Fast One

Chapter Five

Kells slept most of the afternoon. Doctor Janis stopped by at seven. The leg was pretty stiff.

Janis said. “You ought to stay in a couple days, anyway. You’re damned lucky it was the edge of the fan got you — Dickinson got the middle...”

Kells asked: “How is he?”

“He’ll be all right. He’s too tough.”

Janis put on his coat and hat and went to the door. “You had a break,” he said — “don’t press it.” He went out.

Kells telephoned Fenner. There had been several steers on Rose — all of them bad. Sheedy hadn’t been located. The Mexican who had been with Rose was probably Abalos, from Frisco. He lived at a small hotel on Main street which was being watched. Reilly was being tailed.

Beery came up about eight. “Everything’s lovely,” he said. “All the evening papers carried the Guardian stuff — I’m the fair-haired boy at the Chronicle.” He put down his glass. “You want me to keep the Chronicle job too, don’t you?”

Kells said: “Sure.”

Beery stooped over the low table and mixed himself a drink. “I’m going to the fights. Swell card.”

“So am I.”

Beery squinted over his shoulder. “You’d better stay in the hay,” he said.

Kells swung up, sat on the edge of the bed. “Got your ducats?”

“Yeah. I was going to take the wife.”

“Sure — we’ll take her. Call up and see if you can get three ether, close.” Kells limped into the bathroom, turned on shower.

Beery sat tinkling ice against the sides of his glass. When Kells turned off the shower Beery yelled: “The old lady don’t want to go anyway.”

Kells stood in the bathroom door, grinning.

Beery looked up at him and then down at his glass. “I guess she don’t like you very well.” He picked up the phone and asked for a Hollywood number.

Kells disappeared into the bathroom again, and when he came out Beery smiled happily, said: “Okay. She’d rather go to a picture show.”

The seats were fifth row, ringside — two seats off the aisle. The second preliminary was in its last round when Kells and Beery squeezed past a very fat man in the aisle seat, sat down.

The preliminary ended in a draw and the lights flared on. Kells nodded to several acquaintances, and Beery leaned forward, talked to a friend of his in the row ahead. He introduced the man to Kells: Brand, feature sports writer for an Eastern syndicate.

Kells had been looking at his program, asked: “What’s the price on Gilroy?”

“The boys were offering three to two before dinner — very little business. I’ll lay two to one on Shane.”

Gilroy was a New York Negro, a heavyweight who had been at the top of his class for a while. Too much living, and racial discrimination — too few fights — had softened him. The dopesters said he’d lost everything he ever had, was on the skids. Shane was a tough kid from Texas. He was reputed to have a right-hand punch that more than made up for his lack of experience.

Kells remembered Gilroy — from Harlem — had known him well, liked him. He said: “I’ll take five hundred of that.”

Brand looked at him very seriously, nodded.

Beery looked disgusted. He leaned toward Kells, muttered: “For God’s sake, Gerry, they’re grooming Shane for a title shot. Do you think they’re going to let an unpopular boogie like Gilroy get anywhere?”

Kells said: “He used to be very good — he can’t have gone as bad as they say in a year. I’ve only seen Shane once and I thought he was lousy...”

“He won, didn’t he?”

“Uh huh.”

Beery was looking at Kells sideways with wide hard eyes.

The man sitting with Brand turned around and drawled: “You don’t happen to have any more Gilroy money, do you?”

Sure.

The man said: “I’ll give you eighteen hundred for a grand.”

Kells nodded.

Beery looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He muttered expletives under his breath.

A man crawled into the ring, followed by two Filipinos with their seconds. The house lights dimmed.

“Ladies and gentlemen... Six rounds... In this corner — Johnny Sanga... a hundred an’ thirty-four...”

Kells said: “I’ll be back in a minute.” He got up and squeezed out past the fat man.

At the head of the corridor that led to the dressing rooms a uniformed policeman said: “You can’t go any farther, buddy.”

Kells looked at him coldly. “I’m Mister Olympic — I own this place.” He twisted a bill around his finger, stepped close and shoved it into the copper’s hand, went on.

