John D. MacDonald

Dead to the World

I can probably explain why I got so upset about Howler Browne’s troubles if I tell you that in our case it was a little different than the usual relationship between the owner of a road house and the gent who plays his piano. After I was out of the Army a year and still not getting anywhere, he took me on out of hunger, and also because twice while we were both working for Uncle Sugar, I pulled details for him so he could sweeten up a dish he had located in Naples.

He hadn’t talked much about this club he owns, the Quin Pines, and after he met me on the street in Rochester and I told him my troubles and he took me on and drove me out there, I was agreeably surprised to see a long low building about two hundred feet back from the highway, with five enormous pines along the front of it. It looks like class and a high cover charge. It is. It pulls the landed gentry out of their estates and loads them up with the best food and liquor in the East. And the Howler makes a fine thing out of it.

I guess he got the name of the Howler because of the way he flaps his arms and screams at the ceiling when things don’t go just right. He’s a big guy, with a fast-growing tummy, a red face and crisp curling black hair... the kind of a guy who can wear a homburg and look like the Honorable Senator from West Overshoe, North Dakota. But he has a large heart of twenty carat which probably wouldn’t wear well on a politician’s sleeve.

I’m Wentley D. C. Morse, the first name and the initials having suffered a contraction to plain Bud. I seem to appeal to the babes with frustrated maternal instincts, probably because I have a nice fresh round face and a well-washed look. I’m not above taking advantage of such inclinations.

I know that when the Howler took me on, he expected me to be a floperoo, a citizen he could stick up at the piano at times when the band happened to be tired. He offered me a room, food and thirty bucks a week. I snapped at it so quick I nearly bit his hand. I’ve been slapping a piano around ever since I’ve been able to climb up onto the stool. I have my own style, whatever that is, and a long string of startling failures at auditions. I have about twenty-nine varieties of rolling bass in my left hand. I like to mess around with improvised discords with the right. I can play the normal corn, just like any other boy with two hands, but I like my own way and sticking to it had kept me in bread crusts until I ran into the Howler.

I did about an hour the first night. I got some surprised expressions from the dowager clique and saw one old party choke on his celery when I stuck some concert counterpoint into the middle of Gershwin. When some kids tried to dance to me, I switched the beat on them until they stumbled off the floor, throwing ocular stilettos over their shoulders. I don’t like being danced to. Somehow, it seems silly.

It was nice clean work, but I didn’t have much chance to talk to the Howler. After a week, I began to build up a discriminating clientele. The Howler stopped and listened to the banging of hands after a long number and ordered me a blue spot. In two weeks I was set and beginning to get some small mentions in the trade papers. Then I began to notice things. The first thing I noticed was that the Howler’s cheeks, instead of being nice and round and pink, began to hang like a couple of laundry bags on Tuesday morning. Once I walked out into the kitchen and heard him screaming. He was also flapping his arms. The kitchen help stood around with wide eyes, waiting for him to burst. I stood by to enjoy it.

“Why, oh why,” he hollered, “did I ever get into this business? Am I nuts? Am I soft in the head?”

While he was gathering breath for another burst, I interrupted. “S’matter, Howler? Somebody get a buck shot in the caviar?”

He spun around and said: “Oh! Hello, Bad.” He walked out of the kitchen. I shrugged at the pastry chef. He shrugged at the dishwasher, who grinned and shrugged at me. I went back out through the place and up to my room.

The next night, we had the fight. It didn’t last long, but it hurt business. The cocktail lounge is to the right as you come in the front entrance. The dining room and dance floor is to the left. The joint was packed, as it usually is around eleven. The Howler wasn’t around. I was due to play during intermission, so I was in the cocktail lounge waiting for the end of the set.

Two citizens in dark suits started arguing with each other at one end of the bar. One was tall and one was short, but they both had the same greased black hair and the same disgusting neckties. Before anybody could move, the big one backed the little one over to the door and across the hall. At the entrance to the dining room he wound up and pasted the little guy. It was a punch and a half. The little one went slamming back into a group of tables occupied by the cash customers. He knocked over two. One of them had four full dinners on it — half eaten. The big one left in a hurry before we could stop him. The little one got up and felt of his chin. He clawed the cabbage salad out of his ruffled locks and departed. He refused to leave his name. Then about forty very stuffy citizens departed with cold looks. I was watching the new hatcheck girl give them their stuff when the Howler came up to me and asked me the trouble.

“Couple of citizens had fisticuffs. A big one fisticuffed a little one right into two lobster dinners, a steak and an order of roast beef. These people figure you’re running an abandoned institution, so they’re shoving off.”

He spun me around and his face was red. “You dope! Why didn’t you hold them?”

“Me? I play the piano. Besides, the big one left in a hurry. And what could you hold the little one for? For standing in front of a big fist?”

He walked off, but I could tell from his back that he was as mad as he could get. I hurried in and started slapping the piano around. I probably didn’t play too well, as I was wondering why I had been jumped. After my half hour was over, I dug up the Howler. He was upstairs. He was still mad.

