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Page 6
THE MAROON TIGER
THE 1ATAL SHOT
(This is the prize story.—Editors)
The night was dreary; a deep mist had covered the
whole town, dimming the rays of the gas lamps. In a
little room on the fourth floor of a poor tenant house
was the secret meeting place of Tony Patti and his po
litical gang. No one stirred as they sat around a rec
tangular table; everyone was a lifeless creature puffing
upon his prize cigar. Already the smoke had filled the
room so that a person on one end of the table was unable
to see clearly the man at the other end. The shuffle of
a chair broke the silence as Patti, a tall, heavy-set Italian
with slick hlack hair and a “trick" mustache, rose to
speak. His deep voice quickly summoned the attention
of the rest as they leaned over the table and seemingly
strained their ear drums to catch every sound of Patti
as he spoke.
“Gentlemen, we are met tonight to discuss the most
serious business of our career. Never before have we
been confronted with such a tedious, dangerous task as
the one I am about to put before you now. We have
swung elections that seemed almost impossible to swing;
we have stuffed ballot boxes; we have been able to do
everything that was necessary to put and keep us in
power. This time, gentlemen, for us to keep our place
in this state, we must murder, and the man is—” At
this he paused, shifted the weight of his body to his
right leg and looked into the eyes of his men who, five
in number, were now gazing at him, weighing each word
in the deepest mediation their minds would allow. He
continued:
“He is Rig Rill Brown, the present city councilman.
He knows of our past deeds; he saw me as I drove
away with the ballot box two years ago; he saw you,
Harris, when you knocked off that election official four
years ago.”
At this, Harris Floyd’s body squinched and slightly
trembled; the scene of that killing passed before his
eyes: he saw himself pour lead into the helpless official;
he thought that it was a clear get-away since it was four
years ago and was placed among the unsolved crimes;
now he learned that someone of the opposition knew
of it.
After studying Harris’s face, Patti cleared his throat
and continued: “He knows too much; he has threat
ened to tell everything and expose us all. We’ll have
to kill him.’’
Each man pondered in his mind who was to be the
killer. Brown was a big man; his murder would cause
a great commotion, and his murderer was doomed with
out mercy if he should be caught. Each one of them
wanted to see him dead, but none of them was eager
to be the trigger man.
Slowly rising from his seat, Pat Freighburg, the Irish-
Jew with broad shoulders and a heavy muscular frame—
he was once a star tackle on Notre Dame’s football team
—stood and commanded the attention of his associates.
“Boys,” he said, “we need action and we need it now.
Let’s swear an oath, each one of us swear an oath to
death, that we will kill this man Brown or die in tHe
attempt.” There was a slight shuffling of feet, but no one
stirred as Pat sat down. The moments that followed
were very tense as each one wa ited for someone else
to begin the oath. Patti pulled out liquor, and glasses
were filled. Through the silence gulping could be heard
as each man took in the liquor to stimulate bis nerves.
After a long pause, Alonzo Walker, the short, stocky
American, arose with a glass in his hand, and lifting it
high over his head, spoke the rash vow: “I, A1 Walker,
swear to kill Big Bill Brown or die in the attempt.” He
drank the contents of the glass midst the encouraging
“atta boy” and “hurrah for Al” from his comrades.
Directly after him came Pattie, and then Floyd, and
then Freighburg, and then Walker, and then Quotsky,
all repeating the vow and drinking the contents in the
glasses.
At one end of the table sat John Payne, the Negro
councilman, who by mere fate became a member of
Patti’s political circle. He had not taken the oath,
but sat there gazing into space with a slight quiver upon
his lips. Then slowly he arose, firmly took the glass,
stammered the oath, drank the liquor, and sat down
while his white friends loudly applauded him.
Tony Patti, the big boss, walked across the room, took
his hat, tore up some small pieces of paper, six of them,
wrote on one “you're the one” and left the rest blank.
Stirring them up in the hat, he walked to the table and
passed the hat to each man as it was customary to do
when a task was assigned to some one member of the
gang. Each man took his slip with trembling hands.
James (Juotsky looked at his, and his face turned blank
—he sighed—he wasn’t chosen. Walker, Patti, Floyd,
Payne, Freighburg took theirs and looked at them. As the
men looked around the table to see by the facial ex
pression who was elected, they saw the dark face of
John Payne pale; his hands trembled, his body shook,
He looked at the paper again and again with unbeliev
ing eyes. He was chosen. Every man arose from his
seat, put on his coat and left the room, leaving Payne
staring into space, murmuring something under his
breath that was not audible to the rest. As Patti reached
the doorway he turned and reminded Payne of the sacred
ness of his duty.
The room became very silent. Smoke still filled the
room, enclosing the bent figure of Payne as he sat with
head in his hands, silently cursing himself for being in
politics, cursing Patti, cursing everybody. The rain now
began to patter against the window pane. A mouse came
out of his hole, crawled onto the table, looked at the
silent figure and scrambled away. In the late hours of
the night Payne left the room and went out into the rain.
As he walked he talked aloud to himself.
“Why did I do it? Why did I ever join with this
guy Patti? If I could only get out of it. That’s it; I II
leave right away.—No, my family, my property.—I be
lieve I’ve been tricked! Why should I bump Bill? He’s
done nothing to me. He has nothing on me. II I kill
and get caught—my neck.”
All the while his body chilled, his brain reeled, tears
dimmed his eyes, he felt everything slipping from under
him. Giving vent to his emotions, he cried out: “To
hell with Patti and his gang and his plots! I’ll not kill
Brown!”
At this conclusion he went home and fell across his
bed, fully dressed and tired.
The next afternoon Tony Patti, the big boss, arrived
at Payne’s home in his Packard. He entered and sat
down. From the next room Payne entered to listen to
Patti.