Gilroy was sitting on the edge of a rubbing table while a squat heavily sweatered youth taped his hands. A florid be-jeweled Greek sat in a chair tilted back against the wall, smoking a short green cigar. He stood up when Kells opened the door, said: “You can’t come in here, mister.”

Gilroy looked up and his face split in a huge grin. “Well Ah’ll be switch — Mistah Kells!” He got up and came towards Kells, held out his half-taped hand.

Kells smiled, shook hands. “H’are ya, Lonny?”

Gilroy’s grin was enormous. He said: “Sit down — sit down.”

Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Greek and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”

“Shuah — shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”

Kells kept looking at him. Gilroy looked at the Greek, then back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”

Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Greek looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.

Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.

“How much are you getting?”

Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”

Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.

Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel — but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it...”

“What are you talking about?”

The boy finished one hand. Gilroy flexed it, looked at the floor.

“They’ve put the feah o’ God in me, Mistah Kells. If Ah win, Ah don’t go home tonight — maybe.”

Kells turned to face him squarely, said: “You mean you’re going to take a dive for nothing.

“If that’s the way you want to put it — yes, sah.”

The boy started on the other hand. Gilroy went on: “Ah been gettin’ letters an’ phone calls an’ warnin’s for a week...”

“Who from?”

“Don’t know.” Gilroy shook his head slowly.

Kells glanced at his watch. He said: “Do you figure you owe me anything, Lonny?”

Gilroy looked at him, and his eyes were big, liquid. “Shuah,” he said — “shuah — Ah remembah.”

“This is my town, now. I want you to go in and win, if you can. I’ll have a load of protection here by the time you get in the ring — you can stick with me afterwards.” Kells looked at him very intently. “This is important.”

Gilroy was entirely still — for a moment. He stared at his hands. Then he nodded slowly without looking up.

Kells said: “I’ll be back here afterwards!”

He went out of the room, closed the door. He found a telephone, called Fenner. Fenner wasn’t in, he had the call switched to Hanline’s room; when Hanline answered, Kells told-him to send the two best muscle men he could locate to the entrance of Section R, Olympic Arena, quickly. Hanline said: “Sure — what’s it all about?” Kells said: “Nothing. What’s the use of having an organization if I don’t use it?”

On the way back to his seat Kells saw Fay. They walked together to an archway through which they could see the ring. The Filipinos were locked in a slow and measured dance; the electric indicator above the ring read: ROUND FIVE.

Kells asked: “Who’s interested in Shane?”

Fay shrugged. “His mother, I suppose...”

“Is this so-called syndicate building him up?”

“Sure.”

Kells pointed a finger, jabbed it at Fay’s chest. “And — who the hell is the syndicate?”

Fay said: “Rose — and whoever his backers are.”

Kells looked at the ring. “Your guess is as good as mine. Get down on Gilroy.” He walked away with an extravagantly mysterious and meaningful look over his shoulder.

Back in his seat Kells tapped Brand’s shoulder. “If you gentlemen would like to get out from under,” he said, “you can copper those bets now.”

Brand turned to Kells’ wide smile. His drawling friend was engrossed in the last waltz of the Filipinos.

“I have information...” Kells widened his smile.

Brand shook his head, matched his smile, said: “No — Shane’s good enough for me.”

“That’s what I thought. That’s the reason I made the offer.”

Beery was yelling at one of the Filipinos. He glanced at Kells without expression, shouted at the ring: “Ask him what he’s doing after the show.”

The last preliminary was declared a draw. The semi-wind-up came up: six rounds — a couple of dark smart flyweights, one on his way to a championship. It was a pretty good fight but it was the favorite’s all the way.

The main event followed almost immediately. The announcer climbed into the ring — the referee, Shane, Gilroy, a knot of seconds. Shane got a big hand. Gilroy got a pretty good reception too — the black belt was well represented and Gilroy was well liked. The disk was tossed for corners, taping was examined and the referee’s instructions passed.

