WILLIAM CAMPBELL GAULT
See No Evil
STORIES FEATURING ETHNIC characters were uncommon in the pulps; writers wouldn't write them because editors and publishers seldom bought them for fear of alienating their readership. Just as uncommon were corpseless character studies, because pulp readers demanded rapid-fire action and bodies galore.
Every now and then, however, a story would come along that, even though it broke one of the above taboos, was so good editors could not bring themselves to reject it. Dane Gregory's "Hear That Mournful Sound" is a case in point. But it was a rare day that saw the publication of a story that broke both of the above taboos—a story such as William Campbell Gault's "See No Evil."
First published in the September 1950 issue of New Detective, one of Popular Publications' string of detective pulps (and a magazine generally reserved for newcomers and non-series stories), "See No Evil" is a strong character study of two Mexican-American brothers trying to deal with hard times, racial prejudice, and hot-rod hoodlums in Southern California. Poignant and powerful, it proves that sensitivity and social relevance can indeed be found in those yellowing pulp pages.
William Campbell Gault is the author of any number of fine stories and novels, some of which deal with other ethnic characters and many of which combine the themes of crime and sport. A native of Milwaukee, he began his career in 1936 by selling short-shorts to the McClure Newspaper Syndicate and to such mild sex magazines as Paris Nights and Scarlet Adventuress; he went on to write sports fiction, and in 1939, sold his first criminous story to Ten Story Detective. Gault's work appeared in all the leading mystery/detective, adventure, and sports pulps, a total of more than 300 sales. He also published three auto-racing stories (one with a racial prejudice theme) in The Saturday Evening Post.
It was in the novel form, however, after the collapse of the pulps in the early fifties, that he gained his primary reputation. His first novel, Don't Cry for Me, was awarded the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award as the Best First Novel of 1952; and there followed such other high quality mysteries as The Bloody Bokhara, The Canvas Coffin, The Convertible Hearse, and Day of the Ram (the last two featuring his best-known series character, ex-football player turned private eye, Brock Callahan). Although he abandoned crime fiction in the 1960s, to concentrate on the more lucrative juvenile market (where he has published thirty three novels), Gault has happily returned to a life of fictional crime in recent years with such new Brock Callahan adventures as The Bad Samaritan (1982) and The Cana Diversion (1982). He lives in Santa Barbara, California.

AT BREAKFAST, THERE was the story again, in the papers. I looked over at my brother, and saw his eyes on me. Big, brown eyes, Manuel's got, and a quick smile, and his brain is quick, too.
"Where were you last night, Manny?" I said.
"Out. Riding the heap around."
The heap is a '36 V8 with a cut-down solid top and two pots. With a Turbo head and Johannsen ignition. Too much car for any punk, but he'd built it. It had cost him many a skinned knuckle, and I couldn't say much about that.
"Around Pico, were you riding?" I asked him.
"Some. What's bothering you, Pete?"
"Kids bother me," I said. "Kids that got a grudge on the world. Kids that ride hot rods around, looking for trouble. In Pico, last night, seven of them beat up a guy; beat up one guy. They held his wife, while she watched. His sister had her baby with her and she ran away, but she fell in running away, and the baby's condition is critical. The man has a broken jaw and he lost three teeth and his back has been cut in seven places. It's all here in the paper, Manny."
"So? You don't have to read it, do you? You could read the sport page. Who's asking you to read it?"
"The kids were dark with brown eyes. Mexican kids, maybe."
"Maybe they're mad at the world, Pete. Maybe they figure they're not getting the break the gringos get."
"And that's the way to get a break, beating up strangers with tire irons?"
"I don't know, Pete. What's it to me?"
"I don't know. But this I know. If I thought you were one of them, I'd kill you where you sit."
"Would you? Who's mad now, Pete? What kind of talk is that?"
Mama had gone next door, to Sanchez's to borrow some eggs. Now she said, "That's what I'd like to know. What kind of talk is that, Peter Montello? Why don't you lay off Manuel? He's a good boy."
"He'd better stay a good boy," I said. "Where does he get his spending money?"
