James Chase: The Dead Stay Dumb

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t move. Dillon’s thin lips set in a sneer.

Franks was calming down. He said, “You sure startled me,” there was a foolish little smile on his big, rubbery lips, “bustin’ in like that. You’re crazy I might’ve pushed you boys around.”

Gurney said, “Don’t talk big, Franks, you’re in a spot.”

Franks’ eyes opened. He knotted his muscles. Gurney could see them swelling under his coat. “Not from you I ain’t,” he said. “What is it?”

Gurney pulled a chair round and sat down. He was careful to put the table between them. Dillon leant against the door. Beth watched him the whole time. She was dead scared of Dillon.

“We’re tippin’ you off,” Gurney said evenly, “Sankey’s gotta win this brawl.”

“Yeah?” Franks’ breath whistled through his nose. “He’ll win okay if he ain’t flattened before the last round.”

“You don’t get it,” Gurney said patiently; “you’re throwin’ the fight.”

Franks stood very still. “Like hell I don’t get it,” he said. “Who said?”

Dillon said quietly from the door, “I said so.”

Franks turned his head; he looked at Dillon slowly up and down. “Who’re you?” he said. “You’re nuts. You two’d better get outta here before I toss you out.”

There was a pause, then Dillon said, “You’re goin’ to run into a lotta grief if you don’t take a dive.”

Franks went a little pale. “Okay, you two rats; here it comes.” He jerked aside the table. Gurney scrambled to his feet, his face white. Beth gave a sudden short scream as the big Colt sprang into Dillon’s hand. Franks saw it. It stopped him just like he had banged his face against a brick wall. “Hey!” he said.

“That’s it,” Dillon said viciously. “Don’t start anything; you’ll have a second navel if you do.”

Beth put her hand on Franks’ arm. “Don’t let him shoot you, Harry!… Don’t let him shoot you!”

Dillon crouched a little by the door. His face was drawn, his lips just off his teeth. “I’ll give it to you, sucker,” he said; “just one move outta you an’ you get it.”

Franks was scared of the gun. He’d never run into a gunman before. It unsettled him. “Are you bugs?” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You can’t do this.”

“Forget it,” Dillon said savagely; “you listen. You’re takin’ orders, an’ you’re likin’ ’em. You’re throwin’ that fight, see? Sankey’s gotta win in about the fifth. You can fix it how you like, but he’s gotta win We got too much dough on that boy to fool around makin’ mistakes.”

Beth began to cry. She made a little shuddering, jarring sound that got on Gurney’s nerves.

Dillon went on talking. “When you get in there, you put up a good show, but no heavy work; just rough around, see? Then let Sankey haul off an’ sock you. Just one, make it look a lucky punch. Right, you go down, an’ you stay down. Now listen, you goddam punk, you double-cross me’ an see what you get. I’ll get this dame first, an’ I’ll get the little ’un as well. Then I lay for you. This ain’t a bluff—you see.”

For a moment Gurney thought Franks was going to rush Dillon, and he braced himself. Franks could see that he’d get nowhere doing that. Dillon could have fired three or four times before he caught up with him. So he just stood there, his head lowered, his eyes gleaming, and his great hands working at his sides. He said at last, “Sankey’ll win okay.” His voice came out of his throat in a strangled croak. Beth slipped to her knees, holding his hand. They stood like that for a long time, with Dillon staring at them. Then Dillon jerked his head at Gurney, and together they backed out into the night.

Gurney sat in the car, smoking. He had left Dillon at Abe’s store and had driven out of town. The night was still and very close. Big black clouds, looking like lumps of coal, hung sluggishly in the sky. The moon rode low, just skirting the black tree-tops.

His mind excited, Gurney sat smoking hard. The red tip of his cigarette glowed in the smothering darkness of the car. His brain was crawling with thoughts. It was the gun that excited him. He could see Franks’ face now. He could see how that gun stopped his rush, turned him from toughness to dough. Any guy could give orders with a rod in his hand. It was the rod that did it. Gurney shifted in his seat. Dillon was a hard guy, but without a gun Franks would have squashed him—made a smear of him on the wall. That showed you how powerful a gun was.

A big, silent car flashed past. Gurney saw the dame sitting in front with a well-dressed guy, looking as if he owned the earth. The dame was glittering in a white dress, that sparkled. She looked a honey all right.

With a gun, Gurney thought, I’d have the last word with that lousy punk. A gun would level things up mighty quick. Thinking about the dame, his mind went on to Myra. If there was ever a broad asking for it, there she was. What the hell was he waiting for, anyway? He leant forward and turned the switch.

It did not take him long to run out to Butch’s place. He stopped the jaloopy a few hundred yards from the shack under a clump of trees, and turned off the lights. It was off the road, and it would be safe there. He got out, and walking on the grass border of the road approached silently.

One solitary light was burning in the downstairs room. Silently, moving his feet with care, he walked towards the window. He had a great respect for Butch’s ears. He put his fingers on the window-ledge and pulled himself up.

Myra was standing quite close to him, pressing a dress with a flat-iron. She was alone.

Gurney lowered himself to the ground and walked round the front. He rapped on the screen with his knuckles. He waited a minute, feeling his heart beating jerkily against his ribs. Then Myra’s silhouette blotted out the screen and she said, “Who is it?”

“Hyah, baby,” Gurney said, speaking very low; “you alone?”

She pushed open the screen and came out on the step. “Nick!” There was a little catch in her voice. It didn’t get by Gurney. He grinned in the darkness.

“Sure,” he said. “Butch in?”

She shook her head. “He went down to the gym. He won’t be so long, though.”

“Lemme in, baby, I gotta talk to you.”

“No—no, it’s late, Nick. You can’t come in now.”

Gurney reached out his hands, taking her arms just above her elbows. “Get goin’,” he said gently; “you don’t want to be seen yappin’ out here.”

At his touch her resistance sagged. She let him push her back into the house. She broke away from him when they entered the room, standing with her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on him.

“You gotta be careful,” she said. “He’s coming back. You know him. He’ll be right in on us; he comes so quietly. Not now, Nick, I’m scared he’ll come…. Nick, please…”

Gurney, his hat still at the back of his head, pulled her away from the wall. She struggled to get away from him until his mouth reached hers, then she clung to him, beating his shoulder-blades with the flat of her hands.

Down the road Butch came, his great body throwing a bloated shadow that stumbled and lurched just ahead of him. He made no sound, walking in the grass. He kept his ear-cocked for motors. Butch had got to watch out for himself. Skirting the bend, he hastened his steps; he knew that he was nearly home. Walking, his head bent, he was puzzling about Dillon. Sankey also worried him. He’d got a lot of dough on Sankey. If Dillon didn’t get that brawl rigged he was going to be down a lot—a hell of a lot too much.

He silently padded up the mud path, pausing on the top step of the verandah to have a last smell of the night air. He didn’t like it. It came hot and close to him. He thought maybe a storm would get up.