A car rolled up to the curb and parked. A tall, good-looking, well-groomed young man hopped out, flipped away a cigarette and walked briskly into the café. There was an arrogant swagger to his stride, an insolent air of cocksureness in the tilt of his gray fedora.
Brower looked after the man with a growl deep in his throat. “Hasn’t changed much,” he observed. “Business must still be good. But I see he’s driving the same old can.”
“Best make on the market for its price,” Sullivan declared. “I been driving them for years.”
“Thought Lew would get himself a fancy chariot before now. Something to match his snappy clothes and income. Maybe he’s laying off the splurge, saving his dough. Huh!” Brower spat disgustedly and started away. “I’ll be seeing you, Jerry. Don’t keep your ears plugged, if you know what I mean. I want to finish this job before it finishes me.”
Sullivan watched the detective limp off and felt a sudden twinge of pity for the man. A good egg, a square-shooter, Clem Brower; a loyal friend since the days he wore harness and chased the neighborhood boys for throwing stones. Getting on now, bucking an ugly game; a target for unjust criticism, but still full of fight and grimly resolute in his purpose.
Turning into the café, Sullivan hoisted himself to a tall stool and ordered his supper. It was late and the place was empty. The Ajax was a popular hangout. Nick Economos, the pot-bellied Greek who ran the establishment wasn’t wholly above reproach, but he served good grub and cheap.
Jerry Sullivan had a neat little business of his own, was getting out of the red, and not paying tribute as were some of the others he knew; hadn’t been approached, either. Sometimes he wondered at his luck; and sometimes he rather doubted the stories told him.
He knew that “protection” was one of Kibbler’s many rackets; knew a great many things that Brower might have liked to hear about. He couldn’t very well help knowing it from the loose talk that went on around the garage. Nobody seemed to care much what Sullivan heard. It was almost as if he was considered “inside” — which he wasn’t.
There had been more than one killing, more than one pineapple tossed in the neighborhood.
Sullivan practically had grown up with Lew Kibbler, but had drifted away after their brief school days. When he opened his garage, Kibbler gave him his business, paid promptly. He wasn’t turning customers away on moral grounds. He did the best work he could, took fair pay. The bulls never got a scrap of information out of him, and the opposition fared no better.
Jerry Sullivan was twenty-two, husky, red-headed and perpetually cheerful, in overalls and out of them. He knew automobiles and their ailments like the back Of his well-scrubbed, freckled hand. That hand was polishing off the last crumb of apple pie, when Kibbler appeared in a rear doorway and beckoned.
“Come inside,” Kibbler invited, as Sullivan strolled toward him. “This is Doc Fulton,” he introduced, nodding to a short, heavy-set man with glasses who was playing solitaire at the table in the back room. “Meet Jerry Sullivan, Doc. One of the kid friends. Operates the best little garage in the precinct.”
Kibbler grinned and thumped Sullivan’s shoulder. Fulton looked up absently and said he was pleased to meet the newcomer.
“You can do me a couple favors, Jerry,” Lew said. “To begin with I want you to tune up my bus tomorrow. And second, I’ve got a date at nine. Maybe you’ll wheel me and Doc over.”
Sullivan squinted through the smoke of his cigarette. “What about a taxi?” he inquired.
“No more than a mile from here,” the other continued, as if he had not heard. “Won’t take ten minutes.”
“I’ve got a date of my own,” Sullivan said. “Important.”
“Listen,” Kibbler came back. “It isn’t what you think. This is pure social.”
Sullivan shook his head. “Sorry. I’m due uptown right now.”
Kibbler’s white fingers drummed on the table and he leaned forward. “I been laying off you,” he said quietly. “You’re making a little money and things have been running smooth. It mightn’t last.”
Sullivan didn’t reply. He knew what the other was getting at. It didn’t make him feel any too good, but he tried to smile.
“Things happen around here,” Kibbler resumed. “Accidents. You might do me one favor in a lifetime. It’ll save you worrying.”
“Is that the way it stands?” Sullivan challenged.
“We’ll let it go at that.”
