Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde (19 page)

“That’s business. She was soft as chicken.” The long corridor, the numbered doors on either side, kept their footfalls silent. The walls seemed a hundred miles thick. “If it comes to a row it’s nothin’. The dump’s noiseproof, so the bums in one room can’t hear nex’ door with the lady nappin’ with her mutt.”

Bill nodded, his neck trembling, almost walking on tiptoe, the shivers rolling down his back like ice. He swallowed. McMann was the devil. That was an old and true thought. McMann was always leading him into danger, and now he was banging his blunt red paw against Duffy’s privacy. “Come in,” hollered Spat.

Like the representatives of two nations, the four men smiled at one another seriously. Duffy was wearing a purple gown, Broadway-splendid, his small naked feet in brown slippers. The trouser legs of maroon pyjamas were below the skirt. (Two to one his shirt’s embroidered with a crest, thought Bill.) From this glory Duffy’s thin face emerged with the desolate incongruity of an old hag in chic things. His eyes were hot and intense.

“Sit down, boys. Spat’ll fix you a drink.”

“We don’t want any,” said McMann, smiling. Spat and Bill, henchmen, paired off in a secondary feud. Spat patted his black hair, plastered down and immaculate; his suit of oxford gray was too tight for him, hugging his thighs and chest, and as he scowled, his hairy fists on his knees, he seemed in dark armor, an obscure black prince, medieval and remorseless.

“It’s short’n to the point,” said McMann. “We all made a lil money on Metz and on the paint supply. We gotta lay off awhile cause the dicks’re smellin’ around.”

“Sure,” said Duffy, waiting. “Why not?”

“Why the hell not?” said Spat.

“No use quittin’, Duff. How about uptown on biz till things quiet down on Ninth?”

“Son-of-a-bitch, his district,” snorted Spat.

“Sure. No one owns the west side, and even shysters like us kin make a play for some of the pickin’s.”

Spat’s thick lips pressed into a thin white line. “Don’t you be bitchin’ at me.” He sat tense, ready to hurl forward. Duffy waved a hand of truce. “Let it go,” he commanded. What else did McMann have to say?

“Uptown, outa the west side. I wouldn’t hijack speaks down here where we know the boys, but an uptown speak above a Hunerd’n Tenth, what you say?”

“Nix,” said Duffy. “You’re nuts. I ain’t holding up speaks in the west side or out of it.”

“You heard the boss,” growled Spat.

McMann purred: “No one’s talkin’ to you, Spat. Shove your damn mug outa it. Get me. When I speak to you, I’ll look your way.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“He’s my uncle’s aunt,” said Bill.

“Let it go,” said Duffy.

“Thanks, Duff,” said McMann. “That gorilla of yourn’s nuts.” He grinned, insinuating everything was Spat’s fault. He appeared to have no argument with Duffy. It was only Spat. Spat, not catching on at all, grew white. He didn’t know what the hell to make of it. What was wrong with the boss? “Way I figure it, Duff, me’n Bill did you a favor with that paint supply, and Metz made a lil dough for ya. A lil dough for somea ya kids, showed your kids you were thinkin’ of them, gettin’ work for them, not lettin’ them down. Now, you oughta loan us some of the kids so me’n Bill can take a speak. Nothin’ at all’n no harm coinin’ some dough to pay for this swell room.” He paused, his lean hard body treacherous as a cat’s.

“It boils down to one thing. No use bunking about it. You want to get hold of my kids.”

“Like hell, Duff. Who’s tellin’ you that? Spat? If it’s him, then he’s one prime bastard liar.”

Spat groaned as if tied hand and foot, roaring out, tormented, like a baited beast. “I ain’t been sayin’ a thing, and you quit those names, McMann, or I’ll slough you.” His fists knotted, his breath left his distended nostrils too quickly. He had no support from Duffy, whose brown eyes in the dead pokerface were completely neutral. Spat wanted to fight, but the boss wasn’t behind him. He quivered. Someone knocked at the door again. Duffy’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “See who’s there, Spat,” he said.

And after an interval, with names shouted back and forth, Ray and Schneck were admitted, Duffy swallowing.

“Just a lil call,” said Schneck, wide-shouldered, ash-blond, pimpled. No other kid could lick him at in-fighting; with one hand bear-hugging an enemy he could whale the hell out of anybody. The other kid was whistling. Their call wasn’t just dumb walking, thought Duffy, not dumb walking, their call meant McMann had been chiseling, and what was he to do? Did the kids want a snifter? Sure, they’d drink, why not? — gulping down the stuff. A pink color flushed Schneck’s pale cheeks. Ray declared it was sweller’n swell. “I’ve been arguin’ with Duff,” said McMann genially, as if there’d been no hot blood, “that we’ve alla us made a lil dough and that we oughta go uptown’n knock off a speak with too much sugar. Not a joint down the west side, but outa the west side, some lousy ginzo speak — ”

“Hey,” shouted Spat, “I’m ‘talian. Don’t be wise.”

