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  Copyright, 1931 by William Riley Burnett

  Collier’s

  May 2-30, 1931

  Vol. 87, Nos. 18-22

  June 6-27, 1931

  Vol. 87, Nos. 23-26

  July 4, 1932

  Vol. 88, No. 1

  The Crowell-Collier Publishing Company

  250 Park Avenue, New York (17), N.Y.

  Custom eBook created by

  Jerry eBooks

  August, 2014

  Protection

  W.R. Burnett

  (custom book cover)

  Title Page

  Jerry eBooks

  Copyright

  Teaser

  PART ONE

  PART TWO

  PART THREE

  PART FOUR

  PART FIVE

  PART SIX

  PART SEVEN

  PART EIGHT

  PART NINE

  CONCLUSION

  An ambitious man fights for power and love in a game without rules.

  PART ONE

  MICHAELSON laughed, and knocked the ashes from his cigar with his little finger in order to show off a big diamond ring. Stein glanced across the room at Harworth and sat tapping with his cane.

  “All right,” said Harworth. “But talking about it is one thing and collecting is another.

  Michaelson leaned forward in his chair and shook his finger at Harworth.

  “Sure. But I collect. I don’t take no chances with big accounts. Life’s too short. Them kind of accounts ain’t no good, anyway. Once you get the money, that’s all you need to worry about.”

  Harworth turned the check Michaelson had given him over and over but said nothing.

  “See what I mean?” Michaelson went on. “The guys that run accounts, big accounts, arc squawkers. All they’re looking for is a chance to welsh. Once you got their dough, give ’em the boot.”

  “Don’t let ’em get in you in the first place,” said Stein; “that’s the best way to save a lot of trouble.”

  “Sure, sure,” Michaelson replied. “Sounds easy, but when a guy’s lost his roll, maybe five, maybe ten grand, and he asks you if you can’t stake him to a grand or so, what the hell! He’ll play it back.”

  “Well,” said Harworth to Michaelson, “all I got to say is, I wish I had a couple more men like you, Sam.”

  Stein looked up but said nothing. His face was dark and melancholy and seamed. His hair was grizzled and there was something patriarchal in his expression.

  “OH, I do my best, Mr. Harworth,” said Michaelson, Hushing with pleasure. “Look,” he went on, “you gave me a break when I needed one damn’ bad. What I say is, play square with a square guy. Give me a chance and I’ll double our take next month.”

  “How’s the protection?” asked Stein. “I’m looking after that,” replied Michaelson sharply.

  “I asked you a question.”

  Michaelson turned his sharp, pale, hawklike face toward Harworth. “Well?” Stein insisted.

  “Look,” said Michaelson, “don’t you trust me on that angle, Mr. Harworth?”

  “Sure,” said Harworth.

  Michaelson threw a triumphant glance at Stein, but Stein said:

  “Who said anything about trusting! I asked you a plain question. I’m managing things here till I get further notice. I looked that expense sheet over and I didn’t see no mention of money spent that way.”

  “Well,” said Michaelson, looking at the carpet, “I don’t keep no account of it, see? I can’t. Bourke gets his fifty bucks a day and I got to take care of the dicks a little at a time.”

  “Wait a minute, August,” Harworth put in. “Don’t go so fast. The take this month is away over last month. What you kicking about?”

  “Sam,” said Stein, “I want that protection money accounted for next month.”

  “Can you beat that!” exclaimed Michaelson. Then he addressed himself to Harworth: “I guess he thinks I’m crooked!”

  STEIN laughed, a single snort, then turned away and lit a cigar. Michaelson looked from one to the other.

  “Hell! Can you beat that!”

  “Never mind,” said Harworth, getting to his feet and looking at his watch. “What time you got, August?”

  Michaelson hastily pulled out an expensive watch, platinum, thin as a silver dollar and with his monogram in gold on the back.

  “Five till three, Boss,” he said, displaying the watch.

