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

“Walk out? I never walked in except for one performance.”

“All right,” he said in an agreeable tone. “But if you change your mind, drop back at seven tonight. I’m holding a meeting with Gruder’s and Delanco’s lieutenants and one of my own boys to work out a consolidated fighting plan.”

“How you going to get them in past the cops?” I asked.

He grinned again. “They’re coming as guests of Dr. and Mrs. Charles Durant.” Then his grin faded. “Even if you’re not siding with us, you won’t let it out that I’m not as sick as reported, will you, Mr. Moon?”

I told him I would cooperate that far unless they put me under oath.

On my way out I met Inspector Warren Day and his satellite, Lieutenant Hannegan, coming in the gate. The Chief of Homicide dipped his skinny head to peer at me over his glasses, aimed the unlighted cigar in his mouth at my nose and demanded, “You got a client in this mess, Moon?”

“Sure,” I said. “The guy who shot Gruder, Delanco and Durant.”

The inspector said a word frequently used in parlor conversation. Pool parlor, that is.

Needling Inspector Warren Day always leaves me mildly exhilarated, and I was almost happy when I returned my car to the garage and began to walk back to my flat. My feeling of exhilaration lasted until I reached the walk leading to the door of the apartment house, then was subdued by a gentleman in a blue sedan with a machine gun.

The car shot toward the curb so fast, I didn’t even have time to get scared until it was all over. I caught the glint of a Tommy gun barrel, without even thinking realized there was nothing to drop behind and no holes to fall into, and instinctively dived straight toward the gun, beyond it and into the gutter behind the car.

There was a chattering roar, followed by the throb of a powerful motor, as the car spurted away and wheeled around the next corner. As I picked myself up, I noticed with some surprise I had a gun in my hand.

I put it away, then noticed with even more surprise the lawn I share with the other tenants was chewed up a good six feet from the walk where I had been standing. Apparently my swan dive had been unnecessary, because the machine-gunner would have missed me anyway.

A quick glance around told me no one at all was in sight. It was impossible that no one would have heard the shots, however, and without waiting for the crowd which would inevitably gather, I walked swiftly to the alley, marched up it and made my apartment by the rear door. Locking myself in, I had a double shot of rye to settle my nerves, then found Dr. Charles Durant’s number in the phone book and dialed it.

Assuming that as a matter of course the police would have tapped the line, I asked the butler for Mrs. Durant.

When the soft purr of her voice tickled my ear, I said, “Manny Moon, Mrs. Durant. I’ve discovered I’ll be able to keep that dinner appointment after all. Was seven the time?”

“Yes, seven. The doctor will be delighted that you’re able to come. I’ll let the police guard know so you won’t have any trouble getting in.”

They probably knew the minute I made the statement, I thought, but forbore making the comment aloud. After all, wire tapping is illegal, and I didn’t want to make the listening cop blush.

The red-haired nurse was present during the entire meeting that night. Frank Durant made a halfhearted attempt to chase her out when we got down to business, but acquiesced to her argument that she had to remain in case one of the cops or reporters in the waiting room got nosy and knocked on the door. Obviously her real reason for wanting to stay was that she was thrilled to death at being in on a bit of gangland planning.

Since Durant agreed to his sister-in-law’s presence, I made no objection. In fact I thought she added a pleasant note to an otherwise drab gathering, for none of the others present could be described as joys to look at.

Buttons Sharkey, Frank Durant’s number one strong-arm man, was a heavy-set man with a bullet head and the expression of a person just coming out of anesthesia. The name Buttons was a misnomer, for he definitely lacked most of his.

Tall, lank and slow moving Hub Topping, lieutenant of the deceased Max Gruder and now presumably top man in the numbers racket, had a long sad face and eyes as blank as a dead man’s. He had at least two killings to his credit and gave the impression of patiently awaiting an opportunity to add to his score.

Little Joe Tecca, right bower of the dead Harry Delanco, was barely five feet two, narrow shouldered and with a pinched and wizened face perennially set in a meaningless grin. He was probably the most dangerous of the three because he was so unpredictable. Besides having a violent temper out of all proportion to his size, fie was a cokie and was usually hopped to the eyebrows.

The first part of the meeting was over fast. Both Little Joe Tecca and Hub Topping admitted they could not fight the syndicate alone, and agreed to pool forces with Durant at least long enough to push their common enemy out of town. They were not so agreeable about having me run the show, however, but Durant brought them around by reminding them if they didn’t stick together, they’d all end up in an alley.

“And neither of you think you could general this war, do you?” he asked.

Both were candid enough to admit they couldn’t.

I took this as acquiescence to my leadership, and took over the rest of the meeting. I started by bluntly informing them, just to keep the record straight, they were still mugs in my book and I didn’t like them any better than they liked me.

“This is a marriage of convenience, not love,” I told them. “Step out of line just once and you’ll think the syndicate is a society for brotherly love.”

They understood this language. In fact they understood no other. They looked sullen, but they also looked cooperative.

Then we got down to military strategy. It developed the three lieutenants together had under them a total of thirty-seven guns.

“Any of you have boys originally from Chicago?” I asked.

Buttons said, “I got a couple.”

“New Orleans?”

“One,” Little Joe Tecca offered.

“L.A.?”

All three had immigrants from L.A. on their payrolls.

I went down the list of all the major cities from which the syndicate might import gunmen until we had a fairly complete roster of local men who were familiar enough with the mentioned cities to be able to recognize at least some of the better known hoods if they started drifting into town.

“I want these guys assigned to check every incoming bus, train and plane from their home towns,” I ordered. “The minute they spot a syndicate man, I want him taken alive.”

“What’s that for?” Buttons asked. “Why not just bump him?”

“You’d make a lousy general,” I told him. “When you don’t know the enemy’s next move, the first thing you do is capture a live prisoner and pump some information out of him.”

“Oh. I got you.” His undersized eyes glittered. “Cigarettes on the soles of the feet, huh?”

I looked at him coldly. “If we net anything, I’ll do the questioning.”

Then I told them I wanted everyone in their organizations who wasn’t on spotting duty to start feeling out the town to find out where Marty Swan and whatever other syndicate men he had with him were holed up. When they looked at me as though I had handed them an impossible assignment, I patiently outlined it for them.

I told Buttons Sharkey, “Yesterday Durant said he services four hundred and eighty book shops. If you average three men to a spot, you’ve got nearly fifteen hundred guys you can start looking.” I turned to Hub Topping. “There must be at least five thousand guys running numbers tickets for you. The three of you are sitting on top of a grapevine that reaches into every nook and cranny in town. Shake the fuzz out of your brains and use it.”