Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

The worried skepticism in that harsh voice struck a note of warning in Gail Morton’s brain. His expression changed; softened.

“Maybe you don’t know it, Bracco,” he said almost lightly, “but there has been a depression in the legal profession too.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I get you, Mr. Morton.”

“I take it you’d be willing to pay me well for my services?”

“Sure! There’ll be five grand in it for you anyways — just as a retainin’ fee.”

“Five thousand dollars! That’s a lot of money, Bracco.”

“I’m in a lot of trouble,” growled the gangster.

Gail spoke slowly: “A man will do things for money that he wouldn’t do for any other reason. You understand that, don’t you, Bracco?”

The gangster grinned with relief, showing his ragged tobacco-stained teeth. He was on his own ground now.

“Sure! It’s the best reason in the world for doin’ anything, ain’t it? Money! Why, sure, smart guy. I un’erstan’ that, all right.”

“Then let’s have your story,” said Gail Morton. He shoved a box of cigars across the desk. “Smoke?”

“Much obliged,” grunted Bracco. He stripped off a pair of expensive fur-lined gloves, put them in his pocket, and lighted a cigar. “You want the truth, huh?”

“Yes,” said Morton.

“Maybe I’m trustin’ you with my life, see?”

“You can trust me or not, as you choose. There’s no danger to you, because there are no witnesses to our conversation. Besides which, no lawyer who expected to continue in practice would betray a client’s confidence. But make up your own mind, Bracco.”

The gangster removed the cigar from his mouth; wet his thick lips with his tongue.

“Well, it was like this,” he said huskily. “One night a coupla weeks ago me and a guy named Sailor Red — he’s one of my mob — we went into this cigar store about nine P.M. to buy a package of cigarettes.”

“Just to buy cigarettes, eh?”

“That’s right, Mr. Morton. That’s straight. We didn’t have no other idea in our heads. Then when we got in the store, this guy Sailor Red he sees there ain’t nobody in the place but the clerk. So, before I can figure his move, he pulls out his heatin’ iron and tells the clerk to hand over his cash. Well, the clerk — this fella Pendexter that got killed — he says he’ll have to open the cash register. So he turns around to do it, and Red looks at me and winks. But right at that second I see the clerk reach for his pocket, so I flash my rod and let him have it in the back. It all happens in a coupla seconds.”

“I see. What then?”

“Why, then we just walked outa the store and went home.”

“And nobody saw you go out? Nobody heard the shot?”

Bracco shrugged his bulging shoulders.

“Plenty of people musta saw us — after we got outside. The street was crowded. But nobody paid any attention to us and if anybody heard the shot they musta thought it was a car back-firin’. It was more’n an hour before a cop found the body behind the counter.”

“The newspapers were right, then,” said Morton evenly, without emotion. “It was cold-blooded murder. But, as I’ve already pointed out, the lack of a motive is in your favor. What about this accomplice of yours, this Sailor Red?”

Bracco’s lips twisted in an evil grimace.

“He got his in a crap game, in some joint down by the railroad yards, a week ago.”

“He’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Your handiwork, Bracco?”

“Naw. I don’t even know who stuck the knife in his ribs. I wouldn’t depend on a knife, myself.”

“I believe you,” said Morton, and added thoughtfully: “That simplifies matters. But why should the police suspect you of the Pendexter killing?”

The gangster’s voice was a snarl: “I’m suspected of everything that goes screwy in this town. If a millionaire gets snatched or a kid gets lost walkin’ home from school, some flat-foot from headquarters starts tailin’ me. I’m sick of it, see? I can’t stand no more of it—”

“You think the police have no real evidence against you?”

“Naw! But what’s a cop care about evidence if he’s got a piece of rubber hose in his hand? I’m out on bail now, but that won’t keep the dicks from crackin’ down on me, see? That’s where you come in, Mr. Morton. You gotta get me outa town, or sumpin, till I gotta go to court. I can’t stand no third-degree stuff—”

“Steady, Bracco,” Morton said sharply. “Keep your shirt on. I can protect you from the police easily enough — if I decide to defend you at all.”

Bracco half rose from his chair.

“What?” he gasped. “What’d you say? You mean you ain’t sure you’ll take the case, after I come here—”

“It all depends—”

“—here and told you I killed a guy? Why, damn you—”

“Sit down,” Morton said, so quietly that the other, after a moment, sank back into the chair. “Now. I’ve already told you that your confession is safe with me. Even if I wanted to betray you, no court would take my unsupported testimony as evidence.”

“Then what’s the idea, huh?”

“It’s this,” Morton said, and paused long enough to create in Bracco a tension of acute interest. “Before I decide finally whether or not to become your lawyer, I want to make absolutely sure of two things.”

“What are they?”