Shake a Crooked Town

CHAPTER VI

“I'll stay,” Johnny said.

“I'll raise it again,” the opener said right behind him. His words tripped over themselves. His voice was taut.

The man who had raised originally frowned at his cards. He folded them, hesitated, opened them up for another look, and removed four blue chips from the diminished pile in front of him. “Stay,” he said.

“Stay,” the next man said. His eyes were upon the dealer who immediately confirmed his worst fears.

“Up once more,” the dealer said silkily. “Let's make it a good one, boys.”

“Stay,” Johnny said. He pushed the last of his blue chips into the center of the table.

The opener debated. “Stay,” he said finally.

“Stay,” the original raiser said stubbornly.

“Stay,” the whipsawed man to the dealer's right said resignedly.

“Cards, gentlemen?” the dealer inquired cheerfully.

“I'll take one,” Johnny said. He lifted a corner of the card dealt him and looked at it. It was a ten.

“I'll play these,” the opener announced. A straight or a flush, Johnny thought. He's out of it.

“Two,” the man who had raised first said unhappily. The pat hand had obviously shaken him.

“One,” the next man said. “Make it the right one and I'll burn up all your asses yet.”

The dealer set down the deck with a thump. “No cards to the dealer,” he said. “What does the opener do?”

The opener was staring at the chips in the pot. Johnny didn't blame him. On a hundred dollar open five men had followed four raises to draw cards. With the ante money, there was over twenty-six hundred dollars in the pot already. “Opener checks,” he said huskily.

“Check,” said the man who had drawn two. He didn't help his three of a kind, Johnny thought.

“I'll bet,” said the man who had asked for the right card. He said it triumphantly, tossing two blues into the center of the pile of chips. A flush, Johnny thought. Probably ace-king or ace-queen high.

“I'll raise,” the dealer said immediately. He's not afraid of a flush, Johnny decided. Must be a pat full house. Or could he have stayed pat with four of a kind?

“I'll raise it again,” Johnny said. The bet took all but two of his red chips. Four pairs of eyes were riveted on him. They hadn't even realized he was in the hand. He could see each in his mind's eye reconstructing his play. Under the gun, no open, no raises, one card draw. What the hell can he have?

The opener stared desperately around the table. He played with his chips but he knew he was beaten. Reluctantly he folded his cards and flung them into the discards.

Right behind them came the cards of the original raiser, the man who had drawn two cards. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said softly.

“Call,” said the man who had been so happy about his one card draw. He said it soberly.

“Try you one time,” the dealer said with an eye cocked at Johnny. He raised again.

Johnny took the balance of Mickey Tallant's money from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Chips,” he said.

“Don't hold up the game,” the opener said impatiently. “I'll mark it. What're you doin'?”

“Up again,” Johnny said.

The one card draw cursed and sailed his hand into the discards. The dealer studied Johnny. “Once more,” he said finally.

“And again,” Johnny said. Even if the man had fours he had to have jacks, queens, or aces to win. Johnny had had a king and a ten.

The dealer wet his lips. “One card draw,” he said slowly. “One card draw.” His hand hovered over his chips, retreated, advanced again. “One more time.”

“Back at you,” Johnny said.

“Call the man,” the dealer ordered himself. His grin was feeble. “I call.”

“Two pairs of nines,” Johnny said, and showed them.

“Wins,” the dealer said miserably. One by one he turned over three queens and two fours. Johnny stuffed Mickey Tallant's money back in his pocket and raked in the pot. He was doing mental arithmetic in his head. Twenty-six hundred in there before the draw. Three men had thrown in three hundred each afterward, plus three head-to-head raises and a call. It had to be a forty-six or forty-eight hundred dollar pot. Of course thirteen hundred of it had been his own. Still a good day's pay.

“Best pot in the last six months,” a voice said reflectively.

“Don't deal me any more pat straights on four-time passed pots,” the opener said emphatically. He turned to Johnny. “You caught one?”

“Had 'em goin' in,” Johnny told him.

“Man, man, you had to have brass-bound guts to play it that way.” He shook his head. “You sure as hell led all the little pigs right up to the trough,” he added grudgingly.

“Hell with the post mortems,” one of the noncombatants on the hand just past said briskly. “Deal the damn cards.”

