The Paul Cain Omnibus

by Cain, Paul

  Brand’s friend turned around and grinned wryly at Kells. He shook his head sadly. “The son of a bitch,” he said—“the dirty son of a bitch.”

  “There’s something in what you say,” Kells said. He stood up an stretched.

  At the entrance to Section R, Kells almost ran into the fat man who had stuck him up at Fenner’s. His tie was sticking out of his high stiff collar at the same cocky angle, his small head was covered by a big, violently plaid cap.

  He stared at Kells’ shoes, said: “Hanline sent us.” He jerked his head at a fairly tall middle-aged man who looked like a prosperous insurance salesman. “This is Denny Faber.”

  Kells laughed.

  The fat one grinned good-naturedly. “I sure slipped up the other night,” he said—“the gal cramped my style.” He glanced at Beery, looked back at Kells’ shoes, went on: “My name is Borg.”

  Kells introduced Beery. Then the four of them went through the crowd to the dressing rooms.

  There were a dozen or more men—mostly Negroes—in the corridor outside Gilroy’s room. Kells shouldered through, opened the door. The florid Jew was standing just inside, smiling happily. He poked a finger at Kells.

  “I told you we would win—I told you,” he said. He turned, frowned at Beery and Borg—Faber had waited outside.

  Kells said: “These gentlemen are friends of mine.”

  They came in behind him.

  Gilroy was lying on the rubbing table. His face was covered with little beads of sweat. He turned his head, said: “Hello, Mistah Kells.”

  Kells went over to him. “How do you feel?”

  “Ah’m all right. The Doc here says it’s jus’ a scratch”—he grinned with all his face—“jus’ a scratch.”

  The doctor nodded to Kells.

  Kells turned to Borg, said: “Get a cab and wait outside the little gate, down at the end….” He gestured with his hand.

  “We got a car.” Borg started towards the door.

  “That’s fine—we’ll be out in a few minutes.” Gilroy sat up slowly, picked up a towel and wiped his face. He said, “How about a showah, Doc?”

  The doctor said it would be all right. He was putting on his coat.

  Kells took a roll of bills out of his pocket, slipped one off and gave it to the doctor.

  Beery was standing near the door. He jerked his head and Kells went over to him. Beery asked quietly: “Brand gave you a check?”

  Kells nodded.

  “The other guy paid off in cash?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gimme. You run a chance of getting into plenty of excitement tonight. I’m going home—I’d better take care of the bankroll.”

  “I’ve got Fenner’s check too, and somewhere around ten grand soft.” Kells smiled, shook his head. “Every time I sock something in a bank, something happens so I can’t get to it. Something’s liable to happen to you….”

  “Or you.”

  “Uh-huh—so I’ll keep the geetus.” Kells went back and sat down on the table. Gilroy’s manager, the Jew, began a long and vivid account of why Gilroy was the “coming champion.”

  “I tell you, Mister Kells—your name is Kells, ain’t it?—Lonny is better than Johnson in his flower—in his flower….”

  Beery said: “I’ll call you in the morning.” He and the doctor went out together.

  Gilroy came out of the shower, dressed. On the way to the car, Kells asked: “Do you know Sheedy?”

  “Vince Sheedy? Shuah.” Gilroy stayed close to Kells, watched the people they passed, carefully. “His place is right aroun’ the corner from my hotel.”

  “Let’s go there and celebrate. I want to meet him.”

  Borg and Faber were sitting in a big closed car outside the little gate. Beery was in the tonneau.

  Kells said: “I thought you were going home.”

  “Oh, what the hell—I’d just as well come along and see the fireworks—if any.” Beery sighed.

  Kells and Gilroy got in beside him. Kells leaned forward, spoke to Borg: “Gilroy, here, has had some scare letters. We’re going to take care of him for a few days.”

  Borg said: “Sure.”

  Gilroy told them how to get to Sheedy’s place. Kells watched through the rear window but couldn’t spot anyone following them. Traffic was heavy. They went down Sixteenth to Central Avenue, turned south.

