The Floating Outfit 47

by J. T. Edson

  As Major Benson Tragg had intimated, even with the assistance of his two-toned shoes’ extra thick soles and heels, Wright was of no more than middle height. What had formerly been a stocky and powerful body had run to fat as the result of over indulgence in luxurious living. Black-haired, albeit going bald, his sallow and somewhat porcine features were suggestive of a libertine, in spite of a shrewd glint in his deep set eyes. However, although he had been just that in his younger days, since rising to power in Philadelphia, his life had been far more innocent than that of his companion.

  Close to six foot, despite having a bulky body clearly gone to seed as a result of his licentious habits, Michael ‘the Talker’ Buffong was a far more imposing physical specimen. Also in his late forties, he had a full head of white hair framing a still good looking face. A former attorney disbarred for malpractice, even dressed casually for the golf game he had just concluded, he gave the impression of being very wealthy and distinguished which was a most useful asset to him in his capacity of contact man for the gang. There were several women who had discovered too late his true unsavory nature and the realization had cost one of them her life.

  ‘I’ll say I’m annoyed!’ the Talker agreed in his Back Bay Bostonian tones, slamming down his right spiked golf shoe and starting to unlace the other. ‘I’ve just been rooked!’

  ‘You!’ Wright grunted, knowing his associate to be something of an expert where taking an unfair advantage when playing golf was concerned. ‘How come?’

  ‘I took on a young man who looked rich enough to make it worth my while,’ Buffong replied. ‘He looked like a pigeon and said he played off a ten handicap. God damn it, if he was more than a five, then I’m a-.’

  ‘What did you say you played off?’ the gang leader asked, as the words died away due to an inability to think of a suitable simile.

  ‘I said I was ten as well,’ the Talker replied sullenly, having been warned by his boss against being too blatant over cheating. ‘We were playing for a hundred bucks nassau, with an automatic press on the back. 9 I’d taken the front nine by a hole, but he pulled back when he found out I’d been playing the wrong ball by mistake and we were all square on the seventeenth with only the long par five left to play. He said we should have a hundred dollars on it as well as the nassau to make the game interesting. When I pretended to hesitate, he told me he’d give me two shots on the hole if I’d give him a free throw and, even though I didn’t know what he meant, I agreed.’

  ‘So how come you lost?’ the gang leader inquired, realizing the advantage offered by the terms despite also being ignorant of what a ‘free throw’ entailed.

  ‘We were both on the green in three,’ the Talker explained, his tone and expression bitter. ‘And I said, “Well, I’ve two shots up on you to get her in the cup for game.” He said, “Sure, but I still have to have my free throw.” And damned if he didn’t pick up my ball and throw it into that son-of-a-bitching deep sand trap to the left of the green!’

  ‘What’d you do about that?’ Wright inquired, after laughing and deciding to use the ploy some time.

  ‘What the hell could I do?’ Buffong snarled. ‘It took me four to get out of the sand and three putts. He went down in two. So I paid him off, but I’ll be damned if he’s going to get away with it. I’ll have the check stopp—’

  ‘The hell you will!’ the gang leader interrupted coldly. ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t want you or any of the other boys doing anything to draw attention to yourselves. If you stop it, he’ll complain to the Committee and, if he’s as smart as I reckon he must be, he could tell them about the tricks you pulled. So let it ride.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ the Talker acceded with bad grace, knowing there was no point in denying he had employed unfair tactics during the game. ‘Are you playing today?’

  ‘Sure,’ Wright confirmed and his voice took on a smug timbre. ‘With Judge Robespierre.’

  ‘Hell,’ Buffong grunted, giving no indication of being impressed. ‘By all accounts, he’s the straightest and most incorruptible Judge in Texas.’

  ‘Don’t I know it?’ Wright answered. ‘And that’s the reason I’m playing with him. I figure knowing law abiding folks like him and the others I mix with could come in real useful in a pinch.’ Then, adopting the air of considering the matter closed and wanting to deal with more important issues, he inquired, ‘How’re you getting on?’

