Crack shot, p.1
Crack Shot, page 1
part #5 of Cherry Delight Series
Cherry Delight
Cherry had to stop a gang war. She did it with a body block!
CRACK
SHOT
by Gardner Francis Fox
Written as Glen Chase
Originally printed in 1973
Digitally transcribed by Kurt Brugel
2021 for the Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC
Cover Illustration by Kurt Brugel 2021
Copyright © 2021 by The Gardner Francis Fox Library LLC.
All inquires please contact gardnerffox@gmail.com
Gardner Francis Fox (1911 to 1986) was a wordsmith. He originally was schooled as a lawyer. Rerouted by the depression, he joined the comic book industry in 1937. Writing and creating for the soon to be DC comics. Mr. Fox set out to create such iconic characters as the Flash and Hawkman. He is also known for inventing Batman‘s utility belt and the multi-verse concept.
At the same time, he was writing for comic books, he also contributed heavily to the paperback novel industry. Writing in all of the genres; westerns, historical romance, sword and sorcery, intergalactic adventures, even vintage sleaze.
The Gardner Francis Fox library is proud to be digitally transferring over 150 of Mr. Fox’s paperback novels back into print.
7.5x7.5 softcover paperback book with 165 black & white pages.
This is the book that collects Kurt Brugel’s first half of the scratchboard book cover illustrations he created for the new editions of Mr. Fox’s stories.
I chose scratchboard as my medium for its graphic punch. The book cover is responsible for giving the reader an initial lead-in for what the story is about. Having all of the book covers based on the same motif will also unify the library as a whole. There is enough of a challenge with doing 156 of anything in art, but to have to illustrate the contents of the book using a “pretty face”, well then we have something special in-store. Purchase from- - -
www.gardnerfrancisfoxlibrary.com/art
Table of Contents:
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
The streetlamps above the San Francisco streets cast long black shadows on the wet pavements turning the puddles into tiny lakes of silver. From where I crouched, left hand gripping the Gucci bag which held my Colt automatic, I was not concerned with the eerie loveliness of the scene, all my attention was focused on dark shadows where four Mafia buttons waited in the quiet of the early summer night.
Those men were there to beat up a man.
It was my job to protect him. My name is Cherry Delight—born Priscilla Delissio—and I work for N.Y.M.P.H.O., which stands for the New York Mafia Prosecution and Harassment Organization, whose task it is to fight the Mafia crime lords wherever and whenever we get the chance. Like now, in this city of the cable cars.
The buttons and I were waiting for Everett Hunn to put in an appearance. He was inside the big building that looked like a warehouse but was in actuality a moving picture studio of sorts, where porno movies were made. I would much rather have been inside the huge, cement block building, watching the boys and girls going
through their skin flick capers, but duty is duty.
I shivered against the cold wind coming in off the bay, hunching my shoulders and turned up my collar so the misting rain that still seeped downward wouldn’t get inside and onto my neck. If those four hoods could stand this sort of weather, so could I.
From time to time we all watched the doorway of the building, alert for any movement that would show us Everett Hunn, emerging to get into his sleek maroon Lamborghini Miura and head for his suburban home. My eyes flicked from shadows to door, to the Miura, and back again.
I don’t know exactly how long we waited, maybe an hour or a little more, all told. But eventually the door opened, a crooked rectangle of light sprang out onto the wet sidewalk, and the figure of a tall man in his early thirties stepped into view. The door closed behind him and the man moved toward the Lamborghini.
The Mafia boys waited until he was far enough away from the door so he couldn’t run back inside, then they made their move. They came out of the shadows from four different directions and they aimed their big feet right at Everett Hunn.
I think he suspected trouble. He stopped and stared at them, moving his head slowly. His right hand made a fist, then his fingers opened. I straightened up, came into view myself. The buttons could not see me, I was behind them, but Hunn could, if he’d wanted to look; he was too busy eyeing the bulks of the strong-arm squad to bother about passersby.
Each of the four was fitting bright brass knuckles on his right hand. That brass showed clearly under the streetlamps, they were doing it to put fear in his guts, as a man might flex his muscles before a fight.
“Who are yah—you?” Hunn quavered.
He was afraid. I didn’t blame him. I have fought the Mafia from here to Italy and back, and I know how they operate. These men were persuaders, I was sure. Everett Hunn was in for a good beating, unless I could prevent it. As a sort of friendly gesture, urging him to do what the Mafia bosses wanted.
“You know who we are.”
“And why we’re here.”
“You didn’t do what Jimmy the Horse asked.”
They did not hurry, they sauntered forward, very sure of themselves. They were big men, they ran upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds, each one of them. But a lot of it was blubber, I felt sure. Some of their raincoats stretched at the seams. Still, they were more than a match for poor Everett Hunn.
My Lujano boots beat a quick tattoo as I ran. Nobody heard me.
Frankly, I was a little surprised. This corner of the city was the property of Big Frankie Sarnelli. Jimmy the Horse Gacciano was from Oakland, not San Francisco. For his buttons to be here meant he was encroaching on land sacred—in Mafia parlance to the Sarnelli crowd. I wondered, as I raced across the street, what Big Frankie might have to say if he knew that the Gacciano mob was moving into his territory.