“Ladies and gentlemen... Ten rounds... In this corner — Arthur Shane — the Texas Cyclone... Two hundred an’ eight pounds... In this corner — Lou Gilroy... A hundred ninety-six...”

The announcer and seconds scrambled out of the ring. Gilroy and Shane touched gloves, turned toward their corners. At the gong Shane whirled, almost ran across the ring. Gilroy looked faintly surprised, waited, calmly ducked Shane’s wild right hook. They exchanged short jabs to the body and Shane straightened a long one to Gilroy’s jaw.

Shane’s hair was so blond it was almost white. It stuck straight up in a high pompadour above his-round pink face, flopped back and forth as he moved his head. He was thick, looked more than his two hundred and eight pounds. Gilroy had put on fat in the year since Kells had seen him in action, but it looked hard. His rich chocolate-brown body still sloped to a narrow waist, straight well-muscled legs. He looked pretty good.

Shane came in fast again; Gilroy backed against the ropes, came out and under Shane’s right — they clinched. The referee stepped between them, and Gilroy clipped Shane’s chin as he sidled away. They exchanged short jabs to the head and body, fell into another clinch. Gilroy brought both hands up hard to Shane’s body. Shane danced away, came in fast again and snapped Gilroy’s head back with a long right. They were stalling, waiting for the other to lead at the bell. The round was even.

The second and third rounds were slow — the second Shane’s by a shade, the third even.

Shane came out fast in the fourth, grazed Gilroy’s jaw with the long right, drove his left hard into Gilroy’s stomach. Gilroy straightened up and his mouth was open; Shane stepped a little to one side, took Gilroy’s weak counter on his shoulder and hooked his right to Gilroy’s unprotected jaw. There was a snap and Gilroy sank down on his knees. The crowd roared. Several people stood up.

Gilroy took a count of eight, got up grinning broadly. He ducked Shane’s wild uppercut, stepped inside and pounded Shane’s body, but his punches lacked steam. The muscles of his face were taut, his eyes big — he had been hurt. They clinched. The round was Shane’s.

Gilroy held on during the first part of the fifth, but snapped out of it in time to smack Shane around considerably before the bell. Shane was tiring a little. It should have been Gilroy’s round but was declared even.

The sixth and seventh were Gilroy’s by a small margin. He seemed to have recovered all his speed; Shane brought the fight to him, made a good show of rushing but it didn’t mean much. Gilroy took everything Shane had to give — fought deliberately, hard, well.

The rounds stood two apiece, three even. Kells watched Shane between the seventh and eighth, decided that whatever the fix had been, he wasn’t in on it. He looked worried, but it didn’t look like the kind of worry one would feel at being double-crossed. His backers had evidently let him believe that he would win or lose fairly. As a matter of fact it hadn’t been bribery or a frameup, strictly speaking — they’d simply scared Gilroy and it had almost worked.

Brand turned around, smiled uncomfortably.

Kells whispered to Beery: “The eighth does it.” He looked at Gilroy. Gilroy was lying back, breathing deeply. He raised his head and stared intently at the faces around the ring. Kells tried to catch his eye but the seconds were crawling out of the ring, the gong sounded.

Shane rushed again and Gilroy stood very still, blocked Shane’s haymaker and swung his left in a long loop to Shane’s head. Shane fell as if he had been hit with an axe. Gilroy looked down at him wonderingly for a second, shuffled to a neutral corner. Everyone stood up. The referee was counting but he couldn’t be heard above the roar; his arm moved up and down and his lips moved.

Shane sat up, got unsteadily to his feet. Gilroy came in and put out his two hands and pushed him. Gilroy was smiling self-consciously. Shane was all right; he shook his head and went after Gilroy, and Gilroy curled him on the side of the head, jabbed straight left to his face. Shane stepped in close and swung his right in a wide up-and-down circle, hit Gilroy a good ten inches below the belt, hard.

Gilroy folded up slowly. He held his hands over the middle of his body and bent his knees slowly. His face was twisted with pain. He stumbled forward and straightened up a little and then fell down on his side and drew his knees up.

Shane was leaning against; the ropes and his breathing was sharply audible in the momentary silence.

