Uneasy street by Miller Wade

Author:Miller, Wade [Miller, Wade]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Pulp
Publisher: Harper
Published: 1948-09-15T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 24, 7:45 p.m.

A choir was softly singing.

“The first Noel, the angels did say…”

The voices set up sickening vibrations, rocking him roughly back and forth. Then he began to be conscious of how cramped his body was, his head twisted around against musty resilience. He tried to straighten himself out and a fire started at the base of his skull, spilling liquidly down his spine.

Thursday groaned and opened his eyes. Dark and light shuttled by, like a train passing. His nose and one cheek were pressed into the dusty-smelling felt of a weird prison. It took several squinting seconds to figure out that he lay on the back seat of a moving car. His own car. The choir was singing from his dashboard radio.

A new louder voice grated over the caroling. “Lucky’s woke up. He don’t look so good.”

“Shame,” a second voice muttered.

Thursday pushed with his elbows, up to a sitting position. After the flame had died away again, he looked where the voices had come from. The first one—the higher smart-aleck voice—had come from an undersized young man coiled around in the front seat. He had a thin vicious face full of callous amusement. His hat was pushed back on a towheaded mop of hair that was almost white. A triangle of high-necked skivvy shirt showed above his double-breasted coat. Beneath his point of chin, on top of the seat back, rested the casual barrel of a revolver. It looked about .38 size and was pointed low at Thursday’s stomach.

He followed Thursday’s gaze and said, “That’s right. Just don’t get no ideas.”

“Okay,” Thursday croaked. He rasped his breath deep in his throat to clear away the huskiness. “What’s going on?”

The man with the gun snickered. “Hear that, Dan? Lucky wanted to know what’s going on.” The smile faded suddenly. “You couldn’t of asked ‘What’s up?’ So I could come back with ‘Your number, kiddo—that’s what’s up.’” His face quick-changed to the venomous snicker again. “Anyhow, that’s the way it is, Lucky. Lots of fun tonight.”

“Which way, Whitey?” Dan asked from behind the wheel. Thursday could see only his profile. He was larger than Whitey, with stooped shoulders, a retreating chin and a fleshy face. He wore a sport coat growing threadbare at the collar, a sport shirt buttoned around his short neck and no hat.

“Right up here a ways. Go out the Valley till we get to that place we seen the other day. You know. It’s nice and quiet.”

The car windows were rolled up against the hurrying lights of Pacific Highway but Thursday felt a sudden chill shake his body. The idea sank in deep, through his headache, through the throb of confusion, that this was the ride—the final one. In his own car—which was wrong because death was supposed to be the perfect stranger.

The radio changed songs and Whitey beat the time with his gun barrel on the seat top.

“God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay …”

Thursday studied the cruel cheap face. Desperation dismissed his head pain.

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