Free The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon by Dell Shannon Page A

everything.
    And some things he'd pulled— Jesus, a ten-year-old
kid swiping stuff off dime store counters'd know better— Him,
Donovan. Been on the list of Ten Most Wanted, once, he had. A
big-timer.
    He kept thinking about that short— goddamned crazy
thing, it didn't matter. He'd felt nervous with the Caddy, and when
she stalled out there, that day, it'd been kind of like an excuse he
was waiting for. That short he'd picked up— you could've fixed her
up a little, a real nice piece to handle— you knew where you were
with her. Always liked a hand choke, and these new things, you never—
She didn't ride so good maybe, but—
    He'd like to've kept her.
    The damn hot short—
    It was a hot feeling in his chest, the little panic.
Hadn't told Denny, hadn't told anybody how he'd lost that little bit.
God, like a kid couldn't be trusted out with a dime— Him!
    It must've been in the car. All he could figure: he
hadn't had a hole in his pocket, and he'd looked good. Damn fool to
carry it loose. Must've come out in that car, somehow.
    Well, all right, so it could be fixed up. O.K. No
call to get in a sweat about it. It was just damn lucky he knew how
to find the car, on account— damn it, the kind of short he was used
to— he'd had a kind of crazy idea of keeping it, all on the
up-and-up, so's not to mess around with new plates. Denny said you'd
pay the hell of a lot for safe plates now. Thought about making up
some story, about seeing it parked, wanting it just for
transportation like they said— after the guy had it back, go and
offer him a hundred bucks for it. So he'd remembered the name on the
registration. Funny name for a guy.
    Just a little piddling job. Ten to one the thing down
in the seat somewhere, nobody knowing it was there. Just had to look
up the address, that he didn't remember, find the garage, get in
easy— tonight— and go over the car. Why the hell all this sweat
about it? Nothing to it. And nobody'd ever know he'd done such a damn
fool thing.
    All right, he thought vaguely, angrily.
    Go look up the address, public phone someplace, now.
And maybe have a little drink on the way. O.K.
    They nicked you six bits for Scotch mostly now. Hell
of a thing. Except joints where it was baptized stuff, or made under
the counter and like to send you to the General.
    And that was another thing. This deal better go
through pretty damn quick. Nice of Denny to have a little stake for
him, coming out— pull off that job special, celebrate his getting
out— but it hadn't been so much as he'd figured, Denny said,
account half of it turning out to be this crazy stuff no fence'd look
at.
    All the more reason, get as much as they could.
    He walked out of the park slowly and started down
Sixth Street toward Main. He felt more at home down on Main. As much
as he did anywhere.
    If just things— ordinary things— didn't look so
different.
    He was forty-three years old this year, and he'd
spent almost twenty-two of them behind bars.
    What the hell, thought Driscoll, and drank out of the
bottle, shuddered. He had never consciously admitted to himself that
he didn't really like the taste of whiskey. It was just one of the
things you did, any kind of a fellow at all.
    The whiskey settled sickly in his stomach and he
groaned involuntarily, slumped down on the hotel bed. Damn hot
weather. Damn miserly company wouldn't allow enough expenses for a
decent hotel, air-conditioned. Damn Howard, supercilious-suspicious—
Not quite up to par lately, Driscoll, and— er— complaints about
your offensive manner— I'm afraid—
    Hell with Howard. With his record, let Howard fire
him-always find another job. Damn old-fashioned company was all,
obsolete ideas bout things. You had to keep up a front, play it
smart. People took you at face value. So all right, maybe he had been
pouring it down kind of heavy, my God, everybody did— any fellow
who was any kind of fellow— Set your brain working better, gave
you bright ideas sometimes-and