“Who’s wise? We mean the gink uptown. Chris’ sake, quit belly-achin’.”

“It’s a swell idea,” said Schneck.

“I’m against it,” said Duffy. “Who wants trouble with an uptown bunch?”

“What trouble?” cried McMann. If you knocked off speaks, there’d be no cops to mess around, no damn Hanrahans for example. It was no trouble. None. He glanced at the kids standing behind everything he said. Didn’t Duffy catch on? Duffy wasn’t dumb. He was giving the guy a chance to crawl from under, to avoid a real showdown. He knew a way to help Duffy crawl. He’d blame Spat for Duffy’s resistance. Damn the ginzo. “Hell, this Spat feller’s been tippin’ you wrong, Duff. It ain’t no trouble, Duff. He’s against it ‘cause maybe the uptown speaks is run by wop cousins ahis and he’s a wop.”

Spat came out of his chair slowly like a man about to die, glaring desperately at Duffy. But Duffy was unmoved, fragile, small-boned in his purple dressing-gown, his brown eyes burning but anonymous. Spat glared at the kids, his thick red lips twisting pathetically as if to say: Hey, kids, you not letting me down, we knows each other…. But the kids didn’t recognize him, and neither did Duffy, these three glancing through him or over him. His lips squeezed again into a white line. He clenched his fists, lowered his thick courageous skull into his chest, and swaggered up to McMann. “You can’t talk about me like that. You can’t be calling me names.” Duffy evaded. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m against uptown hijacking.” It was his final word.

McMann laughed as if it were a joke, not looking at Spat weaving in front of him madder than hell, his face black, looking a little silly because they were fighting out a bigger issue. “Duff, you won’t risk your hide. You’ll be safe. Bill’n me and the kids’ll do the real work. How about it, Ray, Schneck, you with us if Duff gives the word? Real dough, kids.”

“You bet,” said Ray. Schneck nodded.

“There you are, Duff. It’s all set. You get your cut. We pull the job.” He laughed brutally. “A cinch, ain’t it?” He confronted Spat. “Now, you lousy bastard, you been fillin’ up Duff with all sortsa bunk, sayin’ we wanta steal his mob when we don’t. Ain’t we been givin’ you’n Duff a cut on the paint and cheese stores? Sure. But justa same, you’re a skunk, a double-crosser, with all kindsa bunk, you bastard wop.”

Spat had been lowering his head and lifting it an odd inch or two as if it were on a chain. Now he choked, speechless, his eyes filling with blood. He knew he was being given a raw deal. They were using him for the goat, but just the same, McMann had gone too far. When Duff yelled: “Don’t fight,” his heart was cut in two by the treachery. He shot up his fist. McMann sprang back, shouting to the kids to keep off, he could handle the wop himself.

“Don’t fight,” cried Duffy, seeing Spat as himself. He noticed the kids fading back when McMann gave the order. He saw who was boss, for them two kids at least. Bill was keeping an eye on him. Duffy leaned back as if it were the Madison Square Garden.

McMann’s left was jabbing away. Taller, faster than Spat, he flicked his clenched knuckles into the swarthy face. Spat rushed, head low, his eyes rolling up. McMann swiped him on the chin. Duffy groaned as Spat’s head shot back; Spat was himself. He had no pity for Spat as Spat, but was sorry for the Spat who was Duffy. He, Duffy, was getting a licking. Ray put out his foot, and Spat stumbled, fighting to get his balance like a man slipping on ice. McMann’s hard fists smashed twice. The blood ran from Spat’s mouth. He retreated, dizzy before McMann’s charge, backing up against the kids. McMann was on him. Schneck walloped him a nasty one in the ribs, propelling him forward into McMann. Spat seemed to be falling on his face, his knees angling, as McMann steadily pounded his head, ramming his fists into his eyes. Almost blinded, he retreated again. Schneck grinned, his hand clumping on Spat’s shoulder, who, feeling the new menace, pivoted. McMann uppercut his chin. Schneck dug his big bony power into the kidney. Spat almost toppled, the fist tunneling deep into his belly, his insides bored through, dynamited with vicious power. Pushed forward again by the kids, staggering like a bar-fly, his eyes swollen, seeing Duffy and Bill wavering as dark, almost invisible shapes, and more distinct but also a shadow, McMann menacing, eternal, his fists shadows, but hurting as they landed. As his consciousness was battered out of him, the fists became shadows, almost not hurting, their impacts dull, without pain. He staggered weaker and weaker, some hidden mysterious courage battling for an ideal his dead-tired body had long forgotten. He lifted his arms and slipped to the floor. McMann had at Duffy, who appeared bloodless, his Adam’s apple rising polished him off.

