Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 2, February, 1953

Durant smiled at me benignly. “You’ve never seen them work, Mr. Moon. They’ll gather together all us local boys, tell us how much more we’ll make under syndicate auspices, and if we squawk, push us out and put their own boys in. At the start they won’t expand activities. They’ll just feel out the town, line up politicians they can get to. When it’s all cased, they’ll start pouring in money. Millions of it. They’ll buy aldermen, ward committeemen, everybody they can reach who has a finger in politics. And by the time of next election, they’ll have enough stooges to take over the whole city administration. George Chester won’t even have a job.”

I frowned sidewise at him. “If the syndicate can bring you more money, what’s your objection? You’ve never turned down a dishonest nickel before.”

He looked at me reproachfully. “I have a certain amount of civic consciousness, Mr. Moon.”

When I snorted, he added candidly, “Max, Harry and I got more money than we can spend now. We’d rather be top men in a small setup than employees in a big one.”

“So what makes you think I can help you?”

“If the syndicate thought there was an organized local group willing to fight, they might figure it wasn’t worth the battle. Max Gruder, Harry Delanco and I talked it over and decided none of us would make much impression on this Marty Swan the syndicate is sending to line us up. But you’ve made the news wire services at least twice for knocking off hoods who were supposed to be so tough even the Feds were afraid to go after them in less than platoon strength. Marty Swan will know who you are, and he’ll listen to you because he’ll figure you’re at least as tough as he is.”

I said, “What am I supposed to do? Make a face at this Marty Swan? You’ve got an exaggerated idea of my reputation if you think it will scare a whole syndicate.”

“No, no, Mr. Moon. You’re just to be the spokesman. You’re to give Swan the impression all the local boys are solidly organized under you to resist the syndicate. If we convince him you’re top man of a sizeable army of guns, he’ll think twice before committing the syndicate to a pitched battle.”

When I didn’t say anything for a few moments, he went on. “We picked you for the psychological effect, Mr. Moon. Not only have you a reputation for being tough, you’re ug... ah... you look tough. None of us would make much of an impression on a big operator like Marty Swan, but we think you would. It’s worth five thousand to us if you’ll try it.”

We reached the restaurant and stopped in front.

“I’ll take a crack at it,” I said abruptly. “Not because I like you or either of your mug pals, but because you’re just what you called yourself. A lesser evil. And I’ll have the fee in advance.”

He was all prepared for me. He had five one-thousand-dollar bills in his wallet.

As befitted his social position as one of the important lice in the vermin world, Marty Swan had an entire suite at the Jefferson. Not anticipating trouble, he had brought along only one bodyguard, and the two of them were roughing it together in the five room, fifty-dollar-a-day suite.

The bodyguard met me at the door. He was a burly man over six feet tall with wide shoulders and arms as thick as my neck.

“You’re Mr. Moon, I guess,” he decided after studying the bent nose and drooping eyelid I carry around as a permanent reminder to duck when anyone swings brass knuckles. Apparently he had been given my description. “The boss is expecting you. I’m Bugs.”

“I’m a little nuts myself,” I told him.

For a moment he looked at me puzzledly. Then he threw back his head and emitted a guffaw which shook the walls. It stopped abruptly and he led the way through a sitting room to a wide balcony which overlooked the park across the street.

As we stepped out through the French doors, Bugs said, “This guy is a card, Boss. Wait’ll I tell you the crack he just made.”

The man seated on a lounge chair on the balcony rose, said in a quiet voice, “Save it, Bugs,” and extended his hand. “Glad to see you, Mr. Moon.”

Marty Swan was as gaunt and gray as an alley cat, and about as predatory as an alley cat too. He sent Bugs off to order drinks sent up, resumed his seat and waved me to an identical one next to it.

“I was rather surprised when Durant, Gruder and Delanco all told me you were representing them, Mr. Moon,” Swan said. “I was under the impression there wasn’t much local organization here.”

“There is now,” I told him. “I have authority to deal with the syndicate.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said pleasantly. “We’ve been afraid no one in the local setup was strong enough to hold the town together. We contemplated moving a syndicate man in to head things up.”

Bugs appeared in the doorway and leaned against one side of it with his hands in his pockets. “Drinks will be right up,” he said.

Marty Swan nodded without looking at him. “I’m familiar with your record, Mr. Moon, and I’m sure you’re strong enough to keep the top spot. We won’t bother bringing in a syndicate organizer.”

“Don’t bother bringing in anybody from your syndicate,” I told him casually.

His expression did not change, but there was a sudden alertness about him. From the doorway Bugs frowned at me.

Swan said, “I don’t follow.”

“It’s simple,” I said. “I like the status quo. If you try to move in, you’ll have to make it a military operation. I got fifty guns taking orders from me, and as of tomorrow, after you leave town, every syndicate gunnie who shows up here will be met by a slug. I don’t want your syndicate.”

Bugs straightened, scowled at me, removed his hands from his pockets and began fiddling with the top button of his coat. Coincidentally this put his hand within inches of his armpit.

“Get the idea out of your head,” I told him. “I could count to three and still beat you.”

Swan glanced at his bodyguard sharply. “Don’t try anything foolish, Bugs. This is a friendly discussion.”

“Sure it is,” I agreed, rising from my chair. “But it’s all over. I won’t wait for my drink. You’ve got the point, haven’t you, Swan? Tomorrow. Noon by the latest.”

His lips formed a thin smile. “Suppose the syndicate insists?”

I shrugged. “Then it better stock up on coffins.” To Bugs I said, “Move aside, son. I want to go home.”

I think he was preparing to move before I spoke, but the “son” stopped him, which was just what I hoped it would do. Marty Swan had talked to too many tough guys to be impressed by mere words, and I wanted to leave a more solid impression.

Bugs’ flat eyes glittered at me as he settled himself in the doorway. Without taking his gaze from my face he said, “We gonna take this from a small-town punk, Boss? Or shall I teach him respect for his elders?”

Before Swan could reply, I let Bugs have a backhand left across the mouth. It was not a hard blow, just enough to rock back his head and make him blink. His hand dived under his coat.

As I had warned him, I was somewhat faster than he. He was looking at my cocked P-38 before his hand more than touched his own gun. Carefully he dropped both hands to his sides.

I jabbed my pistol barrel into his stomach, and when he bent in the middle, I smashed the barrel across the center of his face. Staggering back, he fell to one knee and stared up with incredulous disbelief that anyone would dare use him so. His nose was a pulp from which blood spurted downward and both eyes were going to be black.

I let him know it hadn’t been an impulsive mistake by casually kicking him beneath the chin. Below the knee my right leg ends in a stump to which is strapped a contrivance of cork and aluminum. It packs a heavier wallop than a flesh and blood foot, and it literally lifted Bugs off the floor.