The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (17 page)

Anything for a Pal

T
ony Kinsella looked at his platinum wristwatch. Ten more minutes. Just ten minutes to go. It was all set. In ten minutes a young man would be standing on that corner under the streetlight. Doreen would come up, speak to him, and then step into the drugstore. Once Doreen had put the finger on him, confirming that he was, in fact, the man they sought, the car would slide up, and he, Tony Kinsella, Boss Cardoza’s ace torpedo, would send a stream of copper-jacketed bullets into the kid’s body. It would be all over then, and Tony Kinsella would have saved his pal from the chair.

He looked up to the driver’s seat where “Gloves” McFadden slouched carelessly, waiting. He noted the thick neck, and heavy, prizefighter’s shoulders. In the other front seat “Dopey” Wentz stared off into the night. Kinsella didn’t like that. A guy on weed was undependable. Kinsella shrugged; he didn’t like it but the whole mess would soon be over.

This kid, Robbins, his name was, he’d seen Corney Watson pull the Baronski job. Tomorrow he was to identify Corney in court. Corney Watson had sprung Kinsella out of a western pen one time, so they were pals. And Kinsella, whatever his failings, had one boast: he’d do anything for a pal. Tony was proud of that. He was a right guy.

But that was only one of the two things he was proud of. The other the boys didn’t know about, except in a vague way. It was his brother, George. Their name wasn’t Kinsella, and George had no idea that such a name even existed. Their real name was Bretherton, but when Tony had been arrested the first time, he gave his name as Kinsella, and so it had been for a dozen years now.

Tony was proud of George. George was ten years the youngest, and had no idea that his idolized big brother was a gangster, a killer. Tony rarely saw him, but he’d paid his way through college, and into a classy set of people. Tony smiled into the darkness. George Bretherton: now wasn’t that a classy name? Maybe, when he’d put a few grand more in his sock, he’d chuck the rackets and take George off to Europe. Then he’d be Anthony Bretherton, wealthy and respected.

Kinsella leaned back against the cushions. This was one job he was pulling for nothing. Just for a pal. Corney had bumped “Baron” Baronski, and this kid had seen it. How he happened to be there, nobody knew or cared. Tomorrow he was going to testify, and that meant the chair for Corney unless Tony came through tonight, but Tony, who never failed when the chips were down,
would
come through.

They had located Robbins at a downtown hotel, a classy joint. Cardoza sent Doreen over there, and she got acquainted. Doreen was a swell kid, wore her clothes like a million, and she was wise. She had put the finger on more than one guy. This Robbins fellow, he wasn’t one of Baronski’s guns, so how had he been there at the time? Tony shrugged. Just one of those unfortunate things.

Why didn’t George write, he wondered? He was working in a law office out west somewhere. Maybe he’d be the mouthpiece for some big corporation and make plenty of dough. That was the racket! No gang guns or coppers in that line, a safe bet.

Tony wondered what Corney was doing. Probably lying on his back in his cell hoping Kinsella would come through. Well, Tony smiled with satisfaction; he’d never botched a job yet.

S
UDDENLY
D
OPEY HISSED
: “Okay, Tony, there’s the guy.”

“You think! When you see Doreen comin’, let me know. I’m not interested ’til then.”

He suddenly found himself wishing it was over. He always felt like this at the last minute. Jumpy. Prizefighters felt that way before the bell. Nerves. But when the gun started to jump he was all right. He caressed the finned blue steel of the barrel lovingly.

“Get set, Tony, here she comes!” The powerful motor came to life, purring quietly.

Kinsella sat up and rolled down the window. The cool evening air breathed softly across his face. He looked up at the stars, and then glanced both ways, up and down the street. It was all clear.

