Stop This Man! by Peter Rabe

Turtle, with you or without you.”
    “All right, I give up. There’s a machine shop on Victory Boulevard in Burbank. The Quentin Machine Company. Try there. Smith’s got an office in the back there. Maybe you’re in luck. Does he know you’re coming?”
    “Might be. I don’t know.”
    “Whaddaya mean ya don’t know?”
    “That guy in Detroit. He might or he might not have passed the word. I don’t know.”
    “Anthony, you’re looking more stupid to me by the minute. Either—”
    “Can it. I’m going tomorrow. What I need from you is a few bucks to get a shirt and a press job. Also, keep your ears open about those Feds. Also, I want to know everything you can get ahold of about my deal with Smith. If I can make a deal with Smith tomorrow, I want to know how they feel about it, who’s in on it, et cetera. The works, hear?”
    “I hear.”
    “Can you do it?”
    “Anthony, you are looking at the original underground kid. I get to know everything.”
    “You sound better already. From here on in, Turtle, you and me hit the big time. With this job out of the way, I got a career ahead of me. Shake?”
    “Shake. And now, mine Anthony, how about the last cup of mud and we blow?”
    “Let’s just blow. I gotta find a flop yet.”
    “Flop? Anthony! Cart that thought outen your vocabulary. It so happens I got an extra corner in my room, and you’re staying with me. On second thought, you look too tacky for the likes of my accommodations. First I take you to a Turkish bath. Whilst you melt your tackinesswith steam and soap, I get your suit done over and fetch a new shirt. And underwear?”
    “Yeah. Underwear. And socks.”
    “And socks. Only then, Anthony, will we be off to my chamber and a good night’s rest. Ready?”
    “Let’s go.”
    They left the bar and walked a few blocks to the Turkish bath. As they went up the stairs, the flashy whore from the bar was coming down. She stopped swinging her hips and leaned against the wall to let them pass. The Turtle stopped next to her and chucked the woman under the chin.
    “You work here too, honey?”
    She made that nasty sound with her lips again.
    “Whyn’t you go blow?” she said.
    “Precisely,” and with a busy look on his face the Turtle ran up the stairs after Catell.
    In the small lobby Catell took the Turtle aside. “What the hell is this place, coeducational?”
    “Whassa matter, Anthony, you prejudiced or something?”
    “I want a steam bath and a wash is all.”
    “If that’s what you pay for, that’s all you get. Now stop worrying about the opposition sex and let’s have those raggedy garnishments you’re wearing.”
    A little later the Turtle left with Catell’s suit and shoes. Catell took a steam bath, showered and shaved, and after his massage he went to the locker room. An attendant brought him his pressed suit, clean socks, underwear, and a new shirt. His shoes were polished.
    “Your friend left ‘em, with a note.”
    Catell read the note: “Dear Anthony. Got tired of waiting. When done come to my place,” and then there was an address. It was signed, “T.”
    Catell got dressed and combed his hair. He was feeling good. In the mirror he noticed that his shirt collar was a little big. Either he had lost more weight than he’d realized or the Turtle was constitutionally incapable of buying a shirt that would fit anyone.
    Outside, Catell walked fast to keep from shivering. After a few blocks he came to the address on the Turtle’s note and walked in. It was a narrow apartment house converted into a hotel, gloomy and crowded-looking. But it was warm inside. Catell went past the clerk, past a pimply bellhop who was sleeping in a swivel chair, and walked up to the second floor. He stopped before the door with the number 206. Then he heard the movement inside. There was a slight rustle and a low voice. Two voices. The mumbling stopped. Catell stood frozen in the still corridor, a curse twisting his face. What had gone wrong?
    He