Richard Deming - No Pockets in a Shroud

“You have an exaggerated idea of my talents,” I said. “I’m not a hired gunman.” Louis Bagnell allowed his face to smile, but his eyes neglected to join the effort. His smile was a gambler’s smile, which was appropriate since he controlled most of the gambling in the city — and had controlled all of it before a Chicago immigrant named Byron Wade began to muscle in. For ten years no one had opened a bookshop in town without Bagnell’s personal OK... Until Wade came along. But suddenly six new shops sprang up, and the rumor was Wade hadn’t asked permission. Up to now Bagnell’s E4 Patio had been the only casino in town too, but tomorrow was the grand opening of Byron Wade’s North Shore Club, and the engraved invitations issued to a carefully selected clientele were rumored to intimate everything from slot machines to roulette would be available. It didn’t require a Master’s Degree to figure out a gang war was in the offing.

Louie said: “You’ve hired out as a bodyguard before.”

“Sure. But you don’t need a bodyguard. You’ve got two now.” I glanced over at Vance Caramand, who leaned his back against my apartment door. “What’s the matter with Vance?”

Bagnell said: “Vance is all right, except he’s a moron.” He spoke impersonally, as though the bodyguard were not there. “Greene has even less brains. I need someone smart.”

We sat in my apartment living room, where most of my business is discussed, when I have any to discuss. Since my sole advertising medium is a card beneath my doorbell reading: “Manville Moon, Confidential Investigations,” and my business suffers from lengthy and frequent lapses between cases, office space would be superfluous.

I uncorked the rye bottle for a second time and looked at Bagnell questioningly. When he shook his head, I looked at Vance Caramand.

Bagnell said quickly: “None for him either. He’s stupid enough sober.”

Dribbling a little rye into my own glass, I slopped water on top of it. I said: “You don’t want a bodyguard. You want an extra gun to meet Byron Wade’s mob when war breaks. I’ll stay an innocent bystander.”

His face lost all expression, which suited it better than the false smile. He asked: “Is talk about me and Wade going around?”

“In certain quarters.”

“For instance?”

“Among the lower element,” I said. I grinned at him. “Among your crowd.”

He rose, recovered his hat from my sofa and stood looking down at me. “Did I understand you to say you’re net in this on either side?”

“That’s what I said.”

He studied my face as he would an opposing player in a poker game. “May I count on that?”

I looked up at him coldly. “I said it, didn’t I?”

“I know,” he said equably. “I’m not questioning your word. But you’d make a difference in my planning.”

“Why?”

His lip corners lifted in a wintry smile. “You scare people. Some of my boys might walk out if they thought they were up against you.”

I said: “I’m neutral. Don’t bother to duck when we meet.”

He motioned to Vance Caramand and they departed together. It was exactly three P. M.

Once, during the shambles in France, I hesitated for part of a second in deciding whether to go head first or feet first into a hole. Finally I chose head first, with the result that instead of having a detachable head, my right leg is detachable below the knee.

At seven-thirty P. M., fresh out of a shower, I was strapping the cork, aluminum and leather leg substitute in place when the doorbell rang. Pulling a robe over nothing, I clanked to the door on one: metal and one flesh foot.

The heavy-jowled man standing in the hall wheezed from the exertion of his half-flight climb. His tailored clothes, carefully cut to disguise a pot belly, failed in their mission.

A meagerly built, narrow-featured youth of about twenty rested his back against the wall next to the apartment facing mine. He had the coldest, most expressionless face I have ever seen, and his extreme youth only accentuated its cruelty. Yellow eyes measured me scientifically, as though picking the exact spot to place a bullet, if necessary.

“Mr. Moon?” the heavy man asked when he had regained his breath.

“Yes.”

“I’m Byron Wade.”

He handed me a fat, damp palm and gave me a fishy squeeze. When I salvaged my hand, I rubbed it dry against the nap of my robe.

I said, “Come in,” and stepped aside to let him pass.

He walked past me into the living room, and his youthful companion removed his back from the wall and followed. Wade made no offer to introduce him.

The boy took a chair facing the door, kept on his hat and sat with both hands in his pockets. His suit coat was tight at the waist, his knuckles showed through the cloth, and there was obviously nothing in the pockets but hands. Somehow this made me feel better.

Closing the door, I walked around Wade toward the bedroom, stepping off the rug onto the wooden floor with my right foot en route. The metallic clank brought Wade’s startled eyes to my feet, but the boy kept his fixed on my face. Ordinarily it takes some concrete danger such as a fist or a bullet coming my way to start adrenalin pumping through my veins, but this kid had “Handle with care” signs all over him. He gave me the creeps.

I said: “I’ll be with you soon as I dress. There’s rye and mixings on the table. Help yourselves.”

“Thanks,” said Wade. “May I mix you one?”

“Yeah. I take water.”

Ten minutes later, fully dressed, I sank into an easy chair next to Byron Wade and tried the drink he had mixed for me.

Wade started, “I know you’re a busy man, Mr. Moon,” which caused me to choke on my drink.

I leaned forward, fished for a handkerchief, and Wade, his mouth already open to deliver the second sentence of his pat speech, stopped short.

“What’s the matter?”

I wiped my eyes. “Drink went down the wrong way.”

“Oh!” He paused, reassembled his thoughts and repeated, “I know you’re a busy man, so I’ll get right to the point. I want to hire you as a bodyguard.”

I glanced over at the kid, who still sat with his hat on looking vicious. “What’s Junior?”

The kid tightened his lips and fixed unwinking yellow eyes on my face.

Wade said: “Danny? He’s sort of a bodyguard. I need two.”

I drained the rest of my drink. “I know you’re a busy man too, Mr. Wade, so I won’t waste time for either of us. No sale.”

He jerked up his eyebrows and waited, as though expecting elaboration. When nothing happened, he frowned slightly and bugged out his eyes at me. I studied him in return, noting the red-veined puffiness about his eyes and nose and the blunt, pouty expression, like a small boy playing tough guy.

“You’re already working?” he asked finally.

“No.”

He waited again for explanations, until it was obvious none was coming. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple. Nothing personal. I just don’t like gang wars.”

Wade’s fat-encased eyes narrowed and his tongue flicked across his lips. “What’s that mean?”

I said: “You don’t want a bodyguard. You want an extra gun for the war brewing. I’ll sit this one out.”

Wade’s eyes turned nasty and the veins in his fat cheeks disappeared as his whole face reddened. “So Bagnell got to you!”

I said, “Nobody gets to me, Mister. Go peddle your apples elsewhere,” and got out of my chair to open the door.

Danny’s body did not change position, but his right hand did. One moment it was jammed into his coat pocket, and the next it was under his armpit and out again. I’m supposed to be fast, but I wasn’t expecting the movement and it caught me off guard. My fingers barely touched the P .38 under my arm when I was looking into the tiny bore of a Woodsman Colt.