Barbary Street Incident, A John Cronin Private Eye Short Story (2 page)

I tried to look tough, and maybe I did
because I was a little sore, but I didn’t look tough enough to
scare the guy. He grabbed me by the coat and shoved me across the
room. I came back fast and hit him hard. I think it hurt my fist
more than it did his chin. I caught his rock-like fist on the jaw,
but I sidestepped and most of the blow slipped off to the side. I
gave him a knee where it hurts—then the other guy got into it. He
was just going to give me a rabbit punch when Caesar got into the
brawl. He grabbed the newcomer and picked him up, lifting him above
his head. He tossed the dinge across the room, smashing him against
tables and chairs. He stayed on the floor, not moving.

I was just getting ready to dodge a blow
from the huge black fist when Little Caesar intercepted it. What
followed was something I had never seen before in my life. Caesar
took the man’s fist between the two of his. He started squeezing,
slowly. The man was hammering away at Caesar’s body and face with
his free hand, but he didn’t phase the giant. Finally the big buck
stopped hitting Little Caesar. He got nearly white, screamed for
mercy. He went to his knees, but Little Caesar kept right on
squeezing, crushing the big, black hand. The large Negro finally
fainted from pain — then the white giant flipped him over with his
unconscious companion.

I straightened myself up, brushed off my
clothes. Caesar sat down at the end of the bar and began playing
solitaire with a greasy deck of cards. Mona stared at me from the
other end of the bar, where she had moved to during the scuffle. I
walked down and sat down beside her. I fished for a cigarette,
found one, lit it. I threw the pack down in front of her. She
picked it up and got one. I lit it off my cigarette. We smoked in
silence for a minute or two.

Then I said, “Why are you doing this? Can’t
those damned boys get someone besides a girl to do their dirty
work? Or do you do it because you want to?”

“I’ve got to live,” was her flat answer. It
was a low husky voice; she coughed a little, then went on smoking.
It was a bad cough, from the chest.

“There must be some other way to make
money.”

I was just talking; I had no emotion in my
voice, felt none. I was just trying to get her to talk so I could
find out something about what was going on. She looked at me and
smiled wanly.

“I’ve tried every other way—
believe
me!”

I said flatly, without feeling, “This place
good enough?”

She got my meaning.

“I suppose so.”

She was as cold-blooded as the boys and
Caesar put together. She slid off the stool and walked to the phone
booth. A minute later she came back and sat down next to me
again.

“How long?” I asked, letting smoke leak out
of my nose and mouth at the same time.

“Half hour.”

“We may as well get comfortable and
wait.”

She let me lead her to the booth I was in
before the fight. We passed Caesar and he looked up.

“This it, Mona?” he asked quietly.

“This is it. Don’t make it hard on me.”

Don’t make it hard on
her
! What did
she think it was for Caesar? A picnic? Nevertheless, Little Caesar
looked relieved. He got up and moved to the center of the bar. A
noble gesture? He didn’t want us in the line of fire, which would
undoubtedly come from the door. I shuddered in spite of the
overcoat I still had on.

“How do you fit into this, Mona?” I asked
her. She was leaning against the wall in the corner of the booth.
She looked tired and cold. She shrugged her shoulders at my
question and looked away.

“How can you be so damned cold-blooded?
Which one of the boys do you go for? Trigger, Mike, or Jess?”

I had learned their names from Little Caesar
during our talks off and on all day. She looked up quickly at my
question.

“Christ sakes! I wouldn’t spit close to any
one of the bastards.”

“Then why are you fingering Caesar for them?
What have you got against him that you hate him more than you do
them?”

“Hate Little Caesar? Hell no! He saved me
from getting mauled by the boys. Ironic, isn’t it? They’ll get him
anyway. There’s no use me going against the grain and getting it,
too, is there? What the hell—I like living.”

She was crying silently, shaking inwardly.
So she was the girl Caesar refused to work on. And the boys were
forcing her to finger him for them. I stood up and took my overcoat
off, transferring the gun to my hip pocket. The big Negro bartender
looked at me nervously. He approached me and whined, “Ain’t gonna
be no trouble am they, man? I’se sure don’t want no more
trouble.”

“Take it easy, man. There won’t be any
trouble,” I lied. He was still uneasy; he kept throwing furtive
glances at Little Caesar. The place was empty now, except for the
bartender, Caesar, Mona, and me. And of course the two unconscious
men against the far wall. One of them sighed, the other moaned.

“What time is it, Johnnie?” queried
Caesar.

“Quarter till twelve. Fifteen more
minutes.”

“Johnnie.”

I looked around. The voice had come from
Mona. She was pale and was shaking. I sat down beside her in the
booth.

“What do you want, Mona?”

“I . . . I’m cold, Johnnie.”

I put my coat around her. She leaned against
me and went sound asleep. Poor little frightened Mona. I looked at
Little Caesar. He was like the Rock of Gibraltar. The rain had
slackened a bit. It was 11:50. We waited.

