Gang Pulp

The Singing Kid By Dan Young

Gangland Stories, November 1930

A pair of hot bennies, a packet of ice, and a three way double-cross from Frisco to L.A. that ended just where it started!

The Singing Kid had a hunch!

For once there was no song on his lips as he looked ahead from the ferry to the Oakland shore line, showing faintly through the enveloping fog. His eyes narrowed in thoughtful anxiety, and his hand tightly gripped the package in his overcoat. The Kid was sure enough worried!

He felt a prickly feeling between his shoulder-blades, and almost unconsciously, his right shoulder tensed itself against the anticipated touch which would again place him within the arms of the law.

With an assured air of nonchalance, he strolled casually to the rail, his eyes roving from side to side in as wide an arc as was possible, without moving his head and betraying his solicitude to an onlooker. Leaning carelessly against the rail, he closely scanned the faces of his fellow passengers, resting his glance for but a brief second on each face, yet missing no detail of facial or bodily appearance.

His look dwelt no longer on the face of Detective Sergeant Morey than upon any other, yet his heart missed a beat as he recognized his nemesis, while doubt of mind was changed to certainty.

What a break for Morey! The green covered package tightly held in clenched hand would mean added prestige and possibly promotion to the detective, but would also mean good-by for the Kid. A four time loser in Folsom can expect only a back gate parole, and the Kid was not yet forty.

His face showed no change of expression, but his brain was racing madly. He must find some way out.

Of course he could toss the package overboard and trust to lack of evidence, but his rep was bad, and anyway, the Kid hated to definitely cut loose from his chance to get something out of the previous night’s ten grand prowl.

As the boat neared the dock he slowly edged himself into the crowd of passengers crowding together for disembarkment, but from the tail of his eye he noted that Morey was trying to keep closely behind him. He hummed absently to himself.

A sudden lurch of the boat caused by the stopping of the screw threw the Kid against a man standing in front of him, and he noticed that this man was holding a travelling bag in hand, a bag which bore on the end towards the Kid the inscription:

He next noted that the object of his scrutiny was wearing a topcoat of vivid plaid, one whose bulging side pockets bore witness of frequent and rough usage.

But the Kid failed to notice that next to this man stood another, wearing almost a duplicate of this coat, which had evidently come from the same maker.

There was a jostling of the crowd as the gangplank was lowered, and in the same moment the Singing Kid felt the anticipated touch on his shoulder. His hand, still cunning despite his fear, made a quick movement, and the green covered package dropped within the pocket of an unsuspecting recipient.

“All right, Kid,” said Morey softly, “let’s go.”

“Yeah?” replied the Kid sneeringly. “Where and why? What’s the rap?”

“We’ll talk that over when we reach the hall,” responded Morey. “Don’t make any funny moves or you may learn something sooner.”

Knowing he was clear of anything incriminating, and that resistance was futile, Puggy O’Conner, the Singing Kid, walked arm in arm down the gangplank with his captor and within thirty minutes was being booked at the City Hall.

The Goddess of Chance, whom some call Old Lady Luck, decreed that the wearers of the twin coats should enter the same train together, and sit side by side. The stranger glanced casually at Pritchard, noted his coat and started to speak, but refrained, and, opening a paper, was soon buried in its contents.

Pritchard, however, was not so reticent.

“These are sure hot bennies,” he smiled.

His companion looked up inquiringly, then seeing at what the remark aimed, laughed.

“In more ways than one. Mine nearly baked me today, and I’m sure going to ditch it tonight for the summer. I’m firing on the S.P. to Stockton, and I sure don’t need it there.”

“I’ll have to do the same, I guess,” said Pritchard. “It’s getting pretty warm now for one.”

The train slowed down for San Pablo stop in Emeryville, and Pritchard rose from his seat.

“Well so long,” he said to his seat mate. “Drop in and see me sometime. We may have more than bennies in common,” and he handed a card from his pocket. The stranger glanced at it, and handed him one in return, as the train pulled to a stop.

On the sidewalk, Pritchard set down his bag and removed his coat which he threw carelessly over one arm. As he stooped for his bag, however, the coat fell to the walk and he reached for it with a muttered curse. He missed the collar and lifted it by the bottom, but as he did so, he heard the soft tinkle of coins hitting the pavement. A glance showed him they were small so he left them laying and strode down the street to a building whose sign showed it to be a combination pool-room and cigar stand.

With a brief word of greeting to the inmates, he entered the back room, mounted a stairway, and disappeared from sight.

