Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde (22 page)

“He’s one of them funny bastards,” said McMann. “What the hell’s eatin’ him to blame us? Two whiskies,” he hollered, softening in his chair, his spine hitting the back of the seat, his legs relaxing, stretching enormously as if after an all-night session.

“He’s a mean bastard.”

“Hell with him. Circumstantial evidence in your hat. He ain’t got a thing can stand up in court.”

“Maybe he knows something he didn’t say.”

“Naw. Jus’ tryin’ to scare us.” He leaned over, his voice steady and thoughtful, rehearsing the details of their next holdup. The uptown speak. Bill listened foggily. Hell with Hanrahan. Hanrahan or no Hanrahan there wasn’t any stopping. The speak’d be safe. No cops. Only their own to deal with.

T
HE
speakeasy was situated in a sidestreet between Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue. It was the middle reach of Manhattan, a neighborhood north of Central Park, south of Spanish Harlem. Here in a tenement block, with the street lamps shedding faraway circles of lonely light, Bill descended two cracked stone steps, rang a bell, showed his card, was admitted into the speak, the ironwork door clanging behind him. His heart didn’t thud much. This surprised him. At ten o’clock he used the phone booth; behind the narrow pane of glass in the booth door, he seemed to be staring out on another dimension. The partition between two basement rooms had been knocked out. The speak was perhaps twenty feet long and fifteen wide, one of those hang-outs that existed even before prohibition, the bar near one wall, the ginzo barkeep filling the glasses. There were three tables. Two were occupied. A fat grubby man was drinking beer, reading a newspaper sedately as an old German in a stube. Three kids were laughing at the other table, with four beers each in their bellies, owning the world, now drinking whisky. God alone knew why. Everything was peaceful. It was time for the word. The operator connected him. Someone, it was Madge, was answering him from a drug store a mile away. “Hello,” she said. “We’re set. Are you?” “I’m settled for the night,” he said. And that was all. Madge said for him to take it easy.

Bill laughed (he had had three whiskies at the bar, drinking them down in jig time and blabbing about the dame who’d jilted him. Holy hell, what a peach she was! “Gimme another shot. Maybe I’ll get another date. Guess I will….” The barkeep had smiled, a low-built block with rotten teeth, but so wide and friendly a smile he appeared to have a good set anyhow. The men at the bar said nothing. One of them sniffing at the lousy drunk. The other guy, the fellow who answered the outside door, grimacing, a middle-aged Irishman with a hat worn straight on his head and looking like a cop…. “She threw me down.”) and laughed, obeying McMann’s instructions to be noisy, laughing so they wouldn’t perceive him as a quiet dog. (Only the guys holding their traps are remembered, McMann had said.) He imitated a guy with a bad jag on. Before he’d hung up the receiver he’d practically shouted: “How about a date, kid? You know where to meet me.”

He staggered from the booth back to the bar. “I got a date with a peach. Meeting her in a minute. Gimme a shot.” He drank, listening to his heart beating out the time, ticktocking like a machine. Nobody came in. What a swell way to build a reputation. The brain guy. He was nuts to let McMann talk him into taking chances. Showing off to convince the damn kids when they were convinced without any Nick the dare-devil stunts.

The fat man at the table swished over another page, one of those old men who take to drink because they can’t fool around with the women any more and need some fun, hating to settle down. The three kids were arguing about a hockey match. The ginzo bawled out: “Say, you boids, shut up for Pete sake, will ya?” The customers at the bar went off. Leaning heavily, Bill gazed into the opposite mirror. Down the end of the mirror, the Irishman’s reflection was reading a newspaper, folded neatly on the bar, the brim of his hat low, his ears pointed for the doorbell. The ginzo yawned, mentioning to Bill with the incoherence of bartenders addressing dopey customers and guys shot under: “Yeah, women. Yeah, women they are. Yeah.” He wiped the bar, fetched the kids four beers, one each, the extra one for the skinny braggart who could drink two to everybody else’s one.

How long did it take for that car to come? He hated the idea of ordering another whisky. His head hurt. The stuff was lousy, lousier than hell. Again he belly-ached about his girl, obnoxious to himself. The kid who could drink two to everybody else’s one was rushed into the toilet, where he puked, and brought back by his buddies like a conquering Cæsar from the wars, the ginzo grinning, the fat old man to whom this was excitement and life and youth exclaiming like a philosopher that you shouldn’t mix drinks. The Irishman looked up once, turned the next page of his paper as if he were the weariest bloke, sick of kids among other gripes. Just as things were settling down, the doorbell rang, everyone wide awake, the old man, the barkeep, the Irishman hurrying to answer, the kids laughing, the one who’d puked glaring with yellow eyes bathed in nausea and disillusionment. They’re here, thought Bill. God. It was snappy once it started. But in the interval, the split second before the gang entered or the customer — it might be a customer — Bill’s mind was one dark flash, unhuman and telepathic as a voice sent over a wire. He seemed to see Madge, whore Madge getting the call, she got the call, whore Madge hurrying out past showcases, syringes, a soda fountain, perfumes, hurrying to the car where McMann sat with the kids, McMann shooting down to the speak, when’ll they come, what the hell, Hanrahan, it wasn’t Hanrahan but the Irishman backing in, hands high above his head, retreating before a round steel eye pressed into his belly. McMann held the gun. Schneck and Mike heeling behind him.

