Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

But Harry had one weakness. He liked the arts, or what he liked to think of as the arts. The real big-time to him was anybody who could write and get paid for it; anybody who was connected with the stage or professional music. Every hack writer who ever had a greeting card verse published was somebody to Harry Wenzel. Every broken down bum of an ex-vaudeville trouper was a great actor. Every gin-mill piano-banger was a virtuoso. Anybody else was a peasant and Harry Wenzel would tell them so, if he was drunk.

A lot of people hated him. A lot liked him for what there was in it for them. Somehow, he had some good connections in state and county politics. Hundreds had tried to have his place closed up, from time to time, to have him thrown out of the township. Nobody had ever succeeded in eliminating Harry Wenzel.

“You missed it, Matty,” he told me, moving toward the bar. “I just gave the folks a little entertainment with Satan. You ever see the act we put on?”

I shuddered. “No, thanks. I saw the original. Remember, Harry?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Listen, you know everybody here, Matty? You know all these tosspots?”

I looked along the bar. The four people at the bar all had that relaxed, smug and slightly giddy look that comes when you’re on the edge of being tight. I knew them all. I waved and made greeting sounds. I straddled a stool next to Pete Saterlee, the county road commissioner and a wealthy, retired contractor.

Saterlee was the big, hearty, man-of-distinction type. Florid, always expertly barbered complexion. Clipped military gray mustache. A handsome, middle-aged man in sport jacket and slacks, oozing success and well-being.

“Pete,” I said. “What’s new? I mean, I have to ask that. You know how we reporters are. Not that I ever expect to get anything but double-talk from you wily politicians.”

He rocked back on the stool. His fine gray brows raised. “New?” He made a sweeping gesture that included everybody at the bar. “You hear that, folks? This backwoods newsboy asks me what’s new! What do you think we’re stoking up so heavily for? This is a celebration, son. Tell him, Harry!”

Harry Wenzel had gone behind the bar. He was unchaining Satan from the ring in the floor. He grinned across the bar at me. “Yeah, Matty,” he said. “You bumped into a real party tonight. We’re celebrating. Pete Saterlee brought me news that I’m goin’ to be a rich man before long, kid. The county’s going to run a parkway through this section, right at the edge of my property. It’s going to hook up with Route Seventy. You know what that means, boy?”

While I was letting the news sink in, Harry ordered Gus Berkaw, his bartender, who had been sitting around at the front of the bar while Harry was putting on his exhibition with Satan, to take over and fix me a drink.

On the other side of Saterlee, Eric Fabian, leaned forward and looked around Saterlee, toward me. Eric was in his early forties but he still looked like a beach resort life guard. He had a thick mop of wavy, yellow-blond hair, and his features were cut in what was almost classic perfection.

He had made himself a small fortune as a juvenile star in the movies just before silent pictures went out. He was supposed to have invested most of it wisely and as far as anyone knew, he never did a lick of work and had no other source of income.

“I’ll tell you what it means, Matty,” Eric Fabian said. He had a harsh, gutteral quality to his voice that had ended his movie career when sound came in. “It means Loon Lodge is going to be worth a fortune, once that new highway is in. It won’t be just a backwoods gin-mill and occasional flop-place for fisherman. It’ll be right out front with a million cars going past its doors over weekends.

“With the right handling, a guy will be able to clean up. I got so enthusiastic about the idea, I offered Harry twenty-five grand cash, on the spot, for the place when I heard the news.”

I made a whistling noise through my teeth. I was impressed. Now I knew why they weren’t talking about fishing, why they were going heavy on the liquor. This wasn’t going to be any ordinary, pre-opening day get-together. It was going to be rough. I almost wished I hadn’t come.

The other side of Eric Fabian, Irma Wenzel was saying something about what a damned fool her husband was, not to grab Eric’s offer. After all, she said, a bird in the hand and all that and twenty-five thousand wasn’t horse chestnuts. Her low, furry voice sounded a bit thick and too high pitched. I figured she was maybe four or five drinks ahead of the crowd.

The piano player was going to work again. He was knocking out a low-key, throbbing blues and his fingers weren’t just educated, they had half a dozen degrees. From the back, he looked like a short, dumpy, round-shouldered little old man. But it wasn’t him I was really looking at. It was the girl, standing next to the piano, watching him play.

Chapter Two Poker for Blood