His late train companion looked at the card left him in casual curiosity, but whistled softly to himself as he read the inscription.

“Big Mike himself,” he murmured. “Believe me, I’ll sure look him up.”

His coat becoming too warm, he arose, took it off and threw it carelessly across the back of his seat. Immersed in his paper, he almost missed leaving the train at his destination, but as he realized where he was, he leaped to his feet and was just in time to get out before the conductor closed the door.

His forgotten coat still remained on the back of his seat, since there were no passengers left to call his attention to his forgetfulness.

About that time there was another party sweating, and that was Puggy O’Connor, alias the Singing Kid. Seated in a straight backed uncomfortable chair, faced by a phalanx of detectives, Puggy was undergoing the “third.” His hair was somewhat rumpled and he had lost his accustomed jauntiness of demeanor.

“You ain’t got nothing on me,” he snarled. “I been going straight since I was sprung. I’m through with the old game for I don’t want no body-snatcher’s parole for mine.”

“You should have thought of that before you cracked that crib at the Lake,” said Morey coldly. “You didn’t feel that way when you were copping that bunch of ice there.”

“I ain’t been by the Lake in years,” shouted Puggy, “and I never copped no ice there or anywhere else. You’ve got the wrong guy, but I suppose you Dicks will frame me, because you’re so dumb you can’t pick up the right one. You have to have a fall guy some place, so you elected me.”

“Yes?” answered Morey smoothly. “Then where did you get the ice you were trying to put over the fence at I key’s on Fourth Street in San Francisco this afternoon? I suppose you found them.”

The Kid froze into silence for a moment, his worst fears confirmed. Then Morey had seen him there. Evidently he had been tailed.

“This is a frameup,” he muttered, “and I want a mouthpiece. If I put anything over the fence, you’ve probably got it, and if I had it and didn’t, it must be on me.”

Further questioning being useless, Morey gestured to a uniformed patrolman.

“Take him away, and book him as a vag,” he said.

When they had left, Morey turned to his fellows.

“He’s a wise one and knows his back is to the wall, for another conviction means life for him under the habitual criminal act. I really haven’t anything on him but if Ikey hadn’t looked out of the window this afternoon and seen me, Puggy would have put it over.

“If we can’t break him we’ll have to let him go, but I was certain we’d find some stones on him. I watched him closely, and he had no chance to ditch anything. I’m darned if I know how he did it. That Lake job had every appearance of being his, and I still believe it was.”

When the Kid was regretfully released after two days in the hold-over, his first thought was to get in touch with the man Pritchard of Emeryville. His incarceration had scared him for he feared the club of the four-time loser which hung over his head, so he resolved to secure what cash he could on the stones and leave for parts where he would not be so well known.

In Emeryville he had little trouble in locating his man, but was surprised to find that Pritchard was what might be called “the Big Shot” of the night life there.

Big Mike’s interests were many and varied, so Puggy studied for a long time to find the best angle of approach. He could not go to him direct with his story. He would have to become acquainted with him first, so with small difficulty, Puggy secured a job singing in one of Big Mike’s night clubs.

The Kid was an immediate success and as such was soon taken in as a welcome member of the night life. The inconspicuous dish on top of the piano was filled more often than not, and it was not seldom that bills nestled there amid the silver coins. Puggy was making a good living, but was not satisfied. He could not forget the diamonds.

He occasionally came into contact with Big Mike and a mutual liking sprang up between them, but Puggy was no fool, and he realized that Mike would not let go of what he once had his hands on.

It was nearly a month later the Kid had the opportunity of broaching the subject that was always on his mind, for one night Big Mike sauntered up to the piano and stood talking with the Kid before the crowds had started to arrive.

“Say, Mike,” Puggy began, “will you do something for me?”

“Sure, kid,” Big Mike laughed as he reached into his pocket. “How much?”

“Not that,” repudiated the Kid. “It’s something more. Say — what did you ever do with that load of ice you found in your overcoat pocket about a month ago?”

Mike looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter, Kid, been taking nose candy? You don’t look like a snow bird. What ice are you talking about?”

“Oh, you know all right,” replied the Kid suspiciously. “I mean that bunch that was wrapped up in a cloth that someone dropped in the pocket of your benny on the ferryboat. I need the coin, Mike, and I’ll put it over the fence and split with you, or you can do it and split with me. It’s fifty-fifty.”

“You must be hopped up,” said Big Mike coldly. “I never had no ice slipped to me.”

