bring the punk into the cabin. I want to talk to him.”
Alex said, “Sure,” and brought Miller down into the small brightly lit cabin.
Miller stood shivering, staring at Fenner with bloodshot eyes.
Fenner said, “Here's your chance, canary. You talk and you'll survive. Where can I find Thayler?”
Miller shook his head. “I don't know,” he mumbled. “I swear I don't know.”
Fenner looked at Alex. “He don't know,” he said.
Alex swung his fist hard into Miller's face. There was the faint sound of his arm in flight, then a thud as his fist crushed Miller's face.
Miller reeled back against the cabin wall, putting his hands to his face.
“Where's Thayler?”
“I swear I don't know. If I knew I'd tell you. Honest to God, I don't know. . . .”
Alex went over to him and pulled his hands away from his face. Blood ran down from his nose and his top lip was split, showing a long yellow tooth. Alex hit him again. He hit him very hard, so that he grunted as he drove the punch home.
Miller's knees went and he slid down the wall and sat on the floor.
Fenner repeated coldly, “Where's Thayler?”
Miller sobbed, and mumbled something. Fenner said, “Okay, leave him to me.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out his gun. He walked over to Miller and bent over him. “Get up,” he said harshly. “I'm not making a mess inside here. Come on up on deck.”
Miller looked into the gun barrel, his eyes bulging, then he said in a low, even voice, exhausted with terror, “He's over at the Leadler dame's joint.”
Fenner remained squatting. He was very still. “How did he know about it?” he said at last.
Miller leaned his head against the wall. Blood continued to drip from nose and his eyes never left the gun. “Bugsey phoned him,” he whispered.
