Dead Stay Dumb (4 page)

     “Dig down,” Dillon said, spreading a fin on the table. “I want some working expenses. This is all I got. Dig down.”
     Each contributed. Between the five of them they put up a hundred dollars. Dillon put the bills in his pocket. Gurney went out on to the verandah and fetched in the drinks. They all had a shot except Dillon.
     Butch said, “How you goin' to handle this?”
     Dillon tapped on the table with his fingernails. “I'm goin' to tell Franks to take a dive.”
     Butch said, “For God's sake, he'll knock your guts out.”
     Dillon shook his head. “He won't.” He pushed back his chair. “I guess that's all.” The others, except Butch, got to their feet. Dillon said, “Suppose you boys blow, I wantta talk to Butch.”
     Gurney moved to the verandah. “Maybe we'll get together some other time,” he said.
     “Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head; “you might look round tomorrow.”
     Butch sat waiting until the others disappeared into the night. Dillon came back from the verandah. He stood looking at Butch thoughtfully. Then he closed the door and came over.
     Butch said, “Who taught you to punch like that?”
     Dillon shrugged. “Never mind that. I've got things to talk to you about. Anyone else in this dump?”
     Hogan shook his head. “My gal's upstairs in bed. That's all.”
     “I'm goin' to make some dough out of the town,” Dillon said. “You can come in on the ground floor if you want to.”
     Butch stroked his nose. “Suppose you put the cards down an' let me look at 'em,” he said at last.
     Dillon lowered his voice. “I carried a gun for Nelson,” he said.
     Crouched outside the door, Myra shivered a little.
     Butch looked a little uneasy. “He was a hard guy,” he said.
     “He was a mug,” Dillon said bitterly. “I've been under cover now some time. The heat's off. Okay, I guess it's time to move into the money again. How's it feel?”
     Butch said, “You ain't tellin' me this unless you knew right off I'd agree.”
     Dillon nodded his head. “I thought you were a bright guy. Maybe you have lost your peepers, but you still got some brain.”
     Butch said again, “You want the house, huh? Near the State line. Me as a cover?”
     “You got it.” Dillon relaxed a little. “I ain't working anythin' this side of the border. Just quick raids. Nothin' very big; that'll come later. Then back under cover here. How do you like that?”
     Butch brooded. “What's it worth?” he asked at last.
     “Twenty-five per cent cut on everything.”
     Butch nodded. “Okay.”
     Dillon asked abruptly: “This guy Gurney—is he all right?”
     Butch nodded. “He'd come in, I guess,” he said. “Gurney's after the big dough. He ain't particular how he makes it.”
     “I'll have a word with him later. Now this guy Franks. There's only one way to deal with him. He's gotta have a scare thrown in him, see? He's got to be tipped off that he gets it if he doesn't take a dive. The first thing is to square the Town Marshal How'd you stand with him?”
     “He's an old bird Sell his soul for a buck. He can be squared.”
     “Then see him an' fix it. I gotta keep out of this. Tip him off to put his money on Sankey an' tell him the fight's rigged. If Franks puts up a squawk for protection, he won't get it, see?”
     Butch nodded.
     Dillon took out the hundred dollars and counted out fifty of them.” “Give him that to bet with.”
     Butch fumbled with the money and put it in his pocket. “I guess you're goin' to fix this fight all right,” he said. “I'm putting everything I've got on this.”
     Dillon said, “It's goin' to be okay, you see.”
     He moved over to the door. Outside, Myra crept away, not making a sound. She climbed the ladder leading to the loft which served for her bedroom; and safe in the darkness of familiar surroundings she slipped out of her dress before going to the window. Dillon was standing in the road, looking cautiously up and down, then with a quick shuffling step he disappeared into the darkness.
     Myra stood by the window some time, thinking, her face, lit by the moonlight, the hot air of the night touching her skin. Even when she got into bed she could not sleep. The clay-like face of Dillon hung before her like the dead face of the moon. His voice still rang in her ears, scorning her. The blow that he had struck her still burnt her body, making her squirm on the sagging mattress. Sleep would not come to her, to blot out mercilessly the pain of her bruised pride. She suddenly began to cry the hot tears running down her face unchecked. Her two fists, clenched, beat on the bed. “I hate you! I hate you!” she sobbed. “You lousy, goddam bastard!”

