The Second Pulp Crime

by Mack Reynolds

  He called the bartender, slopped whisky into the glass. “We’ll see,” he told her. “By midnight, we’ll see. By midnight you’ll be Big Tom Steele’s girl, and you won’t forget me, cutie. You’ll remember me as long as you live.”

  After that he poured whisky down his throat, glorying as raw liquor burned his mouth, flamed in his mind. His eyes got red-rimmed and his voice grew thick, but he was careful not to get too drunk. He clenched and unclenched his salt-burned hands. As always, he had to win another victory over decency—forget the customers he’d dragged to the gutter.

  The air got smokier in Hongkong Charlie’s.

  The jukebox ground louder, the same tinny tunes. Men came and went through the dragon-painted batwings. Flotsam and jetsam of the harbor, drifters, sailors beached, panhandlers. Some climbed the squeaky stair back of the bar, to the rooms above, where a man could smoke the black stuff for a five-dollar bill—smoke with rosy dreams that made a bum a king.

  Others stopped at the driftwood bar, hung their feet on the brass rail, and got loudly drunk. Some sat at tables under the fishnet canopy, or in the grass-curtained booths, lighted dimly by binnacle lanterns, and bought cheap love in the form of smudgy kisses and B-girl caresses. Steele drank on, watched the bartender pour grape juice in Betty’s glass, and paid fifty cents a shot. Once when another man approached the table, Steele got up and knocked his rival flat. Hardly a head was turned and the conversation droned on.

  Steele began talking in a dead flat monotone. “I know I’m no good—that I’m rotten to the core, but I’m making no excuses, understand? My old man tended bar on San Francisco’s Barbary Coast, and I grew up in a squalid tenement on Russian Hill. My mother”—his eyes bored into Betty’s—“well, we won’t talk about her. I’ve known plenty, and you women are all the same. You’d do anything for a dime. I learned to take care of myself the hard way, and I take what I want, understand?”

  Betty kept her face averted. Steele smashed his fist on the table.

  “Understand!”

  She turned then, and her eyes were very soft. “I think I understand. I think life has given you a bad time, Steele. I think underneath you’re lost. You have never known love—”

  Steele hulked to his feet, kicked his chair away. His bloodshot eyes were wild. “That’s a damned lie,” he shouted. “Don’t think you can soften me up. Don’t think—”

  Hongkong Charlie’s flabby figure waddled through the smoky gloom, stopped at the table.

  “Everything all right, Steele?” he asked easily. “You having a good time?”

  Steele stuck his blunt jaw out pugnaciously. “Sure, everything is all right. What the hell is it to you?”

  “Nothing,” Charlie said. “Just checking.”

  Steele turned back to the girl. “Get up, you. Where’s this room of yours?”

  She kept her eyes on her hands. She smiled faintly. “I told you I didn’t entertain visitors.”

  Charlie made a clucking sound in his fat neck and she glanced up. His greasy lips thinned and his black eyes lashed her coldly. He inclined his head curtly toward the batwings. Steele watched and deep inside he wondered. He couldn’t pick up on the girl—couldn’t pick up. She was moonglow and music. And underneath, she was something more.

  Her room was over a hock-shop, a square unheated box with four walls, a brass bedstead, and a cracked plaster ceiling. She’d made some attempt to dress it up. She’d stuck the peeled dingy wallpaper back, and she’d tied the window curtains back with dime-store ribbon. She’d hung pictures, cheap prints of wooded landscapes and peaceful pastorals. There was a doily on the varnished dresser, under the cracked mirror, and her few cosmetics were laid out neatly. Steele yanked the closet door open, looked at her clothes. A couple of cotton print dresses, a dark coat with a worn collar, a shiny blue suit—the uniforms of the poor.

  That didn’t make sense either. The B-girls at Charlie’s made money with their percentage on drinks. Steele smiled grimly. She was probably too nice to roll a drunk. She’d get over that, after tonight. He went to the window, turned his back on her indifferently. She could take her time. He wasn’t in any hurry.

  He enjoyed the moment to his fill, knowing the victory was his anytime he turned around. Suppose he was tormenting her? Suppose he left her less of herself—left her sobbing in the pale dawn?