I walked up to him and said: “Am I a friend, or just another employee of. the Great Browne?”

That jolted him. He grabbed my arm and said: “O.K., so you’re a friend. Why?”

“Come on.” I didn’t say another word until I had led him downstairs and out into the parking lot. I picked a crate that looked comfortable. We climbed into the front seat and I waited until we both had cigarettes going before I continued.

“Look, my boy. I know something is eating on you. You don’t act right and you don’t look right. Now what is it?”

He waited a while and I could tell that he was wondering whether to tell me. Finally he sighed and sank down into the seat. “Shake-down, Bud. The curse of this business. You get going good and then some smart monkeys figure you got dough to give away just to stay out of trouble.”

“How much?”

“A thousand a month.”

“Are you paying?”

“Not yet. That’s why the little scrap tonight. Just a warning. If I keep holding out, we get a free-for-all and then there’s no more customers. Maybe the cops close me up. The county boys are tough.”

“Can you afford it?”

“Maybe. It’ll be O.K. for now while the boom’s on, but come a slump and I dig into the bank to make payments. You see, I can’t deduct the payoff as a business expense. I don’t get any receipt. It has to come out of my end after taxes.”

“Have you talked to the cops?”

“What’s the use? The new group has hit all the joints for miles around. Some of them went to the cops — no help. We got no data on them. They’re slick. That’s why I wanted one or both of those guys who brawled. Thought I might squeeze something out of them.”

“How did they contact you?”

“Phone. Very slick voice. Polite. Told me I needed assurance that my club would run smoothly. Told me he wanted a thousand in tens, twenties and fifties put in a brown envelope on the first of each month. Then I give it to my daughter Sue and send her walking up the road with it to the state highway in the middle of the afternoon. She’s just turned eight. He says that if there’s any trouble, they give Sue a face she won’t want to grow up with.”

I cursed steadily for many long minutes.

“That’s just what I said,” he remarked, “only I said it louder and faster.”

“You couldn’t take a chance on telling that to the cops and letting them try to get on the trail after the kid’s O.K.?”

“Hell, no. If I pay off to these characters, I do it straight. I can’t take a chance on the kid. There’s not enough dough in the world to mean that much to me.”

“Anything I can do?”

“I guess not, Bud. Just beat on that piano the way you’ve been doing, and we’ll jam enough customers in here to make the thousand look like a fly bite. You’re doing great, kid. But even if...” His voice trailed off and he snapped the butt out onto the gravel.

“But even if what?”

“I’m afraid that if we make more dough, they’ll ask for more dough. I can’t help but feel that they’ve got somebody planted on me. The guy on the phone knew a lot about the business. Too much.”

“How many new guys do you have?”

“Maybe fourteen in the last two months.”

“You’ve been watching them?”

“They all look O.K. to me. I can’t figure out which one it could be. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the guy on the phone was guessing.”

“I could help look.”

“You could stay out of it. I hired you to give me piano music, not protection from a protection mob.” He climbed out of the car and slammed the door. I heard his footsteps crunching on the gravel as he headed back for the joint. I sat and had another cigarette and did some thinking. A few couples came out and climbed into their cars — but they didn’t drive away. The music rolled out across the green lawn and the stars seemed low and bright. It was a good night, but the taste for it had sort of left me. I wanted to help the Howler.

He paid off on the first. I stood with him and watched Sue trudge up the road in her blue dress, the big envelope in her hand. The sun was hot. She went over the hill and out of sight on the other side. We both wanted to run after her but we didn’t dare. In the next twenty minutes I saw the Howler age five years. His face was white and his eyes were strained. He kept snapping cigarettes into his mouth and dragging twice on them before flipping them away.

I grabbed his arm when I saw something coming back over the hill. Sue came into sight and the color came back into his face. We shook hands solemnly. When she was twenty feet away, he dropped on one knee in the dust and she ran into his arms, giggling. He held her roughly and slapped her where you slap children with either affection or correction.

He held her at arm’s length and said: “Now tell Dad what happened.”

“A black car stopped and a man stuck out his hand and said, ‘Got that envelope for me. Sue?’ and I gave it to him and they drove away.”

“How about his voice?”

“He kind of whispered.”

“What kind of a car was it?”

“I don’t know but I think it was an old one. Black, too.”

“Did you look at the license like Dad told you?”

“Sure, but it had dirt all over it. I couldn’t read any numbers.”

“Could you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Golly, no! He held a handkerchief up to his nose like he was going to blow it, but he didn’t.”

We stood and looked helplessly down into her bland little face. She looked hurt, as though she had failed the Howler somehow. He patted her on the head and told her she had done O.K., so she went skipping off to her mother in the bungalow the Howler had built down over the crest of the hill from the Quin Pines. I had met Mrs. Browne, a tall blonde with steady eyes, but I didn’t see her often, as the Howler has the excellent rule of keeping his wife away from the joint. More joint owners should try it. I wondered how she was reacting to the ugly choice of having to use Sue as a courier for a shakedown mob.