     Gurney drove carefully. He had to nurse the car over the rough road. One good pot-hole would sure bust the axle. Dillon sat beside him, his hat over his eyes. Every now and then Gurney shot him a quick look. Dillon had him guessing. He couldn't place him. Something told him that Dillon would get him somewhere, that he would lead him to the money class, but, fascinated by the thought, he still hung back a little, not trusting him.
     It was the evening following the meeting of Dillon and Butch. Dillon had picked Gurney up after the store had closed for the night. They were on their way across the border to the hick town where Franks lived. They were going to call on Franks.
     Dillon said suddenly: “You gotta tackle this guy; I'll just be around You know what to say. Don't let him start anythin'. Talk tough. He won't take a sock at you. I'll be right with you.”
     Gurney brooded, staring at the road, white and dusty in the headlights. “This guy can hit,” he said uneasily. “He'll get mad if I shoot off too much.”
     Dillon shifted. “You do what I say,” he said, “I can handle any mad guy.” He pulled a heavy Colt automatic from the inside of his coat, turned it in his hand, so that Gurney could see it, then he put it back.
     “For God's sake”—Gurney was startled—“where the hell did you get that?”
     Dillon looked at him, peering at him from under his hat. “You ain't scared of a rod?” he asked.
     This was too tough for Gurney, but he didn't say so. He licked his lips uneasily and drove on. After a while he said, “You ain't goin' to pop this guy?”
     “Sure I'm goin' to, if he gets mad.” Dillon said. “This ain't the first guy I've popped.”
     The old car swerved a little. Gurney found his hands trembling. “I guess I ain't standin' for a murder rap,” he said suddenly.
     Dillon reached out and turned off the switch. The engine spluttered and went dead. Gurney trod on the brake. “What's the idea?” he asked nervously.
     Dillon pushed back his hat and leant towards Gurney, crowding him into the corner of the car. “Listen,” he said, “you're goin' to get this straight. From now on I'm givin' the orders and you're takin' 'em, see? We're gettin' into the dough, an' no one's stoppin' us. If they get in our way it's goin' to be so much grief for 'em—get that? In a little while I'll be running the town. You can get in in the ground floor or you can stay out. You stay out an' one dark night someone's goin' to toss a handful of slugs in your guts; you know too much—get all that? Butch's on, so get wise to yourself.”
     Gurney went a little yellow. He didn't have to think much. “Sure,” he said, “I get it. Sure, you go ahead. You're the boss.”
     Dillon raked him with his cold eyes. “There was one bright boy who talked like that an' changed his mind. He walked down a street one night with his guts hanging out down to his knees. Someone gutted him with a knife. Hell! You ought to have seen that guy. He tried to stuff his guts back, but just touching them with his hands made him so sick he let 'em hang in the end.”
     Gurney said, “You ain't goin' to have any trouble with me.” He said it in a weak voice, but he meant it.
     They drove on.
     A clock somewhere struck the half-hour after ten when they pulled up outside Franks' house. It wasn't much to look at from the front, but then Franks was only a smalltime fighter, just making his way. They walked up the short path and stood outside the screen door. Gurney pulled at the bell, hearing it jangle somewhere at the back. Behind a yellow blind a light gleamed. Someone was up all right.
     Through the screen door they could see a woman coming. Dillon nodded to Gurney and stepped back a little.
     The door opened outwards, and the woman stood on the step looking at them with a little puzzled frown. She was young and plain. Her black hair was done up in a coil, a few ends straggling untidily. She had a good figure, her breasts riding high, and large hips. When she spoke, her voice was soft and carried a southern accent. “What is it, please?” she said.
     “Len in?” Gurney said.
     The woman nodded. “Sure he's in,” she said. “Who shall I say?”
     Gurney took a step forward, pushing the woman back. Followed by Dillon, he walked into the house. The woman retreated, her face suddenly frightened. “What is it?” she asked breathlessly. “You can't come busting in like this.”
     Gurney walked into the sitting-room. Franks was sitting in an easy chair holding a child awkwardly, a bottle of milk suspended in his hand. Franks was a big, smoothfaced guy, young and free from the usual mashed features of a fighter.
