The Deadly Pay-Off by William H. Duhart

Author:William H. Duhart [Duhart, William H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery & Detective, Thriller & Suspense
Publisher: Stark House Press
Published: 2022-12-05T11:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

You couldn’t read a newspaper in Shipley’s Tavern. There wasn’t enough light for that, and thirty people would have choked the ratty joint, Tabor figured. It was half-choked now.

Tank satisfied himself that nobody in there could do him much harm. He left the doorway and found a dry spot at the far end of the scarred bar.

“What’ll you have, buddy?” a mousy-looking bartender asked, grinning and wiping the bar with a greasy rag.

“Albino been in tonight?” Tabor asked.

The mousy-looking barman’s mop-rag didn’t stop completely, but Tabor had to lean closer to tell if it was still moving.

“Who’s he?”

“A lad we both know,” Tabor replied. “I want to see him.”

The mop-rag was completely still now. “Who says I know the bird you’re talking about?”

“I do,” Tabor answered, ignoring the little chippie who brushed against him as she waggled to a stool. “Where can I find him? It’s important.”

“Since I don’t know who you’re talking about, buddy, I couldn’t say. I—”

The barman’s mouth suddenly hung open as if somebody had crammed an orange in it. The screen door had opened and closed and in the peeling mirror in back of the bar Tabor saw his man—Albino. He knew him right away, just as Jock said. The guy, dressed in a blood-red sports coat and white slacks, was big, milky-colored and had bushy hair the color of fresh snow. He was about to go to one of the teen-agers in the booths when the barman’s voice sliced through the loud music.

“Albino! Cut out!”

It was obvious to Tabor that the barman and Albino had been through this performance before. Without missing a step, or even glancing at them, Albino pivoted and broke for the entrance.

Tabor moved out after him, fast. As he passed the chippies and five greasy-haired fly-cats, one of the fly-cats stuck a foot between his legs. He stumbled but didn’t go down. There wasn’t time to smack the bastard who had done it.

When Albino hit the screen door, Tabor sailed through the air in a flying tackle. Albino sensed the tackle, jumped to one side, and Tabor belly-flopped on the concrete walk. The wind whooshed out of his lungs but he shot out an arm, got a handful of Albino’s ankle and jerked hard.

When the jive mackman smacked against the walk he screamed and tried to roll away. But Tabor crawled all over him, slugging at his milky face with hard lefts and rights. “I’ll beat your brains out,” he grated. They rolled across the wide sidewalk, taking turns riding and whaling each other.

Then Albino got reinforcements.

The greasy-haired fly-cats and chippies had come out of the joint. The gay-cats stomped at Tabor’s head whenever it was on the walk, and whooped at it with beer bottles whenever he showed topside.

He couldn’t win that kind of battle, he knew. Heaving hard, he pulled away from Albino. Then he threw up his left hand to block the blows the fly-cats were slinging at his head with the beer bottles, at the same time shucking the Magnum from the clip holster with his right.

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