Killer Take All Read online

  She stopped. "What did you say, Johnny?"

  "The scuffler." I nodded at the table. "She'll milk your rack dry. The way that dealer goofs, tomorrow this place'll be under new management."

  She almost fainted.

  Chapter 2

  Bev King was nice people. A carnival brat, she'd graduated naturally to dealing and had worked some of the real good spots around the country. I couldn't see her in a joint like the Club Cherbourg. I'd known Bev on and off for some time. At one time we'd had a short but torrid romance. She was my kind of girl; full-bodied and generous, not demanding and very wise. Hip, you might say. The thing hadn't lasted long.

  Right now she would be about thirty-five. She'd got married, had a couple of kids before the war made her a widow.

  Anyway, she worked hard, and wore no man's collar. Quite a girl. We found a table, got drinks. She really needed one.

  "This's real cozy, honey," I said when we were settled. "But I have to make it to McKaneville, or some such."

  "Johnny, listen." She took a gulp of her drink. "You got to help me."

  I grinned, took her hand. Her hair, so dark it was blue in the low light, framed her face and made the milky pallor more pale by contrast. She shook her hand loose.

  "No, Johnny. Be serious."

  I sat back. She was hacked about something, all right. She fidgeted with the front of her blouse, pulling the silk tight over her fine breasts.

  "Can you do something about that woman? Can you, Johnny? Can you stop her?"

  "Can I what?" That shocked me. I got a cigarette going while I got behind that one. "Can I stop her? Why the hell should I want to?"

  "For me, Johnny. You've got to." She leaned forward. "Is there anything you could do if you wanted to?"

  "Well, sure." I stared at my cigarette. "But why? I'm a hustler myself."

  "Johnny, listen." She gripped my arm. "You got to take the stick and stop that woman. It'll break Dan. He can't—"

  "Wait a minute," I said. "Now I get it, maybe. The wide guy? With all the teeth?"

  She nodded, miserable. Her eyes dropped and her hands tore a cigarette to pieces, scattered the crumbs on the white cloth.

  "Yes," she said, real low. "But don't say anything, Johnny. He's married. And—well, it's all a mess."

  "What do you know."

  "Please, Johnny—"

  "Why doesn't Gurion do something? It's none of my look in, kid. You know that."

  "I know, I know. But, look—Dan had a dealer. A good one. Ford Messner. They had an argument about some organization or other and Ford quit. The only dealer around was Jack Kilgallen. The kid in there. And he knows from nothing."

  Her fine dark eyes were wet at the corners. I could never remember seeing her like that before. This jerk Gurion really had her on the hook.

  "Let me tell you how it is," she said. "Will you?"

  "Tell," I said. "Stories I always like."

  She wet her lips, said, "Dan hasn't got a dime. Not really. He and Lucy have been married for about ten years. The club's hers. In her name. Dan was a sawyer in a mill downtown when he met her. She had a tavern. You know, beer, poker—that bit? Anyway, they hooked up, worked hard together and finally wound up with the Cherbourg. But they don't ring up enough to make a living for themselves and the three kids."

  "What's that got to do with losing a couple bucks in a crap game? Jesus, they can't be playing it that close."

  "Listen. Dan is trying to pay off the note, get the business straightened around so that he and Lucy can get a divorce. She feels the same way, been playing around for years. But right now a split leaves Dan with beans. And he's not a beans guy. He wants to take care of Lucy and the kids and still have enough left so he and I can have a couple good years."

  She looked at her drink, pushed it away. Her eyes were blank and shadowed. I didn't say anything.

  "Haven't I got 'em coming, Johnny? A couple good ones?" She shook her head, attacked another cigarette with nervous fingers. "Then that damned Donetti comes around with his association action and Messner quits. He used to draw trade. Now this."

  "You said Donetti. How does he figure?"

  "Johnny, about the game. Will you—"

  "Tell me about Donetti."

  She took a breath. "All right. Marino Donetti owns the big place out at Devil's Lake. He wants to get all the owners together in a sort of protective association to resist outside pressure from other interests to syndicate the area. Or something like that. Messner was for it. Dan isn't. Neither are Paul Carter and a couple of the other club owners. That's it. They've been growling and muttering at each other for months. Dan says we can outsit them. But he's running short on dough."

