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174 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1955
“Right,” Johnny said, “I want it. The chopper.”That “typewriter” makes its way to the crime scene in a large florist’s box when track bartender Mike Henty picks up the box from a Penn Station locker and transports it to his locker at work. However, something must have gone wrong with White’s own typewriter because when Johnny Clay puts the chopper into the locker (which occurs later in the book due to the back-and-forth time scheme of the narrative) it is in a suitcase. Nevertheless, when Johnny later retrieves the gun from Mike’s locker, it is back in the florist’s box. There’s also an incidental clue noticed by one of the characters which leads to the novel’s climactic confrontation; White misses introducing the reader to this clue at the proper point in the narrative, but only gets around to mentioning it right before the confrontation to which it leads.
“That’s what I figured, Johnny, when the dough dropped out. I got it all ready for you.”
He pulled a cheap, imitation leather suitcase from under the bed, inserted a key from a ring he carried in his side pocket. A moment later he tossed open the top and took out a long, heavy bundle wrapped up in a Turkish towel, He carried it over to the bed and unwrapped it. It was a broken down Thompson sub-machine gun.
“Pretty baby,” he said.
He began to assemble it.
“These things are hard to come by today,” he went on, working steadily, his lean, strong fingers finding the parts automatically. “Very hard to come by. Know anything about them?”
Johnny half shook his head.
“I only know what they’re for,” he said.
Nikki nodded.
“Well, they’re really simple enough. This is an old-timer; probably left over from prohibition days. But it speaks with just as much authority as the new ones. It’s simple; I’ll show you how it’s done.” He reached for a clip.
“This thing holds exactly twenty-five shots. You want to remember that. Twenty-five. Most jobs shouldn’t take that much. I’m giving you three extra clips, just in case. But remember one thing: The chances are pretty much against your having time to reload, in case baby has to talk.”
Johnny nodded, watching him intently.
“If you do use her, remember to touch her just lightly, very lightly. One burst will release five or six shots a lot faster than you can count them. Don’t throw them away or you’re likely to end up holding a piece of dead iron in your mittens while someone is taking potshots at you.
“Also, watch the accuracy. Don’t stand too far away; don’t try to use this as a sporting rifle. It’s designed for close quarters. And don’t shoot it at all unless you’re ready to kill. You hit ‘em once and the chances are you hit ‘em half a dozen times. Too much lead to be anything but fatal.”
Johnny reached over and touched the barrel.
“Looks plenty lethal,” he said.
“It is. That’s the beauty of it. They only have to see it and they behave right proper. Even the heroes don’t give a typewriter an argument.”