Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

“Yeah,” Rick said. “Thanks, Junior.”

He hung up the phone and went back to stare at television.

The warning didn’t particularly frighten Rick. He was in too comatose a state to be much concerned about anything. It didn’t really penetrate that he might be in actual physical danger until he was confronted with it on the way home from school on Monday.

They caught him in the center of a block only two blocks from his home. As he passed the alley mouth, eight of them poured out of it and formed a semicircle around him. Artie Snowden was in the lead.

Rick backed against the brick side of the building next to the alley mouth and warily examined the ring of faces.

Artie said with enjoyment, “How’d you like your face parted, stud? Down the middle?”

His hand came out of his pocket encased in a set of brass knuckles.

Rick might have attempted to slug it out even against the impossible odds if it hadn’t been for the knife another boy drew. His stomach lurched when he heard it click open and he saw the gleam of the seven-inch blade.

His stark terror saved him. Lowering a shoulder, he plowed between Artie and the boy next to him as though he were hitting a defensive line. He knocked both boys sprawling and was racing up the street, carrying his books like a football, before the rest of the group realized their quarry had escaped.

Rick ran all the way home and tumbled onto the front-room couch gasping. His mother glanced in from the kitchen, gave him a vague smile and said, “You’re home early, dear.” She disappeared into the kitchen again.

Rick sat without moving for a full half hour. Then he lowered his head into his hands and sat that way for another twenty minutes. When he finally raised his head again, there was an expression of defeat on his face.

Going to the phone in a corner of the living room, he dialed Pat’s number.

When she answered, he said in a blurred voice, “Rick, Pat. You think Max might still accept an apology?”

“Oh, Rick,” she said happily. “I’ll call his girl right now and get her to find out.”

The appointment was for ten p.m. Rick didn’t go inside the Cardinal Shop. He stood looking through the plate-glass window until he was noticed from inside.

Max came out with Artie Snowden, Eightball and Duty Bullo. He gave Rick an amicable smile.

“You got something to say, man?” he asked.

Rick gulped. In a low voice he said, “I’m sorry about everything, Max. I’d like to get in the club, if you’ll still have me.”

Max said indulgently, “Sure, boy. Some of the guys are sore, but me, I like a stud with guts. That charge you made on the football field was real cool.”

Rick said nothing, merely waited abjectly.

“You got no objections to the chores we assign now, huh?”

Rick shook his head.

“Only thing is, now it’s not going to be so easy,” Max told him. “The guys are pretty burned up. A lot of them say no — no matter what chore you pull.”

Rick waited in silent subservience.

“Only way we could talk them around was to give you a really tough chore,” Max went on. “It’s not going to be as simple as tossing a stink bomb.”

Rick said fervently, “Anything you say, Max.”

“Well, the stud who’s war counselor for the Purple Pelicans is getting a little big for his pants. He got sore about Junior’s stink bombs and brought some of his boys over for a raid last night. Caught a couple of our citizens alone and put them in the hospital. Right on our own turf.”

“You want me to fight him?” Rick asked.

Max grinned genially. From his jacket pocket he produced a small-caliber pistol, then dropped it back again. “We want you to burn him, Rick.”

Rick stared at him with slowly growing comprehension. “You mean kill him?” he finally asked in a husky voice.

“You got the scoop,” Max said.

Rick stared from one face to another. Artie brought out his set of knuckle dusters, examined it interestedly and put it away again. Eightball flipped open a knife, shut it and dropped it back in his pocket. Duty merely grinned at Rick.

“See what we mean?” Max asked. “It’s either all the way, or not at all. Take your choice.”

Rick swallowed and his eyes made the circle of faces again. “Do I have to decide right now?” he managed.

“Take your time,” Max said generously. “We’ll give you till midnight.”

Doing an about-face, he re-entered the Cardinal Shop. The other boys followed him in.

Rick stood for a long time staring at nothing. Then he turned and staggered off like a drunk.

He walked the streets for two hours. At midnight he came back to the Cardinal Shop.

The automobile that was stopping in front of Aaron Hacker’s real-estate office had a New York license plate. Aaron didn’t need to see the yellow rectangle to know that its owner was new to the elm-shaded streets of Ivy Corners. It was a red convertible; there was nothing else like it in town.

The man got out of the car.

“Sally,” Hacker said to the bored young lady at the only other desk. There was a paperbound book propped in her typewriter, and she was chewing something dreamily.

“Yes, Mr. Hacker?”

“Seems to be a customer. Think we oughta look busy?” He put the question mildly.

“Sure, Mr. Hacker!” She smiled brightly, removed the book, and slipped a blank sheet of paper into the machine. “What shall I type?”

“Anything, anything!” Aaron scowled.

It looked like a customer, all right. The man was heading straight for the glass door, and there was a folded newspaper in his right hand. Aaron described him later as heavy-set. Actually, he was fat. He wore a colorless suit of lightweight material, and the perspiration had soaked clean through the fabric to leave large, damp circles around his arms. He might have been fifty, but he had all his hair, and it was dark and curly. The skin of his face was flushed and hot, but the narrow eyes remained clear and frosty-cold.

He came through the doorway, glanced toward the rattling sound of the office typewriter, and then nodded at Aaron.

“Mr. Hacker?”

“Yes, sir,” Aaron smiled. “What can I do for you?”

The fat man waved the newspaper. “I looked you up in the real-estate section.”

“Yep. Take an ad every week. I use the Times, too, now and then. Lot of city people interested in a town like ours, Mr.—”

“Waterbury,” the man said. He plucked a white cloth out of his pocket and mopped his face. “Hot today.”

“Unusually hot,” Aaron answered. “Doesn’t often get so hot in our town. Mean temperature’s around seventy-eight in the summer. We got the lake, you know. Isn’t that right, Sally?” The girl was too absorbed to hear him. “Well. Won’t you sit down, Mr. Waterbury?”

“Thank you.” The fat man took the proffered chair, and sighed. “I’ve been driving around. Thought I’d look the place over before I came here. Nice little town.”

“Yes, we like it. Cigar?” He opened a box on his desk.

“No, thank you. I really don’t have much time, Mr. Hacker. Suppose we get right down to business.”

“Suits me, Mr. Waterbury.” He looked toward the clacking noise and frowned. “Sally!”

“Yes, Mr. Hacker?”

“Cut out the darn racket.”

“Yes, Mr. Hacker.” She put her hands in her lap, and stared at the meaningless jumble of letters she had drummed on the paper.

“Now, then,” Aaron said. “Was there any place in particular you were interested in, Mr. Waterbury?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. There was a house at the edge of town, across the way from an old building. Don’t know what kind of building — deserted.”