Then the ring filled with people; Gilroy was carried to his corner. The announcer was shouting vainly for silence. One of Shane’s seconds held the ropes apart for him; he stared dazedly at the crowd, ducked through the ropes, into the tunnel that led to the dressing rooms.

“Gilroy — on a foul.” The announcer made himself faintly heard.

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

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 Greek 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 naked 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.

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 toward 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.

The Greek 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 co’nah 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 rear 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-and-white 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. He said: “I am very happy to meet you, Mister Kells.” 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 toward 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 smiled slowly. “I’m afraid you’ve got some wrong ideas.”

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, 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 put of his belt, swung it toward 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 walls so that Taylor was between him and the short white man.

The white man turned swiftly 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, fo’ 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 is 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 into 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’ know, Mister Kells... I swear to God I don’ know...” Taylor spoke into the cloth of his coat sleeve; the words were broken, sounded far away.

Borg pulled Taylor’s arm down from his face very gently, held his two hands in his lap with one of his hands, 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 were 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, softly 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; 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 he 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 away and he fell down in the road.

Gilroy got out on the other side, 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 way.

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 — 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 toward town.

The night clerk at 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 toward 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 tapped Borg’s knee suddenly. “Have you ever been out to Fay’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.”

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?”

“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 the 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 there. They come in from 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 knockdown 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 toward 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, 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 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, 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.”

Kells took a sheaf of bills out of his pocket, peeled off two.

“Give him whatever he wants out of this,” he said. “And does he want a deposit?”

“No.” Bernie started for the door. “He keeps my boat for security.”

Kells and Borg followed him out, across the wharf, across a rickety foot bridge and down to a wide float.

Bernie gave the man who was waiting there one of the bills, said: “I’ll pick up the change when I come back.”

The man asked: “Don’t you want me to come along?”

Bernie glanced at Kells.

Kells said: “Thanks — no. We’ll get along.”

The Comet was a trim thirty-foot craft; mahogany and steel and glistening brass. She looked very fast.

Bernie switched on the running lights and started the engine. The man cast off the lines; Bernie spun the wheel over and they swung in a wide curve away from the float and out through the narrows to the cut that led to the outer bay.

The fog was broken to long trailing shreds. The swell was long, fairly easy.

Bernie snapped on the binnacle light. “I hope I ain’t forgot the course,” he said. “I think it’ll clear up when we get out a ways — but I’m usually wrong about fog.”

Borg said, “That’s dandy,” with dripping sarcasm.

Kells went down into the little cabin, lay down on one of the bunks and watched the red and green and yellow buoy lights slide swiftly by the portholes. After a while they rounded the breakwater and there weren’t any more lights to watch.

Kells was awakened by Bernie whispering: “We made it in an hour and fifty minutes.” Then Bernie went outside.

It was very dark. Borg was lying in the other bunk, groaning faintly.

Kells said: “What the hell’s the matter?”

Borg didn’t answer.

“You aren’t sick!” Kells was emphatically incredulous.

It was quiet for a minute and then Borg said slowly: “Who’s the best judge of that — me or you?”

Kells got up and went outside. Bernie had doused the running lights; there was a thin glow from the binnacle — and darkness. The fog felt like a wet sheet.

Bernie said: “There’s a big cruiser tied up on the other wharf I coasted by close — I don’t think there’s anybody aboard.”

“Any other boats?”

“I couldn’t see any.” Bernie switched off the binnacle light. “There’s another little cove on the other side of the island, but nobody uses it.”

Kells said: “We’re not tied up, are we?”

“Sure.”

Kells looked at Bernie admiringly. “You’re a wonder. It didn’t even wake me up.”

Bernie chuckled. “You’re damn right I’m a wonder.” They climbed up on the wharf, crossed quietly. The cruiser was big, luxurious, evidently deserted — Bernie couldn’t make out the name. Except for a few rowboats and the Comet, it was the only boat at the wharf. Kells said: “Well — I guess I’m wrong again.” They walked up the wharf, and Bernie found a path and they walked along the bottom of a shallow gully, up to the left across a kind of ridge.

