Horace McCoy: The Mopper-Up (Short Story)

A waiter passed by with a tray filled with drinks and Bender stopped him and asked where Botchey was. The waiter said he was in the back and Bender asked him where the back was. The waiter pointed to a door and went on.

Bender went to the door and opened it without knocking.

It was a little office lighted by a single light that was suspended from the rafter on a single cord and the glow was deflected down by a shade to cut through the smoky atmosphere in a lurid shaft. Three men were inside. Two of them were sitting at a table looking at magazines and the third was leaning back in a chair with his feet propped up against an opened drawer.

He was forty, sallow and hook-nosed. He wore a soft hat, no coat, his sleeves were rolled up and his collar was open.

None of them got up as Bender entered. They stirred and the man at the desk said: “All right?”

Bender stopped beside the table and said he was looking for Botchey Miller. The man at the desk stood up and walked over slowly saying: “I'm him, brother.”

Bender nodded and said: “I'm Tom Bender, Captain, Texas Rangers.”

Botchey Miller's face took on a puzzled look and the two men at the table closed their magazines and looked around.

Miller said: “Ranger, hunh? Well, what's it all about?”

“Nothing much,” Bender drawled; “only you're out of a job. This joint is closing.”

Miller's lips worked in and out like a fish breathing and Bender took a step closer to the table where the two men were sitting. One of them was dark and wore a blue suit and a small black bow tie. He was scowling and biting his lower lip. The other man was younger and had a pleasant face. Bender asked him what his name was and he said Eddie Price.

Bender asked the dark man the same question but he leered and tried to get hardboiled.

“Ah, hell, tough guy,” he said. “What's coming off here?”

“I asked you a question,” Bender said evenly.

The man guffawed and looked at Botchey. “Say, Botchey,” he called, “these Rangers are sure big tough babies, ain't they?” Miller laughed because he didn't know what else to do.

Bender flattened a great hand against the dark man's mouth and nearly slapped him out of the chair. He scrambled up, his eyes blazing, and made a move to his hip pocket. Bender laid his .38 Police Positive across his hip and the yellow light glinted along the barrel.

“What's your name?” he repeated.

Unintelligible growls came from the man's throat and words finally took form. “Wright, you!” he cried. “You got a nerve—”

“Yeah,” Bender said. He looked at Miller, who was standing stiff and straight as a tent pole. “All right, Miller, clean the house out. You're closing tight as a drum.”

Botchey Miller was boiling inside and his eyes were swimming in anger, but he managed to say: “Aw, hell... I got to have a chance. Let's talk this over.”

Bender shook his head and kept his .38 across his hip. Wright and Price were a little way in front of him and both of them were itching to go after their guns, but they were afraid to.

“Talkin's out,” Bender snapped. “You're closing right now. Are you gonna do this or am I?”

“Well,” Miller sneered, “since you're so—tough suppose you do it.”

“Okey. Your roadhouse is closing, too. I'm going out there later and if it's open I'll roll you guys good.”

He turned around and walked out.

Outside Tom Bender stopped in the middle of the floor and raised his voice.

“Everybody listen,” he said. In a minute or two there was quiet and they all were looking at him. “Cash in your chips and get out quietly. This joint is closing for good. There ain't no argument. . . cash in and beat it.”

Tall, square-built, his eyes unwavering, he stood there loosely and looked out at them... and they began to do his bidding. There were mutterings and an undercurrent of antipathy, but he conveyed to them a quiet force and although he hadn't told them who he was everybody sensed that he was a Ranger. They began to shuffle... and in a little while the room was devoid of customers. A few of the dealers and two or three waiters stood around. The rear door opened and Botchey Miller ambled out, smiling sourly.

“Miller,” Bender said, “keep this place shut down. Tomorrow I'm gonna start a bonfire with your furniture.”

Botchey Miller said between his teeth: “You'll never get away with this—you'll never get away with it.”

Tom Bender grinned and told him he'd been getting away with it for fifteen years.

“You close that roadhouse tonight or I'll fix it for you,” he said.

“Aw, lissen—” Miller said, “you—”

“You heard me. You guys catch a rabbit.”

He walked out.

The taxi driver kept his appointment and at ten o'clock straight up he parked his flivver in front of the hotel and started inside. At precisely the same moment the Negro bell-boy came through the lobby paging Mr. Bender. The driver spotted him and came over, but Bender told him to wait a moment and answered the page. The bell-boy took him over to the desk and said that gentleman there was waiting for him.

He was bulky, a little fat and wore a greenish suit and a wide black hat with the brim curled in cowboy style. He introduced himself as Jim Lovell, the chief of police, and asked if they couldn't go where they could talk.

Bender asked him what was the matter with right here and the chief said he'd rather not.

“All right, then,” said Bender; “we'll go to my room.”

They went upstairs and Jim Lovell sat down and made himself comfortable and asked him bluntly if he didn't know he was violating all ethics by not reporting to the chief of police.

Just as bluntly Bender told him he wasn't a damn bit interested in ethics.

“I know,” Lovell said, “but just the same I'm the chief here even

if you are a Ranger. I might be able to help you.”

“I don't need any help,” Bender said. “A job like this is a cinch for me.”

“Cinch huh?” Lovell drawled, lifting his eyes.

“Yeah—a cinch.”

Lovell laughed a little and said there ought to be some way out that wasn't so violent. He was acquainted with Botchey Miller and after all Botchey wasn't such a bad egg. He didn't see any use in getting hard without some reason and he thought Botchey ought to have a couple of days to get his business straight.

Bender began to get sore and he told Lovell it didn't make a — what he thought, that he was running the show.

Lovell's face turned red as a beet and he declared loudly that he had some rights in the matter and that if Bender didn't hold off a while and co-operate with him he'd wire the Adjutant-General and raise some hell.

That sounded like a funny story to Tom Bender and he laughed and told him to go right ahead and wire. He had his orders and he wasn't afraid of any wire.

“Look here,” he said, “these guys have been splitting wide open for months. Did you know that not three hours ago old Jeff Peebles had a mob together to clean the place up?” Jim Lovell winced a little and Bender went on: “Now, there ain't gonna be no more foolishness. They're shutting down pronto.”

Lovell nodded and said all right, his only reason for saying anything was to try to head off a war. Bender asked him what he meant.

“Well,” he said, “you know you can't lock everything tight without something happening. As long as you got an oil field you're gonna have bootlegging and gambling...”

“Yeah, I know. There'll be hip-pocket bootlegging and a man'd be a damn' fool to think he could stop that. There'll be dice shooting and poker games, too... but that'll be when the boys get together. I ain't trying to stop that. It's these organized gangs I'm after.”