Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

“You will,” Streeter said. He took out his wallet and showed the other man his gold badge.

“What’s the trouble?” Cabe asked.

“Well, now,” Streeter said, “there really doesn’t have to be any.” He took a swallow of beer and leaned a little closer to Cabe. “You had quite a time for yourself last night, they tell me.”

Cabe’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Last night? You kidding? All I did was have a few beers over at Ed Riley’s place, and—”

“Yeah,” Streeter said. “And then you picked up somebody.”

“What if I did?”

“Then you took her over to your room.”

“So what? They don’t put guys in jail for—”

“The hell they don’t,” Streeter said. “Raping a girl can put you away damned near forever, boy.”

“Rape? You’re crazy! Hell, she wanted to go. She suggested it.”

“Next you’re going to tell me she charged you for it.”

“Sure, she did. Twenty bucks.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Streeter said. “Because it’s still rape, and you’re in one hell of a jam.”

Cabe moved his lips as if to speak, but there was no sound.

“That girl you took home with you was only fifteen years old,” Streeter said. “She—”

“Fifteen! She told me she was nineteen! She looked, nineteen!”

“You should have looked twice. She’s fifteen. That makes it statutory rape, and it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference what you thought, or whether she was willing, or if she charged you for it, or anything else.” He smiled. “It’s statutory rape, brother, and that means you’ve had it.”

Cabe moistened his lips. “I can’t believe it.”

“Get your hat,” Streeter said.

“You’re arresting me?”

“I didn’t come in here just for the beer. Hurry it up.”

“God,” the blond man said. “God, officer, I—”

“Kind of hard to get used to the idea, isn’t it?” Streeter asked softly.

Cabe’s forehead glistened with sweat. “Listen, officer, I got a wife. Best kid on earth, see. I don’t know what came over me last night. I just got tight, I guess, and... God, I—”

Streeter shook his head slowly. “Good thing you haven’t got any children,” he said.

“But I have! Two of them. Seven and nine. And my wife, she’s — she’s going to have another baby pretty soon. That’s why — I mean that’s how come I was kind of anxious for a woman last night. I—” He broke off, biting at his lower lip.

“Tough,” Streeter said. “Real tough. But it’s that kind of world, friend. I’ve got a kid myself, so I know how it is. But—” he shrugged — “there isn’t a hell of a lot I can do about it.” He shook his head sadly. “When little guys — guys like you and me — get in a jam, it’s just plain tough. But guys with dough... well, sometimes they can buy their way out.”

Cabe looked at him a long moment. “How much dough?”

“Quite a bit,” Streeter said. “More than you’ve got, Johnny. Better get your hat.”

“Let’s cut out this crap,” Cabe said. “I asked you how much dough?”

“We got to think of your wife and kids,” Streeter said. “So we’ll have to go easy. Let’s say a grand.”

“I ain’t got it.”

“You can get it. A little at a time, maybe, but you can get it.” He took another swallow of his beer. “How much you got in the cash register?”

“About three hundred. I got to pay the help tonight, or there wouldn’t be that much.”

“Too bad about the help,” Streeter said. “Let’s have the three hundred. In a couple weeks I’ll be back. By that time you’ll have the other seven hundred, eh, Johnny-boy?”

Cabe went to the cash register, took out the money, and came back. “Here,” he said. Then, softly beneath his breath he added: “You bastard!”

Streeter put the money in his pocket and stood up. “Thanks, Johnny,” he said. “Thanks a lot. You reckon I ought to give you a receipt? A little reminder to get up that other seven hundred bucks?”

“I’ll remember,” Cabe said.

“I’m afraid you might not,” Streeter said, smiling. “So here’s your receipt.” He leaned across the bar and slammed his fist flush against the blond man’s mouth.

Johnny Cabe crashed into the back-bar, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.

“Thanks again, Johnny,” Streeter said. “You serve a good glass of beer.” He turned and went outside to the cruiser.

He spent the next four hours making routine check-ups and trying to think of improvements in the system he had worked out with Sally Creighton. The system had been working nicely, but it was a long way from foolproof. Most of the cops on the force were honest, and for them Streeter had nothing but contempt. But there were a few like himself, and those were the ones who worried him. He’d had reason lately to suspect that a couple of them were getting on to him. If they did, then his racket was over. They could politic around until they got him busted off the Morals Squad. Then they’d take over themselves. And, he reflected, they wouldn’t even have to go that far. They could simply cut themselves in on a good thing.

And that Sally... He’d have to start splitting down the middle with her, he knew. Maybe she was even worth it. One thing was sure, she’d learned how to terrify young girls better than anyone else he could have teamed up with. He’d seen her work on just one girl, but it had been enough to convince him. Sally had wrapped her arm around a fourteen-year-old girl’s throat in such a way that the girl was helpless. Then, with a hand towel soaked with water, she had beaten the girl across the stomach until she was almost dead. When the girl had recovered slightly, she had been only too willing to tell Sally every man she’d picked up during the last six months.

That particular list of names, Streeter recalled, had been worth a little over ten thousand in shake-down money.

He came to a drug store and braked the cruiser at the curb.

In the phone booth, he dialed Sally’s number, humming tunelessly to himself. He felt much better now, with Johnny Cabe’s three hundred dollars in his pocket.

When Sally answered, he said, “Streeter. Anything doing?”

“I got one in here now,” Sally said. “A real tough baby. I picked her up at Andy’s trying to promote a drunk at the bar.”

“She talking?” he asked.

“Not a damn word. I got her back in the Quiet room.”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t know. All she had in her bag was a lipstick and a few bucks.” She paused. “Like I said, she’s tough. She won’t even give us the time of day.”

“Listen,” Streeter said. “Things are slow tonight. See if you can get her talking. Maybe I can collect a bill here and there.”

“That’s an idea.”

“You haven’t lost your technique, have you?”

“No.”

“All right. So turn it on. Give her that towel across the belly. That ought to make her talkative.”

For the first time he could remember, he heard Sally laugh.

“You know,” she said, “I’m just in the mood for something like that. Maybe I will.”

“Sure,” Streeter said. “The sooner you get me some names, the sooner I get us some dough.”

“Don’t forget, Carl — it’s fifty per cent now.”

“Sure.”

He hung up and went back out to the cruiser.

After another slow hour of routine checks, he decided to see how Sally was making out with the tough pick-up. He stopped at a diner and called her.

“God,” she said, as soon as he had identified himself, “we’re really in it now, Carl.” Her voice was ragged, and there was panic in it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I went too far. I was doing what you said, and—”