particular reason; just that every once in a while Harry beat up one of his satellites to be sure they’d stay in line.
It happened in the alley behind the Gem Bowling Alleys, where some of them set pins once in a while. It started with words—mostly Harry Callan’s words—then Harry whaled into Stinky Evans and whaled the tar out of him.
It was a new experience, for Stinky’s only fights had been with kids smaller than himself. It didn’t last long. When it was over he lay in the alley, half-sobbing, half-cursing, with blood running out of his nose. Not really hurt; he could easily have stood up again to take more.
But in spite of the blind anger and hatred in him, he knew better. He knew he was licked.
So he lay there and his hand closed around the cobblestone and that was when the little devil got into his mind and he picked up the cobblestone. Kill , something told him. Kill the rat .
It didn’t lead to anything. Harry Callan kicked the stone out of his hand, kicked him in the face and broke three of his teeth, and then turned away into the back door of the Gem Bowling Alleys.
It wouldn’t have led to anything, anyway. He wouldn’t have thrown the stone, or at any rate he wouldn’t have thrown it at Harry Callan’s head. He’d have weakened, because he wasn’t ready for murder yet.
After a while, he got up and went home.
If marriages are (as they tell us) made in heaven, then murders must be made in hell.
Of course, nobody much believes in hell any more—not, that is, in a concrete hell with little red devils running around with pitchforks and that sort of thing.
But there must be a hell, just the same, for that is where murders are made. To explain the build-up of a murder, you’ve got to believe that much. And since we’ve got to have some kind of a hell, let’s stick to the classical model. Since we’re going to postulate a hell, let’s make it good. Little red devils and all.
In other words, let’s shoot the works. Let’s imagine a Little Red Devil chuckling gleefully while Stinky Evans was walking home from the alley behind the Gem.
Let’s imagine the Little Red Devil talking to the big boss himself. “Good material, Boss. A nasty little punk if there ever was one. He’ll make the grade, Boss.”
“You gave him the first lesson?”
“Yep,” said the Little Red Devil. “Just now. A few more from time to time and he’ll come through,”
“All right, he’s yours. Stay with him.”
“You bet, Boss,” said the L.R.D. “I’ll stay with him, all right. I’ll stay with him.”
That was Stinky Evans at fourteen. At fifteen he got caught stealing a spare tire. He spent a night in the bullpen before they found out he was under age and switched him over to the juvenile authorities. In the bullpen he got talking with a four-timer and they got around to shivs.
It was dark in the cell except for the pattern made by the bars of the doors upon the floor. A pale yellow trapezoid with narrow black parallel stripes. A cockroach started across it and a big foot in prison-made shoes went out from the bunk and squashed the cockroach.
“If you ever stick a shiv in a guy, twist it,” the four-timer told him. “Lets the air in and he flops quick. Hasn’t time to yell or scramble any eggs for you, see? That’s why a wide blade’s best. Lets in more air when you twist. Those damn’ stilettos ain’t no good; you got to hit the heart or else stab the guy half a dozen times…” There was more. It was quite a lesson. Stinky thought about Harry Callan.
Down the corridor a drunk with d.t.’s was yelling like hell because tarantulas were after him. Stinky Evans shivered.
They gave him probation on the tire theft.
Before that was up, though, he got in trouble again and this time took six months at the reformatory. That was a good six months; he learned plenty there. Without boring you with the unpleasant details, let’s count it as lessons three to five, inclusive, and consider
It happened in the alley behind the Gem Bowling Alleys, where some of them set pins once in a while. It started with words—mostly Harry Callan’s words—then Harry whaled into Stinky Evans and whaled the tar out of him.
It was a new experience, for Stinky’s only fights had been with kids smaller than himself. It didn’t last long. When it was over he lay in the alley, half-sobbing, half-cursing, with blood running out of his nose. Not really hurt; he could easily have stood up again to take more.
But in spite of the blind anger and hatred in him, he knew better. He knew he was licked.
So he lay there and his hand closed around the cobblestone and that was when the little devil got into his mind and he picked up the cobblestone. Kill , something told him. Kill the rat .
It didn’t lead to anything. Harry Callan kicked the stone out of his hand, kicked him in the face and broke three of his teeth, and then turned away into the back door of the Gem Bowling Alleys.
It wouldn’t have led to anything, anyway. He wouldn’t have thrown the stone, or at any rate he wouldn’t have thrown it at Harry Callan’s head. He’d have weakened, because he wasn’t ready for murder yet.
After a while, he got up and went home.
If marriages are (as they tell us) made in heaven, then murders must be made in hell.
Of course, nobody much believes in hell any more—not, that is, in a concrete hell with little red devils running around with pitchforks and that sort of thing.
But there must be a hell, just the same, for that is where murders are made. To explain the build-up of a murder, you’ve got to believe that much. And since we’ve got to have some kind of a hell, let’s stick to the classical model. Since we’re going to postulate a hell, let’s make it good. Little red devils and all.
In other words, let’s shoot the works. Let’s imagine a Little Red Devil chuckling gleefully while Stinky Evans was walking home from the alley behind the Gem.
Let’s imagine the Little Red Devil talking to the big boss himself. “Good material, Boss. A nasty little punk if there ever was one. He’ll make the grade, Boss.”
“You gave him the first lesson?”
“Yep,” said the Little Red Devil. “Just now. A few more from time to time and he’ll come through,”
“All right, he’s yours. Stay with him.”
“You bet, Boss,” said the L.R.D. “I’ll stay with him, all right. I’ll stay with him.”
That was Stinky Evans at fourteen. At fifteen he got caught stealing a spare tire. He spent a night in the bullpen before they found out he was under age and switched him over to the juvenile authorities. In the bullpen he got talking with a four-timer and they got around to shivs.
It was dark in the cell except for the pattern made by the bars of the doors upon the floor. A pale yellow trapezoid with narrow black parallel stripes. A cockroach started across it and a big foot in prison-made shoes went out from the bunk and squashed the cockroach.
“If you ever stick a shiv in a guy, twist it,” the four-timer told him. “Lets the air in and he flops quick. Hasn’t time to yell or scramble any eggs for you, see? That’s why a wide blade’s best. Lets in more air when you twist. Those damn’ stilettos ain’t no good; you got to hit the heart or else stab the guy half a dozen times…” There was more. It was quite a lesson. Stinky thought about Harry Callan.
Down the corridor a drunk with d.t.’s was yelling like hell because tarantulas were after him. Stinky Evans shivered.
They gave him probation on the tire theft.
Before that was up, though, he got in trouble again and this time took six months at the reformatory. That was a good six months; he learned plenty there. Without boring you with the unpleasant details, let’s count it as lessons three to five, inclusive, and consider
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