Gang Pulp

Racketeer Wages By Jack Compton

The Dragnet Magazine, December 1929

Boss of his mob, racketeer, hi-jacker, cold-blooded killer — he baited a double-cross trap. Then grim Fate flashed her fiery gat of revenge.

“I’ll put Tony Scilli on the spot,” muttered Steve Hardy to the little man seated across the bare wooden table from him, “and you’ll bump him off!” With a hasty glance about the frowsy speakeasy, Hardy turned back to watch the effect of his words on his companion.

Slim Withers, a frail little fellow in an ill-fitting suit quickly looked at the big perfume-reeking Hardy. “Gese, boss, quit yer kiddin’. Nobody can get Scilli. He’s a red-hot!”

“Take a drink, kid.” Steve Hardy shoved a gin bottle across the table. “I’ve got everything set,” he went on hurriedly. “Cripes — it’s in the bag!” The Broadway racketeer frowned as the little man ignored the gin. “This wop is peddlin’ stuff in my territory. I gotta give him the works. See?”

“But,” put in Slim, his face suddenly serious, “I ain’t no gun-toter. I—”

“Who says you ain’t?” demanded Steve harshly. “Guess you clean forgot about the bull you rubbed off at the Brooklyn wharf, the one they fished out of the Red Hook canal last week. You got a poor memory, kid.”

“Gese, Steve,” blurted out Slim, his lips twitching nervously, “you... you got that bull. Not me!”

Hardy stiffened in his chair, quickly looking around the partially-filled speakeasy. No one was within earshot. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Listen, you little mutt, another crack like that and I’ll turn you over to the dicks. Do you think they’d believe you? Haw! Haw! Like hell they would!”

“No! No!” pleaded the cowering little man. “We’re pals, boss, an’ we stick together. Ain’t we pals, Steve?” he asked timidly.

“Sure, kid.” Hardy grinned from ear to ear. “Now about gettin’ Scilli. Tonight he’s gonna leave his dancin’ joint at four o’clock—”

“But—”

“Keep your shirt on, kid,” growled the big man, “and let me finish. It’s on the up and up. Can’t go wrong. His rods will be tight and foolin’ around with broads. Then when he staggers out in the street you ride by and give him both barrels of a shotgun. Easy.” The racketeer raised his eyebrows wisely and pulled out a stuffed wallet. “The job is worth a grand to me. I’ll give you two hundred now and the rest when Tony is getting flowers he can’t smell. See? Then you take a train out of this burg till I give the dicks something else to worry about.”

Slim Withers pocketed the money resignedly. Spilling out a stiff drink, he squared his drooping shoulders. Then he took out a big gold-plated watch and fingered it lovingly. Suddenly Slim started. “Gese, boss, tonight’s the—”

“For cripes sake, get going!” Steve Hardy was looking uneasily at the door, which now framed the figure of a man. The newcomer’s baggy suit, derby hat and broad shoes had “dick” written all over them. Hardy whispered behind his gin glass to Slim. “Here’s that damn snoopin’ McCarthy. G’wan, get out before he starts asking embarrassin’ questions.”

“But, boss,” insisted Slim pointing to his watch, “they—”

“Get out!” Hardy hissed from the side of his mouth.

Under the threat of that harsh command Slim did go out; but there was a worried look on his drawn face.

McCarthy swaggered over to Hardy’s table. Pushing his derby over one eye he slid into the chair that Slim had vacated. He grinned at the racketeer. “Making the rounds, Hardy. Get me?”

“Sure, Mac. This baby never slips up on his payments.” With that Hardy again pulled out his heavy wallet, selected several crisp bills and passed them to the detective.

Pocketing the hush money, McCarthy rose to his feet. He refused Hardy’s offer to have a drink. “Not tonight, Hardy. If I took a glass at all the places I gotta stop tonight I’d be as pie-eyed as hell. S’long.”

When the detective had left the speakeasy, Hardy slipped over to one of the telephone booths against the rear wall. Thumbing a nickel into the slot he called a number. Some seconds later a cheap feminine voice asked him who he wanted. “Lemme speak to the Big Shot, sister. Yeah, Tony Scilli. And make it snappy. Never mind who I am.”

There was another silence. Then a cold, flat voice came over the wire. “Who is it?”

“Hello, Tony. This you? Yeah, Hardy. I want to see you tonight again. O.K. And tell them gorillas of yourn that you’re expecting me. See you later.”

Twenty minutes later Steve Hardy was in a private room with the stocky Italian gangster. “You know, Tony,” he began, “we’ve been dickerin’ for some time about pooling our interests against all the other mobs in town.” Tony Scilli merely nodded his sleek black head. “Well,” went on Hardy, “I talked this over with my boys and they are all for it — all but one!”

Tony viciously jabbed his cigaret into a tray. “Who’s the punk?”

“Slim Withers,” said Hardy with narrowed eyes. “That guy won’t lissen to reason. He claims that you bumped off a buddy of his and swears he’s gonna get hunk. See?”

The racketeer leaned still closer to Tony Scilli. “One of my boys said that he seen Slim take a car and a shotgun out tonight. And before the little runt drove off he said something about getting you at closing time tonight.” Hardy tapped the gangster on the chest. “That’s the kind of a pal I am, Tony.”

The stocky Italian nodded slowly for some minutes. “I getcha, Steve. I’ll take some Tommy men up to the corner and give this punk a swell welcome.” Then Tony smiled crookedly at the Broadway racketeer. “You’ve done me a favor, Steve; now I’ll do one for you. And she’s some hot mama!”

