Gang Pulp

A Regular Moll By Lloyd Eric Reeve

Gangster Stories, March 1930

Scar wouldn’t keep a skirt what wouldn’t blot anybody they caught giving him the double-cross! Scar’s skirt was regular!

Crouched beneath that dusty hall stairway, “Scar” Ladrone, gangster, was out to get the low-down on Fannie Duffin.

Fan was Scar’s regular moll, had been for two years; he’d taken her out of “Pipe” Hendrix’s “race-track” dance hall, fitted her up with a slick joint of her own, put her in the pink right. Then, only this morning, he got word that she was handing him the double-cross.

Money was Fan’s soft spot; she craved the stuff like a dope did his needle. That fat dick, Garlan, had promised her a roll — so the office stool had tipped Scar, and she came across.

Now, Scar wanted to wise up the details. Garlan would never take him in alive. Scar had too many friends at the office; besides, there was the opposing liquor gang, rival racketeers, who had greased Garlan’s palm.

Not alive; no, Garlan would bait a trap. Scar would walk into it, and before he could even touch his rod, their scatterguns would riddle him.

Then Garlan would make his smudgy report: “resisted arrest; officers fired in self defense.” All jake; Scar Ladrone would never hi-jack another booze truck; while Garlan — Garlan could retire on easy street. Soft, eh? Scar’s hand nervously twitched at his bright red necktie.

The hall door swung wide. With a wintry blast of snow and city coal smoke, two figures dodged in, Fan and the beefy, heavy-jowled Garlan.

Three feet from Scar, they whispered; Scar could pipe every word they uttered.

Finally, Garlan growled. “It seems jake. But there’s big money in this — two grand for you. You’re sure Ladrone’II come?”

Fan laughed a metallic laugh. “Damn’ tootin’ he’ll come. I’m his regular tart, see? Real soft on me, Scar is; just can’t resist my lures!” She made a swaggering movement of her hips. “I’ll raise an’ lower th’ window shade twict, see? That’s y’u’re low-down. Less’n five minutes, he walks out the door. Y’u fellers can’t miss; he won’t never have a chanct. Now how about that pin money y’u promised?”

“You get the jack,” Garlan rumbled, “when Scar Ladrone has cashed his checks — for resistin’ arrest, see? — an’ not before! All right; now watch your step; we’ll play our part.” He turned ponderously, and lumbered out the door.

Repeating that low, metallic laugh, Fan murmured, “Two grand! My God, think of it!” She climbed the creaking stairs, above Scar’s crouched body.

Listening, the gangster’s hand had closed on a hard object in his pocket. But Scar didn’t draw; instead, a sliver of a smile settled on his thin lips.

That evening, slouched at a table in Pipe Hendrix’s speakeasy, Scar awaited a telephone call. His hand twiddled constantly at his red necktie, a sure sign that he had something big on.

Finally, the telephone jingled. Pipe, himself, answered, talked a moment, then sidled up to Scar.

“Fan wants y’u come right over, Scar. Says real important.” The words seemed to dribble from a corner of his weasel face.

“Uh-huh,” Scar nodded, “expectin’ ’er to call.”

Pipe asked curiously, “Got a job on?”

“Big one,” admitted Scar. “Fan, she’s gonna get a damn’ double-crosser tonight — for me, see? Just like a regular moll.” He bit off a short laugh.

“Huh?” Pipe was puzzled.

But Scar buttoned his thin mouth; taking his long overcoat and hat, he left the saloon by a rear door.

To-night, Fan was real soft with Scar, even though she did wheedle him out of the money he carried. Scar thought grimly, “Anyway, she’s givin’ me a swell send-off!”

He leaned toward her quickly. “I hate a squealer!”

She jumped. “What made y’u say that, Scar?”

“Nothin’ — only I’m being double-crossed. Double-crossers are rats. Sometime I’m gonna have you get that damn’ double-crosser for me. Y’u can.”

She stared at him, uncertain, puzzled.

“Fan, I’ve done plenty for y’u. Y’u’ll do that job for me? Like a regular moll?”

“Of course. Sure — but what—”

“Never mind; tell y’u some other time — only, I wouldn’t keep a skirt what wouldn’t blot anybody they caught double-crossin’ me. I got to know y’u’re regular, don’t I?”

When he was ready to leave, she idled to the window, spun up the shade, and glanced out. “Still snowin’,” she observed.

Scar studied her, his lips a curved slit. She pulled the shade; then again, carelessly ran it up and down.

“Hell, Fan, y’u’re hand shakes!”

She whirled, her eyes narrowing. But Scar was picking up his long overcoat and plug hat; apparently his words were a casual remark.

“I’ve got to go,” he said slowly, “but y’u come with me — to the door.”

She drew back. Two spots of rouge leaped out against her whitening cheeks.

“What’s th’ matter? Don’t y’u wanna go to th’ door with me?”

She tried to brazen it out. “Sure, Scar, I’ll go to the door with y’u. Why not?”

“Why not?” he repeated softly; and put his arm around her, and they went down the creaking stairs to the hall door.

He leaned toward her. She kissed him quickly. Then, as his hand closed about the door knob, she dodged to one side.

Scar laughed. He caught her by the shoulders, whirling her around, facing him.

“Scared now?”

Suddenly hysterical, she blurted: “I didn’t double-cross you. Scar! I didn’t!” She opened her mouth to scream, but he clapped his hand over her lips.

“Y’u didn’t double-cross me?”

She shook her head frantically, gurgled in her throat.

“That’s jake!” He suddenly swept his coat around her shoulders, jammed his plug hat on her head, and swung wide the door. With a hard shove, he sent her stumbling into the snowstorm. “Now, prove y’u didn’t double-cross me!”

The words were still leaving his lips, when that cordon of sawed-off shot guns bellowed.

Swiftly Scar whirled, dodged down the hall, and slipped into the rear alley. “Sure,” he muttered, nervously adjusting his red necktie, “Fan got the double-crosser for me — just like a regular moll!”