The Peddler by Richard S Prather Page A

spots of … his stomach churned and wetness rose in his throat.
    He heard the cop talking to him, asking him why he’d kUled Sharkey, saying they were taking him to headquarters. There was another cop in the room. He was plainclothes, but Tony figured he had to be a cop; he was a new one and he worked with the uniform. They both tore after Tony with harsh words. The uniform cop slammed his fist into Tony’s face and Tony barely managed to turn enough so that the blow struck his chin and cheek instead of the middle of his mouth. The blackness surged closer again, and he felt his lips puffing.
    Then Frame was saying, “He just went off his nut, see? We were playin’ poker and the guy was drinkin’ heavy. All of a sudden he goes off his rocker and yells at Sharkey ‘Get away from me—don’t let him get me.’ Then he yanks out the barker and bangs him. Smack in the biscuit. Then Romero flopped down on the floor, cold. I guess the sight of poor Sharkey’s think-pot flying through the air like that put him under a strain.” Frame grinned wolfishly, his stained, pitted teeth jutting under his pulled back lip.
    “Come on, Romero. Let’s go.” It was the hamess-cop speaking.
    “Listen, you’re crazy. I didn’t drop nobody. I got nothin’ to do with this.” Tony’s words were thick and slurred.
    The cop chuckled. “You lousy crum.”
    Tony reached under his coat, felt the empty harness. He’d known the gun would be gone. The cop grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. He stood, swaying slightly, his legs weak beneath him. Then, suddenly, Angelo was in the room. Tony hadn’t heard him knock, hadn’t even seen him come in, but the door was open and Angelo was standing inside the room.
    Angelo looked around, his face stem, the yellowish eyes hard and cold in his thin face. He spotted Joyce and said, “Thanks for calling me. What’s the rest of it?” He gave Sharkey only a glance, then listened to Joyce explaining about the trouble. Angelo walked over before Tony and said in his silken voice, “You stupid fool. You idioti” He drew back his hand and slashed it across Tony’s face, glared at .him a moment, then turned and walked over to the officers.
    Tony followed him with his eyes, lips pressed together and his eyes squinting, almost shut. Anger boiled in him. Someday this bastard Angelo would get paid back for that.
    Angelo spoke in low tones to the officers, then the three of them walked to the poker table, now in the comer of the room. Tony could see the mound of bills, apparently left there after the shooting. Angelo piled the bills in the center of the table, then rapidly leafed through them, as if counting.
    Tony was stiU dizzy, his legs and stomach weak. He sank back down onto the couch, sat there breathing through his mouth, wondering if he’d be sick. Minutes passed, then he heard the door open. He looked up to see the coppers leaving, shutting the door behind them.
    Angelo said, “Get up, Romero.”
    Tony got to his feet.
    Angelo looked around. “Frame,” he said. “You get this sonofabitch home. Joyce, you come with me.”
    Tony didn’t understand any of it yet; his mind was still sluggish, frozen. Frame came over to him and took his arm, pulled him to his feet. Joyce and Angelo went out and Frame and Tony followed, leaving Pudge and Marzo with Sharkey’s lifeless body. As Tony went out, he glanced at the poker table. The green felt was bare. There was no longer any money on it.
    Frame drove Tony’s Buick and left him at the apartment. Nothing was said. Tony sat in the Uving room while Maria made black coffee for him. Her face was drawn and worried, but she didn’t try to question him after he told her to shut up and let him think.
    After black coffee and a hot and cold shower, Tony lay awake in bed long after the lights were out, not speaking, but feeling Maria move restlessly at his side. He went back over it all, his mind clearer. It looked very much as if Angelo had bought off the