Jay Carroll - Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 4, August 1957 (British Edition)

He was sitting in a booth with Rusty and Joe Levis and, right across from him, Liz Nolan. They had been there a long time. He took out another cigarette, put it between his lips and scratched a match. Then he tried to move his leg, so Liz couldn’t find it with hers. But, after a moment, the pressure was back against his thigh, and he gave up.

The music stopped, leaving only the sound of the whirring fan, which was supposed to clear out some of the smoke, but didn’t seem to make much progress.

Rusty pushed back a mop of red hair and squinted at Johnny. “We took Liz out to the quarry this afternoon. She was as cool as could be.”

Joe laughed. “Scared some of the boys plenty,” he said. “She went in bare, like the rest of us.”

Rusty said, “She’s been pestering me to take her a long while.”

Liz looked angrily at Rusty. “You didn’t have to tell Johnny about it.”

Rusty picked up a bottle of beer and tilted it to his lips. When he had finished he said, grinning, “Johnny knows you’re a slut. We aren’t giving anything away.”

“She likes you because she thinks you’re refined,” Joe said to Johnny. “Are you refined?”

There was smug self-assurance in Rusty’s tone. Johnny felt the pressure against his leg increase. The beer was making his stomach queasy.

“You’re a punk, Rusty,” Liz said. “A pain you know where.”

“But you put up with the pain pretty good,” Rusty smirked. “As long as Papa pays — or can you make more yourself on the side?”

Johnny got up unsteadily. The movement overturned a bottle on the table. He picked it up while a trickle of beer ran on to the floor. He had to get out of here. But he should talk to Rusty first.

“Want to come with me a minute, Rusty?” he said thickly.

“Sure, chum. If you’ll promise to put Liz out of her misery.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He pushed clear of the booth and waited while Rusty got up. Joe was making some crack he didn’t hear, but Liz and Rusty laughed. Rusty followed him over to the men’s room.

“You going to be sick?” Rusty asked.

Johnny looked at him — the red hair, the squat, tough body, the narrow eyes. He didn’t like Rusty, any more than he liked Liz. But he needed him now. He shook his head.

“What can we get for a Packard convertible?” he asked.

“This years?”

“Yeah.”

“Plenty,” Rusty said, eyeing him sharply. “What’s your angle?”

“I got it figured.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed. His lips were tight over his teeth. “You won’t make it,” he said. “You never do, when it comes to the point.”

“This time, I will, Rusty. I’ve got to.”

“You said that before — but you always go chicken. That’s why I didn’t try anything last night with the Caddy. You might have gone screaming for the cops.”

Johnny felt the blood flush the back of his neck. He reached out and caught Rusty’s silk shirt in his fist. He swayed a little, as he said hoarsely, “I’m telling you, Rusty. This time is different.”

“Okay,” Rusty said then. “Leave go of me. Well split, fifty-fifty. When the time comes, I’ll give you the pitch.”

“Sure.”

“If you don’t chicken out, I’ll cut you in on something big — bigger than you can imagine — something I’m working on now.”

“And lay off Liz. She likes to play around, and I kid about it, but she’s my woman.”

“I know that, Rusty. Thanks.”

Someone came in then, and they went back to the booth. Johnny had another beer, and then he went home.

He sensed something was wrong, when he climbed the stairs and saw the light leaking out from the door. But he was feeling muddle-headed again from the beer, and nothing made much sense — especially the light being on.

Taking out his key, he fiddled for a few moments with the lock before he could work it. When he opened the door and stepped inside, he saw his father rising from his chair, his bulk strangely menacing. He saw his mother, too, rubbing her eyes as if she had been suddenly awakened. Johnny stood there, steadying himself on the flat of both feet.

“Well,” he said thickly, “quite a reception!”

He heard his mother say, “He’s drunk, Paw. My Johnny’s drunk!” Her voice sounded as if all the cares of the world were on her shoulders. Johnny felt sorry for her. “A couple of beers...” he muttered.

He looked up, to find his father standing very close to him. A big man, his father — bigger than he would ever be. In the stillness that fell over the room, he could hear his father’s heavy breathing, and he was suddenly afraid. It was as if he had never known this man before.

“I guess I’ll hit the sack,” he said thickly.

“Just a minute.”

It was his father speaking — his father who reached out and grabbed his T-shirt, holding him there. “There was ten dollars missing from the till at the station when I tallied up,” his father said. “You took it, Johnny.”

Johnny felt as if he was going to be sick. The beer was making him that way. He wished his father would leave him alone. He said, out of the corner of his mouth, “So what? I needed the dough. It’s all in the family.”

His father seemed stunned. “How old are you, Johnny?”

“Don’t be dumb. You know how old I am.”

“Twenty — you’re old enough to act like a man. But you don’t. So I’ll treat you like a kid.”

He hadn’t let go of the T-shirt. Johnny felt the sickness in him getting worse. But it was mixed up with anger, now. He pulled back, tearing the shirt. Then, when his father came closer, he brought up his right fist and swung it at his father’s jaw. But his legs weren’t steady and he missed. Then he felt the side of his face explode, as his father’s open palm slapped him hard. He went over sideways, hearing his mother scream.

His father picked him up, and he felt himself go limp. He couldn’t seem to do anything. The room revolved around him crazily, and his throat was as dry as if it was stuffed with dust.

Then his father was beating him, and he had to bite his lips to keep from crying like a baby as the blows came, slamming pain through him. It went on a long time — it seemed like a long time. And then he was sick, and his mother was bending over him, crying and saying, “You shouldn’t have done it while he was sick.”

And his father, answering heavily, “He’s got to learn sometime. He’s no damn good, and, unless I can teach him, the cops are going to have to.”

His father went away, and he managed to get up and stumble to his room. But he knew he couldn’t stay here any longer. In a way, he didn’t blame his father. He had it coming, all right. But still, he couldn’t stay here now that his father had beaten him. He waited until the sounds died down, and then he crept out on stocking feet, his body stiff and sore, his head still giddy.

He started up the street where Rusty had a room. Maybe Rusty could look after him. But he didn’t like the idea of Rusty seeing him beat-up this way; Rusty would want to know what had happened. He couldn’t tell him it was his old man, and he didn’t think he could make up a story, either.

He sat down on the stone steps of an apartment, holding his head in his hands, trying to figure out what to do. A couple passed by, arms around each other, not noticing him. Then he heard the click of heels on the brick sidewalk, and he thought he’d better get moving before a cop found him. It was an effort to stand up. He had to steady himself against the side of the building to keep from falling. The footsteps grew closer.

Then they paused, and Liz Nolan said, “Johnny! What’s happened to you?”

He looked at her, but all he could see was a twisting shadow.