     The woman brushed past Gurney and ran over to Franks. She was badly scared. Franks pushed the baby into her arms, getting to his feet quickly. He was startled. His eyes showed it; they were a little wide, but he wasn't losing his head. If there was going to be trouble, his confidence in his great flat muscles was unshakable.
     “You can't come in here like this,” he said to Gurney. “I see guys like you at the gym.”
     Gurney grinned uneasily. He was a little nervous of Franks. “We're in, buddy,” he said. “Get the dame outta here, we want to talk to you.”
     Franks said, “Beth, take the kid.”
     She went out without a word. She was only gone a second or so. She came back alone, and stood just behind Franks. Her eyes were big and scared. Franks said to her patiently, “Keep out of this, honey.”
     She didn't say anything, but she didn't move. Dillon's thin lips set in a sneer.
     Franks was calming down. He said, “You sure startled me,” there was a foolish little smile on his big, rubbery lips, “bustin' in like that. You're crazy I might've pushed you boys around.”
     Gurney said, “Don't talk big, Franks, you're in a spot.”
     Franks' eyes opened. He knotted his muscles. Gurney could see them swelling under his coat. “Not from you I ain't,” he said. “What is it?”
     Gurney pulled a chair round and sat down. He was careful to put the table between them. Dillon leant against the door. Beth watched him the whole time. She was dead scared of Dillon.
     “We're tippin' you off,” Gurney said evenly, “Sankey's gotta win this brawl.”
     “Yeah?” Franks' breath whistled through his nose. “He'll win okay if he ain't flattened before the last round.”
     “You don't get it,” Gurney said patiently; “you're throwin' the fight.”
     Franks stood very still. “Like hell I don't get it,” he said. “Who said?”
     Dillon said quietly from the door, “I said so.”
     Franks turned his head; he looked at Dillon slowly up and down. “Who're you?” he said. “You're nuts. You two'd better get outta here before I toss you out.”
     There was a pause, then Dillon said, “You're goin' to run into a lotta grief if you don't take a dive.”
     Franks went a little pale. “Okay, you two rats; here it comes.” He jerked aside the table. Gurney scrambled to his feet, his face white. Beth gave a sudden short scream as the big Colt sprang into Dillon's hand. Franks saw it. It stopped him just like he had banged his face against a brick wall. “Hey!” he said.
     “That's it,” Dillon said viciously. “Don't start anything; you'll have a second navel if you do.”
     Beth put her hand on Franks' arm. “Don't let him shoot you, Harry!... Don't let him shoot you!”
     Dillon crouched a little by the door. His face was drawn, his lips just off his teeth. “I'll give it to you, sucker,” he said; “just one move outta you an' you get it.”
     Franks was scared of the gun. He'd never run into a gunman before. It unsettled him. “Are you bugs?” he said, keeping his voice steady. “You can't do this.”
     “Forget it,” Dillon said savagely; “you listen. You're takin' orders, an' you're likin' 'em. You're throwin' that fight, see? Sankey's gotta win in about the fifth. You can fix it how you like, but he's gotta win We got too much dough on that boy to fool around makin' mistakes.”
     Beth began to cry. She made a little shuddering, jarring sound that got on Gurney's nerves.
     Dillon went on talking. “When you get in there, you put up a good show, but no heavy work; just rough around, see? Then let Sankey haul off an' sock you. Just one, make it look a lucky punch. Right, you go down, an' you stay down. Now listen, you goddam punk, you double-cross me' an see what you get. I'll get this dame first, an' I'll get the little 'un as well. Then I lay for you. This ain't a bluff—you see.”
     For a moment Gurney thought Franks was going to rush Dillon, and he braced himself. Franks could see that he'd get nowhere doing that. Dillon could have fired three or four times before he caught up with him. So he just stood there, his head lowered, his eyes gleaming, and his great hands working at his sides. He said at last, “Sankey'll win okay.” His voice came out of his throat in a strangled croak. Beth slipped to her knees, holding his hand. They stood like that for a long time, with Dillon staring at them. Then Dillon jerked his head at Gurney, and together they backed out into the night.

     Gurney sat in the car, smoking. He had left Dillon at Abe's store and had driven out of town. The night was still and very close. Big black clouds, looking like lumps of coal, hung sluggishly in the sky. The moon rode low, just skirting the black tree-tops.