The fog was so heavy they didn’t see the light until they were about twenty feet from it. Then they went forward silently and a big ramshackle shed took form in the gray darkness. The light came from a square window on the second floor.

Bernie said: “This used to be a cattle shelter — they’ve built onto it. I guess it’s the place they call the Red Barn.”

They found a door and Kells knocked twice. There was no answer so he turned the knob, pushed the door open.

There was a kerosene lamp at one end of a short bar. The room was long, windowless; the ceiling sloped to a high peak at one end. There was a stairway leading up to a balcony of rough timbers, and there was an open door on the balcony leading into a lighted room.

At first Kells thought the downstairs room was deserted; then by the flickering uncertain light of the lamp he saw a man asleep at one of the half dozen or so tables. There was another man lying on a cot against one wall. He rolled over and said, “Wha’d’ you want?” sleepily. Kells didn’t answer — the man looked at him Wearily for a moment and then grunted and rolled back with his face to the wall.

A man came out on the balcony and stood with his hands on the railing, silently staring down at them. He was of medium height, appeared in the inadequate light to be dark, swarthy.

Kells said: “How are chances of buying a drink?” The man suddenly stepped out of the doorway so that a little more light fell on Kells’ upturned face. Then he threw back his head and laughed noiselessly. His shoulders shook and his face was twisted with mirth, but there was no sound.

Bernie looked at Kells. Kells turned and glanced at the man on the cot, looked up at the swarthy man again. The man stopped laughing, looked down and spoke in a hoarse whisper:

“Sure. Come up.”

He turned, disappeared into the room. Kells said, “Wait,” to Bernie. He went up the stairs two at a time, into the room.

It was a fairly large room, square. There were a few rather good rugs on the floor, a flat-topped desk near the far wall, several chairs. There were two big lamps — the kind that have to be pumped up, hiss when lighted.

The man closed the door behind him, went to the desk and sat down. He waved his hand at a chair but Kells shook his head slightly, stood still.

The man’s face was familiar. It was deeply lined and the eyes were very far apart, very dark. His mouth was full and red, and his hair was very short, black.

Kells asked: “Where do I remember you from?”

The man shook his head. “You don’t.” There was some sort of curious impediment in his speech. Then he smiled. “I’m Crotti.”

Kells pulled a chair closer to the desk. He said: “I’ll still buy a drink.”

Crotti opened a drawer and took out a squat square bottle, a glass. He pushed them across the desk, said: “Help yourself.”

Kells poured himself a drink, sat down.

He knew Crotti very well by reputation, had once had him pointed out in a theater crowd in New York. A big-timer, he had started as a minor gangster in Detroit, become in the space of three or four years a national figure. A flair for color, a certain genius for organization, good political connections had kept him alive, out of jail and at the top. The press had boomed him as a symbol: the Crime Magnate — in New York he was supposed to be the power behind the dope ring, organized prostitution and gambling, the beer business — everything that was good for copy.

Crotti said: “This is a miracle.” His voice was very thin, throaty.

Kells remembered that he had heard something of an operation affecting the vocal cords, that Crotti always spoke in this curious confidential manner.

He asked: “What’s a miracle?”

Crotti leaned back in his chair. “In the morning,” he said, “your hotel was to be called, an invitation was to be extended to you to visit me — out here.”

He opened a box of cigars on the desk, offered them to Kells, carefully selected one.

“And here you are.”

Kells didn’t answer.

Crotti clipped and lighted his cigar, leaned back again. “What do you think of that?”

Kells said: “What do you want?”

“Since you anticipated my invitation may I ask what you want?”

Kells sipped his drink, shrugged. “I came out for a drink of good whiskey,” he said.

He looked around the room. There were two closed doors on his right, a window on his left. In front of him, behind Crotti, there was another large square window — the one he had seen from the outside. He finished his drink, put the glass on the desk.

“I’m looking for a fella named Jack Rose,” he said. “Ever hear of him?”

Crotti nodded.

“Know where he is?”