  ‘There’s no change. I can’t get to anybody.’

  ‘Don’t tell me everybody in this god-damned burg is honest!’

  ‘No, but the ones who aren’t have already tied up with Hogan Turtle and they aren’t willing to run the risk of breaking with him.’

  ‘I knew there was always that chance,’ Wright asserted.

  ‘But you said we’d only need one on the take from us and there’d soon be more of them come running.’

  ‘That’s the way it was in Philly,’ Buffong reminded, refraining from pointing out that the suppositions with regards to Dallas had been drawn by his boss. ‘Only I’m damned if I’ve been able to connect with him so far.’

  ‘Keep trying,’ Wright ordered. ‘And there’s another thing. Dirty Kev keeps following me every place. Tell him this isn’t Philly and I don’t need a torpedo riding around after me.’

  ‘You know Dirty,’ the Talker answered. ‘He always followed you in Philly and once he gets an idea in his head, it’s hard to move. Anyway, I’ll pass him the word.’

  ‘Don’t just pass him the word!’ Wright corrected, making it a policy never to address any other member of his gang personally and only meeting his second in command for short periods in places like the locker room where they were unlikely to attract attention if seen together. All other communication between them was over the telephone. ‘You see he quits!’

  ‘Whatever you say, Frankie,’ Buffong assented.

  Despite the assurance, the Talker, had no intention of carrying it out. He had never been particularly enamored of the way in which his leader ran things. It had been sufficiently annoying when everything was going well in Philadelphia, but he considered the situation had changed radically since they arrived in Texas. He never forgot that, in addition to living in a very expensive and luxurious apartment—while the rest of the gang, Buffong included, occupied less lavish accommodation on the grounds of there being a need to economize until taking over the town—Wright alone had access to the nine hundred thousand dollars salvaged from their loot when they were compelled to flee from their previous haunts. Therefore, instead of doing as he was ordered, he intended to warn Kevin ‘Dirty Kev’ Bradshaw—the enforcer for the gang—to be more circumspect while continuing the surveillance.

  ‘That’s him just coming in!’ the Talker snarled, glancing towards the door leading to the course.

  ‘Don’t let him see us together!’ Wright ordered. ‘I might have a chance to play him and get your money back!’

  Paying no attention to the bitter scowl directed his way by Michael Buffong before stalking angrily towards the entrance to the showers, Francis Wright looked with interest at the man who entered the locker room. One glance was all he needed to know about why the Talker had not raised any physical objection to the trick that had been played on him. He was willing to admit that he would have shown similar restraint under the circumstances.

  A good six foot three in height, with golden blond hair and exceptionally handsome features, the newcomer was in his early twenties and had a muscular development which was well beyond the average. What was more, despite his size and obvious strength, he carried himself lightly and looked capable of moving very fast should the need arise. Glancing at his expensive looking gold wrist-watch, he went and opened a locker. Having taken off his short sleeved sports shirt and shoes, instead of going to the shower-room, he picked up a towel from the bench and began to dry his massive torso. Then he donned a white

  silk shirt, a yellow cravat of the same material, gray flannel slacks and high heeled, sharp toed bl
ack Western boots. However, what happened next caused the watching gang leader to take an even greater interest in him. Removing an open fronted spring-retention shoulder holster carrying a large revolver from the locker, he donned it without making any attempt to avoid being seen doing so. With it in position, he put on a black blazer with a badge of some kind attached to the left breast pocket and, placing the attire he had removed into the locker, strolled out of the room.

  A pensive expression came to Wright’s face. Although Dallas was more lax about such matters than Philadelphia would have been, for the young man to be so blatant in strapping on a gun implied he must be a peace officer of some kind. The gang leader considered any ‘badge’ who wore such obviously costly attire and belonged to an expensive establishment like the North Dallas Golf and Country Club was worthy of closer study. What was more, the way he had taken the Talker for a fair sum of money suggested he was lacking in scruples and getting to know him better might prove beneficial.

