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So here we are in July of 1960, when I wrote this short and, I think, neat twist-ending story, and my records show that it was one of the three stories that I did for Scottie that month. But I am definitely looking elsewhere for markets as Trapped and Guilty on their new reduced schedules begin to be overstocked with my work. The ledger shows increased production of novels for Greenleaf Publishing Company, a Chicago paperback house that had begun to be the mainstay of my career— “Forbidden Love” and “Stripper” in June, “The Flesh Peddlers” in July, “Savage Mistress” in August, and so on and on, one or two or even three books a month during what was otherwise a recession for the publishing industry. They brought me more per word than the crime stories did, and the publisher was forever hungry for copy. (“Can you do four a month?” my Greenleaf editor asked, a little later on. “No,” I said. That would have been 848 pages of manuscript a month for that one market alone. Even in those crazily prolific days, I did have my limits.)
“The Tough Guy” ran in the February, 1961 Trapped, under the Dan Malcolm name. Eric Rodman had a story in the issue too. But from here on the flow of crime stories was going to diminish as my attention turned elsewhere.
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THE TOUGH GUY
Some men are really tough and some men just think they are!
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Michaels had been driving for close to two hours, now, and he was starting to get tired. Besides, it was raining pretty hard. He had set out from Boston a little after breakfast, and he was due in New York by half past five for an urgent business matter. It was only one in the afternoon, and in ordinary weather he would certainly be in New York in another three hours. But the rain was slowing him down. It was coming down thick and heavy, now, and the sky was dark. He decided the best thing to do was to stop for some lunch and rest up before continuing. It wouldn’t be good to get into an accident, after all. And maybe the rain would stop while he was eating.
There were roadhouses spotted at uneven distances along the Turnpike. A sign flashed by, telling Michaels that the next restaurant was two miles up the road. At Turnpike speed two miles was two minutes; even going slowly because of the rain, Michaels got there in not much more.
The place looked quiet. Not surprising, on a rainy midweek afternoon. There wasn’t much traffic on the Turnpike today. In the parking lot in front of the restaurant, Michael saw three big trucks and about half a dozen cars. He eased himself into the parking space closest to the restaurant’s front door, got out, and made a dash through the pouring rain.
Dripping wet even after only a fifteen-foot run, Michael through open the door and stepped inside. He shook himself dry.
A low, punky kind of voice said, “Okay, buster. Just stand over here with everybody else and you won’t get hurt.”
Michael looked up in surprise.
The place was being held up!
Of all the lousy stinking break, he thought. You stop for a sandwich and you walk into a hold-up!
“Come on, over against the wall, buddy.”
Michaels stared at the person who spoke. Just a kid, that was all. He looked like he was about seventeen. He was short, around five feet seven, and he wore a black leather jacket and khaki pants. His hair was black and greasy and piled up high on his head. He looked sallow and ugly and just a little bit uncertain of himself.
He was holding a gun in one gloved hand. A snub-nosed little .38 automatic, Michaels thought.
The kid had an assistant. She was a girl, maybe fifteen. Her hair was blonde, probably phony blonde, and hung down to her shoulders in ringlets. Her sweater was smudged with dirt about three sizes too small. High, big breasts jutted against the fabric like a pair of grapefruits somebody had stuffed into her sweater.
She wore blue jeans that were also much too tight. They revealed every contour of her lush hips and buttocks. The jeans seemed about to split their seams. A cheap tramp of a kid, Michaels thought, sizing the situation up.
She looked as stupid as they came. Just a hot-pants sexpot looking for a good time. She and the teenage punk next to her had gotten a gun someplace and now they were out to grab enough dough to give them a real merry joy-ride.
–
The kid gestured with the gun. “Stand right there,” he said to Michaels. “Keep your hands up in the air. You move and I’ll blow a hole in your lousy guts, man.”
“I ain’t moving,” Michaels said, annoyed about the whole thing. He glanced to his sides, taking in his fellow victims. There were around twenty of them, altogether. A pair of cooks, three waitresses, a cashier, all in the green uniforms of the restaurant. Then three big burly fellows who were probably the drivers of the trucks parked outside. They looked sore as hell. Also a young couple in their twenties, both of them looking scared as hell. And five or six men in business suits, ranging in age from around thirty to sixty. Like Michaels, they had been driving toward New York and had stopped off for a snack.
