Rockabye County 5 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  About this Book

  Author's Note

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Copyright

  About the Author

  A modern Texas deputy sheriff spends more time riding in a car than upon a horse, and uses every scientific aid available in fighting against crime. One thing, however, has not changed since the days of the Old West. A lawman still must know how to handle his gun with deadly speed and accuracy.

  When a gang of criminals, trying to make an escape to safety across the Rio Grande, use Rockabye County, Texas, as their base, they threaten to employ terrorist tactics against the law. Sheriff Jack Tragg sets up Woman Deputy Alice Fayde and her partner, Deputy Brad Counter, as targets to draw the gang into the open.

  Faced with a member of the gang armed with a sawed-off shotgun, only Brad’s speed on the draw can save his life. At that moment either Brad or the outlaw has only one quarter of a second left to live.

  Author’s note

  The combat-shooting equipment and techniques are those perfected by such masters as Thell Reed, Elden Carl, Ray Chapman, Sheriff Jack Weaver and the dean of them all, Colonel Jeff Cooper. All the above have equaled and bettered a one quarter of a second draw.

  One

  Two Rockabye County deputy sheriffs were making their rounds. They did not stride purposefully along, ten-gauge shotguns on the crook of the arm, with high-heeled boots drumming hollowly upon a wooden sidewalk. Instead of kerosene lamps glowing through the batwing doors and windows of false-fronted wood or adobe buildings, their way received more satisfactory illumination from overhead electric lights. Beneath them, a paved street made for easier travelling than the wheel-rutted, hoof-ripped earth surface one thought of in connection with a Texas lawman on patrol. To crown it all, the deputies rode, not on range horses, but in a black and white Oldsmobile Super 88 four-door sedan car.

  Yet, for all of that, the deputies performed a time-ritual as had their predecessors. The minor details changed, the equipment advanced with the times; but the basic issue remained the same. Their duty was to keep the peace in Rockabye County.

  ‘Jake!’ said one of the deputies. ‘Stop the car!’

  ‘What’s up, Ian?’ asked Deputy Jake Melnick, obeying.

  He looked along the street which was lined with stores and shops that had closed for the night. Only one place appeared to be open, a small bar into which a man they had just passed was entering. Melnick could see no reason for the urgency in his partner’s request. Nothing about the man they passed had struck Melnick as out of the ordinary. Maybe just a mite smarter dressed than one expected down here in the Bad Bit, Gusher City’s sprawling slum and low-rent district, standing maybe five foot nine and with a fedora perched forward on his head; nothing for Grantley to halt their patrol over.

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ admitted Deputy Ian Grantley, glancing back in the direction of the bar. ‘But that guy who just went in there—’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘He looked like Mikos Papas!’

  ‘Mikos Papas!’ breathed Melnick. ‘Colismides’ top gun.’

  For all that Grantley had caught only a passing glimpse of the man, it never occurred to Melnick to doubt his partner. He knew that Grantley possessed a rare memory for faces and made a habit of studying carefully all wanted-men flyers which came into the Sheriff’s Office. Nor was Grantley an alarmist, or a sensation-seeking rookie who imagined every half-seen face belonged to a crook, preferably one on the F.B.I.’s Ten Most Wanted Men list.

  Taking up the radio’s transmission microphone, Grantley called the dispatcher at Central Control. He explained that he and his partner would be leaving their car to make an investigation in a bar on a street of Jepson Division and that they might require assistance; lastly he asked if the dispatcher understood his message.

  He did not say it word for word, all he said was:

  ‘Unit S.O. 10 to Cen-Con. “Code Six, Adam”, Pete’s Bar, De Silva Avenue, Jepson. “Code One”?’

  ‘Cen-Con to Unit S.O. 10,’ came the reply. ‘“Code One”. Will alert two R.P. cars. Over and out.’

  A modern law enforcement organization does not employ numbered codes for radio use to sound dramatic, or to prevent crooks monitoring the calls and gaining useful information; nor even to supply comedians with joke material should some semi-documentary television show use the terms as an aid to realism. With a new call going out over the air on an average of every fifteen seconds, no time could be wasted in idle chatter, or even ordinary verbal reports when a number would save time and tell the dispatcher all she needed to know.

  In the modem six-storey Department of Public Safety Building, the Communications Bureau maintained a permanently-manned control room which handled calls for Gusher City’s four police divisions and the County Sheriff’s Office. The call letters ‘S.O.’ warned the dispatcher that a member of the Sheriff’s Office spoke. Unless notifying Cen-Con otherwise, Grantley and Melnick always used Car 10 so she knew which deputy team called. ‘Code Six’ meant the team would be leaving their car to make an investigation and the word ‘Adam’ warned that they might need assistance. The words ‘Code One’ had no esoteric meaning, but merely asked if the message was understood and the dispatcher’s repetition of them told the car crew it was.

  On the face of it, that two armed deputies should ask for assistance to be made available when going to investigate what might prove to be no more than a case of mistaken identity involving only a single man, appeared over-cautious, cowardly even.

  It was no such thing.

