AS A STAG AT THE SWAP-CLUB PARTY, MOLLY FOUND THE UNINHIBITED and eager-to-please couples satisfying-for the first few hours. Seeing the sleeping, sated husbands and their tired, frustrated wives, Molly was suddenly filled with understanding-and revulsion-of their fatalistic frenzies. Her viewpoint is scrutinied in The Sexual Revolution by Benjamin Morse, M.D.: "(Wife-swappers ) are trying harder than anyone else on earth to get full sexual pleasure out of life-and failing dismally. The desperation of their efforts is only pathetic, and foredoomed to failure. The marriages ... end in divorce within a few years, giving the lie to the rejuvenation argument. The people themselves follow the hectic sexual pace for an indeterminate period of time; whether they continue forever or break down as a result of their actions is a moot point." Molly's encounters with the mob-Tiki, Frankie and Tony-were at least more exciting and sexually fulfilling.
CHAPTER ONE
HIS HAND FOUND MY BREAST AND GENTLY caressed it. I stifled the moan so he wouldn't know how hot I was.
I didn't protest when he pulled me to him. He got his left arm around me and his right hand tilted up my chin. His lips mashed down on mine, as hot and dry as Kansas in August. His hand crept down my back, tracing erotic patterns all over it. I shivered a little as he gently stroked my hip and thigh.
His tongue now came out to play with mine, and soon they were flogging each other, and I gasped and moaned and stiffened in his arms.
He now had nothing to fear; he knew that I was now his, all his.
His hand found the zipper tab at the back of my neck and slowly tugged. The zipper parted, and his hand lightly skittered around over my bare back. I jerked my face free and threw back my head, my eyes closed and my moans low and throaty.
His hands tugged at my peignoir and I shrugged out of it. He freed my bra. My breasts were proud and firm and up-thrust. He plucked the nipples and they stood erect. He got his arm around me again, and his hand gently caressed my breasts and plucked my nipples. I yelped and moaned.
He leaned me back against his left arm, bent over and planted sucking kisses on my breasts, and finally his lips clamped on my nipples. I was now a throbbing vibrating mass of warm flesh. I wanted more and more.
He gently laid me on the couch, pulling my long lithe legs up and apart. But, hell, he was too big to do much on a couch, so he picked me up and carried me to the bedroom.
He dropped me on the bed, slid down beside me, got his left arm under my neck and rolled me on my right hip. His lips found mine, and our tongues began to spar once more.
His right hand gently stroked my back, my buttocks, and down over my thighs. He rolled me on my back and began kissing my inner thighs, licking at the lips of my wet pussy.
He pulled up my legs, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned forward. I reached down, grabbed his cock and stuffed it in my cunt. He moved farther forward, pressing my legs up on either side of my head. I lay there with my eyes closed, biting on my lip, and moaning as he began with long slow strokes, quickly gaining steam and speed.
I began thrashing around and humping my butt to meet his every thrust.
He was headed for the gate and tried to pull free. I wasn't about to have that, so I reached up and grabbed him and held tight.
"Spray me, Baby, spray me," I whispered.
I began humping faster. I felt myself clamping down. We were headed toward the wire together now.
We made it, with a low scream and a grunt.
He rolled off me, gasping as I nibbled his ear, and my hand caressed his belly, sliding down to tug and massage his spent cock to see if I could get him ready for another go around.
Suddenly there it was, ramrod hard and straight, throbbing and ready for action.
We lay on our sides and he pulled me to him, and we lay there belly to belly. I lifted my right leg and he shifted between them. And then he pushed in me, ka-boom!
I began exploding with the rapidity of a machine gun, and every time I blew I could feel myself clamping down on him. I knew he was having one helluva time holding off.
We rolled and flopped and clung together, and I wondered if he was man enough to hold out until he got the job done.
And then the surging pressures began within me, and I knew that I was headed for a grand slam explosion. But from the way he was acting and groaning, I was afraid that he would come before he got me going.
And then we exploded together with one long continuous crashing force that would not quit. My body bucked and reared as one grand explosion after another threatened to tear me apart. And, as from far away, I heard him grunt and felt his fingers clamping on my arm.
In time, the storm passed, and we lay there gasping for breath, shaken as if we had just been tossed up on the beach by wild waves of a stormy sea.
We finally rolled apart and lay on our backs. Then I noticed his breathing was too damn rhythmic. The big lug was asleep.
I was still horny, damn it. I sat up and looked around, hoping some other stud at this wife-swapping party would be energetic enough to take me on, but nothing doing. There were naked bodies all over the place, but none of them looked able to function; swollen fat pricks lay limp on white bellies, milky gray semen still leaking from their heads. The gooey stuff was flooding the room, dribbling out of cunts, mouths, bungholes and cocks, and giving the room a peculiar sensuous aroma.
Why the hell did I let Helen talk me into coming here, I asked myself. Bunch of paunchy guys and tiring women only good for two or three comes. Guess she thought it would be cute to have a couple of stags along for variety. Yeah, cute, I thought, pulling' on my clothes.
Chicago Swap Club. Hell, they even had embossed stationery. Shit. Bunch of pussies. If d be a cold day in hell before I got myself mixed up with anything like this again, I thought.
I'm Molly Gilligan, ex-cop, Chicago Police Department. I wouldn't have been an ex-cop if I'd stayed in Chicago, content to be a cop and not; a hero.
But what do you do on a gorgeous spring morning when you're glad you're alive, and you look forward to that day, and then you go to the hall door, stoop down to pick up the morning Blade, and you stare at the headline: , BAR OWNER KILLED
There'd been an epidemic of these in the small towns within two hundred miles of Chicago. Every time I saw such a headline I'd stop breathing and frantically grab up the paper. ' '
And that's what I did that morning. There it was:
Clodville Mike Gilligan, well-known local figure, sportsman, and owner of The Melon Patch, a popular local bar, was shot and killed last night as he stood behind his bar, laughing and talking to a customer. Police report ...
I dumped the newspaper on the floor, slammed the hall door, and grimly strode back to the kitchen.
So they had finally gotten Dad, too. I had warned him, but he wouldn't listen. He just laughed when I told him what was going on. He said that I had lost my grip and perspective since going on the Chicago force.
I wasn't losing my grip. Hell, you didn't have to be on the Chicago force to know what was going on. Just read the Chicago papers and the small town papers for two hundred miles around.
Nobody knew who or what was behind this power play, but a power play it was. Prankie Carpello and Manny Eckstein, after long years of shooting their way to the top, had finally faced each other as the two top dogs of the two most powerful gangs in town, For a few years there had been relative peace, as far as the city was concerned, because Frankie and Manny were busy consolidating their positions and increasing the power within their own gangs. So, although bodies were found dumped at least once a week, it would be a minor hood who had been rubbed out as part of the consolidation.
Then came the second phase. The smaller gangs were either absorbed or wiped out. And that didn't rock the city.
About a year earlier, one or both of the mobs had tried, to expand its empire. One or both of the mobs had begun taking over bars in small towns within two-hundred miles of Chicago. It was all very legal. The front man always bought the bar and had the license in his name. He was as clean as a scrubbed toilet. But a toilet is a toilet, and even if it doesn't stink, it's still a toilet. That was the way with these front men who took over these small-town bars. They were clean. They had no criminal record. Their backgrounds were spotless. Yet everyone knew that they were fronts for a mob, either Frankie's or Manny's. And now they'd gotten Dad.
I balled my fist and beat on the kitchen table. I was too mad to cry. But I knew this much: Frankie or Manny and the torpedo who'd blasted Dad would regret that they had ever done so. I'd see to that.
I stared out the window, but I wasn't seeing the brilliant sunshine or the first crocus or the robins or smelling the warm fragrant air drifting in through the partly open window.
All I was seeing was a big, bluff, genial, laughing Irishman by the name of Mike Gilligan, with a thatch of unruly white hair and a ruddy face and piercing blue eyes and with a cigar always stuck in his mouth.
Dad had been warned. In every mow-down so far, investigation showed that the bar owner had been offered a fat price to sell out and retire. But if he didn't, he soon had lead poisoning. And it was always a bar with the license in the owner's name, not in the name of a corporation. So the license ended when the bar owner dropped over dead. And then the license was up for grabs. It was always grabbed by a front man for a mob, but investigators could never find out which mob.
Dad was a bullheaded Irishman when he got his dander up. He knew about the other takeovers. So when he was approached, Dad probably began bellowing like a wounded bull moose and threw him out. He was a proud man, so that's probably why he didn't call me; he didn't want to hide behind my skirt. But if only he had, he might still be alive.
I reached for the phone and pulled it over to me.
Then I grabbed up a small notebook and flipped the pages.
I got another cigarette going, picked up the phone, and clawed at the dial. And then I sat there, dragging on my cigarette, staring out the window, and still seeing no robins or crocus, as I listened to muted ringing.
"State Building."
"Extension nine forty-eight," I said. There was a moment's pause with buzzing on the line.
"Nine forty-eight, Zubach."
"Is Terry Gillespie in."
"Who's calling?"
"Molly Gilligan. Tell him it's important."
"I should think it would be," he growled. "Hang on." Again there was a short wait, and I blew smoke and listened to the buzzing line.
"Hi, Molly. I just saw the paper."
"Yeah. What are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know Dad's license is up for grabs. What are you going to do about it."
"What can I do about it?"
"A helluva lot, if you want to. I want that goddamn license."
"You know I don't make policy, Molly. I just carry out orders."
"Yeah. But if you get the orders, you may still catch political heat and decide to take a dive."
"Not me. I've never taken a dive. I'm with you on this all the way, so if you can figure out a way to get on the inside track to get your dad's license, I'm with you all the way."
"Thanks, Terry. That's all I wanted to know."
I slammed down the phone and grabbed the notebook again. I picked up the phone and dug at the dial. He caught it on the second ring.
"Good morning, Uncle Matt. This is Molly."
"Yeah. I just brought in the paper."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I want that goddamn license."
Once more there was a silence. Longer this time.
"Molly," he finally said, "you're acting like your dad. You're going off half-cocked."
"I don't give a goddamn whether I'm cocked at all. I want that license. I'm going to take over that bar, and I'll show the bastards."
"And you'll wind up with lead in your pants."
"Wanta bet? Because I won't be running away from them when I get it. If I catch lead, it will be right in my guts."
"Spoken like a true Gilligan."
"Stow it. You were Dad's best friend. You fought and bled for each other during World War II, so don't get sanctimonious with me."
"I'm not. But I don't want you hurt."
"Don't worry about that. If I get hurt, it's my own goddamn business. Mother's gone. Dad's gone now. And if I go, I'll go with my boots on. And don't say that sounds like Mike Gilligan."
There was again a long silence.
"Molly, what do you want me to do?"
"I want the skids greased. I want to get on the inside track to that license."
Silence again.
"Molly, that might not be easy to do."
"Who cares about that? You shouldn't, either. Your best friend, Mike, is dead. So what do you want to do about it?"
"Where are you going to be?"
"When?"
"Sometime today or tonight." , "Try here," I said. "If not, try Clodville."
"You going out?"
"Damn right. As fast as I can throw my gear in my car and throw my badge at Old Horse Face."
"You quitting?"
"Damn right. I don't know how rough the party'll get. As long as I'm a member of the force, I'm under their rules and regulations and have to carry a revolver. I want out. After this is over, I might come back."
"What are you aimin' to do?" .
"Whatever has to be done. That was the Gilligan bar, and it is going to be a Gilligan bar until I decide to sell it."
"And if you don't?"
"Then I'll run the goddam thing. Life as a Chicago cop isn't all roses."
"Yeah. I know."
"You know Terry Gillespie."
"Of him. Never met him."
"I know him well. So did Dad. I just talked to Terry. If I can get on the inside track, he'll shove me through."
Again there was a long silence.
"Okay, Molly, I'll get on it But I'll tell you how you can help me..."
"How?"
"Know any of the boys on one of the papers."
"Yeah. Clancy Murdock, on the Blade."
"I've heard of him. You know him."
"Intimately," I told him.
He chuckled. "You must be carrying on where Mike left off. Okay, get hold of this Murdock. See if you can get him to play your dad's murder up. Stir up public opinion. Have you pictured as the poor bereaved daughter who wants to get her dad's license so she can carry on the family business. But play down this bit about you wanting to rub out the mob."
"I getcha. And thanks."
"I'll get back to you later in the day. Either here or in Clodville. Will you be at the bar."
"I suppose so. Somebody has to run it."
"Okay. And, Molly ... "
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry."
"So am I. If you really are, you'll get me on the inside track."
I dropped the phone and reached for the directory. Clancy put the paper to bed by two a.m., but he never put himself to bed before noon. Not if there was a hot poker game going somewhere.
I picked up the phone and dialed.
"Sammy's Joint," a deep voice bawled.
"Juggy?"
"Yeah."
"Molly Gilligan."
"Oh." His voice was softer. "Sorry about that."
"Yeah. Have you seen Clancy Murdock."
"I dunno. I been busy. He may be around or he may not."
"Is Murph around?"
"Yeah. I think so. Just a minute, I'll see."
There was a crash as the receiver was dropped and swung back against the wall. I knew that phone well. It was old and battered and scarred and had been on the wall, surrounded by dirty wallpaper with hundreds of phone numbers written on it, since the days of Capone.
"Yeah, Molly ... "
"Murph, have you seen Clancy Murdock."
"No. Why?"
"I need him. Desperately."
"Yeah, I can imagine. Sorry about your dad."
"Murph, you can always use an extra ten or twenty. If you'll find Clancy for me..."
"Don't insult an Irishman," Murph roared. "I'll find Clancy for you. You keep your money in your pants. Where are you?"
"In my apartment. I can't hang around here long."
"I understand. Stay put for thirty minutes. Then take off. But where will you be after that?"
"Probably in Clodville."
"I can't promise, but I'll try to deliver within a half-hour."
He slammed the receiver on the hook. It banged my ear. And I dropped the phone and was rubbing my ear. The phone rang.
"Good morning, Molly. This is Charlie. Have you seen the paper?"
"Yeah. How's everything in Clodville."
"Okay. I've just opened up."
"What shape's the place in?" .
"The mirror over the back bar is all shot to hell. And about a gross of glasses got smashed. Otherwise there's not much damage."
"Get hold of Sy. See if the insurance covers. If not, call Jack Clayton. In fact, even if the insurance covers, call Jack Clayton, anyway. Tell him you want that mirror replaced before noon. Tell him that Molly said so. Then order another gross of glasses."
There was a silence. "Molly, do you mean to carry on?"
"You're goddamn right. If you want out, figure your time and I'll pay you when I get there."
"Molly, you know me better than that."
"Nobody knows anyone until the chips are down."
"But do you know where I can get a bulletproof vest?"
"Yeah. I'll bring a bunch of them with me. You can have that much protection."
"When're you getting here?"
"I dunno. It's now nearly nine. I have some running around to do. It's a two-hour run to Clodville, wide open. So I suppose it'll be one or two this afternoon. And Charlie..."
"Yeah?"
"Keep it under your hat that I'm coming in. Wear a long face. You don't know what you're going to do now. Don't let on I'm taking over."
"Gotcha. See you this afternoon."
I tossed my cigarette aside and went over and grabbed up the coffee. I set it down and reached over to open a cupboard door. I got down a pint of bourbon and slopped some in the mug. Then I poured coffee in t and carried.it back to the table.
So I had set the political and the legal wheels in motion. I wondered how fast they would grind. And I wondered how long I could stay on at The Melon Patch. I had forgotten to ask Terry, but there had to be an interim, at least until the license was awarded to someone else. I'd get hold of Joe Tabor as soon as I got back to Clodville. He and Dad were old cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker together for years. Joe would go the route for me.
When I got back there, what then? Would they send a monkey around to buy me out at a imagine price after Dad had thrown one flunky out? If not, then I had to be on the alert for a shootout at any time. But what about the place being bombed during the night? I'd have to find out about how to hire protection at night, and what it would cost.
And that brought me to the one thing I didn't want to think about, but had to. How much money did Dad have when he died? Was The Melon Patch paying its way? I didn't have a helluva lot saved up, so if Dad was digging at the bottom of the barrel, and The Melon Patch was barely breaking even, I wondered how I could hang on to it. I'd have to get down to the bank and talk to Henry Claymore as soon as I got in town.
The phone suddenly erupted at my elbow. I grabbed it up. "Yeah?"
"Clancy, Molly. I just heard the news."
"Yeah. Ever hear of Matt Monohan."
"You mean the Matt Monohan."
"Right."
He whistled. "I'd advise you not to go messing around with him."
"I'm not. He was Dad's best friend. I've always called him Uncle Matt."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I need powerful artillery right now. I'm going after Dad's liquor license."
There was a humming on the line.
"Molly, do you know what you're getting into?"
"Damn right. Can you feature a combination of an Irishman and a cop and the daughter of Mike Gilligan not manning the fort now?"
"No. But it's dangerous."
"So is crossing State Street."
"So what do you want of me?"
"Uncle Matt says that if you can blow this thing up and show me as wanting to carry on the business and the family name, so public sympathy can be stirred up for me, his job will be easier."
"Yeah..."
"And Uncle Matt says to play down any idea of me playing hero or trying to rub out the mob."
"Yeah."
A pain there was silence.
"Okay, Clancy, how about it? Do I rate a sob story."
"Sure. I'll have to clear it with my editor."
"Will he kill it?"
"Not if I tell him that Matt Monohan is pushing it. When do you want me to break it?"
"Tomorrow morning's paper, if possible."
"Okay. I'll have to check around. Where can I get hold of you?"
"I'm shoving off for Clodville soon. Try The Melon Patch out there, collect. And make it person to person. I've got a lot of running around to do."
"Right. I'll get back to you."
Okay, that jelled it.
Less than a half-hour later I was in my T-Bird, headed for downtown. The traffic was heavy. I had all the windows down, but that morning I paid no attention to the sights and the sounds and the smells of the city.
In another half-hour I was wheeling into the parking lot of the 97th precinct station. I worked out of there, swing shift.
I climbed out and went inside and headed for an elevator. The cage came down empty, and I marched in and jabbed at "5". Then I stood there alone, in the silence, watching the numerals blink above the door.
At "3", a big, baggy Newfoundland-dog-of-a-man with iron gray hair stepped into the cage. He had the jowls of a bulldog. His eyes were deep set and probing.
He looked at me. "Sorry about Mike."
"Yeah."
"What are you going to do about it?" I stared at him. "What do you think I'm going to do about it?"
He nodded. "So I suppose it's no use trying to talk you out of it."
"Not a damn bit."
He shook his head. "Just like Mike. But you'll have to resign if you start a vendetta."
"I know. That's what I'm on my way to do. I've been waiting for the day when I could throw my badge at Old Horse Face."
He laughed. "Boris means all right."
"Yeah. But he hasn't got enough means for me."
The door slid back. His big hand clamped on my arm. He stared into my eyes for a minute. "Be lucky, since you can't be careful."
I nodded as he trudged out of the cage and down the hall. I followed and turned left.
A few minutes later I was in the outer office of Captain Boris Masternak. Sophie looked up from her typewriter as I pegged in.
"Sorry about your dad," she muttered.
"Yeah. Is Old Horse Face in?"
She smiled. "Shhh. That door's pretty damn thin."
"I don't give a goddamn if he does hear me, because I've got something to tell him."
"Say, what got into you?"
"What should have gotten into me two years ago, my first day out of here. I should have thrown my goddamn badge in his face that day."
"Well, then, why. didn't you?"
I whirled. There stood Old Horse Face, six feet of blubber topped by gray hair.
"Because I was as gutless as you. But no more. I'm quitting."
I opened my purse and yanked out my badge and I did throw it at him. It bounced off his broad chest and clattered on the floor.
He turned the color of an autumn sunset. "Why goddamn you..."
"Exactlv. And here's my ID, too." And I threw that at him.
Then I turned and pranced out.
"I'll have you before a review board!" he yelled.
I stopped in the doorway and turned. "Don't bother. I'm through. I quit. I've had it. I resign. How else am I supposed to tell you that I want no more goddamn lip from you or anything to do with your office? I've had it."
I whirled and marched down the hall to the elevator.
That was telling him, I thought, but as I went down in the elevator I wondered if I had been so smart after all. I'd wind up with' a black mark on my record for insubordination and impertinence. But so what? Everyone from top to bottom knew what Old Horse Face was. He didn't have what it took to get any higher than captain, so he had been belching sour milk for over twenty years and it ruined his disposition.
My next stop was Gus' Gun Shop. I'd known old Gus Kleinschmidt since I was a rookie. I had just climbed out of my car one afternoon when I heard him yelling, "Police!"
I'd had my badge and my gun for only two days, but I romped up to him as if I were an old pro. He must have been robbed. Hell, I didn't have any idea where to look or what to do. I was under orders not to tackle any dangerous assignment alone, so the best thing for me to do was to phone in. But I played a hunch. I went two doors down the street and into a bar. Sure enough, there was a pimply-faced kid setting up drinks for everyone. So I marched up to him and flashed my ID, with my knees shaking. But I got him over against the wall and made him lean against his hands. I searched him. And there was a wad of bills in an old envelope with Gus Kleinschmidt's letterhead on it. So Gus had his money back within ten minutes after he started yelling. Gus and I had been friends ever since.
I hadn't seen Gus for nearly a year, so when I walked in his watery blue eyes lit up and he spat a stream of tobacco juice through his white mustache and put his curve-stemmed pipe back in his mouth. "Goot morning, Molly."
"Hi, Gus. Got any thirty-thirties around?"
Gus frowned at me. "So when did you decide to go hunting this time of year?"
"I'm not going hunting, Gus. But others may be hunting for me."
His frown deepened. "But I don't understand."
That morning's Blade was lying on his scarred counter. I picked it up, flopped it over and my finger pointed to the lead story.
Gus, still frowning, picked it up with shaky hands and squinted at it. He looked at me. "Dat your fater?"
I nodded. "I'm going out and take over that bar."
He shook his head. "No goot. You vill get kilt."
"Mebbe so. But I heed protection. Got any thirty-thirties? Or what else have you got?"
"You still got revolver I giff you?"
"Yes. And Dad's service revolver is under the bar. But I want two or three thirty-thirties or something like that under the bar, too."
Gus nodded.
He trudged out from behind the counter and toward the rear and went through twin drapes. He soon came back, with a shotgun in the crook of each arm.
"Dis vot you vant, not rifle. Come up front. I show you."
I followed him up to the counter and he laid the shotguns down. He picked one up, patted it, and looked at me. "I brought these from Germany when I came over. They vere my fater's. I hunted mit them in Germany. I have kept them clean, but never used tem."
"But I don't want your ... guns."
His hand went out and clamped on mine. "Listen. I'm an old man. I have no family. If I die, who gets them? You're leaving town. I vant you to have them."
We stood there and stared at each other a moment. Then I nodded.
He again patted the gun. "See? Twelve-gauge magnum. Has recoil pad. Checkered French valnut stock. Hand-engraved receiver. Ventilated rib. Metal bead frontsight."
He laid down the gun. "This is a matched pair. I vant you to have them. I'll take them out to your car."
"And what about snells?" I asked.
He nodded. He turned and pulled six boxes off a shelf. "Takes either three or three and three-quarter-inch shells. Three-inch is better."
He dumped the six boxes of shells into an old brown paper bag and handed it to me. "You carry them, please."
He picked up the shotguns and then laid them down. He turned and headed for the back room again. He soon came back with two of the most beautiful gun cases I had ever seen.
"I might as veil do this right," he told me. "I thought I vould keep them for souvenirs, but an empty gun case is like an empty house or an empty heart. It has to be filled. So here." He opened one of the cases. He put a shotgun into it and beamed down at it. Then he looked up at me. "See, vat I tell you? Case no longer empty. Case beautiful again."
