Gang Pulp

Racketeer Revenge By Howard Beaufort

Racketeer Stories, March 1930

Dirk Petroni, the leader, was dead, burned down by Pete Robinson and his gang. An eye for an eye — that s the law, so Dirk’s mob was out to end Robinson. Only, if you’re making any plans, leave the women out!

Two minutes before he died, Dirk Petroni was basking in the sun on the steps of the Mansion House, drawing appreciatively on his after-breakfast fragrant Havana. His bodyguard, Joe Scalisi, stepped through the swinging doors into the lobby of the Mansion House to buy a pack of cigarettes. Undoubtedly the few steps were worth the effort they cost — for they saved his life!

For at that very moment a long, ominously black car which had been roaring down the side street, skewered about at the corner, and then stopped with a strident shriek of brakes, abreast of the Mansion House entrance. And simultaneously, there flashed in the dazzling sun, the barrels of a Thompson machine gun, grimly held by one of the scowling, tight-lipped men who occupied the car’s rear seat. Like hail stones, furiously driven onto a tin roof, the machine spelt out its message of sudden death. Dirk, caught unawares, made a desperate effort to get behind the broad colonial pillar that flanked the steps, but he fell gasping, one hand clutching at his side, and a trickle of blood weirdly distorting his agonized face.

The buzz of restrained power that betokened the car’s great speed increased to an avalanche of energy, and just as a few cautious heads, aroused by the rapid shooting, were being thrust out of the windows, the death car swept down the street rapidly gaining in speed. And thus, Dirk Petroni, ruler of the beer running and racketeer trust of Laster County, passed the way of all flesh in the seventh month of his reign.

That night his henchman, lieutenants and subordinates met in the council room of the gang, a concrete walled chamber in the basement of the Mansion House, to discuss the ways and means of avenging the insults and ignominy that had been heaped on the Laster Gang through the death of their chief.

“I told Dirk to stay clear of Buck County,” Bad Ross, a newcomer to the Lasters growled. “What in hell did we want to hi-jack Robinson’s trucks for anyway? He stayed out o’ Laster County.” He looked around the room for support, but at every turn he met a hostile glance.

“Well we did it, didn’t we?” Red Connors snarled at him. “Dirk was the boss, an’ he knew damned well what he was doing. You took your share of the split! Robinson, the lousy son of a hound pulled this deal... well, fellows, what do you say?”

Red leaned forward tense, with the look of a killer glinting in his steel blue eyes. “Do we bump off Robinson, or do we listen to this rat’s yapping?” With a wave of his hand he scornfully indicated Bad Ross, who sat with a baleful look on his face seething with anger.

At those last words, Ross, who was Connor’s rival for the throne which Dirk had so suddenly vacated, sprang to his feet with a muttered curse.

In a flash a grim, blunt nosed automatic appeared in his hands. There was a terrific roar; another, coming so suddenly on the first it seemed but an echo, two piercing flashes of orange flame, and then the acrid smell of burnt powder.

Gingerly, Red arose from the floor where he had hurled himself at the first threat from Ross, and approached the dead man. He looked thoughtfully for a moment at the remains of the man who would be king, and then calmly surveyed the onlookers who were silent. There was a questioning look in his eyes that evoked an answer from Joe Scalisi.

“O.K., Red. You’re giving the orders. Whaddye say?”

The other men slowly nodded approval. Red was liked, and he was unafraid. In the eyes of the mob he had just won his right to leadership.

“Well, get this. We don’t want no trouble with the Buck County mob. There’s plenty of jack in Laster County for us. But — they’ve killed our leader, and you know the rule. Fellows, ye’re goin’ to get Robinson!”

There were murmurs of approval that were silenced by a brisk tapping on the door. The men looked at each other, and a few hands dropped into capacious pockets to clutch at steely, hard objects.

Red nodded to Joe and he opened the door cautiously. On the threshold stood a tall, beautifully dressed woman. She was clad in a tight fitting red velvet dress, that creased in soft folds as she entered the room. Marie was Dirk’s moll, his tiger moll as she was known, for she was tall and sinuous. Her walk was the cat-like gliding step of the denizen of the jungle. And she was like her ferocious namesake. She had a great love for her man, and an implacable hatred for her enemies.

She had just heard of Petroni’s death, but for her there was no time to weep. Now, like her tiger name sake, she must strike back! Grief could enter later.

“We’re all damn sorry about this, Marie. Of course you know the bunch will take care of you...”

“Me! What about the dirty lousy crook who killed Dirk? What about him? Who’ll take care of him, the dirty dog!” She stopped short, gasping from the terrific emotional strain she was under. Joe sat her down in a chair as tenderly as if she had been a child.

