be acknowledged the gang boss of all New York—and Manhattan was most of New York.
He turned as he heard Carla and Ham. He was tall, over six feet, and well-proportioned. He looked as if he had been carved out of muscle, and prided himself on being as tough as he looked. His hair was dark and close-cropped, and his eyes were too much like round beads, and too close together for him ever to be called handsome.
He wore a maroon sweatshirt and grey gabardine slacks. A green silk dressing gown draped his shoulders, and the right side sagged under the weight of the heavy .45 automatic he kept in his pocket. King never went anywhere without his .45. He said it was his best friend.
His feet were covered by hand-made slippers, but they were hardly visible for the thick rug that carpeted the floor. King spared nothing to impress his visitors that he was a big-shot. The furniture, the hangings, everything about the suite suggested big money. If King had had any taste, it could have looked like an emperor’s palace—as he hadn’t, it resembled an opulent and gaudy nightmare.
His eyes, when they settled on Carla, seemed to bore right through her white gown, to caress her from head to toes. He moved towards her, swiftly for so large a man, and brought his hands out of the pockets of his dressing gown. The little finger of his right hand had been shot away at the second joint—the result of a gang fight early in his career—and gave him a sinister appearance.
He caught hold of Carla and swung her off her feet, cradling her warm body close to his chest. His lips sealed hers in a long kiss before she could speak, almost bruising her with the force of his passion. He lowered her to the ground and removed the fur wrap.
Carla gasped for breath. King’s passion always roused her; the way he wanted her took her breath away. She stepped back, brushing off his hands, and sat down on a long. low divan.
“Trouble,” she said. “Nick got his tonight.”
King Logan frowned. His eyebrows seemed to meet in one dark line and his face showed the brutality of his way of life. He glanced at Ham, but Ham’s scarred face and dull eyes told him nothing. He turned back to Carla.
“Cops?” he said, His voice was harsh, grating like a file on rusty iron.
“Yeah,” said another voice, “what sort of trouble, Carla? And what happened to Nick?”
Carla looked towards the bar built into the wall. She hadn’t noticed that Jerry was in the room, but then King hadn’t given her a chance to notice anything.
Jerry leaned against the bar, a cigarette drooping from his thin lips, a tumbler of whisky in his hand. Jerry usually looked that way. He was King’s right-hand man, a thin, lanky man with a mean face. Viciousness gleamed in his eyes and lean hands were like claws. He never stood upright, but crouched, like a bird of prey about to pounce on its victim.
Jerry wore an exaggerated drape suit with thickly padded shoulders; his shoes were black and shiny and pointed. He looked as if he tapered from wide shoulders to lithe hips to pointed toes. His head was small and seemed incongruous perched atop such exaggerated shoulders.
The jacket of his drape was open, hanging free to show the .22 target pistol in the holster under his arm. Jerry was a crack shot with a .22 and didn’t need a heavier gun.
Carla wasn’t in a hurry to tell her story. King hadn’t been very nice to her lately, and now she had the floor, she was going to make the most of it. Carla liked it when she was the main attraction.
“No,” she said softly, “not the cops. Another gang.”
She relaxed on the divan, leaning back into the cushions, drawing up her dress and crossing her legs. She had nice legs, slender and curved and clad in sheer silk hose, and she showed them off whenever she could. No one took any notice.
“What gang?” King Logan demanded harshly.
Carla selected a cigarette, fitted it into a long, jade holder. She placed the holder in her mouth, lit the cigarette, and blew a stream of smoke, very gently, very slowly. She wasn’t in any hurry—not now she had them waiting on her.
She opened her handbag and drew out a wad of greenbacks.
“The weekly haul,” she said. “Five hundred each from Jamie, Franks. Willet. and—”
“Never mind that,” King snapped. “Tell me about Nick.”
Carla told him. She told him how they’d gone into the coffin shop on Nugget Street, how Joe Mazzini had refused to pay any more insurance, how Rufus Waldemar had appeared and Nick had died on the end of his swordstick, how the three hatchet-men had stopped her taking immediate reprisals, and how Shapirro had warned King to leave town. She didn’t tell him that Waldemar had suggested she leave Logan and join Shapirro—that was something Carla kept to herself. She thought it might not be a bad idea, if King looked like coming out the loser.
King paced the room, scowling. His voice was bitter and his hands tightly clenched.
“Me get out of New York,” he raged. “Me!”
He brought out his automatic and balanced it in his hand.
“If I had Shapirro here—” His voice died away, but the tone he used left no doubt in Carla’s mind that it would have been strictly unhealthy for Shapirro to have shown himself at that particular moment.
Carla smoked her cigarette in silence. Ham wasn’t saying anything either. Jerry emptied his glass and lounged across the room.
“What yer gonna do, boss?” he asked.
King roared like a wounded lion.
“Do? I’m not letting any slick shyster like Shapirro run me outa town! I’ll blast him and his gang into tiny shreds! I’ll—”
“Shapirro’s smart,” Jerry said, shaking his head. “He isn’t gonna be easy to get at.”
King calmed down. He pocketed his .45 and walked over to the bar. He poured himself a rye and seated himself next to Carla, on the divan. Absently he stroked her arm while he drank, thinking hard.
Carla was curious about Shapirro. She’d heard of him, but didn’t know enough to gauge the menace he represented.
“Who is Shapirro?” she asked. “What’s his angle?”
King said: “Shapirro’s a high-class racketeer. He operates on West Side: gambling saloons, dope, women. Anything the suckers in dress suits will pay for—and they pay big. There’s nothing small-time about Sylvester Shapirro.”
Jerry said: “Shapirro ain’t nice people. He’s a fancy man.” He spat out the words to show his contempt.
“And now he’s horning in on my territory,” King said indignantly. “Why can’t he stay on West Side? I don’t interfere with him—why should he try to cut in on me?”
No one answered that question.
King said, grimly: “I ain’t running from no fancy guy. If he wants to fight it out, I’ll be around.”
Jerry lit a fresh cigarette. Through the haze of blue smoke, he observed:
“Shapirro’s