  A mist hung over the harbor, softened the gaunt outlines of the dock cranes on the Island. Steele watched the shadowy blur of a ship moving down the channel toward the breakwater and the open sea. The Barbara Mae sailed at dawn. There would be another port, another girl. He’d forget, even if she didn’t.

  Steele turned then. She’d had time enough. She’d removed her coat and she stood at the dresser. The low-cut blouse swelled as it had at Charlie’s and the tight skirt limned her hips, but she wasn’t looking at Steele. Her hands were busy and she was intent on her work.

  Steele’s eyes narrowed as he watched her fit the hypo needle into the syringe. Her hands went to the dresser drawer, brought out a folded bit of glazed paper, dumped white powder into a fire-blackened spoon. He picked up, then, and lumbered into action. He swung across the room, jerked the syringe from her fingers.

  “What the hell is this?” he snarled. “So you’re a hype—that explains it.”

  Her eyes looked dull, lusterless, aching with pain. “Sure, I’m a hype,” she said tightly. “Do you think you’re the only one in the world with trouble? With something to forget? You can drink liquor, beat another man’s brains out, and blow off your emotions, but I’m a woman. I have to find another way.”

  Steele tossed the syringe onto the dresser. He shoved her into a chair, towered over her, naked fury in his face.

  “You don’t take junk around me,” he said. “You don’t knock yourself out and kill the pain. You suffer like all the rest, and give me my kicks. You cheap little rag, you don’t take junk!”

  She kicked at him, clawed his arm. “Get out,” she screamed. “Get out and go back to whatever hell spawned you! Leave me alone. You can’t forget, can you? You can’t forget that you’re not a man, that you’re just harbor scum like the black slime on the water out there. Nothing can wash you clean—get out!”

  He drew his hand back to hit her, his jaw rigid with anger. But something held his arm, maybe the memory of the Madonna, of that incredible moment in Rome. Or perhaps it was the odd light in her eyes, as if she were measuring him. His hand dropped and his temples pounded like tom-toms. He watched the pulse leap in her throat, saw her shrink away from him, her face pallid.

  Steele turned back to the dresser, handed her the syringe. “Take your shot,” he said wearily. “I guess you need it.”

  He sat on the bed and watched as she prepared the hypo. She plunged the needle into the soft flesh of her upper arm. She stood a moment, her eyes closed. Then she sighed and the tenseness left her body. She lit a cigarette and leaned against the door, looking at him.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Maybe you’re not such a bad guy after all.”

  Something was happening to Steele inside. He’d seen hopheads from Singapore to Marseille. He’d seen them dying in gutters, kicking out of life like headless chickens.

  Sullen anger began to build in his chest, grow with the light.

  “How long have you been using the stuff?” he asked the girl. “Where do you get it?”

  “Long enough,” she said. “Ever since my husband was killed in France and my baby died. I get it from Charlie. That’s why I work there. I have to be close to the stuff. I make money, but”—she shrugged—“he charges plenty.”

  She got it from Charlie, and Charlie got it from him. Suddenly Steele wanted to retch, remembering the slob’s curt nod toward the batwings, the cheap clothing in the girl’s closet. And he wanted out, as he’d wanted out of the grass-curtained booth and away from Charlie’s sweat. The anger blossomed in his chest as he st
ood up and dragged a roll of bills from his jeans. He tossed the money on the bed, pushed the girl away from the door.

  “Take that money,” he said harshly. “Get out of here and don’t come back. Go to a hospital, get well, and get a place in the country, like the picture on the wall here. It’s what you want—it’s in your face. Get the hell out!”

  He saw her eyes half close, saw her lips frame the word yes. Then he lumbered out and slammed the door behind him…

  Steele went back to Charlie’s, back to the tinny jukebox and the Chink frying shrimp. He pushed his way through the batwings and swung at the first face he saw.

  Men scattered from the brass rail, faces turned in sudden fear at the berserk sailor. Steele reached across the bar, grabbed a bung-starter out of the beefy bartender’s hand. He whipped it across the bartender’s mouth, grunted in savage joy as the heavy-iron bit into flesh and blood spurted from the man’s mouth. He vaulted over the bar, snatched up a bottle, and smashed it into the mirror. The cafe image vanished in the tinkle of falling glass.

