Ричард Деминг - She’ll Hate Me Tomorrow

Dropping all pretense of being merely a cop performing his duty, Morton said hotly, “I’ll run along when I get this dame. Yeah, I’m supposed to deliver her to Bix. So you’d better get her up. You going to buck him?”

Blowing a thin spiral of smoke at the detective, Ross said, “Maybe you’d better rephrase that to: Is he going to buck me?”

Morton frowned. “I don’t get you, Clancy. You know all it would take is an excuse for Bix to lower the boom. How you’ve got away with staying independent this long, I don’t know. Nobody else in town can.”

“I’ll give you a message for Bix,” Ross said. “Tell him if he sends any more Keystone cops after Stella, I’ll send them back horizontal.”

The detective looked incredulous. “Tell Bix that? You looking for a war?”

“Declaring it,” Ross said indifferently. “If Bix wants it that way.”

Morton emitted a sarcastic laugh. “I always thought you were too big for your boots, Clancy. You’d better pick out a casket.”

Coming away from the door, Ross pulled it open. “Good night, Sergeant,” he said politely. “It’s been a pleasant relationship, but don’t drop by for your weekly stipend unless you bring along word that Bix has lost interest in Stella.”

The detective trod heavily over to the smaller man and glowered down into his face. “You think you can tie a can to my tail, punk? This place will be knocked over so fast—”

That was as far as he got when four stiffened fingers jabbed into his stomach, causing him to gasp and involuntarily bend forward. Then the hard edge of the gambler’s palm smashed alongside his neck.

As the detective started to stumble to his knees, Ross grabbed him behind the head at the same time he brought up a knee. There was a dull crunch as the man’s nose flattened. When the smaller man released him, he sat heavily, his mouth hanging open and crimson streaming from both nostrils onto his expensive suit. When Ross carefully kicked him in the jaw, he toppled backward and lay still.

Crossing to his desk, Ross picked up the house phone and told the switchboard operator to have Sam Black come up to his office. When he hung up, he leaned over the unconscious detective and drew the warrant from his side pocket. While waiting for Black, he amused himself by watching it burn in an ash tray.

At a knock on the door, Ross opened it to admit Black, immediately closed it again. The burly man gazed down at Amos Morton with a pained expression.

“What’d he do?” he inquired. “Forget to say sir?”

“He called you a baboon. I don’t like my menials insulted.”

Black sniffed. “Something been burning?”

“A warrant for Stella’s arrest on a shoplifting charge.”

“Oh, fine,” Black said. “You assault a cop and destroy a warrant. You ought to get off with five years easy.”

“Nobody’s going to admit there ever was a warrant. He meant to turn her over to Bix Lawson. Heave him out in the alley.”

“Just like that? This guy’s a pet of Lawson’s, Clancy.”

“He was a pet of mine, too, but I just fired him. We can expect a raid when he wakes up. I want the gaming room closed down. Get the customers out gently but fast, and have the boys strip out the equipment and truck it over to the warehouse. Don’t forget to change the elevator doors.”

“What are you going to be doing while I perform all these chores? Just sit around like an executive?”

“I’m going to get Stella out of here. Morton said the place is staked out, so it may be a problem.”

“You’ll solve it,” Black said gloomily. “Just shoot a few cops.”

Pulling open the office door, Ross grinned at him. Black was gazing broodingly down at the prone detective when he drew the door closed behind him.

Striding down the hall to the cloakroom, the gambler said to Connie. “Run in the powder room and get Stella, will you, Connie?”

“Sure, Mr. Ross.” Coming from behind the counter, she headed for the powder room.

Sam Black stepped from the office and closed the door behind him. Coming over to Ross, he said, “I guess I better clear out the customers before I give Morton the heave. They might think we’re not nice people if I drag a bloody cop through the crowd.”

“He shouldn’t wake up for a while,” Ross said.

“A few weeks, I’d say, by the way he’s breathing. What’d you hit him with?”

“With enjoyment.”

Emitting a disgusted snort, Black entered the gaming room. The two girls came out of the powder room together and walked toward Ross.

The gambler said, “Better get back to the cloakroom, Connie, because all the customers will be leaving in a few minutes. Stella, you come with me.” He punched the elevator signal button.

Connie moved toward the cloakroom. Stella asked, “What happened? Why will the customers be leaving?”

“We’re closing down for a time.”

The elevator doors parted, they got on and Ross said, “Up.”

Once in the third-floor apartment, Stella asked, “Are you having to close down your whole business on account of me?”

“Not the legitimate part of it. Periodic shutdowns are an occupational hazard in the gambling racket. So don’t worry about it. Get yourself into a street dress and pack your bag.”

“I’m causing you too much trouble,” she said. “I wish you had let me run.”

“Get moving,” he said patiently. “We haven’t much time.”

“All right,” she said, moving into the bedroom and beginning to strip off the cocktail-waitress dress.

Minutes later they stepped back onto the elevator, Ross carrying Stella’s suitcase.

“All the way down,” he said to the operator.

When they got off, Ross led the way to the kitchen and set down the suitcase. After replying to a chorus of greetings from the kitchen help, he told Stella to step into the kitchen washroom and stay there until he rapped for her to come out. She gave him a puzzled look, but she obediently entered the washroom and closed the door.

In back of the building Ross found a tall, lanky man leaning against the wall next to the rear door.

“Hi, Clancy,” the man drawled.

“Hello, John. Amos wants you out front. You can go through the building.”

The detective removed his back from the wall. “He made the arrest, huh? I didn’t think it would be that easy, you being such a bullhead.”

“You can’t fight the law,” Ross said philosophically.

He held the rear door open for the detective to precede him, followed him through the kitchen as far as the entrance to the dining room, then watched until he was halfway across the room.

Turning, he re-entered the kitchen and rapped on the washroom door. Stella came out; he picked up the suitcase and held the rear door open for her to precede him. Moments later they drove out of the alley in Ross’ Lincoln, turning left at the alley mouth, in the opposite direction from the front of the club.

“Where are we going?” Stella asked.

“To the home of a friend of mine,” he said laconically.

Their destination was a small chicken farm about fifteen miles south of town. As they pulled into the yard, a lean, overalled man in his fifties came from a chicken house. Simultaneously the side door of the farmhouse opened and a plump, matronly-looking woman in a gingham dress stepped out on the porch.

With a wide grin the lean man clasped Ross’ hand and said, “How are you, Clancy? Mattie and I were talking about you just last night. You haven’t dropped by for a month.”

“I can’t afford to eat Mattie’s cooking more than once a month,” the gambler said. “I’d get fat.” Turning to Stella, he said, “This is Jerrel Tobin, Stella. He supplies all the eggs and poultry we use at the club. Stella Parsons, Jerry.”