The reporter said, “Nuh-uh. He’s never been picked up for anything, and as far as anybody knows even Flavin is straight. He owns a haberdashery and pays his taxes.”
“Well,” said Channing, “I guess that’s all for now.”
“No.” Marge Krist stopped and faced him. He could see her eyes in the pale reflection of the water, dark and intense. The wind blew her hair, pressed her light coat against the long lifting planes of her body. “I want to warn you. Maybe you’re a brilliant, nervy man and you know what you’re doing, and if you do it’s all right. But if you really are what you acted like in there, you’d better go home and forget about it. Surfside is a bad town. You can’t insult people and get away with it.” She paused. “For Hank’s sake, I hope you know what you’re doing. I’m in the phone book if you want me. Good night.”
“Good night.” Channing watched her go. She had a lovely way of moving. Absently, he began to wipe the blood off his face. His lip had begun to swell.
Budge Hanna said, “Chan.”
“Yeah.”
“I want to say thanks, and I’m with you. I’ll give you the biggest break I can in the paper.”
“We used to work pretty well together, before I got mine and you found yours, in a bottle.”
“Yeah. And now I’m in Surfside with the rest of the scrap. If this turns out a big enough story, I might—oh, well.” He paused, rubbing a pudgy cheek with his forefinger.
Channing said, “Go ahead, Budge. Say it.”
“All right. Every crook in the western states knows that the Padway mob took you to the wall. They know what was done to you, with fire. They know you broke. The minute they find out you’re back, even unofficially, you know what’ll happen. You sent up a lot of guys in your time. You sent a lot of ’em down, too—down to the morgue. You were a tough dick, Chan, and a square one, and you know how they love you.”
“I guess I know all that, Budge.”
“Chan—” he looked up, squinting earnestly through the gloom, his spectacles shining—“how is it? I mean, can you—”
Channing put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him around slightly. “You watch your step, kid, and try to stay sober. I don’t know what I may be getting into. If you want out—”
“Hell, no. Just—well, good luck, Chan.”
“Thanks.”
The blonde said, “Ain’t you going to ask me something?”
“Sure,” said Channing. “What do you know?”
“I know who killed your brother.”
2
Badge of Carnage
The blood swelled and thickened in Channing’s veins. It made a hard pain over his eyes and pressed against the stiff scar tissue on his neck. No one spoke. No one moved.
The wind blew sand in riffles across the empty beach. The waves rushed and broke their backs in thunder and slipped out again, sighing. Up ahead Sunset Pier thrust its black bulk against the night. Beyond it was the huge amusement pier. Here and there a single light was burning, swaying with the wind, and the reaching skeletons of the roller coaster and the giant slide were desolate in the pre-season quiet. Vacant lots and a single unlighted house were as deserted as the moon.
Paul Channing looked at the woman with eyes as dark and lonely as the night. “We’re not playing a game,” he said. “This is murder.”
The blonde’s teeth glittered white between moist lips.
Budge Hanna whispered, “She’s crazy. She couldn’t know.”
“Oh, couldn’t I!” The blonde’s whisper was throatily venomous. “Young Channing was thrown off the pier about midnight, wasn’t he? Okay. Well, you stood me up on a date that evening, remember, Budgie dear? And my room is on the same floor as yours, remember? And I can hear every pair of hoofs clumping up and down those damn stairs right outside, remember?”
“Listen,” Budge said, “I told you I got stewed and—”
“And got in a fight. I know. Sure, you told me. But how can you prove it? I heard your fairy footsteps. They didn’t sound very stewed to me. So I looked out, and you were hitting it for your room like your pants were on fire. Your shirt was torn, and so was your coat, and you didn’t look so good other ways. I could hear you heaving clear out in the hall. And it was just nineteen minutes after twelve.”
Budge Hanna’s voice had risen to a squeak. “Damn you, Millie, I—Chan, she’s crazy! She’s just trying—”
“Sure,” said Millie. She thrust her face close to his. “I been shoved around enough. I been called enough funny names. I been stood up enough times. I loaned you enough money I’ll never get back. And I ain’t so dumb I don’t know you got dirt on your hands from somewhere. Me, I’m quitting you right now and—”
“Shut up. Shut up!”
“And I got a few things to say that’ll interest some people!” Millie was screeching now. “You killed that Channing kid, or you know who did!”
Budge Hanna slapped her hard across the mouth.
Millie reeled back. Then she screamed like a cat. Her hands flashed up, curved and wicked, long red nails gleaming. She went for Budge Hanna.
Channing stepped between them. He was instantly involved in a whirlwind of angry flailing hands. While he was trying to quiet them the men came up behind him.
There were four of them. They had come quietly from the shadows beside the vacant house. They worked quickly, with deadly efficiency. Channing got his hand inside his coat, and after that he didn’t know anything for a long time.
Things came back to Channing in disconnected pieces. His head hurt. He was in something that moved. He was hot. He was covered with something, lying flat on his back, and he could hardly breathe. There was another person jammed against him. There were somebody’s feet on his chest, and somebody else’s feet on his thighs. Presently he found that his mouth was covered with adhesive, that his eyes were taped shut, and that his hands and feet were bound, probably also with tape. The moving thing was an automobile, taking its time.
The stale, stifling air under the blanket covering him was heavy with the scent of powder and cheap perfume. He guessed that the woman was Millie. From time to time she stirred and whimpered.
A man’s voice said, “Here is okay.”
The car stopped. Doors were opened. The blanket was pulled away. Cold salt air rushed over Channing, mixed with the heavy sulphurous reek of sewage. He knew they were somewhere on the road above Hyperion, where there was nothing but miles of empty dunes.
Hands grabbed him, hauled him bodily out of the car. Somebody said, “Got the Thompson ready?”
“Yeah.” The speaker laughed gleefully, like a child with a bass voice. “Just like old times, ain’t it? Good ole Dolly. She ain’t had a chansta sing in a long time. Come on, honey. Loosen up the pipes.”
A rattling staccato burst out, and was silent.
“For cripesake, Joe! That stuff ain’t so plentiful. Doncha know there’s a war on? We gotta conserve. C’mon, help me with this guy.” He kicked Channing. “On your feet, you.”
He was hauled erect and leaned against a post. Joe said, “What about the dame?”
The other man laughed. “Her turn comes later. Much later.”
A fourth voice, one that had not spoken before, said, “Okay, boys. Get away from him now.” It was a slow, inflectionless and yet strangely forceful voice, with a hint of a lisp. The lisp was not in the least effeminate or funny. It had the effect of a knife blade whetted on oilstone. The man who owned it put his hands on Channing’s shoulders.
“You know me,” he said.
Channing nodded. The uncovered parts of his face were greasy with sweat. It had soaked loose the corners of the adhesive. The man said, “You knew I’d catch up with you some day.”
The man struck him, deliberately and with force, twice across the face with his open palms.