Bugsy Malone (4 page)

B
LOUSEY THOUGHT SHE'D
shaken him off. She stood on the kerb outside Pop Becker's bookstore and pulled on her gloves. But Bugsy was right behind her. Her face dropped. As she moved away, Bugsy quickly followed.

“Can I give you a lift?”

Blousey was determined to ignore him, but the offer of a lift was too tempting.

“You got a car?”

Bugsy couldn't lie. “Er... no.”

Blousey was not impressed.

“So how you gonna give me a lift, buster? Stand me on a box?”

“I thought we'd share a cab.”

Blousey was even less impressed. “Forget it, I don't share fares. I'm a lady. Furthermore, I'm broke.”

Blousey quickened her pace, and Bugsy had to run to keep up with her.

“Who said anything about sharing fares?”

“No?” Blousey was curious.

“Certainly, not. I thought you'd pay.”

That was it. Not even if he turned out to be a Vanderbilt or a producer with the Ziegfield Follies would she give him any more of her time.

Bugsy carried on undaunted. “Well, let's walk, anyway. It's a nice night.”

Blousey splashed through a puddle and muttered under her breath. She was beginning to feel irritated by him.

“You shouldn't walk in the streets at night – it's dangerous.”

“We'll be all right. We've got your baseball bat.”

Blousey stopped dead in her tracks.

“Quit the
we
, pal. You mean
I'll
be all right.”

She started walking once more, this time even faster. Bugsy's little legs moved back and forth at twice their normal rate to catch up with her. He was beginning to puff as he spoke.

“Which way are you going?”

“Which way are
you
going?”

Bugsy thought for a moment. He was no brain surgeon but his brain clicked away like two sharp-edged steel cubes. He wasn't really going anywhere special, but he'd made his mind up to tag along with her. He pointed in the direction that they were already walking. “This way.”

He was wrong. Blousey did an immediate about turn.

“Then I'm going this way.”

Bugsy ran and caught her up. He tugged at the old leather bag, which seemed to be giving her a little trouble. She changed it from hand to hand, trying hard not to show that her arms felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets.

“Here, let me take that.”

“No, it's all right.”

Bugsy took the bag from her but she quickly snatched it back. Bugsy snatched once more. Maybe it was her aching arms, or maybe she was getting to like him. Either way she let him carry the bag. Bugsy wasn't overwhelmed by the compliment.

“Mama Mia! What have you got in here?”

“Just a few books.”

“You should start a library.”

“And you should shut your mouth.”

There was no way that Blousey was going to allow herself to lose a battle of words with this stranger. She was feeling pretty depressed after her wasted visit to the speakeasy, and not in the mood for a verbal ping-pong match with yet another New York wise guy. But the bag was heavy and he did have a sort of charm about him. Let's face it, she thought to herself, with a suit as baggy as he was wearing you'd need charm. It was true he'd certainly never make the best dressed top ten list in the
‘Phoenix Tailor and Cutter Monthly'
, but then again, his eyes did sparkle a little – or seemed to whenever the street lamps flickered across his face. Or maybe his eyes were watering because his belt was too tight. No, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, it was a sparkle.

Bugsy took a deep breath as he changed hands on the bag. He thought he was in shape, but, not being prone to heavy work – or even light work – he never had much chance to find out how unfit he was. Bravely, he kept up his dialogue.

“Er... have you eaten?”

“Ever since I was a child.”

“Then how come you're so skinny, wisie?”

Blousey held in her tummy. “I watch my weight.”

“Yeah, I do that when I'm broke too.”

It seemed to Blousey that Bugsy was getting the edge on her. Maybe she was tired.

“How about eating now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I'm not hungry.”

It was Bugsy's turn to stop dead in his tracks. Any out of work dancer who had just lost out on the only audition she had that week, and then turned down a free meal ticket, had to be nuts.

“You're not hungry?”

“No, I'm starving.”

Blousey laughed for the first time. She wasn't kidding either. She hadn't eaten for two days. Well, except for a toasted bagel which she'd eaten very, very slowly and pretended each bite was a different dish. It had worked, too – she hadn't really felt hungry. Until Bugsy had mentioned food. That had done it. Her tummy gave her away. Lousy stomach, she thought, whose side are you on, anyway?

Bugsy smiled at her. She had dropped the “I'll outwise you, wise guy” approach, and the new one suited her much better. She was kind of pretty, he thought, although she should never have worn that hat with the feather. She looked a little like Chief Sitting Bull. A few moments ago he would have told her so too. “That hat don't do you justice, honey, you look like a cross between Chief Crazy Horse and last year's Thanksgiving turkey dinner.” But he didn't say it, because now they were friends, and he wasn't about to put her down while she was smiling at him. He kissed his finger and touched her on the nose. It was his way of passing on a little affection. He had done the very same thing three times tonight already. The hat-check girl, the cigarette girl – in fact, anybody who was kind enough to throw a smile in his direction. Blousey wasn't to know that. She smiled once more and they both moved in the direction of the drugstore.

Bugsy was pleased to buy her something to eat. After all, she looked like she needed a good meal. He was doing society a favour. There was just one snag. He had no money. Not a nickel. The contents of his pockets were made up exclusively of a ball of string, a jacket button and the used halves of tickets to the ball game. But that was the least of his worries. He was Bugsy Malone. He had a neat line in chat, and a suit he thought was a little smarter than people gave him credit for. And a sparkle in his eye. Like Blousey, he also used to think his eyes were watering because his belt was too tight. But someone had called it a sparkle and he liked it. Yes – a sparkle in his eye and now a girl on his arm. Where he'd get the money to pay for the meal didn't even enter into his head. After all, he reasoned, even if he worried about it, it wouldn't have made him any richer.