  Perhaps in the old days of the West, a lawman went out single-handed to face down the bad guy on Main Street at high noon; but modern law enforcement training stressed that an officer should call in every available aid when faced with what could develop into a gun fight.

  Should Grantley’s belief prove correct, a gun fight was a very likely possibility. Ever since George Colismides had broke jail, every lawman in the southwest knew that trying to retake him, or any member of his gang, would be accompanied by roaring guns. The electric chair awaited every member of the Colismides mob, it having committed several murders in the execution of bank and payroll hold-ups and while freeing their leader from custody. Such men would not mildly surrender at a peace officer’s request.

  While walking along the street, the two deputies opened their jackets, but neither followed the old fiction cliché of ensuring their guns rode loose in the holsters. Any holster which required such attention before use was a liability, not an asset to its user.

  Feeling the comforting pull of the three-and-a-half-inch barreled Smith and Wesson Model 27 .357 Magnum revolver in the Lawrence No. 30 cross-draw holster at his left side—a thing he only became aware of, despite its forty-one ounce weight, at such a moment—Grantley, as senior member of the team, pushed open the door and entered the bar first.

  The bar’s interior looked neither better nor worse than a hundred such places throughout the Bad Bit. A line of high-walled booths ran along three of the walls, being split by doors leading into the men’s and women’s rooms and the rear exit of the building. Half a dozen tables,
some chairs, a telephone booth and the bar, beyond which lay another door, completed the lay-out.

  Halting just inside the room, Grantley and Melnick saw no sign of the man whose arrival brought them to the bar. Nor were there any other customers. The bartender, leaning on the counter and reading the Gusher City Mirror, had the place to himself. He was a big, burly man with close-cropped hair and the slightly oriental cast of features shown by many Hungarians.

  From his watchful manner when he looked up, the bartender made them as lawmen. He studied Grantley—redheaded, six foot three of height, with the build of a professional football tackle—and Melnick—six foot, with a lean, wiry frame. They wore open-necked shirts, sports jackets, flannels of no better quality than ordinary customers of the area owned and, even with their coats open, the guns did not show; but the bartender knew they worked for the law.

  ‘Where is he?’ asked Grantley.

  ‘Says which?’ countered the bartender sullenly.

  ‘Do you want to see the tin?’ Grantley snapped, reaching towards his jacket’s inside breast pocket.

  ‘Naw, I know you. You’re Grantley from the Sheriff’s Office.’

  ‘You’ve been peeking. Now where is he?’

  ‘So what’s so important about a bum coming through here?’

  ‘You’ve taken to letting bums track through here, have you,’ Grantley growled sardonically.

  ‘That’s me,’ the bartender replied, ‘flowing with the milk of human kindness and love of my fellow-man.’

  Ignoring the man, Grantley and Melnick crossed to the rear door and went through it into a small yard littered with crates containing empty bottles. Grantley opened the yard’s gate and looked along another poorly-lit street, but could see no sign of the man.

  ‘Nothing,’ he commented. ‘Could have gone down an alley or into any of the buildings out there.’

  ‘We’d best hit the johns just in case,’ Melnick replied.

  Returning to the barroom, Grantley led the way to the door of the men’s room. Using his left hand, he turned the handle and shoved the door open wide so that it swung inwards and struck the wall. Both men felt relieved as they heard the thud; it meant their man was not hiding behind the door. Still keeping their right hands ready to reach for the waiting revolvers, the deputies entered and looked around them. Although the room, including both its toilets, proved to be empty, neither regretted having taken precautions.

  ‘I liked the way you did that,’ remarked the bartender as they walked out of the men’s room. ‘It’s just like watching 87th Precinct in Technicolor.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be anybody in the women’s room, would there?’ asked Melnick.

  ‘Sure. Jayne Mansfield, Lily St. Cyr, Diana Dors and Zsa Zsa Gabor.’

  ‘Cute guy, huh?’ grunted Grantley.

  ‘I get by,’ answered the bartender.

  ‘Get by’s all you’d do with a line like that,’ the big redhead told him. ‘Hit the room, Jake; and if there’s a dame inside, we’ll book this joker for impeding officers in the execution of their duty.’

  ‘Hey!’ yelped the bartender. ‘Can’t you guys take a joke? There’s nobody in the dames’ room.’

  Despite the assurance, the deputies took similar precautions to when they had entered the men’s room. Again they found the room to be empty and returned to the counter.

  ‘What’s in there?’ asked Grantley, jerking his thumb towards the door behind the bartender.

  ‘The liquor store,’ replied the bartender sullenly.

  ‘Open her up, we’ll take a look inside.’

  ‘Sure,’ growled the bartender. ‘Are you going to Evans Hill, or do I?’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ demanded Grantley.

  ‘The boss locks the store and takes the key with him when he goes home. Did you ever hear of such a distrusting guy?’

  ‘Maybe he’s not just distrusting,’ commented Melnick.

  ‘Huh?’ grunted the bartender, looking puzzled.

  ‘Could be he’s a real good judge of character.’

  Once more the bartender showed he was puzzled, then a scowl creased his face as he caught Melnick’s meaning.

