by Ralph Dennis
“Where’s Hump?”
“Off in the bushes.”
I handed Winters the M1 carbine. He stripped the tape from the spare clips and put the clips in his pocket. He drew the bolt back and threw it forward, putting a round in the carbine’s chamber.
“Ready,” he said.
A few seconds later, Hump parted the hedge at the end of the porch and stepped up to our level. He tossed the thick roll of two-inch adhesive tape to me. “Better than rope, any day.”
“The same Alan Ladd movie,” I said.
I moved to the left of the door and Winters went to the right. Hump faced the door squarely and raised his hand to knock. At the last second he turned and grinned at me. “My fan out there at the gate said to ask for Curly, says she’s pure black tiger.”
“Ask for her, then.”
“Just wanted your permission.” Hump hit the door panel a couple of hard licks. On a count of about twenty, the door opened. A little black man in a white jacket stood there, squinting at us. “Yes, sir. Are you expected?”
“I’m Hump Evans and this is my friend, Roy White.” Hump pointed to his right, toward the darkness where Winters was.
The little man leaned his head through the door frame and turned to look. Winters leaned in and put the barrel of the carbine on the tip of the little man’s nose.
“Ask us in nice,” Hump said. “Real nice.”
The little man blinked. “Yes, sir, you’re expected. Come right in.”
Hump went in first, the pistol up and at the ready. I wasn’t far behind, with the shotgun against the side of my hip. Winters stepped in to the right of Hump, swinging the carbine to cover that area of the room.
“Sit still,” I said.
You had to say this for the Black Eight: they’d kept the millionaire playpen up to scratch. The parquet floor shone from the waxing and buffing. The dark drapes that covered the windows were clean and crisp. A large crystal chandelier, high above the lobby, sparkled and gleamed, dust-free.
To the right, under the sweep of Winters’ carbine, was the bar. It was done in rattan, with drawings of African animals covering the walls. Behind the bar, above the collection of bottles, there was a large mural of the bush landscape. There was no one behind the bar, so I assumed that the little black man doubled as bartender and doorman.
I tossed the roll of tape to Hump. “The doorman.”
I kept my shotgun on the group straight ahead. Four black men and two black women. They were in a kind of living room set, a long, oversized sofa and two soft chairs angled in to face each other across a low round coffee table made of some kind of dark wood. Behind them there was a sort of Citizen Kane fireplace with two or three five-foot logs burning in it.
“It looks like a slow night,” Jim Winters said.
“Fine with me.” I moved in the direction of the group near the fireplace. “You two on the sofa . . . on your feet. Over to the sofa.”
Two hard and mean-looking young men got up slowly and edged over to the sofa. One of them, his face contoured with the craters and ridges of an old case of bad skin, said, “This’ll get you dead.”
“Not tonight.”
To the left, dark now, a dining room. I motioned in that direction, and Jim Winters circled behind me and went in and beyond. Hump finished with the little black man and came over to me. “The men first. Hands behind their backs, mouths taped.”
Hump began with the hard-ass with the scarred face. I moved around until I was at the end of the sofa, the shotgun pointing down the line of heads. The message was there, and the men sat rigid and quiet while Hump worked his way down the length of the sofa. As he was finishing up the last man, Winters came back. “Kitchen’s dark. Nobody there.”
“Watch the front window.”
Winters moved over and pushed the drapes aside. “Nothing, so far.”
“Keep watching.” I walked over and faced the two women across the coffee table. “On the women, just the hands, to start with.” I dipped the shotgun so that it pointed toward the floor. “Where’s Hugh Muffin?”
“I don’t know any Hugh Muffin,” the older woman said. She was around forty, big and fleshy. Probably Madame Fiona. A little too old and wasted to make the cut in the whore racket. And she was tough enough not to be afraid of us. “White man, this is going to make your life miserable.”