“Ya should’ve answered him,” growled one man. “It was a big mistake, not to.”
“So the Horse sent us to talk to ya.”
Lamplight flickered on upraised brass knuckles. That was when I went into action. My right hand, very rigid, chopped down on the big wrist of the man with the upheld arm. I can break five wooden planks with that judo chop. I didn’t quite break the guy’s wrist, but I heard him grunt in pain.
I didn’t stay where I was.
Before the next man could turn, I had made a slight pivot on my left foot and kicked upward with the toe of the Lujano boot on my right foot. That toe caught number two button in the groin. He shouted in pain and doubled up.
By this time the other hoods were facing me. I saw their eyes widen, their jowls drop.
“It’s a dame,” one of them yelled. “Grab her, Fats!”
Fats came for me, bent over, leering. I guess he figured that as soon as he laid me out cold and beat up on Everett Hunn, he and his buddies would lay me out in a somewhat different manner. I let him come. When he was almost on top of me, I grabbed his bullet head and drove it downward with my hands, at the same time lifting my right knee to catch him flush on the nose with it.
He tumbled sideways, moaning.
The last man to face me gave a short bark of laughter. “You’re some dame, kid. I like your spunk. It’s too bad for you that you ain’t got the marines backing you up, because the boys and me are going to spoil that pretty face of yours.”
He swung his right arm. I saw the brass knuckles flash.
He really should have known better. He must have seen how I handled his fellow thugs. But dumb types like this never seem to learn. All he could think about was a pretty girl with red hair, about five feet two and with a shape to make an octogenarian drool. Me, that is. I was a “hole” in his kind of talk, and “holes” were good for only one thing.
My hands went up, I caught his wrist. At the same time I whirled and bent. My fingers wrapped around his wrist, I heaved. The button went up into the air. He seemed to hang there for a long moment, before he went down onto the sidewalk, head first.
The hollow sound of his head meeting stone pavement was very satisfying to my girl-girl soul. I had used the ippon seoi nage, the shoulder throw of the judo experts. He lay there, completely out of the action, arms and legs sprawled wide.
Actually, only one of the four showed any fight at this point, and this was the button whose wrist I’d whacked with my hand-edge. He was circling around, grunting a little with pain, but otherwise still on his feet.
I smiled at him as I slid feet in his direction. “You know what Big Frankie would do to you boys, if he knew what you were up to?” I asked softly.
His pig eyes got big. “Whatta you know about Big Frankie?”
“I ought to call him up to send a few of his own buttons over here to pick up you crumbs and take you to some nice, quiet place where he can go to work on you. You ever seen a man hung on a meat hook?”
Even in that pale light, I saw he had turned white as a freshly bleached sheet. He seemed to stagger a little, too. Oh, he knew about Big Frankie Sarnelli and the fact that he was in his territory. He also knew that one branch of The Family takes a dim view of having another branch of that same Family move into its territory uninvited.
“You goddamn hole,” h
“Myself, maybe. Or for Big Frankie. Or even the fuzz.”
He launched himself at me. At one time he must have played some football, because it was a very nice tackle, indeed. The only trouble with it was, I didn’t stay around to get pinned by it. I moved sideways and as he went past around my knees, I did a little football maneuver myself. I placekicked, using his head for the football.
He hit the sidewalk and lay there. I looked over his prone body at Everett Hunn. “Call the police,” I told him.
Hunn gulped and nodded. His eyes grew big when he saw my right hand lift out the snub-nosed Colt automatic that I’ve carried with me on all my N.Y.M.P.H.O. assignments.
I waved the gun. “This will persuade them to stay still, don’t worry. You go make that phone call.”
He ran. I put my spine against the cement block wall and waited. After a time a couple of the boys sat up and stared at my gun. It was steady in my hand and seemed to aim at each of them.
“I can use it,” I assured them. “Now be good boys and just wait. The cops won’t take long.”
It was relief I saw on their faces. I think they were afraid I was going to turn them over to Big Frankie. This they didn’t want, knowing the methods Sarnelli might adopt, which would be unpleasant in the extreme. They relaxed as best they could, and eyed me.
Everett Hunn came out of the building.
“Don’t get between them and me,” I called, “or one of them may grab you and use you as a body shield against my bullets.”
He stepped back so fast he almost fell down. His eyes were big, his face was rather pale, and his hands were shaking. The aftermath of what he had gone through was still in Everett Hunn.
His tongue licked his dry lips. “You’re pretty cool about all this. Who are you and how come you can handle four thugs so easily?
“I’ve been well trained.” My gun barrel waved at the sitting buttons. “I don’t want to talk in front of these bottoni. You understand?”
He nodded and sidled along the wall until he was by my side. He was an attractive guy, with a mane of yellow hair and a rather bushy blonde mustache. He wore a glen plaid suit with broadcloth body shirt and a silk twill tie. He looked very sharp. The word around town was that he was a millionaire, having made his fortune from producing skin flicks or what are known as porno movies, and by making them well.
