15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

62 Don’t turn any lights on. The rules of the house are no smoking, no busting up the furniture. You play cribbage?” “Yes, m’am.”’ “Then trot on up there. You'll need your sleep for the trimming I'll give you tomorrow.” Barry said, “Well, Laura, I don’t know how—” Aunt Kath turned around, facing the other way. “Well, kiss her.” He kissed her. She was yielding in his arms, with a tiny trace of ferocity about her, and then she was gone. The door swung shut. He went wearily up the stairs, undressed in the dark and lay on the bed, his mind spinning in endless use- less circles. T FIVE minutes to two, Si Coults clicked the bar lights several times as a signal to order the final round of the - evening. He surveyed the diehards. There was about two dozen of them. A handful of couples and quite a few men from the city hall crowd. It made Si feel good and confident to see them in his place. It meant he was in favor. Those complacent, small-bodied men had a seventh sense about such things. They lifted black wings and flapped away from the scent of disfavor, taking their women with them. Si had learned just how deli- cately one had to tread. Things were beginning to shape up now, He’d been warned that you couldn’t make book and hope to keep the liquor license at the same time. But he’d taken the chance and won. It was beginning to look as though they could lift the license at any time. He looked around the paneled room and realized that he would, in a sense, miss all this. The niimber on the juke ended and he grunted as he bent over and yanked the cord. An angry girl squalled at him and he refunded the three nickels she claimed , were in the box. 15 Story Detective He gave the sign to the two bartenders to cut off the drinks. Customers began to leave, nodding to him. “ ‘Night, Si. See you tomorrow, Si. Take it easy, Si.” He stood by the door and closed it when the last one was gone. The bar- tenders had started cleaning up. : “Skip the cleaning tonight,.. he said. “Get it tomorrow.” They went down to the cellar and came back up again, aprons exchanged for street clothes. He let them out and then locked the door for the last time. He went behind the bar, selected a glass, poured three fingers of his best Scotch in it. Funny the phone hadn’t rung yet. It should be ringing. He swirled the liquor around his tongue, drank it gratefully. Then, a man with an odious task to per- form, he went into the back room. Stackie - lay with his cheek on the table, his arms outstretched, his black hair rumpled. Asleep, he had a young and innocent look. Si pulled him up by the shoulder, hit him forehand and backhand across the mouth, the slaps loud in the stillness. Stackie fought his way to his feet, be- wildered. ‘‘What the hell?” he snarled. “Rise and'shine, Stackie boy.” Stackie Coults stood five eight, a hun- dred and seventy, small for pro ball. He had long, quick-fingered hands, a look of dark vitality. His faking in the backfield was a thing of beauty. “You take after the old lady,” Si said heavily. “And you got the same streak of soft in you, Stackie. I thought you had guts,” “T did what you told me to do, didn’t I?” “Sure, you did that fine,” Si said with contempt. “So,” said Stackie with defiance, “I got a right to say I don’t like the way it’s going now. Framing that bonehead off the squad is one thing. Setting him up for a murder is something else. I don’t have to liké that.” CONNIE NOO);<S