Black Jack Part 19

"You're his kid, all right. This is just the way Black Jack would of sat--cool as ice--with a gang under him talking about stretching his neck. And now, bo, hark to me sing! I got the job fixed and--But wait a minute. What you been doing all these years? Black Jack was known when he was your age!"

With a peculiar thrill of awe and of aversion Terry watched the face of the man who had known his father so well. He tried to make himself believe that twenty-four years ago Denver might have been quite another type of man. But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a bulldog in the human flesh. The craft and the courage of a fighter were written large in those features.

"I've been leading--a quiet life," he said gently.

The other grinned. "Sure--quiet," he chuckled. "And then you wake up and bust Minter for your first crack. You began late, son, but you may go far. Pretty tricky with the gat, eh?"

He nodded in antic.i.p.atory admiration.

"Old Minter had a name. Ain't I had my run-in with him? He was smooth with a cannon. And fast as a snake's tongue. But they say you beat him fair and square. Well, well, I call that a snappy start in the world!"

Terry was silent, but his companion refused to be chilled.

"That's Black Jack over again," he said. "No wind about what he'd done.

No jabber about what he was going to do. But when you wanted something done, go to Black Jack. Bam! There it was done clean for you and no talk afterward. Oh, he was a bird, was your old man. And you take after him, right enough!"

A voice rose in Terry. He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain. It was not that he felt any consuming shame because he was the son of Black Jack Hollis. But there was a sort of foster parenthood to which he owed a clean-minded allegiance--the fiction of the Colby blood. He had wors.h.i.+pped that thought for twenty years. He could not discard it in an instant.

Denver was breezing on in his quick, husky voice, so carefully toned that it barely served to reach Terry.

"I been waiting for a pal like you, kid. And here's where we hit it off.

You don't know much about the game, I guess? Neither did Black Jack. As a peterman he was a loud ha-ha; as a damper-getter he was just an amateur; as a heel or a houseman, well, them things were just outside him. When it come to the gorilla stuff, he was there a million, though. And when there was a call for fast, quick, soft work, Black Jack was the man. Kid, I can see that you're cut right on his pattern. And here's where you come in with me. Right off the bat there's going to be velvet. Later on I'll educate you. In three months you'll be worth your salt. Are you on?"

He hardly waited for Terry to reply. He rambled on.

"I got a plant that can't fail to blossom into the long green, kid. The store safe. You know what's in it? I'll tell you. Ten thousand cold. Ten thousand bucks, boy. Well, well, and how did it get there? Because a lot of the b.o.o.bs around here have put their spare cash in the safe for safekeeping!"

He tilted his chin and indulged in another of his yawning, silent bursts of laughter.

"And you never seen a peter like it. Tin, kid, tin. I could turn it inside out with a can opener. But I ain't long on a kit just now. I'm on the hog for fair, as a matter of fact. Well, I don't need a kit. I got some sawdust and I can make the soup as pretty as you ever seen. We'll blow the safe, kid, and then we'll float. Are you on?"

He paused, grinning with expectation, his face gradually becoming blank as he saw no response in Terry.

"As nearly as I can make out--because most of the slang is new to me,"

said Terry, "you want to dynamite the store safe and--"

"Who said sawdust? Soup, kid, soup! I want to blow the door off the peter, not the roof off the house. Say, who d'you think I am, a b.o.o.b?"

"I understand, then. Nitroglycerin? Denver, I'm not with you. It's mighty good of you to ask me to join in--but that isn't my line of work."

The yegg raised an expostulatory hand, but Terry went on: "I'm going to keep straight, Denver."

It seemed as though this simple tiding took the breath from Denver.

"Ah!" he nodded at length. "You playing up a new line. No strong-arm stuff except when you got to use it. Going to try scratching, kid? Is that it, or some other kind of slick stuff?"

"I mean what I say, Denver. I'm going straight."

The yegg shook his head, bewildered. "Say," he burst out suddenly, "ain't you Black Jack's kid?"

"I'm his son," said Terry.

"All right. You'll come to it. It's in the blood, Black Jack. You can't get away from it."

Terry tugged his s.h.i.+rt open at the throat; he was stifling. "Perhaps," he said.

"It's the easy way," went on Denver. "Well, maybe you ain't ripe yet, but when you are, tip me off. Gimme a ring and I'll be with you."

"One more thing. You're broke, Denver. And I suppose you need what's in that safe. But if you take it, the widow will be ruined. She runs the hotel and the store, too, you know."

"Why, you poor b.o.o.b," groaned Denver, "don't you know she's the old dame that's trying to get you mobbed?"

"I suppose so. But she was pretty fond of the sheriff, you know. I don't blame her for carrying a grudge. Now, about the money, Denver; I happen to have a little with me. Take what you want."

Denver took the proffered money without a word, counted it with a deftly stabbing forefinger, and shoved the wad into his hip pocket.

"All right," he said, "this'll sort of sweeten the pot. You don't need it?"

"I'll get along without it. And you won't break the safe?"

"h.e.l.l!" grunted Denver. "Does it hang on that?"

Terry leaned forward in his chair.

"Denver, don't break that safe!"

"You kind of say that as if you was boss, maybe," sneered Denver.

"I am," said Terry, "as far as this goes."

"How'll you stop me, kid? Sit up all night and nurse the safe?"

"No. But I'll follow you, Denver. And I'll get you. You understand? I'll stay on your trail till I have you."

Again there was a long moment of silence, then, "Black Jack!" muttered Denver. "You're like his ghost! I think you'd get me, right enough! Well, I'll call it off. This fifty will help me along a ways."

At the door he whirled sharply on Terence Hollis. "How much have you got left?" he asked.

"Enough," said Terry.

"Then lemme have another fifty, will you?"

"I'm sorry. I can't quite manage it."

"Make it twenty-five, then."

"Can't do that either, Denver. I'm very sorry."