Give the Girl a Gun
Richard Deming
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Also Available
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
BY NOW I SHOULD be used to the attention Fausta Moreni draws in public, for I have squired her across enough night-club floors amid the drooling of every male customer and the homicidal glares of every female. Yet as always when her passage turned every head, none of which so much as flicked a glance at me, I had to suppress an impulse to cross my eyes, put both thumbs in my ears and wiggle the fingers just to test my theory that she made me invisible.
Fausta’s own club, El Patio, was the scene of this gauntlet running, and we were on our way out. On the infrequent occasions we spent an evening together, they always start like that, for the stairs from Fausta’s apartment on the second floor of El Patio lead to a hall at the rear of the club, and in order to get out of the place you have to traverse the whole length of the dining room and one end of the cocktail lounge.
Fausta, also as always, dragged out our exit an unreasonable length of time by playing the hostess clear across the dining room. At every table we passed, she smiled at the customers and. dropped a gracious “Good evening.” When she knew a customer by name, which involved about every third table, she stopped for a moment’s chat. To my past bitter objection that when she took a night off, she ought to take it off completely, she always explained that devoting a few seconds of personal attention to her customers bred good will. But why a supper club which nightly turned away people without reservations required further good will, she has never explained to my satisfaction.
We were almost to the door when a young fellow at a table for six hailed her. He was a handsome lad in an underdeveloped sort of way, thin and curly-haired, white-toothed and actually possessing dimples. There were three couples at the table and apparently his date was the slim, fresh-looking redhead on his left.
“Fausta!” he called. “Come drink a toast to our future.”
Fausta flashed him a friendly smile and said, “Thank you, Barney, but we are just leaving.”
“Not without wishing us luck,” Barney insisted.
He stood up and gestured with a half-full champagne bottle.
“Oh!” Fausta said in a delighted voice. “You and Madeline are getting married?”
For an instant the young man looked blank. Then he flushed slightly. Across the table a heavy-set middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar, but whom I could not quite place, erupted into a roar of laughter. The redhead on Barney’s left blushed furiously.
“Now you’ll have to ask her, Barney,” the heavy-set man said in a rubbery voice. “You compromised her publicly.”
Fausta gave the redhead a contrite look. “I have made a faux pas, Madeline? I am sorry.”
The redhead continued to blush and Barney laughed a trifle uncertainly. “That would call for an even bigger celebration,” he said. “But unfortunately Madeline’s planning to marry another guy one of these days and only regards me as a business associate. Tonight we’re just celebrating the incorporation of the Huntsafe Company.”
When Fausta merely looked politely puzzled, the red-haired Madeline said, “Barney got word today the patent application on the Gimmick was approved.” She had a clear, pleasant voice which somehow fitted her fresh appearance.
“Oh? You mean that thing with which you shoot deer?”
Barney grinned at her. “You weren’t listening when I explained it, Fausta. It’s not to shoot deer, it’s to avoid shooting deer hunters. But sit down at least long enough to have a drink.”
Fausta glanced inquiringly over her shoulder at me. I shrugged, having learned not to waste effort trying to influence her minor decisions, as she invariably does as she pleases anyway. This time she apparently decided she should make amends for her faux pas by accepting the invitation.
Signaling a nearby waiter for a couple of extra chairs, she took my hand, drew me up beside her and said, “I would like you people to meet Manville Moon.”
The curly-haired young man she introduced as Bernard Amhurst, and the redhead as Madeline Strong. When she designated the heavy-set man who had guffawed as being Edgar Friday, I understood why he had seemed familiar.
Ed Friday was supposed to be an ex-racketeer, though certain people with a thorough knowledge of what went on in town seemed a trifle dubious about the “ex.” Open local gossip said he had accumulated his pile in the extortion racket years back, but just prior to World War II had dissolved his underworld connections and invested his ill-gotten gains in legitimate business, primarily in a couple of wartime manufacturing plants and in a chain of grocery stores. Less overt gossip whispered the switch from extortion to respectable money-making operations did not represent complete reform, and in addition to legitimate enterprise he had dabbled in wartime black market, shady steel speculation, and had cut a big slice of profit from the war-surplus-material racket.
Whatever the truth, he was clean insofar as his official record was concerned. During his extortion days he had been lucky enough never to have gotten tagged, and now that he was supposed to have graduated to the more refined but more lucrative rackets, where purchased influence and sharp dealing were the weapons instead of guns and clubs, he was beyond the range of a municipal rackets squad. If the whispers were true, it would take either a Congressional investigation or the Federal tax boys to upset his applecart.
The woman with Friday, a sleek brunette of about thirty who gave the impression she had been bathed, dressed, made up and then lacquered so that her total effect was permanently fixed and would remain flawless even in a wind storm, was named Evelyn Karnes and was in “show business.” Whether as a Metropolitan Opera star or as a strip-teaser, no one made clear. On her wrist I noted a bracelet of clear, square-cut stones that glinted like blue diamonds. If they were real, I judged that a similar bracelet for Fausta would cost me about ten years of my income.