  The entrance to Sheedy’s Bronx Club was tricky. They left the car in a parking station, went down a narrow passageway between two buildings. Gilroy knocked at a door in the side of the passageway—it was opened and they went downstairs, through a large kitchen, into a short hallway.

  Gilroy said: “There’s a front way in, but this is the best because we want a private room”—he looked at Kells for confirmation—“don’t we?”

  Kells nodded.

  Gilroy tried one of the doors in the hallway. It was locked. He tried another, opened it and switched on the light.

  The room was small. There was a round table with a red-andwhite tablecloth in the middle of the room, and there were six or seven chairs and a couch. Gilroy pressed a button near the door.

  Borg and Faber sat down and Kells stretched out on the couch. Beery studied the photographs—mostly clipped from “Art Models” magazines—on the walls.

  A waiter came and Gilroy told him to get Sheedy. Sheedy turned out to be a very tall, very yellow skeleton. Dinner clothes hung from his high, pointed shoulders as though the least wind would whip them out like a flat black sail. He nodded to Beery. “I am very happy to meet you, Mister Kells,” he said. His accent was very precise. Kells guessed that if the name meant anything special to him he was a remarkable actor.

  Gilroy asked: “Was you at the fight, Vince?”

  “Yes…. I lost.” Sheedy smiled easily.

  Gilroy giggled. “Hot dawg! It serves you right—nex’ time you know bettah.”

  Sheedy raised his brows, nodded sadly.

  “Hash us up a load of champagne—” Gilroy made a large gesture. “An’ send some gals back to sing us a song.”

  Sheedy said: “Right away, Lonny”—bowed himself out. He was back in about a minute, asked Kells to come into the hallway. “Some fellows just came in”—he inclined his head towards the front of the place—“asked if Lonny was here. I said no.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Man named Arnie Taylor—a Negro—and three white boys. I don’t know them.”

  Kells said: “Who’s Taylor?”

  Sheedy shook his head. “I don’t think he’s a particular friend of Lonny’s.”

  “Where’s Rose?” Kells spoke very softly, quickly.

  Sheedy looked surprised. Then he sniffled slowly. “I’m afraid you’ve got some wrong ideas,” he said.

  Kells waited; Sheedy went on: “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Kells looked at him sleepily, silently.

  Sheedy said: “He was here last night—I haven’t seen him since.”

  “Thanks.” Kells turned to go back into the room.

  Sheedy caught his shoulder. “Rose and I do a little business together,” he said—“that’s all.” He was smiling slightly, looking very straight at Kells.

  Kells said: “Liquor business?”

  Sheedy shook his head.

  “White stuff?”

  Sheedy didn’t say anything.

  Kells looked at the door to the cabaret. He said: “Tell Taylor Lonny’s back here.”

  Sheedy said: “I’m under one indictment here, Mister Kells. If there’s any trouble and it gets loud, I’ll lose my license.”

  “It won’t get loud.”

  The door to the cabaret opened and a very light-colored Negro with straight blue-black hair came into the hallway. There was a white man behind him, and the white man took a stubby revolver out of his coat pocket.

  The Negro said: “Sorry, Vince.”

  Sheedy put his hands up.

  Kells clicked a button-switch on the wall with his elbow, but the lights in the
hallway stayed on.

  The white man stayed at the end of the hallway, about ten feet away from them. He was short, with a broad bland childlike face. He held the revolver close to his stomach, pointed indiscriminately at Kells and Sheedy.

  Taylor came up to them, felt Kells for a gun.

  Sheedy started to speak, and then the room door opened and Gilroy stood outlined against darkness.

  He asked: “Wha’s the mattah with the lights?”

  Taylor turned his head, jerked an automatic out of his belt, swung it towards Gilroy. Kells slammed his open left hand down hard on Taylor’s arm and then he got his other arm around Taylor’s neck and hugged him back close to the wall so that Taylor was between him and the short white man.

  The white man turned and disappeared through the door to the cabaret, Sheedy after him. Then Borg came out past Gilroy and clubbed his gun, tapped Taylor back of the ear. Taylor went limp and Kells let him slide down awkwardly to the floor.

  Gilroy said: “Well, for goodness’ sake!”