I nodded at Hump and he tore off a piece of tape about six inches long. He reached around Madame Fiona and slapped it across her mouth. That left only the young girl. Dark skin with the face of an African carving. I waited until Hump had the young girl’s hands taped behind her. “Talk to the nice girl.”
Hump winked and came around the sofa. He sat on the coffee table, knees against hers, and smiled. “You’re not by any chance Curly, are you?”
The girl, wide-eyed and scared, shook her head. “I’m Josie.”
“That’s too bad. I was told to ask for Curly. If I was here for that reason, I think I’d pick you, Josie. Couldn’t help myself.”
“Curly’s busy upstairs.”
“That don’t trouble me much.” Hump put out a hand and cupped the girl’s face. “Josie, we’re not here to hurt anybody. Nobody gets hurt. All we want is that white man, that old boar-coon. You know who I mean?”
The girl nodded. “Mr. Hugh.”
“Which room’s he in?”
Madame Fiona didn’t like the way the conversation was going. She lifted the leg closest to Josie and kicked at her. Hump blocked and caught the foot. He held the foot in his hand until I expected to hear bones breaking. When he released it and pushed it aside, it dropped like it was numb.
“Room two, at the head of the stairs and to the right,” Josie said. “Curly’s with him.”
“All right now, I’m going to have to tape your mouth. It won’t hurt you.” Hump tore off a length of tape. “Breathe through your nose and don’t panic.” Carefully, gently, like he was dressing a wound, Hump applied the tape to her mouth. Hump stood up and turned to me. “I’d like to come along, like to meet that Curly girl.”
“One look,” I said, “and then you have to come back and cover the stairs.”
“One look.”
“We don’t know how many rooms are being used. That’s where the trouble could come from.” I started for the stairs at the right rear of the lobby. “Roy, watch the sofa until Hump comes back.”
Winters lined up the carbine on the sofa. “Take two looks. One for me. They’re not going anywhere.”
At the top of the landing, the stairway led into a hall. The hall branched: one fork leading straight ahead, and two others going sharply left and right. I could hear a radio far away, sifting through the walls, with the bass more complete than anything else. Other than that, it seemed closed for the night. Tucked in until the morning screwing. I only hoped that nobody decided he needed some ice or mixer. That could cut the string and let the pig out.
We passed up Room One and stopped in front of Room two. I tried the door and found it locked. I leaned close to Hump. “Just enough weight to spring the lock. As little noise as you can.”
Hump stepped forward and gripped the door knob. He leaned his shoulder against the door. The muscles popped up in his neck. The wood around the lock splintered with no more noise than a cork coming out of a bottle.
I stepped past him and leveled the shotgun. There was a low-wattage bulb burning in the lamp on the nightstand. In that dim light, I saw the girl next to Hugh Muffin pull the sheet over her head. At the same time, Hugh rolled over the edge of the bed and made a run for the chair, where his clothes were piled. We caught him in between, bare-assed and meat slapping on his leg. “Hold it, Uncle Hugh.”
Hugh stopped so fast he almost pitched forward. He turned and had the gall to smile. “Oh, it’s you. Good to see you.”
I waved the shotgun at him. “Back to the bed, Hugh.”
As soon as he was seated on the edge of the bed, I circled him to the pile of clothes. I reached under the pile and brou
ght up a pistol. I stuck it in my belt. “How’d you get this through the gate?”
“They don’t search me. They know I’m the peaceful type.”
Hump was on the other side of the bed. He leaned over and grabbed a handful of sheet. He ripped it away from the girl. “Well, look at what I found.”
She was a pretty little thing, the shade of black that looks like it might pass for a long summer’s tan. Breasts like hard apples. Instead of being frightened or shy, she grinned up at Hump and opened her legs. “You found me.”
“I guess you’re Curly.”
“You’ve heard of me?”
“The word’s all the way downtown about you.”
I hated to break it up, but the time was getting low. We didn’t have all night. “Had your two looks?”
“Just about,” Hump said. “You mind if I take her downstairs with me?”