  ‘What’s your boss’s name and phone number?’ asked Grantley before the man could make any protest.

  ‘Lemuel Cohen. Evans Hill 8341.’

  ‘Check it out, Jake,’ ordered Grantley.

  While waiting for his partner to put in the call, Grantley studied the bartender. Behind the surly hardness he sensed that the bartender felt uneasy and wondered why. Being curious, the deputy started to ask questions.

  ‘Who was the guy?’ he began.

  ‘How would I know?’ the bartender replied. ‘He comes in here once in a while, so I should maybe ask for his Social Security card?’

  ‘Are things so bad that you’re catering for the walkthrough trade now?’

  ‘Naw. Look, he come in here, said he was late going home and could he head through. What am I, some kind of grouch, that I should say no?’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘How should I know? I think he lives in one of the apartment houses back of here on Coolridge Drive. Like I say, he comes in once in a while.’

  On the face of it, the bartender’s story could be true. Melnick returned to confirm that the owner kept the liquor store locked and did not trust his hired help with the key. Knowing they could not take the time to check on every apartment building in the area, Grantley suggested that they returned to their car.

  ‘It couldn’t’ve been Papas,’ Melnick said as he slid behind the wheel of the car. ‘And I’m not sorry.’

  ‘Or me,’ answered Grantley. ‘His bunch of toughs threatened to kill the family of any lawman who comes close to them.’

  ‘Do you reckon they’d try it, Ian?’

  ‘Naw. It’s punk talk.’

  ‘Cen-Con to Unit S.O.10,’ said the car’s radio.

  ‘Unit S.O. 10 by,’ answered Grantley.

  After telling how their investigation went, and arranging for the dismissal of the waiting radio patrol cars, Grantley made a note of the reason for their having been called. A few seconds later Unit S.O. 10 sped through the city streets to check on a suspected suicide: suspected only in that every suicide was treated and investigated as a murder until proven different, not because somebody suspected that another person was intending to kill him or herself.

  Two

  Almost half an hour after the departure of the deputies, the bartender remained leaning on the bar and making a pretence at reading the newspaper. At last he walked around the counter, crossed the room and stepped into the street. Acting nonchalantly and giving the impression that he did no more than come out to grab a breath of fresh air, he stood on the sidewalk and looked in each direction along the deserted street.

  Satisfied that nobody was watching, he entered the building again, took a key from his pocket, and walked back towards the door behind the counter. Although the owner had told Melnick what he believed to be the truth, his bartender could open the liquor store, having taken advantage at the first opportunity to obtain a mould of the key and buy a duplicate.

  On opening the door, the bartender looked into the muzzle of a Luger automatic pistol. The man who had attracted Grantley’s attention came from the room, moving cautiously and looking around before thrusting his Luger back into its shoulder holster.

  ‘What’d they want?’ he asked.

  ‘Saw you come in, and followed,’ replied the bartender uneasily.

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘A couple of deputies from the Sheriff’s Office. One was—’ the reply died away in a startled gurgle of anxiety.

  ‘You know them?’ hissed the man from the storeroom.

  ‘Hell, Mikos!’ protested the bartender. ‘You can’t expect me to put the finger on two badges—especially deputy sheriffs.’

  ‘The Syndicate wouldn’t like it if you pigged out on us, Tibor,’ Mikos Papas replied, a smile twisting his lips.
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br />   It was not a friendly smile. An ashy pallor crept over the bartender’s sullen face. He knew the penalty for failing to obey orders from the Syndicate.

  ‘One’s Grantley, but I don’t know the other. He’s a kike and Grantley called him “Jake”. You’d better blow. They might put a stake-out on the place.’

  ‘They might at that,’ admitted Papas. ‘I won’t be around again. So if that certain party comes in asking, tell him that the Cauldron Club can contact me.’

  ‘Sure, Mikos,’ promised the bartender, although he had no intention of staying in the bar after his unwelcome guest had left.

  Mikos Papas did not know of the bartender’s plans for departure. On leaving the bar, he walked along the streets until he came to a slightly better part of the Bad Bit. While wishing to contact his boss, he knew better than to go at such a pace that he attracted attention. Although his face appeared on wanted posters, he passed two policemen without being recognized. The mug shots on the posters showed him with a mustache, long since shaved off; and camera-eyes like Deputy Sheriff Grantley were few and far between. Walking along at a normal pace, keeping in plain view and not showing any of the concern he felt when approaching a policeman, Papas avoided being noticed by the patrolmen walking their beats.

  Finding an all-night drugstore, he entered and went to the telephone booth. Closing himself inside, he took out a handful of nickels, dialed a number, heard the ringing buzz at the other end, then a familiar voice. After a brief conversation in Greek, Papas stood with the receiver to his ear, feeding coins into the pay slot, while the voice at the other end seemed to be talking with somebody away from the telephone.

  At last the speaker returned to the receiver. ‘I’ve contacted Colonel Colismides. He says for you to look in the city directory, locate Grantley’s home and put Operation Scare-Off into action.’

  ‘Tell him I’ll do just that,’ Papas purred and hung up the receiver.

  Three