  ‘’Scuse me, Mr. Anstruther,’ one of the club’s colored pages said, coming up as the gang leader was deciding to tell Buffong to renew the young man’s acquaintance. ‘Judge Robespierre’s done called on the telephone and says he powerful sorry, but he can’t make the game with you ‘count of something’s come up.’

  Grunting noncommittally, Wright changed his mind. Instead of waiting for the Talker to return from the showers, he went into the dining-room. Pausing at the door, he saw the young man was sitting at a table and, wondering how he could begin a conversation, he walked forward. Before he arrived, he was forestalled by seeing Symonds, the head waiter, going to the blond giant holding a letter with a bank heading to which a check was attached.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Symonds said in a low voice which nevertheless reached Wright’s ears. ‘But I’ve been informed by the Management Committee that we can’t allow you to sign for any more meals or drinks until this check which came back from the bank has been cleared.’

  ‘Then I’ll pay cash,’ the blond giant stated, but he looked embarrassed as he reached towards his inside right breast pocket. ‘I don’t have the money with me, but you can cash this check I’ve been given and cover my tab.’

  ‘That’s against the Club’s rules, I’m afraid, sir,’ the head waiter replied.

  ‘Symonds,’ Wright called, realizing he was being given exactly the opportunity he desired and striding forward. A young peace officer living beyond his means could prove susceptible to bribery and provide the “rotten apple” necessary to persuade others to change their allegiance from Hogan Turtle to his gang. Normally, he would have left such negotiations to Buffong. However, he had noticed that a less respectful attitude had arisen from his second in command since their arrival in Dallas and he decided that a demonstration of success where the Talker had failed could prove sufficient to re-establish the status quo between them. ‘Judge Robespierre can’t keep our appointment and I hate eating alone. Perhaps this young gentlemen might care to join me.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to, sir,’ the blond giant declared without hesitation or embarrassment. His voice was that of a Texan from humbler circumstances than was suggested by his clothes and surroundings. ‘The name’s Longley, William A. Longley, but my amigos call me “Bad Bill”.’

  ‘I’m pleased to have your company, Mr. Longley,’ Wright asserted, after he had introduced himself by his alias to his guest and, having taken the order for their meal, the head waiter had departed. ‘And more so since I know how poorly you police officers are paid.’

  ‘Poor’s the word for it,’ the big young Texan drawled wryly. ‘But how’d you guess I was a badge?’

  ‘I saw you strapping on your gun in the locker room,’ the gang leader explained. ‘And, even though we’re in Texas, that suggested you were a lawman of some kind.’

  ‘The suggestion’s right, sir,’ the blond giant confirmed. ‘I’m a detective and work out of Headquarters.’

  ‘Have you been a member here for long?’ the gang leader asked, seeing the badge on the blazer was not that of the North Dallas Golf And Country Club.

  ‘I’m not a member,’ the Texan corrected. ‘But a gent who is lets me play as his guest because I did him a couple of favors.’

  ‘Was that who you were playing with this morning?’

  ‘Nope. Some jasper from up North tried to take me for a sucker, but got trimmed down a mite instead.’

  The food arrived and, while eating it, Wright was given a description of the tricks pulled by Buffong in attempting to win the game and those used by the blond giant to counter them. The gang leader bellowed with genuinely appreciative laughter on learning how his guest had evened the score by having contrived to change the Talker’s ball when taking it from the cup on the sixteenth green and, this having gone unnoticed, had won the next hole by default. However, while amused by the thought of the Talker having been beaten by a better trickster, nothing Wright had heard caused him to revise his opinion that he had met a young peace officer whose honesty was questionable and who might be open to corruption where duty was concerned.

  ‘Didn’t I see you out at the race track a couple of days back?’ the gang leader inquired, noticing no mention was made of the trick which won the game for his guest and refraining from raising the matter. Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he went on, ‘That was quite a good looking girl you had with you.’

  ‘Good looking’s the word,’ the blond giant admitted. ‘And damned expensive.’

  ‘She looked as if she might be,’ the gang leader commented, then changed the subject. ‘By the lord, they serve good food here.’