A tall, broad-shouldered fellow stood on the corner. Tony could see Doreen coming. She was walking fast. Probably she was nervous too. That big guy. That would be him. Tony licked his lips and lifted the ugly black muzzle of the submachine gun. Its cold nose peered over the edge of the window. He saw a man walk out of the drugstore, light a cigar, and stroll off up the street. Tony almost laughed as he thought how funny it would be if he were to start shooting then, how startled that man would be!

There! Doreen was talking to the man on the corner. Had one hand on his sleeve…smiling at him.

God, dames were coldblooded! In a couple of minutes that guy would be kicking in his own gore, and she was putting him on the spot and smiling at him!

Suddenly she turned away and started for the drugstore on some excuse or other. As she passed through the door she was almost running. The car was moving swiftly now, gliding toward the curb, the man looked up, and the gun spouted fire. The man threw up his arms oddly, jerked sharply, and fell headlong. McFadden wheeled the car and they drove back, the machine gun spouting fire again. The body, like a sack of old clothes, jerked as the bullets struck.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Tony lay on his back staring at the ceiling. He wondered where Doreen was. Probably the papers were full of the Robbins killing. Slowly he crawled out of bed, drew on his robe, and retrieved the morning paper from his apartment door. His eyes sought the headliners, blaring across the top in bold type:

GANG GUNS SLAY FEDERAL OPERATIVE
.

MACHINE GUNS GET WATSON WITNESS
.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. A federal man, eh? That wasn’t so good. Who would have thought Robbins was a federal man? Still, they were never where you expected them to be. Probably he’d been working a case on Baronski when Corney bumped him off. That would be it.

His eyes skimmed the brief account of the killing. It was as usual. They had no adequate description of either Doreen or the car. Then his eyes glimpsed a word in the last paragraph that gripped his attention. His face tense, he finished the story.

Slowly, he looked up. His eyes were blank. Walking across to the table he picked up his heavy automatic, flipped down the safety, and still staring blankly before him, put the muzzle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

His body toppled across the table, the blood slowly staining the crumpled paper and almost obliterating the account of the Robbins killing. The final words of the account were barely visible as the spreading stain wiped it out:

“A fact unknown until the killing was that Jack Robbins, witness for the prosecution in the Baronski killing, was in reality George Bretherton, a Federal operative recently arrived from the Pacific Coast and working on his first case. He is survived by a brother whose present whereabouts are unknown.”

Fighter’s Fiasco

G
ood heavyweights are scarcer than feather pillows in an Eskimo’s igloo, so the first time I took a gander at this “Bambo” Bamoulian, I got all hot under the collar and wondered if I was seeing things. Only he wasn’t Bambo then, he was just plain Januz Bamoulian, a big kid from the Balkans, with no more brains than a dead man’s heel. But could he sock! I’m getting ahead of myself….

I
AM WALKING
down the docks wondering am I going to eat, and if so, not only when but where and with what, when I see an ape with shoulders as wide as the rear end of a truck jump down off the gangway of a ship and start hiking toward another guy who is hustling up to meet him. It looks like fireworks, so I stand by to see the action, and if the action is going to be anything like the string of cuss words the guy is using, it should be good.

This guy is big enough to gather the Empire State Building under one arm and the Chrysler Tower under the other, and looks tough enough to buck rivets with his chin, so I am feeling plenty sorry for the other guy until he gets closer and I can get a flash at him. And that look, brother, was my first gander at the immortal Bambo Bamoulian.

He is about four inches shorter than the other guy, thicker in the chest, but with a slim waist and a walk like a cat stepping on eggs. He is a dark, swarthy fellow, and his clothes are nothing but rags, but I ain’t been in the fight racket all these years without knowing a scrapper when I see one.

Me, I ain’t any kind of a prophet, but a guy don’t need to be clairvoyant to guess this second lug has what it takes. And what is more, he don’t waste time at it. He sidles up close to the big guy, ducks a wide right swing, and then smacks him with a fist the size of a baby ham, knocking him cold as a Labrador morning!