“We were talking about that when you came in, Marie. Don’t you worry, Robinson will get his.”

“How? Are you goin’ to talk, or act?” She was hard. Once more she had regained her self control, and now she concentrated on the deadly purpose that had become her aim in life.

Red came quickly to the point. They were going to act but they needed to get Robinson alone away from his gang. They would kill him and spare the rest.

“Say,” Tony Picarelli broke in, “here’s the dope. Robinson used to be damn sweet on Marie here, before she met Dirk. Supposin’ she traps him?”

A curious light crept into the dark, murky eyes of Marie, and the wisp of a smile hovered in the corner of her mouth.

“That’s fine! Are you game to pull a plant on him?” Red demanded of Marie.

“Me?” Marie seemed to be thinking deeply. “Sure. What’s the lay?”

They were in a quiet conference. Marie was to do this and that. Joe understood his part? Joe understood. Tony and Mike were to stay down by Foster’s new barn, right at the turn of the road. Good.

“Go on, kid, give him a buzz.” Joe held out the phone to her.

“Wait! I’ve got a better plan. What in hell’s the use of risking Marie,” cut in Red. “Here’s the idea. Robinson’s got a storehouse of his own private goods over on Morgan Pike. Even his own gang isn’t on to it, see. An’ the only guard he’s got is AI White. Well, his name might be white but he’s got a yellow streak runnin’ down his back. All we got to do is get the jump on White and make him phone for Robinson to come over. Tell him the Prohibition guys came around and want to be squared. That’s simple. Then when Robinson comes...”

And Connors with a half grin shrugged his shoulders.

“Whew, that’s a slick one.” Joe whistled at its ease and simplicity. “O.K., fellows, eh?”

“We’ll take care of this without you Marie, don’t worry.”

“You gotta swell nerve. Worry? Gawd! I ain’t scared to do my share. All I want to do is see that guy croak!”

“Go on home. We have to be gettin’ busy. Here, Mike” — he turned to the little runty Sicilian, whose scarred face bore witness to innumerable lusty combats in the past — “take care of Ross.” Red indicated the body of the dead man which had been piled into the corner and lay neglected there after Marie’s entrance. “Now go beat it, Marie. Get a good night’s rest and maybe we’ll go down to Atlantic City tomorrow.”

Marie turned and departed with a sour look on her face. As she drove home to her hotel where she had been luxuriously kept by Dirk, she smiled grimly to herself in the darkness, and patches of white showed above her knuckles from the intensity with which she gripped the wheel of her car.

Under Red’s direction he and four other men trooped out to a speedy Duesenberg touring car, that had conveyed the lookout and guard for many a truckload of illicit beer. They carried a small arsenal with them. A sub machine gun, a similar to the one that had cut short Dirk’s career, two sawed-off shot guns, viciously loaded with eight-gauge slugs. There were automatics all around, and in addition, Joe carried three eggs, hand grenades, that were intended to spell finis to the night’s operations.

Red was at the wheel, driving fast. The moon was full, and the road lighted by its reflection flashed by swiftly. There was little talk in the car. Each man concentrated grimly on their single motive. Revenge. And at the same moment, revenge in another form was complicating their carefully laid plans.

Dirk’s tiger moll was at the telephone.

“Hello, lemme speak to Pete Robinson.

“Never mind who I am, I want Pete.

“Hello. Pete? Listen, this is Marie. I know damn well it was you, but Dirk’s dead now an’ he’s outa the picture. If a message comes tellin’ you to hop down to the Morgan Pike hideaway you keep, remember, it’s a frame-up. Never mind how I know, but I’m warnin’ you, and say, Pete, maybe we can get together again.” Her voice sounded seductively soft over the phone, and her gracefully molded body arched towards the phone, as she purred into the mouthpiece. Then abruptly she hung up! There was an enigmatic glint in her eyes that had turned hard and treacherous. But Pete Robinson was not there to see her. For him was the memory of her warm tones and sensuous appeal.

Scarcely twenty minutes later, Red’s car slowed down from its mad pace and turned off the Morgan Pike. He drove up a dirt path for twenty yards or so, then turned the car around and backed half-way into the nearby underbrush. There it was hidden from casual sight and ready for instant flight should the need arise.

“Where’s the lay?” Mike whispered.

“About thirty yards through these trees. It’s a small bungalow. You and Joe sneak up the back and Tony and Jack come with me.” The men nodded. Silently they filed through the woods till the bungalow confronted them. Then Joe and Mike departed to get around to the back of the house to cut off any escape. Only a dim light showed through one of the side windows and not a sound was to be heard. Even the night breeze seemed muffled as it moaned through the trees, and for a few moments a drifting cloud obscured the moon.