  The conversation became more general while the meal continued. However, so engrossed had Wright become in his guest and prospective candidate for the sought-after ‘rotten apple in the barrel’ that he did not notice Buffong was watching them from a table at the other side of the room. While having an after-lunch cocktail, served as ‘tea’ in a cup to avoid a too blatantly obvious flouting of the Prohibition laws, Wright mentioned he had received a traffic ticket on his way home from the race track and waited to see if the unspoken hint was accepted. However, nothing happened until he and the blond giant were walking towards the front entrance.

  ‘I’ll see to it for you, Mr. Anstruther,’ the young man drawled in a confidential fashion which nevertheless was just loud enough for Buffong to hear. ‘And don’t worry. Nobody’ll know you told me.’

  The Talker had not been able to listen to what was said while the pair were at their table, so he had no idea what caused the cryptic comment. Nor had his attempt to learn more proved successful. The waiter, asked for information, supplied the Texan’s name, but disclaimed all knowledge of what his occupation might be. Therefore, at that moment, Buffong suspected his boss of nothing more than having selected his opponent in the unsatisfactory golf game as a guest for lunch in order to antagonize him.

  The belief continued until the Talker received a telephone call from Bradshaw at six o’clock that evening!

  ‘They’ve put the arm on Phil the Weasel!’ the enforcer announced without preamble.

  ‘What’s he been up to?’ Buffong demanded, sharing Wright’s desire to avoid having attention drawn to the presence of the gang in Dallas.

  ‘He’s not been up to anything here,’ Bradshaw stated. They’ve pulled him in for that fur heist in May and’re holding him until the cops in Philly can get papers for extradition.’

  ‘Do they have enough to hold him for that?’ the Talker asked.

  ‘I’ll say they do,’ the enforcer asserted. ‘The mouthpiece I sent down to try to get him sprung says they know where to find the truck the Weasel and his boys used, the route they took going to the warehouse and coming away, who else was in on it and enough more to make the nab stick. Hell, who could’ve spilled all that?’

  ‘There aren’t many,’ Buffong assessed pensively.

  ‘You’d best tell the boss what’s happened,’ Bradshaw suggested. ‘I reckon, even with all the fancy
new friends he’s making, he’ll want to know.’

  ‘I suppose he will,’ the Talker agreed, sensing the enforcer was sharing his misgivings over the way things were going in Dallas. Hanging up, he dialed the number of Wright’s apartment and, having delivered the news, went on, ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Tell the Weasel to keep his mouth shut while I figure out a way to get him turned loose,’ the gang leader ordered. ‘The first thing, though, is to find out who did the squealing.’

  ‘How can we do that?’ Buffong inquired, having been giving the same subject consideration and arrived at a worrying conclusion.

  ‘I’ll see if Longley can get to know for us.’

  ‘Longley!’

  ‘Sure. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the young feller who took you in the golf game this morning?’

  ‘I’m not likely to forget him,’ Buffong said bitterly. ‘But he told me he was in the oil business. So how can he help?’

  ‘Because the only connection he’s got with the oil business is putting some on his gun,’ Wright explained and his voice took on a smugly self-satisfied timbre. ‘He’s a dick working out of Headquarters here in town. What’s more, he’s the rotten apple in the barrel you couldn’t find.’

  Watching his boss approaching between the two lines of cars in the parking lot of the Banyan Club, accompanied by an attractive red-haired girl whose ‘flapper’ attire set off a much better developed figure than was currently considered the height of fashion, Kevin ‘Dirty Kev’ Bradshaw was filled with resentment and suspicion.

  Just under six foot in height, thickset and powerfully built, the enforcer had a face with a muddy complexion—responsible for his sobriquet—which was not improved by a jagged scar down his left cheek. He was dressed in the snap-brimmed gray-fedora hat, three piece pin-striped suit—the jacket having extra wide lapels and well padded shoulders—and other attire made popular by gangsters in Chicago. However, already his expensive and formerly immaculate clothes were showing signs of much wear, indicative of his greatly changed circumstances.