Free Hard Case Crime: Baby Moll by John Farris Page B

sofa, his face pinched with fury, snatched up a big square pillow, turned and flung it at the closed door.
    “I’m gonna catch you one of these days, you little tramp!” he said fiercely under his breath. I didn’t quite smile at him. Stan always made the slightest movement seem incredibly difficult to achieve, throwing his whole body into a wink, a word, a gesture. I’ve never seen him still for longer than half a minute.
    “She’s cute as a speckled pup,” I said. “When did you marry her?”
    “She’s not my wife,” he said, turning his constant sneer on me. His hair had fallen out of place again and he pushed it violently off his forehead. Since I had known him he had shaved his sideburns. It was an improvement, but Stan needed lots more of them. His teeth gleamed inside the slight gap between his lips.
    He looked around the living room, then took a prescription bottle from his coat pocket, uncapped it, sipped some of the rich creamy liquid. He looked like it hurt him to drink it. When he had had enough he replaced the lid, dropped the medicine into his pocket.
    “About eighteen, isn’t she?” I said. From what I’d seen of Gerry she could be that young, or she could be ten years older. It was hard to tell.
    “That’s none of your goddam business. Gerry just looks young. She’s been around.” He eyed me narrowly. “I thought I’d never have to look at you again,” he said. “What did you come back for, Pete?”
    “Pick out a reason you like,” I told him, wondering if he’d heard about the mail Macy had been getting.
    “I don’t like none of ’em.” He walked around the sofa twice, then sat down, his anxious fingers finding a cigarette to play with. “You got a reason for coming here?”
    “I want to know which one of your boys is a chunkylittle customer with a sky blue hat and a white band.”
    He put the cigarette in a corner of his mouth. “Why?”
    “I ran into a shotgun ambush last night on my way into town. He was the triggerman. An hour ago somebody rigged a bomb in my car. There was enough dynamite hooked up to the starter to blast me to Key West. It may or may not have been the same lad. When I find him I’m going to blow his face right out from under that beautiful hat.”
    Stan put his head back and laughed. I could see gold in his teeth. “He’s not mine. I never knew you were coming. My boys wouldn’t goof the job twice, either.”
    I reached down and jerked him off the sofa by the front of his coat. He swung a wild fist at me. I stepped out of the way of it and grinned at him. His hands patted the rumpled coat. I had an eye cocked for a gun but apparently he didn’t carry one. His bad skin reddened. He stuck out a trembling finger at me.
    “You don’t shake me up no more, Pete,” he spit out, forgetting the good English in his haste. “I’m big now, Pete. I snap my fingers, I got two-three guys to blow your gut out. Sure, I know why you’re back. But you came too late. Macy’s on his way out. I’m the new man in town. You stay away from me or maybe I will arrange a party for you. Don’t mess with me.” His eyes were dull with hate. He jerked a thumb at the closed door to the dining room. “Don’t mess around her!”
    I looked at him until I thought he might try to slug me again. Then I walked toward the front door. I went up the two steps into the hall, then looked back at him. He had the pink handkerchief out again.
    “Maybe you’re right,” I said casually. “Maybe Macy’sthrough. But like you said — I’m back.” I was just popping off. But his shoulders hunched and he looked at me with one glassy eye. There was murder in it. The other was almost shut in rage. He drew back a little and his mouth opened and his neck swelled.
    I opened the door and went outside, but not before I heard him shriek childishly, “I hate your goddam guuuuuts, Pete!”

Chapter Twelve
    Three blocks down the street I saw a familiar figure in red pants hiking briskly