"There's ways of making a buck," Manny said. "I don't have to punch a time clock to make a buck."
"You had a black eye last week. Get that making a buck?"
"Maybe."
Mama said, "Peter it's time for work. Never mind about it, Peter."
"Who's the man around here?" I asked her. "Me or him?"
"What does it mater who's the man?" Mama answered. "I'm the boss. Here's your lunch, Peter."
I stood up and picked up my lunch. I looked at my brother. "You remember what I said."
"Which part?"
"And don't get flip." I got out before he gave me an answer to that.
Ah, he's all right. What kind of a break did he get, Papa dying when he was in seventh grade? High school, Manny had, but how could I send him farther, wrestling freight for Arnold's Cartage?
He's a bright kid, and should have gone to college.
But hot rods. Hot rod hoodlums now, running around like maniacs, insulting people, beating them. Wolf packs, some of the papers called them, and the sheriff was adding more deputies.
It was a hot, heavy day and I wore a pair of gloves to rags. Handling sole leather, and it cuts you all to hell.
Gina was sitting on her front porch when I went by on the way home, and I came up. She gave me a glass of lemonade.
"When we're married," she said, "I'll have a glass of it ready for you every night when you come home from work. I'll have a pitcher of it."
"When we're married—that's good," I said.
Her eyes are too soft for this world. She bruises too easy. "Why do you talk like that?" she asked me.
"When are we going to get married? What's wrong with a fact? What have you got against a fact?"
"What have you got against the world lately? Grouchy, grouchy, grouchy all the time. Tell me why should I love a grouch?"
"I don't know," I said. "I don't know."
"Oh, but I do, Peter," she said, and her soft hand stroked my cheek. "Oh, we won't fight. You've had a bad day."
"And Manny," I said.
"Now what?"
"These hoodlums, these hot rod hoodlums. Manny's got a hot rod."
"So?"
"And he had a black eye the other day."
She shook her head and looked at me with the soft eyes, like Manny's. "You're always hunting trouble, like those hoodlums. You don't know Manny's one, but you've got to think he is. Why do you always want to think bad?"
"I don't know. He's so—smart."
"You should be proud he is, not resentful. He's never given you any trouble."
Her brother Christy came up on the porch and poured himself a glass of lemonade. "Hi, Pete, how's the feet?"
Short and broad and perfect teeth. Was a fullback at Fullerton High, but no college made an offer.
I asked him, "Were you with Manny last night?"
"That's a good question," he said. "I forget. Ask Manny."
I reached over to grab him by the shirt, but Gina was quicker, and between us. "Peter, for heaven's sakes!" she said. "You're like a wild man."
Christy was looking at me, and his eyes were shiny and his mouth working. Both his fists were clenched.
I could have crushed him with one hand. I went past them and down the steps. I went home, and got in the shower Manny had put in the back yard.
Lots of things around here Manny had fixed up. He was handy with tools. And with tire irons?
Manuel. Manuel, my baby brother. When he was three, I was twelve, and watching him all the time, because I wanted to. Smart, always smart and quick and smiling.
About eight, Gina came over. She said, "You forgot your lunch bucket." She had it in her hand.
"I'm sorry, Gina," I said. "I feel better now."
"I thought you would. Let's go to the park. There's a concert tonight."
We sat on the grass, where it's free. Ortiz had a big voice, and you could sit in Palos Verdes and hear him. A poor man's singer, he must be; you can hear him in the cheap seats. What a voice, what a man.
I held Gina's hand and forgot about her brother. I almost forgot about Manny. Where had he been at suppertime?
Next morning, there were no new troubles in the paper. But the sheriff said there was a possibility the increase in housebreaking might be tied up with these hoodlum gangs. The city police were inclined to agree.
Manny was reading the sport page.
"Why weren't you here for supper?" I asked him.
"Wasn't hungry."
"Look at me when I talk to you."
He put the paper down.
"Did you call Ma that you wouldn't be here for supper?"
He nodded. "She knew about it."
She came from the kitchen with more pancakes. "Now what?"
"Nothing."
"Punching the clock, that's what's the matter with him," Manny said. "If you don't like it, why don't you quit, Pete?"
