Dead Stay Dumb Page 2

  She walked up the path and climbed the two high steps leading to the verandah. In the shadow, away from the sun, Butch Hogan sat, his great hands resting on the top of a heavy stick.

  He said, “I've been waiting for you.”

  She stood there and looked at him. His broken, tortured face, those two horrible eyes, sightless, with a yellow blob in each pupil, looking like two clots of phlegm, the great square head, the overhanging brows, and the ferocious mouth made her shiver. He startled her by suddenly regurgitating violently into the mud patch a sodden wad of chewing-tobacco.

  He said, “Say somethin', can't you? Where in hell've you been?”

  She put the bottle of whisky on the table beside him. “There it is,” she said and she put beside it the rest of the money.

  With fumbling fingers he checked the money, before slipping it into his pocket. Then he stood up and stretched. Although he was tall, his great shoulders gave him a squat look. He turned his face in her direction. “Go on in I wantta talk with you.”

  She went into the living-room, leading off the verandah. It was a large room, untidy and full of aged and decaying furniture. Hogan followed her in. He moved with quick, cat-like steps, avoiding in some extraordinary way any obstacles that lay in his path. Blindness had not anchored him. He had been like that for ten years. At first the darkness had suffocated him, but he had fought it, and, like all his other fights, he had beaten it. Now it was of little hindrance to him. He could do most things he wanted to. His hearing had intensified and served him for his eyes.

  Myra stood sulkily by the table. She made patterns with her flimsy shoes on the dusty floor.

  Hogan went to a cupboard, found a glass, and poured himself out a stiff shot of whisky. Then he went over to the one overstuffed chair and folded himself down in it. He took a long pull from the glass.

  “What's your age now?” he asked abruptly. The two yellow clots fixed on her.

  “Seventeen.”

  “Come here,” Hogan said, reaching out a great thick arm. She didn't move.

  “If I come an' get you, you're goin' to have grief.”

  She moved over to him reluctantly, and stood just by his knees. “What is it?” she asked, her face a little scared.

  His hand closed on her arm, the big thick fingers pinching her muscle, making her squirm.

  “Stand still,” he said. With his free hand he began exploring her body. Letting his hand run over her, like some farmer poking and examining a plump bird. Then he let her go, and sat back with a grunt. “You're growing up,” he said.

  Myra stepped back, a little flush of anger on her face. “You keep your paws off me,” she said.

  Butch pulled at the coarse hairs growing out of his ears. “Siddown,” he said, “I'm goin' to talk to you.”

  “Supper ain't ready,” she said; “I ain't got time to listen to you.”

  He left his chair with incredible speed, and before she could dart away from him he struck her shoulder with the flat of his hand. He was aiming at her head, but he misjudged. She went over on hands and knees and stayed there, dazed. He knelt down beside her. “You're getting big ideas, ain't you?” he snarled at her. “You think I can't hold you, but I can. Do you get that? Maybe I've lost my peepers, but that ain't goin' to mean a thing to you. So get wise to yourself, will you?”

  She sat up slowly, nervously feeling her shoulder. A smack from Butch meant something.

  “I gotta hunch you're goin' to take after your Ma. I've had my eye on you for some time. I hear what's been said. You're after the punks already. Like your Ma. That dirty little whore had the ants okay. You're showing yourself off, an' you're working up a hot spot for yourself. Well, I'm watchin' you, see? I'm goin' to crack down on you, once I catch you at it. You leave punks alone, and make 'em leave you alone.”

  She said uneasily, “You're nuts! I don't go around with fellas.”

  Butch sneered. “I'm tellin' you before you start. You're ripe. You're ready to go ahead. Well, start somethin' an' see what you get.”

  She climbed to her feet. “You gotta catch me at it,” she thought.

  “Okay, go an' get somethin' to eat. You get the idea now, huh?”

  She turned to the door, but he reached out and jerked her back. “You get it?” “Oh, sure!” she said impatiently.

  Butch tapped the broad belt round his waist. “If ever I catch you in a tumble, I'm goin' to lift the hide off your back.”

  She snatched her arm away and walked out of the room, her knees trembling a little.

