Avram Davidson - The Avram Davidson Treasury - a tribute collection

Diplomatically, no one commented on the personal aspect of his grievance, all being well aware how easy it was to say something about Sonny’s old lady, and being equally aware that the old lady’s avenging offspring now held a revolver in his hand. But the general aspect of the challenge was something else.

“Those Ermine Kings better watch out, is all!” a Sepoy Lady declared. There was a murmur of assent.

Big Arthur now deemed it time to interpose his authority. “Oh, yeah, sure,” he said. “‘They better watch out!’—how come? Because we got one piece?”

Warlord Sonny observed a semantic inconsistency. With eyes narrowed he said, “What do you mean, ‘we’? ‘ We ’ haven’t got any thing. I’m the one who’s got the piece, and no body is going to tell me what to do with my personal property — see?” He addressed this caveat to the exuberant Sepoy Lady, but no one misunderstood him — least of all, Big Arthur.

Allowing time for the message to sink in, Sonny then said, “Big Arthur is right. I mean, one ain’t enough. We need money to get more. How? I got a plan. Listen—”

They listened. They agreed. They laughed their satisfaction.

“Now,” Sonny concluded, “let’s get going.”

He watched as most of them filed through the door. He started after them, then stopped. Was stopped. Big Arthur seized his wrist with one hand and grabbed the revolver with the other.

Sonny, crying, “Gimme that back!” leaped for it. But Big Arthur, taking hold of Sonny’s jacket with his free hand, slapped him — hard — back against the door.

“You got the wrong idea, Son’,” Big Arthur said. “You seem to think that you are the President around here. That’s wrong . Now, if you really think you are man enough, you can try to get this piece away from me. You want to try?”

For a while Sonny had been somebody. Now he was nobody again. He knew that he would never in a million years take the revolver away from Big Arthur, never burn that one old cat from the Ermine Kings who had said something about his old lady. Tears of pain and humiliation welled in his eyes. “Cheer up,” Big Arthur said. “We’re going to see how your plan works out. And it better work out good . Now get down those stairs with the other members, Mr. Sonny Richards.”

Head down, Sonny stumbled through the door. Myra started to slip through after him, but Big Arthur detained her. “Not so quick, chick,” he said. “Let’s move along together. You and me are going to get better acquainted.” For just a second Myra hesitated. Then she giggled.

“ Much better acquainted,” Big Arthur said.

Feeling neither strain nor pain, Curtis glided out of the bar. The late afternoon spread invitingly before him. He was supposed to meet somebody and go somewhere… William …

There, slowly passing by in his fancy convertible, was the man himself. With great good humor Curtis cried, “William!” and started toward him.

William himself saw things from a different angle. Curtis, to be sure, was rough , but what had really set William against going to California with him was the fact that he had observed Curtis that way. He, William, wanted nothing to do at any time with people who carried guns. And, anyway, he wasn’t quite ready to leave for California — something had come up.

What came up at that moment was Curtis, roaring (so it seemed) with rage, and loping forward with murder in his eye.

William gave a squeak of fright. The convertible leaped ahead, crashing into the car in front. And still Curtis came on—

Screaming, “Keep away from me, Curtis!” William jumped out of the car and started to run. Someone grabbed him. “Don’t stop me — he’s got a gun— Curtis! ” he yelled.

But they wouldn’t let go. It was the police, wouldn’t you know it, grimfaced men in plain clothes; of all the cars to crash into—

One of them finished frisking Curtis. “Nope, no gun,” he said. “This one ain’t dangerous. You. ” He turned to William. “What do you mean by saying he had a gun?”

William lost his head and started to babble, and before he could move, the men were searching him . And the car. They found his cigarette case stuffed with sticks of tea, and they found the shoebox full of it, too.

“Pot,” said one of them, sniffing. “Real Mexican stuff. Convertible, hey? You won’t need a convertible for a long time, fellow.”

William burst into tears. The mascara ran down his face and he looked so grotesque that even the grim faces of the detectives had to relax into smiles.

“What about this one, Leo,” one of them asked, jerking his thumb. “He’s clean.”

But Leo was dubious. “There must be some connection, or the pretty one wouldn’t of been so scared,” he said. A thought occurred to him. “What did he call him? What did you say his name was? Curtis?”

The other detective snapped his fingers. “Curtis. Yeah. A question, Curtis: You in the apartment of a Mrs. Selena Richards today?”

“ Never heard of her,” said Curtis, sobering rapidly. Move on, that’s what he should have done — move on.

Mrs. Richards was entertaining company. The baby was awake — had been awake, in fact, since those chest-deep, ear-splitting screams earlier in the afternoon — and the girls had come home from school. She had sent them down to the store for cold cuts and sliced bread; they hadn’t eaten more than half of it on the way back, and Mrs. Richards and the neighbors were dining off the other half. There was also some wine they had all chipped in to buy. Excitement didn’t come very often, and it was a shame to let it go to waste.

“Didn’t that man bleed! ” a neighbor exclaimed. “All over your floor, Selena!”

“All over his floor, you mean— he owns this building.”

After the whoops of laughter died down, someone thought of asking where Mrs. Richards’ oldest child was.

“I don’t know where Sonny is,” she said, placid as ever. “He takes after his daddy. His daddy always was a traveling sort of man.” She felt in her bosom for the money she had placed there — the money she had taken from the hole in the wall after the police and ambulance left. Yes, it was safely there.

All in all, she thought, it had been quite a day. Curtis gone, but he was on the point of becoming troublesome, anyway. Excitement — a lot of excitement. Company in, hanging on her every word. The receipt for the rent, plus the rent itself. Yes, a lucky day. Later on she would see what the date was, and tomorrow she would play that number.

If luck was coming to you, nothing could keep it away.

They had taken three stitches in Mr. Mason’s scalp, and taped and bandaged it.

“You want us to call you a taxi?” the hospital attendant asked.

“No,” Mr. Mason said. “I don’t have any money to waste on taxis. The bus is still running, isn’t it?”

“There’s a charge of three dollars,” the attendant said.

Mr. Mason snorted. “I don’t have three cents. I’ll have to borrow bus fare from some storekeeper, I guess. That dirty — he took everything I had. Right in broad daylight. I don’t know what we pay taxes for.”

“I guess we pay them to reward certain people for turning decent buildings into flophouses,” the attendant said. He was old and crusty and due to retire soon, and didn’t give a damn for anybody.

Mr. Mason narrowed his eyes and looked at him. “Nobody has the right to tell me what to do with my personal property,” he said meanly.

The attendant shrugged. “That’s your personal property, too,” he said, pointing. “Take it with you; we don’t want it.”