Paul Cain: Fast One

Rose was standing at the foot of one of the twin beds. The dark skin was drawn very tightly over his jaw muscles. He looked very sick.

Kells put the key in his pocket. He grinned, said: “Come on.

They walked together to the outer door of the suite. Kells lifted one point of his vest, stuck the automatic inside the waistband of his trousers. He let his belt out a notch or so until the gun nestled as comfortably and as securely as possible beneath his ribs, then pulled the point of his vest down over the butt. It made only a slight bulge against the narrowness of his waist.

He said: “Jakie, have you any idea how fast I can get it out and how well I can use it?”

Rose didn’t say anything. He ran the fingers of one hand down over the left side of his face and looked at the floor.

Kells went on: “I’ve been framed for one caper today and I don’t intend to be framed for another. The next one’ll be bona fide — and I’d just as soon it’d be you, and I’d just as soon it’d be in the lobby of the Biltmore as any place else.” He opened the door and switched out the light. “Let’s go.”

They went down in the elevator, out through the Galleria to Fifth Street and up the south side of the street to Grand, walked up the steep hill to the car.

Kells said: “You’d better drive, Jake. I haven’t got a license.”

Rose said he didn’t have a license either.

Rose drove. They went up Grand to Tenth, over Tenth to Main. When they turned into Main, headed south, Kells twisted around in the seat until he was almost facing Rose. Kells’ hands were lying idly in his lap. He said: “Who shot Doc?”

Rose turned his head for a second, smiled a little. “President Roosevelt.”

Kells licked his lips. “Who shot Doc, Jakie?”

Rose kept his eyes straight ahead. He turned his long chin a fraction of an inch towards Kells, spoke gently, barely moving his mouth: “Perry and the DA and all the papers say you did. That’s good enough for me.”

Kells chuckled. He said: “Step on it. Your chum from Kansas City won’t stay kicked up forever.” He watched the needle of the speedometer quiver from twenty-five to thirty-five. “That’ll do.”

They went out Main to Slauson, east to Truck Boulevard, south.

Kells said: “You’re a swell driver, Jakie — you should’ve stayed in the hack racket back in Brooklyn.” He looked at the slowly darkening sky, went on, as if to himself: “There must be a very tricky inside on this play. The rake-off on all the boats together wouldn’t be worth all his finaygling — shootings and pineapples and what have you.” He turned slowly, soft-eyed toward Rose. “What’s it all about?”

Rose was silent. He twisted his lips up at the corners. As they neared the P & O wharf where the Joanna motor launches tied up, Kells said: “You look a lot more comfortable now that you’re getting near the home grounds. But remember, Jakie — one word out of turn, one wrong move, and you get it right in the belly. I’m just dippy enough to do it. I get mad when a goose tries to run out on me.”

They left the car in a parking station, walked down the wharf. It was too early for customers. A few crap and blackjack dealers, waiters, one floor man whom Kells knew slightly were lounging about the small waiting room, waiting for the first boat to leave. They all stopped talking when Kells and Rose went into the waiting room.

The floor man said, “Hello, boss,” to Rose, nodded to Kells.

Rose said: “Let’s go.”

The man who owned the launches came out of his little office. He said: “Mickey ain’t here yet. He makes the first trip.

Rose looked away from him, said: “Take us out yourself.” The man nodded doubtfully, locked the office door and went out toward the small float where the four boats that ran to the Joanna were tied up. The dealers and waiters got up and followed him. The floor man lagged behind. He acted as if he wanted to talk to Rose.

Kells took Rose’s arm. “Let’s go over here a minute, first,” he said.

They crossed the wharf to where one of the Eaglet launches was moored at the foot of a short gangway. A big red-faced man was working on the engine.

Kells called to him: “Has Fay gone aboard yet?”

The man straightened up, nodded. “He went out about six o’clock.”

Kells said: “You go out and tell Fay that Kells sent you. Tell him I’m going aboard the Joanna to collect some money. Tell him to send some of the boys with you, and you come back and circle around the Joanna until I hail you to pick me up. Got it?”

The red-faced man said: “Yes, sir — but we’re expecting quite a crowd tonight — and one of the boats is out of commission...”

Kells said: “That’s all right — one boat can handle the crowd. This is important.” He grinned at Rose: “Isn’t it, Jakie?”

Rose smiled with his mouth: his eyes were very cold and far-away.

The red-faced man said: “All right, Mister Kells.” He spun the crank, and when the engine was running he put the big aluminum cover over it, cast off the lines and went to the wheel.

Kells and Rose went across the wharf and down onto the float and aboard the Joanna launch. A helper cast off the lines and the launch stood out through the narrows, down the bay.

Darkness came over the water swiftly.

They rounded the breakwater, headed toward a distant twinkling light. One of the dealers talked in a low voice to the man at the wheel; two of the waiters chattered to each other in Italian. The others were silent.

In the thirty-five or forty minutes that it took to clime up to the Joanna, the wind freshened and the launch slid up and down over the long smooth swells. The lights of the Joanna came out of the darkness through thin ribbons of fog.

Kells walked up the gangway a step behind and a little to the left of Rose. Several seamen and hangers-on stood at the rail, stared at them. They crossed the cabaret that had been built across the upper deck, went down a wide red-carpeted stairway to the principal gambling room. It ran the width and nearly the length of the ship. Dozens of green-covered tables lined the sides: Blackjack, chuck-a-luck, faro, roulette, craps. Two dealers were removing the canvas covers from one of the big roulette tables.

They turned at the bottom of the stairs and went aft to a white ath-warship bulkhead. There were three doors in the bulkhead; the middle one was ajar. They went in.

Swanstrom sat in a tilted swivel chair at a large roll-top desk. Swanstrom had been Doc Haardt’s house manager; he was a very fat man with big brown eyes, a slow and eager smile. A black-and-white kitten was curled up on his lap.

The swivel chair creaked as he swung heavily forward and stood up. He put the kitten on the desk, said—:

“How are ya, Jack?”

Rose nodded abstractedly, cleared his throat. “This is Mister Kells... Mister Swanstrom.”

Swanstrom opened his mouth. He held out his hand toward Kells and looked at the door. Kells had stopped just inside the door; he half turned and closed it, pressed the little brass knob and the spring lock clicked. He stood looking at Rose, Swanstrom, the room.

There was a blue-shaded drop light hanging from the center of the overhead and another over the desk. There was a big old-fashioned safe against one wall, and beside it there was a short ladder leading up to a narrow shoulder-height platform that ran across all the forward bulkhead — the one through which they had entered. The bulkhead above the platform was lined with sheet iron and there was a two-inch slit running across it at about the height of a medium sized man’s eyes. There were two .30–30 rifles on the platform, leaning against the bulkhead. There was another narrow door back of the desk.