  "He could close down the table."

  She looked at me scornfully. "You know better than that. This is a walk-in trap. We get the same people all the time. Close it once 'cause somebody's winning and there goes your action from now on. You could stop it, Johnny. If you wanted to."

  "Bev, go get this Dan of yours. I'll give him a hand—if he wants it."

  "Oh, Johnny." She got up and ran around to me. "I knew you would," she said happily and kissed me. "You won't be sorry."

  I pushed her toward the curtained doorway. "I'm sorry already."

  She walked away. I lit another Camel and mentally booted myself for getting in the middle of what had all the appearances of a sticky situation. Then I watched Bev make her way across the floor and decided it might be worth it. She sure looked good walking away.

  Dan Gurion wasn't pleased with me. He was the guy I'd talked to in the game room; still wide and toothy. He wore a light, some-kind-of-tweed sport coat. I put him about forty-five, forty-eight—older than he liked to think he looked. He had on thick-framed horn-rimmed glasses. Bev hovered in attendance.

  "Mr. Berlin," the man said, extending his hand.

  I shook it. He sat and we looked at each other for a moment. Then he said, "Well..."

  I said, "Well..."

  Bev grabbed glasses, left hastily with, "I'll get some drinks."

  Dan Gurion's eyes were wary and a trifle hard and the politician's smile was gone. He looked me over good. I did him the same favor over the rim of my glass.

  He said, "There's not much use in talking around it, Mr. Berlin. Bev tells me I'd better do something about the situation in the game room. She also tells me that you are the man who can do it."

  "I am," I agreed. "If I want to. Right now I'm wondering what the guy you got dealing is going to say. I'll have to take over the game to do you any good."

  He brushed it aside. "Kilgallen's not important. What is important is stopping these people from walking off with my club. Can you do that?"

  Bev came with the drinks. I grinned at her, took the glass of whisky.

  "I can do it."

  Then Gurion walked back into the game room.

  Soon after Jack Kilgallen, the deposed dealer, stormed out of the doorway and up to the bar. His face was dark and he looked like someone had told him Custer had really defeated Sitting Bull.

  I slid into the pit, tapped Dan Gurion on the shoulder. He turned. "Oh, there you are, Johnny." He said to the girl, "Fran, this is Johnny. He'll deal."

  "Fran," I said, and smiled around the table. "People. Shall we go on?"

  The game went on.

  I took the stick and dealt it automatically. It felt good to be directing a game again. I was very much aware of the blonde girl beside me. A subtle perfume, like sunny grass, drifted to me. I smiled at her, nodded. She pulled my head down, whispered in my ear.

  "These people. Are you going to stop them?"

  She smelled good and her hand was soft. There was a tiny line between her brows. "I am, indeed," I said, and waited for the chance.

  The layout captured my full attention. I let the sweep and power of the eternal lust to gamble pull me into the contest and I handled the table with a sure, deft touch developed over too many tables and too many years. Before the dice got around to the dark sh
arpie, I glimpsed admiration in Fran's eyes.

  The nervous doll with the educated fingers grabbed the dice in her turn and rubbed them between her palms. The script had changed. Now she bet a stack of blues on the front line. She shot, caught ten for a point. She shouldn't have done that. She took the odds for the same amount they had on the line. It was the biggest single bet of the evening. My blonde assistant leaned toward me.

  "She's playing the limit, you know," she whispered.

  I winked, chattered up the action. The dark girl rubbed the dice, got them fixed in her fancy fingers for the throw.

  I said, "Just a minute, lady." I raised the stick, stopped the game. "See that the dice jump over the stick, please?" I reached out, laid the wicker hook on the layout three-quarters of the way downtable. "Both dice to the wall."

  She looked at me incredulously, started to protest. I just shook my head, told her to shoot. She rubbed the dice and looked at me again, a sharp glance full of frustration. She had quite a bundle down. But even at that she would walk out with a hundred bucks of Cherbourg money if she quit after this roll. Which I was sure she would do.

  "Over the stick and home, lady. Make ten for the people."

  She shot. She couldn't slide, of course. Not with the stick laying there. The dice hully-gullied down the table, bounded off the rubber. Ace and a trey, four easy.

  I said, "Four, easy—hunting ten. After four, come some more. Field roll, the comes go."

