“Seven — the winner...”
Dickinson leaned forward and put his forefinger unsteadily down beside a stack of bills on the line. The change man reached over, counted it and put a like amount beside it.
“Drag fifty, Dick,” he said. “Hundred dollar limit.”
Dickinson said thickly: “Bet it all.”
The change man smiled patiently, picked up a fifty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table nearer Dickinson.
A small, pimpled old man at the end of the table caught the dice as they were thrown to him, put them into the black leather box, breathed into it devoutly, rolled.
Kells elbowed closer to the table.
“Eleven — the winner...”
Dickinson stared disgustedly at the change man as a hundred dollars in tens and twenties was counted out, lain down beside his line bet. The change man said: “Drag a C, Dick.”
“Bet it!” Dickinson said angrily.
Kells looked at the change man. He said: “Can you raise the limit if I cover it behind the line?”
The man glanced at a tall well-dressed youth behind him for confirmation, nodded.
Kells took a wad of bills out of his trouser pocket and put two hundred-dollar bills down behind the line. Dickinson looked up and his bleary, heavy-lidded eyes came gradually to focus on Kells.
He said, “Hello there,” very heartily. Then he looked as if he was trying hard to remember, said: “Kells! How are ya, boy?”
At mention of Kells’ name it became very quiet for a moment.
Kells said: “I’m fine.”
The little pimpled man rolled.
The dice man said: “Six — the easy one... He will or he won’t... Nine — pays the field... Six — right...”
The change man picked up Kells’ two hundred-dollar bills, tossed them down beside Dickinson’s bet.
Dickinson grinned. He said: “Bet it.”
Kells took a thousand-dollar note from his breast pocket, put it down behind the line. Dickinson said: “Better lay off — I’m right...”
“Get down on the bill.” Kells smiled faintly, narrowly.
“Goddamned if I won’t.” Dickinson counted his money on the table and the money in his hand: “Four hundred, six, eight, nine, a thousand, thousand one hundred and thirty. Tap me.”
The tall young man said: “Hurry up, gentlemen — you’re holding up the game.”
Several men wandered over from the other table. The little man holding the dice box said: “Jesus! I don’t want...”
Kells was counting out the additional hundred and thirty dollars.
Dickinson said: “Roll.”
“Eleven — the winner.”
The change man picked up Kells’ money, cut off a twenty for the house, threw the rest down in front of Dickinson.
The little man raked in the few dollars he had won for himself, walked away.
The dice man picked up the box.
Kells said: “Got enough?”
“Hell, no! I’ll bet it all on my own roll.” Dickinson held out his hand for the box.
“Make it snappy, boys.” The tall young man frowned, nodded briefly at Kells.
Dickinson was checking up on the amount. He said: “Two thousand, two hundred and forty...”
Kells put three thousand-dollar notes behind the line. The dice man threw a dozen or more glittering red dice on the table; Dickinson carefully picked out two.
“Get down your bets, men... A new shooter... We take big ones and little ones... Come, don’t come, hard way, and in the field... Bet ’em either way...”
Dickinson was shaking the box gently, tenderly, near his ear. He rolled.
“Three — that’s a bad one...”
Kells picked up his three notes, and the change man raked up the bills in front of Dickinson, counted them into a stack, cut off one and handed the rest to Kells.
“Next man... Get down on the next lucky shooter, boys...”
Kells folded the bills and stuck them into his pocket.
Dickinson looked at the tall young man. He said: “Let me take five hundred, Les.”
The young man didn’t look at him, but turned and walked over to the other table. Kells gestured with his head and went over to a round green-covered table out of the circle of light. Dickinson followed him. They sat down.
Kells said: “Can you get the paper out by tomorrow morning?”
Dickinson was fumbling through his pockets, brought out a dark brown pint bottle. He took out the cork, held the bottle towards Kells. He said, “Wha’ for?”
Kells shook his head, but Dickinson shoved the bottle into his hands. Kells took a drink, handed it back.
“Bellmann was fogged tonight and I want to give it a big spread.”
“The hell you say.” Dickinson stared blankly at Kells. “Well, wha’ d’ y’ know about that!” Then he seemed to remember Kells’ question. “Sure.”
Kells said: “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute. Let’s have another drink.”
They drank.
Dickinson said: “Listen. Wha’d’y’ think happened tonight? Somebody called me up and offered me ten grand, cold turkey, to ditch L.D.”
“Ditch him, how?”
“I don’t know. They said all I had to do was gum up the works some way so that the paper wouldn’t come out. They said I’d get five in cash in the mail tomorrow, and the rest after the primaries.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Listen, sister, L.D. Fenner’s been a goddamned good friend to me.’ I said—”
Kells said: “Sister?”
“Yeah. It was a broad.”
They got up and went through the semidarkness to the little room, out and downstairs to the street. It was raining very hard. Dickinson said he had a car, and Kells paid off the cab, and they went into the vacant lot alongside the building.
Dickinson’s car was a Ford coupé; he finally found his keys and opened the door.
Then a bright spotlight was switched on in a car at the curb. There was a sharp choked roar and something bit into Kells’ leg, into his side.
Dickinson stumbled, fell down on his knees on the running board; his face and the upper part of his body sagged forward to the floor of the car. He lay still.
Kells lay down in the mud beside the car and drew up his knees and he could taste blood in his mouth. His teeth were sunk savagely, deeply into his lower lip and there were jagged wires of pain in his brain, jagged wires in his side.
He knew it had been a shotgun, and he lay in the mud with rain whipping his face and wondered if Dickinson was dead. He waited for the gun to cough again.
Then the spotlight went out and Kells could hear the car being shifted into gear; he twisted his head a little and saw it pass through the light near the corner — a black touring car with the side curtains drawn — a Cadillac.
He crawled up onto the running board of the Ford and shook Dickinson a little, and then he steadily, painfully, pushed Dickinson up into the car — slowly.
He pressed the knob that unlocked the opposite door, and limped around the car and crawled into the driver’s seat. He could feel blood on his side; blood pounded through his head, his eyes. He pried the keys out of Dickinson’s hand and started the motor.
Dickinson was an inert heap beside him. He groaned, coughed in a curious dry way.
Kells said: “All right, boy. We’ll fix it up in a minute.”
Dickinson coughed again in the curious way that was like a laugh. He tried to sit up, fell forward and his head banged against the windshield. Kells pulled him back into the seat and drove out of the lot, turned east on Santa Monica.
Dickinson tried to say something, groped with one hand in the side pocket. He finally gave it up, managed to gasp: “Gun — here.”
Kells said: “Sit still.”
They went down Santa Monica Boulevard very fast, turned north on La Brea. Kells stopped halfway up the block and felt in Dickinson’s pocket for the bottle; but it had been broken, the pocket was full of wet glass.