     His mind excited, Gurney sat smoking hard. The red tip of his cigarette glowed in the smothering darkness of the car. His brain was crawling with thoughts. It was the gun that excited him. He could see Franks' face now. He could see how that gun stopped his rush, turned him from toughness to dough. Any guy could give orders with a rod in his hand. It was the rod that did it. Gurney shifted in his seat. Dillon was a hard guy, but without a gun Franks would have squashed him—made a smear of him on the wall. That showed you how powerful a gun was.
     A big, silent car flashed past. Gurney saw the dame sitting in front with a well-dressed guy, looking as if he owned the earth. The dame was glittering in a white dress, that sparkled. She looked a honey all right.
     With a gun, Gurney thought, I'd have the last word with that lousy punk. A gun would level things up mighty quick. Thinking about the dame, his mind went on to Myra. If there was ever a broad asking for it, there she was. What the hell was he waiting for, anyway? He leant forward and turned the switch.
     It did not take him long to run out to Butch's place. He stopped the jaloopy a few hundred yards from the shack under a clump of trees, and turned off the lights. It was off the road, and it would be safe there. He got out, and walking on the grass border of the road approached silently.
     One solitary light was burning in the downstairs room. Silently, moving his feet with care, he walked towards the window. He had a great respect for Butch's ears. He put his fingers on the window-ledge and pulled himself up.
     Myra was standing quite close to him, pressing a dress with a flat-iron. She was alone.
     Gurney lowered himself to the ground and walked round the front. He rapped on the screen with his knuckles. He waited a minute, feeling his heart beating jerkily against his ribs. Then Myra's silhouette blotted out the screen and she said, “Who is it?”
     “Hyah, baby,” Gurney said, speaking very low; “you alone?”
     She pushed open the screen and came out on the step. “Nick!” There was a little catch in her voice. It didn't get by Gurney. He grinned in the darkness.
     “Sure,” he said. “Butch in?”
     She shook her head. “He went down to the gym. He won't be so long, though.”
     “Lemme in, baby, I gotta talk to you.”
     “No—no, it's late, Nick. You can't come in now.”
     Gurney reached out his hands, taking her arms just above her elbows. “Get goin',” he said gently; “you don't want to be seen yappin' out here.”
     At his touch her resistance sagged. She let him push her back into the house. She broke away from him when they entered the room, standing with her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on him.
     “You gotta be careful,” she said. “He's coming back. You know him. He'll be right in on us; he comes so quietly. Not now, Nick, I'm scared he'll come.... Nick, please...”
     Gurney, his hat still at the back of his head, pulled her away from the wall. She struggled to get away from him until his mouth reached hers, then she clung to him, beating his shoulder-blades with the flat of her hands.
     Down the road Butch came, his great body throwing a bloated shadow that stumbled and lurched just ahead of him. He made no sound, walking in the grass. He kept his ear-cocked for motors. Butch had got to watch out for himself. Skirting the bend, he hastened his steps; he knew that he was nearly home. Walking, his head bent, he was puzzling about Dillon. Sankey also worried him. He'd got a lot of dough on Sankey. If Dillon didn't get that brawl rigged he was going to be down a lot—a hell of a lot too much.
     He silently padded up the mud path, pausing on the top step of the verandah to have a last smell of the night air. He didn't like it. It came hot and close to him. He thought maybe a storm would get up.
     Myra slid from the settee to the floor when Butch walked in. Gurney sat up, his face going a little green with his fright. Butch would break his back if he caught him in here.
     Myra hadn't any clothes on, except her shoes and stockings. She stood quite close to Gurney, her face set, and the first shock ebbing away. She said, “I was just going to bed.” Her voice was steady.
     Butch remained by the door. Something told him that things weren't right. “It's late,” he said, listening with his head on one side.
     Myra motioned Gurney to stay where he was. Gurney was sitting propped up on his elbow, one leg on the floor. Sweat ran down his face, making him look ghastly in the bright naked light.
     Butch moved forward a little, shutting the door.
     “Sankey all right?” Myra asked.
     “Yeah,” Butch said; he passed his hand over the top of his bald head. His eyes looked straight at Gurney. The two yellow clots bore into Gurney's brain. “Seems quiet here,” Butch went on.