“If it’s all right with Hugh.”
When Hugh said nothing, I nodded at Hump and he scooped her out of the bed with one arm. Curly wheeeed a little, but she didn’t seem to mind. As they went out the door, I saw an arm come up and wrap around Hump’s neck. I followed them to the door and closed it. “You can get dressed now.”
Hugh didn’t move, at first. “Hardman, is there any special reason you went to all this trouble?”
“I like you, and I didn’t want you to get killed,” I said.
“I’m not in any danger.”
“The shit you say.” I wagged the shotgun at the pile of clothes. “Get dressed.”
He stood up, and I walked over to the chair and tossed his underwear to him. “Getting through that gate’s one thing. Getting back out is a horse of another color.”
“You better hope we do.”
“You’re talking in riddles,” Hugh said. He stepped into his shorts and pulled the t-shirt over his head.
“When The Man knows what I know you’re just two hundred pounds of bloody meat.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The Man’ll crook his finger, and you’re dead. That’ll happen as soon as he knows how responsible you are for the death of Emily Campbell, the little black guy, Ferd, and for sending those two guns after him.”
Hugh got into his shirt. “He won’t believe that. He knows me better than that.”
“He’ll believe me when I spread it out for him.” I tossed his trousers to him. “I think you guessed he was my client, didn’t you?”
He gave me a sour grin. “From the start. It wasn’t Arch, and it wasn’t me. It had to be him.”
“I had a feeling about you,” I said. “My guess is that she saw you over at The Man’s place. Perhaps she was leaving, in a car driven by Ferd. You were arriving. Or it might have been the other way around. You leaving, Emily arriving.”
“It’s your story.” He zipped his trousers and notched his belt.
“Right after that, something happened to make Emily believe that she was in danger. It must have been a frightening time for her. She couldn’t go to The Man. He seemed to be doing business with you, and she must have felt that he’d choose his business over his girlfriend. And you were her father’s best friend. She couldn’t go to him. He’d probably send her to a psychiatrist.” I threw him one shoe and sock. “What scared her, Hugh?”
“What I heard somewhere was that a car barely missed her in a dark parking lot. A near miss, the way I heard it.”
“My next guess. She called you or you called her. A meeting was set up. She wanted to convince you that she didn’t care what kind of rackets you were in.” I tossed him the other sock and shoe. “A meeting was set up for that Monday night. You made yourself an alibi and sent Mullidge to meet her. That was a pointless murder. Emily probably didn’t care how many shady deals you made.”
Hugh stood up. “Whoever it was didn’t like the idea of one person knowing who didn’t have to know. The first thing you know, she tells the wrong person.”
“And Ferd? He must have figured it out and tried to shake you down.”
Hugh got into his jacket, balled up his tie, and shoved it into one pocket. “Him? He never had a bright thought in his life. But you were nosing around, and this man . . . whoever he was . . . thought you might prod him into making a connection. The man who killed Ferd met him on the street after his last drop, said he had to see The Man with some important news, and asked for a ride over to the apartment. On the way, he played with a slapjack that Ferd seemed proud of, for some reason. He waited until Ferd parked, looked around to make sure the area was empty, and then hit Ferd on the head a few times. Then he got out and walked over to Whitehall and caught a bus.”
“In broad daylight?”
“Why not. People are more trusting in the daytime.”
I checked the topcoat and threw it to him. “Why was Mullidge after me?”
“You were fine as long as you believed that Eddie Spence had done all the killing. When you changed your mind, you were in the way.”
I decided not to say anything about Lockridge and his girl. It was probably better if Hugh didn’t know the police were holding Coleman. “And the try on The Man?”
“Two things. He seemed to be taking Emily’s death too seriously. Hiring you, for example. Secondly, he has a rich territory. This man we’re talking about and a couple of black friends wanted it—the whole thing: gambling, drugs and women.” Hugh laughed at me. “Especially the women.”
“Outside and down the stairs.”
