Kells’ shoulders were hunched together a little. His chin was in and he looked at Crotti’s feet and his eyes were almost closed.
Granquist stood up and her face was dead white, her hands were clawed in front of her body. She made no sound.
Then there was a sharp crashing roar. It beat twice, filled the room with dull sound.
Kells still stood with his shoulders a little together, his eyes almost closed.
Crotti swayed once to the left. His expression was querulous, worried; the revolver fell from his hand, clattered on the floor. One of his legs gave way slowly and he slipped down to one knee, fell slowly, heavily forward on his face.
Kells turned his head swiftly, looked up. Borg was grinning down at him from the balcony; the short blunt blue revolver was lisping smoke in his hand. The Filipino was bent over, holding his wrist between his hand and knees. He whirled slowly on one foot — his hat had fallen off and his broad flat face was twisted with pain.
Borg said: “By God! Just like they do in the movies.”
Hesse was at the door.
Borg swung the revolver around towards him, said: “Wait a minute.”
MacAlmon hadn’t moved. He was still sitting on the edge of the divan, staring at Crotti.
Kells said: “Let’s go.”
They stopped near a drugstore near Sixth and Normandie. Borg pulled up ahead of them in the other cab and he and the driver transferred Kells’ luggage to the one cab.
Kells said to the driver: “You can call up and report where this cab is if you want to.” He gestured towards the second cab. “The driver is out at the joint we just left — Apartment L.”
Borg said: “Maybe. They’re probably all out of there by now.”
“They wouldn’t take the driver.”
“They might — he could testify against ’em.”
Kells and the driver went into the drugstore to telephone. Kells called Beery at home, said: “Swell, Shep... Did you have any trouble getting away?... That’s fine... Borg got to worrying about giving all that dough back so he ducked over to MacAlmon’s place and climbed in a window... Uh-huh. The crazy bastard damn near got me the works, but if he hadn’t been there I wouldn’t be here — so what?... I don’t know whether to give him a punch in the nose or a bonus... I have an idea Crotti would’ve tried to smack me down whether Borg had been there to put the cash on the line or not. I don’t think he liked me very well... Yeah — I said liked... So long, Shep, and good luck — I’ll send you a postcard.”
Kells hung up and went out and got into the cab with Granquist and Borg.
The driver turned around, asked: “Where to?”
“How’d you like to make a long haul?” Kells glanced at Granquist, smiled at the driver.
The driver said: “Sure. The longer the better.”
Kells said: “San Bernardino.” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
The Dark
And here is the shocking last installment to Fast One.
Gerry Kells came west to play around a bit, choosing Hollywood and LA for his playground. That was all he wanted to do — play and be left alone. And that’s what he started to do.
But he brought with him a reputation of being a “fast one,” a high-class muscle-man, and the big boys in the west coast rackets sought him out.
Bellmann and Fenner were fighting for political control. Bellmann was already in; Fenner wanted in and Bellmann out. Jack Rose was a Bellmann man; he wanted for his share the gambling and liquor racket. Rose tried to enlist Gerry Kells as a potent fighter, but Kells wouldn’t enlist, and the fireworks started.
They framed Kells for a murder. Kells shifted the charge to Ruth Perry’s husband. Then they shot Kells, but didn’t finish the job, and Kells went haywire.
One by one the big fellows went out. Fenner shot Bellmann; Kells, letting the girl, Granquist, carry the charge, took over Fenner’s organization. Then Crotti, a public enemy from the east coast, got in the way and was rubbed out.
Kells tried to run away from that one with the spoils of the fight. But his crowd had dwindled. Only Borg, the former bodyguard for Fenner, and the girl, Granquist, were with him when he jumped a cab for San Bernardino to take the train east.
The room was about thirty by fifteen. There were six booths along each long side. At one end there was a door leading to a kind of kitchen and at the other end there was a door that led to steps down to the alley. There was a small radio on a table beside the door that led to the kitchen and there was a clock on the wall above the table. It was five minutes past nine.
Kells and Granquist and Borg sat in the third booth on the right, coming in. There was no one in any of the other booths.
The cab driver went back to the door to the kitchen and called: “Jake.” Then he bent over the radio, snapped it on.
A man came out of the kitchen, said “Hi” to the driver, came up to the booth. He was a tall man, about fifty-five, with a long crooked nose, a three- or four-day growth of gray beard. He wiped his hands on his dirty gray-white apron.
Kells asked: “Do you know how to make a whiskey sour?”
The man grinned with one side of his mouth, nodded.
“Okay — and put some whiskey in it.”
Granquist was rubbing powder onto her nose, holding her head back and looking into a small mirror which she held in one hand, a little higher than her head.
She said: “Me too — an’ ham and eggs.”
Borg had slid low in the seat. His chin was on his chest and his eyes were closed. He asked, “Got any buttermilk?” without moving or opening his eyes.
The man shook his head.
Kells said: “Give him a whiskey sour, too — and give all of us ham and eggs. Fresh eggs.”
He raised his head, called to the driver: “Is that all right for you?”
A dance orchestra blared suddenly out of the radio. The driver turned his head, smiled, nodded.
Jake went back into the kitchen.
Granquist called to the driver: “See if you can get Louie Armstrong.”
Jake stuck his head through the door, said: “He don’t come on till eleven.” His head disappeared.
Kells grinned at Granquist.
She said: “Let’s dance.”
“Don’t be silly.” He glanced down at his leg.
“Oh, I’m sorry, darling.” Her face was suddenly serious, concerned. “How is it?”
He shook his head without looking at her, was silent; after a minute or so he watched Jake come in with four tall glasses on a scarred tin tray.
Jake put the tray on the table, spoke over his shoulder to the driver: “Turn ’er down to ten — that’s KGPL the police reports to the radio cars.” He pronounced the first syllable of radio to rhyme with sad. He walked back towards the kitchen. “Last night they held up the gas station down on the corner an’ we knew it here right away. I went downstairs an’ saw the bandit car go by — sixty miles an hour.” He jerked his head violently up and to the left an unspoken “By Crackey!”
The driver turned the dial, then came to the booth and took one of the tall glasses. He sat down on the table directly across the narrow room. He said, “Here’s mud in your eye,” drank.
It was quiet a little while, except for the hiss of frying eggs in the kitchen.
Then the radio hummed slowly, buzzed to words: “KGPL–Los Angeles Police Department... Calling car number one thirty-two — car number one three two... At Berkeley and Gaines streets — an ambulance follow-up... That is all... Gordon.”
Granquist held her glass in both hands, her elbows on the table. She tipped the glass, drank, said: “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”