One More For The Road by Larry Kent

Author:Larry Kent
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: detective book, thriller books, spillane, noir detective, piccadilly publishing, larry kent detective, des r dunn, hard boiled crime novels
Publisher: Piccadilly

Chapter 6 … the gunner-boys …

I ran an electric over my face and refilled my scotch flask. For good measure I checked my .45. Then I sat down, had a drink and waited for Hogue. I didn’t have to wait long. Somebody knocked on my door.

I was about to open it when I did some quick calculation. Hogue might be a fast mover for an old guy nearing retiring age, but he still had twice as far to come as I had from Mary and Jo. Even in a jet he would still be a few minutes behind me.

I said, “Yes?”

“Telegram, Mr. Kent.”

“Pass it under the door.”

“It’s collect, Mr. Kent.”

Collect? A bellyful, maybe. I pulled out my .45 and flattened myself at the side of the door.

“How much?”

There was silence.

Then, “You’ve also got to sign for it, Mr. Kent.”

Without fingers?

I reached across and flipped back the safety catch. Then I rolled open the lock and pulled the door.

A Thompson machine gun erupted its violence as soon as the door began to move. Then it swung back on its hinges.

A guy stood in the opening, his big gun smoking in his hand. I took one shot and sent a shell into his stomach. The guy went back on his heels for two very deliberate paces then folded onto his knees. His gun slipped out of his hands and came into the doorway. Collect.

There was another guy with my dying friend—a guy with the most surprised face in New York. He wore a hat over his eyes, but I could see a crooked nose and thin lips and a fat-jowled jaw.

I said, “Sleep tight, punk.”

I let him have it.

There’s something about me makes me ornery when guys pump lead into my doorway late at night. My bullet ripped his super-structure and he let out a wail like a banshee. He toppled forward, his automatic falling from his hand. It bounced on my carpet and he fell full-length on top of it.

Then he turned his head, as though he mightn’t be getting enough air, and looked at his friend. “Charlie. Charlie,” he groaned. Then blood trickled out of his thin lips and his eyes closed.

Charlie couldn’t give a damn about him. Charlie had his own problems, one of which was trying to get his feet far enough up under him to help him stand. He twitched about, clawing the carpet as though he were gauging the quality of the pile, then stiffened.

I waited another few seconds before I stepped past the pair of them and checked the hallway. It was deserted. But doors were opening in each direction.

I knew most of the heads that looked my way. The closest was a little old lady with curlers in her hair and yesterday’s talc falling like dandruff from her hollow cheeks. Her eyes were so wide open with shock and curiosity I could have kicked a football into either of them. Down from her was a stuffy guy who had once complained about my tenancy. He’d been told to move or shut up.

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