Even though I wanted to do something — anything — to help the Howler, I couldn’t think of a starting place. For the next few weeks he walked around looking as gay as a wreath on the door. And still the customers flocked in. Nothing will ever beat the old formula of good food, good liquor, good music and no clip games. Whenever I asked him how things were going he would shrug and look grim.

It must have been the day before the second payoff day that I burst into the Howler’s office without doing any knocking. I had dreamed up the hot idea of getting hold of a midget and dressing it in clothes like Sue wears and sending it down to the highway with a cannon and a chip on its shoulder. I was chewing over the idea and I didn’t knock.

The Howler looked up from behind his big desk and he wasn’t happy to see me. A man I had seen around the place sat in the visitor’s chair. He was a tall slim blond gent with a steel gray gabardine suit, white buck shoes, a hand-painted tie and a languid manner. He was real pretty with his sun tan.

I said, “Excuse me, Howler. I should have knocked,” and I turned to go back out.

“Wait a minute, Bud. You probably are going to have to look for a job soon, so you might as well know the score. Meet my lawyer, John Winch. John, this is Bud Morse, my piano player and good friend.”

Winch jumped up and grabbed my hand. I liked his warm smile and tight handshake. “I’m glad to meet you, Bud. I’ve enjoyed your work a lot. I like your Lady Be Good best, I think.”

I like the way I play that one too.

I perched on the windowsill and the Howler said: “It looks like we’re at the end of the line. John can’t think of a thing we can do, Bud. The mob, whoever they are, want two grand a month. I can’t swing it. I told them I would have to go out of business and the guy on the phone said that was O.K. with him. I’ve gone over the books with John and we can’t see any way out of it. I’m going to sell out and get out of here.”

Winch looked steadily at me and said: “And the trouble with that is that he’ll only get the value of the land, building and fixtures. You can’t sell these places on the basis of a capitalization of the earning rate. It just isn’t done.”

I felt sorry for the Howler. His big red face sagged down over his collar. His eyes were as empty as yesterday’s box lunch.

“Damn it, why don’t you fight a while?”

He spread his hands. “Nothing to fight with, Bud. Nothing to go on.”

“This doesn’t sound like you, boy. Besides, give me another couple of days to poke around. I got a lead.”

They both leaned forward. New life came back into the Howler’s face. “What is it? Come on, give!”

I opened my mouth to tell him and then decided against it. It was too vague — it would sound silly. Once when I was in college I worked in a shoe store and I learned about shoes. I know good ones when I see them. Even though the Howler had told me just to play the piano, I had done some poking around among the new employees. I noticed that a fellow named Jake Thomason, the new dishwasher, was wearing a pair of beautiful shoes. Looked like a hand-made last. Narrow and well stitched. For a guy making eighteen bucks a week plus two meals a day, they didn’t look right. It made me wonder and I had been keeping an eye on him. But you can’t tell a guy not to sell out because his dishwasher wears good shoes.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I got to keep it to myself until I develop it a little more.” They nagged at me for a while but I kept my mouth shut.

Finally the Howler said: “O.K., John. Forget the sale for a while. I’ll pay off the two grand tomorrow and take a chance on Bud.” Winch shrugged and I left before the Howler could change his mind.

The bee was on me. I had to develop the shoes into a big lead in nothing flat Because I had opened my big mouth, I was costing my boss another two thousand dollars. I went up and sat in my room and did a little thinking. I had thought about Thomason enough so that it was easy to visualize him — a slight quiet little man of about forty, with thin lips and oversize hands, receding hairline and a nose that had been busted a few times. I had already found out that he lived in the Princess Hotel, a flea bag outfit in nearby Casling. There was something about him that I couldn’t put my finger on. Suddenly I remembered what it was. I snapped my fingers, and hit myself on the head with the palm of my hand. I realized that without actually noticing it, I had seen him coming out of the kitchen and hanging around the new hatcheck girl.

Then I did some more thinking. I liked the looks of the little gal, a roundfaced blonde with kind of a Dutch air about her. She looked as though she scrubbed her red cheeks with a big brush. I remembered the lights in her blue eyes and the trim, pert little figure that went with that pretty blond head. Jerry Bee her name was.

I glanced at my watch. Four-thirty. She would be coming back on duty about now. I couldn’t take the time to case her carefully. You have to take some people on trust. I decided to enlist her in the save Howler campaign.

I went downstairs and found her sorting out the tags for the evening business. She smiled up at me with professional cheer and said: “I didn’t know you wore a hat, Mr. Morse.”

“The name is Bud, Jerry, and I got to talk to you. Alone. Quick.”

“Why... ah... sure, Bud. Is this a fancy line? You want to try to make a date or something?”

“I would, sometime, but not now. I got other things to talk about. You know where that grapevine thing is? That white wooden thing over across the lawn? See you there in two minutes.”

