The Dead Don’t Care
Page 21
“There’re plenty of floosies in Miami,” said Dopey.
“Not like this one.”
In his reedy voice Toad said, “They’re all the same in the dark.”
“How do you know?” George asked. “How do you know?”
Dopey said, “This one’s too young.”
“I like ’em young,” George said.
“Why, she ain’t eighteen,” Dopey said.
“That don’t make no difference,” Frankie said.
George had a coin. “Head or tail,” he said. “Call it.”
“Tails,” Frankie said.
The coin fell on the deck. Dopey bent over it. “Tails.”
“Listen,” George said. “I’ll give you a C-note for first crack.”
“With nine grand in my coat pocket?” Frankie’s voice was good humored. “Like hell!”
Dopey picked up the coin, handed it to George. “Let’s bump the others first,” he said.
“I ain’t embarrassed,” Frankie said. “They can watch.”
He came down the cabin stairs. Tony Lamphier, on the floor in front of Camelia’s bunk, tried to kick him with his bound feet. Frankie caught his trousers, tossed him across the cabin on top of Crane. “Outa tha way, punk,” he said.
Tony Lamphier squirmed toward the bunk, but Frankie stunned him with a kick to the head.
Frankie looked down at Camelia. “Hi, babe.”
The Kate was running into a moderate swell and the engines struggled on the up grades, raced on the down slopes. The exhaust pipe was a bright red.
Frankie asked, “How about a drink, tutz?”
Camelia didn’t answer.
“If you’re nice,” Frankie said, “I might even take you to Miami with me.”
By Crane’s feet Tony Lamphier moved, moaned.
Frankie called to the men on deck. “Tutz is givin’ me tha high hat.”
“Why’nchu ask her to waltz with ya first?” Dopey asked.
“Yeah,” called George. “Warm her up.”
“I’ll warm her,” Frankie said.
“Les get going,” said Toad in his high voice.
Crane could see the heads of all three men at the top of the cabin stairs. Frankie bent over Camelia, began to untie the rope around her ankles. “Please don’t,” she said. “Please——”
“Tutz has nice gams,” Frankie announced.
“Oh, please——” Camelia’s voice broke in terror.
“Don’t be scared, tutz.” Frankie’s hands were busy with the rope. “It’s all in the spirit of fun.”
“Sure,” said George from the deck. “Good clean fun.”
Frankie unwound the last turn of rope. “There y’are, sweetheart.”
Camelia kicked him in the face.
“Aah!” Frankie fought her feet. “Get tough, hey?” He struggled with her, forced her feet aside, threw himself upon her in the bunk. Tony Lamphier, his breath coming in gasps, tried to squirm in their direction.
“Want me to hold her?” George called.
“Naw,” Frankie said. “I like a dame with spirit.”
Camelia was resisting stubbornly. The wood in the bunk groaned and there was a sound of cloth being torn. Frankie was breathing heavily. On the floor Tony Lamphier writhed impotently. Crane wished to hell he was untied, had a gun.
Toad’s high voice, from the deck, suddenly shouted: “Holy smoke! Look.”
“What?” George asked.
“A boat.”
“By God!” George said. “Hey, Frankie!”
The struggling ceased and there was only the sound of the engines and heavy breathing.
“Frankie,” George said.
“What?”
“A boat.”
“I’m busy,” Frankie said.
“It’s heading right for us.”
“Fer Chrissakes,” Frankie said. “What a time to interrupt a guy!”
He climbed out of Camelia’s bunk and went up on deck. The boat was a large one, Crane gathered from the men’s remarks. They quickly decided it was faster than the Kate and therefore dangerous to run away from. They debated what to do.
“Are you all right, Cam?” asked Tony Lamphier, now directly below her bunk.
“Tony,” she said. “Keep him away.”
Dopey came down into the cabin and tied cloth gags on Camelia, Lamphier and Crane. He ignored Captain Luther.
“Just in case,” he said.
On deck the other three men watched the boat approach. “He’s going to hail us,” said George.
“Dopey, you and Toad start fishin’,” commanded Frankie. “Keep your hats over your eyes.” He came to the cabin entrance, took a Panama hat from a nail, put it on. “George, you talk to ’em.”
