Blonde Bait for the Murder Master

Billy had a smell, too... but his was of shaving lotion, hair oil, and one of those male perfumes, cedar, pine, old leather. In a way it was as distasteful as Gulbie had been.

I pretended to have difficulty finding the place. Then I counted the roll, twenty fifties, handed it to Billy and said, “Go on in and check the numbers and pay the guy off.”

Billy stuck out his chest. I guess it was the first time he had been trusted with a big payoff. He strutted in. I waited and waited and waited. I tapped my fingers on the horn ring and shifted in the seat and smoked most of a cigarette. I was about to risk going in after him when he came swaggering out.

As I gunned the car and drove away, I said, “What took you so long?”

He giggled like a girl, but there was a nervous note in it. “Pull up by a street light,” he said.

I did so. He took the roll out of my pocket and counted off eight fifties, four hundred bucks and handed it to me.

“What the hell is this?” I snapped.

“Don’t get steamed, Gage. The guy who had the winners was sort of dopey. I had a last week’s list with me; I pulled it out and held my thumb over the date and showed him his tickets were no good. Hell, this week's list hasn’t ever been printed yet. Then I give him fifty bucks so he won’t feel too bad. I tore up the tickets and give the guy who owns the store fifty bucks. That leaves four hundred for you and four hundred for me. We just turn the tickets I took away from him into Brock and we both keep our mouths shut. Okay?”

He tried to open the door fast and scramble out, but I got his wrist and yanked him back. As I pulled him back, I drove my fist into his face. He tried to get hold of his gun, but I turned his arm up behind his back until the bones creaked.

“Okay! Okay!” he gasped. I got four hundred and fifty out of his pants, put his gun in my pocket near the door, and drove back.

Gulbie was just leaving the store, a big package in his arms. I caught up with him, jammed on the brakes and stepped out. I made a motion as though I were giving him something, and said in a low tone, “Go on back to the shack and I’ll see you later.”

I was going to get back in the car and tell Billy that in this racket, you always paid off. But I heard running footsteps, and the right hand door of my crate was open. I caught a glimpse of Billy heading off into the darkness and then he was gone. I chased him in the car, but couldn’t catch sight of him. Then I went back, picked up Gulbie, gave him a ride out to his shack, and went back to report to Brock.

When I went in the front hallway, I could hear the mumble of voices in the cellar. I went back through the house and down the stairs. All the lights were on, and the thick curtains were pulled across the windows. The first thing I saw was Joyce, face down on the floor, moaning and twisting.

I stopped dead on the stairs. There were two strangers with Brock. Billy’s gun was heavy in my left hand jacket pocket. I lifted my hand quickly.

“Don’t try it!” a flat voice said.

The voice came from behind me. It was the sort of voice you listen to. I didn’t move a muscle, or turn. A hand snaked the weight out of my left hand pocket, reached around, patted the front of my jacket, slipped inside and pulled out my automatic. The spring made an empty click. “Now go down the rest of the way, and back over against that wall. Keep your arms spread and our palms flat against the wall.”

After I turned, I saw him. He had crisp white hair, and a soft narrow face. His eyes were like deep holes in soft dough. His hair gave him the look of age, but his face was oddly unlined.

Brock sat by one of the cardtables. He smiled and said, “Brian, meet Whitey. He’s... sort of a troubleshooter.”

I forced a smile. “Trouble isn’t my name.”

He ignored me. The other two men were staring at me. One was of the Billy-Oley breed, young, sneering, hard on the outside, soft in the middle. The other was tall, hefty, florid — looking like a bank executive, or a construction equipment salesman.

In a cheery, deep voice, the big man said, “You must be Brian Gage. Brock has told us about you. I’m Mark Fletcher.”

The name meant something to me. I had heard it several times. From Brock. The big gun of the syndicate. The man in control; Mr. Fix with the authorities.

“Hello, Mr. Fletcher.”

Whitey stood and merely looked at me. He was the reverse of the Billy-Oley type. Soft on the outside, and diamond hard under the skin. He had a perpetual look of sadness, quiet grief.

Joyce sat up. Her face was puffed with tears. She looked at Brock and said, “You shouldn’t a let him...”

“She doesn’t know a thing,” Whitey said softly.

“Get up and go home, girl,” Fletcher said, “Forget this little... unpleasantness. I’ll authorize a small bonus for you, say two hundred and fifty?”

The look of naked greed dimmed the hurt and pain on Joyce’s face. “Gosh!” she said.

“Run along now,” Fletcher said in a fatherly manner.