  “I’m going to give that bohunk a going over. I told him two-thirty. I guess he thinks all I’ve got to do is sit around and wait for him.”

  Harworth took a cigarette from a humidor on the table beside him and lit it. Stein said:

  “He’s a busy guy, Frank.”

  “Is he? Busy doing what? Telling everybody what a great man he is!” Michaelson laughed and got up. “Through with me, Mr. Harworth?”

  “No. I want to ask you one question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did you collect from Joe Bergson and Faro Welch?”

  Michaelson waved his cigar.

  “It’s a business secret.”

  “Well?”

  Stein sat looking up at Michaelson, tapping with his cane. Michaelson rubbed his chin for a minute, looking from one to the other, then he said:

  “Mr. Harworth, how many big accounts you got standing out at the Casa Alvarado and The Machine?”

  “Plenty.”

  “Big ones?”

  “Five or six in the thousands.”

  “How about your restaurants?”

  “None there.”

  “All right. I’ll collect every big account you got for ten per cent.”

  Harworth said nothing but turned to look at Stein. Stein shrugged.

  “What’s your system?” he asked. “Never mind. Never mind. I ain’t asking for a thing; just ten per cent. And I ain’t taking it out. When you’re satisfied you pay me. Is it a go?”

  “Why not?” said Harworth.

  “Well—” Stein smiled. “Sounds all right. Going to sic Canovi on ’em?” Michaelson started and Stein smiled again.

  “It’s a bum system,” he grimaced. “They pay just the same, and that’s the main thing. Canovi just has a quiet little talk with ’em and they pay. Sometimes they leave town and someone pays for ’em, that’s all. See?”

  “Nothing doing,” Stein. “We don’t need money that bad.”

  Harworth stood looking from one to the other, perplexed. He said:

  “Say, let me in on this.”

  “Well,” said Stein, “Sam here’s got a nice little gentleman friend named Canovi. When people don’t pay up he drops around to see them and asks them how they’d like to stop a few bullets!”

  “Yeah, but it’s just a stall. He don’t even pack a heater.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “He don’t carry a gun. It’s all a bluff. It’s the old run-around.”

  Harworth’s face hardened. “Why not?” he said. “It’s better than suing. I’ll send you a list, Sam; and the ten per cent goes.”

  “Frank,” Stein put in, “that’s a bad move. You don’t need the money.”

  “It’s settled. I’m sick of carrying a half-dozen rich mugs on my books. Let ’em pay up; they’ve got it.”

  “IT’S a cinch,” said Michaelson, putting on his hat. “Rich guys’re always the hardest to collect from. They got it, and they know you know they got it. They can afford to stall. All right. Send me the list. I’ll clear up your books in thirty days.”

  “Well,” said Stein, “I wouldn’t stand for m
urder myself.”

  Harworth stalled slightly, but said nothing.

  “Listen to the guy,” Michaelson explained. “Say, them guys never take a second look at Canovi. They pay up. Canovi’s got eyes! He looks like he ate rattlesnakes for breakfast, but he’s as nice a guy as you’d want to meet.”

  “You bet!” said Stein.

  There was a knock at the door and Joseph came in.

  “Well?” called Harworth.

  “Mr. Hrdlicka wants to see you, Mr. Harworth.”

  “All right.”

  “I’m on my way,” said Michaelson. “See you soon.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  JOSEPH opened the door tor Hrdlicka, a big, dark, powerfully-built Bohemian, who was wearing a short black double-breasted coat, striped trousers and white spats. He bowed.

  “I’m very late, Mr. Harworth. I was detained.”

  “Detained, eh? When I say two-thirty I mean it! You expect me to wait around here all day?”

  Hrdlicka flushed, but said nothing. “Hello, Anton,” said Stein.

  “Hello, August.”

  Hrdlicka took a chair beside Stein and handed him a big envelope containing the monthly account.

  “Anton,” said Harworth, “give Sam those six big accounts. He’s going to collect them.”