  “Come on,” he bellowed. “Fight, you scum—you wharf rats. Let’s see the color of your blood, or the yellow streaks up your backs. Come on!”

  He hurled bottles across the room into the curtained booths. Men tipped tables, used them for shields. The Chink came down the counter, gripping a meat cleaver, lips pulled back from yellow teeth. Steele bellowed again, slammed the bung-starter at the Oriental face. The Chink ducked, dropped the cleaver and ran for the stair.

  Big Tom Steele leaped up on the bar. He dragged at the fishnet, tore it from its ceiling moorings and it bellied toward the floor like a fantastic brown cobweb. The sailor was laughing now, he wanted revenge for the nights that had robbed him of light and life. Made him scum. He’d take the place apart, give them something to remember. He saw Charlie waddle out of the back booth, his oily face gleaming through the haze.

  Charlie—he wanted Charlie! Steele reached over his shoulder, pulled the knife from its scabbard behind his neck. Charlie’s black eyes glittered. He slipped a fat hand under his shirt at the belt.

  Steele slashed the knife down, aiming at the neck. He missed, but the blade sliced Charlie’s arm, laid it open from shoulder to elbow, like a cut of raw beef. Charlie screamed. Steele stabbed again, the rage thundering like heavy seas in his brain. Charlie and his hop. Charlie and his hellhole. He plunged forward, even as he saw the gun come out of Charlie’s shirt. He plunged, not caring. “Scum!” he yelled. “Damn you to hell!”

  A pinpoint of fire winked before his eyes, and a thousand shiny Jap fish floats exploded in his head. Steele drove the knife home, deep into Charlie’s guts. Then he slid down into the crimson-stained sawdust as the gale blew down the Strait and carried him to icy darkness.

  “That was his life,” I said. “Spilled out on Charlie’s floor.”

  Lienster’s face looked tense, grim. He picked up the cold coffee, sipped it thoughtfully.

  “But how did you know the girl—”

  “I’ve been working on the case three months,” I said. “I walked in on Betty right after Steele died. She had a room across the hall, a nice room, plenty of clothes, and good luggage. She had a spike in her arm.”

  “You mean,” Lienster frowned, “she was taking another shot?”

  “Exactly. She was dressed to kill, had her grips packed and a ticket to ’Frisco. With Steele’s money she could buy lots of fun and plenty of hop. Drunken sailors on the beach are all the same, Lienster. They fall for the sob music, the soft looks, and the short con. In ’Frisco she would find other sailors, and other harbor nights—”

  He stared at his empty coffee cup and a muscle flexed in his cheek. He’d make a good cop.

  “Steele was a fool.”

  I patted his arm. He looked disillusioned enough.

  “Never take any chances,” I said. “Just pick them up.”

  NIGHT SCENE, by Jerome Severs Perry

  Originally published in Spicy Detective Stories, May 1935.

  Donovan was looking at a window display of men’s overcoats. Donovan didn’t look like a Headquarters man. He looked more like a successful lawyer, or doctor perhaps. But he was a detective just the same.

  Rain fell in a persistent drizzle. There wasn’t much traffic on the street. It was about nine o’clock at night.

  A girl sidled up alongside Donovan. She pretended to be looking at the overcoat display in the window, the same as Donovan was. But actually she was giving Donovan a furtive double-o.

  Then she said, “Pretty wet tonight, isn’t it?”

  Donovan turned and looked at her. Took in the bedraggled finery of her tawdry hat, the rain-sodden thinness of her topcoat. Read the invitation in her hard, tired eyes. Saw the professional, come-hither smile on her rouged lips. Donovan said, “Yeah. Plenty wet. Wish I was indoors. But it’s too lonesome indoors.”

  The girl said “I’ve got a room around the corner.”

  Donovan said, “That suits me. Let’s go.”

  They went around the corner. Entered a weather-beaten two-story frame house. Went upstairs.

  The girl opened a bedroom door.

  She snapped on a soft light.