CHAPTER TWO
I WAS GLAD I HAD A LONG DRIVE ALONE before I got to The Melon Patch. I had been rocked by Dad's death and by the threat of the mob. I knew that everyone I had talked to that morning thought that I had lost my marbles wanting to go up against the mob alone, or perhaps they thought I wanted to play hero. It was neither. Thirty-five or forty years ago, I thought it had been decided once and for all that a man could own a business and not have the mob muscle in and take it over. But now, after all these years, it was Ca-pone-style tactics again.
Was Frankie or Manny trying to add on to their empires? It didn't make sense. Why should they? They had more population to juice than Capone ever had. The numbers racket was paying off twice as well as forty years ago, so why should they muscle in our little businesses for two-hundred miles around? It didn't make sense. If nothing else, there was the matter of control and supervision. You can't turn hoods loose out in the boondocks and expect them to kick in. They'd be knocking you down and building themselves up, and before Ion? you'd have gang warfare that would bring in the feds.
No, it didn't make sense that Frankie or Manny was pulling this stunt, But it did make sense that some small-time hood was trying it. He could build a horseshoe-shaped empire around Chicago and then put the squeeze on both Frankie and Manny.
But who was doing it?
Such strong arm stuff as sending a gunsel against a bar owner, right in front of his customers, hadn't been seen for forty years or more. The feds were equipped to move in a helluva lot faster than they were thirty or more years ago, so why was some minor hood risking that?
If only I could find an interstate tie-in. I could bring the feds in on the caper, but until I did their bands were tied, unless such a roar Went up that there'd be a demand for new federal legislation.
What was I going to do when I got to Clodville? I had ordered Charlie to have the bar cleaned up and ready for business that night, but what would I do if they sent one or more gunsels in against me my very first night? Sure, I had those two beautiful shotguns. In a shootout like that, customers might get wounded or killed. If The Melon Patch got that kind of a reputation, how long would I have customers coming in?
Then I got a brilliant idea. Why not call a spade a spade? If they sent a gunsel in after me, he would be after me, not the customers. So the customers that got hurt or killed would be in the line of fire. So why not run a six-foot partition right down the middle and make it a western saloon. Put swinging doors on the front and swinging doors in the wall, at either end of the room, move the bar around and back it up to the center wall and then put a sign over the front swinging gate in the center wall-FOR DUDES AND LADIES.
And across the rear wall beyond the bar would be a big sign-FOR GUNSLINGERS ONLY. I'd have to check with Joe Tabor about the law, but as far as I knew it could be done. Under the sign on the rear wall would be a smaller banner-Leave Your Guns With The Bartender As You Go Out.
The dudes and the ladies would be on the left side. The brave guys would be on the stools in front of the bar. The bartender would issue each man a gun belt and a .38 or a .45 and he'd be armed while sitting there at the bar drinking. He'd know he was in danger, but, hell, he wanted the town to know that he was a big brave guy. Clodville was a town of about three thousand, give or take five hundred. In a town that size, news travels fast, so how many men would want it known all over town they were sitting in the dude section? And how many men would want it known all over town that they'd stopped going into The Melon Patch since Mike Giligan had been killed? Everybody knew Mike and loved Mike. The town would be angry. What better way for the men of the town to show their anger than to be sitting on one of the bar stools with a .38 or a .45 on his hip? And how many men would want it known around town that, although they seldom went into The Melon Patch, that they were sitting on a safe bar stool in a rival saloon when they were needed down at The Melon Patch? But, of course, I'd have to change the name of the place. How about calling it The Longhorn. Saloon?
I grinned and kicked that name around. I liked it. I'd doll up the joint like The Long Branch Saloon on Gunsmoke or the old-time saloons you see in other westerns. It would give it atmosphere. Hell, it might even be a tourist attraction. And with that kind of popular support, no gunsel would dare walk in and try something.
So what if some hood didn't make a try for me within the first month? Or the second month? How lone could I keep up the pretense that I was going to be hit?
The answer to that was, I couldn't. But I didn't worry about that too much, because if I was giving the needle to Mr. Half-Big Shot, he'd move in on me in some way. So what if there wasn't a shoot-out? If any move was made against the building, that would be sufficient to keep up the suspense.
How was I going to protect the building? It would be mine. Dad had owned it. I'd inherit it. It was down on the corner of Sycamore and Grand, and Grand was the main drag. Doc Masters, an MD and an old bachelor, had lived up over The Melon Patch for years, and had his office in the front part. So far as I knew, old Doc was still up there. He wouldn't scare easily, but if he moved out, it would be a loss. Nobody else would move in, and Dad had always said that Doc's rent had covered the taxes and upkeep on the building.
What about Jed Chandler, who had a furniture store next door? He and Dad had always been cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker together. Although Jed was a rock-ribbed church man and wouldn't touch anything stronger than tea or coffee, he had never objected to Dad having a bar next door. But if I took over, what then? And if there were shoot-outs every night, how long would he stand for that? Of course, you could ask, how long could he stand for having The Longhorn Saloon next to him? I'd have to talk to Jed as soon as I got to town. Since he and Dad were old buddies, perhaps he'd go along with the idea as long as his business wasn't jeopardized. If the mob could gun Dad down and take over his bar, there was nothing to stop them from gunning Jed down and taking over his furniture store, if they wanted to. And I'd tell Jed that. I'd also ask him if he was so gutless that he didn't want to see Dad's death avenged. I'd also have to talk to the others with stores on that corner. Directly across Grand from Dad was Sy Parker's paint store. He had expanded the year before, knocked a hole in the dividing wall, and had expanded to the next building from a hardware store. He'd also taken over the building next to that, as a warehouse. So he had half the block across the street. The other half of the block was filled by the Dispatch, Clodville's only newspaper, a weekly. The Potterfields had owned that paper since Clodville was hatched. Tom Potterfield, in his early thirties, had taken over about three months before Dad's death, when his father, old Eli, had finally died of cancer. I'd have to see young Tom as soon as I got to town. He had just graduated from college and had come back to work when I entered high school. That gives you some idea of the difference in our ages. Nevertheless, as a gay young blade, he had run with the older high school kids when they had parties down on the river or hayrides or anything like that. Sure, we girls were jail bait, but so what? That didn't stop Tom Potterfield and the rest of the Lochinvars his age. He had laid me many a time when I was a junior or a senior in high school, and during the first year after I had graduated, when I was flopping around and wondering what I was going to do.
I wondered if he had turned into a stuffed shirt, now that he was running the Dispatch. If he had, I'd knock the stuffing out of his shirt damn fast. I knew where a lot of the skeletons were buried that Tom wanted to stay buried. If he didn't want to play, I'd pass the word where some of those skeletons could be found. That was dirty pool, of course. I didn't think I'd have to, but if Tom had turned into a Colonel Blimp, I'd deflate him in one helluva hurry. Next door to Jed Chandler was a vacant lot used by Dan Northern, who had the
Ford agency down on the next corner of Grand. As for the other side of the intersection, I didn't know who might be in there. Nobody had lasted very long in any of these buildings in that block. Sycamore and Grand was the end of "the drag." Any businesses on Grand beyond Sycamore never took root, so whoever was in there on either side wouldn't be able to throw their weight around.
Dad never was in any of the churches in town except for a funeral or a wedding, but had always been careful to be on good terms with the Protestant minister and the Catholic priest who happened to be in town. Dad had always seen to it that if either church needed a new furnace or something like that, they got it', and the bill was sent to him. Sure, you might call it bribery, but no one in town thought of it that way. Because Dad, although not a church man, did not ridicule the churches or those who went to church. He said it was every man's right to do as he damn pleased, and if people wanted to go to church, then he'd see to it they didn't have to freeze when they did. That's what he told old Thad Martin, one day up in front of the bank. He yelled it at the top of his voice. When Thad had accused him of trying to bribe the church by putting in a furnace. So I didn't anticipate much opposition from the churches in town.
But, of course, one mustn't forget the Ladies' Aid of both churches. But, hell, Dad always said that those good ladies always had to find something to bitch about, that if Jesus suddenly came walking down Grand Street, those old biddies would cluck because he wasn't wearing pants and a necktie. And Dad would laugh and have everyone laughing with him, even the parson and the priest because everyone knew that Dad wasn't being sacrilegious.
Yes, everyone in Clodville liked Mike Gilligan and would miss him.
I'd been gone for nearly five years. So I hoped that the town had forgotten the Molly Gilligan who had helped put the cow on the mayor's roof one Halloween and left her to bawl in the middle of the night. Or the Molly Gilligan who had grabbed a bicycle chain and a hunk of lead pipe and had stood shoulder to shoulder with the other guys in town when the punks from Clam Junction had come over one night, to take Clodville apart. That was one bloody night. We had Doc Masters out of bed most of the night. Doc had to take nine stitches in my forehead and four in one cheek and three in the other and sew my left breast back on. And Doc Kingman, the dentist, had had to bridge in four upper teeth in front. Yeah, I was a mess. You should have seen the rest of the boys from Clodville. But we were all in better shape than the goons we sent yelping back to Clam Junction. Two of them died before morning, three of them would be in wheel chairs for the rest of their lives, and one of them was sent away to an institution for the feeble-minded after one of us had split his head open with a lead pipe. As for the rest of them, we were told, they always walked around with a dazed look, particularly when Clodville was mentioned.
Thinking back over all that, I hoped that the good people of Clodville had forgotten that Molly Gilligan. But, perhaps it was just as well that Clodville remembered the Molly Gilligan that stood shoulder to shoulder when Clam Junction tried to tear up the town, because that was the same kind of Molly Gilligan that was coming back to town now. The Molly Gilligan who wouldn't take any shoving around.
And then I thought of something else. Should The Melon Patch be kept open before Dad's funeral?
What would Dad have wanted?
I could tell you the answer to that damn fast. The show must go on.
Sure, I'd have to talk to the old heads around town and see what they thought, but why not have the funeral right there in The Melon Patch? Hide all the glasses and the booze and everything else, of course, and put a lectern on the bar and make a pulpit out of it. Let both the parson and the priest have a crack at the service. Dad had been a Mason, but if they couldn't come or cooperate with a priest in the house, they'd hear from me damn fast. This was no time for bickering; this was no time for religious differences. Mike Gilligan was dead. And I wanted the town to give out with a mighty roar of anger.
And so the first bill board welcomed me to Clodville.
The land looked fresh and green. The farmers were busy in their fields, so there must not have been too much rain. The corn was up and looking strong and good. The farmhouses looked better than when I had left Clodville. They were all painted and the barns, too. The fences had been propped up and the wire tightened and the whole appearance was one of bustling prosperity instead of slovenly indolence. Even the hogs looked better. They no longer wallowed in mud. They had a concrete home with their own clean swimming pool, The cows and the horses were fat and sleek. Yes, the entire countryside had changed a helluva lot in a little over five years. It no longer looked like a set for The Grapes of Wrath.
I began looking for familiar landmarks and scenes. The Bear Crick School, as it was called in those parts, had a new coat of white paint as I whizzed past it. So had the Hickory Grove Chapel, a country church about five miles out from Clodville. And from the chapel on in, I had one helluva time recognizing anything. When I left it, I had told Dad if he wanted to see me, to come on into Chicago. I didn't want to see that goddamn town or country again.
And yet, on that warm May afternoon, there was Molly Gilligan driving home again, to live in Clodville. But would she, after she'd settled the score for Mike Gilligan's death?
I pondered that one. I couldn't see myself buried in Clodville for the rest of my life. As I locked the wheel to get around Dead Man's Curve-having forgotten about the goddamn thing being there-I decided to live from day to day. I'd make no plans, no promises to stay in Clodville, but neither would I say that I wouldn't.
I was rolling down tree-lined Oak Street, having been duly warned by a big sign to knock it down to twenty-five or else.
I glanced to the left and the right as I crawled toward Grand. Most of the houses had spruced up since I left. They were painted and the lawns manicured and the front fences repaired and painted with each yard ablaze with rambling roses and wisteria and daffodils and jonquils and bridal wreath. It was a gorgeous sight and it smelled heavenly.
In spite of myself, I felt a tug at my heart and grudgingly admitted to myself that it seemed good to be back.
I finally hit Grand and turned right. I now had three blocks to go. And I wondered if I would choke up and bawl when I went in The Melon Patch.
But Dame Fate had a hand in that, I guess. Because the number of cars on the streets had doubled since I left town. Around and around I went and I couldn't find a single goddamn slot to park in, even east of Sycamore on Grand.
So, in disgust, I finally wheeled around and headed back up Grand. I once more rolled past the Melon
Patch and kept on going. I got clear up to the bank, two blocks west of the Melon Patch, before I found a slot. I wheeled to it and had to back and fill three times before I could get my long T-Bird in it.
I climbed out and stood on the sidewalk, looking around. I felt like a stranger. I thought of the lonely cowpoke who rode into town to avenge his father's death.
So that gave me an idea. I was ill jeans and blue chambray shirt and boots. So why not set the town on its ear?
I opened the trunk of my T-Bird and pulled out my gun belt and buckled it on. And as I did, I felt eyes staring at me. I glanced to the left. There were ten or twelve men and women across the street watching me and the crowd was growing. And on my right were four men, and more were stopping. But I ignored them.
I opened a bag and pulled my thirty-eight, spun the cylinder, and jammed it in the holster. I leaned into the trunk, opened the gun cases, and came up with the shotguns in the crooks of my arms, my pockets bulging with shells.
I slammed down the trunk lid and, ignoring everyone, I clumped to the sidewalk-and on down Grand toward the Melon Patch.
I tried to walk like John Wayne or Gary Cooper or Matt Dillon, slouching along and ignoring everyone around me with my face grim and my eyes squinting. Well, I was letting Clodville know that Molly Gilligan was back.
The word must have traveled damn fast. I had gone only one block, and had crossed Maple, and was going past Dan Northern's Ford agency, headed for the Melon Patch, when I heard someone yell, "Hey, Molly!"
Tom Potterfield came running across Grand, collar open and sleeves rolled up, ink smudges on his face.
He skidded to a stop in front of me, panting and eyeing me. "What are you aiming to do?"
"What does it look like?" I asked coldly.
"You can't go shooting up this town."
"I'm no about to. But if those goddamn hoods want to blast me, they're going to have their hands full more than they had with old Mike."
A crowd was gathering around. I ignored them and stared at Tom as if I was expecting him to draw any moment.
"You still a Chicago cop?" Tom asked.
"No. I quit this morning. I need elbow room if I'm going to hang on to the Longhorn Saloon."
Tom's eyebrows shot up. "The Longhorn? You changin' the name?"
"Yeah. If we're going to have shoot-outs in there, we might as well make a western saloon out of it."
The crowd was now filling the walk all around us. I saw familiar faces. I realized that this was a good time to start creating good will. Sure, there were bluenoses in the crowd but not many.
So I yelled, "Drinks are on the house, everybody, if you want to come on down to the Longhorn Saloon now."
CHAPTER THREE
WELL, YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN MOLLY GILLIGAN, like the Pied Piper, leading the mice of Clodville to the Melon Patch.
And you should have seen Charlie's eyes when that gang came in behind me. It was a mark of the times, I guess, because there were as many women as men. They were jostling and babbling and shouting and flooded in the joint like the Mississippi River when it's on a rampage.
There I was, shotguns still in the crooks of my arms, and my thirty-eight on my hip, marching down the length of the room, rounding the end of the bar, and coming back.
I slapped the shotguns on the bar and looked at Charlie. "Hope you've got plenty of booze. Set 'em up. It's on the house."
Charlie's eyes really bugged now. He came over and whispered, "Do you realize what this is going to cost you?"
"I don't give a goddamn," I said, pulling my billfold from my hip pocket and slapping a wad of bills on the bar in the best western tradition. "Set'em up."
"But Millie and Connie have quit," Charlie protested.
"So what?" I retorted. "I'll be barmaid." I rounded the bar and started at the booth at the far end of the room. There were two couples in it. "What'll you have?" I asked.
They told me and I turned my head and yelled, hash house manner, "Two old fashioneds and a stinger and a pink lady for the first booth."
I moved on to the second booth, yelled that order, and in no time at all I had worked my way up to the front.
Then I went to the head of the bar and looked down it. "Charlie can work your orders. I'll be busy serving. But if there's any hang-ups, let me know."
You should have seen old Charlie. Dad always said that, years ago, Charlie burned out his transmission and had only one gear left-slow. He must've been pushing fifty. He was flat-footed, built like a barrage balloon with a paunch, and had a beefy face that looked like an old boxing glove dyed red. He had cauliflower ears, a smashed nose and a scar over his right eye so that eyebrow angled up.
He was an ex-pug, AA. AA had called Dad one day years earlier. They'd dug old Charlie out of the tank at the jail and had dried him out and brainwashed him. Charlie was all alone in the world and with no home or job, so they asked Dad to take him in. That night old Charlie slept on the couch in Dad's apartment. And, like a big puppy, Charlie had been devoted to Dad ever since.
So old Charlie was now behind the bar, busier than a tomcat when the moon is full.
He finally began setting drinks on the bar. I rounded the bar once more and hit the cash register and cleaned it out of quarters and headed for the juke box at the rear of the room.
Hell, what had Dad been running, a tea house? Who wanted concertos and string quartets.
Way over at the end was country music-"Red River Valley."
"Tennessee Waltz," and all the rest. I punched all twelve buttons and fed quarters in the machine until it choked. Then I went over to the bar and grabbed a tray and stacked the first four drinks on it as Red Ryder twanged his guitar and broke into "You Can't Be True, Dear."
Well, the joint was jumping from then on. The front door was open. So the whole damn town heard it. Even the good ladies of the Ladies' Aid came to the door and looked in and clucked disgustedly. Mike Gilligan now lay down at Art Trumbull's funeral parlor, and here was Molly Gilligan pouring free booze down everyone in town and with the juke box blaring and everyone whooping it up. What would old Mike think of such goings-on?
Well, I knew what old Mike would think-go to it, kid. You're a Gilligan. A Gilligan is dead, long live the Gilligans.
Before long other men and women began jamming through the front door, to stand there looking around and wondering when they could get in on a piece of the action. With all the racket in there it sounded like Mickey Finn's, but everyone seemed to be enjoying it, laughing and chattering and yelling back and forth.
I soon realized those who had booths and bar stools weren't about to give them up. Something had to give.
So I went over to the juke box, yanked it away from the wall, and turned down the volume. I wheeled around.
"Okay, gang, you got a shot at it. Now let someone else."
They gulped their drinks and got the hell out of there, but they weren't sore. They all came over and told me how sorry they were about Dad and what could they do to help? I told them just to stand by, that I'd need them soon.
Then the next shift came in. And after that a third.
Well, by six o'clock nearly everyone in town was swacked, even Father McGee. By the time he wobbled out of there he collar had busted open and he had his black hat at a rakish angle down over one eye and hit the door casing on either side of the opening before he finally waddled through it and out of sight
But it wasn't all fun and games. I told Charlie to go to dinner first. I'd hold down the fort. Sure, I was rusty. But I had worked along with Dad so many years, when he had Jed Chandler's building next door and rented it out for private parties, that I knew I could get along. Besides, I had a Bar Master's Guide, back behind the bar.
Charlie took off about seven o'clock. The crowd had cleared out and only Clem Bartlett and John Mayer were in there, nursing beers at the bar, and arguing about how the Cubs were going to make out that year.
Since I had nothing better to do, I picked up one of the shotguns from under the bar and broke it and squinted down the barrel toward a distant light Gus had certainly kept the gun clean and well-oiled over the years. I broke the other one and it was the same way. I loaded them, thankful each was double-barreled. One of those shells would tear a man apart.
As I was putting the second shotgun back under the bar, Tom Potterfield walked in again and climbed on a stool. He ordered a martini. I grabbed a shaker and went to work.
As I strained the martini in a glass and shoved it across the bar to Tom, I said, "I think I should warn you fellows that it isn't too healthy in here."
They frowned and stared at me.
"What do you mean?" Tom asked.
"You know what was behind that play last night. Dad wouldn't sell out so he caught lead."
They nodded and Tom picked up his drink and sipped it.
"Well," I went on, "I expect them to do the same with me. I don't know whether they'll send someone in and offer to buy me out or if they'll just come in and start blasting."
I expected them to wilt, but they didn't.
"If any trouble starts," Clem said, "I'll do what I can."
"Me, too," John nodded.
"And I'll be right there," Tom said grimly.
"But you're not armed." I slapped my revolver. "I am. I'm trained in this, you're not. So if any lead starts flying, hit the deck. Don't try to play hero."
They nodded, but I could see they didn't agree with it.
"I mean it," I told them. "Don't try to play hero. You'll wind up dead. I've been a Chicago cop for five years. I know how to handle them."
"You were directing traffic most of the time, weren't you?" Tom asked.
"Hell no. I worked the West Side mostly. The South Side until dark. I've broken up razor fights and every other thing. Sure, regulations say for me to duck and phone in. But if I did, the men would think I was chicken. No, I didn't walk down any dark stairs into a dark basement, or anything like that. If a woman cop breaks up a bar fight, the two drunks don't dare try slugging her, because all the other men in there would beat them through the floor, and they know it. It's safer for a woman cop to break up a fight like that than for a man."
Then Clem and John went back to arguing about the Cubs. Tom sat there, moodily staring into his drink.
"What's with you?" I asked Tom. "Your wife away?"
He shook his head. "Nell left me six months ago. Took the kids, too."
"What were you doing, stepping out on her?"
He hesitated for a moment, still staring into his glass. Then he slowly nodded. "I was a damn fool. A little bundle of fluff by the name of Marge Paxton blew in town and was staying over at The Harper House. I heard about her before she came in to bump me for a job. I knew she was trouble as soon as she sat down beside my desk and got her skirt aloft as she crossed her legs and accepted my light for her cigarette. But, hell, Nell and I had been married for nearly five years. I married her, I guess, just after you left town. It went okay until her father died and her mother moved into town to be near Nell. The old bag tried to run everything, and Nell let her. Nell and I started fighting. That was going on for the last year. Then about six months ago Nell and her mother took off with the kids while I was in Chicago at a convention. I got back to find the house stripped and the bank account cleaned out and them gone. I haven't even heard from them. I don't know where Nell is."
I glanced at Clem and John. They nodded.
"Tom got a rough go, all right," John said. "Glad you came to town. Mebbe you can pull him out of it. He's drinkin' too damn much."
I looked back at Tom. "Why don't you wise up, Tom? Forget Nell. She wasn't worth it. Sure, you want your kids, but you don't want your kids unless you can have them right. So snap out of it."
"That's easier said than done," he said.
"I've got some coffee on the burner back there," I told him. "Why don't you let me dump that martini and you go on coffee for a while?"
He looked up from his drink and his eyes bored into mine. "Why should I? What am I supposed to do every night, go down to the river and hear the fish sing? Hell, there's nothing to do in this town, and you know it."
"Okay, I'll make you a deal," I said. "You start hitting the coffee for the next hour or two and stay right here. By eight or nine o'clock, if we're not jammed, you and I can take off."
"What'll we do?"
I shrugged. "Who knows? Ten years ago we didn't have any trouble finding something to do, did we?"
He grinned. "Those were the days."
"Yeah. We can have them again if you want them. I'm just as lonesome as you. And I'm not throwing myself at you, either, goddamn it. I'm no tramp. I don't have round heels, so don't get ideas."
"Slow down and simmer down," Tom said. "Nobody's thinking that."
"Well, I want to get off on the right foot with you. I don't want you thinking I'm a fast lay."
"Stop it, will you?" Tom said. "Ladies don't talk like that."
"They do in Chicago. If they didn't, the wolves would grab them as soon as they got out the door and were alone."
