Paul Cain - Fast One

She put one hand out tentatively as if she were about to catch a fly, slapped Kells very hard across the face.

Crotti stood up suddenly.

Kells reached out and pushed Granquist away gently, said: “Don’t be effeminate.”

Crotti came around the desk and took Granquist by the shoulders, pressed her down into a chair. She was swearing brokenly, incoherently; she put her hands up to her face, sobbed. Crotti said: “Be quiet.” He turned to Kells with a deprecating smile. “I’m sorry.”

Kells didn’t say anything.

It was quiet for a little while except for Granquist’s strangled, occasional sobs. Crotti sat down on the edge of the desk.

Kells was staring thoughtfully at Granquist. Finally he turned to Crotti, said: “I played the Bellmann business against this one” — he jerked his head at Granquist — “because it was good sense, and because I knew I could clear her if it got warm. Then when she got away I figured Rose had her and went into the panic. I’ve been leaping all over Southern California with a big hero act while she’s been sitting on her lead over here with an armful of bottles...”

He sighed, shook his head. “When I’m right, I’m wrong.” Then he went on as if thinking aloud: “Rose and Abalos and a woman — probably Rose’s wife — hired a boat at Long Beach tonight and didn’t come back.”

Crotti glanced at Granquist. “Rose had an interest in one of the big booze boats,” he said — “the Santa Maria. She was lying about sixty miles off the coast a couple days ago. He probably headed out there.”

He puffed hard at his cigar, put it down on an ashtray, leaned forward.

“Now about my proposition...” he said. “You’ve started a good thing but you can’t finish it by yourself. I’ve got the finest organization in the country and I’m going to put it at your disposal so that you can do this thing the way it should be done — to the limit. LA county is big enough for everybody—”

Kells interrupted: “I think I’ve heard that someplace before.”

Crotti paid no attention to the interruption, went on: “—for everybody — but things have got to be under a single head. This thing of everybody cutting everybody else’s throat is bad business — small-town stuff.”

Kells nodded very seriously.

“We can have things working like a charm in a couple weeks if we go at it right,” Crotti went on excitedly. “Organization is the thing. We’ll organize gambling, the bootleggers, the city and state and federal police — everything.”

He stood up, his eyes glittering with enthusiasm. “We can jerk five million dollars a year out of this territory — five million dollars.”

Kells whistled.

Granquist had put her hands down. She was sitting deep in the chair, glaring at Kells. Crotti picked up his cigar and walked up and down, puffing out great clouds of blue-gray smoke.

“Why, right this minute,” he said, “I’ve got a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of French crystal cocaine on one of my boats — a hundred and fifteen thousand dollars’ worth, wholesale. All it needs is protected landing and distribution to a dozen organized dealers.”

Kells nodded, pouring himself another drink.

Crotti sat down at the desk, took out a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“And you’re the man for it,” he said. “My money’s on you...”

Kells said. “That’s fine,” smiled appreciatively.

“Your split is twenty per cent of everything.” Crotti crushed his cigar out, leaned back and regarded Kells benignly. “Everything — the whole take.”

Kells was watching Crotti. He moved his eyes without moving his head, looked at Granquist. “That ought to pay for a lot of telephone calls,” he said.

“Then it’s a deal.”

“No.”

Crotti looked as if he’d found a cockroach in his soup. He said incredulously: “You mean it isn’t enough?”

“Too much.”

“Then why not?”

Kells said: “Because I don’t like it. Because I never worked for anybody in my life and I’m too old to start. Because I don’t like the racket, anyway — I was aced in. It’s full of tinhorns and two-bit politicians and double-crossers — the whole damned business gives me a severe pain in the backside.” He paused, glanced at Granquist.

“Rose and Fenner both tried to frame me,” he went on. “That made me mad and I fought back. I was lucky — I took advantage of a couple breaks and got myself into a spot where I could have some fun.”

He stood up. “Now you want to spoil my fun.”

Crotti stood up, too. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I want to show you how to make it pay.”

Kells said: “I’m sorry. It’s a swell proposition but I’m not the man for it — I guess I’m not commercially inclined. It’s not my game...”

Crotti shrugged elaborately. “All right.”

Kells said: “Now, if you’ll ask the man behind me to put his rod away I’ll be going.”

Crotti’s lips were pressed close together, curved up at the corners. He turned and looked into the big window behind him — the man who stood just inside the doorway through which they had entered was reflected against outer darkness.

Crotti nodded to the man and at the same moment Granquist stood up, screamed. Kells stepped into line between Crotti and the door, whirled in the same second — the big automatic was in his hand, belching flame.

The man had evidently been afraid of hitting Crotti, was two slugs late. He looked immensely surprised, crashed down sideways in the doorway. Crotti was standing with his back to the window, the same curved grimace on his face. There were pounding steps on the stair. Kells stepped over the man in the doorway, ran smack into another — the man who had been asleep on the cot — at the top of the stair. The man grabbed him around the waist before he could use the gun; he raised it, felt the barrel-sight rip across the man’s face. There were several more men in the big room below, two on the stairs, coming up.

He planted one foot in the angle of the floor and wall, shoved hard; locked together, they balanced precariously for a moment, fell. They hit the two men about halfway down, tangled to a twisted mass of threshing arms, legs. The banister creaked, gave way. Kells felt the collar of his coat grabbed, was jerked under and down. He struck out with the gun, squeezed it. The gun roared and he heard someone yell and then something hit the center of his forehead and there was darkness.

The fog was wet on Kells’ face. He opened his eyes and looked up into the grayness, rolled over on his side slowly, looked into thick, unbroken grayness. He held his hand in front of him at arm’s length and it was a shapeless mass of darker gray. He sat up and leaden weights fell in his skull like the mechanism that opens and closes the eyes of dolls. He lay down again and turned his head slowly, held his watch close. It was a little after six, full daylight, but the fog made it night.

Then he heard someone coming, the crunch of feet on gravel. He reached for the gun, found the empty holster, noticed suddenly with a sharp sensation in the pit of his stomach that his coat was gone.

Someone squatted beside him, spoke: “How d’you feel?” It was Borg. Kells could see the thick outline of his head and shoulders.

Kells said: “Terrible. Where the hell’s my coat?”

“God! Me saving his life an’ he wants his coat!” Borg giggled softly.

“What happened?”

“Everything.” Borg sighed, sat down in the gravel with his mouth close to Kells’ ear. “After you an’ the navigator went ashore I went on the wharf and laid down for a while. Then in a couple minutes somebody came out an’ I thought it was you till I seen there was four of them. I ducked behind some ropes and stuff that was laying there and they came out and saw the boat an’ jawed awhile in some spick language. Then they lit out for some place an’ I got up and tailed them and run into the navigator.”