The third couple consisted of a lean, debonair man of about thirty and a giggling blonde about eight years younger. The man was named Walter Ford and the girl Beatrice Duval. Immediately after introductions the latter informed me I could call her Bubbles.
“Thank you, Bubbles,” I said. “Call me Manny in return.”
Bubbles giggled.
It developed the sextet’s celebration was in honor of a corporation formed only that day, and all four stockholders were in the party. Barney Amhurst was the newly named president, and Ed Friday. Walter Ford and the red-haired Madeline Strong comprised his board of directors. The lacquered brunette and the giggling blonde were not stockholders, it seemed, but were along only to round things out.
Barney Amhurst and Madeline Strong between them explained that the Huntsafe Company, Incorporated, had been f
ormed to manufacture and distribute an invention of Amhurst’s which both fondly referred to as the “Gimmick.” Apparently everyone else in the party, including Fausta, knew what the Gimmick was, but no one undertook to explain it to me. From the conversation all I could gather was that it in some way had to do with deer hunting, it worked, and it was going to make a pile of money.
By the time we had toasted our way through two quarts of champagne, I also gathered there was a change of plans under way among the celebrants. Apparently the original plan for the evening had been dinner and champagne in El Patio’s dining room, then transfer to the ballroom, which is across the cocktail lounge on the other side of the building, where they could intersperse more serious drinking with an occasional dance. But someone, Barney Amhurst, I believe, suggested a private party might result in more uninhibited celebration, and the next thing I knew everyone was enthusiastic about repairing in a body to Amhurst’s apartment.
As a matter of course Fausta and I were invited, and as a matter of course I politely declined. Not that we had any other unbreakable plans, as we had already had dinner in Fausta’s apartment and merely contemplated visiting a night spot or two, then taking a drive along the river road; but I felt we were being invited only as a matter of course and I didn’t want to intrude on a private party. But Barney Amhurst insisted to the point where he was almost demanding to know what we intended doing instead of attending his party, and Bubbles, who suddenly seemed to take an unexpected fancy to me, added her insistence.
When the waiter had brought chairs for Fausta and me, he had placed Fausta’s on Amhurst’s right between Amhurst and the debonair Walter Ford. Bubbles Duval immediately moved her chair away from Ford’s in order to make space for the second chair, with the result that I ended up between her and her escort.
I sat next to Bubbles for several minutes before discovering, to my considerable surprise, that she was a rubber. Another man would have discovered it immediately, for I believe her left calf pressed against my right almost the moment I sat down. But my right calf consists of aluminum and cork instead of flesh and bone, as that leg ends in a stump just below the knee. I am so used to wearing an artificial leg that it no longer impairs my activities in the slightest degree, but I have never been able to induce in it a sense of feeling. Consequently it was only when she became emboldened by my apparent agreeability to having my leg rubbed by hers, and increased the pressure to the point where I was in danger of being pushed off my chair, that I realized what she was doing.
My first impulse was to shift my position, but then what Fausta refers to as my “perverted sense of humor” got the best of me. Somehow the thought of what the blonde’s reaction would be if she discovered she was wasting her caresses on an inanimate mechanical contrivance instead of a male leg struck me as funny, so I merely braced myself against the pressure and left it there for her to rub.
Momentarily letting up on the pressure, Bubbles leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Please come to the party, Manny. We’ve got to have one live man there.” Then she glanced past me at Walter Ford, made a small face and giggled.
CHAPTER TWO
CATCHING THIS BYPLAY, Fausta studied Bubbles momentarily with narrowed eyes, decided she wasn’t important competition and dismissed her. This was not because Bubbles was unattractive in Fausta’s estimation, I knew, but only because she was aware I am constituted so that the only emotion girls ten years younger than I can arouse in me is paternal instinct. I prefer my women more mature.
Fausta studied Evelyn Karnes a little more thoughtfully, but since the lacquered brunette had not once glanced at me since we were introduced, or at anyone else other than Walter Ford for that matter, apparently Fausta decided she would not be active competition either. Evelyn could not seem to keep her eyes off Walter’s sardonically handsome face, and her unconcealed interest in the man did not go unnoticed by her escort, Ed Friday. Though he made no attempt to draw his date’s attention back to himself, the way in which his teeth clamped down on the fat cigar he was smoking, when he looked from Evelyn to Walter Ford and back again, indicated his thoughts were not pleasant.
In a less open way Ford was returning the brunette’s attention, which I suspect was the reason Bubbles so eagerly accepted my addition to the party.
The third woman in the group, the red-haired Madeline Strong, Fausta did not even consider, as she seemed to have a friendly interest in the girl and Fausta never mistrusts her friends.
