10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

28 work?” A cunning look came into Vesey’s eyes as he noted the boy’s grumbling assent. “Yeah, I remem- ber,” went on the man, “you drive a delivery truck for Steven’s depart- ment store. How are the hours, kid?” “Rotten!” Willy bit off the word. “Seven forty-five in the morning to five at night—by the time clock.” Vesey nodded sympathetically. “Never did like those dam’ time cloeks myself.” He eyed the boy slyly. “Ya in the market for a real job, kid?” The lad took two eager steps for- ward. “Gee, Vesey, you know how I’ve been trying to get in with the mob—” . Vesey nodded again. “I know, kid,” he said slowly, “an’ I’ve been talkin’ to the boss about ya. I told him how yer’ve been hangin’ around the pool- room—an’ wantin’ to join up with the mob, Well, he wouldn’t listen at first.” Vesey tapped the boy’s chest impor- tantly. “But I talked ya up big. Now —Mike Dogra himself wants ter see ya 1? “Gee whiz!” murmured Willy. “You mean to sit there and tell me that Mike Dogra, the big shot, wants to talk to—me?” Vesey grinned through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘Not only wants ter see ya—but is interested.” Willy dropped his cigarette to the threadbare linoleum and stepped on it. He looked squarely at the grinning man on the bed. “Now let me get this straight, Vesey. You mean that seeing Dogra might lead to a place in the mob? It would mean I wouldn’t have to punch a lousy time clock any more?” “Not only that, kid. Ya could give up this dump an’ live like a ritzy mug. Instead of drivin’ a truck—yer’d have some punk drivin’ you around. An’ nifty broads— Jees, ya could take yer pick.’ Vesey grinned to him- self when he saw the effect of his word pictures on the routine-sick boy. 10-STORY DETECTIVE Willy set his hat at a rakish angle. “Well, Vesey, when do we see Mike Dogra ?” WENTY minutes later, Vesey brought his sedan to a stop sev- eral yards away from an all-night restaurant. He turned to Willy, who was nervously puffing on a cigarette. The prospect of an interview with Mike Dogra, gang god, would shake the nerves of any young, aspiring gangster. Vesey nudged Willy. “Go into Pete’s place there an’ eat yer dinner. Hang around until I come fer ya.” Vesey grasped the boy’s arm with a warning pressure. “An’ don’t say nothin’ to nobody. Get me?” The gangster’s voice hardened. “An’ that goes double fer that fresh mick, Hal- leran. You an’ him have been kinda chummy, ain’t ya?” Willy nodded, “Well,” barked Vesey, “I don’t have ter tell ya that a real pal is a guy that comes through fer ya—like I did, talkin’ ya up to Dogra. An’ what’s that punk, Halleran, ever done fer ya?” Willy’s jaw squared. “Listen, Ves- ey: Dan Halleran is a right fellow. You and him ain’t so hot on each other—but he’s a good guy.” “Aw right,” growled Vesey. “But don’t spill him nothin’—or it’s all off with you an’ Dogra.” Willy promised that he wouldn’t breathe a word. He climbed out of the sedan and went into the restau- rant. At the counter, he called for a hot roast beef sandwich, French fries and peas. While waiting for his order to come from the kitchen, he walked down the counter and picked out a slice of blackberry pie. Then he felt a strong hand grasp his arm and turn him around. The newcomer was a rather good- looking, square-jawed Irishman. “Hello, Willy,” he greeted the boy pleasantly. ‘For a minute I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” Before Willy could answer, Halleran nodded comicbooks.