Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

“How you get to them?”

“Best way is over the fence from the other street.”

“You hear that?” Elmo says to Stovepipe and Fandango. “You got the word from the man who knows.”

“Yeah, I’m the best spotter around,” I say. “Now get going, and don’t come back without the suds if you want your heads.”

There’s no argument now. They take off, go down the stairs. I light up another butt and laugh.

“What’s the joke?” Cooch asks me.

“Them is two real stupid studs.”

“Yeah, and they don’t like each other for nothing.”

“That’s the truth. Me, I hate both their guts.”

“What you got special against them?”

“I don’t like Stovepipe’s long neck, and Fandango, I don’t feature the way he looks at me.”

Everybody laughs on that, and we wait it out for the beer. If Rivera catches them, they’re both dead and buried. If it wasn’t for the beer, that’d be a good idea.

Fifteen minutes passes, and there’s thumping on the stairs. The roof-door busts open and them two cats is back with bottles.

There’s all kind of grabbing, and Elmo blows his top. “Put them bottles down,” he says. “I divide.”

That’s done quick. Elmo counts bottles and heads. He don’t say nothing then, just hands out the loot.

First comes himself. Cooch is next. I’m third in line. There’s seven bottles and eight guys. That leaves one lonely bottle between the two flunkies, and their tongues is hanging to the floor.

“Divide it any way you want,” Elmo tells them.

The rest of us is already knocking off caps, lifting elbows. That beer is kind of warm, but it’s a free load, so who cares?

I have me a real good swig when arguing busts out between Stovepipe and Fandango. Both want first lick at that bottle.

They’re ready to fight, but Elmo cuts in, “Cool it, you studs,” he tells them. “I said cool it!”

They shut up now, both standing like sticks, both with a hand on that bottle.

“Okay, that’s better,” Elmo says. “Now, you want to settle it peaceable?”

“Let ’em fight it out,” I put in. “That’s a better idea.”

Elmo don’t hold with that. “Flip a coin,” he says. “Let the winner take all.”

“Good enough for me,” Stovepipe says. “You want to flip once for the whole?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Stovepipe reaches in his pocket for a coin, fetches it out.

“Call, man.”

“Heads is the winner.”

Stovepipe flips the coin, catches it on his palm and slaps it flat on his wrist. They both look, and Stovepipe lets out a whoop.

“Yeah, tails on top. That beer is mine.”

Fandango blows his lid. Everybody laughs, and that does him in. He’s so sore he busts down the stairs.

Nobody cares. We go back to our drinking. After a while, Stovepipe wanders over to the roof-edge with his bottle.

I turn to Elmo and say, “You had a right to let them two fight it out for the bottle.”

“What for? It’s settled.”

“Hell it’s settled. Fandango’s going to hold that against him.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. Wait and see.”

“Okay, we’ll see.”

What I don’t tell Elmo is in my mind. Being I don’t like them two flunkies, and they don’t like themselves, I figure to set them against each other.

About an hour later, we move down from the roof. Me and Stovepipe is last. On the way down, I say to him, “You hear what Fandango accused you of? He said you cheated him out of that beer.”

“I didn’t hear him say that.”

“I know, ’cause you was too busy being happy.”

“Yeah, how could I cheat him?”

“I ain’t said you did or didn’t, ’cause that ain’t my business. But I thought you’d like to know.”

“Thanks for the info, Johnny.”

“Okay, you going to let it stand?”

“Hell, no. I’m going to put that back down his throat.”

We hit the bottom of the stairs and come outside. Stovepipe busts away for the corner fast.

“Hey, where you running?” Cooch yells. “The night is hot.”

“Let him go, excitement’s coming. He’s looking for Fandango’s head,” I tell Cooch.

“What for?”

“That quart of beer made him feel brave and strong. Come on and see the happenings.”

We all take out after Stovepipe and reach the candy store. Stovepipe’s inside already. I hear his voice above the juke.

Next thing, both of them is heading for the door. They come out on the sidewalk, stand off and do some fancy name-calling. I give them a little help and say, “Don’t talk it out. Fight it out and settle the issue.”

That does it. They move together, start swinging. For a couple of minutes, it’s a wild fight, better than I expected. But it don’t last. The squad car shows on the scene. The cops don’t get out. They sit tight and let Elmo do the work.

He busts up the fight and waves to the cops. They know him pretty good, so they move off, and that’s it.

There’s no more fighting. To make sure, Elmo makes Stovepipe and Fandango shake. They do that, but only ’cause he says so. Otherwise, you can see they hate each other worse than ever.

The rest of the night is pretty slow, so I go move off for home early and hit the sack…

Saturday rolls around. It rains in the afternoon, and I lay in the house, listen to some records, nap a little, get up again and listen to some more sounds.

By evening, I’m a pressed stud. Got on my best and standing in front of the candy store. The air’s cool after the rain. It’s a good night for some fun.

The mob comes around. Being there’s no dance on, and nothing special set, we pass around the hat and decide to have a ball down to the clubhouse.

Naturally, the chicks hear about the party. It ain’t too long before they’re drifting through the door. It’s all going fine. There’s only two interruptions. One, some strange cat tries crashing the door. We crash him out on his head, faster than he came in.

A wino is next. Them guys can smell drink-stuff a mile. Elmo punches him on the jaw. Me and Cooch drag him out to the sidewalk and leave him there.

The party continues like nothing happened. It’s real cool. There’s a run on the drinking stuff, the hat is passed again, and more is sent out for.

But fun is with the chicks. Ain’t none of them angels, but none is tackheads either. We don’t never allow dog-faces in the clubhouse.

Me, I take them as they come. All is the same to me. Play the field and never get burned is what I figure.

But there’s this Tabby. For my money, she’s the best around. She’s kind of tall, kind of light, kind of thin. Got them melting kind of eyes.

I dance with her first. It’s just dancing, no talking and no kind of monkey business.

That’s the way it always is with her, only this time, she holds a little tighter, comes a little closer and gives me that staring business.

I catch that and let it pass. Next dance is with somebody else. That’s to cool her off.

She got cat eyes, watching me dance with China. The whole record slides, and she don’t stop looking.

I play up to China, lay it on thick. That pays off when I go back to Tabby.

She’s so damn jealous she can’t answer when I ask her to dance. I grab her wrist, pull her up and make her.

After a while, I say, “What’s biting on you, Tabby? You sore about something?”

“No.”

“That’s a lie.”

“Okay, why you bother to dance with me?”

“’Cause I like the way you dance.”

“That’s all?”

“I like other stuff about you, baby.”

“Is that the same line you gave to China?”

“Hell no, nothing like that.”

“It looked to me that way, the way she was cuddling up”