"And how would you two eat, then?"
"We'd find a way. We don't want to be a burden, Pete." He was grinning at me, that smart grin.
"Be quiet, both of you," Mama said. "I don't want another word out of you two this morning."
Another hot day. Loading refrigerators. The guys you get to work with these days, you might as well be alone. At noon, I sat near the north door, in the shade, with my lunch and the paper.
The voice was Shultz's. Big, round guy with a round head. Thinks he's the original Atlas.
"It's these damned Spanish-Americans, they like to be called. Most of these punks got Mex names, you notice? Manuel, or Leon, or—"
"Or Shultz," I called over.
"That's one of them," he told his buddies. "If I had my way—"
I was up and walking over there now. "What would you do, cabbage-head?" I asked him quietly.
"I'd shoot every one of those punks," he told me. "Beating up innocent people, scaring women into hysterics."
"You've got a big mouth, Shultz," I told him. "If you worked like you talked, we'd all be laid off."
He stood up, his face red. He rubbed his big hands on his cotton pants, looking me over. "Fight?" he said. "You want to fight, Mex?"
I nodded, and he came in.
He came in with a right hand I should have ducked, but didn't. It hit next to the ear and put me down. I saw his foot coming for my jaw as I scrambled on the concrete, and I twisted clear of it.
I was on my feet when he closed again. I put a fine left deep into his belly, and heard him grunt. His head crashed my mouth, and the blood spurted.
I caught him on the nose with a wild left, and he paused for maybe a second. My right caught his left eye.
He started one from the floor, and I beat him to it. It was a button shot, and I hit him twice more while he was falling.
His buddies were still sitting there. One of them said, "Don't get us wrong, Pete. We didn't ask him to sit with us. Sit down, Pete."
"It's cooler over here," I said.
It had been all right while it lasted, but it didn't do any good now. My hands trembled and I couldn't eat my lunch, and I was sick of myself. Hating wasn't any good; fighting wasn't any good. Why was I like this?
Gina was on the porch again. Mrs. Sanchez was there too, but not Christy.
Gina looked at my swollen lip, and her big eyes asked questions.
"Got caught by a packing case," I said. "Lucky it didn't tear my head off."
Mrs. Sanchez rocked in her rocker, saying nothing.
"Peter, poor Peter," Gina said.
"I'm all right," I said. "I'm no poorer than the rest in this block."
Mrs. Sanchez sighed, and said nothing.
"It must be hot in that warehouse," Gina said. "Should I make some lemonade?"
"Not today, not with this lip," I said. "I'll see you later."
"Tonight?"
"Sure. I suppose."
What was there in it? I could sit on her porch the rest of my life. Five years I'd been going with her and not a dime nearer to the priest. What was there in it? Pa hadn't left anything and Manny wasn't good for anything. I had Mama to take care of.
Manny was home for supper that evening. We didn't have any words for each other.
"Some home," Mama said. "Brothers not talking to each other."
Manny grinned. "He'll grow up some day, Ma. He was always the baby."
I looked at him and said nothing.
"Forget to duck?" he asked me.
Mama said, "It was a packing case. Peter is not street brawler, Manuel."
"Oh," Manny said, that smart way.
I asked him, "Don't you believe it?"
"Sure. If you say it. You wouldn't lie, Pete."
Red, things got, and I could feel his steady brown eyes on me. But I remembered Shultz, and how I'd felt after that.
"And if I did fight," I said, "I wouldn't use a tire iron. And I wouldn't need a gang."
Manny said quietly, "What the hell do I care what you'd do? You think you're some kind of an example?"
His eyes were burning; I'd never seen him this way before. He was breathing heavy; you could see his chest going in and out.
"Manuel—" Mama said warningly.
"Well, tell him to lay off of me, then! Picking, picking, picking all the time! I—" He got up and went out of the dining room.
The front door slammed.
Mama was shaking her head. "Peter, Peter, Peter—what is it? He's just a boy."
"He's old enough to work. I was working at his age."
She looked at the tablecloth. She was crying.