  Outside, a ramshackle car drew up, and three men got out. Myra sped to the door, looked out, then ran to her bedroom. Her eyes were bright with excitement, and a little smile flickered on her lips. Gurney was coming in, with his ham boxer. Gurney made Myra's heart flutter. He was some guy, this Gurney.

  Sankey the boxer walked up the broken path, his head on his chest, his big hands hanging loosely by his side. Hank, his trainer, watched him anxiously. He caught Gurney's eye, and jerked his head. He looked worried. Gurney was looking for Myra. Sankey gave him a pain.

  The three of them paused on the verandah. Butch came out of the room. He said, “You ain't been around here for some time. How're you makin' out?”

  Gurney made signs to the other two Sankey took no notice, but Hank nodded briefly.

  Butch was glad to have them. He said, “Sit down, for Pete's sake. How's your boy shapin'?”

  Under cover of the noise made by the other two dragging their chairs up, Gurney slipped into the house. He knew Myra's room. He opened the door and put his head round. Myra was painting her lips. She had put on a pair of white step-ins. She jerked round, seeing his face in the fly-blown mirror.

  “You get out!” she said.

  Gurney found his mouth suddenly dry. He stepped in and shut the door, putting his back against the panels. Gurney was big. He had a bent nose and a big slit of a mouth. His eyes were always a little shifty. He dressed in a loud, flashy way, wearing black suits with a yellow or pink stripe. His shirts were mostly red or yellow cotton. He thought he was a swell dresser.

  Myra, suddenly anxious, said, “Nick.... blow the old man won't stand for it... please.”

  Gurney came round the bed and reached out for her. She skipped away, her eyes suddenly large and scared. “If you don't get out, I'll yell,” she said.

  “Aw, honey, that ain't the way to talk.... Gurney was crowding her the whole time. “You're lookin' swell. I ain't goin' to start anythin', honest.” His hand touched her arm, and she suddenly felt weak. She said feebly, “Don't, Nick, the old man'll kill me—”

  Gurney said, “Don't worry about him.” He pulled her into his arms, his hands burning on her cool flesh.

  White-hot desire for him stabbed her, gripping her inside with iron fingers. She searched for his mouth with hers, gripping him round the neck, half strangling him. Gurney grinned to himself. He said to her, “I'm comin' out to see you one night soon. You're goin' to like that, ain't that right?”

  Outside on the verandah, Butch punched and pummeled Sankey. Sankey stood there, with his head on his chest, like a horse on the way to the knacker's.

  Butch said, “He's all right, ain't he?” He said it anxiously, looking in Hank's direction.

  Hank said, “Sure.” But it wasn't impressive.

  “I'm goin' to need a lot of luck with Franks,” Sankey mumbled.

  Butch stiffened. “For God's sake, that guy ain't no use. He can't hit you.”

  Sankey shifted. “I wish to hell you're right.”

  “That punk couldn't hit you with a handful of gravel.”

  “He ain't got to hit me with gravel, has he?” Sankey turned to the rail and sat on it. He still kept his head down.

  Butch rubbed both his hands over his bald head. “Listen, this is crazy talk. When you get in there, you're goin' to give this punk the works, see? You're going to left-hand him till you've pushed his nut off his neck. Then over with your right, an' lay him among the sweet peas.”
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br />   Sankey didn't say anything.

  Butch was getting the jitters. “Where's Gurney? Ain't he here?” he asked suddenly.

  “Sure,” Hank said quickly. “He's fixin' the auto. She ain't so good as she was. He'll be along.”

  Butch said, “I want him now.”

  Hank went to the edge of the step and yelled, “Hi, Gurney! Butch wants you.” He put a lot of beef in his voice.

  Butch said suspiciously, “Why d'you yell like that?— he ain't deaf.”

  Hank began to sweat. He shouted again.

  Gurney came round the side of the shack at a run. He'd got a lot of red smears on his face from Myra's paint. That didn't matter. Butch couldn't see them. He was quite cool when he came up the steps.

  Butch said, “What the hell've you been doin'?”

  Hank put in quickly, “I told you, he's been fixin' the bus.”

  Gurney grinned a little. “Yeah that's right. That auto's sure goin' home.”