I walked off and went through the kitchen. Thomason was fiddling with the controls on the dishwasher. He didn’t look up. I went out the back door and walked over the yard to the grapevines. I lit a cigarette and in about a minute she came hurrying across the grass, looking as cute as a bug and very earnest.

I gave it to her quick. “A mob is shaking the boss down. The mob has somebody planted in the joint. I figure it’s Jake Thomason, the dishwasher. They’re forcing the boss out of business. I’ve seen Thomason hanging around you. What’s he said? What does he act like?”

Her mouth was a round O of amazement. Then when she realized what I wanted, she began to look disappointed. “Gee. He’s just acted like any other guy. He all the time wants me to go out with him. I don’t want to go out with no dishwasher.”

“He hasn’t hinted anything about having more dough than a dishwasher should have? He hasn’t tried to sound important?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

It was discouraging. I sighed and said: “O.K., Jerry. Thanks anyway. Guess I’ll have to take it alone from here.”

“What you going to do?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know. Follow him, maybe. Try to get into his room, I guess.”

She stepped forward and grabbed a button on the front of my jacket. She twisted it in her fingers and looked at it as she said: “Gee, Bud, that sounds so exciting. Do you think maybe that I could... help?” As she said the last word, she slowly raised her eyes up toward me. I was surprised to notice how long her lashes were. That slow look flattened me.

“Sure. Meet me as soon as the joint closes. Sure.” I stood and watched her walk back across the yard toward the joint. She was put together in the proper manner. I tried to put my cigarette in my mouth and found that my mouth was open and I was still saying: “Sure.” I stopped talking and chewed the end of the cigarette.

During the long evening I fretted about the job of following Thomason. I knew that having the gal along would make it easier if he noticed us. We could just be having a routine date. It wouldn’t look as fishy as if he found just me on his trail.

The Howler is one of those people who like to have things all cleaned up before the joint is closed. That fit in nicely with my plans. It meant that Thomason would be running stuff through the dishwashing machine long after the last customer had left. I strolled out into the kitchen a few times between my shows and tried to get a good clean look at him without his noticing me. There was nothing to see. He stood beside the splashing, humming machine and fed in the dishes with quick easy movements. I felt an all-gone feeling in my middle, and hoped that I wasn’t wrong — and yet there was the matter of the shoes...

I told Hoffer, the statuesque citizen with the South Jersey accent who keeps a fatherly eye on most of the employees, that I was checking to see how many of our people brought their own cars. I didn’t want to ask about Thomason by name, so I had to stand and look interested while he rambled through a long list. Finally he said: “And the dishwasher, Thomason, he drives an old heap that I make him park down in the pasture beyond the parking lot.” I asked some more questions about matters I didn’t give a damn about, and then drifted off.

The half moon outlined the square frame of Thomason’s car. Hoffer had been right when he called it a heap. It squatted in the tall grass looking like the nucleus for a junk yard. The fenders were frayed and it looked old enough to have a bulb horn. I stood in the night breeze and listened. The music blatted away in the club a hundred yards behind me. I suddenly realized that if I was right, I could be given a large hole in the head. I shivered slightly and stepped forward to where I could read the license number with a match. Then I hurried back.

Jerry finally scurried out of the barn that the Howler had converted into living quarters for the women. It was twenty to three. The last bunch of noisy customers had driven away. From where I stood I could see the kitchen lights still blazing.

I didn’t waste time talking. I grabbed her arm and hustled her over to my coupe, I opened the door and handed her in. Then I ran around the car and jumped behind the wheel. As I backed out and turned around, I noticed that her perfume smelled good in the closed car.

“What are we going to do now, Bud? Where’re we going?”

“Thomason’s crate is parked back in the pasture. He’ll be through pretty soon. We got to be where we can tail him no matter which way he goes.”

She quivered and slid over close to me. “Gee, this is exciting,” she said. I drove about two hundred yards down the road and backed into the driveway of our nearest neighbor. His house was dark. I cut my lights and we sat where some high bushes made the gloom thickest.

“We can have a cigarette, but we got to throw out the butts soon as he drives out. If he goes home, he’ll go right by us here, out to the main drag.”

She agreed and we sat quietly waiting. I found her hand and held it tight. Somehow it was less lonely, having her along — and yet I didn’t let myself think of what I might be exposing her to.

Our cigarettes were well down when some dim lights flashed on in the pasture. I heard a roar as an aged motor clattered into life. We ditched the cigarettes, and in a few minutes the old car banged by the driveway.

Jerry gave a little squeak of excitement and I turned out after him. I didn’t turn my lights on. I stayed well back. I figured that the noise of his motor would cover any sound we might make. I hoped that no eager cop would notice our lights and decide to get official.