“Get the hell up against the wall. Alla you. Snap it. Cmon, wop,” cried McMann. The barkeep smiled, then his face fell into a grim angry mouth, popping out from behind the bar, joining the quaking old man. “Hands over your damn heads.” The old man lifted his hands, gripping his paper. “Drop it.”

In the silence Bill listened to the paper dropping. He stood next the old man, the bunch of them rounded up by Mike, lined up with the kids, the one who’d puked suddenly appearing ill again as if biting back another spasm, Schneck ducked behind the bar, pulling open the cash register, stuffing the bills into his pocket. Rolling out, he joined Mike. Both of them pointed squat guns. Schneck, his chin white as ice, but resolute, went through the pockets of the customers. Two fives from the old man. Schneck dropped the silver to the floor, pocketing six bucks from the three kids. Their watches flashed a second and were gone. The ginzo surrendered a fat roll, a stickpin, a ring. Bill lost his wallet and watch, the Irishman a wallet, ring, and Colt revolver. The pockets of Schneck’s overcoat were the common repository as property changed hands in a split second, the air hot and dead, the Irishman blanched and ferocious, the ginzo staring. As if opening his eyes, Bill suddenly realized what he’d known all along. All three stickup men were wearing black masks, McMann aiming his gun at the Irishman’s belly, Mike, Schneck. “Alla you guys stay put or I’ll bang your guts.” McMann retreated like a phantom, walking backwards with his assistants as if they were a different breed of men. Schneck’s shoulders filled the doorway, then Mike’s; finally McMann like the last vanishing apparition in a dream was framed for all their hate to see, going out of sight. He was gone.

The fat man held his hands overhead, his face round and pale, his eyes excited at being young again for a second. The ginzo snarled: “Bastards.” While all of them were rooted, reaching for heaven, the Irishman moved courageously, seeming swift because they were stones, peering out at the door, his body pressed to the wall. The car started up with a swift chugging. The Irishman rushed out, rushed in. “Clean gone. The tail-light off.”

The skinny kid puked, gazing down at his own nausea. Christ, cried his friends, laughing a little. What a holdup and looka what the louse had done, looka the damn louse! The barkeep mopped up the mess, pouring a few drops of C.N. “You kids get goin’. N’ forget it. You wouldn’ sick the cops on us?”

“What about our dough?”

“My watch.”

“Hell,” said the barkeep, “you saw what they hooked on me. Between us two your Ingersoll’s not much. Forget it’n see me tomorrow. Gimme a chance to square it. I’ll make it up.” They departed grumbling, grinning at the sick kid. The fat old man was a steady. They said nothing to him. He asked about his dough. “You no lose, mister, you know me long time.” The old man said O.K. and left. The ginzo put the mop away. He and the Irishman surrounded Bill.

“Hell,” cried Bill. “Lose my girl. What a peach! Lose my dough and watch.” He breathed his whisky breath at the hard faces to prove how drunk he was.

“We only seen you here a coupla times,” said the Irishman. “How do we know you ain’t in’t?”

“Ain’t in what?”

“You know what.”

“You’re crazy as hell.” He stared at the ginzo’s lips jutting out dark and red, at the Irishman’s pale sweaty face, furrowed and crafty. “You seen ‘em take my stuff. And what about the other guys?”

“We don’t know you.”

“Don’t you pick on me. Hell with that. How about the fat guy, them puking kids?”

“They’re nothin’. How about you?” The Irishman’s body bulked between the door and Bill. “Who’d you phone?”

“My girl.”

“You sure?”

“I can prove it. Here’s the number. She always waits for my call in a drug store.”

“I thought she kicked you out.”

“This is another one.”

The Irishman pulled out a nickel. “The boys left me something. Call that number. The women like you, huh?”