  Donovan took off his hat and raincoat. He sat down. He watched the girl. She removed her soaked topcoat, threw her hat on the bureau. She had hair the color of brass. Bleached—many times.

  She smiled at Donovan. “Like me, big boy?”

  He nodded. “Sure I like you. But I’d like you better undressed.”

  The girl said, “God but you’re impatient.” Then she unfastened her dress and kicked out of it.

  Her only underwear was a pair of baby-blue panties. Her breasts looked soft and warm. Her body was slender. It didn’t look as old as her face looked.

  Donovan said, “Take off your stockings too. I don’t like a girl to keep her stockings on.”

  She leaned down to unfasten the pink-rosetted garters around her legs, just below the knees. Her breasts swayed, became downward-pointed cones. Then she looked at Donovan. “How about some money?” she said.

  Donovan reached into his pocket and drew out some crumpled bills. He said, “How much?”

  “Two dollars. Standard price.”

  “Here’s five. I’ll stay all evening.” He handed her the money.

  She took off her stockings. Then she slipped her bare feet into her shoes and stuffed the five-dollar bill into the left shoe. She came over and sat on Donovan’s lap.

  Donovan cupped her breast. He said, “These looked even nicer three years ago when you were a strip-teaser at the Hi-de-ho Burlesque.”

  She jumped up from his lap. She said, “How in hell did you know?”

  Donovan grinned and said, “I remember you. You’re Marie Norris. You quit the show when you took up with Silk Whitman. Silk made a bum out of you.”

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve calling me a bum. If you think I’m such a bum, what the hell are you doing here?” the girl said bitterly.

  Donovan said, “I wanted to ask you about Silk Whitman.”

  “I don’t know anything about Silk Whitman.”

  “You ought to,” Donovan said. “He’s been your boyfriend for three years.”

  “That’s my business!” the girl snapped.

  Donovan said, “Yeah. And it’s my business to ask you why you bumped him off this afternoon.”

  The girl went pale under her rouge. She said, “Silk—bumped off?” in a strangled whisper.

  Donovan said, “That’s right. We found his body in an alley. He had a hole in his skull. Bullet hole.”

  The girl sank on the edge of the bed. Her lips were trembling. She said, “Silk—dead!”

  “Sure he’s dead. You killed him. He made a bum out of you. Lived off your earnings. You stood it as long as you could. But when he brought three Filipinos up here last night y
ou decided you’d reached the end of your string. From a hundred-dollar-a-night baby on Park Avenue to a two-dollar Filipino moll was too much of a drop. So you bumped Silk Whitman.”

  The girl said, “You lie.”

  Donovan shook his head. “No, I’m telling the truth. You know it.”

  The girl said, “Who in hell are you anyhow?”

  “I’m Donovan from Headquarters.”

  She opened her eyes. Her hand went to her bare breast, over her heart. She said, “You haven’t got anything on me, copper.”

  Donovan said, “I’ve got plenty. I gave you a marked five-buck note. You’ve been pinched a couple of times for soliciting. This time you’ll face a habitual-prostitute rap. That means a stiff sentence.”

  She said, “Even that’s better than going to the chair on a murder frame-up.”

  Donovan said, “Confess killing Silk Whitman and you won’t go to the chair. You’ll go free. Whitman was a rat. The world’s better off without him. When the jury hears your story they’ll agree you were justified in knocking Whitman off.”

  The girl said, “I won’t confess something I didn’t do.”

  Donovan shrugged. “Then it’s five years for street-walking.” He smiled. “There it is, baby. Confess killing Whitman and you go free. Balk, and you go to the jug on this other charge. Take your choice.”

  “How do I know you’re on the level, copper? Suppose I do confess to this killing—which I didn’t do? Suppose I’m freed? You could turn around and pin the street-walking rap on me anyhow.”

  Donovan said, “I wouldn’t do that.”

  She studied him. Then she said, “Cops are nasty vermin.”

  Donovan grinned. Then he got up and sat down alongside her on the bed. He put his arm around her. He touched her naked breasts.

  The girl said, “Keep your filthy double-crossing paws off me!”

  “I’m no worse than a Filipino, am I?” Donovan said.

  She flushed. “I suppose you think a—a girl like me hasn’t got any feelings?”