  Hrdlicka looked at Michaelson for a moment, then took a second envelope from his pocket and handed it to Harworth, who gave it to Michaelson.

  “It’s all there,” explained Hrdlicka. “Addresses, references and all. I thought you were going to sue.”

  “We’ll try this first,” said Harworth. “It’s a cinch.” Michaelson walked to the door and then added: “Good-by, Boss.”

  Joseph showed him out and they heard him talking and laughing in the hall; then the door slammed.

  Stein tapped the paper he had in his hand.

  “That’s what I call a real account. You’re making money hand over fist there, Frank.”

  “Business is good,” said Hrdlicka. “Both places are packed every night but Monday. On Saturday we turn ’em away.”

  Harworth shrugged.

  “August, when you get through with Hrdlicka come back to my room. I want to see you.”

  Then with a curt nod he went out. Hrdlicka rose half out of his chair to acknowledge the nod, then sank back with a profound sigh. Stein bent over the accounts, but Hrdlicka demanded: “What did I ever do to Mr. Harworth?”

  “Nothing, nothing. It’s because you was late, see? He’s awful damn’ touchy about things like that. He thinks you done it on purpose, trying to make him look small. He’s a funny boy, that way.”

  “I couldn’t help it.”

  “Never mind. Just remember: when he says two-thirty make it a quarter past and then he’ll be all smiles, see?”

  “I like him,” said Hrdlicka. “He’s a very interesting young man. So successful at his age.”

  “Well,” Stein looked up over his glasses, “he’s earned it. He was kicked around like a football. Never had a chance. His old man run one of the toughest saloons in Ohio. But that’s between us, see? Don’t never let him find out I told you!”

  “Not for anything,” said Hrdlicka.

  When Stein came in, Harworth was sitting with his feet on the window sill, reading a newspaper. It was warm and the window was wide open. A strong, cool breeze was flapping the curtains and far away over the housetops Stein saw Belmont Harbor, full of moored sailboats and launches, and beyond, the open lake, deep blue in the early evening.

  “Hello, August,” said Harworth, turning.

  He was smiling now and his habitual set, harsh expression softened.

  “Hello, kid,” said August, putting his hand on Harworth’s shoulder. “How you making out? I’m hungry.”

  “It’s only about six-thirty,” said Harworth, but he rang for Joseph, who appeared almost immediately.

  “Yes, sir,” said Joseph.

  “Tell Ella to hurry things up. August is starved.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Joseph, hesitating. “Well?”

  “I don’t want to bother you, Mr. Harworth, but I wonder if . . . I mean my wife’s sick and it’s been a big expense to me and I was just wondering. I didn’t want to bother you, but . . .”

  “Need money?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right. Fix him up, August.” Joseph bowed slightly, then he said: “Excuse me, Mr. Harworth. But we was talking last night. All of us, I mean—Sandy and Ella—and we was saying we ought to thank you for the way you treat us.”

  “All right, Joseph,” said Harworth, irritably.

  Joseph went out.

  “Just because I play fish for that bunch of chiselers—” began Harworth laughing. “Only I know what it means not to have money.”

  “They swear by you, kid.”

  Harworth got up and stood looking out the window. August took out one of his big black cigars and lit it.

  “Frank,” he said, finally, settling himself into a big chair, “I don’t like your friend Michaelson. He’s tough.”

  “He gets results.”

  “Sure. But how? You know I never wanted you to get mixed up in that gambling racket, anyway. You’re making enough money legitimately.”

  “ENOUGH?” Harworth turned. “What do you mean—enough! I want to make millions. Hell, this is piking.”

  “Well,” said August, “I’ve seen the day when a five-spot looked pretty good to you.”

  “All right! All right. You knew me then, didn’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Listen. I’m not started yet. I haven’t begun to open up. This is pocket money.”

  August laughed, but said nothing. “No kidding. I’d like to get into the big money.”