Old Man Destiny doesn’t have to more than smack me in the ear with a ball bat before I take a hint, so I step up to this guy.

“Say,” I butt in. “Mightn’t you happen to be a fighter?”

“How would you like to take a walk off the pier,” he snarls, glaring at me like I’d swiped his socks or something. “You double-decked something-or-other, I am a fighter! What does that look like?” And he waves a paw at the study in still life draped over the dock.

“I mean for money, in the ring. You know, for dough, kale, dinero, gelt, sugar, geetus, the—”

“I get it!” he yelps brightly. “You mean for money!”

What would you do with a guy like that?

“That’s the idea,” I says, trying to be calm. “In the ring, and with the mitts.”

“It’s okay by me. I’ll fight anybody for anything! For money, marbles, or chalk, but preferably money. Marbles and chalk are kind of tough on the molars.”

“Then drop that bale hook and come with me. I am the best fight manager in the world, one of the two smartest guys in the universe, an’ just generally a swell mug!”

“That’s okay. I like you, too!” he says.

Ignoring what sounds faintly like a crack, I say, “They are wanting a fighter over at the Lyceum Club. And we’ll fight whoever they got, we don’t care who he is.”

“We? Do both of us fight one guy? Mister, I don’t need no help.”

“No, you fight. I’m the brains, see? The manager, the guy that handles the business end. Get it?”

“Oh, so you’re the brains? That’s swell, it gives you somethin’ t’ do, an’ we’ll manage somehow.”

I looks at him again, but he is walking along swinging those big hooks of his. I catch up, “Don’t call me mister. My name is McGuire, ‘Silk’ McGuire. It’s Silk because I’m a smooth guy, see?”

“So is an eel smooth,” he says.

A few minutes later, I lead my gorilla into Big Bill Haney’s office and park him on a chair in the outer room with his cap in his mitts. Then I breeze inside.

“Hello, Bill!” I says cheerfully. “Here I am again! You got that heavyweight for the four-rounder tonight?”

“What d’ you care?” he says, sarcastic. “You ain’t had a fighter in a year that could punch his way out of a paper bag!”

“Wrong,” I says coldly. “Climb out of that swivel chair and cast your lamps over this—” And I dramatically swing the door open and give him a gander at my fighter, who has parked his number tens on the new mahogany table.

“Hell,” he says, giving Bambo the once-over. “That ain’t no fighter. That chump is fresh off the boat.”

“No wisecracks. That guy is the greatest puncher since Berlenbach and faster than even Loughran. He’s tougher than a life stretch on Alcatraz, and he ain’t never lost a battle!”

“Never had one, either, huh?”

Big Bill looks Januz over with a speculative glint in his eyes, and I know what he sees. Whatever else he may have, he does have color, and that’s what they pay off on. My bohunk looks like a carbon copy of the Neanderthal man, whoever he was, only a little tougher and dumber.

“Okay,” Haney says grudgingly. “I’ll give him the main go tonight with ‘Dead-Shot’ Emedasco. Take it or leave it.”

“With who?” I yelps. “Why, that guy has knocked over everyone from here to China!”

“You asked for a fight, didn’t you?” he sneers. “Well, you got one. That clown of yours would’ve dragged down about twenty bucks for getting bounced on his ear by some preliminary punk; with the Dead-Shot he’ll get not less than five centuries. Why are you kicking?”

“But this guy’s a prospect. He can go places. I don’t want him knocked off in the start, do I? Chees, give a guy a chance, won’t you?”

“Forget it. That’s the only spot open. I filled that four-rounder yesterday, and then Hadry did a run-out on the main event, so I can shove your boy in there. If he lives through it, I’ll give him another shot. What do you call him?”

“Hey, buddy?” I barks at him. “What d’ you call yourself?”

“Me? I come without calling,” he grins. “But my name is Bamoulian. Januz Bamoulian. J-a-n-u-z—”

“Skip it!” I says hastily. “We’ll call you Bambo Bamoulian!”

