Black Fedora

By Pro Se Press

The Anthology For When The Good Guys aren't Good Enough is here! BLACK FEDORA from Pro Se Productions throws the spotlight on those in the shadows, the other half of every great story- The Villain. Welcome to the dark side. Within this book you will find stories where the hero is the villain and one person's crime is another person's glory. Get ready to step out of the light and take a tour of various underworlds with three tales that give us a look at what secrets lurk beneath the BLACK FEDORA. This exciting anthology features tales by B. C. Bell, Phillip Drayer Duncan, and Kevin Paul Shaw Broden and a stunning cover by the best Pulp Artist today, Douglas Klauba! Edited by Brad Mengel and Mark Beaulieu with cover design and print formatting by Sean Ali and Ebook formatting by Russ Anderson, BLACK FEDORA is so good it's criminal. From Pro Se Productions, the leader in cutting edge New Pulp and Genre Fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pro Se Press
• Release date: Sep 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781370527045

Pro Se Press

Based in Batesville, Arkansas, Pro Se Productions has become a leader on the cutting edge of New Pulp Fiction in a very short time.Pulp Fiction, known by many names and identified as being action/adventure, fast paced, hero versus villain, over the top characters and tight, yet extravagant plots, is experiencing a resurgence like never before. And Pro Se Press is a major part of the revival, one of the reasons that New Pulp is growing by leaps and bounds.

Book preview

BLACK FEDORA

Copyright © 2013 Pro Se Productions

Published by Pro Se Press at Smashwords

The stories in this publication are fictional. All of the characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

Sometimes They Pay in Bullets copyright © 2013 B.C. Bell

The Warden copyright © 2013 Phillip Drayer Duncan

The Man Who Stole Manhattan copyright © 2013 Kevin Paul Shaw Broden

TABLE OF CONTENTS

SOMETIMES THEY PAY IN BULLETS

by B.C. Bell

THE WARDEN

by Phillip Drayer Duncan

THE MAN WHO STOLE MANHATTAN

by Kevin Paul Shaw Broden

ROUNDING UP THE USUAL SUSPECTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

SOMETIMES THEY PAY IN BULLETS

A Tribute to Paul Cain

by B.C. Bell

Keller stepped out of the train station, took off his Panama hat, scratched his head and half-smiled looking up and down the street. He walked west on Spring. At Pine he turned south, walked two blocks and turned into a cigar store. He nodded at the man behind the counter and stepped through a beveled glass door.

The man in the back room, sitting behind a large wooden desk, stood up. His eyes widened and he said, Oh… well I guess you can go right—

Keller nodded, tapped the inner door twice with a knuckle and let himself in.

Fabian sat behind a green topped table, his head propped on one fist, his other hand fidgeting with a pack of matches.

Well, flip my lid—if it isn’t Keller. Didn’t expect to see you round these parts. Least not so soon. Fabian held out a box of cigars.

Keller waved them off, pulled a cigarette out of a silver case. What can I say, it’s like that shortstop Keeler says, ‘Hit ‘em where they ain’t.’ Just because they’re not watching, doesn’t mean there’s no action.

Seems to me there was a lot of action last time you left town.

Keller struck a match on his shoe, lighted his cigarette. Last time I left town, I was following a dog to the next track. Tried to collect my winnings and leave—there were some people didn’t want me to.

Fabian rapped an oversized trench lighter on the table in front of him, paused and circled the flame in front of the cigar between his teeth. So, Keller, you ever hear the one about the guy that was riding a winning streak and tried to leave the poker game too early?

Keller only nodded.

Yeah, I figured you’d heard that one. What about the guy that almost breaks the track betting seven-to-one odds on a dog nobody ever heard of before?

I heard the guy left town following a dog, and just wandered back following another. You worried I’ll pick two winners in a row, like I know something you don’t?

"What was to keep me from calling in Kiosque as the winner instead of your dog?"

Time—not enough of it. Besides, what are you squealing about? I haven’t been to this track in a year, and you’re working for the smartest syndicate this side of the river. They pay out, not you.

Fabian inspected his cigar with one eye closed, then struck the wheel of the lighter. He held the cigar away from him and waved the flame under it again. They play rough. Sometimes they pay rough.

And scare away all that big money clientele? I don’t think so. Keller collapsed across the davenport against the wall and lay back with one leg hanging over the armrest. Now where’s my dough?

Don’t worry, you’ll get it. Money’s at the office—or, you can pick it up on the boat tonight; that’ll give you a chance to catch up with the local flavor our little burg is acquiring.

Barbecue flavor maybe—I heard there were three gambling boats on the river last week and now there are just two. Funny, how the competition keeps catching on fire. Keller grinned, sat up and squashed his cigarette out in a large glass ashtray in the center of the table.

Well, that’s one of the reason’s I wanted to talk to you. Fabian laid his cigar in the same ashtray and walked over to the wet bar. Filling two tumblers with amber liquid, he said: I’ve got a business proposition.

Propose, Keller said, taking a tumbler and rolling the whiskey inside the glass before taking a drink.

Fabian strolled behind the table, his glass dangling from his fingertips. He picked up the still smoking cigar and plopped back into his rotating desk chair, his hands hanging limply over the armrests.

