15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 113: what you’re looking at

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

Murder Spins the Dise her in his crudely direct and clumsy way. He got as far with Honey as a fat man trying to take an extra base on Joe Di- Maggio. : So, Bud did a switch. He turned his attention to Ken and every night he butch- ered him on the air, It wasti 't long before Ken started slipping, but Bud kept wield- ing the knife. - “_Ken’s all right, ” he went on, “it’s just that instead of singing in front of that corny band of his he ought to be selling fish down at Fulton Fish Market.” He sounded smug and satisfied with himself as he finished, “Listen to this record and see if you don’t agree.” I took his cue, killed the studio mike, spun the record and dropped the needle. As Ken Gavin’s orchestra took the down- beat on wax, two doors opened simul- taneously—the door to Studio 12 and the one to the control room I was in. We didn’t allow visitors, especially at 3:30 in the A.M. So I turned and tossed a curious look over my shoulder at the big guy standing behind me with his back against the door. I didn’t recognize his face but I sure knew his type. My hands froze to the table and my tongue to the roof of my mouth, because although there was no sign of a gun in his hand, I didn’t have to see it to know he had one. The thin, hard-faced man inside grabbed Bud by the arm and jerked him away from the microphone: Bud went spinning across the studio and ended upside down draped over a chair in the corner. _ The mike in the studio wasn’t open so the only sound in my box-like control room was Ken Gavin on record. I started to slide my hand slowly towards the red button that would put the Studio 12 “on air” and thé heavy barrel of a 45-calibre smashed across my knuckles with a dull sound, I yowled a couple of times at the torn skin and stuck my fingers in my mouth sucking on them like a a baby saat a — | “Look, sonny,” the big guy said through a nose that sprawled all over his face, “don’t try that again.” Then he reached. over in the bin labeled ‘15 minute tran- scriptions” and pulled one oit: “‘Here}: put this on.’ toe SP het “Nuts,” I barked “that cones = aa show.” “Look, sonny, you do like Tsay, su 7 And he bounced the 45 up and ‘down ‘in’ his right hand like he was" soe = weight of it. I got the idea all right so I slipped the record on the turntable and switched the controls. Then together we went: down the steps, through the Bete wan and into the studio. “Okay, Slip,” the big guy “grinned crookedly. “You got fifteen minutes,” “Good. Hew about -this?’ The. thin man with the hard face-asked; and his fin- ger jabbed at te microphene. “It ain’t on.” The big gone looked pleased with himself. Thete was a red spot on the side = Bud’s face where he’d made contact with the chair, but the rest of his face’ had-a white, angry look. He walked-over-to the man called Slip and growled. “T don’t like it, Slip,” and his a finger played a steady tattoo onthe thin man’s shoulder. “Nobody pushes me around,”’ : | The big man standing next to me guf- fawed out loud and Slip’s gaint face broke open in noiseless Jaughter. As for me, I suddenly caught on who Slip was and I wondered where Bud got the guts to talk like that to him. Slip Madden wasn’t ‘the biggest ait ster around—but he was big enough.” “Take it easy, Bud,” T Soothed, ee be the guy’s got reasons.’ Bud fired me a dirty glance and kept yapping away until Slip interrupted: his tirade. “Now look, Buddy boy,” he said in'a voice that was meant to be calm but was . Eomichbooks 113, (E(0)