The gag in Crane’s mouth tasted of oil. He lay on his back, on his hands on the cabin floor, put his feet on Captain Luther’s bunk. The captain got the idea, fumbled with the ropes around Crane’s ankles. He had difficulty with the first knot, but the others came off easily. Crane rubbed his legs for an instant, then hooked his arm over the bunk and stood up. He found his legs would hold him. Captain Luther started to untie the cord around his wrists.
The other boat had approached within hailing distance of the Kate. A voice called, “Hello.”
“Hello,” replied George.
“We’re looking for Captain Luther Binton’s boat, the Spray,” called the voice. “Seen any sign of her?”
“No,” said George. “We been down to Tortugas all night. Is she lost?”
“We’re supposed to meet her.”
“Well, we haven’t seen her.”
The captain pulled the last turn of rope off Crane’s wrists, then tried to yell for help. His voice was hoarse, feeble. Crane fell on the floor, rolled in a corner, holding his hands behind him as if they were still bound. Dopey came down into the cabin and hit Captain Luther over the head with a pistol butt.
“Try t’make trouble, damn you,” he said.
He went out on deck again.
The man on the other boat had heard nothing. He called, “If you see the Spray, tell Captain Luther we’re around, will you?”
“Sure,” said George.
The stutter of the other boat’s idling exhaust changed to a steady roar. George gave the Kate’s engines gas.
Crane got to his feet, pulled off his gag, looked out the porthole. His heart sank. The other boat was pulling away fast, was already beyond reach of a shout.
Frankie was saying to George, “We better scram out to sea. We’re liable to run into somebody else.”
“That’s what I’m doin’,” said George.
Crane scooped up a handful of oily waste from the pile in the corner of the cabin. He dropped it on the glowing exhaust pipe. It burst into flame. He picked it up again, regardless of the blaze, and tossed it into the pile of waste. Orange light filled the cabin, billows of black smoke rose from the pile. He found a large monkey wrench and hid himself beside the cabin stairs. Camelia and Tony watched him through alarmed eyes. The heavy smoke began to pour through the portholes.
Dopey came to the cabin entrance, started to come down the stairs, suddenly thrust his hands in front of him. His voice yelped in terror:
“Fire! Fire! Jesus, a fire!”
George leaped to his side, jerked him off the cabin stairs, sent him sprawling to the deck. “For Christ’s sake, shut up.” He peered down at the smoky interior of the cabin.
Dopey got to his feet, yelled, “Fire! Help!” Frankie knocked him down.
George shut off the engines and Frankie asked him, “Where’s the extinguisher?”
“In the cabin.”
The bunk nearest to the pile of flaming waste had caught fire and the wood crackled loudly. Streams of smoke came from the portholes and billows of it shot up the stairs. The fire was beginning to roar. It was terribly hot in the cabin.
George said, “Take the wheel. I’ll get the extinguisher.”
Slowly, stooping over slightly, he came down t
he cabin stairs. Crane waited until he reached the floor, then hit him on the head with the wrench. George’s skull cracked like a dropped cantaloupe. He pitched forward onto the port engine.
On deck Dopey was screaming again. “Help! Fire! Help!” He was frantic with terror.
Smoke swirled about the interior of the cabin. It was terribly hot. The entire bunk was on fire, was covered with pale yellow flame. It was hard to breathe.
Frankie shouted down the stairs, “How’re you comin’, George?”
Behind him Dopey screamed, “Help! Help!”
Frankie shouted, “George. George!”
The smoke hurt Crane’s lungs, choked his throat. He could taste oil in his mouth. The fire roared. His eyes smarted.
Dopey screamed, “Help! Help!”
Frankie tried to see into the cabin.
A voice from the sea shouted, “Stand by, Kate. We’ll help you.”
“Like hell.” Toad’s voice was shrill. “Stay away.” He fired his pistol over the starboard rail. “Goddam you, stay away.” He fired again.
Dopey screamed, “Help! Help!”
Frankie came part way down the cabin stairs. “George!” Crane got ready to hit him.
The other boat had a Tommy gun. Over the roar of the flames it made the noise of long strips of canvas being torn. Frankie said, “Hell!” and went back up the stairs. Toad was firing his pistol over the starboard rail. Frankie got the Kate’s Tommy gun from the shelf above the wheel. He was pointing it over the starboard rail when he suddenly began to cough. The gun slipped from his hands, glanced from the rail, clattered on the deck. He doubled over and pressed both arms against his stomach as though he were hugging a small child. He coughed again and blood gushed from his mouth. He fell against the rail.…
Crane went back into the cabin and picked up Camelia Essex and carried her up the stairs. She was unconscious. He laid her on the deck. He went back and got Captain Luther. He weighed less than the girl. He put him on the deck.