The old car looked anything but ominous swaying along ahead of us. He kept up an average speed of twenty-five. He stopped at the corner and turned toward Casling. Somehow, that was a disappointment. I had wanted him to go off somewhere and report to somebody. I switched on my lights when we hit the town. He turned into a dark parking lot opposite the Princess Hotel. I drove on by and went around the next corner. I parked and ran back to the corner. I stuck my head around the bricks just in time to see him walk up the steps to the entrance. I gave him plenty of time to get out of the lobby, and then Jerry and I went on in.

Once upon a time, the Princess was a reputable second-class hotel. I could see from the lobby that it was now running about seventh. It smelled of stale cigars and cheap disinfectant. The sodden furniture and the greasy tile floor held the memories of ten thousand traveling salesmen.

There was one light in the deserted lobby. It was over the desk. A young citizen with a bald head, oversized teeth and a vile necktie gave us a quick glance as we walked up.

“Double room, sir?” he said with a faint leer, spinning the register around.

Jerry frowned at him and I said: “Wrong guess, friend. I got a present for you.” I took out a five and creased it lengthwise and set it on the marble counter. It stood up like a little tent.

He reached for it and I tapped him on the back of the hand with my middle finger. They say that concert pianists can bust plate glass with their little finger. I can rap pretty good with my middle one.

He snatched his hand back and rubbed it. “Funny guy, hey?”

“Not at all. I just want to be understood before you fasten onto my dough. I got some curiosity about a guy who lives here. I want to know who comes to see him.”

“Maybe I can tell you and maybe I can’t. Some of the... uh, guests, pay a little extra so they won’t be bothered with guys who are curious. Maybe the guy you want to know about has paid us some insurance.”

I tried to think quickly. I decided that time was so short, it wouldn’t hurt to let him know. “Jake Thomason.”

“Let me see. Thomason. Thomason.” He riffled through a visible file that hung on the side of the cashier’s cage. “Room two-eleven. No insurance. Now what is it. you want to know?”

Just then I heard steps clacking across the tile toward the desk. I winked at the desk clerk and slipped my arms around Jerry’s waist. I edged her down the desk into the shadows and murmured in her ear: “Make out tike you go for this.” She put her hands on my shoulders and I went just a little bit dizzy.

I heard the man behind me say: “Give two-eleven a buzz. Tell him Joe is here.”

The clerk stepped over to the switchboard. “Mr. Thomason? Desk. Man named Joe wants to come up. O.K.?” He yanked out the plug and said: “O.K., go on up. You’ll have to use the stairs. Elevator man’s across the street getting some coffee.”

I felt Jerry stiffen a little in my arms. When the man had clumped up the stairs, she drew me away from the desk and pulled my head down so she could get her lips close to my ear.

“Hey, I know who that was. Mr. Sellers. He runs the Western Inn. I tried to get a job there just before Mr. Browne hired me.”

I turned back to the desk. “You can keep the five. I changed my mind. I’m not curious any more.” I tossed it onto the marble counter.

He snatched it up. “Sure, mister, sure. And don’t bother telling me to keep my mouth shut. You’re a five-dollar friend. I don’t get so many of those. Maybe I can sell you something sometime.”

I walked slowly out with Jerry on my arm. I walked back to the car and we sat and had a cigarette. She tried to ask me questions but I shushed her while I did some thinking. It had to be more than a coincidence. Night club managers don’t go calling on other night clubs’ dishwashers. It fitted in with the shoes.

I could tell by the set of Jerry’s shoulders that she was getting annoyed with me. “Hey, Jerry. Wait up. I had to do some thinking. The way I figure it, this guy Sellers is running the shakedown. Jake has to be his plant out at the Howler’s place. Now all I got to do is tell the Howler and we’ll have the cops give Sellers a going over. But something may go on here. Do you think you can do something for me? Alone?”

I grabbed her hand again and she softened. “I guess so, Bud.”

“You saw that all-night cafeteria across the street and down a ways from the hotel? It’s got a big window in the front end. You go on in there and sit where you can see the front of the hotel. Nurse some coffee along and get nasty if they try to charge you rent for file table. I’ll be back after you.”

She didn’t want to be left alone. She said ho twice, and finally yes. I let her out and headed on back for the Quin Pines. I was restless and excited. I tried to shove my foot down into the motor.

I skidded into the parking lot in a shower of gravel. The club was dark. I slammed the door and sprinted over the knoll toward the Howler’s house. I knew he would be glad to hear the new angle.

After about three minutes of leaning on the bell and banging the door, Mrs. Browne came and opened it a crack. Her hair was in curling gadgets and her eyes looked sleepy.

“Why, hello, Bud. What’s the matter? Where’s Stephen?”

I had to adjust to that. Finally I remembered that it was the right name for the Howler. I gasped. “Isn’t he in there? Isn’t he asleep?”

“He hasn’t come back from the club yet.”

I stood on one foot and then on the other. I had seen that the club was dark. I didn’t know what to say. She looked anxious and less sleepy. Then we both heard it — the thin sharp crack of a shot. Small caliber. From the direction of the club. I turned without a word or a look and raced back faster than I had come. I had to go over the knoll, across a corner of the parking lot and across the back yard of the club.