  They turned off Whittier Boulevard and drove a long way along a well-paved road. The road ran between fields; there were a few dark houses, and occasionally a light at an intersection.

  Kells sat on the left side of the tonneau and Borg sat on the right side and Taylor was between them. Gilroy and Faber were in front. Gilroy had insisted on coming. Beery had gone home.

  Kells said: “Where’s Rose?”

  Taylor made a resigned gesture with one hand. “I tell you, Mister Kells—I don’ know,” he said. “If I knew—”

  Borg swung his fist around hard into Taylor’s face. Borg grunted with the effort and there was the sharp slight sound of his arm moving swiftly and then the soft spat as his big hand crushed Taylor’s face.

  Taylor whimpered and put his arms up over his face. He tried to slide farther down in the seat, and Borg put his arm around his shoulders and held him erect.

  “Where’s Rose?” Kells pursued relentlessly.

  “I don’t know, Mister Kells…. I swear to God I don’t know….” Taylor spoke into the cloth of his coat sleeve; the words were broken, sounded far away.

  Borg pulled Taylor’s arms down from his face very gently, held his two hands in his lap with one of his hands, and swung his fist again.

  Taylor struggled and freed one of his hands and put it over his bloody face. “I tell you I got orders that was supposed to come from Rose,” he panted—“but they was over the phone…. I don’t know where they was from….”

  They rode in silence for a little while, except for the sound of Taylor’s sobbing breath. Then they turned into a dirt road, darker, winding.

  Kells said: “Where’s Rose?”

  Taylor sobbed, mumbled unintelligibly.

  Gilroy turned around and looked at Taylor with hurt, soft animal eyes. Then he looked at Kells, and Kells nodded. There was a little light from a covered globe on the dashboard. Gilroy kept looking at Kells until he nodded again and then Gilroy tapped Faber’s arm, and the car stopped, the headlights were switched off.

  Kells took the big automatic out of a shoulder holster. He opened the door and put one foot out on the running board, and then spoke over his shoulder to Borg: “Bring him out here. We don’t want to mess up the car.”

  Taylor screamed and Borg clapped his hand over his mouth—then Taylor was suddenly silent, limp. His eyes were wide and white and his lips moved.

  Borg said, “Come on—come on,” and then he saw that Taylor couldn’t move and he put his arms around him and half shoved, half lifted him out of the door of the car. Taylor couldn’t straighten his legs. He put one foot on the running board and his knees gave way and he fell down in the road.

  Gilroy got out on the other side. He said: “Ah’m goin’ to walk up the road a piece.” His voice trembled. He went into the darkness.

  Taylor was moaning, threshing around in the dust.

  Kells squatted beside him. Then he straightened up and spoke to Faber: “Pull up about thirty feet.” Faber looked surprised. He let the clutch in and the car moved forward a little ways. Kells squatted beside Taylor in the darkness again, waited. He held the automatic in his two hands, between his legs. The dim red glow of the taillight was around them.

  Taylor rolled over on his back and tried to sit up. Kells helped him, held one hand on his shoulder. Taylor’s eyes were bulging; he looked blindly at the redness of the taillight, blindly at Kells—then he said very evenly, quietly: “He’s in Pedro—the Keystone Hotel….” Fear had worn itself out, had taken his strength and left him, curiously, entirely calm. He no longer trembled, and his voice was even, low. Only his eyes were wide, staring.

  Kells called to Borg and they helped Taylor back to the car. They picked up Gilroy a little way ahead. He stared questioningly at Taylor, Kells.

  Kells said: “He’s all right.”

  They headed back towards town.

  The night clerk of the Keystone in San Pedro remembered the gentlemen: the dark, good-looking Mister Gorman and the small and Latin Mister Ribera. They had checked in early yesterday morning, without baggage. They had made several long-distance calls to Los Angeles during the day, sent several wires. They had left about seven-thirty in the evening; no forwarding address.

  It was a quarter after one. Kells checked his watch with the clock in the lobby, thanked the clerk and went out to the car. He got in and sat beside Borg, grunted: “No luck.”

  They had taken Gilroy home—Faber had stayed with him.