In the next two hours Johnny won only three small pots but he drew cards only six times. He played ironclad poker. He had it now and he intended to get out of there with it. He threw in pairs, inside straights, double-ended straights, and fourflushes. He threw in two pairs unless he was the dealer or the man in front of the dealer. In the two hours he dropped a little ante money. That was all.

He had made up his mind to stay another thirty minutes and then to pack it in when he raised his eyes across the table and did a doubletake. Standing behind a player's chair with his eyes fixed directly upon Johnny was Mayor Richard Lowell. Johnny half-rose, incredulous, from his chair. “Deal me out of this one,” he said harshly.

He circled the table and took Dick Lowell roughly by the arm and led him aside. “You crazy?” he demanded in an undertone. “How can a public official like you walk into a bustout joint like this?”

“I've got to talk to you, Killain.” The mayor's jowls were silver-stubbled and his eyes red-rimmed. The corners of his mouth twitched.

Johnny hesitated. “Walk over to the door,” he said finally. He had to get this fool out of here. Back at the table he awaited the finish of the hand. “Cash me in,” he said briefly. He had to stuff money in three pockets. “See you later, boys,” he said to the glum faces around the table watching the big winner check out.

Rudy was at the door with Lowell. It seemed to Johnny that the gambling operator and the mayor studiously avoided looking at each other. Rudy opened the door with his key. “It's a better game Saturdays,” he said. “Although I hear you should have no complaint with this one. Give us a return bout Saturday.”

“I just might do that.” Johnny took Lowell's arm and hustled him outside. The bartender was gone but a man tipped up on a chair leaning back against a cigarette machine rose and let them out. On the street Johnny turned to Lowell. “Now what kind of an idiot's trick was that, showin' your face in there?”

“I had to talk to you.” The mayor's words came with a rush. “After you left I got to thinking about what you'd said. Not being able to reach Mrs. Thompson, I mean. I tried to call her myself. When I couldn't get an answer I went over there.” He gestured impatiently at Johnny's look. “Yes, I know what time it was and I'm not drunk. There's something going on I don't understand. Anyway, I went to her apartment. She's not there. No sign of her at all. The building superintendent said he hadn't seen her for four days.”

“Four days?” Johnny echoed. Had Micheline Thompson been at the Taft with her husband after all? Johnny frowned at the dark, deserted street.

Beside him Richard Lowell drew a deep breath. “I want you to find her, Killain,” he said firmly.

“At three in the mornin'?” A thought occurred to Johnny. “How did you find me in the game here?”

“I called Daddario. He has a man on you.” The mayor said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“An' I suppose the man is takin' stenographic notes while we stand here blattin' at each other?” Johnny said in disgust.

Richard Lowell paid no attention. “I want you to find Mrs. Thompson,” he repeated.

“Why didn't you ask Daddario where she was? He was glued right to her when I saw them. If she's under cover it's a good bet he put her there.”

“I accused him of it. He denied it. Professed to be alarmed, as a matter of fact. I don't doubt that he'd lie to me but I'd like to know why.” He tugged nervously at an earlobe. “I don't like it. Daddario's up to something. I'm damned if I'm going to stand flatfooted and let that-that mountebank jerk the rug from beneath me. I want to talk to Mrs. Thompson and I want you to find her.” For the first time there was a ring of authority in Lowell's voice. “She undoubtedly knows something about Daddario's movements in New York he doesn't want disclosed. I want to know what it is. How long will it take you to find her?”

Johnny stared at him. “How the hell do I know? Right this second I don't even know where to begin. An' get it out of your noggin' that I'm startin' at three in the a.m. Daylight will be plenty soon enough.” He rode roughshod over the mayor's voice as Lowell tried to interrupt. “Who's Daddario got tailin' me?”

“Probably one of Jack Riley's men.”

“Is there an all-night telegraph office in town?”

Lowell nodded. “Two blocks north and a block east. Why?”

Johnny took him by the arm again. “Let's go. It's not every day I get a mayor as my bodyguard.” With a firm grip on the mayoral arm he towed Lowell along.