I was making such good time that I skidded and almost fell when I hit the gravel. As I raced onto the dark lawn, a dim shape loomed up in front of me. I swerved and stopped. I must have looked as dark and mysterious to him as he did to me. The fact that he didn’t look big enough to be the Howler decided me. I hesitated a fraction of a second and then dove at his knees. It is the last time in my life that I shall ever dive at anyone’s knees — even a four year old child’s.

You leave the ground with your hands spread out. You can’t turn in the air. All the opposite party has to do is sling a large fist in between your paws. Automatically it will catch you in the lower half of the face.

The world exploded in a ball of red fire and I lay on my back. The dank grass tickled the back of my neck. I heard footsteps hurrying across the gravel. I didn’t want to sit up. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to rest in peace.

I found something in my mouth. It turned out to be a small chunk of tooth. I sat up and grabbed the grass to keep from falling off the lawn. In the distance, a car roared away. Some late crickets cheeped at me. I got to my feet just as Mrs. Browne came up. Her terry-cloth robe was white against the shadows.

“Mrs. Browne,” I said softly and she hurried over to me. “I just got slugged by somebody who was leaving in a hurry.” I didn’t talk so well with a piece of my front tooth missing. The cold air hurt it. It made me whistle on the letter s. My chin was damp and sticky with blood. “Maybe the Howler’s around here someplace.”

She held onto my arm and we circled the joint. We found him half in and half out of the side door. He moaned and I stumbled over him. I lit a match. He was face down, his hand opening and shutting against the concrete. Mrs. Browne moaned and slipped down beside him. I caught her before she hit her head. I slapped her conscious and made her wait while I brought my car over. We wrestled him into the front seat. She sat and held him up while I drove back across the field to their house. It strained me to get him in onto the day bed in the study. While she was phoning the doctor, I pulled his bloodstained shirt out of his pants and took a look. He had a small hole right in the center of the plump mound of his tummy. It looked bad.

He stopped moaning and opened his eyes. “Bud!” he exclaimed faintly. “These guys... awful rough... turned out the last light and started to go home... fella backed me back into the joint with a gun... told me to sell out... said the syndicate wanted to take over... made me mad... wouldn’t let me turn on light... I tried to grab him and he shot me... burning hot... legs all numb... don’t leave me.”

I knelt down beside him and said: “Maybe it’s all clear now, Howler. I found Sellers, the guy that runs the Western Inn, visiting our dishwasher. Hey! Did you hear me?” He didn’t answer. His eyes were shut. He was breathing heavily.

Mrs. Browne came back in, her fingers woven together. “I don’t know what to do. I telephoned the doctor. Should I phone the police right away?”

Just then we heard the door buzzer. She hurried to the front door. I heard her say, “Oh!” in a disappointed tone. John C. Winch, bland and tanned, walked into the room.

“Hello, Bud, I just stopped to see—” He saw the Howler on the daybed and saw the blood. His jaw dropped. “What? When did it happen? Was he shot?”

“Yeah. Shot about twenty minutes ago. The doc should he here. What’d you come over for?”

“I guess I was too late. I was sleeping and I got a phone call. The man didn’t tell me his name. Just said that I better convince Browne he ought to sell out or he maybe would be shot. Told me that I better convince him quick. I dressed and hurried right over.”

“Sell out be damned. Winch. That isn’t the way to handle this thing. You got to fight.”

“Sure, and get what Browne got. You look like you got some of it too.”

I took a look in the mirror. I was a mess. My Jips were three times too big and my chin and collar were bloodcaked. Mrs. Browne had been standing by listening.

“I want my husband to get out of this, if he doesn’t die.” She sat in a chair and covered her face with her hands. Her shoulders didn’t shake. She just sat there as still as the picture on the front of a movie house.

“What’s the legal opinion about calling in the gestapo?” I asked.

He rubbed his chin and glanced at the Howler. “I guess we can take a chance on waiting to see what the doc says. Maybe we won’t have to. It might be best all around if we didn’t.”

“Leave the cops out of it if you want to, Winch, but I got a lead and I’m going to chase it up. I’m beginning to get annoyed at this whole thing.”

Before he had a chance to answer, the buzzer whined again and Mrs. Brown let the doctor in. He hurried over and started to push gently at the sides of the wound. I walked out without a word. I was scared, shaken and mad. I climbed into my car and drove back to the parking lot. I didn’t have any idea where to go or what to do.

Just as I reached the lot, a taxi turned in. Jerry got out. I could see her by my headlights. I stopped, walked over and paid the man off. She stood there until he had spun around and headed out.

She grabbed me by the sleeve. “I watched and finally that man came out with Mr. Sellers. They went off in Mr. Sellers’ car. I couldn’t find a taxi to follow them. I don’t know where they went.”

“That’s great. That’s dandy.”

“What’s the matter, Bud?” she said, pouting. “Didn’t I do it right?”

“Sure, you did fine. Only somebody shot the boss and he’s in bad shape. It’s probably too late.”

