James Chase: The Dead Stay Dumb

Butch brooded. “What’s it worth?” he asked at last.

“Twenty-five per cent cut on everything.”

Butch nodded. “Okay.”

Dillon asked abruptly: “This guy Gurney—is he all right?”

Butch nodded. “He’d come in, I guess,” he said. “Gurney’s after the big dough. He ain’t particular how he makes it.”

“I’ll have a word with him later. Now this guy Franks. There’s only one way to deal with him. He’s gotta have a scare thrown in him, see? He’s got to be tipped off that he gets it if he doesn’t take a dive. The first thing is to square the Town Marshal How’d you stand with him?”

“He’s an old bird Sell his soul for a buck. He can be squared.”

“Then see him an’ fix it. I gotta keep out of this. Tip him off to put his money on Sankey an’ tell him the fight’s rigged. If Franks puts up a squawk for protection, he won’t get it, see?”

Butch nodded.

Dillon took out the hundred dollars and counted out fifty of them.” “Give him that to bet with.”

Butch fumbled with the money and put it in his pocket. “I guess you’re goin’ to fix this fight all right,” he said. “I’m putting everything I’ve got on this.”

Dillon said, “It’s goin’ to be okay, you see.”

He moved over to the door. Outside, Myra crept away, not making a sound. She climbed the ladder leading to the loft which served for her bedroom; and safe in the darkness of familiar surroundings she slipped out of her dress before going to the window. Dillon was standing in the road, looking cautiously up and down, then with a quick shuffling step he disappeared into the darkness.

Myra stood by the window some time, thinking, her face, lit by the moonlight, the hot air of the night touching her skin. Even when she got into bed she could not sleep. The clay-like face of Dillon hung before her like the dead face of the moon. His voice still rang in her ears, scorning her. The blow that he had struck her still burnt her body, making her squirm on the sagging mattress. Sleep would not come to her, to blot out mercilessly the pain of her bruised pride. She suddenly began to cry the hot tears running down her face unchecked. Her two fists, clenched, beat on the bed. “I hate you! I hate you!” she sobbed. “You lousy, goddam bastard!”

Gurney drove carefully. He had to nurse the car over the rough road. One good pot-hole would sure bust the axle. Dillon sat beside him, his hat over his eyes. Every now and then Gurney shot him a quick look. Dillon had him guessing. He couldn’t place him. Something told him that Dillon would get him somewhere, that he would lead him to the money class, but, fascinated by the thought, he still hung back a little, not trusting him.

It was the evening following the meeting of Dillon and Butch. Dillon had picked Gurney up after the store had closed for the night. They were on their way across the border to the hick town where Franks lived. They were going to call on Franks.

Dillon said suddenly: “You gotta tackle this guy; I’ll just be around You know what to say. Don’t let him start anythin’. Talk tough. He won’t take a sock at you. I’ll be right with you.”

Gurney brooded, staring at the road, white and dusty in the headlights. “This guy can hit,” he said uneasily. “He’ll get mad if I shoot off too much.”

Dillon shifted. “You do what I say,” he said, “I can handle any mad guy.” He pulled a heavy Colt automatic from the inside of his coat, turned it in his hand, so that Gurney could see it, then he put it back.

“For God’s sake”—Gurney was startled—“where the hell did you get that?”

Dillon looked at him, peering at him from under his hat. “You ain’t scared of a rod?” he asked.

This was too tough for Gurney, but he didn’t say so. He licked his lips uneasily and drove on. After a while he said, “You ain’t goin’ to pop this guy?”

“Sure I’m goin’ to, if he gets mad.” Dillon said. “This ain’t the first guy I’ve popped.”

The old car swerved a little. Gurney found his hands trembling. “I guess I ain’t standin’ for a murder rap,” he said suddenly.

Dillon reached out and turned off the switch. The engine spluttered and went dead. Gurney trod on the brake. “What’s the idea?” he asked nervously.

Dillon pushed back his hat and leant towards Gurney, crowding him into the corner of the car. “Listen,” he said, “you’re goin’ to get this straight. From now on I’m givin’ the orders and you’re takin’ ’em, see? We’re gettin’ into the dough, an’ no one’s stoppin’ us. If they get in our way it’s goin’ to be so much grief for ’em—get that? In a little while I’ll be running the town. You can get in in the ground floor or you can stay out. You stay out an’ one dark night someone’s goin’ to toss a handful of slugs in your guts; you know too much—get all that? Butch’s on, so get wise to yourself.”

Gurney went a little yellow. He didn’t have to think much. “Sure,” he said, “I get it. Sure, you go ahead. You’re the boss.”

Dillon raked him with his cold eyes. “There was one bright boy who talked like that an’ changed his mind. He walked down a street one night with his guts hanging out down to his knees. Someone gutted him with a knife. Hell! You ought to have seen that guy. He tried to stuff his guts back, but just touching them with his hands made him so sick he let ’em hang in the end.”

Gurney said, “You ain’t goin’ to have any trouble with me.” He said it in a weak voice, but he meant it.

They drove on.

A clock somewhere struck the half-hour after ten when they pulled up outside Franks’ house. It wasn’t much to look at from the front, but then Franks was only a smalltime fighter, just making his way. They walked up the short path and stood outside the screen door. Gurney pulled at the bell, hearing it jangle somewhere at the back. Behind a yellow blind a light gleamed. Someone was up all right.

Through the screen door they could see a woman coming. Dillon nodded to Gurney and stepped back a little.

The door opened outwards, and the woman stood on the step looking at them with a little puzzled frown. She was young and plain. Her black hair was done up in a coil, a few ends straggling untidily. She had a good figure, her breasts riding high, and large hips. When she spoke, her voice was soft and carried a southern accent. “What is it, please?” she said.

“Len in?” Gurney said.

The woman nodded. “Sure he’s in,” she said. “Who shall I say?”

Gurney took a step forward, pushing the woman back. Followed by Dillon, he walked into the house. The woman retreated, her face suddenly frightened. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “You can’t come busting in like this.”

Gurney walked into the sitting-room. Franks was sitting in an easy chair holding a child awkwardly, a bottle of milk suspended in his hand. Franks was a big, smoothfaced guy, young and free from the usual mashed features of a fighter.

The woman brushed past Gurney and ran over to Franks. She was badly scared. Franks pushed the baby into her arms, getting to his feet quickly. He was startled. His eyes showed it; they were a little wide, but he wasn’t losing his head. If there was going to be trouble, his confidence in his great flat muscles was unshakable.

“You can’t come in here like this,” he said to Gurney. “I see guys like you at the gym.”

Gurney grinned uneasily. He was a little nervous of Franks. “We’re in, buddy,” he said. “Get the dame outta here, we want to talk to you.”

Franks said, “Beth, take the kid.”

She went out without a word. She was only gone a second or so. She came back alone, and stood just behind Franks. Her eyes were big and scared. Franks said to her patiently, “Keep out of this, honey.”