Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

“Are you blaming me because half the detectives in New York hang around the Jewelry Exchange? You paid me five hundred to cart that stuff around for you, just because you thought you might be picked up. You’re known jewel thieves — those coppers probably have your mugs framed on their desks, you know that — then you call me a stoolie. Drop dead!”

Monk’s head snapped up. I saw the red flush of anger creep up around his neck. His hand tightened on the gun. I knew I had gotten under his skin. My only hope was to make him angry enough to stop thinking.

“Too bad you said that, good buddy,” he rasped. “Something else you don’t know is that I saw one of those young coppers coming down on the train with us, so we’re pretty sure it was a finger job. And even Pete didn’t know where we had to meet you. So that leaves only you. Stand up, boy. Lock your hands behind you. I’ll teach you some manners. You ever been pistol-whipped?”

I hadn’t, but I’d seen some guys who had. Empty hulks with part of an ear gone, or their noses smashed in, or no cheekbone where cheekbones should be — and always something on the inside gone forever — walking dead men. Monk would have to kill me before he pistol-whipped me. I stood up shakily, a tight knot growing in my gut but ready for the coming battle. I backed slowly away from him.

“Get your hands behind your back,” he ordered. He came in at me very slowly, a mean smile playing at his lips.

I wasn’t afraid he’d shoot. I was his golden goose, or maybe diamond goose, and he wouldn’t cook me — yet. But that automatic looked awfully big in his mitt. He waved it from side to side like a knife man, always coming closer. He feinted once, but I saw it in his eyes a second before, then I knew a real one was coming.

He brought around a roundhouse, but I was able to roll with it. It caught me over the ear, stinging more than hurting, but I let out a loud groan to make him think I was hurt bad. I’d have t take two or three like that before I went for him. He telegraphed the next one and I rolled with it again and ducked sideways. That one wasn’t as bad, but I groaned louder.

“Shut up, stoolie,” he snarled.

He swung viciously again, but missed completely when I ducked way down. My hand touched something behind me and I knew I had a weapon. It was one of those big, square, glass ash trays, Woolworth’s best, and it weighed at least a half pound.

I had to get him crazy mad to get the gun away from him. “All right, Monk,” I yelled, “I tipped the cops, but I’ve got the diamonds. You can have them, but don’t hit me again! I can’t stand it!”

His face contorted, his eyes seemed to get red, but his greed won. He brought the gun back for a mighty roundhouse that would have clubbed me through the floor. I ducked down, grabbed the ash tray with my right hand and swung it around as hard as I could, right for his eyes. I let it go like a discus inches from his face, then crouched down, ready to spring for his gun hand.

He didn’t have a chance. It must have looked like a bomb to him. It caught him right under his left eye, a sharp corner gouging upward, then it broke against his face bones, the ragged edges cutting across his flesh like a cleaver. The gun flew out of his hand as he jerked his arm up. I dove for it. He stumbled backwards without a sound, blood spurting from his face. Then he fell back and his head cracked against the edge of the bureau, making an ominous, crunching sound. I thought I knew what that meant.

I had his gun in my hand as I went to look at him. His face was a mess, but not bad enough to kill him. But I knew he was dead. I felt the back of his head — it was as soft and pulpy as a rotten melon. I’d heard that same sound in Korea when a rifle butt crashed down on an unprotected skull. Monk had no more worries about his hot diamonds now. Or anything else. I laid his gun on top of the bureau, then felt in my pockets for the recorder switch and shut it off.

In a way I felt sorry for him. His temper had caused his death, just as it had caused most of his troubles in his life. Monk Saunders was probably the best safe man in the country, a sort of real life Jimmy Valentine. I don’t think the safe or vault was ever made that he couldn’t open, given enough time. He could almost make those hunks of steel talk for him. But his temper and the queer idea he had that he was a tough guy were his undoing. If he played it as a loner he could have opened up safes forever and lived like a prince on what he got out of them.

Monk and his two partners gave us a hard time over the years, that was for sure. I work for one of the biggest insurance companies in the business, and have the fancy title of Chief Investigator of Frauds, but I don’t mind that because the salary and extras are pretty fancy too. For the past five years I’ve been trying to nail these three guys — now there were only two of them.