Paul Cain: The Paul Cain Omnibus

I said; “I’ll bite. What do you think?”

He laughed. “I like you.” he said. “By God! I like you.”

I said I thought that was fine. “Now let’s try to do some business.”

“Listen,” he said. “Luke McCary has run this town for thirty years. He ain’t my old man — he married my mother and insisted on my taking his name.”

He puffed slowly at his cigar. “I guess I was a pretty ornery kid” — he smiled boyishly — “when I came home from school I got into a jam — you know — kid stuff. The old man kicked me out.”

I lighted a cigarette and leaned back.

“I went down to South America for about ten years, and then I went to Europe. I came back here two years ago and everything was all right for a while and then the old man and I got to scrapping again.”

I nodded.

“He’d had everything his own way too long. I opened about three months ago and took a lot of his game business away — a lot of the shipyard men and miners...”

McCary paused, sucked noisily at his cigar.

“Luke went clean off his nut,” he went on. “He thought I was going to take it all away from him...” McCary brought his big fist down hard on the desk. “And by the Christ! I am. Lowry’s the third man of mine in two weeks. It’s plenty in the open now.”

I said: “How about Luke’s side?”

“We got one of the bastards,” he said. “A runner.”

“It isn’t entirely over the gambling concession?”

“Hell, no. That’s all it was at first. All I wanted was to make a living. Now I’ve got two notch-joints at the other end of town. I’ve got a swell protection in with the law and I’m building up a liquor business that would knock your eye out.”

I asked: “Is Luke in it by himself?”

McCary shook his head slowly. “He don’t show anywhere. There’s a fella named Stokes runs the works for him — a young fella. They been partners nearly eight years. It’s all in Stokes’ name...”

“What does Stokes look like?”

“Tall — about your build. Shiny black hair and a couple of big gold teeth” — McCary tapped his upper front teeth with a fat finger — “here.”

I said: “How much is he worth to you?”

McCary stood up. He leaned across the desk and grinned down at me and said: “Not a nickel.” His eyes were wide and dear like a baby’s. He said slowly: “The old man is worth twenty-five hundred smackers to you .”

I didn’t say anything and McCary sat down and opened another drawer and took out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a couple of drinks.

“I think the best angle for you,” he said, “is to go to Stokes and give him the same proposition you gave me. Nobody saw you come in here. It’s the only way you can get near the old man.”

I nodded. We drank.

“By God! I like your style,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get along with an outfit of yokels.”

We smiled at one another. I was glad he said he liked me because I knew he didn’t like me at all. I was one up on him, I didn’t like him very well either.

Stokes sat on a corner of the big library table, his long legs dangling.

He said: “You’re airing Ben — how do we know you’ll play ball with us?” His eyes were stony.

I looked at the old man. I said: “I don’t like that fat — son of yours — and I never double-cross the best offer.”

Luke McCary was a thin little man with a pinched red face, bushy white hair. He sat in a big armchair on the other side of the table, his head and neck and wild white hair sticking up out of the folds of a heavy blue bathrobe.

He looked at me sharply. He said: “I don’t want any part of it.”

“Then I’ll have to act on the best offer.”

Stokes grinned.

The old man stood up. He said: “Why — damn you and your guts...” He opened a humidor on the table and took out a small automatic. “I can shoot the buttons off your vest, young fella... I can shoot you for a yegg right now, and no one’ll ever know the difference...”

I said: “ You’ll know the difference — for not having taken advantage of talent, when you had the chance.”

He put the automatic back in the box and sat down and smiled gently at Stokes.

Stokes was looking at the floor. He said: “Five grand if you wipe out the whole outfit. Run ’em out of town, stick ’em in jail, poison ’em... Anything.”

“Wouldn’t you like a new railroad station too?”

They didn’t say anything for a minute. They looked at me.

I went on: “No sale. I’ll take care of Ben for that — but busting up the organization would mean sending for a few friends — would cost a hell of a lot more than five...”

The old man looked the least bit scared for a second — then he said: “Ben’ll do.”

“How about laying something on the line?”

Stokes said, “Don’t be silly.” The old man cackled. “Well I never saw such guts,” he said. I said: “All right, gentlemen. Maybe I’ll call you later.” Stokes went downstairs with me. He smiled in a strange way. “I never knew the old man to go for anything that looks as tricky as this. I guess it looks good because Ben thinks you’re working for him.”

I nodded. I said: “Uh-huh — Ben’s a swell guy. He’ll probably blast me on sight.”

“I don’t think you’ll find him at his joint.”

I waited and Stokes leaned against the door, said: “There’s a big outfit downstate that’s been running twelve trucks a week through here from the Border. They’ve paid off for this division of the highway for years — to the old man. The last two convoys have been hijacked at Four-mile Creek, north of town — a couple drivers were killed...”

He paused, looked wise a minute, went on: “That was Ben. There was a convoy due through last night — they run in bunches of four, or six — it didn’t show up. It’s a cinch for tonight — and that’s where Ben’ll be.”

I said: “That’s fine. How do I get there?”

Stokes told me to follow the main highway north, and where to take the cutoff that crossed Four-mile. I thanked him and went out.

I walked down to a drugstore on the corner and called a cab. When it came, I got in and had the driver jockey around until he was parked in a spot where I could watch the front door of the McCary house.

After a while, Stokes came out and got into a roadster and snorted up past us and turned down the side street. I told the driver to follow him. I don’t think the driver knew who it was. It didn’t matter a hell of a lot anyway.

I got out and told the driver to wait and walked on down Dell Street, keeping close to the fence. It was raining pretty hard again. I passed the place where Lowry had come up to me, and I went on to the corner; and then went back the same way until I came to the narrow gate I had missed in the darkness.

It was more a door than a gate, set flush with the high fence. I finagled with the latch for a while and then pushed the gate open slowly and went into a yard. It was a big yard, full of old lumber and old boxcar trucks — stuff like that. There was a long shed along one side, and a small two-story building on the far side.

I stumbled along as quietly as I could towards the building and then I went around the corner of a big pile of tires, and Stokes’ roadster was sitting there very dark and quiet in the rain. I went past it and up to the building and along the wall until I saw the lighted window.

I had to rustle around quietly and find a box and stand on it to see through the little square window. The panes were dirty; the inside looked like a time office; Stokes and Ben McCary and another man were there. They were arguing about something. McCary was walking around waving his arms; Stokes and the other man were sitting down. I couldn’t hear a word they said. The rain was roaring on the tin roof of the shed and all I could hear was a buzz of voices.