“Up,” snapped Johnny. “Way up... quick!”
The man behind the bar let go Little Joe’s hair, the Italian slumped to the floor in a faint and the beefy man whirled on his toes like a boxer.
“You?” He spat out a short, astonished sibilant and reached for his pocket.
Johnny put his right arm out low and straight.
“I’ll let you have it,” he warned.
A blunt-nosed automatic emerged from the stocky man’s coat...
Johnny fired at his belt buckle; the man raised his gun slowly.
“Well!” Johnny let go twice more, point blank. He could not miss that chunky chest at eight feet. The man spun half-way round, his mouth opened noiselessly but he got his automatic on a line with Johnny’s heart.
Johnny swung to one side, there was a stab of light and something hit him in the shoulder like a sledgehammer blow. He tried to work the trigger again, heard his gun crash to the floor and realized that his right arm was useless.
The red-faced man took two steps forward and snarled:
“You hadda stick your — dam nose in. You asked for it, you — so... ” he took deliberate aim, “here it is.”
Johnny ducked, let his knees buckle and rolled as he fell; powder grains stung the side of his face and the sound of the shot was deafening, but he felt no pain. His head crashed into the brass foot-rail, his shoulder lunged into the face of the bar and he wondered what delayed the finishing shot.
... Then he heard the four quick notes of the Klaxon.
“Kippy,” shrilled a voice from the other side of the bar. “That’s Pete’s signal... c’mon... let’s scram.”
Johnny lay very stilclass="underline" perhaps they would think he was dead.
“We can’t leave no trail like this.” The thick-set man swore obscenely. “Frisk that wise guy... I’ll go through Massetti.”
The waxy-faced one kicked Johnny in the knee, flopped him over and took his wallet, cigarette case and a watch that Johnny valued above price.
“Hop it up, Kippy,” begged the thin man. “C’mon.”
Little Joe had recovered, was on his knees, mumbling a prayer in Italian.
“Here you!” Johnny saw the man called Kippy take something like a big black egg from his overcoat and told it in front of the Italian’s eyes. “Here’s where you have one on th’ house... pineapple flavor.”
He pulled the pin and ran to the door; Waxy-Face was already outside.
“You won’t crash no more parties, wise guy,” snarled Kippy, looking at Johnny from the door. “You c’n go f’r that... that’s one for the book.”
He tossed the bomb at Johnny and vanished.
3
All Johnny could think of, during that split second, was that it was a hell of a way to cash in... with his head in a spittoon.
But his muscles flashed into action, even before the black egg which hatched death was out of Kippy’s hand; twisting and rolling his body towards the protection of the battered iron safe at the end of the bar. He drew his legs under him, like a falling cat, covered his eyes with his good arm and ducked...
... he was lifted and slammed against the big iron box; the air was a paralyzing burst of searing flame and he lost consciousness.
How long he was out, he never knew; when he first heard the ringing of the concussion in his ears and opened his eyes, he could see nothing and thought, momentarily, that he was blind. Then he smelt the acrid fumes of powder and alcohol — realized that the lights must have been shattered — got a match from his pocket shakily.
Clouds of plaster dust and a rain of splinters and shattered glass obscured the wreckage, but he saw something gruesome on the floor ten feet away — and winced as from a blow. He felt sick and weak, his eyes were blurry and his hands unsteady at lighting the matches... but there was no need of worrying about Little Joe Massetti any more.
He leaned limply against the crazily uprooted bar and rescued a bottle which had not been smashed... it had a Hennessey Three Star label... he cracked off the neck, and let hot fluid pour into his bruised mouth. He wiped his face, wet with perspiration — and shivered. Why he had not been blown to bits like the red, raw thing on the floor there... he did not know.
Presently his ears made out another sound than the high-pitched ringing which echoed and reechoed through his numbed brain — a confused noise of whistles blowing, people shouting, feet pounding on pavements.
Someone was hammering at the front door. In a minute or so the place would be seething with cops and plain-clothes-men... but he couldn’t wait to see them. He had an appointment with a red-faced man and a coke, and he had to be in shape to keep that date. He couldn’t do it in Bellevue, or in the Tombs as a material witness. Even the fact that he was on the confidential list of the Commissioner as an under-cover man wouldn’t help him in this jam.
He got some more of the Three Star down and shook his head to clear it. His right hand was wet; he looked down, it was covered with blood. Gritting his teeth he got the hand in his overcoat pocket, with the aid of his left. Then he picked up the gun... there were still three shots left... he remembered.
The noise at the front door had redoubled.
He picked his way over debris, across the horrible thing that had been Little Joe Massetti but five minutes ago, and found what he was looking for: the trap door to the barrel cellar. Every speake has one.
He lifted the iron ring, tugged and got the trap open. He backed down the beer-soaked stairs just as the iron-grille crashed open and feet hurried along the corridor to the inner door. He dropped the trap above him.
The cellar was pitch-dark, slimy with grease and seepage, close and fetid. He got out a match, lit it and worked his way towards the front of the cellar. There would be a street-level opening somewhere... twice a week the furniture van would pull up and drop fifteen or twenty half barrels of Jersey beer down that opening, after paying the cop-tax of a dollar a barrel.
He located it by the time the emergency patrol and the ambulance pulled up in front of the speakeasy. They would search the cellar in a few minutes, of that he was sure. So he pushed the metal hatch open and looked out; there were a dozen people in the street and two internes getting a stretcher ready. He bit his lips as he thought of getting what was left of Little Joe on a stretcher.
There would be a bluecoat in the area and more on the way. He had to bluff it out now, if he was to make it good.
“Jeeze!” He shouted to one of the bystanders, a negro musician bound Harlemwards after his night-club duties. “What happened... hey?”
“Still blew up, boss.” The black man hurried on, anxious to be the first to give information. “Wop runs a still — that’s what they say, boss.”
“Crying out loud,” said Johnny. “Scared me so I fell off a pile of barrels. Here... gimme a hand; I’ve got a game wrist.”
The negro reached down to the loading platform, heaved him flat on the sidewalk. Johnny got to his feet, dizzily.
“Lordy, boss... you look like you was inside that still. The wop’s croaked... they gone in for him.”
“I’m kayo. Just scratched up a little. I gotta report this... I’m supposed to be watchman... ”
Johnny thought the explanation was pretty cockeyed, but he couldn’t dope out anything better... and he started down the street. Curious eyes followed him — suspicious whispers followed him... but none of them belonged to uniforms, so Johnny sauntered on casually.
He turned up his coat collar to hide the dirt and blood on his collar and shirt.