Bugsy Malone (12 page)

T
HE BOXER IN
the ring winced as he took a left hook from his sparring partner, and he clung on illegally in the hope of getting a second breath. It was the first thing Leroy saw as he stepped into Sluggers Gym, and he groaned. He turned on his heels and made straight for the exit, but Bugsy pulled him back inside.

Leroy protested, “I'm scared, Bugsy. Maybe I'd better stick to digging roads.”

“Nonsense. Your place is here. Wait till you meet Cagey Joe. He'll straighten you out as quick as it takes to count you out in ten.”

Leroy didn't like the comparison. He looked around him at the factory of muscle and sweat. Everywhere he saw fighters – good and bad, promising fighters, has-been fighters, white fighters, black fighters. Everywhere fighters punishing their bodies and punishing the heavy bags like they were their worst enemy. The smell of their sweated labour filled the air and the sound of yelps and grunts made Leroy wince.

Ever since he was little (actually, Leroy had never been little because he weight fourteen pounds at birth and had put on weight steadily until he'd reached his present bulbous proportions), he'd known he was stronger than the other kids on the block. But with a temperament as cool as Louisiana lemonade and a smile so warm that it made you want to eat him, he'd never really got into fights. That's not to say he hadn't hit people. Occasionally he'd forget his massive weight (and punch). During impromptu football games in the cat lot, Leroy would get carried away and half the opposing team would end up picking themselves off the floor, rubbing their sore chins and shaking their dazed heads. Often they wouldn't get up at all until they were brought back to the land of the living with a well-aimed bucket of water.

Leroy had been born in Louisiana, the eighth of eight strapping children. Even in a family as enormous as Leroy's, a fourteen-pound smiling baby is something of an event. Leroy's father had moved the family north in search of a better job for himself and a better life and future for his eight offspring. They'd moved to Philadelphia first, before making their way to the big apple – New York. Which is where Leroy found himself. A soft, cuddly, teddy bear of a boy in a neighbourhood so tough you could get a Congressional medal for walking the streets after dark. But it hadn't spoiled Leroy. He smiled when he was provoked, and laughed when he was shouted at. There was a kindness from inside him that shone in his eyes and filtered from his pearly white teeth. Also, as they say in Louisiana, he was built like a brick chicken-house, and everyone knew that if you messed around too far with Leroy you were in danger of having the point of your chin punched somewhere back where your ears used to be.

Which is why Bugsy gripped him firmly by the arm and dragged the reluctant lad towards Cagey Joe, who was leaning between the ring ropes, watching the two boxers swapping punches above him. His narrow, evil eyes were trained on his fighters, and he blinked, and twisted his face, as punches flew, missed and connected. As he dropped his concentration for a minute, he noticed Bugsy and Leroy, and threw his arms open to greet his old friend.

“Bugsy! How you been, man?”

“Swell, Cagey Joe. Swell. And you?”

“For me, good – but for this bunch of punch bags...”

He twisted his nose again as he threw a disapproving look at the two fighters who seemed to be belting the life out of one another. Bugsy pulled Leroy forward.

“Cagey Joe, I want you to meet the next heavyweight champion. Leroy, meet Cagey Joe. Cagey Joe, meet Leroy Smith.”

Cagey Joe turned his piercing slit eyes in Leroy's direction. The stare was evil enough to frighten the boy into politely taking off his hat. Cagey Joe circled slowly.

“Ever been in the ring before, boy?”

“Nope.”

“So you wanna be a fighter, huh?”

“Nope.”

Leroy was falling back on his usual witty dialogue. Cagey Joe looked at Bugsy, somewhat puzzled.

“Sure he does,” said Bugsy quickly. “Look at those fists. Did you ever see such fists? Hit it, Leroy.”

Bugsy held up his palmed hand. Leroy made a fist that looked more like a bag of walnuts than a handful of knuckles. He threw it in the direction of Bugsy's open hand, and it connected with an almighty slap that made Bugsy wonder if he'd ever hold a pool cue again.

“See what I mean?” said Bugsy, through gritted teeth. “A champion. A born champion.”

Cagey Joe's eyes narrowed even more and beamed their way into Leroy's face like powerful searchlights. Cagey Joe had coached more champions than anyone in New York and he knew boxing talent when he saw it. The timing of Leroy's punch, the casual way it was thrown, and the strength with which it hit the target were all taken in by those reptilian eyes. He blinked, and the information was recorded and stored away in the boxing computer which was the back of his head. He walked round Leroy once more. This time, he squeezed the boy's muscular arms, and noticed the way his strong neck muscles grew out of his hefty shoulders. There was no doubt about it. Cagey Joe was impressed.

