But China Jo had seen his opportunity. When the door began to open, he pressed a lever in one of the great god’s feet. From inside came two of his men who had tended the fire in a compartment underneath. They were armed. Shots rang.
“Hit the floor, Rose!” shouted Dude. “At ’em boys!” And both of Dude’s guns flashed. Two of the Chinamen fell. There was a yell of pain from Pete, but he stood his ground.
A volley of shots from China Jo’s side. Dude had slid behind a chair.
“Save China Jo for me!” he yelled into the din of ringing shots.
He picked off another Chink and Tango’s silencer listed another casualty.
“The last of ’em! Now, me for Jo!” And Dude shoved his rods in his pockets as he strode swiftly across to the crouching figure of China Jo. Dude yanked him to his feet.
“Now, you little baby he-devil, you, I’ll settle with you.” His voice was low in the Chink’s ear. “It was either me or you, Jo, and I kinda guess it’s you.”
“Time, please, time! Prayer — I make prayer!”
“Prayer,” sneered Dude. “You want time to push another button.”
“No, no! Prayer!”
“Oh, yeh? O.K. with me.” He was carrying the whimpering writhing form up the marble steps.
“I got a great idea, Jo,” Dude was saying. “You want to pray. Well now, where’s there a better place than in the great big belly of your great big heathen god. See the point, Jo?”
Dude was at the top of the marble staircase. His powerful arms stretched the body into the air. Jo’s slant eyes looked in terror. His scream was muffled as he fell through the flaming mouth below.
Rose gave a little cry of pity.
“Don’t waste any tears on that yellow scoundrel,” said Dude. “It might have been you or me or both of us!”
Dude was the softy again as he held Rose’s yielding form in his arms.
“It’s good for us, boys,” he said, “that China Jo had sound proof walls in this hole, or we’d have had the cops here before this. And if there’s anything annoys me, it’s a lot of flat feet buttin’ in.”
Soon Rose was dressed again in the clothes that had been taken from her at the idol’s feet.
They were all on the street. The gang scattered. Rose and Dude sauntered on down the block. Rose started a little as a cop rounded the corner.
“Evenin’, O’Neil.” Dude was casual.
“Evenin’, Dude. Livin’ peaceable?”
“Me? Sure! Just spendin’ a quiet evenin’ with the girl friend!”
Racketeer Wages
By Jack Compton
The Dragnet Magazine, December 1929
Boss of his mob, racketeer, hi-jacker, cold-blooded killer — he baited a double-cross trap. Then grim Fate flashed her fiery gat of revenge.
“I’ll put Tony Scilli on the spot,” muttered Steve Hardy to the little man seated across the bare wooden table from him, “and you’ll bump him off!” With a hasty glance about the frowsy speakeasy, Hardy turned back to watch the effect of his words on his companion.
Slim Withers, a frail little fellow in an ill-fitting suit quickly looked at the big perfume-reeking Hardy. “Gese, boss, quit yer kiddin’. Nobody can get Scilli. He’s a red-hot!”
“Take a drink, kid.” Steve Hardy shoved a gin bottle across the table. “I’ve got everything set,” he went on hurriedly. “Cripes — it’s in the bag!” The Broadway racketeer frowned as the little man ignored the gin. “This wop is peddlin’ stuff in my territory. I gotta give him the works. See?”
“But,” put in Slim, his face suddenly serious, “I ain’t no gun-toter. I—”
“Who says you ain’t?” demanded Steve harshly. “Guess you clean forgot about the bull you rubbed off at the Brooklyn wharf, the one they fished out of the Red Hook canal last week. You got a poor memory, kid.”
“Gese, Steve,” blurted out Slim, his lips twitching nervously, “you... you got that bull. Not me!”
Hardy stiffened in his chair, quickly looking around the partially-filled speakeasy. No one was within earshot. He heaved a sigh of relief. “Listen, you little mutt, another crack like that and I’ll turn you over to the dicks. Do you think they’d believe you? Haw! Haw! Like hell they would!”
“No! No!” pleaded the cowering little man. “We’re pals, boss, an’ we stick together. Ain’t we pals, Steve?” he asked timidly.
“Sure, kid.” Hardy grinned from ear to ear. “Now about gettin’ Scilli. Tonight he’s gonna leave his dancin’ joint at four o’clock—”
“But—”
“Keep your shirt on, kid,” growled the big man, “and let me finish. It’s on the up and up. Can’t go wrong. His rods will be tight and foolin’ around with broads. Then when he staggers out in the street you ride by and give him both barrels of a shotgun. Easy.” The racketeer raised his eyebrows wisely and pulled out a stuffed wallet. “The job is worth a grand to me. I’ll give you two hundred now and the rest when Tony is getting flowers he can’t smell. See? Then you take a train out of this burg till I give the dicks something else to worry about.”
Slim Withers pocketed the money resignedly. Spilling out a stiff drink, he squared his drooping shoulders. Then he took out a big gold-plated watch and fingered it lovingly. Suddenly Slim started. “Gese, boss, tonight’s the—”
“For cripes sake, get going!” Steve Hardy was looking uneasily at the door, which now framed the figure of a man. The newcomer’s baggy suit, derby hat and broad shoes had “dick” written all over them. Hardy whispered behind his gin glass to Slim. “Here’s that damn snoopin’ McCarthy. G’wan, get out before he starts asking embarrassin’ questions.”
“But, boss,” insisted Slim pointing to his watch, “they—”
“Get out!” Hardy hissed from the side of his mouth.
Under the threat of that harsh command Slim did go out; but there was a worried look on his drawn face.
McCarthy swaggered over to Hardy’s table. Pushing his derby over one eye he slid into the chair that Slim had vacated. He grinned at the racketeer. “Making the rounds, Hardy. Get me?”
“Sure, Mac. This baby never slips up on his payments.” With that Hardy again pulled out his heavy wallet, selected several crisp bills and passed them to the detective.
Pocketing the hush money, McCarthy rose to his feet. He refused Hardy’s offer to have a drink. “Not tonight, Hardy. If I took a glass at all the places I gotta stop tonight I’d be as pie-eyed as hell. S’long.”
When the detective had left the speakeasy, Hardy slipped over to one of the telephone booths against the rear wall. Thumbing a nickel into the slot he called a number. Some seconds later a cheap feminine voice asked him who he wanted. “Lemme speak to the Big Shot, sister. Yeah, Tony Scilli. And make it snappy. Never mind who I am.”
There was another silence. Then a cold, flat voice came over the wire. “Who is it?”
“Hello, Tony. This you? Yeah, Hardy. I want to see you tonight again. O.K. And tell them gorillas of yourn that you’re expecting me. See you later.”
Twenty minutes later Steve Hardy was in a private room with the stocky Italian gangster. “You know, Tony,” he began, “we’ve been dickerin’ for some time about pooling our interests against all the other mobs in town.” Tony Scilli merely nodded his sleek black head. “Well,” went on Hardy, “I talked this over with my boys and they are all for it — all but one!”