“Oh!” She hung her head.

“If he’s out, I’m going back and see what I can find in his room. That jerk behind the desk will let me in for a few bucks.”

“Can I come?”

“Not this time, honey. You’ll just be in the way. You go on to bed and I’ll see you in the morning. It’s four o’clock already.” She pouted again and walked off toward the barn. I wondered idly why none of the kids had been awakened by the shot. Then I realized that they probably had. In the club business, it turns out most times to be a good idea to stay away from places where you hear shots.

Thinking of shots reminded me that maybe I had better start running around with a gun like everybody else. I hurried up to my room and dug my .32 automatic out of my bureau drawer. I keep it under a green shirt. I seldom use the shirt and I have never used the gun. I won it in a crap game in San Diego, full clip and all.

I ran back out to the car and headed for Casling for the second time. I made good time getting in.

The clerk gave me a gentle sneer and said: “Back again, I see.”

“No time for talk, sonny. Do I get a key to two-eleven for ten bucks, or do we argue some more?”

He shrugged and turned his back on me. Then he turned around again and slid a key across the counter. I hauled out a ten and gave it to him. He stuck it in his pocket as though it was an old gum wrapper. “Any trouble about this, mister, and I say you snitched it while I was asleep.”

I went on upstairs. Two-eleven was three doors on the right from the head of the stairs. I listened for a minute outside the door. The room seemed to be dark. No light showed under the door. I slipped the key in and it worked quietly. I shut the door gently behind me and found the wall switch.

It was the world’s average cheap hotel room. A scratched walnut bed, one bleary window, pink and white cotton blankets, sagging springs, holes worn in the rug, only one bulb working in the overhead lights, dripping faucets in the tiny bathroom, one cane chair, a bureau with a cracked glass top, an ashtray advertising beer, a glass half-full of water and a liverish color scheme of soiled green and dusty maroon.

I tried the bureau first. Cheap clean clothes. Nothing else. I tried the closet. Cheap dirty clothes. Nothing under the mattress. I stood in the middle of the room and scratched my head. Where do the detectives look? I was wondering what was under the rug when I heard a stealthy clicking noise at the door. I snatched the gun out of my jacket pocket and stepped into the bathroom. I didn’t have time to click the light switch. I felt cold sweat jump out on my forehead. I felt slightly dizzy. I pulled the door shut a little so I could see through the crack.

The door swung open so violently that it banged back against the wall. No one stepped in. I caught a flash of movement and tried to level the gun at it. A hand and arm reached quickly around the door and flicked toward the light switch. The room became abruptly black. A dim light from the hall silhouetted the door.

Then something moved quickly through the shadows and was in the room with me. I wanted to yell but my mouth was too dry.

Then a husky voice said: “O.K., Morse. Toss your gun on the floor.”

The sound of my own name shocked me. I stuffed the gun down into the side of my right shoe and said: “I haven’t got a gun. I haven’t got anything, Thomason.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then, dryly: “I believe you. That’s just the kind of a sucker play you’d make. Where are you standing?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Stand outside the door of the bathroom.”

I did as I was told. I heard the door shut again and then the lights clicked on. I had been straining my eyes in the dark and the sudden brightness made me blink. John C. Winch stood in front of me, an efficient-looking gun leveled at my middle. He had a smile on his tan face. He stepped forward and slapped my pockets and then stepped back.

“Surprised? Now go on over and sit on the bed.”

I walked over. I had to move carefully to keep from dropping the gun out of my shoe. I hoped the pants cuff covered it enough. I tucked my feet back under the hanging spread when I sat down.

“You don’t have to tell me, Winch. I can tell you. I’ve been a dope. You and Sellers and Thomason are behind this thing. You were in a perfect position to know how much the Howler could stand to pay. Now you’re greedy and you want his place. You’ll buy it through some dummy and start to rake off real profits.”

He smiled down at me, but the muzzle of the gun didn’t waver. “You’re a smart boy, Morse, but not smart enough. You should have figured all this before. Then you could have handed me some real trouble.”

“One thing I can’t figure. Why let me know you’re in on it? You won’t be safe now, because you can’t scare me.”

“Scare you, Bud? Who wants to scare you? I wouldn’t think of scaring you.”

He stood and grinned down at me. I’ve never seen a colder pair of eyes. I realized then that he was probably a little insane. I knew that he wouldn’t have to scare me. I wouldn’t be able to talk with one of those little lead slugs nestling in my brain. The room seemed to sway around me. I sat on the edge of the bed and let my hands hang down. I couldn’t reach the gun in my shoe without stooping over. The mouth of his gun was saying: “Don’t move, brother!”

He stopped smiling and nibbled at the edge of his finger. “I wish you’d brought a gun, Morse. You make it tough.”

I looked behind him and saw the doorknob move. I’ve never learned how to keep expressions off my pug face. He probably knew I couldn’t swing a gag, and when he saw my eyes widen and where they were looking, he backed off so that he could cover me and the door at the same time.