"Well, this is Clodville, not Chicago. You're Mike Gilligan's daughter. That's good enough for me. It was ten years ago and it is today."
The other two men nodded solemnly and glanced over at Tom and back at me.
Clem said to Tom, "Molly here is a good girl. She may be just what you need." He looked back at me.
"And after all this excitement's over, you're going to have a letdown. You'll need Tom then."
I nodded and looked back at Tom. We locked stares for a moment. Then he slowly shoved the martini toward me. I grabbed it and dumped it and put the glass in the sterilizer. I turned and went back and got the pot and poured a mug of steaming coffee.
"Want cream and sugar?"
He shook his head.
It was quiet in there for a minute. I glanced out the door. I was jumpy. Hell, they wouldn't dare send anyone in against me that night.
I went down the bar and looked at the shotguns again. I wondered if I'd have a chance to use them. Perhaps they'd drive by and open up with a machine gun and riddle the place.
Jim Hendrick's boy had brought that night's issue of the Chicago Express but I was too busy to look at it.
I went over and picked it up and laid it on the bar, toward the front from Tom, Clem and John. I began scanning the front page.
Our bombers had hit near Hanoi. The senators, as usual, were viewing with alarm and pointing with pride, while yelling for economy and trying to get a boondoggle project for their states.
I glanced up. A tall dark character who looked like he had been dredged up out of a grave was coming in the doorway. His gray hat was pulled down low over his eyes. He was dressed in a gray suit with blue shirt and dark red tie. Although swarthy, he had a pasty complexion. A hophead, probably. I'd know, when I got a look at his eyes. N
I swiveled my head and whispered. "Don't look toward the door. Act natural but get ready to hit the deck. Hophead coming in."
All three men continued staring at the bar, but I could see that their bodies had tensed.
I glanced back toward the door. He was ambling in as casually as any customer. He slid on a stool. He didn't know it, but my shotguns were right under the bar in front of him.
I folded my paper and put it on the back bar. I turned and went over to him.
"What's for you?"
"I want to talk to you."
"Okay, talk." .
He glanced at the other three men. "Not here."
"I'm on all alone. I can't leave." His hand went to his jacket pocket. "You'll close up now and leave."
"And go where?"
"I don't care where. Just so we can be alone and talk."
"Who are you?"
"That doesn't matter. Who are you."
"Mike Gilligan's daughter."
He looked directly at me for a moment. I got a look at his eyes. Pinpoints. Higher than Mount Everest and as dangerous as a jaguar on LSD.
"You the one that's the cop?"
I nodded. He glanced down at my thirty-eight.
"Why are you wearing that?"
"That's a silly goddamn question if I ever heard one," I told him.
His jaw muscles tightened and I could see the bulge in his pocket suddenly enlarge as he gripped the gun. As he stared at me he began scratching his jaw.
After you've been a cop for a while, every little movement has a meaning all its own. That could have been a signal, but I knew nobody would open up with him sitting there on that stool.
Although staring at the guy on the stool, I was watching the door with the tail of my eye.
Suddenly another tall lanky cadaver with a droopy hat pulled low came through the doorway. He was pigeon-toed. He came up to his partner and glanced at me and then back again.
"She givin' you a bad time, Jack?"
"Yeah," Jack said, not taking his eyes off me. "She don' wanna play."
I got a look at the other guy's eyes then as he turned to me and the light hit him full in the face. His pupils were pinpoints, too. A pair of hopheads. How nice.
The second guy pulled a switchblade. He continued staring at me as his thumb crept up the long bone handle. There was an ominous click. A gleaming wicked blade popped out. He then glanced at his hands and began paring his fingernails. So I was now facing a gun in a pocket and a switchblade.
I only hoped that the other three men wouldn't get spooked. One fast move by any of them and these other two hopheads would cut loose.
"You goin' with me?" the first guy asked me.
"I told you I'm on alone. I'm not locking up."
It happened so fast I hardly knew what was happening. The shiv artist's hand shot out, clamped on my left arm and started dragging me across the bar.
I looked at the other three men. "Hit the deck," I yelled.
Shiv's left hand snaked out to grab my gun. My hand got there a split instant ahead of his. His clamped on mine like a hydraulic press. I was pinned.
The character on the stool lashed out with his left hand and damn near took my jaw off. A bloody haze flooded in before my eyes, rocking my head to my left. I saw the three men, belly-down on the floor. Tom was crawling forward ready to grab the lanky one who was standing up.
"This is my party," I yelled. "Don't tackle him."
Highpockets stopped staring at me and glanced down at Tom. His foot shot out and he kicked Tom in the head.
That gave me my opening. I suddenly yanked and broke free. As I did, the first hophead's hand came roaring up with a flash and a roar, and I took a slug in my shoulder.
My gun bucked and reared and the hophead on the stool took a slug up his nose that tore the top of his head off before he toppled over backward.
The shiv artist was as fast as a coiled snake. He suddenly swept down and slid forward and bobbed up again and threw his switchblade at me. I ducked. And by the time I came up he had a gun out. We shot at the same instant. His slug fanned my left ear and smashed into the ruined back bar mirror. My slug didn't miss. It caught him in the shoulder, but didn't spin him around.
He let out a long high scream and his gun came up again. My finger clamped once more, but I might as well have clamped down on the trigger guard. The goddamn thing was jammed.
I ducked just as he fired and the slug damn near parted my hair on the top of my head. I dumped my thirty-eight and grabbed a shotgun.
I came up in time to take one point-blank. But when a hophead's excited he couldn't hit a hippo in the butt with a bowl of rice.
I slammed the shotgun down against the bar at an angle, with the snout up. My finger clamped.
He stood there for a moment, teetering. He was the damnedest sight. He had no face, just crimson glistening pulp, oozing blood. As if in slow motion, his knees buckled and he stretched out on his back on the floor, as if for a nap. I knew it would be a long one.
Tom and the other two men grabbed at the nearest bar stool and pulled themselves up. They were as white as the bar towel and were shaking like dogs being wormed.
I whirled and grabbed a fifth of bourbon and slapped it down on the bar. I grabbed up three glasses and set them in front of the men and dumped booze in each glass.
"Take it neat, and take it quick," I ordered. "You'll be okay in a minute. And don't look at the floor."
They did as ordered and tossed off their drinks. I refilled for them.
"See what I mean about not being experienced with this sort of thing? You were damn lucky you didn't get something."
I glanced down. My shirt was bloody and some of it was turning brown.
"As soon as one of you get your sea legs under you, run upstairs and see if Doc is in."
Tom nodded and got off his stool and ran for the door. When he hit the walk out front, he skidded right and disappeared.
I heard a siren wail, far off. It closed in rapidly, and before I could get a drink poured for myself a black cruiser stood on its nose out front, red light whirling and siren growling as two deputy sheriffs piled out and charged in through the door.
They skidded to a stop and stared at me.
"Who are you?" one of them asked.
"Mike Gilligan's daughter."
They looked at the mess on the floor and then back at me.
"You do all this?" the second deputy asked. I nodded.
"Some shooting," the first one said. "You a cop."
"Was," I told them. "Chicago police." The second one frowned. "Yeah, Mike told me about you. What are you doing here."
"Taking over."
"And who are these hoods?"
"They were hopped to their eyebrows. They walked in and demanded I close up and go with them somewhere where-we could talk alone. One thing led to another."
"Yeah," the first one said. "Looks like it. We'd better get Doc down here to look at your shoulder."
I rotated my arm around, gritting my teeth and trying not to show pain on my face. "It's nothing. Doc can put a band aid over it and it'll be okay."
Tom came running in. Just behind him was old Doc Masters, trudging as slowly as ever, and carrying his old battered bag.
"Well," Doc growled, "I see where I won't be gettin' much sleep from now on. Molly Gilligan's back in town. I wonder how many times I'll have to sew your breast back on this time."
I grinned at him. "Don't worry about it, Doc. I'll probably never have any need for them, so don't bother."
"You sound like old Mike," Doc growled. "Go over there in one of those booths and open up your shirt. I doubt if I can do anything here, but I'll try."
Just then Charlie came lumbering in. He took one look and turned whiter than his shirt and I thought he was going to either heave or keel over.
"You'd better take care of Charlie, Doc," I said. "He's a blanket case right now."
Tom ran over and grabbed Charlie and got him over to a booth and set him down. Doc went over to him and plopped his bag down on the table and opened it. He uncorked a bottle and waved it under Charlie's nose. "Take a good whiff. You must've never seen blood before."
I went over and slid into the booth behind Charlie. I began unbuttoning my shirt. Doc picked up his bag and slammed it down on my table. He pulled a pen-light and shot it at my shoulder. "Can't see nothin' much, yet."
He got out some cotton and alcohol and began swabbing. I bit my lower lip and grabbed at the table and hung on.
The flash beam again probed. Doc frowned and then dug out his glasses and put them on. He began squinting at my shoulder once more. "How many slugs did you take?"
"One that I know of. Another fanned my left ear."
"Yeah. You'll have a nick in the lobe for the rest of your life."
"So what? I don't use it much anyway."
Well, after the deputies had gotten those hopheads out of there, we locked the front door and pulled down the shades. Charlie went out in the back room and got the mop and bucket. He told me to take off and he'd clean up. Tom and I had shoved off and gone out to The Hideway, on the edge of town. It had once been a dive, but they had cleaned it up just before I left town and it was under new management. And Tom and I had sat around out there for about an hour, knocking over a martini or two, before heading for Dad's apartment.
CHAPTER FOUR
TOM AND I TALKED UNTIL NEARLY DAWN. He promised me his complete support and the support of the Dispatch. That's what I wanted and needed. The Potterfield family had helped found Clodville, so their influence was one of the most powerful in town. Tom promised, as a Potterfield, to get the town to back me, and to stifle any opposition from the Ladies' Aid or any of the bluenoses. Tom also thought that it was a great idea, although unorthodox, to have Mike Gilligan's funeral at the Melon Patch.
I was glad then that the back bar mirror had not been replaced. It was a fitting backdrop for Dad's funeral, as mute testimony to why Mike Gilligan now lay in a coffin. In fact, I was tempted to leave that bullet-shattered mirror permanently and not replace it, until this caper ended. It was a grim reminder to all of what had happened in the past and what could happen in the future.
At daybreak Tom left to round up his production staff. The paper was due to hit the streets by Friday noon. The Dispatch prided itself on the fact that it had done so every Friday noon for nearly a century. The type was all locked up, but Tom promised to break the cases and to do a complete new layout for that issue. He didn't say much more, and I didn't ask. I left the technical details to him. Before he left, he did ask for a photo of Dad. I finally came up with a photo of Dad and me, taken three years earlier at my insistence, when Dad had come in to see me for a few days. Tom said he could crop it. We both liked the pose and the expression.
After Tom left I couldn't sleep, so I put on the coffeepot and climbed into my clothes and headed downstairs.
When Mother had died ten years earlier, Dad had sold our home out on the north edge of town and we had moved to this apartment in a big old rambling brick building downtown, four blocks from the Melon Patch. This history of the building had been lost in the mists of time, but it was believed that it was put up before the dawn of the twentieth century. It was built like a fort, with walls about two feet thick. The floors were built as if they were designed for tanks to roll over them. We had a feeling of solidity and safety in that old building that you don't have in many of the modern ones. The rooms of the apartment were like Dad, too-big and cheerful and full of warmth and making one feel comfortable and happy. They were big enough, too, that Dad could move in most of the furniture that he and Mother had used for so many years. So the apartment seemed like home from the very first day for both Dad and me, and Dad had never moved away from it.
As I headed down Maple Street toward Grand I knew that I would stay on there in that apartment, too, be it one month, three months, or for whatever time I was on my own.
Things never changed much in Clodville over the years. Ever since I could remember, you could always get the Chicago Blade from the rack down in front of Walton's Drug Store, and shove your money under the door. So I headed for there.
I got two papers and shoved two dimes under the door before heading down Grand toward the Dispatch.
Clancy had done a good job. Dad's kill had hit the front page. It was a real tear-jerker. Uncle Matt had even consented to an interview and had allowed them to quote him that he would do all possible to see to it that I got Dad's license. The publisher of the Blade got in the act and was quoted as saying he was throwing the full might and power of the Blade into the fight to see to it that I got the license, not a front man for the mob.
Lights were blazing in the front office of the Dispatch. The door stood open. I heard Tom's booming voice from back. I headed toward the rear of the big front office and down a hall and I finally found Tom in the editorial room, working three phones at the sarpe time, with his coat off and sleeves rolled up and the knot of his tie at half-mast. He was routing everyone out of bed and telling them there was coffee there and to get their butts in gear and get down there on the double.
He looked at me as I walked up in front of his desk, as he held a phone to each ear and talked to two people at once, giving them both the same pitch, to get down there on the double.
I held up the copy of the Blade, and he read the headlines and motioned for me to bring it closer, and then he continued reading as he finished his pitch and hung up.
He grabbed the paper and scanned it. "Just what I need," he muttered. "I can take it right off this, if I give the Blade credit as the source."
I went over and grabbed a mug and the coffeepot and upended it. "That's what I thought," I said. "So I got an extra copy for you."
"Good girl. Now will you get the hell out of here so I can work? When you're around, there's only one thing I can think about. And that won't get this goddamn paper out."
I turned and grinned at him. "Can't I even have time for a cup of coffee? Or should I turn around?"
"Don't turn around, for God's sake. If all I can see is your ass, I'll really flip."
I slid one hip onto a corner of his desk and set the mug down. I got a cigarette going and lifted the mug and sipped the hot coffee.
"It's too bad about your dad and mine," I said. "But until the Old Guard moves on, and we come out of the wings to take over, Clodville will never change."
"Yeah," Tom agreed. "Sometimes I wish there was a crank on the calendar so I could speed it up and move time ahead faster. But, all in all, in spite of the Old Guard, Clodville is beginning to join the twentieth century. We got old Isaac Traynor and Zeke Norton off the school board, finally. If they'd had their way, we'd still be using kerosene lamps out there. So now we have a new bond issue coming up at the next election to build new schools from kindergarten through high school. They'll be on a campus just east of town. Wait'll you see the architect's drawings and the plans."
I nodded. "Good. So what else is new?"
"What do you want? It took us nearly five years to do all that. We didn't have much time to tackle anything else. Oh, yes, but there's another thing. Remember the Skunk River bridge?"
"Yeah. Has it fallen in the river yet?"
"Not quite. In fact, there isn't any bridge now. It was dynamited about six months ago and the traffic routed around over Possum Crick. They're building a new concrete bridge over Skunk River."
"Well, things are looking up."
Tom got up and went over and poured another mug of coffee. He dumped his cigarette and sat down again and tipped back, swinging his long legs up.
"You planning to stay on here permanently?" he asked.
"I dunno. I've always said that if I was going to be buried it would be in a graveyard, not in Clodville."
He nodded. "I know. But things are different now. Things are beginning to break. Young blood is needed here. You're needed, too."
"Yeah," I agreed. "A saloon is just what Clodville needs. So it's a helluva contribution I'll be making."
"You're looking at it wrong. Your dad always figured he was making as big a contribution to Clodville as anyone. It's not what you do for a living, such as putting out a newspaper or being a doctor, or a lawyer, or what have you. It's what you give of yourself that counts. Old Mike gave everything, you know that."
I nodded.
"That's the way it is with you. If you want to give of yourself and help Clodville crawl into the twentieth century, welcome aboard. We need you."
"Thanks," I muttered, gulping the last of my coffee, and standing up. "But the first thing I have to do is to nail down that bar and keep the mob out. After that, I'll consider your offer."
"Do that. And now I've got to get back to work."
He reached for two phones and dialed them at the same time.
"Where do I clean up this mug?" I asked.
"Dump it in the sink over there. Nancy or Jenny will take care of things when they get in."
I nodded and went over to the sink and got rid of the mug before heading out the door. In the opening I turned and he sat there with a phone at each ear, giving two of his staff the same pitch. He waved and I waved and then I went out and down the hall and out the front door.
It was now broad daylight, and cool and peaceful and quiet. It was the time of day I liked best when I was a kid. I now understood why. With no people on the street, Clodville wasn't a bad-looking place. It was the bluenoses and the jerks and the creeps and the whiners cluttering the street, I suddenly decided, who spoiled the landscape.
I heaved my cigarette into the gutter and lit another one and headed up Grand Avenue toward the bank. I walked slowly, breathing deeply, enjoying the cool invigorating air. I stopped at each store window to glance in and browse around. Each store brought back memories. Each store was just about the same as it had been when I was a kid. Of course, the merchandise was modern and the same as you would find in Chicago. But at Perkins' Hardware Store that wasn't so. It was just as it had been when I was a kid, a huge big barn of a place with everything under the sun, from power lawnmowers to pots and pans. In the front window were kerosene lamps and lanterns and old style push lawnmowers and old-fashioned bathtubs with claw feet. Nothing had changed in that window since I was a kid.
As I ambled slowly down Grand Avenue, I thought of what Tom had told me. Perhaps I was needed in Clodville, as part of the new and the young blood. But did I want to live in Clodville the rest of my life?
What did Chicago or any big city have to offer? Nothing but noise and dirt and confusion and traffic and a rat race. Was that what I wanted? Hell, you could live in an apartment for ten years and never know any of the other tenants you met in the hall, even if you saw them every day for ten years. You were really "an island unto yourself." As I looked back over the past five years, I suddenly realized that I had not been happy. Sure, I had thought I was. I was the country bumpkin who had conquered the big city. But, as I walked along that morning, I realized that I had not.
If you read the daily papers, from any city, you realized that in the cities there was just as much fighting, bickering, backstabbing and everything else as I had ever known in Clodville. The only difference was that in Clodville I had known everyone who was mixed up in a brawl. In Chicago, for example, I didn't know the mayor or any of the other local politicians. But they were carrying on just like the politicians in Clodville. Hell, Ebenezer Radcliff had been feuding ever since I could remember with Bert Randall. Ebenezer had been on the board of supervisors since I was a kid or before I was born. Since he was higher in the political pecking order, he thought that gave him the right to try to run the politics in Clodville. Bert Randall wasn't about to have that, as mayor of the town. But it was no different than the mayor of Chicago battling with the board of supervisors there.
I suddenly realized that I was rambling out Hickory Street, at the west end of "the Drag." I was leaving the business district. The homes were old and big and set far back from the street with vast expanses of close-clipped beautiful green lawns and shrubbery and huge spreading trees. The fragrance I had noticed yesterday now flooded in over me.
Art Trumbull's funeral home was about a block ahead. So I glanced at my watch and decided to go past it before turning left and heading back to the apartment.
About ten years earlier, Art had taken over the old Chase mansion. The Chase family, also, had been one of the founding pioneers. But old Cyrus had been the last of the line and the family had died out. That's when Art took it over It was a big rambling red brick place with a red tile roof and the usual huge windows and big concrete verandas, with flowering bridal wreath all around it and huge rustling oak and maple trees dotting the vast expanse of manicured lawn.
As I walked past, I saw Art out front in his BVDs, wearing a pair of old paint-splattered trousers and leather slippers, watering the flowers and the shrubs.
I hesitated as to whether to stop then. He might be embarrassed being caught that way. But he happened to look up and see me and wave.
Art had also been one of Dad's cronies and had hunted and fished and played poker with Dad. He was a tall lanky man who drooped over at the top like a sunflower. His white hair was receding and his face was lined and worn. Art had known much hardship and sorrow in his time.
I headed for a slot in the brick wall and climbed concrete steps and headed up the brick walk toward Art.
"When did you get in, Molly?" Art called.
"Yesterday afternoon. But I was busy."
Art grinned. "Yeah, I heard. If I could have gotten away, I'd have come down and bumped you for some free booze."
"Why didn't you? Or called me. You could have come down later."
He shook his head. "I've got to watch myself. What would the good ladies of the Ladies' Aid say if they'd seen me down there?"
"You should have seen Father McGee, drunker'n a skunk.
Art laughed. "Yeah, but the Father can get away with that. I couldn't."
He turned toward the building. "Want to come on in?"
I looked him up and down. "Is this your usual business attire?"
He laughed. "No. But I'm decent. And we'll be properly chaperoned. You remember Rebecca, don't you?"
I nodded, thinking back to cross-eyed Rebecca with thick glasses and her hair tied in a bun on the back of her head and wearing black dresses and a high white choker collar. She was Art's eldest. He never said so, but I don't think he was proud to claim her.
Art went over and turned off the water and threw the hose to one side. He headed toward the door and began wiping his feet on a coconut mat. "Come on in. Rebecca's getting breakfast. Won't you join us?"
"I seldom eat breakfast," I told him. "But I could go for a cup of coffee."
Art led me into a gloomy walnut paneled foyer with high ceiling. It was as cheerful as the inside of a coffin.
Art twisted a knob and shoved back a door and I followed him into a huge living room that was also walnut paneled with eggshell ceiling. The carpet was deep and luxurious. The furniture was straight out of the twenties-big, heavy overstuffed couches and chairs and ornate lamps and all the rococo junk dear to the era of bathtub gin.
He then went through another doorway and turned. "Your dad's in the slumber room. Do you want to see him?"
I shook my head. That's one thing I never went for. Art nodded and came back into the living room, closing the door. "This way, then."
He went back into the foyer and out the other side and up a stairs. Art had done a complete overhaul on the second floor. It had joined the Space Age. The paneling had been torn out. The ceiling had been dropped. And it looked as modern as my apartment in Chicago.
He led me down the hall and I began to smell frying bacon and perking coffee. And suddenly my tummy decided that it could go for some of that.
Rebecca looked just the same as years before, except that her hair was iron gray. She was just as cross-eyed and just as pigeon-toed and her glasses were just as thick. But she did have one redeeming feature-a heartwarming cheerful smile. She gave me her best one that morning and Art invited me to join them for breakfast.
And then I got the jolt of my life. Bible-toting Rebecca hauled out her cigarettes and offered me one. I glanced at Art. He grinned and nodded. I accepted and Art lit both of them for us before getting a cigar going for himself.
We sat around and talked about old times for a while. Then Art and I went downstairs and in his office and took care of the financial affairs. He wanted me to choose a coffin. But I balked. I told him I'd leave that up to him.
By then, I'd had it up to here with the atmosphere of the place, so I got the hell out, but not before graciously thanking Art for everything and promising to check with Sy Clarkson about Dad's insurance. I didn't know where, the policy was. Probably in his safety deposit box at the bank.
Art trailed me out to the door and to the veranda, still chattering away. I could hardly break free. But I finally managed it and went on down the walk.
As I headed back to the apartment, I thought of the goddamn coffeepot on the range. I half-ran the rest of the way down Maple and dashed through the lobby of the apartment house and up the stairs.
I jabbed a key in the lock and threw the door back and ran for the kitchen, and there it was-a big blob of molten metal run down all over the grate of the range.
I turned off the fire, shaking my head disgustedly.
I got out a pot and filled it with water and put it on the fire. Before long I had some coffee and carried it into the living room and sat there sipping it and working on a cigarette.
What was I to do next that day? I had to see Joe Tabor, the lawyer. I had to go see Abner Devlon, the banker. If Dad had a safety deposit box there, I'd have to see if there was a will and go over his papers.
Then a sudden thought hit me. What if Dad had willed everything to someone else in town, including the bar? After all, I'd taken off. I'd said that I wanted no part of Clodville. Perhaps Dad had decided to will me some money and give the rest to someone else who wanted to live in Clodville.
It was the bank first and that safety deposit box.
I looked at my watch again. It was a little after eight. The bank didn't open until ten. What was I to do until then? Perhaps Joe Tabor would be over at Center City in court that morning. If I was going to revamp the Melon Patch I'd better go on down and talk to Jesse Billings, the contractor. He'd be the logical one to tell me about doing that job.
