Whiskey River Read Online Free

ever try talking to a Mountie?”
    “If I did I’d remember.”
    “Well, for starters they wear Sam Browne belts with their pajamas.”
    Hattie said, “You know it was poisoned on this side.”
    He relit his stogie, which had gone out. I welcomed the reek of nickel tobacco in that room. “How’s Joey getting on with the Sicilians?” he asked her.
    “Okay. You know the Sicilians.”
    “That makes it the Jews. We’ll do a sweep, stick ’em under the light. They’ll get a tan and we’ll kick them. It’ll be like election time.”
    “Why bother?”
    “It’s no bother. I like to hear them kikes squeal when I shove my stick into their bellies.”
    “This is a homicide beef,” I said. “Who called the Prohibition Squad?”
    “On nights like this there ain’t much difference.”
    Homicide never did get the Turner killing. It went into the jacket unsolved. The various police divisions in those days were like feudal fiefdoms, and unless it was a case nobody wanted—a nigger killing in the Black Bottom, say, or a little girl raped with a Coke bottle in the warehouse district—it went to whoever got there first. Pulling the file on an old case required a scavenger hunt throughout the Criminal Investigation Division.
    “What about the Indian?” Hattie asked.
    “I logged a raid. I need a body besides just personnel and the j.p. here.”
    “Take Connie. It wouldn’t be the first time he ate on the county.”
    “I did my charity work tonight,” I reminded her. “Besides, I’ve got four hours left in my shift.”
    She glared up at the lieutenant. “What did I buy downstairs? They rescinded the tipover order three years ago. You need a warrant.”
    “We was told there was lives in danger here. I could of called the county wagon, put bracelets on the clientele, get their names printed in the papers. How many you think would come back, with twenty thousand blind pigs in this city?”
    A shot slammed below. The noises of destruction stopped.
    Kozlowski said shit. “That bug Wagner. Last time he put a slug clear through a keg and hit my best man.” He drew a stubby black revolver from his belt holster and hit the hallway running. We followed him.
    It was hard to see at first on the ground floor. When the two-legged termites had finished with the fixtures and furniture they had started on the walls, and a cloud of yellow plaster filled the room. As it settled I saw John Danzig standing in the center of a circle of bulls. They had their guns out in the firing-range stance, pointing at his head. He looked like the hub of a spoked wheel. Sergeant Wagner lay on his back at the kid’s feet with his knees drawn up, rocking from side to side and clasping the bottom half of his face with both hands. One of them held a revolver. Blood was sliding out between his fingers.
    Tom Danzig stood outside the circle with his arms hanging loose. Jerry the Lobo slid a hand into Tom’s pocket and was pushed away.
    The lieutenant threw down his cigar. It extinguished itself immediately in the tide of beer washing back and forth across the floor. “What.”
    “This puke took a swing at Wagner.” The speaker was a fat plainclothesman much softer than Kozlowski, in spectacles and a straw boater out of season.
    “Looks like he connected. Who shot?”
    “Wagner.”
    “Son of a bitch was waving it in my face.” The kid had both fists clenched but looked peaceful otherwise. A lock of his dark curly hair had fallen over one eye. I think he was enjoying himself.
    Kozlowski nudged Wagner roughly with his foot. “What’d you hit?”
    “My nofe if bufted,” Wagner said through his hands.
    “It went into the ceiling,” one of the uniforms said. “His piece went off when the kid poked him.”
    Kozlowski booted Wagner in the ribs hard. The sergeant whinnied, spraying blood. “You bastard, I was up there.”
    Fatso said, “The puke was acting smart, Lieutenant.”
    Kozlowski gnawed a cheek.
    “Clear a space,” he said. “Get away