“Really, Killain, I-” The mayor subsided, evidently considering a struggle undignified. He walked along beside Johnny, hurrying to keep up with Johnny's longer stride. At the Western Union office Johnny commandeered a table and dumped money from all his pockets upon it. Richard Lowell's eyes widened. Johnny sorted bills swiftly and counted out Mickey Tallant's original three thousand dollars. He made another bundle of the rest and counted again. He had thirty-two hundred dollars in the second bundle. He divided it in two, put half in his pocket, added the other half to the three thousand, and stepped up to the counter.

“Mind givin' me a money order for this?” he inquired of the clerk, and pulled a telegraph blank toward himself. He thought a moment and printed swiftly. YOUR MONEY WAS IN ACTION AND HITS HARDER THAN YOU DO. He signed it, inserted Mickey Tallant's name and the address of the Rollin' Stone above it and laid it down beside the stacks of bills the clerk was counting. He counted three times before looking up at Johnny inquiringly.

“I make it forty-six hundred.”

“I make it the same.” He waited for his receipt and put it carefully in his wallet. Outside on the sidewalk again he looked at Richard Lowell. “Who's Rudy payin' off to run wide open like that?”

“I have no idea.” The mayor's tone was indifferent.

“You're the mayor, man. You don't know what's goin' on in your own town?”

“We are not a reform administration,” Lowell said stiffly. “And I've already told you that my followers on the city council are in the minority.”

“The minority's not in on the take?”

“What makes you think there is a take, as you call it?”

“For God's sake, man, you think I was born yesterday?” Johnny demanded impatiently. “Are you in on this payoff yourself?”

Mayor Richard Lowell closed his mouth firmly. “Let me know when you find Mrs. Thompson, Killain.” He turned and started to walk away.

“Just a minute, buster.” Johnny caught him by the arm. “If I find her it could be because I'll have my own reasons. Now what the hell are yours?”

Richard Lowell freed his arm with dignity. “I thought I'd already made that clear. I think she's being coerced into something. I don't trust Daddario and I don't propose to stand still while he hunts for my head.” He stalked off up the street.

Johnny stood and watched him go. Could any reasonably honest politician afford to walk into a gambling joint the way Mayor Richard Lowell had done? And if there were two crooked politicians in this town wouldn't they almost have to be working together? Of course they could have had a falling out He was ahead in one respect, Johnny decided. Dick Lowell at least had not shown a passionate desire to remove Johnny from the scene. Dick Lowell on the contrary seemed eager for help. If Micheline Thompson had actually been in New York with her husband then coercion was about the only way you could explain her Manhattan suite appearance with Daddario.

Coercion. Or collusion Johnny stirred himself. He had to get some sleep. The adrenalin-charged excitement of the card game was gone. He set out for Mrs. Peterson's. He ought to call Sally in New York tomorrow, he mused. To find out if there were any developments at that end of the line. Find out, too, if a date had been set for that inquest. Joe Dameron could get a little sticky at Johnny's non-appearance at that affair even if it was cut-and-dried.

He turned into the street leading to Mrs. Peterson's, whistling tunelessly to himself. Maybe the whole thing would make more sense in the daylight. Perhaps he could Fifty feet from Mrs. Peterson's Johnny's quick eye saw a shadow across the street move soundlessly and blend with the deeper shadow of a tree trunk. Someone was watching the rooming house. There was only one reason anyone would be watching the rooming house. Conscious suddenly of the sound of his own footfalls in the pre-dawn quiet he repressed the instinctive urge to soften them. He swung on past the Petersons' without a pause, never missing a beat in his tuneless whistle. In the middle of the next block he changed gears and crossed the street, the whistle gone, the footsteps quieted.

He came back down the quiet street as silently as a windblown leaf. In the middle of the block across from the Petersons' there was no street light. If he hadn't known the man was there Johnny might easily have gone past him. The silent shadow behind the tree with his eyes on the darkened rooming house heard or saw nothing until Johnny's hands closed down from behind on his throat.

Johnny dug once with his thumbs, hard. The man in his hands went “Ur-r-kk!” and sagged. It would be the last sound he would make except with the greatest difficulty for two or three days. Then he would be able to whisper. Johnny picked him up and lugged him across the sidewalk onto the grass beyond, feeling the shoulder holster under his hands. He'd made no mistake. He dumped his burden and with silent ruthlessness stripped the wildly threshing man, tearing off handfuls of clothes. The belt snapped. The holster snapped. Johnny tore off the shoes and socks.