Lest I create the impression that I am a roué and Fausta is a shrew, let me explain that Fausta’s jealousy is a matter of habit rather than emotion. Years back, when she was a penniless refugee, we had a violent romance which nearly ended in marriage. But unfortunately I tend to be pigheaded, and from the moment Fausta started to gain success in the night-club business, I started to back out of the picture. On the old-fashioned theory that the man is supposed to be the breadwinner, the richer she became, the farther I backed. Now that she was one of the richest women in town, I had backed so far that we saw each other not more than once in two weeks.
Having completed her estimation of the situation, Fausta seemed to decide she was capable of protecting me from any of the women present and gave me a questioning look. I passed the decision back again by shrugging.
“We will come for a little while,” Fausta told Barney, leaving herself an out in case we decided we didn’t like the party. “Manny and I have some plans for later on.”
As I already had my hat in my hand and Fausta was carrying her evening cloak over her arm, we stopped at the front door to have a word with Mouldy Greene while the others reclaimed various articles from the cloakroom. Mouldy, whose actual name is Marmaduke Greene and who derives his nickname from a mild case of acne, holds a position at El Patio rather hard to define.
During my stint in the army, Mouldy had been a basic in the company in which I was first sergeant. According to army regulations, a basic is a private without a specialty, but it was a mis-designation in Mouldy’s case, for he definitely had a specialty. His specialty was fouling up details.
I doubt that any army ever contained a less efficient soldier than Marmaduke Greene, and the few gray hairs I developed in service are directly attributable to his talent for doing the wrong thing at the worst possible moment. When the army finally released him with a sigh of relief, Mouldy got a job as bodyguard for the underworld character who at that time owned El Patio and ran it as a gambling casino. How he talked himself into the job is a question which has always intrigued me ; for while he has a body encased in muscle, five minutes of conversation with Mouldy should have warned his prospective employer his head is encased in the same substance.
The result of this arrangement was a foregone conclusion. Louis Bagnell, Mouldy’s gambler boss, failed to live out the year.
When Fausta took over El Patio and converted it into a supper club, it was already staffed with bartenders, waiters and a collection of bouncers, dice men and card dealers. She kept the bartenders and waiters, but cleaned out the rest with one swipe. When she came to Mouldy, however, softheartedness got the best of her judgment and she found herself incapable of casting him out into a competitive world.
She tried him at practically every job in the place, including headwaiter for one disastrous evening, before she discovered the job which was Mouldy’s natural niche in life. Now he was El Patio’s official customer-greeter, which involved his standing just inside the front door with a hideous smile on his face, greeting customers with friendly insults.
The more dignified the customer, the less formal Mouldy became. A typical greeting to a United States Senator might be, for example, “Hi, Bub. How goes digging in the public trough?” Dowagers he invariably addressed as “Babe,” usually accompanying the greeting with a resounding slap on the back.
Once new customers recovered from the initial shock, they loved Mouldy, for he had much the same charm as a friendly mongrel dog, if you can visualize a mongrel dog weighing two hundred a
nd forty pounds.
Mouldy as usual greeted me as “Sarge,” a hangover from army days, eyed Fausta’s gown critically and commented that it wasn’t a bad looking rag.
“You going out with that old crook and his crowd?” he asked.
“Crook?” Fausta said.
“Ed Friday.”
“Well, yes, but what makes you think Mr. Friday is a crook?”
Mouldy looked at her in astonishment. “Everybody knows that, Fausta.” Then he said to me, “Catch the big guy waiting by the door?”
Glancing that way, I nodded. The man was even bigger than Mouldy, though not as solidly built. He must have been six feet five, with heavy shoulders and long powerful arms. His eyes bulged and his lips hung slightly open, giving the impression he was on the verge of choking, but he wasn’t actually. It must have been his normal expression, for he seemed in no discomfort.
“What about him?” I asked.
“He seems interested in your crook friend. Or someone in his party. He come in right on their tail, took a table near theirs, and after he finished eating, just sat there till they started out again. I been watching him ‘cause I don’t like his looks.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep my eye out for him.”
When the rest of the group rejoined us and we went out together, I noted that the tall man left too. He was still waiting on the steps for his own car when the parking-lot attendant brought mine from around back and we drove off. In the rear-view mirror I could see him watching without any apparent interest as the other four in our party climbed into a taxi, and I decided Mouldy was having pipe dreams.
En route to Barney Amhurst’s apartment I made conversation with the couple in the back seat by inquiring just what the invention was that was responsible for our celebration.
“We call it the Huntsafe,” Walter Ford said. “It’s a portable warning device that lets hunters know when other hunters are nearby. The whole contraption weighs only two pounds and the transmitter, including batteries, is only one by three by four inches. It straps on the belt, and the receiver straps around the wrist like a watch.”
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