Dan Marlowe - Doom Service

“But the bundle gets nipped twice,” Johnny reflected. “Two twenty per cent chops, huh?”

“With the exemptions and the carry-back credit, not that severe in the aggregate,” Mr. Quince said cautiously. “But before either of you starts indulging in mental arithmetic, please remember I said that would be the case if there were no other considerations. Unfortunately, there are.”

Johnny winced. “I can feel it comin'. Uncle wants to know where the bundle came from.”

The tax man nodded. “Exactly. Neither Gidlow nor Roketenetz ever paid taxes upon any earned sums that could normally lead to the accumulation of such an amount.”

Sally appealed to Johnny. “I told him Charlie never had any money like that!”

“On the basis of a hurried preliminary investigation,” Mr. Quince pronounced majestically, “we're prepared to accept that statement.” He paused to smile briefly at Sally. “But that simply takes us back to Gidlow, and there we have complications. He had been to the tax wars before and, from our point of view, unfavorably. He had never paid taxes upon any part of such a substantial sum of money, and in view of his past tax record we feel that this is undeclared income. Consequently, pending some subsequent development that would prove the money had been acquired over a period of years, we're prepared to go into court and maintain that the entire amount is taxable as one-year income.” He paused for breath.

“What's the damage on that deal?” Johnny inquired.

“At a hundred fifty thousand and over, the rates are eighty-nine per cent,” Mr. Quince said. “First twenty-five exempt.”

“Ow!” Johnny breathed. He looked at Sally. “Back to pauperism, Ma. At least I can say I knew you when you had it.”

Mr. Quince snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes upon Johnny. “Are you prepared to say at this time, Mr. Killain, what the young lady's attitude is to be in the matter?”

“You mean is she goin' to fight it? The board of directors has to have a little meetin' on that one, Mr. Quince. Maybe we'll arbitrate. If we said we wouldn't fight it, maybe the razor wouldn't cut as deep?”

“Arrangements of one sort or another are not unknown,” Mr. Quince agreed. He permitted himself the small, neat smile. “Let me hear from you when you decide.”

“But I don't want their old money!” Sally exclaimed when the apartment door had closed upon Mr. Quince's conservative blue suit. “I think-”

“Stop thinkin', Ma. Relax. You got to provide for my old age. An', if this guy has his way, you aren't goin' to wind up with enough to keep you from sleepin' nights. Let's roll up the rug on it for now. We'll have the board meetin' later.”

“Board meeting!” she snorted, and squealed as the big hands tipped her into his arms. “Johnny! Stop it!”

“Contrary to the laws of nature, Ma,” he told her placidly. “Hold tight. Here comes the brass ring on the merry-go-round.”

Johnny, finishing off the last forkful of pie and the final swallow of coffee, eased himself back cautiously in his spindle-legged chair. “I take it all back, kid,” he informed Stacy Bartlett, who was busily stacking dishes across the table from him. “You can cook. I could need a little help up outta here.”

“I haven't seen anyone eat like that since I left the farm,” she said, smiling.

“I do that boa constrictor bit to carry me over the lean times whenever I run into grub like yours.” He looked at the tall girl, trim and efficient in her postage-stamp apron, busy on round trips to the kitchenette. “You didn't do so bad yourself,” he accused her. “I'd hate to pay your board bill.”

“You go on inside,” she told him. “I won't be five minutes.”

“Hell with the dishes,” Johnny said lazily, and pointed a finger at her. “You come inside with me an' entertain your company, girl.” He glanced around the tiny dining room, which was actually a niche carved from the living-room floor space. “That couch in there any more solid than these silly-lookin' chairs? With a runnin' start I might make it in there. I might.”

“My furniture is Danish modern,” she said, reprovingly. “You don't furnish a girl's apartment in ax-hewn oak, you know.”

“Oh, I like it fine,” he said hastily. “It's just that with all these sharp edges I don't see how you keep from scarrin' up the nice upholstery-yours, not the furniture's-”

She ignored the remark. “I like it here,” she said defensively. “It's the first time I've had a place of my own. I can't afford it, of course, the place and the furniture, too. I've been looking for someone congenial to move in and share expenses. The bedroom's large enough, thank goodness.” She colored brightly at his look. “Another girl!”

“Now you went an' spoiled it,” he said sadly. “I was right in step till you pulled that switch on me. Didn't any one ever tell you girls are hard to get along with? If you're a girl?”

“I doubt that I'll have any difficulty,” she said drily. “Shall we go inside?”

Johnny groaned eloquently as he eased himself erect. “How about the loan of a shoulder or two to assist in transportin' the body?”

“You're doing all right,” the girl retorted.

“I like that apron,” he said as she removed it.

“Leftover from the curtain material,” she said briskly.

“Sews, too,” he murmured aloud, and surveyed another tide of color rising from beneath the primly necklined dress. “Any money in the bank?”

“I have a job and a mortgage on the furniture,” she replied with dignity, leading the way into the living room. “Does that answer your question?”

“Speakin' of the job, how's it goin' over there?”

“Just fine.” She turned to look at him. “Why wouldn't it?”

“No reason, no reason,” he replied hurriedly.

“Mr. Turner is handicapped, of course, by the loss of Jake Gidlow and Terry Chavez at the same time. Between them they handled most of the fight details. Mr. Turner is having a little trouble getting things lined up. He's been a little edgy.”

I'll bet he has, Johnny thought. “How's Chavez gettin' along?” he asked casually.

“Mr. Munson says he'll be back with us any day now.”

So they don't tell this kid everything, Johnny mused. Or haven't they taken the trouble to find out? Or did Al Munson want Turner to believe Chavez would be back shortly? This Munson, now-

“Aren't you going to sit down?” Stacy asked him, breaking into his train of thought. “And aren't you going to smoke?”

“Couldn't stop me with a gun,” he told her, reaching for his cigarettes. He looked down distrustfully at the wide, backless, short-legged chaise longue and lowered himself onto it carefully.

“You look like the type of man who should smoke cigars,” the tall girl remarked as she seated herself erectly a little distance away.

Johnny inched himself back and forth, trying to get comfortable without placing his back against the wall. “These things take a little gettin' used to, don't they?” he inquired. “Not that I'm knockin' your furniture, now,” he continued hastily. “Cigars? Cigars are all right, but too many times you're in a place where you can't get 'em easy or at all.” He waved the cigarette pack in his hand. “Some kind of weed you can generally get most anywhere. Cigarettes can be pretty lousy, just so they burn. This couch here is stuffed probably with better makin's than some of the stuff I've set fire to in my face in my time.” He was aware she was watching his struggles with the couch from the corner of her eye. “I think I need a Western style saddle with this thing. Or a set of spurs.”

She giggled softly. “You're doing fine.” She folded her hands in her lap. “My father smokes cigars. He says that three things come most naturally to a man's hand-a cigar, a drink-” She stopped and turned rosy.