10-Story Detective Magazine, April 1946 — page 26: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

24-___________ 10.STORY DETECTIVE Johnny was a wiry, sandy, ex-jock who’d drifted in from Tucson, bought a rundown stable and turned it into one of the Valley’s swank academies of the horse, “Don’t let the fancy trimmings fool you.” I said grimly, “That guy Turren- tine reminds me of a lumberjack’s double-bitted axe, honed to an edge you could shave with. 1 don’t know why.” It was probably the barrel chest Tur- rentine got from his Cherokee grandpa, draped in tweeds by the best tailor in Hollywood. Or the hard black eyes with lids cutting level across them when he stares at you. “Yeah,” Johnny admitted. “I guess Turrentine ain’t the human dynamo be- hind Atlas Films for nothing. You ever hear the story he’s a killer? Back in Oklahoma, in the oil fields, I mean, Be- fore he muscled into flickers, They say he knocked off some bird who wanted a piece of oil Jand he wanted.” “I’ve heard the story. A whisky bottle full of nitroglycerine, a Ford truck, and a rough country road.” “You believe it?” 1 shrugged. But I did believe it. That’s why the gruesome hour of five A. M. found me hanging around the riding stable, to see if Turrentine would be riding toward Vanessa’s. He was. 1 thumbed the starter button of my jalopy. — Johnny went right on rolling a brown Bull Durham smoke, without taking his foot off my running board, “They say Turrentine’s putting on a showdown - fight with Vanessa at the studios today,” he said slowly, his eyes on my face. “Uh, huh.” I yawned, nearly dislocat- dng my jaws. The only way OF Brer Mark can make the hour of five A, M. is to stay up all night and cut a trough in some joint out in the Strip. “Ill bet you get plenty backlash out of it, being her agent,” he sympathized. “J don’t mind for me,” I shrugged. “} can take care of myself. But it’s sure ' playing hell with a lot of new talent that deserves a break.” — “Speakin’ of new talent, when you gonna put me in pitchers?” “What for?” I wanted to know. “Just beeause you got a little publicity last week foe shooting a horse thief in the britches?” All the L. A. papers had printed pies of Johnny Cook pointing the old .88 he kept on his desk in the stable office. Johnny winked at a horse that was looking over a fence at me from ten feet away. The plug had his ears back. He stuck his neck out, pulled back rub- ber lips, and clicked yellow teeth at me delicately. Like he had my ear and wanted to take little bites to make it last longer. “How do they know?” I asked, look- ing at the insolent nag with distaste. “When a guy is afraid of horses,” Johnny informed me, “his skin gives off a different smell, see?” “Ym not afraid, I’ve got a akohis. Don’t you know what a phobia is?” Johnny grinned and lit the brown cigarette he’d just rolled. He took his foot off the running board, “So long, Johnny,” I grunted. “Pll see you.” Letting the clutch out, ! headed for Vanessa’s place. ANESSA’S modern California ranch house sits smack in the middle of an old walnut grove, She wouldn’t take out any of the trees, but built the place around them. The trees scratch on her roof shingles on windy nights and lean over her high white brick walls to dirty up her swim- ming pool with walnuts and old leaves. But she won’t take them out. It’s hike she won’t get rid of anything that’s a gift from anybody. She’s superstitious enough to keep a gift even if she hates the sight of it. That’s one of my favorite ways of ribbing Vanessa, Giving her things she doesn’t like, OP Brer Mark never for- gets a birthday. I parked my car in Vanessa’s graveled drive. 1 didn’t go up the steps and ring the doorbell, That would mean an argu- ment with Emily Hayden, her secretary. Emily is prim, prissy, and prematurely grey, She doesn’t like me. Instead 1 walked around the house to the white brick wall by the swimming pool, Over on the other side somebody was gasping and splashing. “Hey,” I called. The gasping and splashing stopped. “Who’s there?” Vanessa’s voice wanted to know, Her teeth were ehattering a little. “Wie, OP Brer Mark.” Gomichook (©