“No.” Crotti smiled, shook his head.

They were both silent for a minute. Crotti puffed comfortably at his cigar and Kells waited.

Crotti cleared his throat finally, said: “You’ve done very well.”

Kells waited.

“You’ve helped eliminate a lot of small fry: Haardt, Perry, O’Donnell — you’ve run Rose out of town and you have the Fenner and Bellmann factions pretty well in hand. You can write your own ticket...”

“You make it sound swell.” Kells poured himself a drink. “What about it?”

“I’m going to cut you in.”

Kells widened his eyes extravagantly. “What do you mean — cut me in?”

“I’m going to clean up all the loose ends and turn the whole business over to you...”

Kells said: “My, my — isn’t that dandy!” He put the full glass down on the desk. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Crotti flicked the ashes from his cigar, leaned forward.

“Listen,” he said. “Things are pretty hot back East. I’ve been running a couple ships up here with stuff from Mexico for a year. Now, I’m going to move all my interests here, the whole layout. I’m going to take over the coast.”

“And?...”

“And you’re in.”

Kells said: “I’m out.”

Crotti leaned back again, studied the gray tip of his cigar. He smiled slowly. “I think you’re in,” he said.

Kells took a little tin box of aspirin out of his pocket, put two tablets on his tongue and washed them down with whiskey.

“You seem to have kept pretty well in touch with things out here.”

Crotti said: “Yes. I sent an operative out a few weeks ago to look things over — a very clever girl...” He took the cigar out of his mouth. “Name’s Granquist.”

Kells sat very still. He looked at Crotti and then he grinned slowly, broadly.

Crotti grinned back. “Am I right in assuming that you were looking for Rose because you thought he had something to do with Miss Granquist’s — uh — escape?”

Kells didn’t answer.

Crotti stood up. “I always take care of my people,” he said as pompously as his squeaky voice would permit. He went to one of the doors, swung it open. The inner room was dark.

Crotti called: “Hey — Swede.”

There was no answer. Crotti went into the room; Kells could hear him whispering, evidently trying to wake someone up.

He unbuttoned his coat, shifted the shoulder holster. Crotti reappeared in the doorway, and Granquist was behind him. Crotti went back to his chair, sat down.

Granquist stood in the doorway, swaying. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and she stared drunkenly about the room, finally focused on Kells. She sneered as if it were difficult for her to control her facial muscles, put one hand on the doorframe to steady herself.

She said thickly: “Hello — bastard.”

Kells looked away from her, spoke to Crotti. “Nice quiet girl. Just the kind you want to take home and introduce to your folks.”

Crotti laughed soundlessly.

Granquist staggered forward, stood swaying above Kells. “Bastard framed me,” she mumbled — “tried t’ tag me f murder...”

She put one hand out tentatively as if she were about to catch a fly, slapped Kells very hard across the face.

Crotti stood up suddenly.

Kells reached out and pushed Granquist away gently, said: “Don’t be effeminate.”

Crotti came around the desk and took Granquist by the shoulders, pressed her down into a chair. She was swearing brokenly, incoherently; she put her hands up to her face, sobbed. Crotti said: “Be quiet.” He turned to Kells with a deprecating smile. “I’m sorry.”

Kells didn’t say anything.

It was quiet for a little while except for Granquist’s strangled, occasional sobs. Crotti sat down on the edge of the desk.

Kells was staring thoughtfully at Granquist. Finally he turned to Crotti, said: “I played the Bellmann business against this one” — he jerked his head at Granquist — “because it was good sense, and because I knew I could clear her if it got warm. Then when she got away I figured Rose had her and went into the panic. I’ve been leaping all over Southern California with a big hero act while she’s been sitting on her lead over here with an armful of bottles...”

He sighed, shook his head. “When I’m right, I’m wrong.” Then he went on as if thinking aloud: “Rose and Abalos and a woman — probably Rose’s wife — hired a boat at Long Beach tonight and didn’t come back.”

Crotti glanced at Granquist. “Rose had an interest in one of the big booze boats,” he said — “the Santa Maria. She was lying about sixty miles off the coast a couple days ago. He probably headed out there.”