The Kid jumped from the stool angrily and turned towards the door.

“All right then,” he cried, “if you’re that sort. I thought you was a square shooter, but you’re just a dirty rat like the rest of them.”

Big Mike uttered a strong oath and sprang forward, grasping the arm of the smaller man tightly above the elbow. He savagely whirled him around, and his fist drew back to punish the man who dared to doubt his squareness.

But he had not gained his supremacy in the underworld without learning to control himself, and his cupidity was aroused at mention of the ice. He hesitated a moment, then released the futilely struggling Kid.

“Wait a moment, Kid,” he said slowly. “There’s something more behind all this. Let’s get to the bottom of it. Spill the works.”

Puggy was too wise to incriminate himself even to Big Mike so he thought for a moment before answering.

“I had a pal who saw he was going to be gloomed on the ferryboat coming over from Frisco, so just before he was pinched he stuck a green covered package of sparklers in your overcoat pocket. He wants me to get them so he can beat the rap. That’s all the story.”

“That’s right in part,” said Mike thoughtfully. “I was across the bay about a month ago and wore my benny, but I’ll swear I never found anything in the pockets. I haven’t worn it since, either. Let’s go to my rooms and take a look.”

Once in his rooms, Mike opened a closet and took a coat from a hangar.

“That’s the one,” exclaimed the Kid excitedly. “Look in the pockets.”

With eager hands Big Mike explored the pockets, turning them inside out as he did so, then handed the coat to Puggy who also searched vainly. They looked at each other in silence. The Kid could not help but believe that Mike was playing fair, was ignorant of any package, for he could not be such a good actor, nor would there be any necessity for his so doing. “Who could have got the stones?”

Big Mike cursed suddenly and the Kid looked at him inquiringly.

“I remember dropping the damned thing on the walk, and I picked it up by the bottom. A few coins dropped out. Maybe the ice dropped out with them and I never noticed it. I was in a hurry.”

“Then it’s gone,” said the Kid despondently. “Whoever picked it up has cashed in and beat it. Damn such luck!”

Big Mike knitted his brows in thought and then again searched the pockets. His hand brought forth a card, and he looked at it, his face lightened.

“Maybe you stuck it in the wrong coat, Kid,” he offered. “This guy had on a coat just like mine, and was on the same boat. That’s how we got acquainted. He gave me his card. Let’s hunt him up.”

They got into Mike’s car and at the address on the card were fortunate enough to catch the fireman, Harrison, home between runs. Big Mike recalled himself to the fireman’s memory and introduced Puggy.

“The Kid here is nuts about my benny,” said Mike, “and I won’t sell it to him. I remembered you had one like it and thought you might want to make a good deal. He’s offered me seventy-five smackers for it, and they only cost fifty. How about it?”

Harrison looked at them smilingly.

“Don’t know as I blame him at that,” he said. “I like it myself, but I haven’t got it here. I left it on the train the day I met you and never went back after it. I phoned the Lost and Found Department and they said they would hold it for ninety days, so I knew there was no hurry. Tell you what I’ll do. I’m on the board for a call in an hour, but I’ll be back day after tomorrow, so I’ll get it then and leave it at your place. How about that?”

The Singing Kid saw immense possibilities in that statement so replied:

“That’s O.K. with me. I’m sure nuts about that plaid and I want one like it. I’ll leave the money with Mike and you can get it when you leave the coat.”

Puggy and Big Mike parted at his place, both agreeing to be on hand when Harrison returned, but both knew the other would not keep the appointment. Mike was sure that the opening of the Lost department in the morning would find the Kid waiting at the door, so he resolved to pull a fast one himself.

Also Mike was cursing himself for the break he had made in letting the Kid know about Harrison. Otherwise he would have had it all to himself with no trouble. He decided to call on one of his henchmen, Docky Wilder, for aid, so he would not appear personally in the matter.

So it was that the following morning when the elated Kid left the railroad office, the prized coat over his arm, he softly patted the coat which contained a small green covered parcel. He laughed to himself as he remembered the assurance he had that he had ditched it with Pritchard.

Some coincidence! But a lucky break for him at that. Now he was set for a quick getaway. To hell with Pritchard! He didn’t owe him anything!

Puggy stepped towards the curb and his elation vanished like air from a toy balloon punctured with a pin. He cursed silently as a soft voice met his ears.

“Morning, Kid,” said Docky softly. “Goin’ somewhere?”

“Not in particular,” replied the Kid, sensing the menace beneath the soft tones.