Just then the buzzer sounded. I got up and went over to the hall door and opened it.
Lem Carlyle stood there. He had been the sheriff since before I was born. He and Dad bad fought together in World War II, along with Uncle Matt. He was built along the same general lines as Dad-big and bluff and hearty and with a paunch and broad shoulders. Although he lived in corn country, he always wore a big, white ten-gallon hat, black shirts with high-waisted gray trousers, with striped galluses.
"Good morning, Molly," Lem greeted. "Busy."
"Yeah. I'm having tea for the ambassador from Siam."
He grinned and headed through the opening as I backed aside. He took off his big hat and ran his fingers through his tousled white curls as he looked around.
"It hasn't changed any," I said, closing the door.
He nodded and set his hat on a table and I waved him into Dad's big chair.
He sat down and swung one long leg up over the other and looked at the big ash tray at his elbow. "Mind if I smoke?"
"Why not? I do."
I pulled out my cigarettes and he dragged a big fat cigar from his shirt pocket and began shucking it. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around to wet it. Then he picked up a book of matches from the side table and lit his cigar with long slow puffs as he continued to roll the cigar around.
He waved out the match and looked at me. "I hear you had company last night."
I nodded.
He shook his head grimly. "Too bad you weren't there the other night when Mike got it."
"Yeah. They'd have gotten a helluva lot worse than they did last night."
He nodded. "I can believe that. But how did you ever go up against two hopheads and live to tell about it?"
I shrugged. "Call it the luck o' the Irish."
"I can believe that. Did you blast that guy's face off with a shotgun?"
I nodded. "Old Gus Kleinschmidt gave me a pair of twelve-gauge doubles before I left Chicago. He had brought them over from Germany. They're beauties."
"Well, we don't need to go into the gory details. We checked both of them out by fingerprints. They're both hopheads and are hired guns."
"Who hired them?" I asked.
"Who knows? They were for hire for a grand on up, depending on the job."
"Do you suppose one of them shot Dad?" I asked.
"I'm checking that out. I think so. The guy who lost his face. Sig Marshall says he was sitting on the second stool from Pete Harkness, who was talking to Mike. When he heard the shots and saw Mike crumple he whirled around, and saw this tall lanky guy shoving a revolver in his jacket pocket and starting to walk toward the front door. He says this guy had a livid red scar at the angle of his jaw. So it had to be on the right side. And the guy who lost his face last night had such a scar."
I nodded. "Good," I muttered. "That's one score settled. But what I want to know is who hired them."
"I'm working on it. Have you been through your dad's papers yet?"
"No."
"I doubt it, but mebbe you might find a letter or a scrawled note or something in there."
"Yeah, I'll look. But we haven't heard the last of them."
"I know. That's what's worrying me. I think you ought to shut up the bar and go on back to Chicago."
"What good would that do me? There'll be a contract out on me now. You know that."
He nodded. "I suppose so. I talked to Clem and John, who were in there last night when it happened. They told me how you were dragged over the bar and slapped around. So I don't blame you for doing what you did."
"Gee, that's damn nice of you," I said. "Any time anybody holds a gun on me through his pocket, I'm not about to play patty-cake or drop the handkerchief with him. I was a Chicago cop, remember?"
He nodded again. "And it's a damn good thing. Did you ever get in on any of the action?"
"Every night there were razor fights and Lezzies trying to carve each other up and barroom brawls and you name it. I was right in the middle of things."
"Where did you learn to shoot like that?"
"Training. Five hours a week of my own time required in the shooting gallery. I've also had training in hand-to-hand combat and judo and you name it. It was rough, but I'm glad I had it. I can always use it."
"You sure did last night." He stood up. "Have you made the funeral arrangements yet?"
I nodded. "Three o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"At Art's chapel or at the church?"
"Neither. The funeral will be right there at The Melon Patch."
You should have seen Lem's face. If I had told him I was going to be layed at high noon in front of the bank he wouldn't have been any more shocked.
CHAPTER FIVE
I WAS STANDING IN FRONT OF THE CLODVILLE State Bank at ten o'clock when the door opened.
The crowd swept me in, but I was on the edge of it. Abner Devlon was just coming out of his private office as I walked by the area up front with desks scattered across it for the "flunky help" as Dad used to call them.
Devlon saw me and waved and beckoned to me to come over to the counter. He waddled over. He wasn't much taller than I, but he was at least three times bigger around his middle. He was bald with a horseshoe of iron gray hair clamped around the back of his head. Quizzical eyes stared at you from behind thick lenses. He had a big nose and puffy lips and, like Dad, always had a cigar stuck in his mouth.
"Well, Molly," Devlon said, shoving out his fat hand, "I'm glad you've come home."
I nodded and said nothing.
"So what can we do for you?"
"I want to know where Dad stood financially. I also want to get his safety deposit box to see if he had his insurance policies there and also to see what other papers he had that I should know about."
"Of course. Come right on in."
He lumbered over to a gate and pulled it back. I went on through and followed him across the flunky area and through a doorway to his private office. He shut the door and went over and sat down in an old swivel chair that creaked and groaned as he wheeled around to face a big roll top desk. He reached toward a pigeonhole.
"I figured you'd be coming home. So I have a record of his account here."
He pulled a sheet of paper and flattened it with his hand. "All checks that have come in since his death we are holding. We didn't bounce them. Neither did we debit his account. At the time of his death, as far as we can figure, he had a balance here of about four thousand dollars. I'll give you the exact figure. It's thirty-nine hundred something. But so far we're holding nearly nine hundred dollars in checks your Dad wrote and which have come in since he was shot. So they'll have to be taken off that. So, all in all, I'd say you have about three thousand dollars there to play with."
I nodded. "What about his deposits? Did he have a personal account and one for The Melon Patch?"
"No. Just one account. As for deposits..." He scanned the sheet. "Well, here's a deposit for nearly fifteen hundred. Here's another one for about eight hundred. And another one for twelve hundred. I'd say he was doing all right with the bar. In fact, I loaned him five-thousand dollars a year ago."
"You did? What for?"
"I dunno. He just said he wanted it. So I gave it to him."
"And took a mortgage on the building?"
"No. Why should I? His signature was good enough for me."
"What about that note?"
"He came striding in here about two or three months ago with a big wad of bills and paid it off."
"Yet all the while that note was outstanding he kept making his usual size deposits?"
Devlon nodded.
"Did he make any payments on the note?"
"No. He just came in and laid down the five-thousand plus interest."
"I wonder where he got that kind of money. Not out of the bar, if he was making his usual deposits."
"Maybe he cashed in his life insurance or borrowed against it."
That rocked me. "Of all the damn fool stunts, if he did."
"Yeah. You'd better check his safety deposit box."
He shoved back and stood up. "Do you want me to go down with you or shall I send Helen down with you?"
"Helen'll do just fine," I said, rising. "But that three thousand there is frozen, isn't it?"
"Yes. The feds will be freezing it until they figure out any inheritance tax due. So will the State."
"So that means I have nothing to run the bar on?"
"It isn't as bad as all that. I'll loan you up to ten thousand dollars on your signature. That's the only way you can do it now. You can't mortgage that building until the estate is settled. But you're a Gilligan, so I know you're as good as your word."
I nodded. "Perhaps I'd better take you up on it. If I don't need it I won't touch it. I'll use only what I have to use."
"That's smart business. It could be a year or two before this account is freed."
"Yeah, and I want to remodel that bar."
"Remodel? Why?"
"Because I do. Everyone does things differently."
"I'm not loaning you that ten thousand as the owner and operator of that bar," Devlon said.
"You mean you won't loan it to me if I carry on?"
"No. But I didn't think you'd try to carry on and fight the mob."
"That's just what I'm going to do. Did you see this morning's Blade?"
"Yes. You've got some powerful backing there. You should get your license okay."
"That's what I think. I'm going to try for it. I'm going over to see Joe Tabor now and find out if I have a legal right to carry on for a while."
"I'm not sure of it, but I think you have. You ought te have, anyway. Why should a bar have to shut down completely until a new license is issued, even to someone else? But, of course, until you get your license, you'll just be a caretaker in there."
"Then you wouldn't spend any money in there until you get a license?"
"No. Why should you?"
"But with the backing I have, I know I'll get it. And I need to make some changes right away. So are you telling me that I can't use any of that ten thousand to remodel?"
"No. You can use it as you please. I'm not telling you what to do."
I nodded. "Okay. Wait until I check Dad's safety deposit box. Then I'll be back to talk about the ten thousand."
"Okay. I'll see you in a little while."
Devlon led me out to the front and called Helen. I remembered her from years back. She was about my height and build and had red hair and freckles and a pug nose. She had been an old maid until just before I left for Chicago. Then she and buck-toothed Jimmy Wagner, whose wife had died two years before, got married.
Helen led me toward the back of the bank. It certainly hadn't joined the twentieth century, and it wouldn't as long as Devlon was alive, or as long as the Devlon family controlled the bank. It still had the wire cages for each teller, as if they were squirrels. The walls and the high ceiling were grimy with at least fifty years of dirt. Even the high windows up near the roof were streaked and dirty and let in damn little light.
At the rear, Helen led me down the stairs to the basement and down a short hall. I hadn't been down there for years, so I had forgotten.
Helen turned to me. "I suppose you don't have a key, do you?"
I shook my head.
"That can be arranged. I have a master."
She walked over to a box and pulled a key ring from her pocket. "Your father was in here day before yesterday. He spsnt quite a bit of time down here. He was over in that far corner there, and had his back to the room. So I couldn't see what he was doing. But he was writing something."
I nodded and watched her unlock the door and swing it back.
"There you are. You can take the drawer over there in the corner where your father was, if you want to. Or you can go over along the other wall."
I went to the right and over to a table along that wall and then down it to the end. I had a certain amount of privacy there, if I kept my back to the room.
There was a big thick pack of bulky envelopes, secured by two heavy rubber bands. I stared at the top envelope. Across the face of it, in Dad's handwriting, was the one word: Molly.
I lifted up the two rubber bands and slipped the top envelope out. It was sealed. I tore it open and began reading.
Dear Molly, Remember how we used to read whodunits when you were home? The hero would find a letter to read and it would always start-"By the time you find this letter, I'll be dead."
Well, this isn't a whodunit. This is real life. I won't tell you that by the time you read this I'll probably be dead, because I know damn well I will be. I just got a phone call. At midnight tonight I have to sell The Melon Patch, or else.
If he'd come in like a businessman and had made me a business proposition, I'd probably have sold out. There's no reason now for me to stay in business. It's about time I retired. But, no, he came slinking in with his hat pulled down and couldn't look me in the eyes. He didn't ask me if I wanted to sell. He told me I had to sell. And I told him like hell I had to sell. And one thing led to another. Finally I grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and started running and half-dragged him to the front door and then my arm shot straight out and he kept right on going and slammed into Del Bradshaw's convertible and pitched headlong into it, with his feet in the air, and kicking like a speared grasshopper.
Of course, the bar was loaded and the street outside was jammed. Jed was having a big sale next door and people were buzzing in and out all day. What I'm trying to say is that for me to humiliate that guy like I did in front of so many people must have made him mad. Because he finally got himself picked up and he growled to me, "You'll hear from us."
Well, I did. About an hour ago. It was some rough guy who told me he'd be in at midnight and for me to have my coat and hat on, and for me to have all the necessary papers with me because we were going out for a while and I was going to sign the building and the business over to him and they'd pay me a fair price for it.
I blew up. I told him to go to hell. I didn't even ask him how much he was willing to pay for it.
So I suppose I'll have company tonight. But I've got Old Betsy under the bar and I still know how to put her through her paces, so I'm not too worried. But in another way I am, because if anything should happen, it'll all fall on you. And you want no part of Clodville or the bar.
About a month ago I wrote you another letter and stuck it in this box somewhere. You'll probably find it. So you'll get along okay, even if I'm gone.
Dad
I lit a cigarette and stared at the familiar handwriting. Dad was a damn fool. He knew he didn't have any chance. Was it possible that he saw an honorable way out of this vale of tears and took it? Since I was gone, and he was all alone, was it possible that he didn't want to live any more? But, of course, no one could call it suicide.
I ripped off the heavy rubber bands around the pack and began flipping through the envelopes. I found his life insurance policy and business papers. And then, frantically, near the bottom of the pile, I began looking for another letter. Of course, as it usually happens, it was on the very bottom. like the other letter, it was in an envelope with Dad's handwriting in a hurried scrawl.
I ripped it open. Dear Molly, I'm not sending this letter to Chicago because it might influence your life, I don't want that to happen. I've never tried to stand in your way. Sure, I wanted you to stay in Clodville and be near me and together we'd run the bar, but I knew you couldn't do that until you were twenty-one. You didn't want to go to college, so what were you going to do for three years.
When you came up with this idea of going to Chicago and going on the police force, I didn't fight it because I figured that by the time you were twenty-one you'd be home again. But you didn't come home. I wasn't about to write you and ask you to.
You have chosen your life and the way you want to live it and I'm not about to interfere in any way. That's why I'm sticking this letter in this box instead of mailing it to you. Whenever I die it will be found and sent to you. With me out of the way, you can't say that I influenced your life or what you were to do. If this letter influences your life, that's too goddamn bad. But you can't blame me for what I did or for writing it. You can't say that I tried to influence you by mailing it to you.
You may not recall this incident, because you were in grade school, but do you remember Harry Blaisdell? He was in my outfit during War II. He drove through town and stopped off to see me once. He was from Oklahoma, and he told me he was on his way to see his sister in Kentucky. He had talked to the doctor there and that unless his sister had an operation within a week she wouldn't live. She had no money and he didn't have much-just about enough to get to Kentucky. He had another problem, too. He had cancer. They gave him three to six months to live, but he was determined to go to Kentucky and be able to provide an operation for his sister. He bumped me for a thousand dollars and showed me a deed for five-hundred acres of land he owned in Oklahoma. He admitted the land was worthless because of its location and being scrub land, but he said that surely, somehow, I could get a thousand dollars out of it sometime. But he wouldn't be alive long enough to do that, and, besides, he needed that thousand dollars right now.
Well, I talked it over with your mother and she said it was my decision. She said to ask' myself what I would do if it were my sister. So I kept asking myself that all the rest of the afternoon and that night until the bar closed. Then I started walking the streets and kept on asking myself that. By daylight I decided what I would do.
I walked back to the bar and climbed in my car and drove home. I had put Harry up out there for the night. I got him up and told him I would buy his land for a thousand dollars and he could do what he damned pleased with the money.
Then I broke open a fifth and we sat at the kitchen table killing the fifth and talking about the War and old times until your mother got up and broke up the party.
Well, you might remember all that, you might not. But I hung on to that land all those years. The taxes were less than fifty dollars a year. I kept thinking maybe Harry would come back through, but I never heard from him again. I never made any attempt to find out what had happened to him.
About a year ago, I got a letter from an oil company attorney out in Oklahoma. He said that the records showed I was the owner of record and held the land free and clear, and that I had bought it from the late Harry Blaisdell, who had died from cancer twenty years earlier. And then he got into the meat of the thing-he wanted to take an option on one hundred acres to explore for oil, but there was one catch to it. He said that everyone out there was more than happy to lease land to them for exploration because they got cash for the lease and even if no oil was found they could quit work for a year and loaf. So his company had decided on a new policy. If they leased the land from me they weren't going to pay me a dime unless oil came in. On top of that, they weren't going to lease the land unless I thought there was a chance of oil on it. Or, if I didn't know, that I was willing to put some of my own money into the venture. They wanted five thousand dollars from me.
Well, there I was walking the streets again that night. What was I to do? I didn't want the goddamn land or the royalties. I wanted it for you. I didn't know who to turn to. If I talked to Devlon at the bank or Tabor or anyone in town it would have been all over town within an hour.
Then I thought of Al Marshall, who was in my outfit, too. I'd bumped into him one time in St. Louis and found out that he was a lawyer there. So I went on home about daybreak and fixed some breakfast and sat around some more until 7:00. Then I got on the phone and found out his home address. He was just getting up. Of course he remembered me, so I set a date and went on down there the next day to talk to him.
Well, to make a long story short, Al told me that it was my decision whether to go ahead or not, but that if I did I could set up a living trust for you. And if anything came out of it the money would go in the trust to be paid to you at any time. So I suggested it be paid to you after my death. Because it could always be changed at any time. If you got in a jam and needed it before I died, I could have changed the stipulations.
And then we got to talking some more and it wound up that I decided to toss the building and all of the bar fixtures into the trust, too. So Al drew up the paper and I went down again and signed them and we went over to East St. Louis and recorded them in Illinois. I had the building title and title to the bar fixtures put in the name of the trust.
Then I went home and called that lawyer in Oklahoma and asked him if his offer was still open. He said yes. So I said okay. I'm mailing you a cashier's check for five thousand dollars. (Never mind how I got hold of the five thousand. That doesn't matter.)
Well, I forgot all about it. About three months ago I got another letter from this lawyer. They put down two wells at the same time. One came in dry. The other was a gusher. He said he'd let me know after they had it in production what I could anticipate for royalties.
And then I got another letter. A few days later. From another oil company lawyer. He wanted to take option on two hundred adjoining acres. So I got on the phone to Al Marshall. He said to stall them. Not to make any move until the royalties on the first well were determined and to stall even further if I could, because other wells would be put down. In other words, the more producing wells I had coming in on that first hundred acres, the better a deal and the higher a price I could get from other oil outfits. The way the land was situated in those barren hills, no oil company could slant drill into any of my land. So I was sitting on either a million bucks or a million rocks. Only time would tell. But, of course, I wasn't sitting on it. Your trust fund was.
So that's where it stands today. Your trust fund has now received about fifty thousand dollars in royalties and more will be coming in another three months. Besides that, the oil company is putting down three more exploratory wells. If they come in they'll put down more. So it could multiply or it could peter out. Only time will tell.
You can seenow why I didn't mail this letter to you in Chicago. I didn't want to influence your life. If you were happy as a cop, then why not stay on as a cop? Because wealth can breed more unhappiness and trouble than poverty ever can. And after bucking the world as a Chicago cop for a few years, I hope you're dry behind the ears and won't go overboard when you find out you have a trust fund. If you're smart you'll let that trust fund build up and continue as a cop and splurge only by getting yourself a new car or something like that.
Well, when you read this, I won't be around to advise you. I hope I haven't jarred you too much just now. If I did, I hope you'll forgive me.
Dad
P.S. I forgot to tell you how to find out about your trust fund. Get in touch with Al Marshall in St. Louis. I've got his address and phone number down below. He's handling everything.
That tore it. I began bawling. I couldn't stop.
In a few minutes a hand clamped on my heaving shoulder. I looked around. It was Devlon. He stood there blinking at me through his thick glasses, and his face was concerned.
I shoved the last letter down the counter and nodded toward it. He went over to it and picked it up and began reading. You should have seen his face as he read it. By the time he finished his eyes were popping.
By then I had gotten hold of myself. I daubed at my eyes, knowing I'd better hit the washroom before I went out of the bank.
I shoved the whole mess back into the drawer and carried it back and put it in the box. I slammed the door and that locked it.
I went to the washroom and got myself presentable again. Then I went out and headed for Joe Tabor's office.
It was up over Bentley's Men's Store. The stairs were just as worn and dusty as I had remembered them. At the top and to the left was a screen door, and behind it, on ground glass, was the inscription: LAW OFFICE.
I opened the screen and grabbed the knob and turned it and shoved at the door. I had been up there with Dad about ten years earlier. The outer office was just as it had been then-a big barn of a room with grimy paper on the walls and ceiling and peeling over in the far corner above the oil heater. Along the front of the room was a row of old scarred straight chairs. A high counter ran wall to wall with a gate at one end, about ten feet back. Beyond that was an ancient typewriter desk and an old-fashioned stenographer's chair. The typewriter wasn't out, the desk was closed and no stenographer sat there.
On the desk sat young Joe Tabor. He was about Tom Potterfield's age. He and Tom and all the rest of that gang had joined us for hayrides and river parties years before.
Joe was reading that morning's Blade when I walked in. He glanced up from the paper and registered pleased surprise.
"Hi, Molly," he greeted. "I saw you marching down the street yesterday afternoon with two shotguns and the good villagers at your heels. I hear you had quite a blowout."
I nodded.
"And what's this I hear about you playing Annie Oakley last night?"
"I wasn't playing Annie Oakley," I told him. "I was trying to stay alive."
He lost his grin in a hurry. He nodded. "If you're smart, you'll head back for Chi."
"It's too late now. Lem told me this morning he was still checking it. But he felt fairly certain that one of the hoods I shot was the one who had killed Dad."
"That should make you feel some better."
"Funny, but it doesn't. All I want is to get this damn thing settled and know that the mob isn't going to shove me out."
"Then you're staying on?"
"Yes. At least until I get this mob roust settled. After that, I don't know what I'll do. Maybe go back to Chicago."
"I hear you're a cop."
"I was. I resigned yesterday. I didn't want to be under their authority when I came out here, because I'm going to do what I have to do."
"Well, Maggie's off today. But it doesn't matter. Things have been damned slow for the last two or three weeks. So now you walk in with some business-I hope. What can we do for you?"
"Well, I was planning to talk to your dad."
He stared at me for a moment. "Well, you're about two years late to do that."
"He's dead?"
Joe nodded. "Heart attack. Feel over right there in that comer. He was looking out the window and watching Grandma Snow trying to get across Grand Avenue on a busy afternoon. He was all ready to raise the window and yell at someone to help her when he keeled over."
"Looks like we're all a bunch of orphans," I muttered. "Tom's dad is gone, too."
"Yeah. S'funny. I was thinking about it the other day. Most all of us between thirty and forty have lost our fathers. Many of us have lost our mothers, too. I guess it's the price our dads paid to raise us and put us through college."
I nodded.
"So what can we do for you?" Joe asked again. "Want advice on settling the estate?"
I shook my head. "No, that isn't necessary. I didn't know it until a few minutes ago when I opened his safety deposit box. Dad had some land in Oklahoma. He hit oil on it a few months ago."
"What?"
I nodded. "But he didn't keep a dime for himself. He set up some kind of a trust fund for me."
"Living trust?"
"Yes, I think so. One of his war buddies in St. Louis is an attorney and he's handling it. Dad said he didn't want anyone in town to handle it because it'd be all over town."
Joe grinned. "That might have been true with Dad. But not me. Sorry he had to go out of town. But if it was one of his war buddies, that was okay. Know who it is?"
"Yes. A guy by the name of Al Marshall. Don't suppose you've ever heard of him."
"The hell I haven't. He's the guy who wrote the book. One of the top tax attorneys in the country. So if he's handling things for you, you have no sweat."
I nodded. "What I came up to inquire about was the money over there in the bank. Nearly four thousand dollars, and nearly nine hundred in checks has come in since Dad was killed and Devlon's holding them rather than bouncing them. So that leaves about three thousand. That's the entire estate except for Dad's personal effects. Are the feds and the State going to freeze all that for a year or two until the taxes are settled?"
"I don't see why they should. Providing there's no other assets."
"There's not. He transferred title to the building and the bar fixtures to the trust fund when he set it up a few months ago."
"And has he been paying rent to the trust fund?"
"I don't know," I said. "Is that required?"
"It's optional. He didn't have to unless he wanted to. Sometimes it's done."
"Well, do you want to take that much on? I don't want the three thousand for myself. But I want it freed so I can pay off that nine hundred and whatever other checks that might come in. And, besides, Charlie has to be paid and there will be current bills to be met. According to Dad's letter, I've got over fifty thousand in my trust fund, but I don't know how much of that I can touch."