“What's your name again, kid?”

“Leroy Smith.”

Bugsy, nursing his sore fingers, which felt like a hand of last week's bananas, sensed that Cagey Joe had bitten the bait.

“With you showing him to ropes, Cagey Joe, he could be a champion in no time.”

Cagey Joe shrugged his shoulders and said, “OK, I'll give him a try. But I tell you now, he'll be no good unless he's got ‘it'.”

“It?” puzzled Leroy.

Bugsy explained. “‘It' is what makes you special in the ring, Leroy. It's the difference between being a slugger and a champion. ‘It' is the difference between being a champ and being a bottom-of-the-bill filler at a local charity show.”

“It's what makes a fighter special,” chipped in Joe. “If you haven't got ‘it', then you haven't got it.”

Leroy was a little confused, but before he could understand what they were talking about, he had been pushed towards the swing doors that led to the changing rooms. An enormous fighter, at least a foot taller than Leroy, leaned over the ropes and yelled, “Let me have him, Joe. I'll make mincemeat out of him.”

Leroy had never really imagined himself chopped up on a butcher's slab for twenty cents a pound, and the thought set his adam's apple nervously bobbing around inside his throat. But Cagey Joe thrust some boots and a pair of red silk boxing shorts into his hands and pushed him the last yard into the changing room.

The room was damp and dark, and Leroy tripped a few times climbing into the baggy shorts. Finally, he made his entrance. As he pushed the swing doors open into the brightly lit gym, he felt like an ancient Roman gladiator hitting daylight as he stepped from the tunnel into the Coliseum. There was silence as he climbed into the ring. Bugsy tied his gloves tightly around his wrists for him and slapped him on the black for encouragement. Then Cagey Joe yanked at the bell rope and the metal ball inside crashed against the brass to start the first round.

The tall fighter came out of his corner and met Leroy centre ring. He was even meaner-looking up here, thought Leroy, who was manoeuvring his large lips to try and cope with the awkward gumshield that protected his teeth. The tall fighter flicked out three punches in a row that picked off Leroy's head like it was a melon on a stick. Leroy blinked, and the two fighters circled one another. The tall boy let go a series of one-two combination punches that mainly hit Leroy on the side of his ample arms, which were dug into his sides to protect his porky frame. Bugsy watched through the ropes with the rest of the fighters, who had stopped to watch the contest – or the no-contest as they all presumed.

Bugsy was getting a little anxious, because so far Leroy hadn't even thrown a punch. The other fighters smiled, waiting for the knockout blow. It came the very next punch – except that it was Leroy who threw it. He ducked a wild swing from the tall boy and let go a left hook that caught his opponent under the chin and lifted him a clear two feet in the air before he collapsed in a heap on the canvas – out cold.

The spectators were dumbfounded. Bugsy clapped his hands with joy, and Leroy looked at the left glove that had K.O.'d his opponent with as much surprise as everybody else. Cagey Joe shrugged his shoulders and had to admit. “He's got it.”

Leroy smiled his blazing white, toothy smile. He'd known it all along.

I
N THE DISUSED
garage, the illicit still bubbled and steamed away through a maze of pipes and containers, until the dark, treacle-like liquid finally poured out into a wooden barrel. A boy in brown overalls and a dirty, wrap-around apron operated the tap that trickled the sarsaparilla, by way of a funnel, into bottles. They were all neatly stacked in rows, and full crates were piled, six high, ready for collection. This was where Fat Sam made all his illegal drinks for his speakeasy, and it was a surprise to no one – except to the man who operated the still – that this would be the place Dandy Dan's gang would strike next.

The garage door was smashed practically off its hinges and crashed down on to the floor. The still operator jumped up in fright. He wasn't the bravest person at the best of times, and the sight of Chinese Benny Lee rushing at him, screaming a war cry from his distant oriental past, was more than he could take. His teeth chattered and his knees knocked like Spanish castanets. Benny Lee was followed by Yonkers and Shoulders, and then by Bronx Charlie, who pinned the unfortunate operator against the wall with his splurge gun. The rest of the gang caused havoc with the still. Yonkers and Chinese Benny chopped at the barrel lids and upended them until the contents gushed all over the garage floor. They threw the full bottles at the wall – and the glass smashed into a million pieces, spreading the thick sarsaparilla liquid across the dry bricks. Shoulders wielded a large axe at an enormous wooden storage vat, and the hole he split open sent a river of sarsaparilla flowing through the garage.