“You don’t know it, but you are,” responded Docky. “I’d shake hands wit’ you only I gotta keep my gat hid. I suppose.”

Puggy looked down and noted that Wilder’s hand was concealed within his coat pocket, and that a lump appeared against his side, a menace against any sudden action.

“You’d never dare use it here,” said the Kid shortly.

“Maybe not,” Docky murmured, “but how’d it be for me to holler to that bull comin’ and ask him to frisk you?”

The Kid’s heart dropped. Docky had him dead to rights, for if he were picked up with the ice in his possession it would be the finish for him. Going with Docky was the least of the two evils, and anyway, he might brazen it out with Pritchard.

“All right, you win now,” he conceded. “Where do we go?”

“My boat’s parked right here. Jump in and we’ll take a ride.”

The Kid felt safe, for “taking a ride,” or being “put on the spot” was not common in Oakland. The risk was too great, but mentally he kissed the sparklers good-by that he had in his pocket. He climbed in the front seat of the indicated car, noting that the back seat held a moll who had been lately playing around with Docky. The driver turned to her as he started the car:

“Your gat’s got a silencer. Use it if he starts anything.”

That was that! No chance to grab the wheel and make a getaway. Puggy was out of luck. The car picked up speed and was soon out of the business district, and the Kid noted with some surprise that it was not headed for Emeryville, but for the open country beyond the Tunnel Road. He kept silent, but watched for some clue to his prospective destination. At once the answer came to him!

Docky was double-crossing Big Mike!

The car left the eastern portal of the tunnel and made its way between the hills until it reached a road which was evidently little travelled. In fact it was more of a country lane, not even a gravelled roadbed to show of occasional use. Docky drove down this road for about five miles, then stopped his car.

“All right Kid,” he said cheerfully. “End of the line! All change! Don’t forget your parcels!”

His gun emphasized his orders, so the Kid climbed down. His face was black with anger but he knew they had him cold, and a struggle was useless. Maybe his chance would come later! But Docky had another sudden idea!

“Slip off the boats, Puggy, bare dogs for you!”

The Kid cursingly tore off his shoes which Docky threw into the back of the car. With a farewell gesture of derision he regained the driver’s seat, turned the car around and disappeared in the dusty distance. The Singing Kid was left alone, miles from anywhere, bare of foot — robbed of his spoils — facing a long weary walk back to the main travelled highway.

It was nearly dark before a truck driver took pity on him and gave him the coveted lift into town. Puggy was disgusted, was entirely through with the town which gave him such bad breaks. He would pack up his belongings and take the boat the following day to Los Angeles, where a man had a chance, if not too well known.

Meanwhile, as day grew towards night, Big Mike was becoming worried. He had trusted Docky, but one could never tell — the double-cross was the usual thing in the underworld, despite that reputed “honor among thieves.”

He felt that he had been a sap to let anyone handle the deal but himself. When night-time arrived he was certain he had been two-timed, and his wrath was great.

He drove to the small hotel where Docky had been living with his moll, Belle, and a few questions to the landlady, who knew him and was desirous of ingratiating herself with him, made him bite his lips in anger.

Belle had been unable to entirely keep her mouth closed, and had intimated that they would take the boat the following day to San Diego, and in the meanwhile would visit friends in San Francisco. Big Mike realized the futility of trying to find them in that city, and knew he could not make a scene at the boat, so resolved to also take passage on the same ship.

Big Mike got to his stateroom early the next day, and remained hidden as the boat backed out from the pier and turned her nose towards the Golden Gate. He kept his cabin door open an inch or so, his ears keenly alert for the possibility of his quarry passing his door, although with the three decks and numerous passageways, he knew the odds were against it.

But luck favored him, and at last he heard Docky’s deep voice. Cautiously peering out he saw the pair following a cabin steward down the passageway to a stateroom. The door closed behind them, and he quickly and noiselessly stole past, noting their number to avoid any possibility of mistake.

Satisfied, he returned to his stateroom where a flask and a magazine engaged him until he heard the call for dinner. He again fixed his door open a crack and finally heard the voices of the pair as they passed his door.

“I’m hungry enough to eat a horse,” said Docky. “I guess we’ve earned our chuck today, haven’t we?”

Belle laughed in reply. “I’ll say so, and the best of all is that we’re in the clear tonight, anyway.”

Waiting until sufficient time had elapsed for them to gain the dining salon and secure their seats at a table, Mike walked again towards their door. He was at a loss, for he had keys which would fit it, but brightened as he saw a steward approaching. He decided to take a chance.

