Стюарт Стерлинг - Collection of Stories

The girl didn’t answer.

The answer came, close to Koski’s ear. Close enough so he felt the cold bluntness of the automatic’s nose, before he heard the familiar nasal whine of Doojey Felch, saw the thin, wolfish face with the broken yellow teeth.

“I told her, Koski. I seen him die. I seen you kill him over there at Gowanus. It’d serve you right if Patty took that gun away from you right now an’ pushed the button on you. Patty was Eddie’s girl, Koski. They was goin’ on a honeymoon if you hadn’t lucked onto us out there in the Bay. If Patty was to grab your gun now and it was to go off—”

“If that was to happen, Doojie,” the heavy rumbling voice of Joe Mulcahey announced with matter-of-fact authority, “the first thing she’d have to do would be to comb your brains out of her hair! Stick your thumbs in your ears! In your ears, I said! Where I can see ’em! An’ keep ’em there!”

They waited on the sidewalk for the patrol wagon. Doojie Felch and Patty Rondo, handcuffed together, were facing the wall and leaning against it with their hands against the wet brick to keep them from falling. Steve Koski and Joe Mulcahey were watching the fog condense in rivulets, thick as mineral oil, on the windows of the cafe.

“I thought I told you to watch Negus and not let him off the oyster boat, you thick-skulled Hibernian!”

“He’s still there, Steve. I only came over here to show you the note he found in his pocket, whilst we was givin’ the pilot-house the up an’ down. Old Cale Telfer must have stuck it in there, unbeknownst, that time we were all millin’ around looking at those bloodstains on the deck.”

He gave Koski a slip torn from a Shoalwater Seafood’s memorandum pad:

Win—

The money’s in the lower right-hand drawer of my desk. I never meant it to get anywhere but in the firm’s bank account. I thought I was doing what was best for Bill, to go along with the holdup scheme and so get that witch out of the way. But what I did was send Bill to his death. So I can’t see any use to go on living myself. I’ll try to balance the books before I go.

“Yeah,” Koski nodded. “This fits. Cale agreed to her scheme for a stickup, but he was too honest to let his partner, or even the insurance people, share a loss like that. So he fixed up that dummy bag, gave it to his son-”

“Not expectin’ any shootin’ to come out of it,” Mulcahey made it more a statement than a question.

“She’d have promised there’d be no violence. But the armored truck guard spoiled that. He shot first and got Eddie. Eddie knew he was in bad shape, and he blasted away like a maniac, wounded the guard, killed the boy. So, instead of putting Patty and her pals in wrong on account of a holdup that wouldn’t have netted them a nickel, old Telfer unintentionally had planned his own son’s funeral.”

The sergeant wiped moisture off the barrel of his Police Positive. “This Negus, now. He’s no dope. I don’t say he had it figured out, all neat like that, Steve. But he knew his partner was mixed up in it some way.”

“He was trying to cover up for him. Yeah. I caught onto that, after a bit.” Koski heard the clanging of the police van down the block. “But how’d you catch on to my being at the Lighthouse?”

“Negus went to Cale’s desk, after he read the note. He found the old man’d taken his gun. He knew the only person he’d be likely to want to kill was this — Patty person. So he told me where I’d find her. I knew I’d find you here.”

“You’re so smart, you bulls!” Doojie snarled. “How’d you know where Telfer went, Koski?”

Mulcahey hummed softly,

He broke off as the ‘wagon’ clanged to a stop. “You s’pose the Commissioner’d object if we was to appear as shadows, in the background of the pix they’ll be takin’ of these two?”

“Ah, who wants publicity, anyway?!” asked Steve Koski.

“The Commissioner,” sighed Joe Mulcahey.

Thrilling Detective, April, 1950

Don Rixey gnawed gloomily at the combination Ham and Lamburger. “Certainly is terrible.” he said. “Certainly is.”

Annalou Kenyon turned from the grill, tossing taffy-bright curls in mock indignation. “If you’re finding fault with my cooking, before we’re even married!”

“Not the san’wich!” He poked impatiently at the nickeled napkin-container on the counter. “Your not bein’ able to get off tonight.”

“Is it my fault—” her dimples deepened, her pert mouth firmed — “if my relief happens to have an uncle who manages to get himself shot in that terrible payroll holdup this morning and is in the hospital practically at death’s door?!”

“I didn’t say it was.” The candid blue eyes in the square, amiable face watched her hungrily as she moved from the malted mixer to the fountain. “I only said it was a tough break you can’t go with me to look at that apartment tonight.”

“I don’t see that it matters so terribly much.” She slit open a couple of buns, deftly. “Even if it wasn’t rented by the time we got out there — which it probably would be — and even supposing we could afford the rent — which we probably couldn’t — what would we put in it, besides us?!”

“That’d be enough for me.” He grinned. “The best things in life are free.”

“Huh!” Annalou wrinkled her nose at him. “That three-room Bride and Groom Special at Mammoth Furniture isn’t, though!”

“I’ve enough to make the down payment.” He reached across the counter to grab her. “And a license.”

Annalou squealed prettily. “Quit! Before I let you carry me across any threshold, there are a few other trifling little items to be considered, Mister Rixey. Such as dishes, silver, linens, blankets, curtains, rugs—”

“I bet I could worry along without a rug, if I had you.”

“Hmph! The future Mrs. Donald Rixey doesn’t intend to start housekeeping on any shoestring. I’d like to see that apartment, too, but what would we use for money?”

“Money isn’t everything.” He finished the burger, sipped his coffee.

“I never noticed it was any handicap.” Annalou served a couple of bobbysoxers down the counter. When she came back: “I wish I knew where we could get our hands on a great big hunk of it, that’s all!”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong business, baby.” Don tapped the newspaper which lay propped against the salt-and-pepper rack. “Maybe I oughta get me another set of tools an’ go in competition with the guy. He got his hands on a great big wad of it, all right!”

“Don’t you ever say a thing like that, Don Rixey! Even kidding!” She squinted at the big, black headlines:

Don finished the java. “The radio repair biz isn’t what you’d call a gold mine, these days, exactly. Still an’ all, it’s better’n that racket. Trouble with that is, even though he’s got his hands on a lot of moola, he won’t be able to hold onto it. Cost him dough to make his getaway. He’ll have to shell out to somebody to hide him for a while. If they catch him, his lawyers’ll get it all. And, anyhow, he won’t be able to spend it, where he’s going.”

“They’re sure to catch him,” Annalou peeled lettuce leaves off a head of iceberg. “They got a good description of him. Half a dozen people saw him.”

“I just missed seein’ him myself.” Don glanced in the back mirror at a couple who’d taken the two stools at the far end of the counter. “I was over at Clark-McGeekin’s yesty, tuning up their interoffice amplifiers. Might just as easy been this morning!”