  Borg asked: “Where to?”

  Kells sat a little while silently staring at nothing. He finally said: “Drive down towards Long Beach.”

  Borg started the car and they went down the dark street slowly. The fog was very thick; street lights were vague yellow blobs in the darkness.

  Kells had an idea, tapped Borg’s knee suddenly. “Have you ever been out to Rainey’s boat?”

  Borg hadn’t. “I ain’t much of a gambler,” he said. “I went out to the Joanna D. once, before it burned up—with a broad.”

  “Do you remember how to get to the P & O wharf?”

  Borg said he thought so. They turned into the main highway south. After about a half hour, they turned off into what turned out to be a blind street. They tried the next one and had just about decided they were wrong again when Borg saw the big white P & O on the warehouse that ran out on the wharf. They parked the car and walked out to the waiting room.

  Kells asked the man in the office if the big red-faced man who ran one of the launches to the Eaglet was around.

  The man looked at his watch. “You mean Bernie, I guess,” he said. “He oughta be on his way back with a load of players.”

  They sat down and waited.

  Bernie laughed. He said: “You ain’t as wet as you were the last time I saw you.”

  Kells shook his head. They walked together to the end of the wharf.

  Kells asked: “You know Jack Rose when you see him?”

  “Sure.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  Bernie tipped his cap back, scratched his nose. “Night before last,” he said, “when you and him went out to the Joanna.”

  “If you were wanted for murder in LA and wanted to get out of the country for a while, how would you do it?” Kells asked.

  “God! I don’t know.” Bernie spat into the black water alongside the wharf. “I suppose I’d make a pass at Mexico.”

  “If you were going by car you wouldn’t be coming through Pedro.”

  “No.”

  “But if you were going by boat? ….”

  Bernie said: “Hell, if I was going by boat I wouldn’t go all the way to Mexico. I’d go out and dig in on China Point.”

  Kells sat down on a pile. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. “What’s it all about?”

  “That’s God’s country.” Bernie grinned, stared through sheets of mist at the lights of the bay. “That’s the rum runners’ paradise. All the boys in the racket along the Coast hang out t
here. They come in from the mother ships—and the tender crews…. I’ll bet there’s a million dollars’ worth of stuff on the’island. They steal it from each other to keep themselves entertained….”

  “How long since you were there?”

  “Couple years—but I hear about it. They got a swell knock-down drag-out café there now—the Red Barn.”

  Kells said: “It isn’t outside Federal jurisdiction.”

  “No. A cutter goes out and circles the island every month or so. But they pay off plenty—nobody ever bothers ’em.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Kells stood up. “How would Rose get out there?”

  Bernie shook his head. “A dozen ways. He’d probably get one of the boys who used to run players to the Joanna to take him out. It’s a two-hour trip in a fast boat.”

  They walked back towards the waiting room.

  Kells said: “It’s an awfully long chance. Do you suppose you could get a line on it from any of your friends?”

  “I don’t think so. I know a couple fellas who worked for Rose and Haardt, but with Rose wanted, they wouldn’t open up.”

  Bernie took out a knife and a plug of tobacco, whittled himself a fresh chew.

  Kells said: “Try.”

  “Okay.”

  They went into the waiting room and Bernie went into the telephone booth.

  Borg had found a funny paper. He looked up at Kells and said, “I’ll bet the guys that get up these things make a pile of jack—huh?”

  Kells said they probably did.

  Borg sighed. “I always wanted to be a cartoonist,” he said.

  Bernie came out of the booth in a little while. “There’s a man named Carver got a string of U Drive pleasure boats down at Long Beach,” he said. “He says a couple men and a woman hired one about eight-thirty and ain’t come back yet. One of ’em sounds like Rose. The other one was a little guy; and the woman he don’t know about—she was bundled up.”

  Kells smiled as if he meant it, said: “Come on.”

  “We wouldn’t get out there till daylight in my boat. Maybe I can borrow the Comet—I’ll go see.”

  Bernie went out and came back in a few minutes, shaking his head.

  “He wants fifty dollars till ten in the morning,” he said. “That’s too damn much.”