"There's a thousand ways it could have been done," Joe told me. "It's a way to beat the inheritance tax. It could be that the whole shebang will be transferred over to you upon your dad's death. And then the trust would be dissolved or phased out. Or it could be that you'll get just interest and nothing else. Or you might get a cash allotment and then interest. You'll have to get hold of Al Marshall to find out what's what."
"But if I need money, Devlon told me he'd loan me ten thousand. So I have no sweat."
"Well, if you'll take my advice," Joe said, "I'd run right over there and get the ten thousand and open an account in your name. I'd leave that trust fund alone until after the funeral and until you get settled and know what's what and what you want to do. Because it's a damn cinch the interest from the trust fund, if that's all you get, will be able to pay off the ten thousand dollar loan. So you have no worry. And with ten thousand in the bank for you to wheel and deal with, it'll make a big difference."
"Yeah, I'm going to need some working capital. I intend to remodel The Melon Patch."
"Why?"
"Devlon asked me that. Why does everybody? Because I want to. Because I want it different than it was. That's my choice."
Joe nodded. "Sure it is."
"Well, after I get that ten thousand," I said, "I'll be back to give you a retainer."
Joe grinned. "If you happen to have a spare dollar, give it to me. I'll give you a receipt for it. That makes it ethical and legal and that's the retainer. In fact, that's the whole damn bill."
"Aw, come off it," I protested. "You can't work for nothing."
"Oh, can't I? How much work do you think there'll be for me to get the feds and the State to leave that account alone and take settlement? Not over an hour. Maybe two. But your dad spent a helluva lot more time than that when my dad dropped dead. In fact, the feds and the State froze everything. Mother was still alive. She died a year ago after what we went through for the first year after Dad died. We didn't have a dime to go on. Just what I took in here at the office. And I had just moved into a new house with a high mortgage payment and I'd just bought a new car and was up to my ears. If it hadn't been for your dad I'd never have made it. He advanced me over five thousand dollars. Of course, he got it all back when the estate was freed. But if it hadn't been for your dad's help, I don't know what I would have done. Because Devlon and Dad had fought for years and Devlon wouldn't give Dad the time of day. So he wouldn't have given me much more than that. Of course, if I'd gone around town with my hat in my hand, I suppose I could have raised some money. But I didn't have to go to your dad. He came to me about an hour after Dad dropped dead and said, 'What can I do?' I told him nothing right then. He predicted what would happen.
I nodded. "So you're happily married?"
He shook his head. "My wife walked out about the time that Tom's did. Mother-in-law trouble, too, but I was luckier than Tom. I was in town. I slapped a court order on her and stopped her from stripping the house. I sold the house and furnishings for more than I had paid for them. So I came out all right on that. I represented myself on the divorce and that cost me nothing. And so far I've beat her down and she hasn't hijacked me for alimony or child support. Sure, I'm supporting my kids. I want to. But I don't intend to be sandbagged by Lila. I haven't been so far."
I turned toward the door. "Well, I've got a lot of running around to do."
"When's the funeral?" Joe asked.
"Tomorrow at three. Right there at the bar."
Joe burst out laughing and slapped his leg. "That's just the way Mike Gilligan would have wanted it."
"Yeah, I thought so too. But you should have seen Devlon's face."
"I'll bet. He's one of the Old Guard. That's one thing about old Mike. He never was. He fought the Old Guard and stood shoulder to shoulder with us Young Turks. We considered him to be one of our own, even if his hair was snow white."
Joe slid off the desk and stood up and stretched. "I shut down the office on Friday afternoon now. Business is that slack. Everyone knows where to reach me.
If something pops, they can call me, so how about having lunch with me?"
I hesitated. I looked down at my jeans.
"Aw, you look all right. Let's go out to The Rodeo."
"That a new place?"
"Yeah, I guess so. It's been out there south of town about two or three years. I guess that's after you left. You'll be properly dressed out there. It's western, with a corral fence and it looks like a western bunkhouse. Inside are saddles and tack and all the rest of the gear. It's quite a place."
That settled it. There was nothing further that had to be settled before Dad's funeral, so I thought what the hell? Why not go out with Joe for the afternoon? I knew that it wouldn't wind up at sundown. It would possibly go on all night. And probably on a bed. But that was better than sitting alone at the apartment and brooding.
Joe got his hat and herded me to the door. He locked it, and we clattered down the stairs and stood at the bottom on the sidewalk, watching the people drift past.
"My car's over behind Bailey's Tin Shop. Want to walk over there or shall I drive back here?"
I squeezed his arm and gave him my best grin. "What are you trying to do, put me in a wheel chair?"
CHAPTER SIX
I SHOVED MY ARM THROUGH JOE'S AND WE walked down Grand to Elm and angled kitty-corner across Elm to the rear of Bailey's Tin Shop. Joe led me over to a long low sleek red sport job with no top. We stood there looking down at it. "What is it?" I asked.
"It's a Ferrari three-thirty," Joe said. "It's."
"You a sports car buff?" I asked. He nodded.
"Say no more," I told him. "I've heard your kind spouting jargon by the yard and the hour. So let's not get started."
Joe grinned. "Fair enough. But I thought you might like to know."
"like hell I would."
"Okay, climb in and I'll show you instead of telling you."
He opened the door, helped me in and I sat down and felt as if my butt was dragging on the ground. He came around and climbed in on the other side.
He started the motor. It had a deep-throated roar.
We shot backward like a retro-rocket. Joe stood it on its nose. He rammed the gear stick lever straight back and, with a roar, we shot out to the street.
"You'd better fasten your seat belt," Joe said. "I don't need it. I've got the wheel to hang on to."
"Good idea," I said. "And I'd feel better if I were sitting on a parachute."
He laughed. "You talk like a square. Come on, let's go.
We zoomed in a tight curve to the right and roared down the street. Fortunately, everyone had to stop before crossing Elm.
We were soon out of town. Once more Joe hit the brake.
"Watch this," Joe said. "Hang on."
It was like riding a rocket. My guts fell down below the level of my seat belt. I couldn't breathe. I hung on with knuckles white. And then it finally leveled off.
Joe grinned over at me. "How do you like that?"
"That's for idiots and God damn fools," I yelled.
"Don't be a square. I've clocked that. We went from 0 to 99 in 39 seconds."
"I wouldn't brag about it," I told him. "When are you going to grow up?"
"Aw, you've got to have some kind of a hobby."
"Then why don't you take up sky diving?" I asked him. "At least you don't have all the roar and racket."
"You're so right. And I like it, too. I've belonged to the Cloud Jumpers for the last three years. That's one of the reasons that Lila left me, I guess. I took her up once and it scared the hell out of her. Her chute almost didn't open. I never got her off the ground after that."
"I wouldn't wonder."
We blasted out Rutledge Road about five miles, with fields of new corn on either side and green pastures dotted with horses and fat cows with full udders and with calves and colts everywhere. It was a beautiful sight, with the graceful Wg trees and the meandering creeks and the rolling hills.
We topped a long hill and there, just ahead on the right, beyond fields of corn hemmed in by barbed wire fences, was a corral fence such as you'd see in the West.
Joe hit the brake and the tires screamed in a long curve to the right and we bounced to a parking lot and strummed across it to head in a slot, and to stop alongside an old long low barn of a building with a weather-beaten roof.
"Looks like it had been there a hundred years, doesn't it? They use some kind of a paint, I heard."
He got out and went around and helped me out. We went up to what looked like a split bam door, painted a faded chalked-out red. The top half was swung back. Joe lifted a latch and shoved the lower part inward and guided me through.
We were in a bam. It even smelled like one. Straw was hanging down from the haymow above. Exposed heavy timbers were on either side, grimy and with cobwebs between them. The floor was battered old rough planks. Horsecollars, ropes, bridles, reins and saddle blankets hung from the walls on either side. It was a typical aisle across the middle of a bam. There was even a rick on one side, filled with straw.
Instead of booths on either side there were stalls. In each stall was a rough wood table and a rough wood bench on either side. But the seats and the table tops had been smoothed off, thank God.
The place was jammed. The bar ran along the far end of the room and there wasn't a vacant stool.
I looked at Joe and he looked at me.
"like it?" he asked.
"It's as crazy as your car," I told him.
"I swear, you are a square," Joe told me.
"Agreed."
"Want to go somewhere else?"
"No. We're here now. Let's make the most of it."
A tall rangy guy with curly brown hair and the looks of an Adonis came striding up with an armload of cardboard.
"Hi, Joe," he greeted. "I'll have a stall ready for you in a minute."
"We're not a pair of horses," I told him. He laughed. "This a city gal?"
"Yes and no. She was raised in Clodville. But she's been in Chi for the last five years. I want you to meet Molly Gilligan."
Pretty Boy's eyebrows shot up. "You the cop daughter of Mike?" he asked me.
"The same."
"Say, you had quite a shoot-out up there last night."
He led us across the rough board floor to the right side of the barn and down that side nearly to the rear.
The barmaids wore light red mini-skirts that flared and barely covered their butts. Fortunately, they wore black leotards. They pegged around on spikes in black pumps. Their blouses varied according to their hair. The blondes had blue and the redhead had Kelly green and the blackheads had light yellow.
There was even piped in but muted country music. It was really quite a place.
I slid on a bench across from Joe. He ordered two martinis and offered me a cigarette. I leaned toward his lighter and he lit one for himself.
"Bet you don't have anything like this in Chi," he said.
"I hope not. Not even down by the stockyards is it this bad."
He chuckled. "You wouldn't admit that you liked it even if you did. Well, from the way they're packing them in, I guess everyone around here does."
'They've always liked corn," I said.
"Tom told me this morning that he was trying to talk you into staying for good."
"I told him I'd consider it after I had nailed the bar down so the mob couldn't grab it."
Joe glanced down at the menu lying on the table. "What do you want, steak?"
"Are they good here?"
"The best. You can't even get them that good down at the stockyard in Chi."
"Okay, steak it is. Bood rare, baked potato with sour cream and chive, a small salad with Roquefort and coffee. Nothing more."
"You know what you like, don't you?" Joe asked with a grin.
I nodded and dragged on my cigarette.
A redhead flounced over and Joe gave her the order. And away she went, butt bouncing.
Joe watched her go. "Ain't that cute?" he said with a grin.
"Yeah, if you're a butt fancier."
"I'd like to see you in one of those outfits."
"It would take a better man than you to put me in one," I told him.
That's the way the banter went all through the meal. And we were laughing and joking as we headed toward the open barn door at the front, after we had eaten.
I happened to glance over to a stall on my right.
About a year ago, I got a letter from an oil company scowl on his dark puss and with his hair slicked down. I lost my grin in a hurry. I gasped, and my body must have stiffened as our stares met for a moment.
"What's the matter?" Joe asked as I moved on again.
"Over there on the right. Ricardo the Roach, he's known as. I know him well."
"Chi?"
"Yeah. He's a punk hood."
"Who's that with him."
"I dunno. Probably another roach."
"Well, what are they doing out here."
"I'll give you two guesses. They probably tailed us out."
"They couldn't have kept up with us," Joe said.
"So what? If we headed out Rutledge Road, where would we be headed?"
"Yeah. And did you notice all they had was coffee?"
"Of course. But I'll bet you they don't let us get out of sight this time."
"They'd better have a jet job, then."
"Now don't wreck us," I said, as we went out the door and headed toward the car.
"Never fear. I race occasionally. I know how to handle it."
Joe started toward his sports job. I hung back. "Wait a minute. Come on. Let's have some fun," I said.
I wheeled around and half-ran to a big black sedan parked next to the entrance. We squatted down.
We peered around the front tire. Out the door bounded Ricardo and his pal. They looked around and then ran across the parking lot.
I stood up and slogged to the rear of the car, with Joe right behind me.
Ricky and pal were climbing in a long black European job. I looked at Joe.
"It must be custom made," Joe said. "It doesn't look like any stock job to me."
"But I'll bet it'll travel," I said.
"You can make book on it," Joe said. "Watch them go."
They roared backward and then shot forward and burned rubber in a tight curve to the right as they headed toward town.
"Bye-bye, boys," I said with a grin. "I'm glad we're behind you, not ahead of you."
"Why should they be tailing you?" Joe asked.
"They have a message for me."
"Message?"
"Yeah. But they write the message with a gun instead of with a pen." Joe nodded. "I getcha."
"Yeah, that proves it. There's a contract out on me. Because Ricky Boy there is a top torpedo. When he's run in on a job, you can figure it's a big kill."
"Well, at least you're important," Joe said with a grin.
"You can say that in blood," I told him. "So let's get back to town and get to my apartment."
"You armed?" Joe asked.
I pulled back my denim jacket and slapped my .38. Joe nodded. "I've got a .45 in back."
"Then get it. And get it fast."
Joe went behind and threw up the trunk lid. He came back with a holster dangling on a leather belt and a .45 stuck in it. He put on the belt and adjusted the holster so it would ride on his hip. Then he let his jacket drop.
He opened the door and slid in. "If they don't find us, they'll be buzzing back here."
"Let 'em," I said. "Then you can kick it in the butt and we'll be in town before they get turned around."
Joe nodded and was grim as he started the motor. He backed it out and around and headed for the road.
He rocketed away toward town and I damn near lost my steak.
The car was so long and low that it hugged the curves and shot around them as if they weren't there.
As we swung to the right around a blind curve, we were hugging the middle of the road. So was the long black custom job, headed the opposite way.
"Hang on!" Joe yelled. "We'll see whose chicken."
Joe held it on a collision course. It seemed as if a slow motion movie. There we were with the wheels hugging the middle of the road and with the low-slung monster fighting to go over the center line. We hung there as if in suspended animation, with the big black behemoth's headlights leering at us just ahead.
When we were eyeball to eyeball, the black job suddenly swung to the right and fought to head back toward the center line. But it didn't make it.
It shot across a wide grader ditch and plowed through a hog wire and barbed wire fence, taking wire and posts and everything as it charged across a field of knee-high corn which had just been plowed. Try doing 90 miles an hour on hard ground and then mire down in that plowed ground and see what happens.
The big black brute suddenly began flopping end over end across the corn field. On about the third flop or so, it broke into roaring flames. And at that instant we were around the curve and I could see no more.
"Get it stopped," I yelled.
Joe hit the brake and released it and hit it again. He swung in a farmyard and hit the brake. He zoomed backward and around. Then forward. We rocketed back toward the curve and around it. In the middle of the com field was a blazing funeral pyre.
"I wonder if they got thrown out of it," I muttered.
"Fat chance," Joe said. "They were probably strapped in. At least the guy in the co-pilot's seat was.
ll make a book on that. The driver wouldn't have a hance of getting out. He probably bad the steering lumn rammed through him."
"We'd better be getting out of here," I finally said to Joe. "If Johnny Law should come along, they might start asking questions when they found out who I am."
Joe nodded and started the motor and we shot back down Rutledge Road toward The Rodeo.
Joe then finally got it slowed down and turned around and once more we headed toward town.
As we rolled into town a highway patrol car was ripping south, siren wailing and red light flashing. "He's on Code 3, I'll bet you on that," I said. Joe glanced at his speedometer. "Seems like we're crawling, doesn't it?"
I nodded as he swung left and worked his way toward Maple. In a few minutes we were heading toward my apartment house.
"Park at least a block away," I told him. "No need of tying you and this car to me."
Joe suddenly swung in and the tires swished the curb and he hit the brake. He yanked out the keys and crawled out. He came around and helped me out. We went up the walk a block and headed into 319. The lobby was deserted, fortunately. We took the stairs, in case anyone was coming down in the cage. We had nothing to hide, but I didn't want witnesses cropping up later that Joe had come in with me.
I speared the lock at my apartment and shoved back the door. I threw out my arm and frowned at Joe. Then I reached in and snapped on the light. I cautiously looked into the living room. Nothing. But I was taking no chances. I closed the door and locked it and chained it. I went through the whole damned apartment, flattening beside a doorway and then peering around the casing with gun drawn.
Joe watched me with an amused look on his face. When I came back he said, "Didn't you bag anything?"
I scowled at him. "I'll bag you in a minute. How do you know we weren't walking into a trap? I've lived like this for five years, and made my living doing it. So it comes natural for me. Even though it may sound crazy to you."
Joe nodded and headed toward the kitchen. "Is the booze still out here?"
We whipped up two old fashioneds and went back into the living room. We sat on the couch, and one thing led to another. To my surprise, Joe had turned into the bashful type. Hell, a woman doesn't want to throw it in a man's face. That takes all the thrill out of it for her.
I knew the only thing to do was to get him in a frenzy and let him take it from there.
I got up and went over and put a stack of records on the player and waited for a moment. There was a jump beat on the hi-fi. I kicked off my loafers and ambled over toward him like a tawny cat.
My fingers began freeing the buttons down the front of my shirt. I backed slowly away from him and shrugged out of my shirt as my hips, hugged by skintight jeans, wiggled provocatively and taunted him.
My hand went to my gun belt and freed it. I tossed it onto the couch beside him. Then my fingers grabbed my belt buckle and freed it.
I let my jeans slide slowly downward and kicked them away. I now wore only panties and bra. My hips undulated forward and backward to the tempo of the jungle beat. My thrusting breasts, although restrained by my bra, managed somehow to bounce and jiggle.
My hands now crept behind me and worked slowly upward. My bra fell free. My tits now bounded forth like two thoroughbreds just released from their stalls. I began dancing. I whirled, dipped and rose, and did the bumps and grinds, while my breasts tantalized him. He lunged off the couch. I ducked and ran with mincing steps and trying to get a half-sneering smile on my face.
My panties were the next to go. I kicked them away. Then I stood on my toes, like a ballet dancer, stretching upward, with my arms in the air and with my hands flopping forward. My breasts were proud and free. My belly was flat, thanks to the hours I had always spent in the police gym.
He grabbed me. I let on like I wanted to get away, but he didn't know that.
He cradled me in his arms, hugging me to him, and kissing me from my forehead to my lips and to my hard, bursting nipples. Then I threw my arms around his neck and made mewing sounds as he carried me to the bedroom and dumped me on the bed.
He shucked and dove headlong beside me. We rolled together. He had me in his arms, with his left arm under my neck, and with his right hand stroking my back.
My hands explored. One caressed the tangled jungle on his chest and belly. The other crept downward to grab, to tug, and to rub his massive pulsing cock.
His lips mashed against mine. Our tongues met, sparred, and then went on beyond the other's lips to whip up even more ecstasy.
He rolled me on my back. His hips slowly lowered. I sighed, clutched him to me in a bear hug, and then began moaning softly as his huge cock stretched my cunt-lips and slowly pushed in me.
We were like two ocean waves rising and falling together, locked together, and with our tongues now violently driving us onward and upward to the heights we were seeking.
I pulled my face away and screamed. I rocked and rolled higher and harder. He was not far behind.
We thrashed and tossed and had simultaneous convulsions. We gasped and fought for breath. And then, as the storm gradually subsided, we began breathing heavily and moving more slowly.
He hovered above me on his elbows, but still connected, and stared down into my eyes. His head ducked down to brush my lips.
He wasn't through yet and neither was I, but I knew I had to fire him up again.
I shoved my feet skyward, wide apart, and then they dived toward each other, locking his torso between my thighs. One of my hands grabbed the hair on his head and yanked while my other hand clawed his back.
My hips undulated and I clamped down on him and I felt his body stiffen.
I was hot. I was ready, even if he wasn't. I rocked and thrashed and squeezed his torso while moaning and letting out small screams, as I exploded.
He was getting fired up. I knew that the tumultuous surging pressure within each of us was building up to the bursting point.
He began screwing again with long slow strokes. We rose and fell in unison. Both our bodies became stiff and tense.
I rammed my hips upward now to meet his onslaught, and they reared up each time he rammed me. And the harder and more violent his thrust, the greater my response. We were racing down the home stretch. The fiery, surging, pulsating pressures still threatened to tear us apart. Something had to give.
All hell broke loose. We desperately clung together, tossed about on the wild surging waves of erupting orgasm.
He rolled off me and lay beside me, puffing and panting as though he had been digging a ditch.
I was finally able to sit up. When the room settled down, I got to my feet and staggered to the living room. I got my cigarettes and lighter, went to the kitchen, built two drinks and returned to the bedroom.
He struggled up on one elbow and reached for a drink. I stuck a cigarette between his lips and lit it. Then I placed an ash tray on the bed between us. I got one going for myself.
Joe took a long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke. Then he sipped his drink. He finally looked at me. "So what are you going to do to protect your building from being bombed?"
"That's one I'm trying to figure out now," I said.
"I have a suggestion..."
"Shoot," I told him.
"Did you ever hear your dad talk about Barney Vestal?" I shook my head.
"He retired on an Army pension about a year ago and came back here to live. He tried to start up a merchants' police patrol, but the merchants wouldn't support it and he had to give it up. So your dad got him in out at the Ramrod Corporation, over near Center City, as a guard. But that didn't work out. Too much regimentation, Parney said. Mike had to laugh at that one, after all those years in the Army. Barney's still around town and trying to live on his pension and do odd jobs."
"What are you getting at?"
"Just this. Barney needs work and money and he'd be glad to go to work for you."
"Doing what?"
"Look, Barney retired as a master sergeant. You're wanting publicity, right?" I nodded.
"Okay, here's what I suggest. There are outfits that you can buy uniforms from. Snappy uniforms. Or they'll design one for you. So you get Barney all togged out and let him form Barney's Raiders."
A glimmer of light began to filter through the sawdust in my head. I nodded.
"Get it?" Joe went on. "I know of a dozen Vietnam vets who haven't gotten settled down yet. That should be enough for Barney. They're already trained to handle weapons. So let them guard the building from sundown until the next morning. There are deputy sheriffs who are for hire when off duty. They have to moonlight to make a living. You can have them around in the daytime. Sure, it'll cost you some money."
"I don't give a damn what it costs," I said. "Even if I have to spend everything in my trust fund."
"Providing you can or are allowed to. So you'd better get hold of Al Marshall in St. Louis."
I nodded. "I'll do that tonight or the first thing in the morning."
I stared out the window. Barney's Raiders. Dad would have liked that name. And Dad would have liked the idea.
I looked back at Joe. "There's only one thing I would change about your idea."
"What?"
"I'm going to call it the Mike Gilligan Patrol."
CHAPTER SEVEN
JOE SHIFTED AROUND ON THE BED AND reached for the phone. He dragged it down and dug at the dial. Then he lay there, sucking on his cigarette, and staring vacantly while he listened to the muted ringing.
"Barney? Joe Tabor. I'm glad I caught you in. I've got a proposition for you. Are you working? ... Okay. Here's the pitch."
I went back out to the kitchen and built two more drinks. When I came back the phone was on the bedside stand and Joe was climbing into his shorts.
"Barney'll be over in a few minutes. He's interested."
I broke out some ice cubes, got them in an ice bucket with tongs, and put them on the coffee table. Then I got booze, seltzer water, glasses and swizzle sticks.
The place was a mess, so I grabbed a dust rag and hit the high spots. I ran for the closet and grabbed the hand sweeper and did a fast double-shuffle across the middle of the living room rug. I was just putting the sweeper away when the buzzer sounded. I went to the door and opened it.
He was as tall as Dad had been and built along the same lines, but he didn't have a paunch. He was as tough and as sinewy as a hickory tree. like Dad, his hair was snow white and piled high on his head. His eyes were blue and piercing, and his mouth was grim and determined.
"Master Sergeant Barney Vestal reporting," he said with a grin.
I gave him a mock salute. "Come right on in, sergeant."
"You the CO?" he asked.
"Yeah, I suppose so," I said, waving him into a chair. "Joe will be out in a minute."
He gave me a quizzical glance with a hint of a smile. I ignored it.
"Everybody's his own bartender around here," I said, lighting a cigarette and slumping down on the couch, watching him dump bourbon in his glass and reach for the ice tongs. As he squirted seltzer into the glass he glanced at me.