A pile of discarded wallets lay in the middle of the floor in front of the teenager. The kid nodded to his girlfriend and said, “Get this new guy’s wallet, Lulu.”
Lulu came wiggling over to Michaels, walking with a slow exaggeratedly sexy hip action that almost made Michaels laugh out loud. While the boy covered Michaels’ reach, and said, “Let’s have your wallet, mister. And if you try anything funny you’ll get shot.”
The place was very quiet. Michaels debated looking for trouble, then decided against it. He reached into his pocket and drew out his wallet. The girl stared at it eagle-eyed. Her breasts rose and fell steeply. Suddenly she reached out, snatched it out from his hand.
“I got it,” she said.
“Okay, pal,” the gun-toter called. “Put your hands back over your head. Clean the wallet out, Lulu.”
Michaels watched in anger as the busty little slut rummaged in his wallet. She whistled as she saw what he had in there. She pulled the bills out, eyes going wide.
“Jeez, Ronnie,” she said. “This bird’s loaded!”
“How much?”
“Four, five, six...seven hundred fifty bucks!”
Ronnie grinned. “I told you we’d hit it big, baby. That makes better than two grand out of this bunch. Time to shove off now. We’ll have ourselves a ball.”
“We sure will,” Lulu said. She looked admiringly at the punk. “You’re the greatest, man.”
Michaels watched as the girl tossed his now-empty wallet to the floor. Seven hundred fifty bucks gone. That didn’t hurt so much as the principle of the thing. He didn’t hurt so much as the principle of the thing. He didn’t like to be told what to do at gunpoint.
“We might as well shove off,” Ronnie said. “But first we—”
“Look out!” Lulu shrilled.
Michaels glanced to his left. One of the older men in the group had quietly been working himself down the counter, an inch or two at a time. Now he had reached a cup and saucer that stood at the end of the counter. He grabbed it, started to throw it.
The snub-nosed gun spoke.
There was a loud blamm, followed by the crash of breaking chinaware as the wildly flung cup smashed into the wall five feet to the right of the young gunman’s head. Michaels watched as the man who had thrown the cup put his hands to his belly and toppled to the floor. Blood spurted out in steady purplish gouts.
The young couple near him gasped, and the woman began to sob. One of the truck drivers cursed vividly. One of the other men started to go toward the fallen one.
“Leave him be,” Ronnie ordered.
“He’ll bleed to death, you young ruffian!”
“That’s just tough, ain’t it!” Ronnie smirked. “You just leave him be. He got what he deserved. And you’ll get the same thing if you don’t stand right where you are.”
Ronnie took a quick look out the window. The rain still pouring down. Then he said, half to himself, “We got to take one of the cars out there. We hitched this far, but now we got to grab a car. Who owns that big Lincoln?”
Michaels’ jaw muscles tightened. “That’s my car,” he said.
“Ain’t that nice,” Ronnie replied. “A big powerful new Lincoln. Just the thing to get us where we want to go in a hurry. Let’s have the keys and registration.”
“Hold on,” Michaels said. “I’ve got some urgent business in New York this evening. How am I going to get there if you take my car away?”
“That’s your problem,” Ronnie said levelly. “Why don’t you talk to that dumb-looking monkey of a truck driver standing next to you? He was good enough to give me and Lulu a hitch before. Maybe he’ll take you too.”
–
Michaels scowled. He didn’t want to give up the car and be stranded here in the middle of Massachusetts during a driving rainstorm. But there wasn’t much choice. The little punk had an itchy trigger-finger. This might still turn out to be one of those big massacres, if the kid decided he wanted to show off in front of his girlfriend. The man who had been shot was lying face down, and he wasn’t moving. A sticky puddle of blood was spreading on the linoleum floor.
“Get the keys, Lulu,” Ronnie ordered. “Then look in his wallet and find the registration.”
The girl approached Michaels again. She looked flushed with excitement. Cheap perfume welled up from her. Michaels studied her and decided she was only around fourteen, with an overdeveloped bust.
“Gimme the car keys,” she said.
“Sure,” Michaels replied. “I’m no dope. The car’s insured. You think I’m gonna put up a fuss over it and get myself shot like that guy there, you’re wrong. I know what’s good for me. Here, take the keys.”
He reached into his breast pocket. But his hand closed, not on the keys, but on the cold, familiar butt of his automatic. In one smooth motion he clicked the safety off, drew the gun out, and fired.