I
TOUCH
H
ANEY
for a fin, so we can eat, and we barge down to Coffee Dan’s to hang on the feed bag. While Dan is trying to compose a set of ham and eggs, I go into a huddle with myself trying to figure out the answers. This big tramp Dead-Shot Emedasco is poison. Or that’s the way he sounds in the papers. I have never seen him, but a guy hears plenty. I usually get all the dope on those guys, but this is one I missed somehow. He has been touring the sticks knocking over a lot of guys named Jones, and on paper looks like the coming heavyweight champ.

The way Bambo charges them ham and eggs, I decide we better fight early and often, and that I’d rather buy his clothes than feed him. But while I am on my third cup of coffee, me not being a big eater myself as I’m nearly out of money again, I look up and who should be steering a course for our table but “Swivel-Neck” Hogan.

Now, I like Swivel-Neck Hogan like I enjoy the galloping cholera, and he has been faintly irritated with me ever since a poker game we were in. He had dealt me a pair of deuces from the bottom of the deck, and I played four aces, which relieved him of fifty bucks, so I know that whenever he approaches me there is something in the air besides a bad smell.

“Hey, you!” he growls. “The skipper wants ya.”

“Say, Bambo,” I says, “do you smell a skunk or is that just Swivel-Neck Hogan?”

“Awright, awright,” he snarls, looking nasty with practically no effort. “Can dat funny stuff! The chief wants ya!”

As I said, I like Swivel-Neck like the seven-year itch, but I have heard he is now strong-arming for “Diamond-Back” Dilbecker, a big-shot racketeer, and that he has taken to going around with a gat in every pocket, or something.

“Act your age,” I says, pleasant-like. “You may be the apple of your mother’s eye, but you’re just a spoiled potato to me.” Then I turns to Bambo and slips him my key. “Take this and beat it up to the room when you get through eating, an’ stick around till I get back. I got to see what this chump wants. It won’t take long.”

Bambo gets up and hitches his belt up over his dinner. He gives Swivel-Neck a glare that would have raised a blister on a steel deck. “You want I should bounce this cookie, Silk?” he says, eagerly. “Five to one I can put him out for an hour.”

“It’d be cheap at twice the price,” I chirps. “But let it ride.”

W
HEN WE GET
to Dilbecker’s swanky-looking apartment, there are half a dozen gun guys loafing in the living room. Any one of them would have kidnapped and murdered his own nephew for a dime, and they all look me over with a sort of professional stare as though measuring up space in a cornerstone or a foundation. This was pretty fast company for yours truly, and nobody knows this better than me.

Dilbecker looks up when I come in. He is a short, fat guy, and he is puffy about the gills. I feel more at home when I see him, for Diamond-Back Dilbecker and me is not strangers. In fact, away back when, we grew up within a couple of blocks of each other, and we called him Sloppy, something he’d like to forget now that he’s tops in his racket.

“McGuire,” he says, offhand. “Have a cigar.” He shoves a box toward me, and when I pocket a handful I can see the pain in his eyes. I smile blandly and shove the stogies down in my pockets, figuring that if I am to go up in smoke it might just as well be good smoke.

“I hear you got a fighter,” he begins. “A boy named Bamoulian?”

“Yeah, I got him on for tonight. Going in there for ten stanzas with Emedasco.” Now, I wonder as I size him up, what is this leading up to? “And,” I continue, “he’ll knock the Dead-Shot so cold, he’ll keep for years!”

“Yeah?” Dilbecker frowns impressively. “Maybe so, maybe no. But that’s what I want t’ see you about. I got me a piece of Emedasco’s contract, and tonight I think he should win. I’d like to see him win by a kayo in about the third round.”

Dilbecker slips out a drawer and tosses a stack of bills on the desk. “Of course, I’m willing to talk business. I’ll give you a grand. What do you say?”

