Two minutes before he died, Dirk Petroni was basking in the sun on the steps of the Mansion House, drawing appreciatively on his after-breakfast fragrant Havana. His bodyguard, Joe Scalisi, stepped through the swinging doors into the lobby of the Mansion House to buy a pack of cigarettes. Undoubtedly the few steps were worth the effort they cost — for they saved his life!
For at that very moment a long, ominously black car which had been roaring down the side street, skewered about at the corner, and then stopped with a strident shriek of brakes, abreast of the Mansion House entrance. And simultaneously, there flashed in the dazzling sun, the barrels of a Thompson machine gun, grimly held by one of the scowling, tight-lipped men who occupied the car’s rear seat. Like hail stones, furiously driven onto a tin roof, the machine spelt out its message of sudden death. Dirk, caught unawares, made a desperate effort to get behind the broad colonial pillar that flanked the steps, but he fell gasping, one hand clutching at his side, and a trickle of blood weirdly distorting his agonized face.
The buzz of restrained power that betokened the car’s great speed increased to an avalanche of energy, and just as a few cautious heads, aroused by the rapid shooting, were being thrust out of the windows, the death car swept down the street rapidly gaining in speed. And thus, Dirk Petroni, ruler of the beer running and racketeer trust of Laster County, passed the way of all flesh in the seventh month of his reign.
That night his henchman, lieutenants and subordinates met in the council room of the gang, a concrete walled chamber in the basement of the Mansion House, to discuss the ways and means of avenging the insults and ignominy that had been heaped on the Laster Gang through the death of their chief.
“I told Dirk to stay clear of Buck County,” Bad Ross, a newcomer to the Lasters growled. “What in hell did we want to hi-jack Robinson’s trucks for anyway? He stayed out o’ Laster County.” He looked around the room for support, but at every turn he met a hostile glance.
“Well we did it, didn’t we?” Red Connors snarled at him. “Dirk was the boss, an’ he knew damned well what he was doing. You took your share of the split! Robinson, the lousy son of a hound pulled this deal... well, fellows, what do you say?”
Red leaned forward tense, with the look of a killer glinting in his steel blue eyes. “Do we bump off Robinson, or do we listen to this rat’s yapping?” With a wave of his hand he scornfully indicated Bad Ross, who sat with a baleful look on his face seething with anger.
At those last words, Ross, who was Connor’s rival for the throne which Dirk had so suddenly vacated, sprang to his feet with a muttered curse.
In a flash a grim, blunt nosed automatic appeared in his hands. There was a terrific roar; another, coming so suddenly on the first it seemed but an echo, two piercing flashes of orange flame, and then the acrid smell of burnt powder.
Gingerly, Red arose from the floor where he had hurled himself at the first threat from Ross, and approached the dead man. He looked thoughtfully for a moment at the remains of the man who would be king, and then calmly surveyed the onlookers who were silent. There was a questioning look in his eyes that evoked an answer from Joe Scalisi.
“O.K., Red. You’re giving the orders. Whaddye say?”
The other men slowly nodded approval. Red was liked, and he was unafraid. In the eyes of the mob he had just won his right to leadership.
“Well, get this. We don’t want no trouble with the Buck County mob. There’s plenty of jack in Laster County for us. But — they’ve killed our leader, and you know the rule. Fellows, ye’re goin’ to get Robinson!”
There were murmurs of approval that were silenced by a brisk tapping on the door. The men looked at each other, and a few hands dropped into capacious pockets to clutch at steely, hard objects.
Red nodded to Joe and he opened the door cautiously. On the threshold stood a tall, beautifully dressed woman. She was clad in a tight fitting red velvet dress, that creased in soft folds as she entered the room. Marie was Dirk’s moll, his tiger moll as she was known, for she was tall and sinuous. Her walk was the cat-like gliding step of the denizen of the jungle. And she was like her ferocious namesake. She had a great love for her man, and an implacable hatred for her enemies.
She had just heard of Petroni’s death, but for her there was no time to weep. Now, like her tiger name sake, she must strike back! Grief could enter later.
“We’re all damn sorry about this, Marie. Of course you know the bunch will take care of you...”
“Me! What about the dirty lousy crook who killed Dirk? What about him? Who’ll take care of him, the dirty dog!” She stopped short, gasping from the terrific emotional strain she was under. Joe sat her down in a chair as tenderly as if she had been a child.
“We were talking about that when you came in, Marie. Don’t you worry, Robinson will get his.”
“How? Are you goin’ to talk, or act?” She was hard. Once more she had regained her self control, and now she concentrated on the deadly purpose that had become her aim in life.
Red came quickly to the point. They were going to act but they needed to get Robinson alone away from his gang. They would kill him and spare the rest.
“Say,” Tony Picarelli broke in, “here’s the dope. Robinson used to be damn sweet on Marie here, before she met Dirk. Supposin’ she traps him?”
A curious light crept into the dark, murky eyes of Marie, and the wisp of a smile hovered in the corner of her mouth.
“That’s fine! Are you game to pull a plant on him?” Red demanded of Marie.
“Me?” Marie seemed to be thinking deeply. “Sure. What’s the lay?”
They were in a quiet conference. Marie was to do this and that. Joe understood his part? Joe understood. Tony and Mike were to stay down by Foster’s new barn, right at the turn of the road. Good.
“Go on, kid, give him a buzz.” Joe held out the phone to her.
“Wait! I’ve got a better plan. What in hell’s the use of risking Marie,” cut in Red. “Here’s the idea. Robinson’s got a storehouse of his own private goods over on Morgan Pike. Even his own gang isn’t on to it, see. An’ the only guard he’s got is AI White. Well, his name might be white but he’s got a yellow streak runnin’ down his back. All we got to do is get the jump on White and make him phone for Robinson to come over. Tell him the Prohibition guys came around and want to be squared. That’s simple. Then when Robinson comes...”
And Connors with a half grin shrugged his shoulders.
“Whew, that’s a slick one.” Joe whistled at its ease and simplicity. “O.K., fellows, eh?”
“We’ll take care of this without you Marie, don’t worry.”
“You gotta swell nerve. Worry? Gawd! I ain’t scared to do my share. All I want to do is see that guy croak!”
“Go on home. We have to be gettin’ busy. Here, Mike” — he turned to the little runty Sicilian, whose scarred face bore witness to innumerable lusty combats in the past — “take care of Ross.” Red indicated the body of the dead man which had been piled into the corner and lay neglected there after Marie’s entrance. “Now go beat it, Marie. Get a good night’s rest and maybe we’ll go down to Atlantic City tomorrow.”
Marie turned and departed with a sour look on her face. As she drove home to her hotel where she had been luxuriously kept by Dirk, she smiled grimly to herself in the darkness, and patches of white showed above her knuckles from the intensity with which she gripped the wheel of her car.
Under Red’s direction he and four other men trooped out to a speedy Duesenberg touring car, that had conveyed the lookout and guard for many a truckload of illicit beer. They carried a small arsenal with them. A sub machine gun, a similar to the one that had cut short Dirk’s career, two sawed-off shot guns, viciously loaded with eight-gauge slugs. There were automatics all around, and in addition, Joe carried three eggs, hand grenades, that were intended to spell finis to the night’s operations.