James Chase: The Dead Stay Dumb

Butch was glad to have them. He said, “Sit down, for Pete’s sake. How’s your boy shapin’?”

Under cover of the noise made by the other two dragging their chairs up, Gurney slipped into the house. He knew Myra’s room. He opened the door and put his head round. Myra was painting her lips. She had put on a pair of white step-ins. She jerked round, seeing his face in the fly-blown mirror.

“You get out!” she said.

Gurney found his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped in and shut the door, putting his back against the panels. Gurney was big. He had a bent nose and a big slit of a mouth. His eyes were always a little shifty. He dressed in a loud, flashy way, wearing black suits with a yellow or pink stripe. His shirts were mostly red or yellow cotton. He thought he was a swell dresser.

Myra, suddenly anxious, said, “Nick…. blow the old man won’t stand for it… please.”

Gurney came round the bed and reached out for her. She skipped away, her eyes suddenly large and scared. “If you don’t get out, I’ll yell,” she said.

“Aw, honey, that ain’t the way to talk…. Gurney was crowding her the whole time. “You’re lookin’ swell. I ain’t goin’ to start anythin’, honest.” His hand touched her arm, and she suddenly felt weak. She said feebly, “Don’t, Nick, the old man’ll kill me—”

Gurney said, “Don’t worry about him.” He pulled her into his arms, his hands burning on her cool flesh.

White-hot desire for him stabbed her, gripping her inside with iron fingers. She searched for his mouth with hers, gripping him round the neck, half strangling him. Gurney grinned to himself. He said to her, “I’m comin’ out to see you one night soon. You’re goin’ to like that, ain’t that right?”

Outside on the verandah, Butch punched and pummeled Sankey. Sankey stood there, with his head on his chest, like a horse on the way to the knacker’s.

Butch said, “He’s all right, ain’t he?” He said it anxiously, looking in Hank’s direction.

Hank said, “Sure.” But it wasn’t impressive.

“I’m goin’ to need a lot of luck with Franks,” Sankey mumbled.

Butch stiffened. “For God’s sake, that guy ain’t no use. He can’t hit you.”

Sankey shifted. “I wish to hell you’re right.”

“That punk couldn’t hit you with a handful of gravel.”

“He ain’t got to hit me with gravel, has he?” Sankey turned to the rail and sat on it. He still kept his head down.

Butch rubbed both his hands over his bald head. “Listen, this is crazy talk. When you get in there, you’re goin’ to give this punk the works, see? You’re going to left-hand him till you’ve pushed his nut off his neck. Then over with your right, an’ lay him among the sweet peas.”

Sankey didn’t say anything.

Butch was getting the jitters. “Where’s Gurney? Ain’t he here?” he asked suddenly.

“Sure,” Hank said quickly. “He’s fixin’ the auto. She ain’t so good as she was. He’ll be along.”

Butch said, “I want him now.”

Hank went to the edge of the step and yelled, “Hi, Gurney! Butch wants you.” He put a lot of beef in his voice.

Butch said suspiciously, “Why d’you yell like that?— he ain’t deaf.”

Hank began to sweat. He shouted again.

Gurney came round the side of the shack at a run. He’d got a lot of red smears on his face from Myra’s paint. That didn’t matter. Butch couldn’t see them. He was quite cool when he came up the steps.

Butch said, “What the hell’ve you been doin’?”

Hank put in quickly, “I told you, he’s been fixin’ the bus.”

Gurney grinned a little. “Yeah that’s right. That auto’s sure goin’ home.”

Butch said. “Where’s Myra?”

Gurney was elaborately calm. The old sonofabitch was sharp, he thought. “Just what I was goin’ to ask you. I gotta soft spot for that kid.”

Butch chewed his underlip. He sat down in the chair, his great fists clenched. “You leave her alone,” he growled.

Gurney grinned again but he made his voice smooth. “What’s biting you, Butch? You know kids ain’t my racket. When I have a woman, she’s gotta be a tramp ”

Butch said, “Okay, but leave Myra alone.”

There was a little pause, then Hank said: “Will you be there, Butch?”

His mind brought back to Sankey, Butch began to look worried again. “Your boy ain’t got no confidence,” he said to Gurney.

Gurney lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the mud patch. “He’s okay. He’s just nervous. It don’t amount to anythin’.”

“Yeah?” Butch levered himself forward. “You crazy? That guy’s carrying my dough. That guy’s gotta win.”

Sankey shifted. “Forget it,” he said. “Can’t you gab about somethin’ else?”

Butch turned his head. “Take him away,” he said to Hank. “Lead him round the place. I wantta talk to Gurney.”

Hank got up and jerked his head. “Come on,” he said to Sankey. They went down the path and sat in the car.

Butch leant forward. “What the hell’s this?” he snarled. “That palooka’s out on his feet already.”

Gurney scratched his chin. “What the hell can I do about it? Franks has scared him, got him jittery. They ran into each other at the boozer the other night. You know Franks, he got on Sankey’s nerves.”

Butch got to his feet. He raised his clenched fists above his head. “The yellow punk,” he said, his voice suppressed and strangled. “You gotta do somethin’, Gurney. I’ve got too much dough on that bum to risk. I tell you, you gotta do somethin’.”

“I’ve got a hundred bucks on him myself,” Gurney said uneasily. “He’s a trifle over-trained, I guess.”

“You’ve got a week to fix things,” Butch said slowly. “Use your head.”

Myra came out on the verandah. Her eyes were fixed on Gurney. Butch jerked his head round. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded.

“Your supper’s ready,” she said.

Gurney got to his feet. “Okay, Butch, I’ll see what I can do.”

Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch’s nose. Myra didn’t dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.

“What you doin’?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.

“I’m on my way,” Gurney grinned. “’Bye, Myra; take care of your Pa.”

He went away, grinning.

Myra slipped into the kitchen. Her heart was thumping hard against her ribs. The crazy loon, she thought, to do a thing like that. She stood quite still, in the middle of the untidy kitchen, holding her breasts tightly, her eyes half closed, thinking of him.

The town took an interest in Dillon. Abe noticed that trade picked up when Dillon was in the store. The women came in to look at him. They had heard about Walcott. A guy who could hit like that must have plenty of steam. Any guy with steam made the women in Plattsville a little light-headed.

They got a shock when they saw Dillon, but they wouldn’t admit they were disappointed. They had hoped to see a Clark Gable, and Dillon’s clay-like face and cold expressionless eyes startled them. They told one another that he was a bad man, and they kept on coming in to have another look at him.

The men in Plattsville got sour about it. They said anyone could have smacked Walcott down; he was a cheap punk and didn’t amount to anything.

They were talking about Dillon in the saloon when Gurney came in. They broke off. Gurney stopped most talk wherever he went. They wanted to know how Sankey was shaping.

Freedman pushed his way forward. “H’yah, Nick,” he said, “what you havin’?”

Gurney was used to this sort of thing. He couldn’t place Freedman, but that didn’t worry him. He said, “Rye, straight.”