Dopey was lying curled up against the stern of the boat and Crane was unable to tell whether or not he was dead. Toad had been shot in the right arm and he was trying to hold his automatic in his mouth and put a clip in with his left hand. His eyes were beady, like a chicken’s eyes. Blood had turned his right sleeve maroon.
Crane went back to the cabin. Smoke choked his lungs. Tony Lamphier was unconscious too. Crane tried to lift him, but he was too heavy. He dragged him to the stairs, tried to push him up them, but he couldn’t get him off the cabin floor. George’s body had slid from the port engine to the red-hot exhaust pipe and the air was filled with an odor of cooking flesh. Crane got above Lamphier and tried to pull him up the stairs. He got him as far as the second step. His lungs hurt; he did not seem to be able to get air to them. He tried again to lift Lamphier.
Someone said, “I got him, Bill.”
It was O’Malley. Crane let him have Lamphier and followed them up the cabin stairs. A man with an extinguisher pushed by him, began to spray the cabin. The sunlight, the blue ocean hurt his eyes; he felt very tired. The deck rose toward him.…
He felt sick when he regained consciousness. Smoke was still in his lungs, in his stomach. Captain Enright and a strange man with gray hair were working over Camelia Essex. Tony Lamphier was seated on the deck, conscious. His face was green under oil soot. The fire was practically out. Dopey was handcuffed to a fishing chair in the stern and beside him sat Toad, holding his wounded arm on his lap. His eyes were closed; his face was calm. Frankie’s Tommy gun was lying where he had been shot, by the starboard rail in a pool of blood. Crane felt sick again and for a moment he clung to the rail.
O’Malley and Williams carried up George’s body from the cabin. The exhaust pipe had seared the entire left side of his face and his blond hair was dark with blood.
Williams had his feet. “What’ll we do with him?” he asked O’Malley.
“Throw him in the stern.”
“You’re sure he’s dead?” Captain Enright asked.
“Sure,” said O’Malley.
They threw him in the stern.
O’Malley said, “‘Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.’”
“Oh, my God!” said Crane. His head was beginning to clear. He no longer felt sick. “Oh, my God, O’Malley!”
“Our hero’s coming to life,” said O’Malley.
Camelia Essex regained consciousness. “Tony,” she said. “Tony.”
“Here I am.”
“What happened?”
Tony Lamphier got off the deck and took her hand. “We’re safe, darling.”
Camelia Essex began to cry. She kissed him, crying at the same time.
Captain Enright and the gray-haired man were bending over Captain Luther. “He’ll live, all right,” said the gray-haired man.
Williams picked up the Tommy gun Frankie had tried to use. “A good thing he never let go with this,” he said.
Abruptly Crane left the rail, ran toward Williams. “What happened to him?” he shouted. “What happened to Frankie?”
“He fell into the water,” O’Malley said.
“Did you pull him out?”
“He was dead,” O’Malley said.
“You didn’t pull him out?” Crane was frantic. “Where is he?” He leaned over the rail, profoundly-moved.
O’Malley pointed. The deep blue water of the Gulf Stream, twenty-five feet from the boat, was alive with sharks. They swam close to the surface, showing soap-colored bellies when they turned. Crane left the rail, slumped down on the deck.
“Why didn’t you pull him out?” he asked.
The others looked at his disconsolate face.
“Why should we?” asked O’Malley. “What was he to you?”
“Nothing more than my right arm.” Crane’s face was tragic. “He just had my nine grand on him. That’s all.” He gazed mournfully at O’Malley. “You let nine grand go to the sharks.”
“That’s terrible,” said Tony Lamphier. “But——”
“Here,” said O’Malley. “Here. I got the nine grand; I got it out of the pocket of that coat on the deck. He musta thrown it off before going into action.… Frankie’s coat. Here.”
“Why, you thieving son of a bitch,” said Crane. “Picking a dead man’s pocket …”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1938 by Jonathan Latimer
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8611-9
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