He puffed hard at his cigar, put it down on an ashtray, leaned forward.

“Now about my proposition...” he said. “You’ve started a good thing but you can’t finish it by yourself. I’ve got the finest organization in the country and I’m going to put it at your disposal so that you can do this thing the way it should be done — to the limit. LA county is big enough for everybody—”

Kells interrupted: “I think I’ve heard that someplace before.”

Crotti paid no attention to the interruption, went on: “—for everybody — but things have got to be under a single head. This thing of everybody cutting everybody else’s throat is bad business — small-town stuff.”

Kells nodded very seriously.

“We can have things working like a charm in a couple weeks if we go at it right,” Crotti went on excitedly. “Organization is the thing. We’ll organize gambling, the bootleggers, the city and state and federal police — everything.”

He stood up, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “We can jerk five million dollars a year out of this territory — five million dollars.”

Kells whistled.

Granquist had put her hands down. She was sitting deep in the chair, glaring at Kells. Crotti picked up his cigar and walked up and down, puffing out great clouds of blue-gray smoke.

“Why, right this minute,” he said, “I’ve got a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of French crystal cocaine on one of my boats — a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth, wholesale. All it needs is protected landing and distribution to a dozen organized dealers.”

Kells nodded, pouring himself another drink.

Crotti sat down at the desk, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“And you’re the man for it,” he said. “My money’s on you...”

Kells said. “That’s fine,” smiled appreciatively.

“Your split is twenty per cent of everything.” Crotti crushed his cigar out, leaned back and regarded Kells benignly. “Everything — the whole take.”

Kells was watching Crotti. He moved his eyes without moving his head, looked at Granquist. “That ought to pay for a lot of telephone calls,” he said.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“No.”

Crotti looked as if he’d found a cockroach in his soup. He said incredulously: “You mean it isn’t enough?”

“Too much.”

“Then why not?”

Kells said: “Because I don’t like it. Because I never worked for anybody in my life and I’m too old to start. Because I don’t like the racket, anyway — I was aced in. It’s full of tinhorns and two-bit politicians and double-crossers — the whole damned business gives me a severe pain in the backside.” He paused, glanced at Granquist.

“Rose and Fenner both tried to frame me,” he went on. “That made me mad and I fought back. I was lucky — I took advantage of a couple breaks and got myself into a spot where I could have some fun.”

He stood up. “Now you want to spoil my fun.”

Crotti stood up, too. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want to show you how to make it pay.”

Kells said: “I’m sorry. It’s a swell proposition but I’m not the man for it — I guess I’m not commercially inclined. It’s not my game...”

Crotti shrugged elaborately. “All right.”

Kells said: “Now, if you’ll ask the man behind me to put his rod away I’ll be going.”

Crotti’s lips were pressed close together, curved up at the corners. He turned and looked into the big window behind him — the man who stood just inside the doorway through which they had entered was reflected against outer darkness.

Crotti nodded to the man and at the same moment Granquist stood up, screamed. Kells stepped into line between Crotti and the door, whirled in the same second — the big automatic was in his hand, belching flame.

The man had evidently been afraid of hitting Crotti, was two slugs late. He looked immensely surprised, crashed down sideways in the doorway. Crotti was standing with his back to the window, the same curved grimace on his face. There were pounding steps on the stair. Kells stepped over the man in the doorway, ran smack into another — the man who had been asleep on the cot — at the top of the stair. The man grabbed him around the waist before he could use the gun; he raised it, felt the barrel-sight rip across the man’s face. There were several more men in the big room below, two on the stairs, coming up.

He planted one foot in the angle of the floor and wall, shoved hard; locked together, they balanced precariously for a moment, fell. They hit the two men about halfway down, tangled to a twisted mass of threshing arms, legs. The banister creaked, gave way. Kells felt the collar of his coat grabbed, was jerked under and down. He struck out with the gun, squeezed it. The gun roared and he heard someone yell and then something hit the center of his forehead and there was darkness.