Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

“You see? I ain’t conning you, Dubrowski. I got this town like this, in the palm of my hand!” He held out his hand to demonstrate. “And I could have Riverton the same way, if the boys would give Schirmer a push.”

Thomas said nothing.

“Okay?” Paoli asked, his spirits lifting as he realized that Thomas was listening to him seriously. The interview was going much better now, he thought. “Will you tell the boys in Chicago, Dubrowski? And say I’m sorry I moved in on Cal without leaving them know. It’ll never happen again, that’s for goddam sure. They’ll understand if you tell it to them the way I explained it to you. Okay?”

Thomas got up. He turned toward the door, to Paoli’s tremendous relief. “Okay,” he said.

“Good,” Paoli said. “That’s a boy, Dubrowski. Have another snort before you go, why not? It’s twenty-year-old Scotch.”

“No thanks,” Thomas said. He opened the door. “Give my love to Olga.”

“I’ll do that,” Paoli said genially. “I’ll do that.”

Forty minutes later, Thomas walked into the City Room of the Demmlertown Herald and over to Joe Bailey’s desk. Joe was the City Editor. He wore the expression of exasperated gloom typical of his kind. He looked at Thomas. “Well?” he asked.

“The works,” Thomas said and made a grimace of distaste. “The whole stinking mess, right from the horse’s mouth!”

“No kidding!” Bailey brightened and put down his pencil.

“No kidding. He’s our guy, just as you guessed. Mr. Vergil Paoli. The Syndicate’s top dog in Demmlertown. By his own admission, he’s got us right in the palm of his hand. Give him another couple of months and he’ll have Riverton there, too. Dope, prostitution, everything.” Thomas rubbed a hand over his crewcut. He leaned over Bailey’s desk. “Joe, I’ve got names, even! Heroin pushers here in Demmlertown. It’s enough to make you puke.”

“How did you get it out of him?” Bailey asked interestedly. “Was it my first published fairy story that did the trick? The piece about the gang killing by a certain Eyetooth Dubrowski?”

“That set it up,” Thomas replied. “But beautifully. Your phony item was right there on his desk when I went in. All I had to do was show my teeth.”

Bailey grinned. “Tessie, on the switchboard, said somebody called asking about you. She told them you were here in your office.”

“I heard her. She was great. I made the play for Olga Castle, Joe. And gave out with the sinister remarks about Paoli to her. And they didn’t hurt us any, for I’m sure she told him. But what really started him running off at the mouth was the telegram you had Bud send him from Chicago. He made me read it. I could hardly keep from breaking up!” Thomas looked at his chief with admiration. “How did you know about Schirmer?” he asked. “Enough to needle Paoli with the disgruntled neighbor Sit in the wire?”

“Just an educated guess. You work on a paper for twenty years and you learn a lot of little things that finally point in a certain direction.” Bailey looked at the big clock on the wall. “It’s getting late,” he said. “You say you got the names of some pushers?”

“Sure. I’ve got it all right here, Joe.” Thomas took the newest miracle of miniaturization from his jacket pocket — a tape recorder no more than four inches square and an inch thick. He grinned at his City Editor. “Paoli thought it was a gun.”

Bailey grinned back. “More like dynamite,” he said.

The Pain Killer by Charles Carpentier

The man was screaming now and struggling violently, his handsome face distorted with fear. The doctor pressed down on the plunger and smiled soothingly. “Don’t be silly. It’s only a pain filler... to keep you from hurting.”

* * *

“Got a couple more for you, doc,” said one of the ambulance attendants, wheeling the woman in. “This one looks like a shock case. The guy, though, he’s banged up a bit. But not real bad.” The two attendants went back out to the ambulance after the man.

Dr. Edward A. Keyes glanced up from the desk where he was filling out accident reports. The woman looked small on the stretcher: everybody looks smaller on a stretcher, he thought.

She had nice hair. That was all he could see of her. He always noticed women’s hair; it was the first thing he noticed about them. Then he thought what he always thought when they brought someone in: Why do people insist on getting out on the highway and messing themselves up? — so I can make a living, I suppose.

He went to the woman, turning her head toward him. She had such nice hair and he was hoping her face wasn’t marked up.

“Doc.”

He just stood there staring at her face.

“Hey, doc,” the attendant repeated impatiently. “Where do you want this guy?”