“Just open this door for me, will you steward?” he asked smoothly. “My wife has our key up on deck.”

The steward hesitated a moment, but being in a hurry took a master key and opened the door. Big Mike handed him a coin, and with a word of thanks the steward disappeared. Time was short, but Mike made a close search of all their belongings, being careful not to disarrange anything which might give them an inkling that a search had been made.

But he was unsuccessful, so decided the stones he sought were on their persons, probably in the somewhat large handbag that Belle was carrying. He carefully opened the door, saw the passageway was evidently clear, and returned to his room.

Yet in his caution and haste to avoid observation, he failed to note that the entrance of another stateroom stood ajar, and that a man stepped hurriedly back out of sight as he passed. Had he noted this and recognized his watcher, he would have felt much less optimistic regarding the stones.

He decided to keep under cover, so he had a steward bring him something to eat in his cabin, complaining of not feeling very well. He dared not show his face on deck or in the dining salon.

It was after midnight when Docky and Belle became tired of watching the sea and were ready to retire. They walked down to their stateroom, tired but happy, and the soft carpets muffled the sound of the trailing footsteps in their rear. Docky opened the door, reached in and turned on the light, while Belle followed him.

A startled scream broke from her lips, and a curse from Docky’s as the door closed behind them and Big Mike stood carelessly against it, the gun in his unshaking hand menacing them both.

“Not a move or sound, rats,” said Mike coldly. “Thought you’d put something over, didn’t you?”

Belle sank down on the side of the berth, half swooning in terror, while Docky stood wordlessly, his shifty eyes widening in fear.

“Lie down on your faces on the floor, both of you,” commanded Mike tonelessly.

He rolled them over on their backs, so they could see him as he copped the stones, enjoying their expressions as they saw their fortune leaving them. The eyes of Belle glittered malevolently as she saw Mike lift up her handbag, carelessly throw its contents out on the floor and take up a covered parcel.

He ripped it open at one end, and a small cascade of glistening diamonds fell into his avid hand. He toyed with them absently a moment, then replaced them in the packet, put it in his pocket and turned to the two.

“You won’t dare squawk about this,” he said fiercely. “If you do, even if they do get me, someone will get you right. You’d better report when they find you in the morning that someone you didn’t know stuck you up and left you. Otherwise it’ll be just too bad for you.”

Big Mike stepped to the door, turned out the light and stepped into the corridor. He had a flashing glimpse of an upraised arm holding something bright and shiny — a sudden feeling of intense pain just above the right ear, and blackness engulfed him. He was dragged into the darkened stateroom, deft fingers went through his pockets and again the green covered parcel changed hands.

The two prone bound figures, lying in the dark, tried vainly to gain an idea of what was going on. Muffled sounds came from them, and the Singing Kid switched on the light. He laughed outright at the sight that met his eyes, and ignored the mute looks of appeal on the face of Docky and Belle. He tore a sheet into strips and bound Big Mike tightly, then stood gazing at his handiwork. His lips opened in a soft low song.

The following afternoon, before the boat docked, Puggy saw a steward knocking at the stateroom door wherein lay his bound antagonists, ready to take their baggage up to the deck. The Kid thought quickly.

“No chance there, steward. They just beat it themselves, with their own baggage. I know them and they’re so cheap they’ll save your tip. You won’t get anything from them.”

The steward cursed feelingly and hurried on. Puggy got himself ready for disembarkation. His bag had gone up, and he followed it, waiting alongside the rail until the gangplank was out. He walked slowly into the barn-like structure where baggage was reclaimed, singing softly to himself.

The Singing kid was happy. He had put the lug on those who had tried to double-cross him — had a fortune in jewels in his pocket and knew where he could dispose of them without too much of a cut. The warm Southern California sun was shining. All was peaceful. It was a good old world after all!

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Singing Kid! Welcome to our city! This is a surprise! I flew down here to pick up Docky Wilder who was making a getaway, but so long as I find you I may as well take you, too. Maybe this time we’ll find something on you.”

Puggy, the Singing Kid, gave up. It was no use. Morey again had him, and he had the ice on him this time. Quick light hands tapped his pockets, and once again that green covered parcel came to view, this time in the hands of the law!

Ahead of him Puggy could see long dreary years wherein he moved, a fellow automaton amongst hosts of others who had also transgressed the law and who were also paying the penalty. He hummed a parody softly to himself: