The following afternoon, before the boat docked, Puggy saw a steward knocking at the stateroom door wherein lay his bound antagonists, ready to take their baggage up to the deck. The Kid thought quickly.
“No chance there, steward. They just beat it themselves, with their own baggage. I know them and they’re so cheap they’ll save your tip. You won’t get anything from them.”
The steward cursed feelingly and hurried on. Puggy got himself ready for disembarkation. His bag had gone up, and he followed it, waiting alongside the rail until the gangplank was out. He walked slowly into the barn-like structure where baggage was reclaimed, singing softly to himself.
The Singing kid was happy. He had put the lug on those who had tried to double-cross him — had a fortune in jewels in his pocket and knew where he could dispose of them without too much of a cut. The warm Southern California sun was shining. All was peaceful. It was a good old world after all!
“Well, well, if it isn’t the Singing Kid! Welcome to our city! This is a surprise! I flew down here to pick up Docky Wilder who was making a getaway, but so long as I find you I may as well take you, too. Maybe this time we’ll find something on you.”
Puggy, the Singing Kid, gave up. It was no use. Morey again had him, and he had the ice on him this time. Quick light hands tapped his pockets, and once again that green covered parcel came to view, this time in the hands of the law!
Ahead of him Puggy could see long dreary years wherein he moved, a fellow automaton amongst hosts of others who had also transgressed the law and who were also paying the penalty. He hummed a parody softly to himself:
Glycerined Gangsters
By Henry Leverage
Racketeer Stories, November 1930
The Big Guy wanted The Spider, so he sent Indian Chick to find him. It sure takes an Indian to uncover a hide away — but it takes the brains of a Class A broad to blast ’em to hell!
When the Big-Shot sent for Chick Chester he knew that gangster had Indian blood in his veins.
It would take an Indian to find the whereabouts of the surviving members of The Spider’s gang. They had vanished after a battle royal in one of Chinatown’s narrow streets, leaving their dead piled on top of some of the Big-Shot’s best men.
The Big-Shot ruled the Rose Hill Gang with a rod of steel. He swiveled back in his chair when Chick Chester was announced. Between drags at a huge Cuban cigar Big-Shot Morphy gave Chick Chester the gist of what he wanted him to do:
“See me pay-off man. Get five ‘leaves’ from him. Duck tu Pop Griffith’s road-house an’ work from there ’till y’u locate wot’s left ov them guys ov Th’ Spider’s mob. I want tu know where they’re under cover. Y’u ken do it — ’cause it’ll take an Apache. They’re sure hid!”
Chick resembled a dark-haired, black-eyed Sheik in his tailor-made suit and custom-built shoes. His long features ended in a square jaw.
“Griffith’s?” he questioned the Big-Shot.
“Yeah! Out Moundville way. He used tu be Th’ Spider’s armorer. Now he belongs tu me. See? A young moll out there mixes th’ nitro fer his bombs. Name’s Gabby. She’ll help y’u locate Th’ Spider’s push.”
“Want ’em bumped-off, boss?”
Big-Shot Morphy let his cigar recoil in his mouth. He drew it out and flecked the ashes.
“I want th’ coppers tu do th’ dirty work if I can arrange it, widout belchin’ on ’em. If th’ coppers won’t — I will. ’Cause if I don’t get ’em they’ll get me.”
Chester went directly to Moundville. He entered Griffith’s Road House and introduced himself to the owner, a thin man with a tired air. A blond broad, not more than eighteen years of age, sidled up to her father. Chick noticed her hands were stained yellow in spots. He told Griffith what the Big-Shot wanted. Griffith shook his head.
“That Spider is a tough egg. He’s running a gambling house now, just opened one I heard. It’s a ‘scatter’ for his gang who’re wearing dress suits now. They got some of the rods an’ gats with them that they used in that Chinatown shootin’.”
Chick stared boldly at the moll. She dropped her eyes.
“Where’s his gambling-house located?”
“Search me. Somewhere in Windville. If you find his joint and the Big-Shot wants to get hunk, look out for a military machine-gun. I furnished ’em it, before I blew that mob. You remember the one I mean, Gabby?”
The moll shivered slightly. Then she threw back her chin and laughed:
“It’s a regular cannon. That Spider’s crazy lugging it around — when he could pull off a job better with the new sub-caliber air-cooled ones. He always was too rough to suit me, y’u know.”
Chick Chester, otherwise Chickasaw Long-Wolf, so called before he became a gangster, drawled “ye — s?” He had noticed that Gabby was the brains behind her father. She made the bombs and he peddled them for someone to throw.
“Y’u know,” repeated Gabby, “it’s the thing now for a gang to pretend they were chased out or bumped-off and wait for their chance. The Spider must look like hell running a stuss-house, in a dress-suit, y’u know.”
Again Chester regarded Gabby while Pop Griffith corrected her:
“He ain’t runnin’ a stuss-house, from wot I’ve heard. It’s a come-on joint in a brown-stone mansion. Faro, stud, draw poker and roulette. A place where suckers are steered, trimmed and taken for a ride if they squawk hard enough.”
Gabby placed her hands on her rounded hips.
“I’d go see Captain Jack if I was you,” she told Chester. “He’s got charge of Ward No. Nine, where The Spider must be in hiding. He’ll know the new night-clubs and gambling joints. He oughto, y’u know. He collects the gravy.”
“Ye — s,” said Chester. “Well I won’t do that, baby. Not me. Captain Jack and th’ rest of the coppers would give their shields to put their nippers on these.” Chick held out his dark wrists, exposing silk cuffs and diamond-studded links. “I’ll scout through his ward and get an earful from some wise underdog.”
Chick Chester gave a backward glance at Gabby when he left Griffith’s Tavern. She waved her hand. He went on with his heart thumping. What a moll to pal with! Just his type — blond and talkative. No squeal in her.
He rather thought he could use Gabby in the search for The Spider’s mob. It was going to be no small job finding an unknown gambling house in Windville. The Big-Shot, with all the gangsters he needed under his thumb, had evidently failed to locate the gang he wanted wiped out completely.
Chick Chester spent a day and a night running down every clue. He was forced to be careful on account of the police. His record as a bad man with a rod was enough to send him away for life.
Two ex-gamblers and a handbook tout, whom Chick knew, were skeptical regarding The Spider’s gang. The tout gave Chester a long list of houses he knew. “Some’s just started up,” he sniffled. “Take a chance, I’m takin’ ’em every day. Pick up a taxi-bucker that’s hip an’ have him make th’ rounds. Try that fellow over there. He’d kill a guy for ten bucks.”