The naked man came up on his knees making gobbling noises. He was barely audible as he scuttled sideways to escape the unseen demon attacking him. He bounded to his feet and started to run. Johnny was able to fetch him one solid swat of the holster harness from behind before he sprinted across the lawns and disappeared between the houses.

Johnny made a little pile of the shredded clothing, making sure he had it all. He added belt, harness, shoes, and socks to it, bundled it all up and carried it across the street. He let himself in with his key. He was surprised to see Valerie Peterson, swathed shapelessly in a man's bathrobe, standing in the hall in the dim night-light.

“There's someone watching the house from across the street,” she said in a low tone. “I've been waiting up to tell-”

“You mean there was,” Johnny said. “Put on a light so I can get a look at this stuff.” She looked at the bundle under his arm. “Not out here. Somebody else might be watchin'.”

“Come out into the kitchen. The shades are drawn.” Johnny followed on her heels and pushed aside a plate of crackers and cheese to dump his booty on the oilcloth-covered table. He didn't have far to look. In the wallet in the ragged trousers he found a badge clipped to a photograph. He showed it to Mrs. Peterson.

“Will Tolliver,” she said grimly. “One of Jack Riley's hot young sparks. You're up to your ears now, man. What happened? I didn't hear a sound.”

“I got to his throat first.”

Her eyes gradually absorbed the totality of the strips of clothing on the table. She picked up a shoe. “My God, didn't you leave him anything?”

“Buck naked,” Johnny said. “He won't be back for a while. There's somethin' psychological about it, no clothes an' unable to communicate. It does somethin' to a man. The carabinieri in Italy are specialists at it. 'Course they add a couple of refinements. Before they turn their man loose after thumbin' his vocal chords they set up an obstacle course.

You'd be surprised how a man can tear himself up runnin' a quarter mile in the dark. An' the ever-lovin' carabinieri 'd rather do it to a woman.”

Despite the bulky bathrobe Valerie Peterson shivered. “I won't ask you how you know,” she said dryly. She looked at him eyeing the crackers and cheese. “Would you like a beer?”

“I would, thanks,” he said promptly. She opened the refrigerator door as he swept the bundled clothing off onto the floor. The thump with which the holster hit the floor reminded him of something. He removed the police special and placed it on the table beside the wallet. “I'll drop these in the nearest mailbox before I go upstairs,” he remarked to Mrs. Peterson. He wiped each carefully with his handkerchief and wrapped them in it. “I'll burn the rest in your incinerator.”

Her eyes rested on him speculatively. “You think they don't know where they sent him?”

“No sweat,” Johnny said. “Let them try to prove something.” Valerie Peterson sat down across the table from him. He looked up from his painstaking construction of a four-decker cracker-and-cheese monument to find her staring across at him, her chin in her hands. “I get it,” he said resignedly. “You're thinkin' of askin' me to leave.”

“I'm thinking of it.” Her tone was level. “You didn't tell me Carl Thompson was dead. And you're getting an awful lot of attention for a stranger in town.” Her steady gaze took in his hands and shoulders and returned to his face. “You bother me. Without that silly looking jacket you're different, but you come into town looking like something out of a comic strip-”

He waited until he was sure she wasn't going to continue. “You figure Jim Daddario's the wheel in this neck of the woods?” he asked her casually.

“Of course not.” She seemed surprised. “Dick Lowell runs this town.”

“You sure you're up to date?”

“You think that because Thompson is out and Riley is in it makes Daddario top dog? I don't think so. And anyway, they've never had any trouble getting along.”

“Sometimes a bug bites a man. Daddario might be plannin' on movin' up. How would Lowell like that?”

Valerie Peterson's mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Knowing him, he wouldn't like it.” Her steady gaze rested on Johnny's face. “Are you hiring out to one side or the other?”

“I'm here on a little business of my own.”

“I don't intend to have your business bringing trouble to my place,” she warned him. She pushed back from the table. “If it does-”

“See me then,” Johnny told her. He picked up his handkerchief-wrapped little package and walked to the door. “Be right back.”

Five minutes after he had dropped the revolver and wallet in the mailbox at the corner he was in bed, and thirty seconds after he was in bed he was asleep.