Red motioned to his two accomplices to stand alongside the door, then, with his left hand in his pocket and his hat pulled down over his eyes, he rapped on the door. Silence, for another moment. Then the sound of shuffling feet, and a man’s cautious voice.

“Who’s there? What do you want this time o’ the night?”

“Is Pete Robinson in?” Red spoke in a low voice.

“Pete who? Don’t know the guy. You got the wrong address.”

“Yell. Well, we’re Prohibition agents, see? And we’ve a warrant to search this dump. So open up.”

“I’m not opening up for anyone. What are you goin’ to do about it?” There was a false bravado in the man’s tone.

“Let’s crash the door in,” Jack whispered. “We can blow the lock off.”

Red hesitated. It was lonely there, but still, he wasn’t ready to disturb any sleeping neighbors and have the bulls break up the reception he was going to hold for Robinson.

“Give you ten to open up, then we blow the lock off!” He spoke sharply. There was no answer.

“One — Two — Three...”

While he was counting there was noise of a scuffle at the back of the house. Then a muffled curse and a deep grunt. Joe sang out.

“O.K., Red. He tried to get away back here. I slapped him stiff with me black jack. He’ll come to in a minute.”

Red chuckled. His ruse had worked and they had made no noise at their entry. “Bring him inside,” he called, “and let us in.”

A bucket of water doused over White’s head brought him to. Then a long draught of Robinson’s best three-star sufficiently revived him so that he was able to sit up weakly and glare at his captives. They hadn’t bothered to bind him, for it was known that he had a chicken heart. Red nudged him with his boot. There was a command in his voice when he spoke that the palsied gangster was quick to note.

“Get to the phone and do what I tell you to do. No stallin’ or” — and he shoved an automatic into the man’s ribs.

White clambered to his feet and took the phone in his hands.

“Now, you lousy hound, call up your boss, I mean Pete Robinson, and tell him this place is raided.

“Tell him the bulls landed here and we want to be squared aplenty if he’s to get off. And have him hurry right down here, alone. See? One bad word from you and you won’t live to say another. Get busy!”

Al White delivered his message. And for it he was rewarded by as hot, as furious and as elegant a burst of long-distance profanity as it had ever been his fortune to hear. But there was one sentence he could repeat and did repeat to Red. It was to “tell them blankety-blank crawling worms that I’m comin’ to pay them in full!”

At Red’s directions. Joe and Tony left the house and took up a strong position on either side of the entrance. They were hidden back of fallen logs, and each had a sawed-off shotgun and his automatic; those precautions, in case Pete came with his mob. But they didn’t think it likely.

Jack stayed at the back window with his automatic and a hand-grenade. Mike and Red were at the front, with their Thompson submachine gun, their eggs and automatics ready to receive their visitors. Poor Al White lay trussed on the floor in the inner room.

In a very few minutes they heard a car roar up to the path that led to the front door and stop. Its lights were out, but evidently the driver was well acquainted with the topography of the place. For about twenty seconds absolute silence prevailed. Then a cautious voice called out:

“Come on out if you want to see me.” There was a sound of shuffling. Evidently the car was being vacated. Then a heavy, powerful light that stood by the front running-board nearest the house was played full onto the scene. Behind, the car was in absolute darkness. “Come on out! What in hell are you afraid of, you lousy bulls!”

The door of the bungalow, in the white glare of the light opened, and a nervous figure, blinded by the dazzling light, shuffled into the open. Then came the deluge! Spatatatat! It was a hidden gun playing its deathly tune. The advancing man staggered for a moment, curiously like a trussed fowl with its head chopped off, and then fell prone.

Before the occupants of the car, startled by the unexpectedness of the killing they had done, could recover from their surprise, a hail of hot lead poured out on them from three sides. They were taken by surprise. They had no target for their machine gun and could only play it wildly onto the bungalow that was spraying their car with lead. One by one, the occupants of the car either fell groaning, or ducked for cover and raced back into the darkness. From the woods came a vicious sweep of tearing lead. Crash! A grenade had been skillfully tossed with experience born of trench service at the Meuse, and the car was literally transformed into a twisted carnage.

There was the sound of a car that had come up the road being stopped. Then swiftly turned around. Red instantly guessed that their quarry was escaping. He had been too canny to fall into the trap and had sent his cohorts ahead to a terrible death. Of the machine’s occupants, three lay dead, and two possibly, no more, had escaped, wounded or otherwise.