Kibbler talked calmly enough and his faint, smile was disarming, but there was menace in his tone, a threat that wasn’t to be laughed down. Sullivan seethed inwardly. The man expected him to do his bidding — or else. No need to ask what. An accident would play havoc in the shop. Everything he owned was there, all paid for now.
“You needn’t be seen leaving with me,” Kibbler said, “if that’s what’s fretting you. I hear old Brower’s back on the job again. I don’t want him on my tail even when I’m paying a social call. I’ll mosey out. You and Doc hop in my car, pick me up around the corner — Jackson’s place. In five mintues.”
He took his hat off the rack, adjusted it carefully, opened a side door and closed the door behind him. Sullivan sat stiffly in his chair, looking at Fulton, his mind spinning. The very abruptness of the thing left him sick at heart. Maybe this errand meant something, maybe not; but he didn’t like the approach. It smelled of trouble. Driving Kibbler wasn’t Sullivan’s idea of a pleasant evening. He was in a jam, all right, with trouble at both ends.
Suddenly he recalled the Andy Reed episode and his pulse quickened, Perhaps Red had been in a similar jam.
Doc Fulton swept up his cards and spoke. “Let’s get going.”
Without a word Sullivan got out of his chair and followed the man through the side door beyond which Kibbler had passed five minutes before? The dark areaway led onto the street.
II
Detective Brower was not in sight. Perhaps he had shadowed his quarry. Perhaps, Sullivan found himself thinking, if he told Kibbler that Brower was in the neighborhood, and looking for him, the trip might be called off.
As they crossed the walk a rash plan whipped into Sullivan’s mind. He stopped to light a cigarette, to give himself time to consider the perils the step entailed. Better keep his mouth shut about Brower. No use bringing up that subject just now. An hour or two later things might be different.
He picked up Kibbler at the appointed spot. The man got into the back seat with Fulton and promptly issued instructions. Brower wasn’t to be seen. Sullivan turned several corners and headed obediently for the river. No car appeared to be following them.
The night was misty, the scattered lights pale blobs of yellow. The streets along which they wound were deserted. The asphalt ended abruptly and the car began jolting over cobblestones. Sullivan picked his way carefully, his thoughts mutinous. There was no doubt in his mind now as to the nature of the excursion and the risks involved.
“Right here!” Kibbler called presently.
He slid out of the car almost before it stopped rolling. “Douse your glims, but keep your engine turning. I’ll be right back.”
Sullivan obeyed, watching the man glide off into the shadows. Fulton remained in the car, silent, apparently uninterested. The occasional cough of the idling engine and the remote toots of distant river boats, were the only sounds.
A light showed beyond in the murk, winked out quickly as if a door had been opened and closed. Tense, interminable minutes dragged. Then Kibbler reappeared. The package he carried was tossed on the floor of the car.
“Only one?” Fulton queried irritably.
“That’s all tonight. Delay somewhere.” Kibbler climbed in beside his companion, closed the car door softly. “On your way!” he snapped in Sullivan’s ear.
Sullivan flipped on the lights, eased in the clutch, profoundly grateful to be starting back. But as the car glided forward, a sudden voice issued from the shadows.
“Hold on!”
A stalwart copper appeared ahead of them. The gun in his hand showed plainly under the glowing headlights. Kibbler swore thickly. Sullivan’s fingers went cold on the wheel and on the gear shift as he brought the car to a stop.
He recognized the officer, and so must have Kibbler. It was Bob Hanson, a rookie no more than a month on the force. A big, raw-boned youngster in a new uniform. The three had played as kids together, their families neighbors on the same block.
Sullivan waited in an agony of suspense, his heart thudding.
The officer strode to the car, yanked open the tonneau door, peered at the men inside. It was too dark to distinguish faces, and Hanson fumbled for his flashlight. Sullivan did not turn.
He knew that the instant the torch flared, the package on the floor seen, the passengers recognized—
“What your doing around here?” Hanson demanded. He seemed to have trouble extricating his flashlight; he Was slow, undeniably nervous.
“It’s all right,” Kibbler responded quietly, his voice disguised. “Perfectly all right. Here’s my card. Take it!”
He was nearest the door, and fired twice as the light flashed into life. The gun must have been in his fist all the time. The reports were muffled, flat, like the thump of a hand on wood. The torch clattered to the ground.