I watched his eyes and saw them flick over toward the door. I swooped after the gun and brought it up, pressing hard on the trigger at the same time. “Drop your gun, chump!” I hollered. I rolled off the bed as I brought the gun up. Nothing happened. I realized with sudden horror that an automatic won’t work unless you jack a cartridge up into the chamber first by yanking on the slide. I hadn’t. His gun snapped and something picked at my sleeve.

I looked up from the floor and kept pulling on the useless trigger. His cold right eye sighted down the barrel. I could look right into it. I shut my eyes, and another shot blasted in the room. I wondered if I were dead.

I opened my right eye. Winch was still looking at me, but the gun barrel had sagged a little. He was smiling. His eyes didn’t look quite so cold. He leaned toward me, further and further and then I scrambled aside as he fell over toward me. His head crashed into my left shoulder and he bounded off. He lay on the floor with a neat hole through the top of his left ear. The hole didn’t stop there. It went right on in.

I looked up. The door was open. Jake Thomason stood in the doorway, a gun in his hand. He looked down at me with an expression of infinite disgust. He shoved the gun into his pocket and stepped into the room. He kicked the door shut. He sat down on the wicker chair as I climbed up onto the bed again.

“You better have a cigarette, Morse. Your hand’s shaking.” He held out a pack and I took one.

“Hand, hell. I’m shaking all over. I’ll be shaking just like this on my next birthday. I’m going to keep right on shaking for a couple of years.”

“You ought to. So had every other amateur that fools around with stuff like this.”

“I’m beginning to think maybe I had you wrong in this, Thomason.”

“You sure did, and I knew you were digging around. I thought I’d let you. Thought it might stir up the big shot here.” He readied his foot out and nudged Winch in the ribs. Winch seemed to be flattening out against the floor. “And the name’s Burke. Jake Burke. I work for the Associated Restaurant Managers and Owners Group. I’m a trouble-shooter. Sellers sent for me and I planted myself in Browne’s place. You can figure the rest out. Winch, here, got greedy. He set up a shake-down racket. Then he decided he wanted Browne’s place. Made the payments high. Tried to talk Browne into selling. Got Browne in the dark to scare him. Shot him. That was a mistake.”

I raised my eyebrows and he said: “Don’t look puzzled. I just came from there. Brownell be O.K. Slug went right around him, under the hide, and wedged against his backbone. The doc has it out already. Give him a month and he’ll be louder than ever.”

“How did you know about me?”

“You! You looked at me like I had shot Lincoln. You followed me about thirty feet behind me. I could see the streetlights reflected on your headlights. I stayed at the top of the stairs and watched you and the gal talk to Jonesy down at the desk. Sellers thought you looked a little queer too. I told you this is no business for amateurs.”

“If you’re so smart, why didn’t you pick him up quicker?”

“He was too smart, Morse. Used the telephone. Also, I couldn’t step in on any of the payoffs. He had kids delivering the bucks in every case. Couldn’t take a chance. Had to wait until he got worried about you catching onto him and about me. I don’t think he had me figured, but I guess he was going to try to knock you off with my gun and me off with yours — if you had one.”

There was a knock at the door. A gentle knock. Burke shouted: “Come in!”

The door opened and Jerry stepped timidly into the room. She looked down at the body of Winch, and her eyes widened. She circled widely around him and ran into my arms. She was shaking. I put my arms around her. Her hair smelled good. Burke started to laugh.

“This your girl?” he asked. I nodded. He stepped over and grabbed her wrist. He snapped something onto it and yanked her away from me. I started up with the vague idea of swinging on him. He was still laughing. She fumbled in her bag. He slapped the bag down onto the floor and a small automatic bounded out of it and balanced grotesquely between Winch’s shoulderblades. She stopped struggling and hung her head.

“I told you you were an amateur. Why don’t you think things out, Morse? Winch was in this with this gal. She was the plant in Browne’s place. That’s why I tried to date her. That’s how he got onto me. She told him. And she told him about you wanting her to help follow me. That made him wonder who I could be. How did he know you were here? She waited until he came out of Browne’s place and then told him. She saw his car out there. She probably waited in it. How did she get here? She probably came down with him. I figure she probably wore a man’s hat and covered her face and helped him collect each month.”

He tilted her chin up roughly and looked into her eyes. “I’ll even bet she figured out that gag of using kids for the payoff.”

She Jerked her chin away from his fingers and said: “Suppose I did.”

There was a heavy fist banging at the door and Burke said: “That’ll be the cops that I told Jonesy to send for. We’ll all have to go down and make out statements and stuff.”

He tugged at the steel bracelet on her wrist and whispered: “Come on, honey. Let’s go answer the door.” Dawn made her face look yellowish.

And suddenly I realized that when I got back to the piano I was going to do a cornball job on Melancholy Baby. I was really going to do it up. I’d play it for the Howler.

Content

John D. MacDonald
Dead to the World