     Myra stooped and picked up her dress. Butch heard the rustle of the material as she gathered it into a ring to slip over her head. “What you doin'?” he said sharply.
     Myra shook a little, the dress slipping out of her hands. “I told you I'm going to bed.” She began to walk heavily about the room, taking up the ironing-board and putting it against the wall. “Sankey going to win?” she asked, for something to say.
     “You're interested in that guy, ain't you?”
     Gurney's muscles began to ache, sitting like that. He was too scared to move. He just stayed there, his eyes fixed on Butch.
     “Why not?” Myra's knees were beginning to shake. The old geezer guessed there was something wrong, she thought. She walked carelessly over to the couch again and picked up her dress. Neither Gurney nor she looked at each other.
     Butch moved quickly. He almost trod on Gurney's foot as he went by. He snatched Myra's dress out of her hands. Myra skipped away and flattened herself against the wall. Her eyes sprang open wide.
     Butch felt the dress in his hands, then he put it to his nose. His big, rubbery face darkened. “What the hell you doin'?” he growled. “Why've you taken this off?”
     Steeling her voice, she said, “What's the matter with you tonight? I was hot... can't a girl take her dress off?”
     “Come here.”
     Gurney stopped breathing.
     Myra said, pressing herself against the wall, “Not damn likely!”
     Butch walked slowly to the door and locked it. He took the key out and put it in his pocket. “There's something phoney goin' on here,” he snarled at her. “Let's see what it is.”
     Gurney thought, “With a gun I could blast the old devil.”
     With a sliding shuffle Butch came at Myra. He came so quickly that she only just escaped him. Slithering along the wall, out of his reach, she stood by the door breathing in short, jerky gasps.
     Butch stood, his hand on the wall, his sightless eyes turned on her. “You'd better come here,” he said.
     Myra said in a small voice, “You're scaring me. Open the door, I tell you, I want to go to bed.”
     Butch caught her this time. Gurney didn't think it possible for him to move so quickly. His great hand caught her arm as she fled from him. He jerked her to him. His hot breath fanned her face.
     She said, “Let me go!... Let me go!... Let me go!” Her voice went up a tone, mounting to a scream.
     Gurney swung himself to the floor and stood up. Swiftly, Butch jerked his head round. “What's that?” he said harshly. He shook Myra. “What was that? There's someone else here.... Who is it?”
     “You're crazy,” she gasped. “There's no one here.”
     His hand, swinging down, slapped her. Then he stiffened. Holding both her wrists in a crushing grip, he touched her quivering body.
     Gurney was creeping inch by inch towards the open window. Myra, seeing him, began to scream, covering any sound that he made.,
     Butch reached up; his hand, closing on her throat, nipped her screams short. Gurney swung himself forward, falling head first out of the window, his feet jerking the curtains from the rod. Picking himself up, he began to run drunkenly down the road, swaying from side to side.
     Butch said, “So that's it, is it, you little whore?”
     Myra felt her knees buckle. If Butch weren't holding her she would have slipped to the floor.
     “Who was it?” He shook her. His great arms flung her this way and that, banging her legs against the wall. “Do you hear, who was the sonofabitch?”
     “You'll... never make... me tell,” she gasped, trying to tear her hands away.
     “Yeah? Just wait an' see.”
     He dragged her across the room, until his legs struck the settee, then he flung her down on it. She lay there, her eyes wide with terror. He kept a grip on her arm, muttering to himself and fumbling at the buckle of the broad belt at his waist. As he pulled it off, she twisted and turned over on her face, her arms protecting her head, screaming deep in her throat.
     The belt curled through the air and hit her arched body. Myra screamed, “I'll kill you for this!...”
     It Was only when his hand was slippery with sweat that she escaped him. She rolled off the settee, her arm sliding from his grip. They stood there, facing each other. Butch, his rubbery face hideous with cruel rage; Myra, her body streaked with red weals, murderous in her fury. Her hands closed on the back of a chair and, swinging it high, she hit Butch across the head with it.
     Butch half guessed what she was doing, and he swerved, but she had anticipated the move. The chair crashed on his bald head, shattering itself. The legs of the chair flew across the room. Butch fell on his knees, roaring, as his brain reeled. She came at him again, battering down his upraised arms, beating him again and again with the thick chair-back. He tried to save himself, his defence becoming more and more feeble, until he reeled over and fell on his side, like a stricken elephant. She drew off. Swinging the chair-back over her head, she gave him one final crushing blow that made his battered head jerk up and then flop on the floor. Then, with a frightened look, she snatched up her dress and ran blindly up to her attic.
