10-Story Detective Magazine Cover — page 66: what you’re looking at

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

64—_—_———____—_——_——10-STORY DETECTIVE said, “You can just keep your old boogie- woogie. Give me Frankie every time. He’s out of this world—I mean, simply, out!” Guess she meant that there Frank Sumatra. “Jumping Jiminy Jive,” yelled the oth- ers, until I couldn’t hear myself think. “Okay, okay!” I growled, “I’ll put it on that there Number 7. All you gotta do is put your nickel in Number 7. Now”’—1I waved my fist at them—‘“out of my way, all of you, so’s I can get the thing run- ning. Scram off of me, all of you!” “Lucky Seven!” screamed the freckle- face punk, and the whole herd of them ran to the counter yelling for hamburg- ers and cokes. As I messed around with the wires I felt a lot of cold chills run up and down my back, that wasn’t only drops of rain off my old slouch hat. I was remembering my pal, Rick Sing- er, and how he got took for a little ride— just one week ago. Singer was a juke- joe, too. In fact, he was the one what got me my job. Now he was six feet under, with a cou- ple of slugs through the back. That there Marrino mob is plenty tough. Some of them monkeys would slit their own grandmother’s throat for a quarter. They somehow got the idea that they invented juke boxes. Nobody else in this here man’s town wasn’t supposed to control any. Not that they mind earning a dishon- est buck, neither. There’s dough in juke boxes. Don’t never think there ain’t. It was the end of my route. I had plenty nickels on me, and plenty lettuce, too. Juke-joes don’t pack a rod on their hip to play cowboys and Indians. So while I worked I kept on glancing outside at my truck, sitting out there in the rain. I had lots of nickels means in the back of that, too. Actually we’re supposed to wank in pairs, but my company had three boys drafted right from under them in the past month. Then, too, there was Sin- ger’s little “accident.” So I was going it alone, My little Roscoe and me, I had reasons to be nervous. As I looked out, I thought I caught a flash of light around the baek of the truck. It was the kind of flicker you make when you light a cigarette and cup your hands to keep the rain off. I could of been wrong. Joe’s joint is in a lonely part of town. The rain made it even lonelier, The street was deserted, except for an old dame with a face like a dried prune, who was nursing her eve- ning papers under the shelter of an awn- ing. I guess my fingers was shaking a lit- tle when I put on the new platters. IVING Joe Makopolous and the red- head behind the counter the nod, I stepped up to the door, scowling and biting on my lip. Right away the high school punks clua- tered around the juke box, screaming about Jumping Jiminy Jive. I caught a passing glimpse of Cop Otto Svenson’s pan as I swung open the door in a hurry. My right hand slapped at the bulge in my hip pocket to make sure my rod was handy, as I made a beeline through the rain, which was coming down even heavier. I climbed in behind the wheel. I took time to light a cigarette, then started up. The motor growled a little, then gave out with the purrs, and I was on my way. The rain muddied the windshield. I set the wiper working and whistled a juke box tune. Home sweet home was waiting for me. Then I felt it, ice-cold, on the back . of my neck. The round muzzle of a re- volver. “Keep goin’, Korkus!” a hard voice be- hind me said. ‘Turn when I tell ya!” “And no tricks, you dirty stool-pig- eon!” another voice snarled. This one I knew. It was plain what had happened. The two of them had been hanging around, waiting. They knew my route. While I was in Joe’s joint, they had crawled in the back of my truck and lain there wait- ing for me to come back. I sweated. That second voice was “Murder” Mil- lik. He was Marrino’s killer—and he liked his job. He had it in for me, be- cause of his brother. It was his brother Turtle what conked the Sivok dame over the head. I hinted that much to the cops. I recognized his work. I had to do it to clear myself, I ain’t no stool-pigeon. All I wanted was to get away from Marrino and his gang, once and for all. I got responsibilities. “Murder” Millik saw it different. Ho —-comicbooks.