  Butch said. “Where's Myra?”

  Gurney was elaborately calm. The old sonofabitch was sharp, he thought. “Just what I was goin' to ask you. I gotta soft spot for that kid.”

  Butch chewed his underlip. He sat down in the chair, his great fists clenched. “You leave her alone,” he growled.

  Gurney grinned again but he made his voice smooth. “What's biting you, Butch? You know kids ain't my racket. When I have a woman, she's gotta be a tramp ”

  Butch said, “Okay, but leave Myra alone.”

  There was a little pause, then Hank said: “Will you be there, Butch?”

  His mind brought back to Sankey, Butch began to look worried again. “Your boy ain't got no confidence,” he said to Gurney.

  Gurney lit a cigarette and tossed the match into the mud patch. “He's okay. He's just nervous. It don't amount to anythin'.”

  “Yeah?” Butch levered himself forward. “You crazy? That guy's carrying my dough. That guy's gotta win.”

  Sankey shifted. “Forget it,” he said. “Can't you gab about somethin' else?”

  Butch turned his head. “Take him away,” he said to Hank. “Lead him round the place. I wantta talk to Gurney.”

  Hank got up and jerked his head. “Come on,” he said to Sankey. They went down the path and sat in the car.

  Butch leant forward. “What the hell's this?” he snarled. “That palooka's out on his feet already.”

  Gurney scratched his chin. “What the hell can I do about it? Franks has scared him, got him jittery. They ran into each other at the boozer the other night. You know Franks, he got on Sankey's nerves.”

  Butch got to his feet. He raised his clenched fists above his head. “The yellow punk,” he said, his voice suppressed and strangled. “You gotta do somethin', Gurney. I've got too much dough on that bum to risk. I tell you, you gotta do somethin'.”

  “I've got a hundred bucks on him myself,” Gurney said uneasily. “He's a trifle over-trained, I guess.”

  “You've got a week to fix things,” Butch said slowly. “Use your head.”

  Myra came out on the verandah. Her eyes were fixed on Gurney. Butch jerked his head round. “Where've you been?” he demanded.

  “Your supper's ready,” she said.

  Gurney got to his feet. “Okay, Butch, I'll see what I can do.”

  Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch's nose. Myra didn't dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.

  “What you doin'?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.

  “I'm on my way,” Gurney grinned. “'Bye, Myra; take care of your Pa.”

  He went away, grinning.

  Myra slipped into the kitchen. Her heart was thumping hard against her ribs. The crazy loon, she thought, to do a thing like that. She stood quite still, in the middle of the untidy kitchen, holding her breasts tightly, her eyes half closed, thinking of him.

  The town took an interest in Dillon. Abe noticed that trade picked up when Dillon was in the store. The women came in to look at him. They had heard about Walcott. A guy who could hit like that must have plenty of steam. Any guy with steam made the women in Plattsville a little light-headed.

  They got a shock when they saw Dillon, but they wouldn't admit they were disappointed. They had hoped to see a Clark Gable, and Dillon's clay-like face and cold expressionless eyes startled them. They told one another that he was a bad man, and they kept on coming in to have another look at him.

  The men in Plattsville got sour about it. They said anyone could have smacked Walcott down; he was a cheap punk and didn't amount to anything.

  They were talking about Dillon in the saloon when Gurney came in. They broke off. Gurney stopped most talk wherever he went. They wanted to know how Sankey was shaping.

  Freedman pushed his way forward. “H'yah, Nick,” he said, “what you havin'?”

  Gurney was used to this sort of thing. He couldn't place Freedman, but that didn't worry him. He said, “Rye, straight.”

  George lumbered along the counter with the bottle and glass. He left it at Gurney's elbow.

  Freedman said, “Your boy okay?”

  Gurney poured himself out a shot and tossed it down his throat. He said, “Sure, he's all right.”

  “I got my money on him,” Freedman said. “I'd like to see him win.”

  “He's goin' to win, you see.”

  Wilson lounged to the bar. “Franks ain't so bad,” he said; “I guess I fancy Franks.”

  Gurney looked him over. Just a small-town wise-guy he thought, maybe not so small-town. He said, “Hell, someone's got to back him.”