"Didn't Mike say you were a Chicago cop?"
"I was. I resigned when I came back here. I didn't want to be under their thumb."
He nodded. "Joe was telling me about the second try they made."
"Yeah. But I'm worried about the building. I haven't seen the Dispatch yet, but it'll be in there that the funeral is going to be at the Melon Patch. What would be more logical, to blow it up ahead of time or during the service?"
"During the service would be more logical," he said quietly, picking up his drink and swinging one long leg up over the other.
"I can take care of myself inside," I told him. "Did Joe tell you what I had in mind for remodeling the place?"
"Yes." He broke into a big grin and swished the ice cubes around in his glass and stared at his drink. "I think that's a great idea. Even after you have the mob on the run, I'd keep it up. Even though people know there's no danger then, it'll still be a tourist attraction. Nothing like having a bit of the old wild west in the middle of the corn country."
I nodded. "That's what I thought. I never liked the name, but Dad insisted on it. He said all the bluenoses didn't want a saloon in town, so this was Dad's way of whitewashing it. He called it the Melon Patch and it didn't sound like a bar."
"Times are changing," Barney said. "We don't go for hypocrisy as much today. Your Dad was right then, and you're right today. In fact, to keep on calling it the Melon Patch was silly. I told him so a year ago when I came back."
"You think you can round up some men and form a patrol?"
"Yeah. But Joe told me you were going to call it the Mike Gilligan Patrol."
"Yes. Isn't that okay?"
"Not quite. It should be called the Gilligan Raiders, put some pizzazz to it. It'll have better public relations. I know a guy who can get us uniforms in a hurry. I've already called him and he's standing by over in Center City. I'll send all of the men over after them. Just one phone call and that will do it. Eddie will round up the other men, and they'll go for the uniforms and bring mine, too, in an hour or so."
"Say, you work fast."
"Yeah."
"But you don't even know what you'll be paid," I protested.
"Don't need to. Mike needs us. We're ready."
"AH of you must have thought a lot of Dad."
"We did. All of us owe Mike a lot." He pulled a cigar from his pocket and ripped off the wrapper. Then he rolled it around in his mouth and lit it. "This town owes Mike Gilligan a lot," he said between puffs.
"I talked to Tom Potterfield around noon. He really did a job on today's issue. Wait till you see it."
"I hope they're not all sold out before I get one," I said.
"Tom's saving a bundle of them for you."
"Good."
"Barney suggests we call it Gilligan's Raiders," I told Joe.
"Sounds great," Joe said, dropping down beside me and reaching for the bourbon.
"Are there any extra keys to the bar?" Barney asked.
I grinned.
"Now, it's not what you think. I'll be personally responsible for everything in there, including the booze. But I would suggest that you put two fifths on the bar every night for the men. That will stop a lot of raiding."
"Okay. I'll leave it to you to control the thing. You can help yourself to the mix."
"Okay," Barney said with a nod. "So how about a key?"
"Sure. Charlie probably knows of a few extra ones down there. I don't know where the key is that Dad had when he was killed. I have one, of course. I've carried it for years."
"Well, if there's a basement under that building, then that's where we start. If any bombs have been planted, that's the first place to look. If we don't find any there, we'll dig up behind the rear of the building and see if any are buried back there. In fact, it might be wise to look both places."
I looked at Joe. "Barney things they're more-likely to blow it up during the services tomorrow."
Joe nodded. "Sounds logical," he muttered.
Barney looked back at me. "We're going to need guns."
"Does Ty Perkins have any."
"Sure. Just what we want."
I got up and went over to the phone and picked up the phone. In a few minutes I had Ty on the line.
"Molly Gilligan, Ty."
"Yes, Molly. What can I do for you?"
"I'm organizing an army," I told him. "It's to be called Gilligan's Raiders."
He chuckled. "What next?"
"No, we're serious. I'm afraid the building will be blown up, so Barney Vestal is organizing twelve Vietnam vets. They need guns. Barney says you have them."
"Sure. I don't know whether I have what they want and as many as they want."
"Doesn't matter. I'll send Barney over in a little while. Write it all up and I'll settle with you Monday."
"Right. Anything Barney wants, I'll give him. If I don't have it, I'll order it and have it by Tuesday."
"Thanks," I said. I dropped the phone and went back to the couch.
"Was Mike American Legion or VFW?"
"Neither," I said. "He said that in his position he couldn't get involved in their quarrels and politics, so he stayed out of both of them. But he helped both of them when they needed help."
"Sounds like Mike," Barney said. "What about an honor guard?"
"I think it's best I stayed neutral, too," I told him. "Why not have Gilligan's Raiders, if you have your uniforms? Do any of your men know how to handle a bugle?"
"Yes. Danny Rynerson. He was a bugler. He's got one, too, I think. Or I can get one."
I nodded. "Then it's settled. Gilligan's Raiders will be the honor guard."
"Got any flashlights around?" Barney asked.
"I dunno. Let's go look in the kitchen."
Barney stood up. "Okay, let's get going. I want to search that building in case that they're not going to wait until tomorrow afternoon."
We found a flashlight in the kitchen and the three of us walked down to the Melon Patch. The bar stools were loaded.
Charlie nodded when we went in. I asked for a flashlight and he found one. We headed toward the rear.
We were opening the door to the basement when Charlie came lumbering back.
"I didn't know where to call you, Molly..."
I looked at him. "What about?"
"There was a guy in here who claimed to be from the power company-"
"Say no more," Vestal said. "Did you let him go to the basement?"
Charlie shrugged. "I saw no harm."
"Let's get down there on the double," Barney said. He looked at Joe and me. "On second thought, I'll go down alone." He looked toward the front. "I don't like to start a stampede up there, but-"
"Get down there and look around," I said. "If there's danger, you'll be getting the hell out in a hurry, anyway. We'll try to clear the building.
Barney nodded and went on down the stairs. I couldn't stand around there. So I suddenly clattered down the stairs after him.
"You get back," Barney called, "it's not safe down here."
"It's not for you, either. I'm not going to stand around up there."
"Well, come on."
I stumbled through the darkness toward his voice. Joe had the other flashlight. Barney swept the beam around and guided me to him.
"Where's the furnace?"
"Over in that corner," I said.
"That's the logical place to start. It would be easy to detonate it that way."
I followed Barney over to the furnace. He didn't bother looking inside it. He went around behind and to the pipe leading to the chimney.
"Look," he said.
Four wires ran up from a black box stuck on the side of the pipe running to the chimney. They ran to the dusty timbers supporting the floor.
"They're new. See, they're not even dusty like the others."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It means they were put in there this afternoon. Two wires go to the bomb or bombs. Two wires run to a time clock, probably. Let's see."
The flashlight beam bobbed. I followed Barney as he traced the wires to the grimy concrete foundation wall supporting one side of the building.
"See," Barney said, "one pair of wires goes left and one goes right,"
"Of all the dumb stunts," I said, "sending a man in here like that. Why didn't they break in tonight?"
"It shows their contempt for everybody else's intelligence. This is probably just the first part of it. They won't take chances. There'll be another set of bombs put in tonight, you can bet on that."
Barney found an old box and dragged it over. He climbed up on it. "It's nitro jelly, spread all the way along here."
He climbed down and moved the box and clambered back up again. "It continues right on."
"So It's dangerous just being up there, isn't it?"
"Yes. But it won't be disturbed up here, so its not too dangerous. I'll take care of the wires back there. Then tonight I'll clean it out. I know how to."
"And not blow up the building?"
"No. After War III was on a bomb squad in Europe. We had to defuse bombs and shells that had landed in fields and hadn't exploded. So I know how to handle this."
"Good."
Barney climbed down and went back to the control box by the furnace. He pulled his knife. "See, they even threw up the lever so that juice would be coming through."
He slammed the lever down and reached for the wires. His knife hacked through them.
"There, that should do it for now. But from now on there'll be a guard around this building and inside it, too, day and night."
"You're sure there are no other bombs down here?"
"That's just what I'm going to find out. You get over there by the stairs and wait."
He led me to the stairs and then headed back. I saw the flash beam darting around. In a few minutes he reappeared.
"All clear down here now."
"Good," I said. "Let's go back up."
Joe was waiting for us, looking like a Basset hound. "Anything down there?"
"Plenty," I told him. "I'll tell you later. It's all clear now."
Joe nodded and looked at Barney. "Looks like you're not getting organized any too soon."
"You can say that again," Barney said. "I'm staying right around here from now on until I'm relieved by my men. But I'll be back by dark, never fear."
We went out the back door and Barney checked the rear foundation. He finally looked up. "It hasn't been tampered with," he said. "But that's the next logical place."
"If you have any men inside the building during business hours," I told him, "I want them in civvies. I don't want any uniformed men in that bar to scare people. Put one behind the bar as a bartender. Of course, he can't tend bar, but he can wash glasses and keep busy."
Barney turned to me. "We should be organized around here by sundown. I'd like for you to see it. Will you come down?"
"Sure. I'll probably be inside tending bar so Charlie can go to dinner. When he gets back, I'll make the rounds with you."
"Good. We've got to work this thing together."
"Don't worry. I'll be back here to relieve Charlie."
When we got back up near my place, we passed Joe's car. I told him it wasn't necessary for him to go on up with me. That I had my .38. He fussed a little, but glanced at his watch. I figured he had something else on.
I went slowly up the walk alone, with my head buzzing with all the things I had to do. So, I suppose, that's why I was careless.
I didn't bother waiting for the elevator. I trudged up the stairs and went down the hall and unlocked the door. Without thinking, I went on in.
SLAM!
I heard the door as I was grabbed from behind and a big hand was over my mouth and my arms were pinned behind me.
Damn! I'd been so careful when I had come in with Joe. And now, alone, I had walked right into it.
It was dark in there. They had pulled all the drapes and shades. There was no noise except the sound of heavy breathing. I tried to kick backward, but he stood away from me and I was kicking air.
A big piece of adhesive plaster was slapped across my mouth. All I could do now was cheep like a God damn baby chick.
My wrists were slapped one on top of the other and I felt more adhesive plaster being wrapped around them, binding them together. They were taking no chance on ropes and knots. I saw a flash of something white. Then a sack, probably a pillow case, was pulled down over my head. And there I was, trussed like a Christmas goose.
I was shoved on the floor and held down. I felt rope being tied around my legs, and I was as helpless as Gulliver.
I heard movement. On the carpet it was hard to tell if it was one pair of feet or two. I decided there were probably two.
I heard the hall door open, then I was picked up and lugged like a rolled rug.
I was suddenly heaved like a sack of potatoes and landed on a hard floor that smelled of dust. My hands, behind me, scrabbled around. There was a thudding sound as the trunk lid of a car was slammed down. I wondered if I would smother.
I heard the car's motor roar then purr. I felt the car begin to move. Its horn blared. The car went over a bump, so I knew we had gone up and out of the basement, across the sidewalk, and into Jaybird Street, running alongside the apartment building.
It was hot and stuffy in there. I hoped we wouldn't have far to go before I was executed. That's why they were taking me for a ride, wasn't it?
The logical place for them to take me was down along the river. I knew of several places where, even when the river was low, there were deep holes. If I were fitted with cement shoes, and tossed in one of those holes, I'd never come up.
From the way we were bumping along, and moving so slowly, I knew we were still on rough city streets. But, in time, the roar of the motor increased and the car was no longer jolting, and I knew we were leaving town.
I tried to visualize where we might be headed. We were either going south or headed west a ways, to hit the river. But I wondered how they would know where the deep holes were. If they did, then that meant some local jerk was in on the caper.
So now what? No one would be looking for me until when I was supposed to relieve Charlie. When I didn't show up, Barney should be back. But perhaps he wouldn't be until later. So, until seven o'clock or after, no one would know I was missing.
What would Barney or the cops have to go on, even if they knew I'd been snatched? Where would they start looking for me? Along the river? Hell, for all I knew, we weren't even going to the river.
And then it hit me. Had Manny or Frankie ordered me hauled back to Chicago?
, I felt the car slowing down. This must be it. I tried to keep relaxed, but my body tensed. In a few minutes they would be dragging me out and fitting me with concrete shoes.
The car rolled to a smooth stop. Hell, we weren't down at the river. We were still on pavement.
There was a blast of a diesel. Then another one. And then I heard the ring-a-ding-ding of a railroad crossing.
I blew out my breath. They had stopped to let a train go by.
There was a roar and a clatter and the clickety-clack of iron wheels on rails. It kept up for quite a while. It might have been a freight.
Suddenly, all was quiet. The car's motor sped up. The car moved forward. And we were on our way again.
Where were we? I tried to think. One thing was certain. We weren't headed south or west. The only railroad tracks near Clodville were north, where the main line slashed obliquely across the county, headed for Chicago. There was a way station, just north of Clodville, called Runnels. There wasn't even a town there any more, but there was an old dilapidated and abandoned railroad station that you could huddle in, to get out of the weather. There was no station agent, but the thoughtful railroad had taken care of everything. By day you grabbed up a red flag and went out and shoved it in a socket on a pole near the tracks. The engineer seldom saw it until he was right on it. Then he set the wheels and sparks flew and the train slid like a sled and you were lucky to be able to climb aboard the last coach. At night, there was a red lantern you could light and hang out there, but you had to furnish your own matches. Talk about modern conveniences today.
I tried to think back to where the road led as it went north. It's funny how, after five years away, you forget many of the things that you had known all during your childhood.
As I remembered it, this narrow country road meandered north until it finally angled to the east and hit a main highway headed upstate and finally into Wisconsin.
So maybe they were going to haul me into Wisconsin and dump me in the lake. That way they'd be damn sure I never came up or was found.
I began imagining all sorts of crazy God damn things, but I finally got hold of myself and decided that laying there and having the shakes wouldn't help me any. I'd better keep a clear head and follow the training I had received as a cop. Because, for all I knew, I might get a break. They might be stopped by the state police for speeding or for something. I had seen enough of that before. Unless they were exceptionally hardened pros, they couldn't act casual and nonchalant enough and the cops would get suspicious. If they did, I'd be found. Another possibility was that they might break down and have to get into the trunk to change a tire. Then what would they do? Or if they broke down on the highway or in some town and had to have help to get going again, I might be found. Thinking of all those possibilities, I began to cheer up.
And then I fell asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I WAS AWAKENED BY ROUGH HAND GRABBING me.
Even through the pillow case I could feel a cold breeze. It felt cold on my hands, too.
Where were we? The North Pole?
I could hear wind rustling through the trees. We were out in the country somewhere. If it was cold, then it was either night or in the mountains. And where would you find mountains in Illinois? Or where would you find mountains in a few hours' driving distance of Clodville?
As they lugged me away from the ear, I could hear their shoes squishing in wet grass. That was the answer. There had been a rain and a temperature drop.
I felt myself being carried up some concrete steps.
They hesitated a moment and then changed course. Because my body was twisted. The air nov smelled differently. There was the sound of metal sliding against metal, and I sensed that we were rising. We must be in an elevator.
More thudding of shoes as I was lugged some more. We stopped for a moment, then moved forward again.
I was dumped on a bed. Then I shook my head viciously from right to left and tried to throw it back, because they had dumped chloroform on the pillow case and it burned my face. My ears started ringing. I gasped for breath. And then, curtains.
When I awoke my cheeks were smarting. So were my wrists. I looked down. I was lying on my back on a bed and my hands were free. I put a hand to my mouth. It had been untaped, but in yanking off the tape they had taken the hide, too. I looked at my wrists. They were raw and swollen. My legs were now free, too.
I sat up and looked around. I was dizzy.
I was in a luxurious bedroom, with deep pile carpet and pale green walls and white ceiling. The furniture was luxurious.
Heavy maroon drapes covered the windows. I went over to one of them and my hand probed. I yanked and pulled back the drape. The window was not barred. I reached for the lever, to unlock the window, and then I saw something.
The window was taped. That meant one thing. It was hooked to a burglar alarm. If I opened that window, all hell would break loose.
My hand went out to a switch and tripped it. The room was dark. So I went back over to the window and stared out of it.
It was as black as outer space beyond the window, but, about a block away, I saw a light which looked as if it were on an arm extending out from a pole. Below it was a cone of pale white light. By looking at that light, I knew we were four or five floors up.
I heard a key in the lock behind me. I looked around. Then the cool moonlight came on again.
A tall hook-nosed guy with a shock of black hair and ears that stuck straight out was standing in the doorway staring at me.
"Why did you turn off this light?" he asked in a deep gruff voice. "So I could look out the window, stupid." He nodded. "The Boss wants to see you."
"Frankie or Manny."
"None of your lip. Come on."
He backed into the hall and stood there, staring at me. "Move!" he ordered.
I walked slowly toward him and through the opening. He kept backing slowly away from me, giving me no chance.
I did a diving tackle. While I was in midair he ran closer. Before I could get my arms around him his knee came up.
My head snapped back. He damned near broke my neck.
"Behave yourself and you won't get hurt," he growled. "Now get up and come with me."
I got on my hands and knees and viciously shook my head, trying to get out the cobwebs. My eyes were staring at each other, but I crawled over to the wall and got on my knees and scrabbled my hands up the wall as I stumbled to my feet. I wobbled down the hall, with one hand against the wall, to brace myself. He was right behind me.
"Now don't try anything funny," he warned. "I've got a gun on you. I'll either blast you to hell or split your head open with it. Take your choice."
When we reached an elevator door he ordered me to stop. I glanced over my shoulder at him. He had his gun out and headed for my spine.
"Now get in that cage and walk to the far end and stand plastered against it, with your face against the wall," he ordered.
I did as told. I felt the cage beginning to drop, but I continued staring at the wall. I wasn't going to give him a chance to split my head open.
The cage stopped. I heard the door slide back.
"Okay, turn around slow like," he ordered.
He was standing in the hall with his gun on me. I staggered out of the cage.
"Open that door there," he ordered.
I angled over and grabbed the knob and twisted it.
I was in a lavish living room. The lights were soft and cool as in the bedroom. There was muted music drifting around. The carpets were deep, and the furniture was such as you'd probably never see this side of an Oriental palace.
In a big overstuffed chair sat a massive man with diamonds flashing from each pudgy finger as his fat hands lay limp on the arms of the chair. His fat head was coming out through hair, like he was wearing a black halo. He had slitted eyes that stared at me as a lizard would. His nose was big and smashed, his lips thick and puffy and his mouth was cruel.
Frankie Carpello. I'd never met him, but I'd seen his pictures.
"That will be all, Juggy," Frankie said, looking behind me. He looked at me. "Sit there on the couch. There's cigarettes. There's booze and ice and mix. Fix yourself a drink, if you want one."
I went over to the couch and dropped down on it. He sat there staring at me as I pulled the lid off a teak-wood box and plucked a cigarette from it. I grabbed up a lighter and got my cigarette going.
"I'm sorry we had to bring you in this way," Frankie said in a deep sorrowful voice.
I nodded and reached for a glass and picked up a jug of bourbon.
"I wanted to talk with you," Frankie said.
"You knew where I was," I snarled, slopping bourbon into the glass.
"Yeah. Can't you feature me checking in your local hotel?"
"Where are we?"
"Where it is, doesn't matter."
"So what do you want to talk to me about?" I asked, dropping two ice cubes in my glass.
"I'm catching heat from the feds and the state cops, because of you. Manny told me this morning that he was catching heat, too. The feds and the state cops are blaming Manny and me for all the heists out in the boondocks. So I'll tell you, like I told them. Manny and I aren't involved."
I stared at him and sipped my drink.
"I can see you don't believe me."
"You're goddamn right I don't," I said. "If it isn't you or Manny, then who is it?"
"That's what Manny and I are trying to find out. Every time there's been a kill, we've sent our boys in to look around. That's what we did the morning after your father was killed. As usual, they came up with a blank. In time we'll find out who's trying to make a name for himself."
"Why couldn't you have told me that without having me snatched and wind up with my face and wrists raw?"
"I'll see to it-that you get some lotion for that. It won't pain you by morning, so you're none the worse for wear."
"But why was I brought here?"
"Manny and I talked it over this morning. We're putting you on ice."
Once more I stared at him. "What are you trying to tell me?"
"We're putting you on ice. After we clear up this goddamn mess and know who's trying to build an empire, we'll turn you loose."
"In a pig's valise you will," I sneered. "You can't afford to have me go to the cops and tell them you snatched me."
"What's wrong with that? You weren't taken over a state line. It's no Fed offense. So what can the state cops do but shrug and say, 'so solly'? "
"You mean you really will turn me loose?"
His beg head nodded. "Why not? We have no beef with you. You didn't shoot up any of our men. You didn't cause two of our men to crash. You did us a favor by doing what you did, because the clown who's behind this caper will be so mad he'll lose his cool. And when-he loses his cool he's bound to make a mistake. Then our boys will be right there to grab him."
"And turn him over to the cops?"
Frankie gave me a cruel smile. "You were Chicago fuzz. You ought to know better than that. Manny and I'll take care of him. We don't need the God damn courts and lawyers. We'll smash his outfit so that it will never run again, so you ought to be glad we're putting you on ice. You were rampaging around out there like a speared jungle cat. The way you were blundering around, you were bound to get killed. This way, you're safe. And you'll stay safe. When the danger is over, I'll turn you loose. Not until."
I took a deep drag on my cigarette and another gulp of my drink. What he said made sense, but it didn't make sense when Frankie Carpello was saying it. During all his long years in crime, Frankie had never kept his word to anybody. So why should he with me?
He seemed to read my mind. "I know you don't be-live me, simply because I'm Frankie Carpello, and I have a reputation for never doing what I say I'll do. But this is different. If Manny and I don't find who's behind this boondock caper, the feds and the state cops will smash us. Otherwise, we have an armed truce, and they leave us pretty much alone."
"So how long will I be here?"
Frankie shrugged. "Who knows? Mebbe one day, or one week, or one month, or even one year. Who knows? But here you'll stay until it's safe for you to be out again. You'll be my guest. I gave you the best bedroom in the house, upstairs. I'll see to it that you have all the imagine clothes you want. You'll have the best of food and booze and whatever you want that way. You'll live like the Queen of Sheba, so you can never say you were abused here. You'll even be free to run around on the grounds, providing one of my men is with you. But if you try to escape..."
"And then what will you tell the cops?"
"That a sniper got you. The cops can't prove otherwise, because somebody's always making a try for me."
"Yeah, but when I'm not found, the cops will put two together and come up with twenty-nine. They'll start shaking you and Manny down."
"Let 'em. It won't do them any good."
"They'll raid this place."
"They don't know anything about it. I saw to that. They never will. They can look for a hundred years and they'll never find it."
"So you've got it all figured out, haven't you?" I sneered.
He nodded. "Frankie always does, that's why Frankie's on top."
"But maybe Frankie's not as smart as he thinks he is."
"What do you mean by that?"
"There's a way to beat every system," I told him. "Even Vegas. Don't count on it that I'll sit here and be a good girl, because I won't promise you that. I'm going to try to get the hell out of here. And I will."
He laughed. "Talk is cheap. Go ahead and threaten me. I won't be. around after tonight, anyway. But my boys will, you can bet on that. And if you try anything too rough, we can always put you in a straightjacket and keep you in your room. If that's what you want, we can accommodate you."
"Am I the only woman here?"
"Yes. Why?"
"You mean you're going to leave me here alone with your gorillas?"
Once more he grinned. But this time he had frig in his pig eyes. And I saw it.
"You wouldn't want my boys to get bored now, would you?"
"Which is worse," I said, "for your boys to get bored or for me to get bored?"
He let loose with a belly laugh. "You're no virgin. So what are you bitching about?"
"Just because I have no grass on my busy street doesn't mean I'm going to take your boys on."