"Ma," I said, "I'm—oh, I don't know what I am. I'm sorry, Ma."
She nodded. "I know, I know—Peter, it's not good to hate. It's not good, being suspicious. Is it because of Gina? Because you've waited so long? You think I've been happy about that? Peter—"
"What's the good of talking?" I asked her. "It's a rat race, Ma." I got up, too, and went out.

It was cooler now. I could see Gina, in her kitchen, helping her mother with the dishes. I went over to Fourteenth Street, to Barney's.
I only had two bucks on me, but my credit was good. I drank a lot of whiskey, and it didn't do any good at all. I wasn't happy now, or mad—just sour, dead, empty.
The lights were out at Sanchez's. There was a light on in our house, though, and a prowl car in front. I hurried up the walk.
There was a cop there. Ma was sitting in the big chair, and crying. Manny was sitting on the davenport, looking mad.
The cop had a book in his hand, a bank book. He turned as I came in. He sniffed, and looked at me suspiciously.
"What's the matter?" I said. Sick, I was now, and mad.
"You the brother?"
"That's right. What's the matter?"
"Found this little book in a home that was robbed tonight. It's a bankbook showing a total deposit of eleven hundred dollars, made out to your brother."
"Eleven hundred dollars?" I stared at Manny. "You—"
"It's mine, but I lost it, Pete. I lost it over two weeks ago."
"Eleven hundred dollars," I said, and took a step his way.
"Peter—" Mama said. Her voice was deep and she glared at me. "This is the time, Peter. Now, I'll know if you're a brother."
Manuel, Manuel ... I fought the whiskey and the hate in me. What a baby he'd been. What a smart, quick, smiling baby. I took a deep breath and faced away from him. I faced the cop.
"He says he lost it. Two weeks ago, he says."
"And reported the loss?"
"The very next day," Manny said. "You could check that at the bank. You want to see the new one they gave me?"
The cop shook his head. "You've got a '36 Ford, a convertible with a cut-down, solid top?"
"Every other rod in town's a '36 with solid top. That's the best model to cut down."
"Maybe. I think you ought to come down anyway. Just a few questions, you know, like where you were tonight."
Well, a test. I turned around and said, "I'll go along, Manny. Don't let him scare you."
"I'm not scared, I'm mad," Manny said. "I'm so mad I'm not scared to admit where I was tonight, though you won't like it, Pete. I was at Gilmore Stadium, driving the Art Willis Special. I won the feature in it. There must have been a couple thousand watching me."
"You, in a race car?" I said. "Manny, baby, you're just a—"
"Pete, I won. I win a lot of races. You should read the sports pages, Pete, not the front pages; you'd learn an awful lot."
Now I saw, and took a deep breath. "And the eleven hundred?"
"Was for you. A truck for you, I was saving for. So you could be in business for yourself, and wouldn't have to punch the clock. Ma knew I was driving, but we were scared to tell you, the way you've been."
"Sounds very fine," the cop said, "but I'm afraid it would sound better if the lieutenant heard it."
"Beat it," I said. "Go someplace and blow your whistle. You're not taking my brother anywhere."
"Peter—" Mama said.
The phone rang.
"That would be for me," the cop said, and went over to pick up the phone.
"Right," he said, and "Oh—I see. Admitted it? Let's see, that would be next door. Makes sense, all right. Sure, I'll run over and talk to his folks."
He hung up, and faced us. He didn't look comfortable. "A—a Christy Sanchez admitted finding that bankbook, and admitted being a member of the gang that robbed that house. Said he left it behind on' purpose. Had some kind of grudge against your brother." He looked at me. "That would be you."
I didn't say anything.
He shook his head. "I don't know what's the matter with these kids."
"Christy hasn't a father," I said. "When you're ready to go down with the Sanchez's, I'd like to go along, officer."
"All right. I'll drop back." He went out.
"Manny," I said. "Oh, Manny, baby."
"It's all right, Pete," he said. "You work hard, and it's been rough. But for gosh sakes, don't—ah, Pete."
But I couldn't help it. I was crying. And Pete was crying and Ma too. It was wonderful.