I bit off the end of one of his cigars, taking my time and keeping cool. Actually, I got a sinking feeling in my stomach and a dozen cold chills playing tag up and down my spine.

Dilbecker’s at a loss for patience. “Take it, it’s a better offer than you’ll get five minutes from now,” he growls. “Things could happen to you, bad things…if you know what I mean.”

He’s right, of course. He’s got a room full of bad things on the other side of the door. I hate to give in to this kid I used to know on the old block but what the hell…lookin’ at him I realize it may be my life on the line. Nevertheless, a man’s got to have his pride.

“Don’t come on hard with me, Dilbecker. You may be a tough guy now because you got a crowd o’ gun guys in the next room but I remember when the kids from St. Paul’s used to chase you home from school!”

“Yeah? Well you forget about it!” he says. “Set this fight and don’t make me mad or both you and the Slavic Slugger’ll wake up to find yourselves dead!”

Now, I’m not bringing it up but I helped him escape from the parochial school boys a time or few and I took my lumps for it, too. I’m not bringing it up but it’s got my blood pressure going anyway.

“Awright, you said your piece,” I says, as nasty as I can make it. “And now I’m sayin’ mine. I’m sending my boy out there to win and you can keep your money and your gunsels and your damned cigars!” I tossed the load from my pocket on his desk. “I got connections, too. You want to bring muscle? I’ll bring muscle, I’ll bring guns and sluggers, whatever it takes.”

He laughs at me, but it’s not a nice laugh. “Muscle? You? You’re a comedian. You should have an act. You bum, you been broke for months. You know better than to put the angle on me. Now get out of here, an’ your boy dives t’night, or you’ll get what Dimmer got!”

Only a week ago they dragged “Dimmer” Chambers out of the river, and him all wound up in a lot of barbed wire and his feet half burned off. Everybody knows it is Dilbecker’s job, but they can’t prove nothing. I am very sensitive about the feet, and not anxious to get tossed off no bridges, but Bamoulian will fight, and maybe—a very big maybe—he can win!

Also, I don’t like being pushed around. So, am I brave? I don’t know. I get out of there quick. I got the rest of my life to live.

S
O WE GO DOWN
to the Lyceum and I don’t tell the big ape anything about it. He’s happy to see me and raring to go; I don’t want to distract him any. I’m bustin’ a sweat because I’ve got no connections, no muscle, no gun guys and Sloppy Dilbecker has. I do, however, call in some favors. There’s an old car, which is sitting right outside the dressing-room door, and a pawnshop .38, which is in my pocket. And running shoes, which is on my feet.

Now it’s nearly time and I am getting rather chilled about those feet by then, although it looks like they’ll be warm enough before the evening is over. Several times I look out the dressing-room door, and every time I stick my head out there, there is a great, big, ugly guy who looks at me with eyes like gimlets, and I gulp and pull my head in. I don’t want Bambo worried going into the ring, although he sure don’t look worried now, so I says nothing. He is cheerful, and grinning at me, and pulling Cotton’s kinky hair, and laughing at everybody. I never saw a guy look so frisky before a battle. But he ain’t seen Dead-Shot Emedasco yet, either!

Once, I got clear down to the edge of the ring, looking the crowd over. Then I get a chill. Right behind the corner where we will be is Sloppy Dilbecker and three of his gun guys. But what opens my eyes and puts the chill in my tootsies again is the fact that the seats all around them are empty. The rest of the house is a sellout. But those empty seats…It looks like he’s saving space for a whole crew of tough guys.

It is only a few minutes later when we get the call, and as we start down the aisle to the ring, I am shaking in my brand-new shoes. Also, I am wondering why I had to be unlucky enough to get a fighter stuck in there with one of Dilbecker’s gorillas. And then, all of a sudden I hear something behind me that makes my hair crawl. It is the steady, slow, shuffling of feet right behind me.