The Peddler by Richard S Prather Page B

cops; nothing new in that, it happened every day. But Tony knew now it was more than that. Angelo had merely paid them for acting out a part; that, and to button their lips about a little murder. Tony knew he hadn’t killed Sharkey. He’d obviously been drugged, then somebody—one of the men present—had taken Tony’s gun and shot the Shark in the forehead. Tony had no doubt at all that the officers had been the McCoy—and they had his gun. The gun he’d bought himself, had a permit issued for, and which ballistics could show was the murder gun. That was enough even without the four “witnesses” to the murder.
    Tony Romero, fall guy. It was neat, though, he had to admit it. He thought about Angelo, about Angelo’s cursing and slapping him, and even while he hated him he grudgingly admitted to himself that you had to hand it to the little bastard, had to give him credit. Sharkey was out for good—and the kill was beautifully tailored for Tony. Actually, Tony wasn’t much upset about that part of it. He had to admire Angelo for the way he’d handled it.
    But Tony Romero was Angelo’s man now; Angelo had him, had him good. The old, unsolved murder of Al Sharkey might suddenly be solved if Tony should get out of line.
    He rolled over on his side and went to sleep.

chapter nine

    Interview number five with Louis Angelo. This was the biggest one yet, thought Tony. Last night Sharkey had suddenly ceased being number-one man under the Top. This afternoon … well, Tony would see. Nothing had yet been said by either Angelo or himself since he came in and Angelo had nodded him to his usual chair.
    Angelo was getting his cigar Ughted. Tony watched him, waited for him to start the ball rolling. This interview might go a little differently, thought Tony. For two very dissimilar reasons: first, he actually respected Angelo more; and second, he hated him more. And Tony figured he’d been kissing Angelo’s behind in these interviews long enough.
    Finally Angelo said, “I knew, of course, that you wanted Sharkey’s job badly; I didn’t think, however, you wanted it badly enough to kill him.”
    “As usual, you were right. I wanted it, but not enough to knock him off.”
    “You did kill him, however. Isn’t that right, Tony?”
    “Yes, sir. I imagine the gun I did it with is down at the station now.”
    Angelo favored Tony with one of his rare smiles. He didn’t look quite as frozen and bony when he smiled. Maybe the change in the shape of his mouth had something to do with it.
    Angelo said, “That’s right, Tony. The men who took your automatic with them were Sergeants Ellis and Cowen. Ellis, oddly enough, is with the vice squad. He just happened to be with Cowen of Homicide.”
    Tony didn’t say anything.
    “Why did you do it, Tony? How did you feel when you shot him?”
    Tony said, sober faced, “Well, Mr. Angelo, it’s hard to say. I never shot anybody before. I guess you’d say I felt … well, dopey. And then I got all excited when I shot him, all churned up inside. I got so excited I passed out.”
    Angelo smiled faintly. Tony got out a cigarette and lit it. Tony spent another half hour in the oflSce, and the conversation became more businesslike, concerned with broad and specific details of running the houses. Sharkey was out now, and his killer, Tony Romero, was in. It was that simple, thought Tony; or that complicated.
    Just before Tony left, Angelo handed him two slim silver keys. “These were Sharkey’s,” he said. “They are yours now, Tony.” He smiled slightly, “You might cail them symbols of your new responsibilities.”
    Tony took the keys, puzzled. Angelo went on, “One key unlocks the front door of this building, the other the outer-office door here. Just come in and knock on my own door. I’ll let you in.” He paused. “You’ll be bringing the day’s receipts to me here each night—as Sharkey used to. So we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other now, Tony.”
    Tony looked at