      
      
     They pushed their way down the aisle. Gurney came first, then Dillon, and then Morgan. The house was so full they had difficulty in getting to their seats. They were right on top of the ring.
     A preliminary was just commencing. The arc-lights overhead dimmed as they arrived at their seats. Gurney squeezed past a slim blonde, pulling her skirts to her knees. “Don't mind me,” she snapped.
     Dillon stood waiting to pass. “If your arches ain't broke,” he said, “suppose you stand up; I ain't so likely to strip you that way.”
     Two fat guys sitting behind her went off in loud, explosive sniggers.
     The blonde took a look at Dillon and figgered he was too tough for her. She stood up and let him through. Morgan crowded past her quickly. They sat down.
     Just above the ring lights a heavy haze of tobacco-smoke lay like a mist rising from damp ground. The hall was as hot as hell. Dillon wrenched his collar undone and pulled his tie down a little.
     The two lightweights were slamming into each other murderously. Gurney leant towards Dillon. “You seen Sankey?” he asked.
     Dillon shook his head. “Sankey ain't worryin' me,” he said. “I guess I'll give Franks a call.”
     “We got him scared,” Gurney said; “you see.”
     The crowd suddenly gave a great sigh, that sounded like a groan, as one of the fighters began to buckle at the knees.
     Morgan shouted, “Go after him, you little punk—nail him.”
     The gong saved him.
     Dillon got to his feet; he pushed past Morgan, climbed over the blonde and walked up the aisle again. At the head of the corridor leading to the dressing-rooms a little runt in a yellow-white jersey stopped him. “This is as far as you'll get,” he said.
     “I'm on business,” Dillon said, and went on.
     The little runt had to let him go; he was just swept aside.
     Dillon wandered into Sankey's room. Hank was sitting on a stool beside the table. Sankey was lying on the table, a bright-red dressing-gown covered him. They both looked up as Dillon came in.
     Hank said, “He's on next but one.”
     Dillon pursed his lips. “You okay?” he said.
     Sankey half sat up. “Sure I'm okay. This guy's goin' to take a dive, ain't he?”
     Dillon nodded. “That don't mean you ain't gotta try,” he said evenly; “you gotta watch this guy, Sankey.”
     Hank said heatedly, “Sure he'll watch him... what you think?”
     Dillon nodded. Then he wandered out again. He walked softly down the corridor until he came to Franks' room. He put his hand inside his coat, feeling the cold butt of the Colt. Then he opened the door and went in.
     Franks was staring moodily at his feet. His trainer, Borg, was sitting despondently on a wooden chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up sharply as Dillon came in. “Wrong room, buddy,” he said crisply. “On your way.”
     Dillon didn't even look at him. He said to Franks, “We're outside watching.”
     Franks looked up. “Get out, an' stay out!” he said.
     Dillon didn't move. “Don't get this thing wrong,” he said. “We don't want to start anythin'.”
     Borg got off his chair. He came over to Dillon fast. He was only a little guy, and fat, but he'd got plenty of guts. “What the hell you blowin' about? Scram, you ain't wanted here.”
     Dillon looked down at him, sneered, and wandered out. At the door he turned his head. “In about the fifth, Franks,” he said, and pulled the door to with a sharp click.
     A sudden burst of ironic cheering came to him from the hall. He passed the little runt again, who glowered at him but said nothing.
     At the entrance of K Section he saw Gurney and Morgan pushing through to the saloon. Dillon forced his way through the crowd and caught up with them.
     “Those two little punks are scared sick of each other,” Morgan said, as he came up. “They're just sleepin' off time in each other's arms.”
     Gurney said, “Did you see Franks?”
     Dillon nodded. He leant against the counter, his thumbs hooked in his belt. “He'll be okay,” he said.
     Gurney poured himself out a shot of bourbon and pushed the bottle over to Morgan. “And Sankey?”
     “Sankey's got his nerve back. He's a big shot now the brawl's rigged. That guy's got a yellow streak somewhere.”