McMann peered down on Spat’s bloody face, blinking a stricken heap. Spat was Duffy. Spat was himself and he was his own ghost. The real Duffy was Spat. Look what had happened to Spat. McMann wiped his face. He declared he had nothing against Spat, but it wasn’t square for the guy to be shooting his trap off all the time, wasn’t that so? Ray agreed. Schneck said a guy had to be fair or what was the use of it? “Yeh,” said Duffy.

McMann poured himself a stiff drink, squirting in a little seltzer. “Hey, why’nt you wash Spat up?” The phone rang. Bill took off the receiver, remembering the cop who’d knocked at Paddy’s flat so long ago. “Hello. Yeh? What do you mean a riot?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “The hotel says the neighbors’ve been complaining and to cut it out…. Hello, if your walls were sound-proof as you claim, there’d be no complaints.”

“The brain guy,” laughed McMann. Everybody grinned except Duffy. Why in hell didn’t Mac quit that line? thought Bill. Gee, he was sick of it. Something tricky in that line about being a brain guy. He soaked a towel in the bathroom, bending over Spat. Suddenly loathing the brutality. Hell, it hadn’t been a show. It was real. This was a man beaten to death almost. He washed the blood from Spat’s nose and face. The towel became reddish. Spat’s bleeding lips were cracked badly. He soaked the towel again as they all watched, bathing the eyes. Slowly Spat came to, peering between his bluish lids. “It hurts opening them,” he said.

Poor Spat. He forced a drink of water between his lips. Spat coughed, choked, seemed to get a little better. He pushed Bill away. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Bill helped him to Duffy’s bed. Spat lay down.

“He took a pounding if a guy ever did,” said Ray.

“His own fault,” said McMann. Everybody agreed it was Spat’s fault. No one said it wasn’t.

After the visitors had gone, Duffy thought how McMann had framed him, stealing his kids. McMann had to be fixed. Now and then he called: “How you coming, Spat?” Finally Spat’s groans got stronger. Spat was strong as a bull, thought Duff, staring at Spat sitting up in bed and fingering his swollen face. His eyes could hardly be seen. “Lucky the bastard didn’t land one right on the eye, or I’d be blind as a bat,” he said to the boss.

“How you feel?”

“You’re a helluva swell boss.” He returned from the bathroom, his hair dripping. “I look swell.”

“Not my fault.”

“My fault, maybe?”

“Didn’t I say not to fight? That bastard’s got Ray and Schneck bulldozed. It was a frame-up, plain as hell. He’s out for the kids.” He chucked his dressing-gown on a chair. Outside his gorgeous shell, he was skinny in pyjamas. He dressed swiftly, talking all the while.

“You let me down,” said Spat, “you did.”

“Could I help it with four of them? We got to spike McMann. You rest up, then round up all the kids you can find. Say, about seven tonight, to meet at the poolroom.” Duffy gasped at Spat lingering. The beaten wop was himself. Duffy looked around as if maybe the Spat he used to command was hiding.

“Don’t you rush me.”

“Forget it, Spat. We’ll fix him.”

“You let me down.”

“Too many, Spat. Gwan, get the kids.”

When Spat was gone, Duffy felt sick. Spat mightn’t ever come back. He had a good job as a numberbook and he didn’t need Duffy. “Spat, too,” he muttered. His face was pink in the cheeks as if from disease. He dressed, taking the elevator down to the lobby. On Eighth Avenue he darted into a drug store to make a call, dropping a nickel in the slot. In a steady voice he asked for police headquarters. A voice answered, stalling around, saying: “Will you hold the wire?” Duffy had a fear of a radio car. He said swiftly: “Tell Detective Hanrahan that the guys in the Ninth Avenue stickups are Red McMann and Bill Trent. The guys are McMann and Trent. Got it? He’ll know.” He hung up, walking outside. An apple-peddler clapped mittened hands, his box of red fruit waxy and artificial in the gray February light. They could trace that call. The booth Duffy had used was now occupied by a cloak-and-suiter insisting he was Simmy, yeh Simmy, she’d met him before, and could he come over?

At eight that night the proprietor of the pool parlor nodded at Duffy hurrying to the private room. “Who’s that guy?” a customer asked. The prop had a reputation for being a clam. He said Duffy was a politician.

Right off the bat, Duffy didn’t like the looks of things. The room was noisy, mischievous as a classroom of boys who didn’t give a damn about teacher. They’d been bulling when Duffy marched in. They helloed him. None of the leaders were there, only a dozen or so of the crumbums and chiselers. Out of the twenty or thirty kids, six or seven counted. They weren’t around. Spat was smoking a cigar, his battered face like a gargoyle’s. The kids’d had a swell time kidding Spat, rubbing it in. Some fighter he was, the hell he was. You bunk inta door, huh Spat? Hey, Spat, who’s been kissin’ your puss? Hey, Spat, you thinking your mug’s a beefsteak all carved up? Hey, Spat, better stick to numbers, numbers don’t sock. Ha and haw and ho for Spat.