“Yeah,” smirked Hardy. “Blondes is my dish, Tony.”

“There’s a wow downstairs, a hoofer from the big time,” Tony smiled inquiringly. “Want to meet the broad?”

Steve said that he did and about an hour later he was making fine progress in one of the private rooms in Tony’s dance-hall dive. Steve was not a heavy drinker, but whatever his blonde companion poured out he swallowed.

Through a drifting cloud of blue-gray cigarette smoke Steve leered at his gay girl friend. Again he took in her fuzzy, bleached hair; the greasy mascara smeared around her starry eyes; the streaks of powder half-concealing the dissipated wrinkles of her cheeks; and the cherry-red lips that were boldly inviting.

“You know, big boy,” she cooed, “I just adore handsome clever papas like you. And I—”

“That’s me all over, kiddo,” admitted Steve, lifting another glass. “You know, tonight I’m pullin’ the damnedest, cleverest little job. Fact is, kiddo, I’m too clever for one man. Wait up! Pour me another.

“You see, blondie—”

“But,” cut in the actress, “I don’t think you’re as clever as little Tony. I ain’t heard so much about you.” She had already made one bottle of gin look sick and started on another. “Tony has his picture in the paper every day,” she pointed out between gulps of gin. “He’s a Big Shot and—”

“Hell he is,” blurted out Hardy nastily. “He’s nothing but a cheap dago!”

“You big mutt,” she dared up, “don’t you dare call my little Tony a—”

“Aw, go to hell!” Steve pushed her in the face and she toppled off the chair to the door. She started up, then sank back. The door was nice and comfortable and she was full of gin. So Blondie didn’t bother to get up. Steve struggled into his vest and coat. Then grabbing his hat slammed out of the room. In the hallway he stopped muttering to himself.

“So I ain’t as clever as that little wop, ain’t I?” He stopped suddenly at the door leading into the main dance door. There, talking to Tony Scilli was Detective McCarthy. They seemed to be arguing. Suddenly Tony turned abruptly and walked off into his private office. Steve Hardy waited until McCarthy looked his way and then beckoned to the detective. McCarthy swaggered into the hallway with a surprised look on his face.

“Don’t ask questions, Mac,” snapped Hardy reeling slightly. “Listen to me. I’m gonna give you a great chance to get Tony red-handed so you can send him up the river to burn. That wop is as slow as hell with his payments to you. Now if I take over his territory, Mac, I’ll make you a rich man. You know me, Mac. We get along swell.”

“Sounds good, Hardy, but if you double cross me I’ll—”

“Take it easy, Mac, it’s on the up and up. Now listen. In about an hour Tony is gonna take some Tommy guns and get a guy in a blue sedan up at the next corner. Never mind who the punk is. Let him shoot the guy. Then you and the two carloads of dicks jump Tony. Easy, ain’t it? You got the punk that was killed and the guy that did it. How’s it sound, Mac?”

“It’s a go, Hardy.”

Then McCarthy saw the gangster coming out of his office, so he left Steve in the darkened hallway and went to meet Tony.

Hardy looked over his shoulder at the room where the actress was sprawled on the floor. “I ain’t clever, eh?” he sneered. “Fact is. I’m too damn clever for this racket.” He steadied himself against the wall. “Well, I’m sure doing things tonight. Saving my neck for killing that bull in Brooklyn, getting rid of that runt Withers, the only guy who knows about it, letting Tony do the dirty work and then sending Tony to the chair. Haw! Haw! And on all that I’m getting in solid with Mac and headquarters.” Steve adjusted his tie and hat. “And that dumb broad said I wasn’t as clever as Tony.”

Hardy pulled himself together and walked out into the main room. Glancing at his watch he saw that it was five minutes of three. Just one more hour and Slim Withers would ride into his double-baited trap.

The racketeer chuckled to himself. It was pleasant to think that he would be master of gangland at four o’clock! Again he consulted his watch. Good time now to be getting out before the fireworks started.

At the cigar counter in front of the dance-hall. Hardy met the stocky Italian gangster. Grinning from ear to ear, Hardy slapped him on the back. “Swell broad, Tony. Me and her hit it up great. She’s sleeping it off now. Don’t bother her, will you.” Then Hardy stepped closer to the mob leader. “Get your men out there, Tony, and burn up that mutt Withers. We’ll make a great team, Tony. Both be in Florida in a few months. That’s the kind of a pal I am. See?”

With that Hardy pushed through the door to the street. A short flight of stone steps and he was on the sidewalk. His own car with an armed chauffeur was a block and a half down the street. Walking to the curb he signalled to it.

He was so busy looking down the street that he did not see the stealthy approach of a blue sedan around the other corner. Did not see it slow down as it came even with him.

Then with a choked cry Hardy saw the sedan and the white face peering over the gaping muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun.

Crash!

The street rocked with the terrific roar of the double-charged shotgun.

When Tony Scilli and his mob of gunmen reached the street they saw a mangled form sprawled grotesquely over the curb. From nowhere at all Detective McCarthy popped into sight. He strode up to Tony, who was questioning the frightened chauffeur.

Then he looked down at the mangled body of Steve Hardy. Clasped in one outstretched hand was the gleaming face of a watch. It read two minutes past three. McCarthy muttered the time aloud.

Hardy’s scared chauffeur looked up quickly at McCarthy as the officer spoke the time. His pinched face brightened. “Naw, Mac, yer just one hour behind the times. Cripes — didn’t you see in the papers that daylight saving time begins tonight? Didn’t you shove yer watch an hour ahead? Cripes, Mac, it’s four o’clock!”