15 Story Detective, April 1950 — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

Pigskin Patsy Si sat down heavily. “You discourage me, kid, I’m trying to take care of you and me. Blood’s thicker than water. You went to college. Where’s your brains? What difference does McBride make to you or me when you add him up against a million bucks. And don’t think we can’t stash away a million if we work at it. You know what a million buys? Fast cars, speedboats, cruisers, a smear of pretty little movie extras, platinum wristwatches as thin as a half buck. Or would you rather stay out on the field and let the farmer boys beat your brains in every Sunday ?” “Tell me one thing, Si. Were you fig- ured in this way from the beginning?” “No. It just happened to break this way. Deever got stubborn. When a guy starts to lose his clutch down at the hall, that’s no time to get stubborn.” “You didn’t do it?” Si laughed. “What kind of a monkey do you think I am? I haven’t stepped foot out of this place all evening and I got a dozen people can vouch for that. The dough, Stackie, does your dirty work for you. Always. Remember that,’”’ Stackie had a brooding look. “How is it going to shape?” “They'll nail McBride. Gambler queers player. Player kills gambler. As far as the public knows, Deever was the only big-time gambler in town. Now every- thing is clean and pretty again. You can finish out the season and then come work for me. By then I’ll be where I can use you.” “What do I get out of it?” “Now, kid, you’re beginning to sound normal. If it goes like I hope it goes, I ought to be able to pay you five hundred a week, I know what you make a season, but this is for fifty-two weeks a year, don’t forget that.” Stackie looked at his older brother for a long, breathless moment. “And sup- pose,” he said quietly, “I happen to know 63 just enough about this so I think I’m worth a little more ?”’ Si let out a long, tired sigh. At the end of it, he shoved the round table violently toward Stackie. It hit him across the thighs and he fell forward just in time to meet the big fist on its way up. It hit him flush en the chin, lifting him onto his toes. He dropped, face down, onto the table, rolled over and bounced off onto the floor. When he grunted and stirred, opening his eyes, Si stood over him and said, “That's just to let you know who’s run- ning the family. Get wise again and you won't play any more ball this year. On your feet!” Stackie stood up wearily. He kneaded his chin. “Okay,” he said, “All right.” “And brother or no brother, kid, if they ever find you out in somebody's back lot, I think I could get over it.” “Some brother!” Stackie said. “When there’s a million the top of the table, kid, it’s no time for sentiment.” CHAPTER THREE Clay Pigeon for Murder APTAIN DE WITT, Chief of the & Homicide Section, smiled in a brittle way at the elderly man who sat across from him. “Just what are you trying to tell me? I’m giving you time be- cause you are an ex-Commissioner of Police. But I would appreciate your com- ing to the point. The elderly man smiled amiably. “Why, I just came in to discuss the case, Cap- tain. I wondered if you shared my opinion that it was a pretty open and shut affair.” DeWitt turned his desk chair and looked out the window. He seemed to be selecting his words with great care. “Homicide is the department of any police force least likely to be subjected to undue influence, sir. When a man or woman is Gomichbooks (E@)