Manhunt. Volume 5, Number 5, May 1957

He was seated in an armchair, squarely in the middle of the room, facing me. His hair was tousled but his face was clean and shaven. He was wearing expensive, tight-fitting, black silk pajamas of the ski-type. He was smiling, but his smile was stiff. His eyes were good, better than I had expected. He had stuff in him, but he had it right — he was not overloaded, nor was he in need of a jolt. His blue Irish eyes were clear, the pupils not too widely distended. That pleased me. And his hands were steady, which pleased me even more, because one hand was holding a huge automatic.

“Hi, Kiddy,” I said.

“What do you want?” he said.

“That the way to greet a friend?” I said in as gay a voice as I could muster.

He seemed ashamed. The smile became more real, less rigid.

“It’s a pretty lousy time to come calling, ain’t it?”

“It’s because it’s important, Kiddy boy. I come as a friend and” — I gestured toward his gun — “look how you greet me.”

“You heeled?” he said.

“Would I come heeled — to a friend?”

“Touch him, Betty.”

I finally saw her. Once again the stoolie-genius was correct. She was a red-head with a sensational shape, built for a stripper rather than a waitress. She was tall — probably a head taller than Kiddy — with a full large powerful figure, and friend Kiddy had done all right by her in the matter of night clothes. She was wearing high-heeled white silk lounging shoes and a white silk tight-mesh negligee, practically transparent. Long full thighs glistened in the silk as she moved toward me. Unfortunately, there was a disconcerting note, disconcertingly similar to Kiddy Malone’s disconcerting note.

She too was holding a gun.

Naturally, he was not as smart as he was cooked up to be. If I were on a rash errand, her coming to frisk me would have been a godsend. I could have clipped her gun, used her as a shield, and taken my chances. But I was not being rash this trip. I stood meek as a frightened patient behind a fluoroscope. She touched me.

“No gun,” she said.

His smile contracted to pursed lips.

“Sorry, fella,” he said.

“I come as a friend,” I said. I wanted to hammer that through.

His gun was no longer pointed at me. It rested, within the grip of his hand, in his lap. He looked like a mischievous boy caught holding the matches with which he was going to set fire to the kitchen.

“Give my friend a drink, Betty,” he said. “He drinks Scotch, the best in the house.”

“You’re in good shape,” I said.

“The best,” he said. “Sit down, friend. Make yourself to home.”

I sat down on one end of a divan. The red-head had disappeared into another room, but she came back quickly, without the gun, but with a tray on which was a bottle of Scotch, an open bottle of soda, a pitcher of water, and glasses.

“If you want ice...?” she began.

“Oh, no, thank you. This is fine.”

She sat the tray down near me, and she sat herself down on the other end of the divan.

“How do you like my Betty?” Kiddy said.

“A beautiful lady,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said and she smiled with strong white teeth. She had a wide high-boned face and enormous blue eyes.

“She’s the greatest,” Kiddy said. “Big as she is, she’s—” He stopped speaking suddenly and frowned. “What brings you, Petie? In the middle of the night?” And now his smile was a frightened smile. “And how the hell did you know to get here?” His eyes darted to Betty’s and back to mine.

I poured a lot of Scotch and gulped it raw. I needed it.

“I found you,” I said, “because you’re in trouble. When you’re in trouble, that’s when a friend is supposed to find you.”

“He is a friend,” he said to Betty, nodding seriously.

I looked about the room. It was plainly furnished. The floor was bare.

“Not quite like the Montrose,” I said, “eh, Mr. Masters?”

His gun popped up, levelling on me.

“Please don’t point that thing at me, Kiddy,” I said. “I’m on your side. I’m with you.”

“What the hell goes?”

“Did you kill him?”

“Me? You out of your brains? Me?” Then his eyes narrowed craftily. “Kill who?” he said.

“Mousie Lawrence had most of his face shot away. Both your holsters were there in the bedroom. Yet you’ve got a piece right here in your hand. That what you shot him with, Kiddy?”

“Not me. You’re out of your brains. Why should I cool Mousie? Mousie’s my partner.”

“Was,” I corrected.

“Mousie was my partner.”

“Then what about the gun you’re holding?”

“I kept two pieces here. The one the lady’s got, and this one. Kept them here. Kept a load of junk here too. Kiddy’s no dope, man.”

“Kiddy, you in shape?” I said.

“The best,” he said.

“Did you blast Mousie? Because if you did, I’m the boy to cover you up, and you know it. Did you, Kiddy boy?”

“No! No, no, no!”

Kiddy Malone did not kill Mousie Lawrence. I had my story. Now it was all up to him.

“Okay,” I said. “I know the deal. And I can pull you through. If you work with me.”

The gun lowered into his lap. His hands were clenched over it. “You know nothing, pal,” he said. “You don’t know no deal. You’re just a talker. You’re trying to make a buck, that’s what you’re doing. Trying to talk your way into a buck.”