“So that’s it. That’s good enough for me.” He slapped her again and she sank down to her knees, her shaking hands covering her face.
Sue was mumbling, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it.”
“Wait a minute,” barked Nat Peters. “This thing ain’t right, Vince. There’s a stink in this somewhere.”
“Yeah,” snarled the racketeer, “but not for long.”
“Look,” reasoned Peters, “why would a gal throw away five hundred a week? Five hundred a week for eight months to shut her mouth; then all of a sudden—” He was thinking furiously.
Kay was looking at her red-headed manager as if she were seeing her for the first time.
“You couldn’t, Sue,” she cried. “Sue, you couldn’t — you didn’t!”
“I got it,” suddenly wheezed fat Nat Peters, sitting down heavily in his huge chair. “Now I got it, Vince. You got the wrong one, Vince. It’s the redhead who’s been taking the dough — and for nothing. You hear, Vince? You’ve been paying off — ain’t that a laugh — and for nothing!”
“What?” he roared.
“Yeah, you been paying five hundred a week to Kay to shut her mouth, only she ain’t been gettin’ it and she ain’t been talkin’ either.”
The gangster looked livid. “You mean the redhead’s been taking me? For five hundred a week, she’s been taking me? Why you lousy little—”
He rolled up to her on the balls of his feet, his fingers clawing into the softness of her beautiful red hair. She groaned as he yanked her to her feet. Then holding her in front of him like a puppet on a string, he smashed her back and forth across the mouth.
Kay tore at him furiously. “Stop it!” she cried. “You’ll kill her. Leave her alone!”
She hit out at him until he had to let go of the redhead and turn his attention to warding off the determined attack of the infuriated blonde.
Nat Peters interfered, then, his huge bulk pinning the gangster against the door.
“Cut it out, you fool,” he said between his teeth. “Enough’s enough.”
“Shut up, Peters!”
“No, no, you’ll spoil everything.”
“Nobody can take Vince Patello for a sucker!” He struggled to get away from the big hands that held him. “Get away, you fat slob,” the gangster spat out, and his hand went into his coat pocket and came out with a gun.
The owner of the Shell-Aire Restaurant felt the hard muzzle of the thirty-eight boring into the wide expanse of his middle.
“For the last time. Peters, get away!” the gangster sang out. “Get away!”
Sue saw the gun, too, and she screamed at Kay to run. In three strides the two girls were at the rear door, Sue pulling desperately at the latch. Vince Patello saw them and tried to push Nat’s bulk away from him.
“You’re a fool, Vince,” Nat Peters was saying when the gun went off. “You’re... a... fool...”
The two girls were outside running frantically in a dark alley when the fat man slowly slid down the long legs of the king of the gambling rackets and fell moaning at his feet.
Vince Patello jumped over the body and rushed for the alley, as behind him came the thundering sound of frightened people hammering furiously on Nat Peters’ office door.
At the far end of the narrow blackened alley, Kay Winters was grinding madly on the starter button of her car.
“Hurry, hurry,” moaned Sue.
Kay’s foot jabbed at the accelerator three times before the motor caught. As she shifted gears and sped around the corner, three shots cracked out in the quiet of the deserted alleyway. There were running footsteps, pounding footsteps, and then silence.
Inside Nat Peters’ office, the body of the restaurant owner was a crumpled thing without life. Outside, sprawled face down on the cobble-stones of the alleyway was Vince Patello, a limp, lifeless hand still reaching for a thirty-eight on the ground beside him.
A small electric sign was flashing intermittently over his body — EXIT — EXIT — while at the foot of the long, dark alley stood Don Davis, a forty-five automatic in his hand, and a queer, almost desperate look on his set features...
They sat up there in the darkened car on the dirt road high above the drive. The night hung silently around them like a heavy velvet curtain. Occasionally a distant automobile winked its lights at them as it passed by without seeing them.
They hadn’t talked. They hadn’t spoken since Kay had driven up there and braked to a gentle stop, facing the silver ribbon of the river far below them.
It was Sue who finally spoke. “Say something, anything — but at least speak to me.”
Kay looked at her red-headed manager without seeming to see her. It was as though she were talking to the river.
“I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.”
“Maybe you don’t want to.”
Kay shook her head sadly. “No, that isn’t it, Sue. I want to, believe me. But... Sue, how could you do a thing like that!” It ripped away from her like a sharp pain.
“Why? Since when is an extra five hundred a week hard to take? What do you want now, half of it?”
“Sue!”
“It’s fifty-fifty, isn’t it? Well, isn’t it?”
“If it was money you wanted, why didn’t you ask me? What’s mine is yours. You knew that, Sue.”
“I hate you!” the redhead screamed suddenly. “I’m glad I can say it at last. I hate you — I hate you!”
It was like a heavy fist pounding into the pit of her stomach. Suddenly Kay felt ill. She reached for the ignition switch but Sue’s hand stopped her. It was cold, clammy. Kay felt the tiny rivulets of perspiration running down her own back. She leaned against the nylon seat cover; it was very hard to breathe.
“For two years I’ve worked and slaved for you,” ranted the redhead. “For what? It’s you they talk about — the great Kay Winters, the wonderful Kay Winters. What about me? What do they say about me?”
“Sue, for heaven’s sake, Sue!”
The redhead was laughing now, peals of high-pitched, uncontrolled laughter.
“The great Kay Winters, huh? Well, what will they say now!”
She ripped open her pocketbook and there was something in her hand — something that showed hard and black and ugly... Its cold muzzle pointed right at the disc-jockey.
“Sue! Oh no!”
Sue was still laughing. “I hope you suffered tonight. I meant it to be that way.”
“No, don’t do it, Sue. Please don’t do it!”
“I sent that note, Kay. But I’m not going to kill you.” Sue chuckled violently. “It’s Vince Patello; he’s going to do it. Vince Patello will do it.” She laughed out loud then, her head bobbing like a cork. But her hand was steady; it was almost too steady. “He killed Nat Peters tonight, and he’ll kill you. When they find you, I’ll swear that he did it. I’ll swear that he did it.”
“Sue, Sue.” Kay’s voice was quiet, gentle, like the soothing sound of running water high in the mountains. “You’re sick. Let me help you—”
“No! You’re going to die! Drive. Go on, drive!”
Sue didn’t want to do it there. There was still time — time... Time for what, Kay didn’t know, but she realized that her only chance lay in complete obedience.
She started the car and drove down by the river and then along the Parkway. Faster and faster she went, with Sue sitting next to her like a cold, marble statue urging her on to do something she didn’t want to.
The redhead was laughing again, the frightening sound of it bubbling from her lips in a deadly spray, and Kay took her last desperate chance. She pressed her foot to the board, and as the car hurtled forward like a live thing, she jammed on the brake with all the strength she had in her supple young body.