"I'll let the boys settle that with you," Frankie told me. "If you can convince them that they should leave you alone, that's okay by me. I'm not telling them to leave you alone or not to leave you alone. That's their decision."
"That's damn helpful of you."
"Yeah, isn't it? But, say, you're really stacked. I wonder what you'd look like stripped."
"You'll never find out," I yelled. "Oh no?"
His fat hand reached out to the table beside him and jabbed at a button.
We once more sat there, glaring at each other.
The door burst open and two of his trained gorillas came charging in, with their guns out. They skidded to a halt and looked at Frankie disgustedly.
"Come on in, boys," Frankie invited. "Sorry to have pushed the panic button, but I had no other way to get to you."
They nodded and shoved their guns into their holsters and looked at Frankie again.
Frankie nodded his head toward me. "Ain't she stacked?"
They grinned and licked their lips.
"I'd like to see her naked, wouldn't you?"
They nodded and licked their lips some more.
"Well, what are you waiting one?" Frankie roared. "Grab her and strip her."
I jumped up and took off like a raped rabbit. They were right behind me. It looked like a Mack Sennett comedy, with me jumping on couches, stepping on the back, and leaping off like Batman and running some more.
They chased me all over that goddamn big room. I was getting winded. They were, too, but I knew that if they fell on their faces, Frankie could always send for more help.
I suppose it was because I was tired and winded that my timing was off. I jumped off a table and there was one of the gorillas with his big hands out and with a grin on his ugly puss that would make the wolf's grin seem tame as he looked at Little Red Riding Hood.
The other goon came over to help. Kicking and screaming and biting and clawing, I was dragged back over to Frankie.
They held me suspended between them as I tried to kick at them and bite at their hands. Frankie stared up at me as if I were some kind of muck.
Frankie finally shoved up from his chair and walked over to me. I puckered up, ready to give him an oyster right in the middle of his fat puss.
His hand shot out and he backhanded me so hard that my jaw was out of line. "You slut," he growled. "All we want is to have a little fun."
Once more I puckered up to give him an oyster. This time his hand came straight back and slapped me in the mouth and one of his rings ripped my upper and lower lip and I tasted blood and felt it running down my chin.
"You'll get worse'n that if you don't behave," Frankie growled.
Frankie went over and sat down and his hand went over to the button on the table beside him. "Hold her, Boys. If she doesn't settle down, slap her around. She's the kind of hellion that-likes that stuff. It makes her She'll be an even better lay."
Once more the door burst open and two more gunsels came running in.
Frankie looked at them. "We need a hand, Boys. We're trying to strip this bitch. Thank you're man enough?"
They stared at me for a moment and then broke into evil grins.
"Sure, Boss," the taller one said. "We'll have her naked in a second."
I was still yelling and kicking and screaming and clawing and trying to lob an oyster at someone. They circled warily around me and then closed in.
Just as I was ready to fire a salvo at them, one of the bastards holding me slapped me across the side of the head. My brains felt as if they were scrambled. My eyes were staring at each other. And I was looking at everything through a bloody haze.
"Serves you right," I heard Frankie growl. "Okay, boys, go ahead and strip her."
I was half-out, but I felt finger fumbling at my collar. They yanked, and buttons flew like popcorn when the popper lid is off. Then there was a yartk at my belt buckle and big fingers ripped again. My jeans split.
Other hands grabbed and my shirt was ripped off my back. More grabbing. My bra fell away. And then my panties and what was left of my jeans were yanked away. And there I stood in all my pristine glory, calling them names that even a drunken dockwalloper wouldn't think of.
"Ain't she somethin'? " Frankie asked. "Which one of you guys is man enough to mount her and break her?"
I was wrestled to the floor and pinned down. But there weren't enough of them.
"Looks like we need more help," Frankie said. "Hold her down, boys. You can all take turns with her. In fact, if there's any left, I might try it."
I was winded. I was beat. I was hoarse from screaming. And so I lay there gasping for breath and with all the fight out of me for a minute. But if they thought they were going to ram me...
Two more big brutes came in. Frankie looked at them.
"It's gonna take four men to hold her down," Frankie told them. "You guys are gonna have to take turns on her. But since you guys ain't clawed, you might as well sample the meat first."
They shrugged out of their jackets and began to shuck. I started screaming again, and got a slap across the chops for it. Every time I screamed I got clobbered. So, before long, I was only dimly aware of what was going on.
Through the bloody haze, I could see a big tall gangling monster covered with black hair and with a big dong swaying as he walked toward me. If he thought I was going to take all that, he had rocks in his head.
There was one goon on each of my arms, with their knees pinning my arms to the floor. Suddenly my legs were yanked up and pulled wide apart.
"Ain't she got a purty cunt?" I heard one of the men ask.
"Aw, hurry up," another pug growled, "go ahead and see if it feels as purty as it looks." WHAM!
He was in me. He damn near tore me apart. Then he rammed me faster and faster and I screamed and rocked my hips around and tried to get away from him, but I had less chance of getting away from him than I had of getting away from that God damn hellhole.
I must have conked out, because the next thing I knew another monster was mounting me.
It went on and on and on. I finally was too weak to scream. I wondered if I would ever live to get out of there, even if Frankie kept his promise.
And then, through haze so thick I could hardly see through it, I saw Frankie, a huge jiggling mass of flabby fat, and as naked as a pitchfork, waddling over to me.
"I might as well get in on the finale," he said.
He dropped to his knees. He edged forward.
I suddenly had a surge of new strength. I caught the two apes, who were holding my legs, off guard. My legs were free.
My legs went around Frankie's neck. They got a scissors hold on it. I squeezed as hard as I could. I could hear him wheezing and gasping.
"You sonofabitch," I snarled, "I'll squeeze the God damn wind out of you."
Again I got a slap across the chops and then another and another. It seemed as if they wouldn't stop. I was beginning to drift away. I vaguely realized that my legs were falling wide apart and dropping to the floor. Then I felt my legs once more being yanked up and pulled wide apart. Frankie was in me with one long hard push.
Merciful blackness swept in. I fought my way upward and broke water. Spotlights were glaring down on me from all sides. I was in an outdoor swimming pool, and lounging around the pool were about a dozen goons with guns drawn and aimed at me.
"Have a good swim for yourself," Frankie called. "I'm going to bed."
CHAPTER NINE
I CLAMBERED FROM THE SWIMMING POOL with my teeth chattering and shivering like an excited poodle. One of the apes threw a big beach towel at me. I caught it and wrapped it around me and started prancing around to try to get warm.
I was soon herded to the elevator and back to the fifth floor. Minutes later, I was back in my room.
I climbed under a hot shower and stood there feeling like a lobster in a kettle of boiling water, but before long I began to feel human again. I climbed out and rubbed myself as red as the nose cone on a rocket.
I went back to the bedroom and climbed into a king-size bed. The mattress felt as if I were lying on a cloud. I lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, and wondering about Barney Vestal and Gilligan's Raiders and whether the building had been blown up.
Frankie had said he and Manny would see to it that the clown trying to make a name for himself would not blow up the building or do any further damage. Without saying so, he probably also meant that he and Manny would see to it that the bar wasn't taken over.
But if I dropped out of sight indefinitely, wouldn't Dad's license be given to someone? I couldn't expect them to hold it and wait for me to pop up again, if ever.
It was entirely possible that Frankie had had me snatched because the Feds were on his back, but that didn't mean that Frankie would ever turn me loose. He probably had to keep some of his goons at that hideaway at all times, to protect it. His goons would get bored out there in the boondocks, so how nice it would be to keep me penned up there forever, to be a sex machine for the men he sent down from Chicago for guard duty at the hideaway.
Clodville was a small town. Everybody knew everybody else, so if Frankie and Manny had men in Clodville to watch things, they should be as conspicuous as a cat at a mouse convention. Lem Carlyle, the sheriff, was no fool. If he heard of strangers hanging around Clodville, he'd surely try to peg them. But if he did, and proved them to be Frankie's boys, or Manny's, that wouldn't necessarily mean that Frankie or Manny had snatched me.
What would everyone in Clodville think when I dropped through a hole in the earth so suddenly and no trace of me could be found, Would they figure I had been snatched?
Then another thought hit me. When I had walked into my apartment, the drapes and shades were pulled. When I didn't show up, Barney would no doubt have Lem Carlyle come over to investiage. When Lem went to my apartment, he would spot those closed drapes and shades. And he'd wonder why they were closed.
It was possible that the two gorillas who had grabbed me might have left clues behind, something dropped on the rug, or a crumpled book of matches they tossed aside, or something. If so, Lem might go looking for fingerprints and come up with the prints of the two hoods who had grabbed me. Then he could put out an APB for those two men, and then the hunt for me would be on.
I also wondered about Dad's funeral the next day. Even if the building weren't bombed, would someone take hold and organize the thing? Art Trumbull, at the mortuary, wasn't the man for the job, but perhaps Barney Vestal would take hold and carry it through. I hoped so, because I wanted Dad to have the appropriate farewell from Clodville.
And then I fell asleep.
Smooth warm hands lightly caressing my back awakened me. I was lying on my right side, and I could feel a warm fragrant body jammed against mine, belly to belly.
"Don't be frightened," a low sultry voice whispered. "I have come to help you."
"How?" I asked.
"That I don't know. We will have to decide that together. But we must keep our voices down. If I'm caught in here, it will be my life."
"But why do you want to help me?" I asked.
"Because if I help you, perhaps you will help me."
"This gets crazier and crazier," I whispered. "Help you to what?"
"To escape. I have been a prisoner here for months, and it is better that I be deported than to spend the rest of my life here being raped by these depraved monsters."
"Then Frankie will never let me go?"
She snorted. "You know better than that. Frankie never lets go of anything he gets his big fat hands on."
"But how did you get in here?" I asked.
She gave a low rippling laugh. "To survive, I learned how to pick pockets. I picked Augie's tonight, after I had seen him lock this door and drop the key into his pocket."
"How did you know I was in here?" I asked.
"I saw Augie taking you out of this room and to the elevator. I figured they were taking you down to see Frankie, so I slipped down the back stairs and went outside the window when they were having their fun with you. The longer I watched, the more angry I became. I know it's going to be dangerous, but, with luck, we shall escape."
"But how come you're not locked up as I am?"
"I was when I first came here, but I played it smart. I made no trouble. I didn't try tackling them, as you did tonight. That was very foolish."
"I know it, but I was mad."
"Anger will get you nowhere. Not with these brutes. And when they raped me, I made no protest and didn't fight back. So, before long, they stopped guarding me so closely, but I knew they were watching me. If I made any attempt to escape..."
"Yeah," I agreed. "So you played it cool. And then what?"
"They never told me I was free to roam around. I just started it, and they never stopped me. But I never made any attempt to run away. In fact, I never went far from the building when I was out on the grounds. I always stayed in view, because I knew someone would be watching me from a window. I've been a model prisoner. I lay on my back and submit whenever they want me to. They think they have me cowed, but wait until the right time comes. They'll regret what they have done to me. If you are smart, you will stop fighting them. They may never get over being suspicious of you, but after a while they may. And until they leave you alone, as they leave me, we can never hope to try to escape."
"Makes sense," I said. "But they make me so God damn mad..."
"I know. But what does it buy you except a broken nose or a black eye or something worse? There was a girl here a few weeks ago. She was a hellcat. She clawed and bit and kicked them and one night clawed ore of the monsters' eyes out. That did it. Frankie ordered her dragged down to the old well house. She's never been seen since."
I shuddered. "I didn't think they'd play that rough."
"You don't know Frankie. He's as cold-blooded as a shark. That's why I came in tonight, to warn you, and to ask you to not fight them, because you only make it worse for me. When Nadine was fighting with them, before she was thrown down the well, she would make everyone angry and then they'd come looking for me and tear me apart, too."
"I'll try to behave," I promised. "But there's a limit to what I can take."
"You haven't even seen what you can take yet. It will be more horrible than you ever imagine. I have seen it, with Nadine. They'd jab her breasts and nipples with lighted cigarettes. They'd carve their initials on her butt so she couldn't sit down."
"Frankie said he was leaving here tonight," I said. "When we're alone with those apes, are they as bad as when Frankie is here?"
"Depends on whether you cross them. If one of them tells you to get on the bed, get on the bed and don't fight him, or he'll go get the others and then you will really catch it. Just go along with them. You don't have to pretend you're enjoying it, just submit and don't fight them. That's all that's needed."
"You say you have been out on the grounds," I said. "Have you been able to get near any of the walls?"
"No. That's too far away."
"So you have no idea how we would be able escape?"
"No. I don't. But I know that if we keep our eye open, there must be a way. Perhaps you have never lived like an animal, fighting to stay alive, fighting have enough food to keep you alive, and fighting hang on and try to survive until things get better. Well I have. I've lived that way most of my life. So Frank and his monsters don't scare me."
"How did you get in this mess, anyway?" I asked.
She snuggled closer to me and shoved her left arm under my neck. Her right hand began lightly caressing my side and occasionally moving down to stroke buttock and thigh. How good it felt.
"My name is Tiki," she said. "My parents were from a tribe that came from one of the South Sea islands and settled on Hungdung, a little island off the coast of China. I was just a baby when my parents fled Hungdung and eventually landed in Mexico. They wanted to come into the United States, but they knew it would take years of waiting. They settled down in Mexico City and, like other refugees, scrounged for a living. At an early age, we kids practiced on our men and women and learned to pick pockets. Then we were sent out and came back with watches and money and other valuables. We'd take them down to old Sing Ling, who would give us little or nothing for them and then turn around and sell them for a huge profit. The police couldn't touch him, so we were fairly safe. We no longer had to scour the dumps and garbage cans to get enough to live on.
"I don't know how old I was when my mother took sick and died a few days later, but I do remember that it was shortly after I had begun to menstruate. Even today, I don't know how old I am.
"As we girls got older we were introduced to another way of making a living. In the cribs in the back alleys, on a filthy bed, whoring. What we were paid by the pigeon meant nothing, because we would roll him and take him for everything he had and then whistle for Pancho who would haul him out of there and dump him in another alley.
"I stole and I did everything possible to get my hands on money. And I'd hide it behind an adobe brick in my shack. The pile grew and grew.
"Then I heard of Kerserge. I went to see him. He was a huge giant of a man with black hair and dark skin and black hair all over the backs of his hands and up his arms.
"It was known that Kerserge, for money, would smuggle you in the United States. From long years of living in the jungle, I didn't tell him how much money I had. I just asked him how much he wanted to smuggle me. He told me five-hundred dollars, U.S. I gasped and let on that I couldn't ever raise that much money. So we haggled. And we finally settled for one-hundred and fifty dollars. But, for one of my kind, it would take a lifetime to raise it.
"And then Kerserge said he had a possible way for me to raise it in a hurry. He knew of a robbery that was being planned. They could use me. It was a bank. But the Federales knew about it, too. Everyone was killed except me. I managed to work my way down alleys and get back to my people. They hid me, and in a few days Kerserge came looking for me. He said he was ready to smuggle me to the United States.
"I left Mexico with the Federales looking for me. So I can't go back there again.
"A few nights later, Kerserge came again and took me to a big truck filled with straw. I was told to crawl under the straw and make no noise. I found that the bottom of that truck was jammed with others who wanted to be smuggled out.
"I don't know how many days we sweltered under that straw and how many nights we froze and huddled together for warmth, but we finally reached Nuevo, a dirty and sleepy little Mexican town across the border from Blanton on the American side. We were herded in a bar and made to crawl under more straw and stay there.
"We were there in that haymow for several days. We could look out through the cracks and the knotholes and see the Federales looking for us. They had evidently found the truck.
"Then one night I heard a man whispering my name. I answered, and he grabbed my arm and pulled me out and led me away. He was a small swarthy snake of a man with thick black hair and beady eyes and a toothbrush mustache. He told me to go with him and make no trouble, because the Federales were around.
"Well, I landed in a crib in Nuevo. And I was told with a sneer that there I was to stay or they would hand me over to the Federales.
"It was a dark rainy night when I slipped away and worked my way to the bridge and went under it. I swam across the river and huddled on the other side, shivering and wondering where I was to go from there. Then I finally got up and stumbled forward through the rain and the darkness. I found a highway and started walking down it. I was picked up by two men in an old car. They said they were going to Chicago. I don't know how many weeks it was that we were on the road. When the car would break down or we'd run out of money we'd have to stay in a town until we had picked pockets and gotten the car fixed. They found out what I had done in Mexico, so they became my pimps and I would set up shop in a fleabag hotel.
"My friends heard of a big store that could be robbed. They wanted me to be in the car to help them get away, but things went wrong. I started the car and roared ahead and broke through the police roadblock, and then they were after me.
"That must not have been very far from here, because I was nearly out of gas. And I saw a red light and heard a siren far behind me. Then a wheel came off the car and the car rolled over and over and landed in a ditch. I crawled out and hid behind some bushes. I kept on crawling the rest of the night, lying flat when the police would roar by. Then I found this place. When I touched the gate, of course, it sounded an alarm.
"Well, you know the rest."
My body was now responding to her caresses. My hand was roaming around over her back.
"So if you're sent back to Mexico," I said, "you will be sent to prison?"
"Or worse. Perhaps I will be shot. Federales were killed that night, and they will make me pay the penalty for that."
"And Frankie knows all this?"
"Not all of it. He had ways of finding out. He knew that I had no place to run."
"And you want to escape from here?" I asked.
"Yes. Somehow I will be given a chance to stay in the United States."
"Yeah," I said grimly, "in prison. I was a cop in Chicago."
"A cop? I do not understand."
"Police," I said.
Her body stiffened and she moved away from me. I grabbed her and dragged her back. I wanted her close to me, as she had been.
"I'm not police now," I told her. "And I'm not going to turn you in."
"Thanks," she said.
"How did you learn to speak English?" I asked.
"In Mexico we had men and women from every country. There were many Americans who had run away from the United States. So I learned your American language."
Her hand slid down from my side and onto my breast. It stayed motionless for a moment. I made no protest, so it began moving around. I rolled back from her a little so that her hand was free to roam.
"And what about you?" she asked. "How did you get here?"
I told her, in low whispers, all the while her hand was setting my body on fire.
Suddenly I was seized by a desire to see this wild creature from the jungle. So I said, "The drapes are closed. Can't we turn on a lamp?"
"But why?"
"Because I want to see you," I said.
She hugged me to her. "I'm not much to see. But if you wish to..."
I rolled away from her and sat up on the bed and my hand went out and fumbled for the lamp on the bedside stand. It finally found the lamp and snapped on the light.
I blinked in the glare and my hand went out. The bed was empty. I wondered where she had disappeared to.
And then I saw her standing at the foot of the bed. She was small and lithe and the color of milk chocolate. Her long straight jet hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She had big doe eyes and a pug nose and a rosebud mouth. Her breasts were firm and up-thrust, with erect pink nipples. Her belly was flat. And she was built along the general lines of a greyhound.
She stared at me and I stared at her.
"You are very pretty," she said.
"You are, too," I told her.
She ran to me with a rush and fell into my arms and we sat there side by side on the bed, hugging each other and thankful and joyous that we were no longer alone.
She pulled back her head and stared into my eyes. Her eyes were black and shimmering and they glowed, deep within them.
And then, suddenly, her left arm moved up and went around my neck. Her lips mashed down against mine and her right hand found my breast, to caress and to pluck the nipple.
When her tongue slithered between my lips my tongue shot out and began to spar with hers. My hand found her breast. We clung together, breathing heavily, and savoring each other to the fullest. Then she pushed me back on the bed, on my back, her lips planting sucking kisses on my throat while her free hand continued working on my breasts.
Her lips then moved downward and began kissing my breast at the same time her hand was kneading it. Her hot moist lips clamped on my nipple. I moaned and stifled a low scream and exploded.
She shifted around and her lips found my other nipple while her hand strummed the nipple her lips had just caressed.
Once more she shifted around and her lips began kissing my belly and finally found my navel. Her tongue bored in. I arched my back and bit my lip to bottle up a scream.
Her body slid farther down. I opened my eyes. She was on her knees on the floor, pulling my legs wide apart, and staring at me.
She shoved my legs up and wider apart. And then she began kissing my thighs, with her lips brushing the curls of my joybox as she went from thigh to thigh. I closed my eyes and drifted to dreamy ecstasy. I had never known anything so delicious and thrilling.
I felt her fingers fumbling. My pussy lips were opened. And then I felt something hot and warm enter and probe deep within me. I grabbed a pillow and drew it across my face and hugged it tightly to muffle my screams as I erupted as I had never erupted before.
Reality took flight. I was drifting high and free. From far away I sensed I had a body that was being loved as it had never been loved.
Then it was as if I were alone. I had no contact with those electrifying lips. I sensed her warm body next to mine, felt it shifting around. I opened my eyes.
She was astraddle me and her ass was slowly lowering. I raised my hands and supported it. Instinctively, I knew what was coming. I reached up and spread her elastic cunt-lips.
Our tongues made .contact at the same time. We locked our arms around the other and we rolled and flopped and thrashed all over the bed, never losing the other. Together, like two thistledown, we floated higher and higher together and were high above the savagery of this cruel world.
My body was now a vibrant, quivering mass of sweating flesh. I was having one long continuous series of orgasms such as I had never known before.
From sheer exhaustion, we rolled apart and she crawled around and we lay in each other's arms. "We shall find a way to escape," she whispered.
CHAPTER TEN
I WAS IN A WILD DESOLATE LAND, SLOGGING along through waist-high grass and being clawed by overhanging tree branches that ripped my skin and yanked at my hair. There was a deep rumbling roar and lightning flashed and the tree split in half beside me. I screamed and ran and fought my way through the overhanging branches and the ground shook as the tree fell just behind me. Then I was free. No longer were there tree branches clawing at me. I ran through drenching rain. I was free. The rain would not stop me. Ahead lay brilliant sunshine, warmth and comfort and the good land I was seeking. But just then there was an earthquake. I was being violently shaken.
As I drifted to consciousness, I realized it was a big rough hand that was shaking me, not an earthquake.
"Come on, get the hell out of there," a deep voice growled.
I rolled over on my back and clearly looked up. I saw the dark sullen face of. the guy who had hauled me down to Frankie the night before.
"Gome on," he yelled again, grabbing the covers and yanking them back.
I sat up and looked at the windows. Sunlight was streaming through them.
"Ferdie says he can use you, so get out of there."
He grabbed my legs and yanked me around. His hand shot out and got tangled in my hair and he tugged me up.
"On your feet," he ordered.
I staggered from the bed and wobbled around in a circle, trying to get awake. i
"I'll wake you up," he said.
He caught me by surprise. Before I knew what was happening he had shoved me in the shower and turned on the cold water. I screamed and jumped up and down and beat on the shower door. And then through the cobwebs in my head, I realized that I could turn off the icy torrent. My hand shoved a knob in and the deluge stopped. I shoved against the shower door and it gave way. I stepped out a sodden dripping mass of wet hair and blue skin.
My tormentor stood across the room, lounging against the door casing, sucking on a cigarette and staring at me.
"Grab that towel and get dried off," he ordered.
I reached for a big towel and began mopping my head. My body was next and I damn near rubbed it raw. I was awake. And I was so God damn mad I could have slit his throat.
He shoved away from the casing and headed into the bedroom. "Come on," he ordered. "Ferdie's waiting on you."
He went to the hall door and opened it and stood aside. We stood there for a moment, glaring at each other.
He pulled his snub nose from his jacket pocket and thumbed back the hammer. "I'll give you to the count of three to get the hell out of here."
I raced through the opening and his foot shot out. I took a header and belly flopped across the hall carpet, ' burning the hide off my belly and thighs.
"Where do you think you're going in such a rush?" he asked. "Now get down there to the elevator."
