Paul Cain - Fast One

Kells grinned, shrugged.

He said: “I’ll see you later, Shep.” Beery nodded and put on his hat, went to the door with Carl.

They went out.

Kells called to Berry as he was closing the door: “Tell that cab driver to sit on it — we’ll be out in a little while.”

MacAlmon went to a wall switch, snapped on several more lights. Then he went over and lay down on a wide divan under the big front windows. The drapes were tightly drawn.

Kells glanced at the tall clock in one corner. It was seven-fifty.

Hesse had taken MacAlmon’s place at pacing up and down the floor.

Kells got up and limped to Granquist’s chair, sat down on one arm of it and leaned close to her with his arm on her shoulder.

She whispered, “Gerry — I’m so sorry,” without looking at him.

“Shut up, baby.” He smiled down at her and pushed her hands gently down from her face.

“How’s your leg?”

He said: “Swell.” He patted his leg gingerly with one hand.

She moved her head over against his side. “It happened so damned quick,” she said — “I mean quickly. They pulled up alongside of us and two of them got into the cab and stuck a rod into the driver and me and we came out here. Borg jumped out as soon as he saw them and ran down First Street — the car they came up in went after him...”

Kells said: “He got away — he was waiting for us at the corner below the station. He’s got the hundred and fifteen down at a little hotel on Melrose. That’s where Shep’s taking Crotti’s boys...”

Granquist sighed, whispered: “That’s a lot of money.” Kells shook his head slowly. “That’s the first really illegitimate pass we’ve made — maybe we didn’t deserve it.” He rubbed his forehead hard. “What happened to the cab with our stuff in it?”

“It’s out in the driveway. They sapped the driver — he’s upstairs sleeping it off.”

They were silent a little while and then Kells said: “We forgot to send back the car we rented from the Miramar — remind me to do that as soon as we can.”

“Uh huh.” Granquist’s voice was muffled. Kells got up and went into the kitchen. He tried the back door, but it was locked and there was no key in it. When he came back Crotti had straightened around at the desk, was bent over it reading a paper.

Kells asked: “How’s the fella my fat friend popped this afternoon?”

Crotti turned his head, nodded. “He’s all right.” The phone rang and Kells answered it. MacAlmon swung up to sit on the edge of the divan. Crotti turned slowly in his chair toward Kells. Hesse stopped near the door. The Filipino was tilted back in a chair near the stairway — that led up to the balcony and the room upstairs; his hat was pulled down over his eyes and he did not move.

Kells said, “Yes, Shep,” into the telephone. He listened a little while and his face was cold and hard, his eyes were heavy. Then he said, “All right,” and hung up the receiver.

He spoke, more to Granquist than to any of the rest of them: “Borg’s gone.”

Granquist leaned forward slowly. Hesse said: “Who’s Borg?”

“The guy who’s got your money.” Kells smiled slowly at Hesse. Then he glanced at the Filipino and there was a black automatic in the Filipino’s hand. He was still tilted back against the wall and his hat almost covered his eyes.

Crotti stood up. He moved a little toward Kells and then stood very straight and stared at Kells and the muscles of his deeply lined white face twitched a little. He shook his head almost imperceptibly at the Filipino.

He said slowly: “No — I will do it myself, Shorty.” He put his hand to his side under the arm, under his coat, and took out a curiously shaped German revolver. He held it down straight at his side for a moment and then raised it toward Kells. He raised it as if he would like to be raising it very slowly and deliberately, but couldn’t; he raised it very swiftly.

Kells’ shoulders were hunched together a little. His chin was in and he looked at Crotti’s feet and his eyes were almost closed. Granquist stood up and her face was dead white, her hands were clawed in front of her body. She made no sound.

Then there was a sharp crashing roar. It beat twice, filled the room with dull sound.

Kells still stood with his shoulders a little together, his eyes almost closed.

Crotti swayed once to the left. His expression was querulous, worried; the revolver fell from his hand, clattered on the floor. One of his legs gave way slowly and he slipped down on one knee, fell slowly heavily forward on his face.

Kells turned his head swiftly, looked up. Borg was grinning down at him from the balcony; the short blunt blue revolver was lisping smoke in his hand. The Filipino was bent over, holding his wrist between his hand and knees. He whirled slowly on one foot — his hat had fallen off and his broad flat face was twisted with pain.

Borg said: “By God! Just like they do in the movies.” Hesse was at the door.

Borg swung the revolver around toward him, said: “Wait a minute.”

MacAlmon hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on the edge of the divan, staring at Crotti. Kells said: “Let’s go.”

They stopped at a drugstore near Sixth and Normandie. Borg pulled up ahead of them in the other cab, and he and the driver transferred Kells’ luggage to the one cab.

Kells said to the driver: “You can call up and report where this cab is if you want to.” He gestured toward the second cab. “The driver is out at the joint we just left — Apartment L.”

Borg said: “Maybe. They’re probably all out of there by now.”

“They wouldn’t take the driver.”

“They might — he could testify against ’em.” Kells and the driver went into the drugstore to telephone.

Kells called Beery at home, said: “Swell, Shep... Did you have any trouble getting away?... That’s fine... Borg got to worrying about giving all that dough back so he ducked over to MacAlmon’s place and climbed in a window... Uh huh. The crazy bastard damn near got me the works, but if he hadn’t been there I wouldn’t be here — so what? I don’t know whether to give him a punch in the nose or a bonus... I have an idea Crotti would’ve tried to smack me down whether Borg had been there to put the cash on the line or not, I don’t think he liked me very well... So long, Shep, and good luck — I’ll send you a postcard.”

He hung up and went out and got into the cab with Granquist and Borg.

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.

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. “Oke — 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.