Bill laughed at the fear crawling in him, stepping into the booth, praying. He bit his tongue, trapped in that narrow space with their bodies crowding close. Lucky they had no guns. He’d once seen a knife kill a man up in Paddy’s flat. He dropped the nickel, a voice answered. It was the drug-store man. The Irishman took the receiver, his body squeezing against Bill’s. “Just to settle a bet, mister. O.K.? A frienda mine said he spoke to his girl in your drug store awhile ago. We think he’s the bunk. How about it?” The drug-store man said about twenty minutes ago one of the phones had rung and a girl had answered. “What sorta girl, mister?” The drug-store man tittered. A very young girl, pretty, and he lost his bet, lots of girls and fellows used his place as a headquarters. They came out of the booth. “You got your damn nerve,” said Bill. “It ain’t my fault you got stuck up. First you rob your customers with stiff prices for lousy stuff and then you blame your hard luck on them. Howda I know you didn’t fix this stickup yourself?”

“Cmon,” said the ginzo. “Times are hard and why give us trouble? Stickups do us no good among the trade.” He smiled, his sleek clean-shaven skin stretched tautly across his oval face. “We’ll feed you all the stuff you want. On the house until you figger we’re square. Don’tcha blame us. We’d awondered about the pope himself if he was here.”

Bill lifted up his collar. “That’s a go. I had near ten bucks. Hell, I ain’t got a cent for my date.”

The Irishman tapped his arm. “I’m comin’ along to see the dame. You won’t mind, will ya?”

The ginzo laughed. “Course not. Why’n hell should he when he’s gonna lap up all the stuff he wants?”

Anything to get out. “Come along, weisenheimer. See the dame, but I wouldn’t come here again on a bet.”

“O.K.,” said the ginzo. “You don’t want free stuff, you don’t havta.” Bill and the Irishman walked up the dark street. The wind was icy. Bill felt better. The mick had no gun. Even if Madge beat it, he could knock the guy over; at least he had a chance. Under the Neon sign of the drug store, inside the entrance, Madge was tapping her heels. Soon as she saw Bill she rushed out. “You keep me waiting, you stiff.” The Irishman apologized. Guessed he was wrong. And it was free drinks. He retreated, murmuring vaguely about free drinks. Bill put his arm about Madge, kissing her.

“What the hell?” she said. He slapped her arm. “That was close,” he said, patting her hand. Her face had been cold, a formal design with the lips painted darkly, surprise checked, her eyes deep with the color of it. “What was close?”

“The closest shave a fellow could have. Don’t look back.” He hurried her along down a sidestreet towards Broadway. Long rows of slummy apartment houses, dim lights in the vestibules, lit their path to the glare of the avenue. He whistled a cab. “Loan me a couple bucks till I get my cut tonight.” The cab jerked forward. His hand cupped her knee.

“Sponging, huh?”

“I said you’d get it back.”

“Hell.” Her face was like a child’s in the semi-dark. She was wearing a brown coat in which her legs seemed longer than ever. “What close shave?”

“That guy with me was from the speak. They guessed I’d tipped the guys off. Lucky Mac worked things out so carefully. Lucky I had a date with you. Lucky you spoke at the drug store.”

“I was worried when the drug-store fellow told me about some guy wanting to settle a bet.”

“If you’d a stood me up I’d’ve been forced to slough that investigating committee on his beak.” The tires were zizzing him away from peril, the winter streets slipping by in big black squares, nameless and distant. He relaxed, his fingers on her cool naked thigh. He didn’t kiss her, smoking his butt. Through the thin blue haze, his lips were apart. He might’ve been exclaiming: Oh, what a break!

“It’s cold,” she said, edging closer to him. She didn’t get him at all. What the hell! It was all over with, he was out of it all right, what the hell was he moping for? She decided he was worrying about his share of the stickup. That was something she could get. She asked him about it. How much was his cut? He thought it ought to be pretty big. Damn right. He’d been close enough to real trouble for a good cut. He was soft in the brain to take the chance. Damn all hell. One of the kids could’ve been in the speak. Why him? He didn’t expand the idea. He thought McMann was out to get rid of him, to get him in dutch, to get him killed. If McMann had been necessary to him in the beginning, he’d been necessary to McMann. But now they were blowing up big, the kids were practically their property; the burglary of Metz, the stickups of the paint supply and the speak, clinched it. They were shooting up with talk of a clubhouse. What the hell did McMann need him for? The hard red face of the bastard, the small red eyes never twinkling, never mad, but always cool and plotting. The damn devil. McMann didn’t need him, and when a devil didn’t need a guy…. He wiped his brow, remembering the terror, the ginzo and the mick wedging him into the phone booth like a rat backed up against a wall by two cats, their breaths hot, their eyes hot with blood lust. He must’ve been punch-drunk not to have felt the terror of that, ringing the drug store, his life worth zero. Madge, her thigh against his own, thought she’d worked him up at last. He was shivering. She thrust her hand against his chest. Suddenly, out of fear and hatred, he smacked her across the face. She bolted back into her corner of the cab, glaring. “Cut it,” he said.