Horace McCoy: The Mopper-Up (Short Story)

The man surveyed him with ill grace and said in a sharp tone: “You're liable to get throwed out on your ear, guy.”

Tom Bender grinned and complacently remarked that he'd been thrown out on his ear before. He told the man to go get Peebles. The man told him to go to hell and looked around as if he needed help.

The room was deep and cavernous and there were a dozen or more men inside, all of them looking in the direction of the door. Two of them stepped off a small rostrum at the end of the hall and walked down the aisle between the chairs, their feet clumping loudly on the board floor.

One was willowy and cadaverous and wore a cheap suit with yellow square-toed shoes. The other was younger but both were agitated. As they came up Bender asked which was Jeff Peebles and the cadaverous man said he was. Before Bender had a chance to say anything else he told him to state his business and make it snappy.

The hall bristled with defiance and the attitudes of the men indicated they were in no mood for horseplay, so much as he disliked to Bender flipped back his coat lapel and flashed his badge.

“I'll make it plenty snappy,” he told them straight from the shoulder. “I'm Tom Bender. Peebles, come outside. I wanna talk to you.”

Peebles recognized the authority but he shook his head grimly and declared whatever had to be said could be said right there.

The other men arose and sauntered down. Bender saw trouble coming and his mood was truculent.

“Okey,” he said. “I'm here to take charge.”

The men exchanged glances, amused, and Peebles said sarcastically:

“Well, you're just outta luck. We've decided to handle this ourselves.”

“Let's talk about it,” Bender suggested but Peebles shook his head, pressed his thin lips together and said talk wouldn't do any good because everything was settled.

A few of the men chorused: “Yeah,” and a deep bass voice from behind said: “You're damned right.”

Tom Bender knew what his chances were without any long thinking. There was a great strength latent in the group but all of them were sensible and might yet be reasoned with. But if they got out carrying the torch there would be hundreds of irresponsible men to fall in and care not where the flame touched.

“Bender,” Peebles said; “my girl was killed. The men who killed her were arrested but it didn't take. Now we're gonna have justice.”

Tom Bender worked back against the door and said: “You can't get justice with a mob—that's no good. I'm down here to take charge and I will but I got to have a chance. Leave me be and I'll mop up this burg so clean you can eat your dinner off the sidewalks.”

Nobody paid much attention to what he said because they all felt like fighting. Old Jeff Peebles shook his head and looked at Bender through narrow-slitted eyes, the puzzled look of a man who faces a strange thing he knows he must deal with.

In a low voice he said: “Get away from that door, Bender—we're going out!”

Behind him there was a milling of feet. Somebody cried: “Here we go!” and another voice shouted: “We'll show these bootleggers something!”

Tom Bender was pressed flat against the door working his elbows to clear his coat from in front so he could get to his guns unimpeded and saying in a tense voice:

“There ain't gonna be no mob stuff—I'm telling you that! I know the girl got killed... and that the town's filled with bootleggers and gamblers... but I'm gonna handle it my own way and you might as well get that straight!”

The men surged and carried Peebles a step forward. He turned and spread his thin arms saying ”. . . Wait,” and faced Bender again. The big Ranger had his feet planted wide, there was a heavy scowl on his face and his hands were on his hips. A little excited, Peebles shrilled: “Get outta the way!”

Bender didn't budge. He felt immensely relieved that he had got set for action without touching off an explosion and he knew he had the upper hand now. He told Peebles to cool off in a tone that was almost banter.

“All right,” the old man rasped; “I'm gonna count three and if you don't move we'll move you... One... Two...”

Jeff Peebles took a step forward and a blue-black .45 automatic came into the Ranger's hand. He pointed it at Peebles' belly and said:

“Okay—but I'll plug the first guy that gets in close!”

Old Jeff Peebles' eyes went shut in high, impotent rage, the muscles in his face and neck twitched violently and for a moment Bender thought he was coming on anyway. He said: “By—!” through his clenched teeth and fell back a step.

There were loud mutterings from the others but none of them wanted any of him. He had a gat in his hand, guts in his belly and the tradition of the Texas Rangers behind him. That was what held them off though Bender was not conscious of it—that tradition. He was only conscious that his friend was the blue-black automatic around whose broad butt his long fingers were wrapped and that it felt nice and warm and comfortable in his hand. He waved the barrel in a semi-circle and told them to back up and sit down. They backed up but they didn't sit down because they were waiting on old Jeff Peebles to take the lead. Old Jeff was holding his ground and looking as if he would like to paw up the floor. Bender knew as long as he was up anything might happen.

“That goes for you too, Peebles,” he said. “Back up and sit down.”

Jeff Peebles glared at him in silent ferocity trying to decide whether he would lose caste by retreating. Bender knew what was going on in the back of the old man's mind but he didn't say anything because he didn't give a damn... Finally Peebles grunted and went over to a chair. Bender put his gun away and followed him and they sat down side by side at the same time like a pair of robots. The men all breathed easier because they would rather have a Ranger with them than against them.

He sat among them, strength of their strength, and with the authority to act. He could have given them commands and they would have been obeyed with no questions asked but he gave no commands. He looked at old Jeff Peebles and asked him what he wanted done.

The quiet request made it difficult for old Jeff and in that moment Bender's triumph was complete. Old Jeff cleared his throat, embarrassed, and said vaguely: “Well... I dunno, Cap'n. Things are pretty bad.”

Bender said they were and that he was ready for suggestions. After a little while old Jeff said maybe it would be better if the Cap'n used his own judgment and then he looked at the other men for approval.

It was noisy and emphatic.

They all came downstairs feeling that the problem was solved and they tried to get in close to Bender to shake his hand. He laughed and told them gruffly to get the hell on home and leave him be.

Ranger Tom Bender cruised through the open double doors of Botchey Miller's Happy Hour Club.

It was a long, wide room with a partition separating half of it. The front half contained pool tables and domino tables and both were well patronized. Voices came above the click of the balls and the slap of the dominoes on the wood.

Tom Bender went through the portieres into the rear half.

Here were dice tables, a chuck-a-luck game, a keno game and a stud poker game going full blast. Dealers were at each game, wearing green eye shades and small black sateen aprons and a number of hard-looking workmen were waiting their chances to play.

Bender sauntered over to one of the dice tables and watched a boisterous roughneck who smelled of cheap perfume throw a double ace for ten dollars, a double six for twenty dollars and then get six for a forty-dollar point. He lunged all around it but no six, and eventually tossed a four-tray for craps. The roughneck rubbed his hands, backed out and said nothing, and the space was quickly filled by another eager gambler.