Paul Cain - The Paul Cain Omnibus

The driver turned around, asked: “Where to?”

“How’d you like to make a long haul?” Kells glanced at Granquist, smiled at the driver.

The driver said: “Sure. The longer the better.”

Kells said: “San Bernardino.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.

And here is the shocking last installment to Fast One.

Gerry Kells came west to play around a bit, choosing Hollywood and LA for his playground. That was all he wanted to do — play and be left alone. And that’s what he started to do.

But he brought with him a reputation of being a “fast one,” a high-class muscle-man, and the big boys in the west coast rackets sought him out.

Bellmann and Fenner were fighting for political control. Bellmann was already in; Fenner wanted in and Bellmann out. Jack Rose was a Bellmann man; he wanted for his share the gambling and liquor racket. Rose tried to enlist Gerry Kells as a potent fighter, but Kells wouldn’t enlist, and the fireworks started.

They framed Kells for a murder. Kells shifted the charge to Ruth Perry’s husband. Then they shot Kells, but didn’t finish the job, and Kells went haywire.

One by one the big fellows went out. Fenner shot Bellmann; Kells, letting the girl, Granquist, carry the charge, took over Fenner’s organization. Then Crotti, a public enemy from the east coast, got in the way and was rubbed out.

Kells tried to run away from that one with the spoils of the fight. But his crowd had dwindled. Only Borg, the former bodyguard for Fenner, and the girl, Granquist, were with him when he jumped a cab for San Bernardino to take the train east.

The room was about thirty by fifteen. There were six booths along each long side. At one end there was a door leading to a kind of kitchen and at the other end there was a door that led to steps down to the alley. There was a small radio on a table beside the door that led to the kitchen and there was a clock on the wall above the table. It was five minutes past nine.

Kells and Granquist and Borg sat in the third booth on the right, coming in. There was no one in any of the other booths.

The cab driver went back to the door to the kitchen and called: “Jake.” Then he bent over the radio, snapped it on.

A man came out of the kitchen, said “Hi” to the driver, came up to the booth. He was a tall man, about fifty-five, with a long crooked nose, a three- or four-day growth of gray beard. He wiped his hands on his dirty gray-white apron.

Kells asked: “Do you know how to make a whiskey sour?”

The man grinned with one side of his mouth, nodded.

“Okay — and put some whiskey in it.”

Granquist was rubbing powder onto her nose, holding her head back and looking into a small mirror which she held in one hand, a little higher than her head.

She said: “Me too — an’ ham and eggs.”

Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.

The man shook his head.

Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too — and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs .”

He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”

A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.

Jake went back into the kitchen.

Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”

Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.

Kells grinned at Granquist.

She said: “Let’s dance.”

“Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”

He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.

Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten — that’s KGPL the police reports to the radio cars.” He pronounced the first syllable of radio to rhyme with sad. He walked back towards the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by — sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left an unspoken “By Crackey!”

The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room. He said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.

It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.

Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words: “KGPL–Los Angeles Police Department... Calling car number one thirty-two — car number one three two... At Berkeley and Gaines streets — an ambulance follow-up... That is all... Gordon.”

Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not good , but not bad.”

Kells raised his head, called towards the kitchen: “Bring out the bottle, Jake.”

Borg opened his eyes, stared gloomily at his drink.

The radio sputtered to sound: “KGPL... Attention all cars — attention all cars... Repeat as of eight-fifteen on Crotti killing... Persons wanted are: Number One — Gerard A Kells. Description: six foot one — a hundred and sixty pounds — about thirty-five — red hair — sallow complexion — wearing a dark blue suit, black soft hat — walks with a limp, recent leg wound...”

Jake came out of the kitchen carrying a bottle of whiskey by the neck. He put it on the table and Kells took out the cork and tipped the bottle, sweetened Granquist’s, Borg’s, and his own drink. He waved the bottle at the driver. The driver slid off the table and came over and held out his glass and Kells poured whiskey into it. The driver went back and sat down on the table and Jake went back into the kitchen.

He said, “Ham an’ eggs coming up,” over his shoulder as he went through the door.

The radio droned on: “Number Two — a woman, thought to be Miss Granquist — first name unknown — also wanted in connection with Bellmann murder. Description: five eight — a hundred and twenty pounds — twenty-seven — blonde-high color... Number Three — Borg — Otto J. Description: five six — a hundred an’ ninety pounds — forty — sandy complexion... Particular attention cars on roads out of Los Angeles: these people are probably trying to get out of town... Don’t take any chances — they’re dangerous... That is all... Gordon.”

The driver put his glass down, slid off the table. He said, “I forgot to turn off my lights,” started towards the door.

Borg said: “Sit down.” He had not raised his head or straightened up in his seat. The heavy snub-nosed revolver glittered in his left hand.

Kells stood up slowly, squeezed out of the booth and limped back to the kitchen door. He stood in the doorway and said: “You can put down that phone and bring out our ham and eggs now.”

He continued to stand in the doorway until Jake came out past him with four orders of ham and eggs on a big tray. Jake’s nose and forehead were shiny with sweat. He put the tray on the table and stood wiping his hands on his apron.

The driver turned and went back and sat down on the table. He was very pale and there was a weak smile on his face. He picked up his drink.

Borg gestured with his head and Jake went over and sat down in the booth with the driver.

Kells went into the kitchen.

Granquist’s eyes were hard, opaque. She took one of the plates of ham and eggs off the tray, sat staring down at it.