* * * * *

Ten minutes can be a long time. I guess it
was even longer for Caesar than it was for me. He was the one that
was to get it. Even at that, he was taking it better than I was.
Everything seemed calm. Little Caesar played solitaire, back to the
door. The bartender watched him as he turned the cards slowly. Mona
breathed regularly against my chest, soundly sleeping. Only
I
was nervous. My thoughts rambled. I wondered where Mona
lived, and what she was doing mixed up with a gang of murderers.
She looked like a nice kid. She hadn’t lived an easy life, I could
tell. Just a poor, lonely girl struggling to live in a damned rough
world. And Little Caesar — he must have had a mother. Someone to
love him, to rock him to sleep when he was a kid. But now look at
him. A giant who could rule the world, just sitting there waiting
to die by the hand of some gunman.

Outside, a car pulled up to the curb and
stopped. My body jerked stiff. I looked at my watch. Midnight. They
were on the dot. Psychologically planned, no doubt. I lifted Mona
as easily as I could. I tried to lay her on the bench, but as I did
so, she grasped sleepily for my neck, pulling me to her. I gently
forced her hold off my neck and laid her down. She was still
asleep.

I worked fast then. I could hear footsteps
coming towards the door. I jerked out my gun and stepped behind the
corner of the bar. A gigantic pillar that reached to the roof
concealed me from the door. I heard it open. It had a kind of
deathlike sound to it. My body tensed. The door shut. My hands were
sweating profusely.

Little Caesar laid down his cards and turned
slowly around. The bartender had disappeared. Then all hell broke
loose. There were at least ten shots fired before I could step from
behind my pillar. Mona woke up screaming. There were two men in
overcoats standing, one on each side of the door, emptying their
guns into Little Caesar.

I shot from the hip as fast as I could
shoot. The heavier of the two, the one on the left, went down
first. The kid on the right turned his gun on me. I dropped to the
floor just in time. A bullet busted the mirror behind me; slivers
of glass crashed down on me. His second shot showered me with more
broken glass and whiskey as the bottles on the shelf splattered.
Then there was a metallic click. I sighed and stood up. His gun was
empty. He was slumped in a booth beside the door. The gun slid from
his hand, thumped noisily to the floor.

Then I turned my attention to Little Caesar.
He was doubled up over the bar. Bloody foam was on his lips. He
moved his eyes so he could see me. He smiled a little.

“My boys — they ain’t hurt are they?”

I felt strange all over. I was beginning to
understand it all now. They were
his
boys. His
sons
.
No wonder he didn’t want to hurt them. I looked over at his boys.
Mike, at least I guessed it was Mike from Caesar’s earlier
descriptions, was lying prone on the floor in a pool of blood. Jess
was half sitting, half lying, in the booth, holding his stomach. I
looked back at Little Caesar.

“Your boys are O.K., Caesar. There’s nothing
to worry about. They’re O.K.”

He seemed contended then. He was gone.

I walked over to Jess and looked at his
wounds. He was in bad shape. I didn’t feel sorry for him. Anyone
who would kill his father so violently deserved to die the same
way.

“Where’s Trigger?” I asked Jess.

He gasped for air, and spoke, “In . . .
hospital. Holy Cross. Pa broke his arm in a fight . . . crushed a
few ribs.”

“Why’d you want to kill your own
father?”

He had trouble answering me.

“He told us to.”

That floored me.

“What do you mean?”

“He taught us all the ropes—everything we
ever knew. That’s how he told us to fix double-crossers. We got
him—just like he taught us.”

He coughed up some blood. Then he passed
out. Mona came up beside me and shuddered. I put my arm around her
and led her to the back of the room. I called the cops.

* * * * *

They didn’t ask too many questions. I told
them where they could find Trigger. They said the entire gang was
wanted for armed robbery, so they had Trigger picked up on that
charge. Also for accessory to the murders last July—the ones Caesar
committed.

The meat wagon came. They had a hard time
loading Little Caesar. After a while they were gone. So were the
cops. I was alone then. I put my overcoat on and walked behind the
bar. I took a bottle of scotch and put it in my coat pocket. The
old boy that owned the joint wouldn’t miss it. I went to the door
and opened it, slowly.

It had stopped raining but the gutters were
full of water. I could see the estuary. It was still rough. A few
rowboats were tied to the dock and were getting knocked together.
The fishing boats were gone already. I took one last look at the
now dimly-lighted room. I went out.

“Johnnie.”

I turned towards the voice. It was Mona. She
stepped out of the shadows. She looked sad and tired.

“Take me with you.”

“Where?”

“Just with you—anywhere.”

I suddenly disliked her. She hadn’t even
been there when the cops came. She had slipped out. I shuddered at
her cold-bloodedness. Besides, when the cops went through Caesar’s
wallet there was only a dollar bill in it, and earlier it had been
loaded. The only one who could have taken it was Mona. I despised
her. She was mainly responsible for Caesar’s death—in more ways
than one.

I turned my back to her and walked down
Barbary Street. Out on the bay a fog horn trumpeted a dismal note
that floated in over the foggy, turbulent waters.

I went to the edge of the wharf and was
sick. Then I went home and got drunk.

# # #

I also write a series of private eye novels that you
might enjoy. Crown’s Law, Crown’s Justice, and Crown’s Dilemma are
all available at Smashwords, NookBooks, Apple, etc. Check them out
at
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.
You can read several reviews on my website at
http://www.wolfwootan.com.

Following is a sample 5-star review of
Crown’s Law:

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William E. Cooper, Reviewer
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