  “Well, you’re in bigger money right now than I ever hoped to see. Nine to ten thousand a month don’t look bad to me if you’d only keep some of it.”

  “Yeah, but it comes in dribbles. You know. You never feel like you’ve got anything.”

  “How about your investments?”

  “I don’t think that way. Money is money. A house is a house.”

  “A nigger financier,” said August, laughing. “He’s got to have spot cash or he thinks he’s broke. How you made all this dough in the first place is a puzzle to me!”

  “Well, just like any other guy that makes money, I got the breaks. That Zimmerman Point proposition put me up in the good-money class.” He came over and put his hand on Stein’s shoulder. “And I had plenty of good advice.”

  “Say—!” said Canovi. Then he stood. “Thanks for the compliment. But why don’t you take my advice any more?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About Michaelson. He’s a crook. And about that strong-arm stuff. You’ll get somebody killed and wouldn’t that be nice!”

  “No danger.” Harworth thought for a moment, then said: “You can’t just kill a guy.”

  “Can’t you?”

  Joseph came in.

  “Dinner’s ready, Mr. Harworth.”

  “Thanks.”

  Joseph went out. As soon as the door was closed, Harworth seized Stein by the wrist and pulled him to his feet.

  “Come on, August, you old glutton.”

  HRDLICKA opened the door of the dressing-room and came in. Lily was lying on a couch at the side of her dressing-table, reading a magazine. Campi, in evening clothes, was walking up and down, smoking.

  “Just had a call from Stein,” said Hrdlicka. “Harworth’s on his way down here.”

  “Thanks, Anton,” said Lily, lowering the magazine.

  She was small and slight, with blonde-hair and dark eyes. Her feet were small and well-arched and her hands were long and slim. Her face was heavily made up as she was ready for her first number.

  “We’ll move the first number up five minutes,” said Hrdlicka. “He probably wants to see you.”

  Campi shrugged and turned away. He had a narrow, dark face and patent-leather hair. He was tall and slen
der and looked well in clothes, except that he was usually overdressed. He was very nervous and couldn’t stay in a chair any length of time. His eyes were big and dark and his black eyebrows met above his nose.

  “How’s the crowd?” he asked.

  “Good. Very good,” said Hrdlicka. When Hrdlicka had gone Campi laughed and turned to Lily.

  “Well,” he said, “get all set.”

  “He makes me sick,” exclaimed Lily, throwing her magazine on the floor.

  “Oh, yes,” said Campi.

  “Well, he does.”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Is it?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  LILY got up and stood with her hands on her hips, looking at Campi.

  “Now don’t start that.”

  Campi swore under his breath and turned away.

  “Who got me into this?” she asked. “Well, it’s good dough, isn’t it? We’re fixed. Getting twice what we’re worth.”

  “Think so?” she asked him, angrily. “Sure. You belong in a chorus; back row.”

  “Shut up.”

  Campi shrugged and, taking out a flask, drank from it.

  “Just as long as you can put your feet under a table and buy liquor you’re satisfied,” said Lily.

  “Well, what more could I want?”

  He laughed, put his flask away and sat down on the couch. Lily went to the dressing-table and began to dab powder on her face.

  “He’s a big chump,” said Campi. “How he ever made all that dough I’ll never tell! He don’t know straight up.” He got suddenly to his feet, went to the door and came back, imitating Harworth, with a set, harsh expression on his face, swinging his arms as he walked and swaggering.

  “Hello,” he said in a slightly hoarse voice, nodding curtly.

  Lily leaned against the dressing-table, laughing. Campi shrugged and sat down on the couch again.

  “You don’t know him like I do,” said Lily.

  “I hope not.”

  “Say, don’t get smart. I mean he’s bugs, off his nut. What does he want to wear a monocle for and all that stuff? Why, he looks to me like he ought to be shoveling coal, with them shoulders of his, but here he is, all dressed up like a chorus man.”