  The others laughed.

  Wilson's face reddened angrily. “Yeah?” he said. “Sankey's gettin' nerves. That guy's goin' to be stiff before he gets in there. Franks'll beat hell out of him.”

  Gurney turned to fill his glass. He thought this line of talk wouldn't get him anywhere. He tapped Wilson on his coat-front. “Get wise, sucker,” he said. “Ain't you heard of a front? Sankey's full of tricks. This is one of 'em. Listen, Sankey could whip Franks blindfolded. He's springing a surprise for that palooka. Get your dough on the right man.”

  Wilson began to lose confidence. “That straight?” he asked; “that on the level?”

  Gurney winked at Freedman. “He asks me it it's straight? Me! Take him away someone an' bury him.”

  Freedman said, “I'd like your boy to push this Dillon around. That's what that bastard wants.”

  Gurney raised his eyebrows. “Dillon? Who's he?”

  They jostled one another to tell him. Gurney stood, his shoulders against the wall, a glass in his hand, and listened. He said at last, “Abe ain't no fool This guy can't be so bad.”

  Freedman said, “He's got Goldberg tooled.”

  Gurney was getting sick of Freedman. He straightened his coat, leant forward over the counter, and adjusted his hat in the wall mirror. “I gotta see Abe; I'll look this guy over.”

  Freedman made as if to go with him. Gurney checked him with a look. “This is a little matter of business,” he said.

  Freedman said, “Sure, you go ahead.” He said it hastily. He didn't want to get in bad with Gurney.

  Crossing the street, Gurney entered the store. It was the slack part of the day, and the place was empty. Dillon came out from the back, and stood with his hands resting on the counter, framed by two towers of tinned foods. He was wearing one of Abe's store suits that fitted him in places, and his face was close-shaven. He didn't look the hobo that had come into Plattsville a few days back. He looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. A cold, suspicious stare. Gurney thought he might be a mean sort of a guy.

  “Abe about?” he asked.

  Dillon shook his head. “He's out,” he said briefly.

  “Too bad. I wanted to see Abe.” Gurney fidgeted a little. Dillon made him a little uneasy.

  “Will he be long?” he said after a pause.

  “Maybe.” Dillon began to edge awa
y into the darkness of the store.

  Gurney thought he'd try a little probing. He said: “You're new around here.”

  Dillon rubbed his forearm. He still looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. “You're the guy who's runnin' Sankey, ain't you?” he said.

  Gurney swelled a little. “That's me,” he said.

  “What's the matter with him?”

  “Matter? Nothin'. What d'you mean?”

  “You know. That guy's gone yellow. What's eatin' him?”

  Gurney paused, uncertain. Then he said, “Listen, I don't like that line of talk.”

  Dillon wandered out from behind the counter, he still rubbed his forearm. “Don't 'big shot' me,” he said. “I said what's the matter with him?”

  Again Gurney felt uneasy. The dangerous, savage power in Dillon conveyed itself to him.

  “Franks got him jittery,” he said reluctantly.

  Dillon nodded. “He goin' to win?”

  “Sankey? I guess not.” Gurney frowned. “I gotta lotta dough on that boy.”

  “I guess I could fix it,” Dillon said, watching him closely.

  “You?” Gurney looked incredulous.

  “Sure, why not?” Dillon lounged to the door and looked into the street, then he came back again.

  “What d'you know about fixin' fights?” Gurney asked suspiciously.

  “Plenty,” Dillon told him, then, after a pause, he added: “I'm lookin' for a chance to break into the dough again.”

  Gurney was getting more than interested. “Suppose you come on out an' see Butch tonight? I'd like you to meet Butch Hogan.”

  “Hogan?” Dillon thought a moment. “That the old ex-champ?”

  “That's the guy. He lives just outside the town now. Blind he is—a tough break for a guy like that.”

  “Yeah,” Dillon nodded his head, “a tough break.”

  “Will you be along?”

  “I guess so. Any other guys interested in Sankey?”

  “There's Hank, he trains him, an' there's Al Morgan, who manages for him.”

  “Tell 'em both to come. Not Sankey; he'd better keep out of it.”