10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 18: what you’re looking at

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

16 the kid laugh, and I twisted to look at ‘him. He was standing still, looking down at me and laughing. I said, “What the hell?” and he stopped laughing for a minute and erinned. “You'll get used to that, mister,” he told me. “This is a western lot. And some of the boys let go once in a while, just to make sure their guns are work- ing. You don’t want to be afraid of gunshots around here, mister.” I said: “I don’t want to be afraid of them at all.” I straightened up, sliding the gun into its holster and shaking the dirt off my clothes. TI left him there, still laughing, and headed back in the di- rection of Hedgewick’s place, walking slowly. The door was partly open and I eould hear a radio going softly, one of those morning jazz band programs. i eased the door back with my shoul- der and stepped inside. HE boy producer was sitting at a desk, facing the doorway. He said, “Well?” without looking up, and I studied his face for a moment before I answered. A good-looking lad. Not pretty, but strong, well-cut features, with a sharp chin and wide, rangy forehead. He looked up and let his eyes rest on me and J realized the driving force of the man in his eyes—his eyes and the firm mouth. I was trying to frame a picture of him sHding a knife in a man’s side when he said, “Well?” again, and I came back to the present. I said: “The name’s Craig. Steve Craig. You may not place me.” He straightened, peering at me in the dim light, and then nodded. “Yes. Craig. The man -who picked a fight with Rieconi last night.” He stopped, leaving it to me. “That’s right,” I told him. “The guy Madden paid to do your dirty work for - him.” His blue eyes hardened, watching me, “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, carefully. “‘And if you’re plan- 10-STORY DETECTIVE———_—— ning a shakedown of some sort, you can just forget it. I don’t go for that sort of thing.” I could tell the guy meant It. “You got me wrong, Hedgewiek,” I said easily. “I’m just looking for a little information. I’m just trying to figure why you wanted Ricconi eased out. That’s all.” “TI. see.” His voice was cold. He pushed his chair back and moved to- ward me. “I see. You’d just like a lit- tle information. That’s all” He stepped in close, suddenly, whipped out a right. The slashing fist grazed my jaw and sent me back two steps, my hand go- ing for my gun. He let go with an- other blow, but I was away from it, my gun out, and he wound up with his back to the door. I said: “Listen, Hedgewick. I just want to talk to you. You got me wrong. I just want to talk.” I put the iron away, to prove I meant it. I could sense his body stiffening up. “Go ahead,” he said evenly. “Talk.” This was working out swell. I decided to play it different. “‘Ric- coni’s dead.” I said it slowly, delib- erately. His eyes froze up on me, and for a half second he stood there, not answer- ing. When he spoke, his voice was calm. “How?” he demanded. “Knife in the ribs. His body was found just outside of Madden’s.” I didn’t mention my car. His brows drew together, sliding down over his eyes. “This isn’t going to be so good,” he said slowly, half to himself. His eyes shifted slightly, star- ing at the wall, and I let mine shift with them. There was a picture of Vera Reynault hanging over his desk. I said: “Buddy, it already isn’t good.” I was thinking of Ricconi’s body, propped up in the back of my car, and wondering if the police had located it yet. I found out about that, too soon, Hedgewiek seemed to have forgot- ten I was there, went on talking, half to himself. “She may be mixed up in COMMICLOO S (C@