In seconds, they had finished. Bronx Charlie wound a rope around the boggle-eyed operator and tied his hands behind him with tight knots. The rest of the gang stopped briefly to eye their destructive handiwork, allowed themselves a chuckle, and then splashed out over the door which they had stampeded only minutes before.

The petrified still operator edged himself slowly towards his desk. He banked the side of it with his head and the stick phone toppled on to the floor. He crawled over to it, as well as the tight ropes would allow, and managed to dial a number.

 

In Fat Sam's office, the secret phone rang in the desk drawer. Sam yanked it open with his podgy hand and snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“Hello?”

“They got to the still, Boss. The whole lot's gone.”

Fat Sam took the news badly. He'd known something like this could happen, but he had always put it into the corner of his mind where people forget things they don't want to think about. His red face drained to a milky white.

“No. Not the sarsaparilla racket, too? You'd better get round here right away.”

“I can't, Boss.”

“Why not?”

“I'm all tied up, Boss?”

“I don't care how busy you are. Get round here right away.”

Fat Sam crashed down the phone. He put his head in his hands and muttered low Italian moans. But there was no one to hear them. He was on his own. He would have moaned even more if he'd known what was happening on the other side of town.

 

Shoulders' huge, powerful legs pounded the pedals up and down and the hoods' bike sedan reached an alarming speed before it crashed into the wooden gates of the Stacetto Brothers' grocery yard.

Under the impact, the gates splintered and cracked, and pieces of wood flew in all directions. The two grocery men, who were loading their trucks in the yard, were taken completely by surprise. Dandy Dan's hoods threw them into a corner. Piles of crates were toppled over and the hoods began trampling on the green vegetables that spilled out across the floor. The grocery men were powerless to do anything.

It didn't take long for Dan's men to do their work. In two minutes flat the grocery yard looked like an elephant had run amok through it. The hoods jumped into their car and reversed out into the street. They wore big, satisfied, Cheshire cat smiles on their faces – which is more than could be said for Fat Sam when he heard the news.

He listened with utter disbelief as the squeaky voice on the phone gave him the sad tidings. Tallulah had joined him, and sat on the corner of his desk, painting her nails with a red varnish that perfectly matched the colour of her glossy lips. Sam gulped, and reached for his orange juice cocktail.

“Not the grocery racket too? Oh, no. That's terrible. Terrible. All right. OK, sure. NO, I'm sure you did your best. Go home and get washed up, OK. 'Bye.” Sam gently put down the receiver. He stroked the rim of his cocktail glass and stared sadly into open air. He croaked as he spoke. “That's the whole empire gone, Tallulah. You hear me? Everything. And they'll be coming here next.”

Tallulah breathed on her nails to dry them. She really couldn't have cared less. Sam continued to stroke his glass nervously.

“There's only one thing for it. You'll have to get him to help me.”

“Who? The Lone Ranger?”

“No, you dumb dora. Bugsy Malone. Call him.”

Tallulah picked up the stick phone carefully so as not to spoil her nail varnish. She dialled with the end of at Sam's desk pen. He muttered to himself as she did so.

“I'm in trouble. Real trouble. And all I've got for company is a female comedian.”

Tallulah tucked the phone ear piece neatly under her blonde hair, taking extra care not to disturb her curls. Not that there was much hope of that. At Madame Monzani's Hair Parlour on 2nd Avenue, they pasted curls down for good, and boasted that even a hurricane wouldn't put a hair out of place.

The phone rang at Bugsy's end for some minutes.

“There's no answer.”

“Then you'll have to get him
personally
,” Fat Sam snapped. His girlfriend never ever reacted to his rudeness. Well, not so as you'd notice. Her eyebrows would make the teeniest of movements, which said all, should you be close enough to catch it.

Sam repeated his command. “You deaf or somethin'? I said you'll have to get him to help me
personally
.” He pronounced it ‘
poysanally
'.

Tallulah looked down at him through her eyelashes.

“Personally?”

“Poysanally!”

“Poysanally.”

Tallulah picked up her fox shoulder fur and walked to the door. “So long, lover boy. Take it easy.”

She blew him a kiss and pulled the door closed behind her. She was on her way to Bugsy Malone's apartment where she would get his undivided attention. Poysanally.