Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Darky’s bloody body stirred. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. Now he could just make out the figure of Younger.

“Look at him. Look at him now!” Younger continued.

Mobilizing some reserve of courage from deep in his soul, Darky began to rise to his feet.

Younger, himself near to exhaustion, still stood half turned away, haranguing the crowd. “Now we know whose boss. Mister Darky won’t do any more standing over in this town...”

“Look out, Jimmy!” one of Younger’s supporters called — but too late.

Darky had reached his feet and, catapulting himself off the tree trunk, he sank his left fist low into Younger’s groin. Younger doubled up in pain and Darky brought a right upper cut to the jaw, then a left, then another right.

Younger slumped down. The whites of his eyes were showing before he hit the ground. His head crashed onto the edge of the metal road. He lay stiff, unconscious.

Darky swayed above him for a moment then collapsed across his opponent’s feet. With a tremendous effort of will, Darky rose on hands and knees then stood up uncertainly. He turned and staggered through the awestruck spectators. Reaching the gutter he groped for his shoes. Ernie Lyle rushed across, found the shoes and handed them to Darky. Darky sat on the edge of the footpath and put on his shoes.

Younger still lay inert, two of his cronies were trying to bring him round.

Without waiting to lace his shoes, Darky stood up. He placed a bloody left arm around Ernie Lyle’s shoulders and they hobbled away.

At the point where the glow of the street light faded into the black night, Darky turned to the crowd. His left hand was still round his friend. He made a savage grimace driving his tongue against a tooth loosened by Younger’s punches. The tooth fell from its socket.

The silent crowd watched open-mouthed, transfixed.

Presently, Darky spat the tooth from his mouth with a splutter of blood. He tapped his chest with his right fore-finger. From somewhere in the battered flesh of his face, his voice came: “Listen! Some of these young fellas are goin’ ter learn it the hard way — but I’m as good as ever I was!”

To Kill a Cop by D. M. Downing

The old cop had said, “Nobody can stay just half-hood, Johnny. There always comes a time when he’s got to go all the way... or else.” Johnny fingered the stiletto in his pocket and he knew that the time had come.

* * *

Johnny Manse stepped out of the bright October daylight into the musty dimness of the Silken Peacock. Crossing the room to his usual table in the corner, he heard the muted rumble of the juke-box and felt the familiar hush of the underworld hangout pour over him. He smiled grimly to himself. Harry’s fancy name for the bar had been a hopeless attempt to give it class. It was still a dive.

Johnny sat down and scanned the room. A lush or two and a couple of small-time chiselers. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock in the morning. No self-respecting crook would even be up at this hour, much less out. But Johnny had been covering the streets of the 96th Precinct for two hours, stopping here and there, waiting for Harry to open up.

A guy in the confidence game has to keep in touch, he told himself. But the real reason for his early-morning prowl — the killing — he kept pushing below the conscious surface of his mind.

Harry brought his drink, the fat face grinning its usual happy welcome. “You ever see daylight before, Johnny?” he kidded, wiping his hands on his aproned stomach.

“Listen to the guy with the neon tan, would you?” Johnny grinned back at the bartender’s pasty face.

Harry Donato and Johnny Manse had been friends since they were kids on Lacy Street. And though Harry had not followed the rest of the gang into the rackets, Johnny knew that behind the amiable fat was the same tight-lipped Harry who held answers to questions a whole generation of cops were still asking. If anybody knew anything about this deal it would be Harry.

“What’s new, Harry?” Johnny asked, wondering if he really wanted to know.

“Not much.” Harry was mopping the table with a towel. “Same old grind.”

Johnny made his tone as casual as the way he picked up his glass. “I hear Jim Cole is out of stir.”

“Yeah,” but Harry’s smile had faded, “he was in last night with Morelli and Burke.”

Johnny kept the pace slow and tossed Harry the old joke they’d kept going since the early days. “How’re you fixed for police protection, Harry?” A cop was about as welcome in Harry’s joint as a case of measles, but Johnny wasn’t laughing this time. The joke needed a different answer.

The bartender was folding his soggy towel into a meticulous square, and Johnny knew Harry had that answer.