I edged the door open with my shoe and wagged the shotgun at him. I followed him down the hall and down the stairs, and into the lobby of the lodge. Hump met us at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on the banister, with the .38 pointed upward. When I passed him he grinned and said, “Took so long, I was about to come looking for you.”
“Hugh likes to talk while he’s dressing.”
Hugh stopped and looked around. His eyes shifted past the six who were taped up on the sofa and paused on Curly, who was in one of the easy chairs beside the coffee table. Hump had found her a man’s raincoat, which she wore carelessly wrapped across her. Hugh smiled at her. “Considering the way I was interrupted, I think you can understand why there won’t be any payment tonight.”
“Hugh, that’s all right,” Curly said. “Call it a Christmas present.”
Jim Winters stepped away from the window and dropped the drapes back in place. “Had one visitor. Hump tapped him out.”
“I hardly touched him.” Hump moved around the sofa and stared down at Curly. “Man, oh man,” he said almost under his breath.
I followed the point of Winters’ carbine, and saw the pudgy black man stretched out beside the bar. The tape on his hands and mouth seemed unnecessary. He was out.
“We ready?”
Hump and Winters said they were.
“Tape and muzzle the girl,” I said.
“Aw.” Hump put on an act. He looked downcast. “I was thinking about taking Curly along for me.”
“It might get wasted out there.”
“I wouldn’t want that to happen. Not to this girl.” He finished her hands and duck-walked around the chair to face her. “Some other time then, Curly.” He kissed her and then fitted the strip of tape over her mouth. “And you better believe it.”
“Still clear outside,” Jim Winters said from the window.
“Now Hugh. Tape his mouth good. Hands in front of him, so he’ll be comfortable.”
While Hump worked over Hugh, I went to the sofa. “We’re leaving now. Nobody’s hurt, and nobody’s going to be hurt. Just stay where you are. Anybody comes out of that front door in the next ten minutes is going to get a load of shot thrown at them.”
The hard eyes above the tape just stared at me. Only the young girl, Josie, nodded that she understood.
We crossed the porch and the parking lot without any trouble. Hump unlocked the trunk, and we boosted Hugh in and closed the door over him. So far, it was going well. I didn’t even like to think how well it was going. That might
ruin it, just thinking.
I got in the back seat, down on my knees on the floorboards. The shotgun was on the seat where I could reach it. The muzzle was pointed to the left, in the direction of the guard booth. Hump and Winters were in the front. Hump started it up, backed around in a half circle, and pointed toward the gate. If it went well, Hump was supposed to ease down and glide through the gate without stopping while he made some bawdy remark about Curly.
We were twenty yards out of the parking lot when it went bad. An alarm bell or a fire bell went off. It didn’t matter which it was. From the volume and the clarity, it sounded like it was probably mounted on the front of the lodge. So someone back at the lodge had touched it off. Now the gate was alerted. There was no way we could get through without a fight. We could only hope that the patrol jeep was in one of the far areas and wouldn’t be able to beat us to the gate.
I reached over the seat and slapped Hump on the shoulder. “Floor it.” I turned and leaned closer to Winters. “When we get close, put a few rounds into the gate house.”
“So much for hurried planning,” Hump said.
I rolled down the window on the side of the car facing the gate booth. I put the shotgun on the window ledge and waited.
Now they had the pig in the chute and, without some luck, it’d get screwed and barbecued.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Headlights out, Hump,” Winters yelled, and we began the run for the gate. Ahead of us, as I looked between Hump and Winters, I could see one of the gate guards run out of the booth. He grabbed the gate-half nearest the guard booth and began to fumble with the latch that held it back in place. The range was impossible for my shotgun. Even knowing that, I thought I ought to worry him some. “Watch your head, Hump.” I poked the shotgun out the window and pointed it in the guard’s general direction. I let one barrel go. It wasn’t the best position for firing a shotgun, and it almost kicked out of my hands.