I could hear him breathing harshly. “Relax,” I said. “It’s all over.”
“You must have nerves of steel,” he muttered. “How can you just stand there, knowing that these men would kill you at the flick of an eyelash if you made a mistake?”
Their eyes were watching me carefully, from where they sat or lay. Hunn was right. One false move and I was a goner. My strength was no match for theirs, I’d succeeded in downing them because I wear the black belt and am expert in karate as well.
“I can shoot straight,” I said. And they know it.”
“But how? How can they tell?”
“They’re looking into my eyes. Aren’t you, boys? You know damn well the first man who moves funny gets hot lead in his navel. Oh, yes. They know.”
I heard a dry chuckle. “You scare me too, I think.”
“Oh, I’m here to protect you. That’s my job. “Keep your eyes on Hunn and don’t let even his pinkie finger get bruised’, my boss told me. I obey him.
“Who is your boss?”
“No questions, remember. At least, not with the bottoni listening.”
We heard the police sirens then, and three squad cars pulled up against the curb. A fourth car slid in behind the others. Two plainclothesmen got out of the fourth car and moved toward us.
While the uniformed police put handcuffs on the Mafia boys, the detectives spoke to me. I drew them aside from Everett Hunn so I could flash my N.Y.M.P.H.O. badge at them and explain that I was working against the Mafia in this corner of their world. They were big men, one was in his forties, with premature gray hairs mixed in with the black, the other was in his late twenties and with an Italian cast of countenance.
The younger man introduced himself as Raf Rovere. The other was Charles O’Malley, Irish and with blue eyes to go with the black hair. O’Malley was dressed quite conservatively, charcoal gray suit and dark tie on white shirt, but Raf was more of a swinger in a velvet shirt-suit and a print silk square tied about his throat.
“You handled those four bruisers all by yourself?” asked Raf in awed tones.
“Faith, I don’t believe it,” O’Malley growled.
“Ask them,” I suggested.
The Irishman did. The volley of cuss words made him glance at me, eyebrows raised. “I’d like to see you in action, sometime,” O’Malley muttered almost wistfully.
Raf grinned, showing big white teeth. “Girl like you, you could take my job away.”
“I’m happy as I am,” I told him.
In less than fifteen minutes, the squad cars were off with their prisoners. Raf lingered, I think he wanted to make a date but O’Malley urged him away by hooking his elbow with a hand.
Everett Hunn sidled up to me, then. “I owe you,” he informed me. “More than I can repay, which you and I both know. I can’t offer you money, but how would you like to have dinner with me? I have a suggestion to make to you, if you’re agreeable.”
Dinner sounded good. I hadn’t eaten all day, I’d been too busy landing at International Airport and being whisked away in a limousine to my meeting with the N.Y.M.P.H.O. bossman who was to clue me in on my job. The Mafia was getting ready to muscle in on the porno business, he told me, and while the police scowled on the skin flick trade, they admitted it was their business to protect the citizens who were involved in it. Where the Mafia was concerned, the police worked hand in glove with N.Y.M.P.H.O., whose main stock in trade was the smashing of Mafia plots and counter-plots.
And so I’d driven a rented car to Mason Street and waited for the Mafia toughs to go into action. My stomach was telling me that a leisurely dinner would be a great idea.
“I’d love it,” I whispered up at him, batting my long red lashes so he could get the full effect of my green eyes.
He gawked down at me. I can change in an instant to the helpless, gushy female type that some males like. I was afraid he thought of me as a slim version of the powerful Katrinka, if any of you out there remember that old-time comic character. I had to rub out that idea and start over fresh with him.
Everett Hunn grinned and took my arm. “Come along, then. I know a place that specializes in English food. You do like roast beef, don’t you?”
“I adore it.”
The Lamborghini Miura was a low, sleek car that housed a twelve cylinder rear engine and was capable of doing a hundred and eighty miles an hour. A flip-back deck and a louvered rear window added to its air of luxury. This particular model was equipped with real tiger skin seat covers.
I oohed and aahed over it, much to Hunn’s delight. He was quite proud of Ferruccio Lamborghini’s design. It had cost him close to thirty thousand iron men, and he considered it his outdoor toy. The motor made no sound that I could hear when he started it up, and it merely purred as it moved along Mason Street toward Columbus Avenue.
“We’ll eat at the Quill and Pottle, if that’s all right with you. I like the atmosphere, it’s Shakespearean and cozy.”
“Sounds heavy,” I smiled.
“We’ll dine in the Lady Anne Room. On steak, if you prefer. I know I do. They grill it over charcoal and the salad is out of this world.”
“Please. Already, I’m drooling.”
He laughed softly. “Good. I despise a girl who picks and nibbles. I hope you’re a hearty eater.”
“I will be, especially after all that exercise.”
He sobered, staring at the traffic up ahead. “Yes, about that exercise. I’m taking all this a little lightly, but
I was scared witless, back there. You must be made of chilled steel, to handle four bruisers like that.” He shuddered. “If you hadn’t been there.
His voice trailed off. I said softly, “It was my job to be there. You wrote a letter to NY.M.P.H.O., didn’t you—asking for help?”