“Quick!” he shouted. “After that car!” But they were too late, for the car, gathering speed, had disappeared into the darkness. With barely a glance at the prostrate form of Al White who had walked with his hands bound behind him, and gagged, a victim to the sacrifice, Red gathered his men together and made for their car. They could never catch up to the speeding Robinson, but they were not to be denied their revenge.

“We’ll get that hell-born cur yet!” he swore as they drove back from the scene of destruction. Marie will have to go through with her share. We’ll carry out the original plot. Joe was cursing softly at their failure. Tony clapped him on the back and laughed.

“What the hell! Counting Al we got three of them, didn’t we?”

“To hell with them! We gotta get Robinson!” Joe snarled back at him. The others were grim and silent. At the Mansion House they piled out of their car. All save Red. He was driving the machine home to the luxurious house he had fitted up for his moll out at Beau Lake.

“You guys be here tomorrow at two p.m. sure. Then we’ll fix him. Watch out you ain’t ambushed on your way home. And go well heeled. Keep away from the booze, too.”

The men nodded, and he whisked off.

The next day they were in deep consultation with Marie. She appeared willing, even eager to go through with her original plot.

“Remember, I’ll drive down toward Danbury sometime between midnight and two a.m. I’ll be drivin’, and I’ll wear my red hat and scarf. You can’t miss me. Then, right near Foster’s barn you can pull the job.” She was breathing hard, and there was a tense, eager light in her eyes that stirred Red. Poor kid, she seemed to be taking Dirk’s death bad. They’d settle with Pete for that.

Marie stepped out to a corner drugstore to phone Robinson. For as she told them she didn’t want her call to be traced.

“Hello, Pete. This is Marie.” She spoke softly, eagerly, into the mouthpiece.

“Well, what do you want?”

“Didn’t you follow my instructions? I meant well. Honestly, I did.” She seemed very humble, begging his pardon for the catastrophe of the night before.

“I fell into their trap last night. I was a fool not to listen to you and I damn near got bumped off for it. Three of my boys got theirs.” He was silent for a moment, then suspiciously, “Why the hell did you give me the tip-off?”

“Can’t you guess, Pete? Now that Dirk’s dead you’re the only one that matters to me.” There still remained that soft tone to her voice, but a curious grim smile was on her lips. “Can’t I come to see you? I’m leaving this gang.”

Pete softened under her melting warmth. “What’s the idea?”

“I’m yours, Pete, if you’ll have me.” Marie choked a bit on the last. Pete’s heart leaped within him. Marie in love with him! She was always his woman, even if he had married that jane, Bess. Perhaps that was why he had bumped off Dirk. Jealous.

“Do you mean that, Marie, dear? But hell. I’m married!”

“I know Pete. But I’ve got to go away. Come with me, just for a while. Then I can take an apartment in Danbury and you can visit me.”

Pete thought for a moment. “The thoughts of her tantalizing warm, slim body, her rich lips, and thrilling caresses, stirred him!”

“C’mon over baby. We’ll blow outa here tonight. But watch out you’re not being tailed.”

Again that curious lopsided smile spread over the warm beautiful mouth of Dirk’s moll, and again her murky eyes glistened for the moment as she thought of her tryst of the night. She went back to report to Red, and then she went home to rest.

She felt curiously light-hearted, but terribly weak. Before her shut eyes flashed Dirk’s picture. Strong-faced, heavily muscled paws, dark hair and dark eyes. A nose that was a bit too broad, but a man of action and a man of love.

And then Dirk as he lay in death. A curious pallor over his features. Gone was his striped suit and ornate silk shirt. In their stead were quiet, rich garments, worthy of a gang chief’s shroud.

Then came Red’s face. Boyish at times. Quick tempered, with the fiery impulses of his Celtic race. Red hair. No, copper-colored hair, and eyes the color of hard turquoise stones. She would have liked to run her hands through his heavy copper-colored hair. But, then Red had his moll. And there had always been Dirk.

And before Dirk... Pete Robinson. Tall, handsome, suave Pete. Immaculately neat and quiet. But he was cruel, his mouth was heartless, and thus she had left him for the rising young Italian gangster, Dirk Petroni. And now, that evening, she was to meet Pete once more. Would she still feel her heart bound at the sight of him? Would he still stir as he used to? She missed his cold, cruel love-making. Why had she saved him on the preceding night? Would she wreck Red’s plans and flee with him tonight. Or...

At eleven-thirty p.m. that night she stepped from her roadster and strolled haughtily into the speakeasy that provided the Buck County gang with their headquarters. There was disguised amazement on the faces of the persons there who recognized her as she asked for Pete. But they had their instructions and she was shown into a back-room, where Pete, all alone was awaiting her. At her entrance he arose and held out his arms for her.