I got to my feet and headed down the hall. I heard his thudding footsteps behind me.
"You know the routine," he rumbled. "Push that button."
I jabbed at the button and we waited in the quiet hall. The elevator door finally rolled back.
"Do as you did last night," he ordered. "Go straight into the cage and plaster your face against the wall and keep it there'. "
I heard the elevator door slide shut. We began dropping. And then we were stopped and the door rolled back.
"Turn around and come out slowly, as you did last night," he ordered.
This time when I stepped from the cage I was on cold concrete.
"To the right."
It was cold and damp down there, but I marched straight ahead, listening to his thudding footsteps behind me. I could suddenly smell perking coffee and the aroma of bacon.
I suddenly realized I was hungry. I hadn't eaten since the steak dinner at the Rodeo the day before. "To your left now."
I went through a doorway and was in a bare room with four scarred tables and with dilapidated chairs at them, which had been wired together.
"Sit down there," he ordered. He looked toward a doorway in the wall nearby. "Okay, bring her breakfast," he yelled.
A wrinkled little Filipino came shuffling through the doorway, carrying a big tray.
"She won't bite," he said, wagging his head toward me. "Put it down on that table."
The old man shuffled closer.
"Put your hands in your lap under the table."
I was surprised that they were feeding me so well. There was steak and eggs and hotcakes and maple syrup and butter along with hot buttered toast and marmalade and a big pot of coffee. I wondered if I could get outside all that.
I picked up the platter of steak and eggs. It was hot, so I grabbed up a napkin and used it to drag the plate off the tray.
"Come on, come on, you haven't got all day. Ferdie's waiting on you. You've got ten minutes to eat."
I ignored him and picked up a fork and a steak knife and went to work.
I ate as fast as I could. I didn't know how long ten minutes would be. I finally finished and poured a cup of coffee and pulled it to me.
I looked at the brute. "Have you got a cigarette?"
He nodded and pulled a cigarette from his pack and tossed it on the table. He circled around and came in from the front, striking a match on a book. I leaned toward the flame, knowing I couldn't start anything. The snub nose was in his other hand and I was staring down the barrel.
I dragged on my cigarette and sipped my coffee.
"Come on, come on. I haven't got all day. Either drink that coffee or forget it"
I tried to gulp it, but it was too damned hot. I burned my mouth and started swearing.
"Let it go," he said. "Get up and get going."
I shoved back the coffee and stood up. Once more we stood there, glaring at each other.
"Frankie told you last night," he said, "that you would be a guest here and could do as you pleased. But you haven't acted like a guest, so until you do, we won't treat you as one. Now get back out there in the hall and turn to your left. I'll be right behind you, so don't try anything cute."
I headed down the hall toward an open doorway. We went through and out to the brilliant sunlight.
"To your left again," he ordered.
I headed down a flagstone path, under spreading maple trees, and past carefully tended gardens of flowers that were a nodding explosion of colors. Ahead lay a low stone building with a red roof.
"In there."
I went through another doorway to the cool dark gloom of the building. I saw a short stocky sunburned man with grizzled gray hair and an iron gray drooping mustache. He was sucking on a curve-stemmed pipe and staring at me.
"This is the extra help you asked for, Ferdie," my guard said. "Put her to work."
Ferdie nodded and pulled back his jacket and patted a .45 as he looked at me. "I won't be far away. I know how to use this, so if you want a slug, I can accommodate you. Now get outside there and I'll show you what to do."
Then began one of the most hellish days I had ever put in.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HE THREW A PAIR OF OLD LEATHER BOOTS at me as he came out of the building. "Put those on," he ordered.
He herded me down another flagstone path and we came to a clearing. A spading fork stuck in the ground stood upright nearby. Stakes had been driven in the ground and heavy cord was taut between the stakes.
"That's goin' to be our new zinnia bed," he told me. "Get to work and spade it up."
I stared at the spade and at the cord running between the stakes. It was damn near as big as the average city lot.
"Start just inside that cord."
I put the spading fork down and stepped on it. I barely moved it an inch. I shoved even harder. The God damn ground was like concrete.
"Put some muscle in it," he ordered.
I finally got the fork down into the ground and leaned on it. I damn near went butt over buttermilk. The fork barely gave.
"Lean on it," he yelled.
I practically jumped on it and broke it free. Then I had to try to lift it and turn the sod over.
"You'll have some muscle before this day's over," promised me slumping down on the ground with his back to a tree and lighting his pipe.
The sun was soon high and was broiling me. I was so dry and thirsty I couldn't spit. My sweating hands were getting blistered. My feet, swimming in sweat, were getting just as blistered skating around in those big boots.
It soon became a nightmare and nothing seemed real around me. It was stab the ground, jump on the fork, lean on the fork, grab the fork and turn the load over. Over and over again.
And then, suddenly, I could push myself no farther. I jumped on the spade and nothing happened. I jumped again and nothing happened. Then I felt everything fading away from me.
I was awakened by a huge splash of cold water. I spluttered and fought my way up. I was back in the swimming pool.
"Have a fast swim and get to work," Ferdie said, standing alongside the pool and puffing on his pipe. "You're soft. But in another week you'll be able to spade up more than that in a half-day."
I rolled over on my back and floated.
"Get going," he yelled. "Either start swimming or get the hell out of there."
I rolled over on my belly and began a breast stroke in a circle. I didn't want to use up all my strength. The cool water felt good, except on my sore back.
"Come on," Ferdie finally yelled, "get out of there and get back to work."
I swam to a ladder and climbed out. The hot sun made short work of the glistening, drops of water as I walked back down the path with Ferdie behind me.
Just before we got back to the torture area, there was a whistle and a shout
"Bring her up here for chow," a rough voice yelled.
"You heard him," Ferdie said. "Get turned around and head back to the house."
I did and was thankful for a chance for further rest
"Get over to that picnic table under that tree," Ferdie ordered.
Once again the old Filipino came trudging out, carrying a tray.
"Put it on the far end of that table," Ferdie yelled at the old man. "She can't hurt you then."
The old man dropped the tray on the far end of the table.
They really fed the prisoners. I had steak for breakfast and steak for lunch. There was also baked potato with sour cream and chives and all the trimmings. It was almost more than I could eat
As I was eating I thought of a dream I had the night before. I could almost feel the warm soft body of the girl I could still see in my mind's eye. Then I slowly realized it was not a dream. This was for real. She had gotten up during the night and fled. But she would be back that night. I was certain of that.
I bummed a cigarette off Ferdie and downed a cup of coffee. Then Ferdie ordered me back to work.
If that morning had been hell, that afternoon was ten varieties of hell. The sun beat down on me like a giant heat lamp. I could feel the skin on my back sizzling and shriveling. Sweat was flooding down over my body and my hands were so raw that I could hardly hold the fork.
From out of the mists around rne, Ferdie stood there with a bucket of water and a dipper.
"Don't drink too much," he ordered. "It'll make you sick. Just swish it around in your mouth and spit it out."
I did as ordered. But I let some of the cool liquid trickle down my dry parched throat.
Ferdie yanked the dipper from my hand and shoved it into the bucket and walked away.
"Get back to work," he ordered.
I knew I was never going to make it for the rest of the afternoon. I could barely see through the thick gray haze around me.
Suddenly everything started spinning around like a berserk carousel. The haze rushed in to claim me.
I was floating and drifting. Far away, my body lay below me, hot and tortured.
I heard a low soft sweet song being hummed. Smooth hands were caressing my body as the cool rag was patted on it.
I opened my eyes. I was lying on my belly on the bed. I twisted my head and looked over my shoulder. Tiki was sitting on the bed beside me, patting a rag filled with ice on my blistered back.
Our eyes met for a moment and within the black depths of her big eyes I saw warning signals. I turned my head a little further and looked toward the foot of the bed.
The ape who had gotten me out of bed that morning stood there, scowling at me. His hand was in his jacket pocket and, from the lump in his pocket, I knew he was gripping the snubnose.
I swiveled my head around and rested it on my forearms. How good that ice felt and how smooth Tiki's hands were. She sloshed cool creamy liquid all over my back. Then her hands once more began to lightly caress, all over my back and over my buttocks and down my thighs.
In time, she rolled me over on my back and splashed more of the lotion all over my belly. Then her hands went to work again, massaging my breasts and rubbing my nipples with the palms of her hands. Her hands moved down on my belly and lightly skated around, with her fingertips lightly brushing my sides. How stimulating it was. I was getting hotter than a brick in an oven.
She rose and sat down again, this time nearer to my feet. She poured lotion on my thighs and pulled my legs apart. Then her hands gently and lightly skimmed around over my thighs and my inner thighs and the back of her hand brushed against my pussy occasionally.
She reached over to the bedside stand and picked up a towel. She wiped her hands, reached for a can of talcum and dusted me all over, my breasts and my belly and my thighs. Then her hands once more began caressing and rubbing and patting the powder into my skin.
She rolled me over on my belly and I could feel cool powder sprinkling up and down my seared back. She patted and rubbed the powder into my back and my buttocks and thighs.
Once more she rolled me on my back. She took one of my hands and dumped lotion on my palm and gently and carefully began working the cool cream into my blistered hand. She reached for the powder next and sprinkled it and rubbed it in.
She then got up and moved further down and lifted my legs and put my feet on her bare thighs. She put lotion into her cupped hand and began working on my blistered feet. She topped it off with cool powder sprinkled on them and patted and rubbed in.
Her back was to the goon who was standing at the foot of the bed. She was between me and him, so he couldn't see my face.
Her black eves glowed sensuously as she stared into my eyes, still humming, and with a Mona Lisa smile on her oval face. How gentle and kind she was. I wondered how she could be so tender after living for years in the jungle. And then, with a jolt, I realized that she was in love with me.
That was bad. It could be dangerous. Sure, I felt very tender and drawn to her. I was willing to be her lover, but not for life. And that, apparently, was what she wanted. When she realized she could not have that, or me, I wondered how savage and barbaric she would become.
The ape standing by the foot of the bed suddenly whirled and strode across the room to the door, yanked it open, and slammed it shut. I heard the bolt being thrown.
"He is gone now," Tiki whispered to me. "You must relax and rest."
"How did you get in here?" I asked.
"Augie came for me. He said that you had collapsed out in the yard."
"You should have seen what they made me do," I said. .
She nodded. "I saw, from the window. I warned you last night You cannot win with them, so don't try."
"Are they going to make me go back out there and finish that spading tomorrow?" I asked.
She shrugged. "I doubt it. I will keep talking to them. You need to be in bed for a few days to recover. Your hands are in terrible shape."
She got up and moved forward and sat down beside me. She leaned forward on her elbows, smelling fragrant and pungent, and looked down in my eyes. Then her face slowly lowered as we continued to lock stares. Her lips brushed mine. Our breasts were jammed together.
My hands went up and tenderly skated around over her back, with my fingertips tracing erotic patterns. Her body stiffened and she moaned.
Her lips mashed down against mine and one of my hands went to the back of her head and pressed downward. My tongue crept out and cautiously slid along her lips. It got bolder and her tongue met mine and they waltzed together in a slow minuet.
"We must not get ourselves too hot," she whispered. "I doubt if they will leave us alone very long."
The key rattled in the lock. Tiki quickly sat up and began massaging my belly.
A tall tanned guy with a Greek god profile and curly black hair strode in. He wore only gray slacks and T-shirt and his muscles rippled smoothly under it.
Tiki turned her head and looked up at him. Then her head swiveled around and once more she stared at my belly as she massaged it.
"She's okay now," Golden boy said. "Get away from her. I want to get hauled."
His hand tugged at his belt buckle and yanked. A zipper whirred. He kicked off his loafers and got out of his trousers. He pulled down his shorts.
He was hung like a stallion.
His big hand clamped on Tiki's shoulders. "Get the hell away," he ordered. "But hang around. If she can't do the job, I'll let you do it."
His huge jackstaff was now standing erect as he grabbed my ankles and shoved them up and wide apart. He got on his knees and worked his way forward until his cock was jabbing my snatch.
My hand went down to guide his missile. He shoved. I gave a low scream as he ripped into me, pain shooting up to my belly.
I was just a hunk of meat lying on the bed to satisfy his carnal lust. He jumped and he lunged and he rammed and he shoved and I gritted my teeth and lay there wondering if I was going to pass out.
I opened my eyes and glanced at him. His face was lathered with sweat and it was dripping from his chin. His eyes were closed and his features were twisted and contorted by passion unfulfilled. His face actually looked savage.
I glanced over at Tiki, who was standing beside the bed. Her eyes were mournful and sorrowful and yet they seemed to say that I should lay there and take it and not fight back.
He gripped my ankles even tighter. I knew that an explosion was not far away, so I bit my lip and dug my fingernails into my palms as I dredged up every bit of determination to stand the pain a moment longer.
He let out a long wail like Tarzan's mating call and let go of my ankles and fell forward against his hands, on either side of me. His hips rammed me as if they were breaking pavement. He was hitting bottom. Then my buttocks were suddenly wet and I could feel his gush trickling down over them.
He collapsed for a moment. Then he rolled off me and lay on his back beside me and conked out. He lay there breathing deeply and rhythmically with his eyes closed.
Tiki came over and grabbed my hand and tugged. I sat up and she helped me off the bed. She led me toward the bathroom as the flood ran down my inner thighs.
In the bathroom she grabbed a washcloth and soaked it and carefully washed me.
"You are much too cooked and sore to get in the shower," she whispered.
"Yeah," I agreed.
She turned off the water, wrung the rag dry and began patting my thighs.
"That's Tony Minelli," she told me. "He's Frankie's right-hand man. So you'd better be nice to him. When Frankie's not around, he can order you thrown down the well."
CHAPTER TWELVE
SUDDENLY, EVERYTHING FELL INTO PLACE.
"What's the matter?" Tiki asked.
I ran into the bedroom, around the bed and over to the chair where his slacks lay. I grabbed them up, yanked out his billfold and began fumbling through it.
I stared at the slip of paper. On it were scribbled the names of twelve boondock towns around Chicago. There was a checkmark after each of the first five names. And the last checkmark followed the word .Clodville.
What could be more logical?
Tony was a viper in the nest. Nurtured and protected by Frankie, he decided to build an empire of his own. If he built a ring that encircled Chicago he could challenge both Frankie and Manny. And, being in Frankie's organization, he knew Frankie's every plan and when it was best to move in on a boondock town. He had apparently done it in such a way as to put the heat on Frankie and Manny.
"Watch out!" Tiki yelled.
With a roar Tony bounded off the bed toward me. I dropped the billfold and the slip of paper and snatched up his jacket, lying in the chair.
As the sonofabitch charged me like a bull, head down, roaring and yelling at me, my hand dived into the right-hand pocket of the jacket and closed on a snub nose. I stood my ground, snarling at him.
His big shaggy head was barely twp feet away from me when I shot the sonofabitch in the face.
I jumped to one side and he hurtled past like a runaway locomotive and crashed headlong into the wall.
I turned and faced' Tiki. She was standing there with her eyes like a pair of harvest moons and beginning to shake.
"Why did you do that?" she asked. "Now we will be thrown down the well."
"They'll have to catch us first before they throw us down the well," I told her. "Now snap out of it. Start thinking."
"About what?"
"You've been all over this house, haven't you?" She nodded.
"Where do they keep their guns and ammunition?" She frowned and looked puzzled and shook her head. "I dunno," she finally muttered.
I waved the gun. "This is all we have between us arid being thrown down the well. Now think."
I went over to his jacket and went through it. I went through his trousers. No ammo.
I reached down and picked up his billfold and the slip of paper. I shoved the paper back in his billfold.
"Now we've got to get out of here," I said. "We'll go out of here and lock the door. And then we've got to go searching for those guns."
I didn't know how much time we had before Tony's body would be found, but I knew that we didn't have all day to find those guns and the ammo.
I went over to Tiki and grabbed her and shook her until her teeth rattled. "Now snap out of it. You've seen men killed before. You've lived in the jungle, you claim. So why do you have buck fever now?"
She turned and looked at me, but I knew she wasn't seeing me. "In my jungle, robbery, yes. Murder, no. It was so horrible. You shot him in the face."
"The sonofabitch deserved it," I told her. I shook her again. "Now snap out of it or else."
She stood there still shaking, with her hands to her mouth, and staring at the big hulk piled up over near the wall.
I ran into the bathroom and grabbed up a big towel. I shoved it under a faucet and turned on the cold water. I ran back to the bedroom and faced her.
"Now are you going to snap out of it?"
She stared at me and continued shaking.
WHAP!
I slapped her across the chops with that wet towel. On the return trip, the towel walloped her chops again.
I turned and threw the towel at the big beached whale near the wall. I looked back at Tiki. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here."
We headed for the door and I grabbed up the key from the bureau, near the door. We went out and locked the door and I shoved the key in the billfold, carrying it in my left hand. In my right was the snub-nose, with my finger on the trigger.
"Now think! Is there any one door that you know of that you have seen all of the men coming in and out of? Or have you ever seen them come out of that door with a gun in his hand?"
She frowned and bit her lip as we walked toward the end of the hall and the stairs. We started down it in silence. We had hit the landing when she suddenly stopped. Her eyes brightened.
"I know," she whispered. "Come on."
We went on down the stairs to the fourth floor. I glanced over the banister and looked down the stair well. Someone was coming up.
I looked at Tiki and jabbed my finger downward as I leaned over the railing. She nodded and turned and ran. I followed her. She yanked open a door and darted inside. I was right behind her and pulled the door shut, leaving it open a crack.
It was the big brute who hauled me out of bed that morning. I had a score to settle with him.
He tried to keep his eyes off the door, standing slightly ajar, but he telegraphed his punch. He kept glancing at it as he walked straight forward. I was ready for him. As he passed the door he suddenly lunged to his right and grabbed the knob and yanked the door back.
I rammed the snub nose in his gut and clamped on the trigger. His belly exploded and he twisted around, with his legs wrapped around each other like a licorice stick.
I jumped back. He crashed like a big tree.
"Help me," I whispered to Tiki.
We grabbed his shoulders and dragged him into the closet. My hand rummaged around and found a .45 in a holster under his left arm. There was ammo in the belt.
I glanced up. There was a denim jacket hanging from a hook. I reached for it and shrugged into it. It was a little broad across the shoulders and so long it hung down below my butt, but I had what I needed.
I shoved the billfold and the snub nose in the left pocket and plucked ammo from his shoulder harness and dropped it into the right pocket. Then I 'Stepped over him and went forward,, gripping the .45, my finger nuzzling the trigger.
I peered out the doorway, looking both ways. Nothing. I looked over my shoulder. "Come on," I whispered.
Tiki followed me out of the closet and I closed the door. We headed toward the stairs.
"Where is this room we're going to?" I asked. "In the basement."
We got to the first floor and were rounding the turn, to head down the stairs to the basement.
Twenty feet away a door opened, and there stood the hook-nosed jug-eared goon who had helped rape me the night before.
His hand dived under his lapel.
He died with his right hand over his heart, as if saluting the flag, with a slug through both of them. He did an about face and then crashed backward to bounce the back of his head off the rug.
"Come on," I said, as the blast from my gun echoed in the hall.
We ran to the landing and went down the stairs, not pausing to see if anyone was below.
Another one of the apes who had helped rape me the night before was ten feet away, headed for the stairs. His jaw dropped open and he stared at us for a moment. That was all the time I needed.
His hand hadn't started for his gun when I blasted him. He took the slug in his gaping mouth and the back of his head fell away as he went to his knees, as if in prayer, before toppling forward on his face.
I looked at Tiki. "Now where?"
"Come on," she said, running down the hall.
I was right at her heels as she ran to a door on the right, halfway down. She turned the knob and yanked. The door didn't give. I raced up to it and shoved my gun against the keyhole. My finger clamped. The door bucked and reared and damn near jumped off its hinges.
I grabbed the knob and yanked the door back. In the dim light I saw a switch. I snapped it and pulled the door shut. There was a bolt on the inside. I slammed it home.
There were enough guns and ammo down there in that room to outfit a brigade. Everything from burp guns to derringers.
I grabbed up a burp gun and checked the clip. Then I turned to a shelf and found ammo for it. I filled the clip and dumped the rest of the box in my pocket.
There was a tweed jacket tossed over a wooden box." I snatched it up and held it out to Tiki. I had to roll the sleeves, but she could get by with it.
I put two grenades in each of her pockets. "I don't expect you to use those," I told her. "You just carry them for me. Or do you want the first snubnose I got?"
She shook her head. "I want no part of any guns or killing."
"Okay, but don't get the shakes again."
"I won't," she promised.
"Now where?" I asked.
"Where do you want to go?" she asked.
"Where is the garage?"
"Behind the building."
I went to the door and opened it a crack. I pulled it back and flattened against the wall and peered around the casing.
A pack of the gorillas were clattering down the stairs from the landing, clutching revolvers. They saw my head sticking out. They opened up. I ducked back.
I reached over and grabbed a grenade from Tiki's pocket. I pulled the pin and threw it.
It lit at their feet just as they hit the concrete floor.
There was a tremendous blast and it began raining hardware and arms, legs, hair, eyes and teeth. The explosion was echoing and re-echoing down the concrete-lined hall. I turned and looked at Tiki.
We dashed down the hall side by side, and I was holding my burp gun at the ready.
I heard the thudding of the stampeding feet. I gave Tiki a shove and said, "Get flat against that wall and stay put."
They rounded the turn at the landing and began pouring down the stairs to the basement floor. When they saw me they opened up.
I sprayed them as if I were killing flies. They screamed and toppled forward and landed in a bloody tangled heap at the bottom of the stairs.
Again we ran down the hall side by side, and I kept glancing over my shoulder and then forward, watching for more invaders. We hit a slot in the wall and Tiki swung into it. Just as I was ready to turn I glanced behind me again. Three more apes.
They were going so fast they couldn't stop. They hit the gory mess at the bottom and slipped and slid and fought for balance. I gave them a burst and they joined their bloody buddies scattered around over the floor.
Tiki was right beside me. We bounded up the stairs and hit the door at the top and were in the garage.
A lanky character in white coveralls was wiping down a big black job. He heard the door slam back and whirled around. His hand went for his pocket. One burst through his neck and his head dangled down like a wilted sunflower. Then he fell forward and sprawled across the car's hood. I ran forward and grabbed a handful of coverall and yanked him back and dragged him away.
Tiki ran to the right side and pulled open the door. She climbed in and I raced for the left door and got it open and slid under the wheel. I slammed the door and grabbed at the key in the lock and twisted it.
The big car burst into a roar. There wasn't time to open any doors. I threw it into reverse and jumped on the gas.
We rocketed backward and crashed through the heavy door, with wooden planks snapping and cracking and splintering and flying everywhere. We shot straight backward and then I cut it around. I rammed it into drive and hit the gas again.
Three goons came charging out from the house toward the doorway.
I leaned on the wheel and swerved left and then in a long sweeping arc to the right. I glanced in the rear mirror to see the three of them sprawled and flattened on the concrete apron.
I hit a curving drive and roared down it. I wondered if there would be a guard at the gate. I didn't wait to see. I gave it the gas, and the black behemoth plunged headlong and crashed against the steel gates where they met in the middle of the drive.
The big car bounced and fishtailed, but I fought the wheel and held it on course as glass from the headlights showered backward against the windshield. The whole front end was probably bashed in.
I turned left, not knowing where I was going. I glanced over at Tiki. "Is this the way you were coming when you rolled over in the ditch? Was that gate back there on your right?"
"Yes," she said, huddled down on the seat and beginning to shake again.
I gripped the wheel with my left hand and my right hand went out to stroke her on the back.
"Okay," I told her. "We've won the first round. Now let's see if we can win the second round and keep you out of jail."
