The shapeless, colorless little house was dark and silent, with two empty lots to seaward and a cheap brick apartment house on its right. No lights showed anywhere. Channing set his finger on the rusted bell.
He could hear it buzzing somewhere inside. After a long time lights went on behind heavy crash draperies, drawn close. Channing turned suddenly sick. Sweat came out on his wrists and his ears rang. Through the ringing he heard Marge Krist’s clear voice asking who was there.
He told her. “I’m hurt,” he said. “Let me in.”
The door opened. Channing walked through it. He seemed to be walking through dark water that swirled around him, very cold, very heavy. He decided not to fight it.
When he opened his eyes again he was stretched out on a studio couch. Apparently he had been out only a moment or two. Marge and Rudy Krist were arguing fiercely.
“I tell you he’s got to have a doctor!”
“All right, tell him to go get one. You don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Trouble? Why would I get in trouble?”
“The guy’s been shot. That means cops. They’ll be trampling all over, asking you why he should have come here. How do you know what the little rat’s been doing? If he’s square, why didn’t he go to the cops himself? Maybe it’s a frame, or maybe he shot himself.”
“Maybe,” said Marge slowly, “you’re afraid to be questioned.”
Rudy swore. He looked almost as white and hollow as Channing felt. Channing laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
He said, “Sure he’s scared. Start an investigation now and that messes up everything for tonight.”
Marge and Rudy both started at the sound of his voice. Rudy’s face went hard and blank as a pine slab. He walked over toward the couch.
“What does that crack mean?”
“It means you better call Flavin quick and tell him to get his new shirt out of Budge Hanna’s room. Budge Hanna won’t be needing it now, and the cops are going to be very interested in the accessories.”
Rudy’s lips had a curious stiffness. “What’s wrong with Hanna?”
“Nothing much. Only one of Dave’s boys hit him a little too hard. He’s dead.”
“Dead?” Rudy shaped the word carefully and studied it as though he had never heard it before. Then he said, “Who’s Dave? What are you talking about?”
Channing studied him. “Flavin’s still keeping you in the nursery, is he?”
“That kind of talk don’t go with me, Channing.”
“That’s tough, because it’ll go with the cops. You’ll sound kind of silly, won’t you, bleating how you didn’t know what was going on because Papa never told you.”
Rudy moved toward Channing. Marge yelled and caught him. Channing grinned and drew his gun. His head was propped fairly high on pillows, so he could see what he was doing without making any disastrous attempt to sit up.
“Fine hood you are, Rudy. Didn’t even frisk me. Listen, punk. Budge Hanna’s dead, murdered. His Millie is dead, too, by now. I’m supposed to be dead, in a ditch above Hyperion, but Dave Padway always was a lousy shot. Where do you think you come in on this?”
Rudy’s skin had a sickly greenish tinge, but his jaw was hard. “You’re a liar, Channing. I never heard of Dave Padway. I don’t know anything about Budge Hanna or that dame. I don’t know anything about you. Now get the hell out.”
“You make a good Charlie McCarthy, Rudy. Maybe Flavin will hold you on his knee in the death-chair at San Quentin.”
Marge stopped Rudy again. She said quietly, “What happened, Mr. Channing?”
Channing told her, keeping his eyes on Rudy. “Flavin’s heading a racket,” he said finally. “His store is just a front, useful for background and a way to make pay-offs and pass on information. He doesn’t keep the store open on Sunday, does he, Rudy?”
Rudy didn’t answer. Marge said, “No.”
“Okay. Budge Hanna worked for Flavin. I’ll make a guess. I’ll say Flavin is engineering liquor robberies, hijacking, and so forth. Budge Hanna was a well-known lush. He could go into any bar and make a deal for bootleg whiskey, and nobody would suspect him. Trouble with Budge was, he couldn’t handle his women. Millie got sore, and suspicious, and began to yell out loud. I guess Dave Padway’s boys overheard her. Dave never did trust women and drunks.”
Channing stared narrow-eyed at Rudy. His blood-caked face was twisted into a cruel grin. “Dave never liked punks, either. There’s going to be trouble between Dave and your pal Flavin, and I don’t see where you’re going to come in, except maybe on a morgue slab, like the others. Like Hank.”
“Oh, cripes,” said Rudy, “we’re back to Hank again.”
“Yeah. Always back to Hank. You know what happened, Rudy. You kind of liked Hank. You’re a smart kid, Rudy. You’ve probably got a better brain than Flavin, and if you’re going to be a successful crook these days you need brains. So Flavin pushed Hank off the pier and called it suicide, so you’d think he was yellow.”
Rudy laughed. “That’s good. That’s very good. Marge was out with Jack Flavin that night.” His green eyes were dangerous.
Marge nodded, dropping her gaze. “I was.”
Channing shrugged. “So what? He hired it done. Just like he hired this tonight. Only Dave Padway isn’t a boy you can hire for long. He used to be big time, and ten years in clink won’t slow him up too much. You better call Flavin, Rudy. They’re liable to find Budge Hanna any time and start searching his room.” He laughed. “Flavin wasn’t so smart to pay off on Saturday, too late for the banks.”
Marge said, “Why haven’t you called the police?”
“With what I have to tell them I’d only scare off the birds. Let ’em find out for themselves.”
She looked at him with level, calculating eyes. “Then you’re planning to do it all by yourself?”
“I’ve got the whip hand right now. Only you two know I’m alive. But I know about Budge Hanna’s shirt, and the cops will too, pretty soon. Somebody’s got to get busy, and the minute he does I’ll know for sure who’s who in this little tinpot crime combine.”
Marge rose. “That’s ridiculous. You’re in no condition to handle anyone. And even if you were—” She left that hanging and crossed to the telephone.
Channing said, “Even if I were, I’m still yellow, is that it? Sure. Stand still, Rudy. I’m not too yellow or too weak to shoot your ankle off.” His face was gray, gaunt, infinitely tired. He touched the burn on his chin. His cheek muscles tightened.
He lay still and listened to Marge Krist talking to Max Gandara.
When she was through she went out into the kitchen. Rudy sat down, glowering sullenly at Channing. He began to tremble, a shallow nervous vibration. Channing laughed.
“How do you like crime now, kiddie? Fun, isn’t it?”
Rudy gave him a lurid and prophetic direction.
Marge came back with hot water and a clean cloth. She wiped Channing’s face, not touching the handkerchief. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the gash in his side was still oozing. The pad had slipped. Marge took his coat off, waiting while he changed hands with the gun, and then his shoulder clip and shirt. When she saw his body she let the shirt drop and put her hand to her mouth. Channing, sitting up now on the couch, glanced from her to Rudy’s slack pale face, and said quietly, “You see why I don’t like fire.”
Marge was working gently on his side when the bell rang. “That’s the police,” she said, and went to the front door. Channing held Rudy with the gun.
He heard nothing behind him, but quite suddenly there was a cold object pressing the back of his neck and a voice said quietly, “Drop it, bud.”