The Washington times., 1931-04-08

ILle SQaQOWy DUSK. 1I mduGleQ
the lights on Centro's main
street and spewed the side
walk with a Shiny moisture.
The mooing Of the boat whis-
ties on the river front blended
with the sharper staccato blasts
from the stockyards. The great
gates Of the packing plants
swung open, disgorging horde
Of rubber-coated figures, who
disappeared into the lowering
darkness.
Down the street numbered the
huge form Of a man, dimly out
lined in the haze. He was a
burly creature, clad in rough,
unshapely garments. His great
gorilla-like arms swung with
every step.
From beneath the brim of a
battered felt hat his small,
piercing eyes glared to right
and left; his brow was CORFU
gated by deep frown. A closer
scrutiny of the menacing figure
disclosed blood-stainS on his
hands and clothing.
The Sinister Giant
A passing policeman turned,
and stared at the sinister giant,
then a glimmer of recognition
showed in his eyes. Hello,
Slaughterhouse!" he barked.
The big man grunted. Rails
ing a great ham-like hand, he
wiped his stubby chin, stained
by tobacco juice. He paused,
and squinted at door, beneath
O dim electric globe.
On the dingy pane was IN
scribed:
Johnny Franks Steak House"
From within came the sound
Of clattering dishes. The man
entered and swept the place
with a glance. In the rear, a
dull red glare arose from a coal
broiler.
The sizzle of frying meat. The
smell of fish and burned lobster
shells and the haze Of smoke
hung like a pungent, miasmlc
fog over the tables. That was
only a part of the unsavory
pattern. The man paused at
the counter and grinned at the
cook, who peered at him
through bloodshot eyes.
Hello, Barber's Itch, where's
johnny"
'Who's that?" asked the
cooks helper, as the man lum-
bered toward the rear booths.
Champ Steer Killer
Louie Scorpio-they all call
him Slaughterhouse. A champ
steer killer over at the stock
yards. Tough egg. Licked a
foreman last week and run him
off the place. Good shot, TOO.
Won the revolver prize at the
butchers annual picnic"
Scorpio peered into one OF
the six private booths along the
narrow passage leading to the
alley door. The occupants were
two men, and as Scorpio sat
down he greeted them with a
nod.
The gray pallor Of Johnny
Franks face was accentuated
by a livid scar across his chin.
His watery eyes regarded Scor-
pio appraisingly. His compan-
ion. Nick MiZoSki, was heavily
set, with a shallow, hawkllke
face. In certain circles he was
better known as THE Gouger."
"I see Allen was bumped off
last night" Scorpio remarked to
Franks. The latter nodded and
grinned. TOO bad he got hit
by that auto, amt it, GSuger?"
The Gouger frowned.
Lay off that Gouger stuff.
This here is a hick town, but
even a hick cop might remenl-
ber that one"
A slovenly waiter came up to
the table, a dirty towel flung
over his arm.
"Well. Slaughterhouse, what's
it going to be?"
"a platter of spaghetti, heavy
on tabasco-and a bottle Of
cow"
AS the waiter walked away,
Franks grinned.
"Say, Slaughterhouse. been
thinkin' over what we talked
to you about?"
Scorpio balanced a fork on
his finger before he replied.
yeah. A lot. You guys
may be making jack, but you'll
get into jams, too. It's a
bloody kind of game where
you gotta bump guys Off"
Explaining the Racket
"So'S yours" retorted Johnny.
"Hammering down steers amt
exactly gents job-and thirty
five a week won't make you
no millionaire. OF course-if
you're satisfied, okay. We
picked you to trail with us be-
cause you're supposed to be a
big shot at the slaughterhouse.
But If you amt got the CUTS"
you know it amt that" re-
torted Scorpio. But I was
figuring-and I'd rather have a
belly full Of grub than bullets"
"You got an idea this racket
Is worse than it really is" the
Gouger interceded. I'VE amt
runnin' any risks. We never
sell nothin' here in the steak
house, and everybody knows it.
That makes this joint a safe
hangout.
'The still and our plant of