She went to him, and slowly he pushed her head back and planted a passionate caress on her full ripe lips. For a suffocating moment she was under his spell, but then arose a picture of Dirk.

Slowly she pushed him away and released herself from his embrace. Scarcely restraining a shudder, she smiled at him, and said:

“Later, Pete. Not now. Hadn’t we better go before someone phones your wife?”

“You’re right, kid. Still usin’ the old bean. Just a couple of shots and we’re off.” He filled two glasses from a bottle that stood on the table, and handed one to her.

“To the end,” she held out her glass and looked warmly at him.

“To the end,” he repeated and they touched glasses, then tossed their drinks off.

They had another, and then another. Marie glanced at her watch. It was getting late and the gang would be waiting. She took her victim by his coat lapel and snuggled her head into his shoulder.

“We must go now, dear.” They departed. Marie was wearing her heavy fur coat, and on her head was the crimson hat she had spoken of. It was matched by her scarf. She led the way to her car. Now they were driving down towards the Danbury road.

“Where are we going, baby?” He was slightly under the influence of liquor, and it made him at once, more romantic and a trifle suspicious.

“Let’s spend the night in Danbury.”

He agreed. It was another perfect night. Drink was burning her brain. Supposing they turned the car about and went off together? She glanced behind her. Would they be happy? Could she forget Dirk to live with his murderer? Then she noticed that she was being tailed. A car filled with Red’s men was quietly following her. To protect her! She sneered. Pete noticed her looking back. He looked and saw the car, and suddenly he grabbed the wheel from her hands.

“What the hell’s this? We’re being followed. You damned hell cat. If you’ve tricked me...” He left the rest to a menacing silence.

“Here, stop this car. If you’ve pulled a phoney it’s going to cost you your life.” He stripped off his coat and hat and thrust them at the girl. “You wear these. Now gimme yours, and I’ll drive. If we’re ambushed it’s you that’ll get caught. Not me.”

Dumbly, the girl obeyed. She would have her revenge. The man drove on in silence. Foster’s Barn, Marie knew, was but a few miles distant. At the speed they were making they would soon be there. She would be revenged for Dirk’s death.

“Pete,” she spoke pleadingly, “you don’t think I’d frame you, do you? You’re the only one who gives a damn about me. Pete!”

Pete made no answer, but drove along grimly silent. If they got out of the hole they were in then he could love this moll. Right then... It would never do to increase the speed of their car. The car behind was swifter than theirs. That would bring matters to a head. Best to keep the pace. Hope to make Danbury, or slip off onto some quiet road if they had the chance.

Marie was silent. She was brooding deeply on her past. A thought occurred to her and she chuckled slightly at the humor of it. She decided to come clean.

“Pete,” she said. “Do you want to hear the straight lay of it.”

“Well, what is it all about.”

“Do you want to know why I tipped you off last night to the raid?”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want them to kill you, Pete. You see, you killed my man, the only man I ever loved. You killed Dirk, and” — she paused then finished a trifle breathlessly. “I want to be the one to lead you to your death.” Her nerves cracked under the strain. “You dirty, thievin’ murderer, now you’ll get what you...”

Pete stopped her with a curse and slapped a broad hand heavily across her face. She was flung back into the corner of the car by the blow and her hands, caught in the pockets of Robinson’s great coat, could not ward off the next punch. They came in contact with something hard. Pete’s revolver! Then the car that had been following them shot alongside crowding them towards the ditch. Pete cursed wildly, grotesquely in his girl’s attire. But he was unheard. The attention of Red’s gunmen was concentrated on the man’s figure sitting alongside of him, crouched, as though with fear, into the corner of the seat. A terrific crash of shots rang out and the roadster, as though freed of control left the road and went into the ditch.

Joe stopped his car and Red and Mike ran out with guns drawn. The other car had not overturned, but all was quiet. And when they looked they received a tremendous shock. The driver of the car, in the girl’s coat and hat, at whom they had not aimed was Pete Robinson. He was stone dead, with a bullet hole in his right temple. An impossible wound for them to have delivered. Alongside of him, and wearing his coat and hat was Dirk’s moll, Marie. Her face, what remained of it, was terribly battered. She had been instantly killed by the fuselage fired by Red’s men. In her right hand she held Pete’s .38, which cleared up the mystery of Robinson’s death. Her left hand was lingering Dirk’s picture, which hung framed about her neck. And over her ghost of a mouth, even in disfigured death, there still played that queer, twisted, enigmatic smile.