He came instantly awake in bright sunshine at a knock at the door. “Telephone, Johnny,” Jingle Peterson's voice called.

He rolled out of bed and slid into his pants. He padded barefoot to the door, opened it, and thrust his head out. “Man or woman, Jingle?” he inquired.

“Woman. Like definitely, see?” She eyed his bare arms and shoulders. “"What big muscles you have, grandma,' Little Red Ridinghood said to the wolf.”

“You should see the ones in my head.” Johnny returned to the chair beside his bed for an undershirt, pulled it on and, not bothering with shoes, brushed past Jingle and ran downstairs. He expected to hear Jessamyn Burger's voice when he picked up the dangling receiver of the wall pay phone in the front hall. Micheline Thompson's surprised him.

“Is this Johnny Killain?”

“Yeah. Hey!” he exclaimed. “Where are you? I been tryin' to reach you.”

“I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you. I don't know what you're doing here. I think you'd better leave town.”

“Just answer 'yes' or 'no',” Johnny said rapidly. “Is someone standin' right beside you while you're reelin' that off?”

He counted to five before she replied. “No,” she said.

“Someone's listenin' in on an extension?”

Again the hesitation. “You're going to get yourself in a lot of trouble,” her voice said finally. It sounded flat, without emphasis. “You'd better listen to-”

“Micheline,” he broke in, “qu'est-ce que c'est que vous voulez dire? Quand — ” The loud click of the broken connection in his ear cut him off. “Damn it all,” he said softly, and hung up the receiver. He stood looking blankly at the phone for an instant before turning to go back upstairs. Before he had taken three steps a sharp ring spun him around again. He had started for the telephone before he realized it was the front-door bell.

Tingle answered the door. There appeared to be no conversation as she was shunted aside by two uniformed police who barged right in. “Here!” Jingle said indignantly. “What do you think you're doing?”

They paid no attention. The leader stopped at sight of Johnny. “That him?” he asked his companion.

“Yeah.”

The front man addressed Johnny directly. “Let's take a little walk, pal.”

“Yeah? Whose invitation?” Through the small-paned window beside the front door Johnny could see the Black Maria at the curb and a third cop standing on the sidewalk.

“Our invitation. Let's go.”

“You got a warrant?” Johnny wished he had his shoes on. He wasn't going willingly in the police van, and a rough-house barefoot was like driving a racing car with a couple of cylinders missing.

The second man glanced at the wide-eyed Jingle taking it all in. “Take a walk, kid,” he said gruffly.

“This is my house!” the girl retorted. “Don't you try to tell me what to do in my own house!”

Johnny laughed. The second man looked at him. “We don't need a warrant for you to come along for a quiet little talk, now, do we?” he asked.

“You sure as hell do,” Johnny told him.

The leader spoke up again. “You could be making-”

“Get it out of your head I'm goin' with you voluntarily,” Johnny interrupted. His voice was flat and hard. “Take it any damn place you please from there.”

The second man said something in an undertone to the leader. The man looked undecided, started to reply, shrugged, and strode to the wall phone. He dug out a dime from a handful of change and dialed.

“What's the hard time for?” the second man asked injuredly. Johnny thought the question was asked to cover the rapid, low-voiced phone conversation. “You'd think someone was going to eat you.”

“Someone ate your ex-boss. Whose side were you on?”

The policeman's face darkened but he was saved from the necessity of a reply by the first man's turning away from the phone. “He's coming over,” he announced to no one in particular.

“Good,” Johnny said briskly. “I'll get dressed. I'd like to look my best for Chief Riley.” He walked to the stairs.

“Go with him, Charlie,” he heard from behind him. He didn't know which of them had spoken. He heard the solid thump of boots on the stair treads behind him. When he was in his own room he went immediately to his shoes beside the bed. He slipped into socks and shoes, lacing and tying them carefully. He straightened and flexed his knees. He felt like a new man.

“Cigarette me, Jack,” he said expansively to the patrolman who had followed him into the room. It was the man who had made the phone call. His eyebrows climbed in surprise but he produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. Johnny took one, lit it, winced at the before-breakfast taste, and sat down in the room's only chair. The man in uniform eyed the bed, but it would have put him at a disadvantage since he wanted to keep between Johnny and the door. He stayed where he was.

They waited in silence.