Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

Curtis ignored this familiar complaint, and emptied the wallet of its money, dropping the empty leather case into the trash container which stood, full of used paper towels, alongside the sink. Then he left.

Police cars sped by him, their sirens screaming.

Vague thoughts of cigarettes and whiskey still floated in Curtis’ mind, but the desire to move on was by now uppermost. It was with some relief, therefore, that he saw a young man sitting in an open convertible. The convertible was elegantly fitted out, and so was the young man. His name was William.

“You’ve been talking about going to California, William,” Curtis said.

“I have also been talking,” William said with precision, “about finding some con gen ial person with money to share the expenses of going to California.”

Curtis said, “I hit the numbers. I got money enough to take care of all the expenses. Don’t that make me congenial?”

“Very much so,” said William, opening the door. Curtis started to slide in, but William stopped him with a long, impeccably groomed hand, which touched him lightly. “Curtis,” he said in low but firm tones, “if you have something on you, I really must insist that you get rid of it first. Suppose I meet you here in an hour? That will also enable me to pack. ”

“One hour,” Curtis said.

He went into another bar, obtained cigarettes and whiskey. At the bar was a man generally, if not quite popularly, known as The Rock.

“How you doing, Rock?” Curtis inquired.

The Rock said nothing.

“Got some business to talk over with you,” Curtis went on.

The Rock continued to say nothing.

“Like to take in a movie?” Curtis asked.

The Rock finished his drink, set down the glass, looked at Curtis. Curtis put down money, left the bar, The Rock behind him. He bought two tickets at the movie theater and they went in. The house was almost empty.

After a minute or two Curtis whispered, “Fifty dollars buys a gun. I got it on me.”

The Rock took out a handkerchief, spread it in his lap, counted money into it, passed it to Curtis. After a moment Curtis passed the handkerchief back. The Rock soon left, but Curtis stayed on. He still had the better part of an hour to kill.

The Rock took a bus and traveled a mile. He walked a few blocks on a side street and entered a house which, like most of its fellows, bore a sign that it has been selected for something euphemistically called “Urban Renewal,” and that further renting of rooms was illegal. Most of the windows were already marked with large X signs.

On the second floor The Rock disturbed a teenage boy and girl in close, though wordless, conversation. The boy looked up in some annoyance, but after a quick glance decided to say nothing. The girl clutched his arm until the intruder passed.

The door on the third floor was locked, but The Rock pushed hard, once, and it yielded. The room was ornately furnished, and the dressing table was crowded with perfumes and cosmetics and a large doll; but seated on the bed was a man.

“It ain’t you,” the man said. He was red-eyed drunk.

“It ain’t me,” The Rock agreed.

“It’s Humpty Slade,” said the man on the bed. “ He don’t pay for her rent. He don’t buy her no clothes. He don’t feed her. I do.”

The Rock nodded his massive head.

“Everybody knows that,” The Rock said. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket, laid it on the bed, opened its folds. “Seventy-five dollars,” he said.

A quick turnover and a modest profit — that was The Rock’s policy.

The boy and girl, now seated on the stairs, shrank to one side as he came down. They did not look up. It was not very comfortable there in that all but abandoned house; but it was private — as private as you can get when you have no place of your own to go.

Upstairs, on the bed, the waiting man stared at the revolver with his red, red eyes …

After a while the boy and the girl sauntered down into the street and went separate ways in search of something to eat. But after supper they met again in the same hallway.

Scarcely had they taken their places when they were disturbed. A man and woman came up, talking loudly. They paused at the sight of the younger pair in the dim light of the single bulb, and for a moment the two couples looked at one another. The older woman was handsome, flamboyantly dressed and made up. Her companion was large and on the ugly side, his looks not improved by a crooked shoulder which jutted back on one side.

“What are you kids doing here?” he demanded. “Go on, get out—”

“Oh, now, Humphrey,” the woman pleaded. “You leave them alone. They ain’t hurting nobody.”

“Okay, sugar,” the big man said submissively. They continued up the stairs. The boy and girl listened as they fumbled at the door. Then the woman’s voice went high and shrill with fear, screaming, “ No — no — no —”

At the loud sound of the revolver the boy and girl leaped to their feet. Something fell past them, and landed below with a thud.

“You’d point a gun at me? ” a man’s voice growled. Then there was the noise of a blow.

“ My woman—!”

“You’d take a shot at me? ”

The sound of fist on flesh, again and again. The boy and girl crept down the stairs.

“No, Humpty, don’t hit me any more! I’m sorry, Humpty! I didn’t mean it! I was — oh, please, Humpty! Please? ”

“Don’t hit him any more, honey. He was drunk. Honey—”

The boy and girl stopped at the bottom floor for only a moment. Then they were gone …

Curtis paused, uncertain. He was sure that it was dangerous for him to remain on the street, but he didn’t know where to go. That little rat, William, had failed to reappear. There were planes flying, and trains and buses running, but even if he decided what to take he would still have to decide which airfield, which station, which terminal. The problems seemed to proliferate each time he thought about them.

He would have a drink to help him consider.

There wasn’t really any hurry.

That dirty rat, William!

The Sepoy Lords were holding an informal meeting — a caucus, as it were.

Someone has remarked that the throne of Russia was neither hereditary, nor elective, but occupative. The same might be said of office in the Sepoy Lords.

The scene was a friendly neighborhood rooftop.

“So you think you’re going to be Warlord?” a boy named Buzz demanded.

“That’s right,” said the one called Sonny.

The quorum, including several Sepoy Ladies, listened with interest.

“ I don’t think you’re going to be Warlord,” said Buzz.

“I know I am,” said Sonny.

“What makes you so sure?” inquired Buzz.

“ This, ” Sonny said, simply, reaching into his pocket, and taking something out.

Sudden intakes of breath, eyes lighting up, members crowding around, loud comments of admiration. “Sonny got a piece!” “Look at that piece Sonny’s got!”

The President of the Sepoy Lords, one Big Arthur, who had until now remained above the battle, asked, “Where’d you get it, Son’.”

Sonny smirked, cocked his head. “ She knows where I got it,” he said. His girl, Myra, smiled knowingly.

Buzz said only one word, but he said it weakly. He now had no case, and he knew it.

The new Warlord sighted wickedly down the revolver. “ First thing I’m going to do,” he announced; “there’s one old cat I am going to burn. He said something about my old lady, and that is something I don’t take from any body, let alone from one of those dirty old Ermine Kings.”