  I fished some busters out of my coat pocket, gripped them flat-handed, wedged between the thumb fat and the outside edge of my palm. I picked up the fronts with the same hand when the stick dragged them up, made the easy drop-switch. Then I gave the svelte shotmaker the busters and she knew I'd fed her. She knew, all right. The switch is impossible to detect, but the move is easy enough to see. If you knew what to look for. I dropped the fronts, the square dice, in my side pocket, showed the girl some teeth.

  She'd play hell making ten. One cube had aces, treys and fives; the other deuces, fours and sixes.

  She threw the dice spitefully and the red cubes came up seven. An excited murmuring arose from the players, most of whom had been riding the girl's hot hand.

  I sang, "Four—trey, she went away. The last good comes and the don'ts to pay. A new shooter."

  The feeling of the game lightened. And gradually it became just another crap game, not life and death on every roll. I leaned toward the blonde.

  "I'm Johnny Berlin," I said. "Who're you?"

  She looked up; our eyes were only inches apart. Her face flushed under my frank gaze, turned away.

  She said, "Fran. Fran Cole."

  A real doll. I began to wonder if I might possibly break my lifetime rule about small towns. After all, Portland had nothing for me. Another table, another game.

  The dice tumbled.

  About two-thirty the action tailed off and we closed the game. I stood still for congratulations from Bev and Dan. Fran Cole took off as soon as the action died. I got away from the mob, ducked through the curtains after her.

  I ran into Jack Kilgallen.

  Chapter 3

  The cool bar towel eased the ache in my temple. There was a dull, thick feeling under my right eye. I'd have a mouse in the morning to keep my broken knuckle company.

  "Hold still," Bev demanded. Her lush body pinned me to the bar as she held the towel to my head.

  I winced and leaned back. On the floor, Jack Kilgallen lay where my desperation punch had put him moments before. Condi Capucho, the bartender, held a towel full of ice on the kid's eye. Dripping bar towels all over the joint.

  Dan Gurion came from the stairway door. He took in the tableau, walked to the bar.

  "What happened?" he asked.

  "Little Beaver," I said. "He took exception to me moving him out. I tried to tell him it was just for the evening. But he wouldn't have any."

  Bev pushed on the towel and I jerked my head away.

  "Hey. You trying to stick that thing in my ear?"

  "I'll stick it in your big fat mouth if you don't hold still."

  Fran Cole slid onto the stool next to me at the bar. Bev smiled at her, went back to torturing me with the wet towel.

  "You seem to be a man of many talents, Mr. Berlin," the blonde girl said.

  She had changed her costume. Now she wore a light dress of pale blue that accentuated the deep tan of her neck and shoulders, pointed up the whiteness of her hair. Her eyes were startling; deep, deep violet in the light.

  "I am indeed," I said. I pushed Bev away. "Give me a break, Bev."

  "Berlin, I'd like to talk to you about working for me," said Gurion.

  "No, thanks," I replied. "Too small a town for me."

  Fran Cole said, "You haven't seen McKaneville, Mr. Berlin. It's loads bigger than Edson. Lots going on. You might think about it. There may be more to see than you know."

  She turned on the stool and I got a good look at her trim body, slimming to flaring hips, neat thighs. I looked her over deliberately. She flushed under my examination, a line appearing between her eyes.

  "You could be right," I told her.

  Her lips thinned and she turned away. I turned back to Gurion.

  "Look, Gurion. I appreciate the offer. But Laughing Boy there'll make you a good dealer. If he wises up a little. Me, I'm gone for Portland."

  "I could make you a percentage deal. How's that? Say thirty per cent." His eyes slid away. "Of the net, of course."

  Nothing wrong with this guy's arithmetic. I laughed, fished for a cigarette.

  "No, thanks. I'll make it to McKaneville tonight, get a start for Portland tomorrow. I can't stand small towns."

  Condi Capucho, the bartender, spoke from the floor. "He's coming around, Dan. His eyes just came open."

  Kilgallen came awake, groaning. He sat up with the bartender's help. I turned back to the bar, watched Fran mix drinks. I heard Dan and Condi get the kid out of the joint. Dave paid him off, fired him. I felt bad about that.

  Fran leaned on the bar gloomily.