He took a sip of whiskey, then put the glass on the table and said: "Just because there’s two boats now—that don’t mean only one’s been burned. For years we ran the Cascade with no problems, even when O’Hannoran docked the Eaglet out there—then Max Fleming pulled up in a two-hundred foot yacht trying to put us both out of business. Couple of months ago O’Hannoran brought in Christo Del Lobos to chase Fleming out of business. All three of us lost a boat a piece, until somebody left a cute, little ticking box of chocolates on Fleming’s. Blew her out of the water. Now it’s just me on the Cascade and O’Hannoran with the Eaglet."

Del Lobos, Keller sighed, ‘The Cisco Kid.’ He smiled out of one side of his mouth and watched the blue-gray smoke waft in and out of a shaft of light. I heard he was working for O’Hannoran now.

I figured you might have heard all of it before. Fabian rubbed the ash off his cigar in the ashtray, took a puff, then leaned back and put his feet on the table.

Well, I heard it a little differently, Keller said.

"You would. Anyway, here’s the deal—I reopened the Cascade and everything was going fine for a couple of weeks. O’Hannoran’s boat was anchored two miles downstream, and the only thing leading customers from one casino to another was a fork in the road. Bad enough, we were both still frisking our customers on the gangplank, but then somebody got past protection on the Cascade and planted another ticker. Cut her in half, and onto dry dock. Tonight, she opens back up."

And? Keller shrugged his shoulders and sat up.

’And,’ I want you to tell O’Hannoran to lay off.

Keller laughed—a high pitched, sarcastic laugh. He reached into his vest pocket, pulled another cigarette out of the silver case and let it hang limply from his mouth. Then wandered over to the bar and began pouring another round. "In other words, you want me to ask him to lay off."

Look, Gerry, I know you’re a friend of O’Hannoran’s despite all the bad blood spilled down the river these last five years. All I’m asking is—

For me to be your errand boy. Keller crossed to the table. Not much of a business proposition.

I’ll give you a five per-cent cut.

Five per-cent of what?

The whole take. Everything, from now on.

Keller turned, the unlighted cigarette still hanging from his lips, took a few steps then turned back toward the table and said: What for?

Just showing up on the boat, three, four times a week. Fabian slid a hand through his slick black hair. Y’know, restoring confidence.

Whose? Yours? The customers?

"Cut the crap, Keller. I’m here to do business. You may not be friends with O’Hannoran but people think you are! So you show up here gambling a few times a week and everything looks like it’s under control—like O’Hannoran and I have made a deal."

Then why don’t you just make a deal? Keller laid the unlit cigarette on the edge of the table, leaned forward with his weight on both fists. Look, Fabian, you know damn well I’d never buck a house. It’s not my business. Hell, I’m practically a playboy these days. You should drop by my room sometime, take a look at my polo trophies.

Funny as a crutch, Keller. Look, I’ve tried to make a deal—but O’Hannoran won’t even speak to me! He got his reform candidate, Christianson, elected, and now he thinks he’s got the next election—and the whole damn town sewn up! But the joke’s on him, see. I’m backing Emerson Wall’s re-election, and I’ve got the means to make sure he wins.

I remember Walls. He’ll take your five per-cent. Even without the fix in, it’s easy to replace a reformer. Just keep gumming up the wheels. Besides, business hates them killing all the graft.

That, too. Fabian shoved his cigar into the ashtray and swirled it around. His eyes looked back up at Keller, still asking.

The two men stared at each other over smiles bordering on sneers. Without breaking eye contact, Keller picked up his cigarette and waved it between his lips. Holding out a fist with a match in it, he struck it with his thumbnail and lighted the cigarette.

He puffed twice, said: Yeah, I got a little black book with a hundred names and numbers in it and friends all over town—because I take no sides. I’m in it for the fun. Had a pretty good run of luck, and I’m going to see how it plays out. Keller leaned over Fabian, the ash end of the cigarette hanging uncomfortably close to Fabian’s face. But first I need my dough.

Twenty-four-hundred is a lot to have on hand, and we didn’t know when you’d be collecting. Fabian reached into his coat. Keller eyes followed his hand. I only had three-hundred in the safe—here. Fabian tossed a brown envelope on the table. "The rest of it’s locked up at the office, or on the Cascade for the re-opening. You’ll get it tonight, like I said—or, if you’d rather—"

You must really want me on that boat—me, I want cash. Let’s go to the office.

I was going to say I could have one of the boys drive you over there now. I’m waiting on a phone call from Mr. Walls. If I don’t see you on the boat, I may be able to catch up.

Not if I see you first.

Keller left before Fabian could call for a ride, and instead called a cab from the phone booth in front of the cigar store. A taxi arrived ten minutes later driven by a big, silent, blonde man. Keller checked the man’s hack I.D. on the back of the seat. Under the license number was cab number thirty-five and the driver’s name, Admundsen, Olaf. The big Swede drove him to the corner of Cherokee and Roscoe. Fabian’s office was in the penthouse atop the Roscoe Hotel. Keller climbed the narrow stairs to the roof and knocked on the tin-sheathed fire door. Something crashed inside the room. He knocked again, then turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Keller dropped to one knee, shut the door behind him. Doc Weathers, one of Fabian’s bookmakers, lay still on the ground. A blue hole could be seen in the side of his head where he kept his hair trimmed short. It was turning redder and leaking onto the floor.

A woman was sitting on a low divan to the left side of the room, obscured by the scattered strips of shadow from the blinds. She was blonde with a bob haircut and interesting curves, even if her dress