Murderers' Row by Donald Hamilton

forward, taking my lapels between her thumbs and forefingers. She looked up. Her eyes were very blue and bright in her small face. When she spoke, her voice sounded kind of shaky and breathless.
    â€œI want—” She paused, then went on, “How much would you charge to make a hit for me, Jim Petroni?”

10
    I paused outside the door and fingered the bills in my pocket and wondered if I was giving the little girl a great big bargain or overcharging her outrageously. I wasn’t up on current prices; Mac had neglected to tell me what Lash Petroni was supposed to charge for his services. I guess it hadn’t occurred to him that employment might actually be offered me under this name.
    I shook my head, squared my snappy, narrow-brimmed dark hat on my head, settled my sharp, narrowshouldered dark coat, and headed for the car. When I got where I could see it plainly, I stopped. A man was sitting in the front seat, waiting for me.
    I stood there for quite a while, feeling hurt and disappointed. I mean, I’d made myself perfectly clear. I’d said, If I bump into one of the boys, I’ll go for him without asking questions.
    It was too bad all around. It may have been a silly thing to say, but in the business we don’t send messages like that without intending to back them up, regardless of consequences. Mac should have known I wouldn’t try to bluff him. I reached slowly for Alan’s revolver, for the second time that night. I moved to a corner of the building that would give me a rest for my gun hand. You can generally get by with one shot at that hour of the night, even a loud one from a short-barreled .38 Special. People will stir in their beds, they may even sit up and listen, but if they hear nothing more, it’s a good bet they won’t bother to rise and investigate.
    I checked the line of fire carefully. There was nothing to deflect the bullet on my side of the target. Beyond, there was no risk of disabling my car if I got total penetration— not likely with a head shot at that range, anyway—and what happened to other cars down the row wasn’t any worry. I drew back the hammer to full cock, and settled the rectangular blade of the front sight into the square notch of the rear sight. As I did so, the man in the car turned his head impatiently and looked back towards the building, obviously wondering what the hell was keeping me so long.
    I let my pent-up breath go out slowly, and eased the pressure on the trigger. I was looking over the sights of a loaded and cocked revolver at the plump, cheerful features of Mr. William Orcutt, of the Annapolis Orcutts, known variously as Billy and Thunderbird.
    I was shaking a little as I put the gun away. I walked quickly over there. He opened the car door as I came up.
    â€œMr. Petroni—”
    I grabbed him by the coat and hauled him out. “What the hell are you doing in my car?”
    â€œI wanted to talk with you, Mr. Petroni.” He freed himself and smoothed his rumpled coat. “I wanted to tell you—”
    He stopped, obviously embarrassed about something, trying to find the right words. I studied him bleakly. He wasn’t bad-looking, just a little softer and heavier than he should have been—a crew-cut baby-face. Swimming was the only sport he’d be really good at, with that figure, but it wasn’t the figure I was worrying about. I kept seeing his head the way it would have looked with a bullet-hole in it.
    â€œWhat did you want to tell me, punk?” My harsh voice didn’t sound quite right, even for hard-boiled Petroni.
    â€œI wanted, well, to tell you to stay way from Miss Michaelis.” He hesitated, but I didn’t say anything, and he went on quickly, “She’s—well, a little mixed up. She told me, well, never mind. She’s got some weird ideas. But I don’t want you taking advantage of—I mean, she’s a lovely person, but she needs someone to