  "Oh, come on. What is this? A funeral? Life goes on. Have a drink and then I'll drive you home, huh? Sound all right? Maybe we can stop somewhere for coffee."

  "I have a car, thank you." She pressed fingertips to her temples, shook her head once. "I'm really very tired."

  Gurion came back and I swung around to him. "Dan, you shouldn't have fired that kid. I told you I didn't want the job. I wasn't kidding."

  "All right, Berlin." He got on a stool, gripped his drink. His eyes looked tired and the lines around the wide mouth were deep and shadowed. He nodded. "I'll find somebody. But not him. These games are too important. Without the revenue from the game room, I can't make it. It's touch and go as it is."

  "Yeah, well, I'm sorry." I turned to the bar. "Look, it's none of my business and I'm butting out. But strictly. The joke is over. Now, how do I get to McKaneville?"

  Dan said, "Just follow the road, bear right. Try the Hotel Kenyon. It's reasonable and clean."

  I walked to the door with Fran, still not convinced I couldn't talk her into something. We jammed up there, saying good-nights. Someone mentioned that I should turn right at the Club Carroll onto the Clover Canyon Road for the quickest route to the hotel.

  Fran climbed into her heap with a neat display of stocking. Her legs were slim and nicely rounded. She closed the door, rolled down the window.

  "Good night," she said.

  "You're making a mistake, lady. Such sterling tales of derring-do I could recount." I grinned at her. "Just think, a cup of instant coffee and holding hands over a greasy table. Doesn't that sound exciting?"

  "You kill 'em, don't you, Berlin?" The eyes, murky blue-violet in the car's shadow searched my face. She didn't smile.

  "Yeah," I said, leaning in. "I do, indeed." I looked at her for a long moment, trying to read the expression I'd seen for a fleeting instant on that smooth face. She looked away. "You're afraid," I said softly. "That's the bit. You're scared to death."
r />   "Get away from the door," she said tightly. Her toe stabbed the accelerator and the coupe tore out of there, rapping my fingers hard against the doorpost. She almost didn't make the corner. Then she got it straightened; the tail lights dissolved into the fog. I stood there for a couple of minutes after the sound of the coupe had died. My fingers stung from the impact of the doorpost. I trudged to my car.

  It was an interesting situation I'd fallen into. During the evening Fran had brought me up to date on the local gossip. The gambling was Vegas-style; pay a tax on your table and go. Consequently, with all the logging and lumber mills, the area was a potential gold mine. Just lately a force for the forming of a cartel, a Gambler's Protective Association, had been giving all the owners headaches. It sounded to them like syndication. The prime mover was Marino Donetti. I said nothing about having met the man. His odd behavior on the road took on added significance with the story.

  The dealer Dan had lost, Ford Messner, was reputed to be Donetti's right hand. But it was just talk because he had gone to work just down the road a piece from Cherbourg after leaving Gurion—a place called Coley's.

  My headlamps picked out a Y sign on the side of the road on the outskirts of McKaneville. The fog had lifted some, now hovering twenty feet or so over the road. Visibility was much better. I saw a glow of diffused light through the murk from the area within the spread of the Y. A small neon sign said Club Carroll in red tubing. This was Carter's after-hours joint that Condi had mentioned. The rendezvous where the hustlers and dealers, bartenders and late crawlers gathered to cut up touches. Paul Carter was supposed to be an ex-gambler.

  The fog hugged the road only here and there and I made pretty good time for a mile or so. Then I picked up a tail. The suits and stuff hanging behind me on the car rack made it hard to tell. But a pair of headlamps had been gaining on me steadily. I pushed the Ford a little and the lights kept pace. Then I slowed down, decided to let the joker go around me.

  Before I could spit a hurtling black mass nudged my inside rear fender. I wrenched the wheel, got a rubber squeal from the tires and shot way out on the wrong side of the road. I rammed my foot down on the gas, fought the wheel. The dark car, its lights blinding me as I turned my head, slid inside between my Ford and the canyon wall. Our fenders touched with a grinding tear. I fought the wheel desperately and slammed in front of the other car, shot up the side of the canyon wall. Metal screeched as the Ford rode the wet dirt. My speed kept me rolling. I bounced down to the asphalt, tore into the next curve like a racer.