The next moment Ronnie was lying on the floor, and his gun was lying five feet away from him. Making a fast recovery from her surprise, the girl Lulu dove for the gun. But Michaels moved fast too. He kicked the girl hard in her well-upholstered seats as she reached for the gun. She let out a yelp and went sprawling flat on her face. Even as she fell, she stuck a hand out for the gun, but Michaels jumped forward and brought the sole of his shoe down hard on her hand. The girl screamed, and he felt bones breaking.
He picked up the gun.
There was a gun in each hand, now Michaels looked down at Ronnie. The punk was writhing in pain. The bullet had smashed into his forearm just above the wrist, a perfect disabling shot. Ronnie was rocking back and forth, clutching his shattered arm and whimpering. The busty girl Lulu was holding her hand, too, and letting out soft noises of agony.
“Get up, both of you,” Michaels snapped.
“What you gonna do, man?” Ronnie asked, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“I ought to blow your heads off. But I won’t do that. I’ll leave you for the cops.”
“We didn’t mean no trouble,” Ronnie protested. “We just wanted some dough for a good time.”
“Tell that to the guy you killed,” Michaels said. He turned and looked at the prisoner. “Anybody here know how to use a gun?”
“I can,” one of the truck drivers said.
“Okay. Here.” Michaels handed him the gun he had taken from the kid. “I can’t stick around. I got important business in New York. Somebody notify the highway cops about what happened. I’m going to move along.”
“Where’d you learn to handle a gun like that, mister?” the truck driver asked in awe. “Best shooting I ever saw. You pick that up in the army?”
“Yeah,” Michaels said casually.
“Thank God you shot him,” the young husband said. “He could have killed us all.”
“Well, he won’t make any trouble now,” Michaels said. He holstered his gun and looked at the pale pair of teenage hoodlums. They looked very frightened, now. They had killed a man, and they were going to get the electric chair for it, and they knew it. They looked like they were going to throw up out of sheer funk.
Approaching the boy, Michaels reached roughly into his pocket and took out the thick wad of bills. Carefully Michaels counted off seven hundred fifty dollars and pocketed it. The rest he placed carefully on one of the tables.
“I got to move along now,” he said. “When the cops come, don’t make a fuss about me. I got a license for the gun, but I’m a busy man and I don’t want to get hauled in to answer questions.” He grinned. “Tell them what happened. But just don’t describe me too accurately.”
“I get you,” the truckman said.
Turning, Michaels went out. It was still raining but the downpour had slackened up some. He looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes wasted, and he hadn’t even had his snack. Well, the next restaurant was a dozen or so miles down the road. He could stop there, he decided.
–
He got the car under way and soon was moving along through the rain at a steady, even fifty. The incident at the roadhouse annoyed and distracted him. He hoped the other holdup victims would not describe him too closely. Just somebody who happened to wander by with a gun at the right moment, that was all that had to be said.
Michaels scowled. To relax himself, he went over in his business mind the details of his business engagement in New York.
You are to go to the Hotel Wentworth on East 58th Street. The man you are to see is named James McLean. He is forty-one, five feet nine inches tall, weighs one hundred ninety-five pounds. He is balding and thickset. Our client wants you to tell him that you are his wife’s cousin Tom from Maine. McLean will take you out to dinner. After dinner offer to take him for a drive in the country. When you reach a properly secluded area, kill him and dispose of the body as per usual. Proceed to Philadelphia where you will be met at the customary place and will be given your regular fee and details of your next assignment.
The rain was stopping now, and the sky was rapidly growing lighter. Michaels relaxed thoroughly behind the wheel of his big, powerful car. He would have plenty of time now. Just as well. It wouldn’t have done to be late for his appointment with McLean. After all, he had a reputation to uphold as the most efficient professional killer on the East Coast. It would have looked very bad if he had shown up a couple of hours late for his assignment.
Michaels thought about the tough kid and his tight-sweatered playmate, and laughed contemptuously. The toughness had certainly faded from the kid’s face in a hurry when that bullet smashed into his arm. One minute he had been a little Hitler, quick to shoot down anybody he didn’t like. The next moment he’d been just a scared kid, sick to his guts with pain and fear.
Michaels smiled.
Goddam amateurs, he thought.
He stepped on the gas and the car thundered onward.