F
IZZY, THE SPEAKEASY'S
janitor, picked up a chair and turned it upside down on top of a table. Almost everyone had gone home, and he was cleaning up. On stage Razamataz and the rest of the band folded away their music. Fizzy whistled his bluesy song as he swept under the tables.

He had whistled that song for as long as he could remember. He hadn't been taught it. He hadn't heard it on the radio and it wasn't anything Razamataz had played. It belonged to Fizzy. Whenever anyone asked him, “What's that song you're whistling, Fizzy?” he used to shrug his shoulders. People used to think it meant he didn't know the title. It had no title – except for Fizzy's Tune. Fizzy wasn't the type to say “It's a little number I composed myself” – people probably wouldn't have believed him. Fizzy was a janitor and was meant to sweep up. That's how most people thought of him, because most people like to put folk in pigeon holes.

Fizzy had been to see Fat Sam as many times as he'd swept the speakeasy floor. Fat Sam always promised to give him an audition. “If the kid can sing and dance, sure I'll see him,” he'd say, but somehow he never got around to it.

Out of the door that led to the changing rooms came two chorus girls – Bangles and Tillie. Bangles was a little plumper than the rest of the girls and chewed gum until her face muscles ached. She also talked a lot, which, all this considered, was very unfair on her jaw – and on the ears of whoever was nearby. It's not untrue to say that the other girls tended to avoid Bangles whenever they could. Tillie had been caught on the way out and was visibly suffering from the non-stop chatter that was dribbling out of Bangles' mouth.

Fizzy stopped sweeping long enough to say goodnight to the two girls. He brushed his dirty hands down the front of his dungarees and pecked them both on the cheek. “'Bye, Bangles, 'bye Tillie. Take it easy now.”

“'Night, Fizzy.”

The rest of the girls trooped out, saying goodnight to Fizzy and Razamataz as they went. Fizzy picked up a bucket and mop. He hummed his tune and swished the water round and round in time with the bluesy beat. Just then, Fat Sam burst through the door from his office. Fizzy never wasted an opportunity to ask for an audition and this time was as good as any. But Fat Sam was obviously preoccupied. He gave Fizzy as much time as he did the wooden hat-rack by the exit door. He didn't mean to be nasty. It was just that he had a lot on his mind right now, and tap dancing janitors were as important to him as yesterday's papers.

Knuckles helped Sam into his overcoat and faithfully brushed him down with a brush he kept in his inside pocket. His task completed, he promptly cracked the knuckles of his left hand – like a full stop at the end of a sentence.

This habit irritated Fat Sam no end. He would shout at Knuckles to stop it. And the more Fat Sam shouted, the more nervous Knuckles would get. And the more nervous he got, the more he'd crack his knuckles – and consequently Fat Sam shouted at him even more. It was a strange cycle, a confused roundabout that poor old Knuckles had no way of jumping off.

He pressed his fist into his hand and the bones wiggled together to let out that unmistakable sound like a nut yielding to a nut-cracker.

“Don't do that, Knuckles.”

“But it's how I got my name, Boss.”

“Well, knock it off, else change your name.”

Knuckles bowed his head and nervously put his arms behind his back out of harm's way. Fat Sam was growing impatient. He stalked up and down flexing his fingers and shooting out his arms to expose the neat starched shirt cuffs. He did it without thinking. Just as Knuckles clicked at his hands. Fat Sam shouted impatiently in the direction of the dressing room, “Tallulah, are you ready? How much longer you want us to wait?”

Tallulah wasn't about to be hurried. She was the star of the Fat Sam Show and nobody hurried her. She'd hurried and bustled for too long and now she was taking things a little easier. Her tired lazy voice drifted down the stairs.

“Coming, honey. You don't want me looking a mess, do you?”

Fat Sam threw his hands into the air, and paced the floor, his shoes echoing on the shiny wooden floor boards. He was uneasy. Knuckles watched his boss carefully, knowing that something was up but not daring to interfere. Without thinking, he cracked his knuckles in sympathy with what Fat Sam was thinking. Sam scowled at him with such venom that no words were necessary. Knockles put his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry, Boss. It kind of... slipped out.”

Meanwhile, Fizzy had plucked up enough courage to speak.

“Er... Mr Stacetto, about the audition...”

Fat Sam looked at him for the first time. He wasn't unkind. He liked Fizzy and if there was ever enough time – which there wasn't – he would have given him a chance. He put his friendly, podgy hand on Fizzy's shoulder.

“Later, Fizzy. I'm busy right now... keep practising, son. Keep practising.” Tallulah appeared at the top of the stairs. She didn't look any better for all her make-up repair, but she felt better. She always felt better when she kept Fat Sam waiting. She was probably the only person living who could get away with it, and she knew it.

“You spend more time prettying yourself up than there is time in the day,” grumbled Sam.

Tallulah's reply was quick.

“Listen, honey, if I didn't look this good you wouldn't give me the time of day.”

Sam didn't like getting the worst of this verbal sword fence.

“I'll see you in the car,” he muttered, heading for the door.

Tallulah paused to drop a soft goodnight kiss on the top of Fizzy's head as she followed Sam out.

“'Night, Fizzy.”

Fizzy sighed, and picked up his broom again. As he swept, his broom seemed to make the rhythmic sound of a drummer's brush on the side drum. Softly, all alone in the empty, dimly lit speakeasy, Fizzy began to sing. It wasn't a happy song. Not the song you sing when you're in the bath. It was a sad, gritty song about not being given a chance, about being passed over, about being taken for granted like the tables and chairs around him. Fizzy turned as he sang and opened a small broom cupboard under the stairs. He reached inside and took out a parcel wrapped in a blue chequered duster. Slowly he unwrapped a pair of spanking new tap shoes. The boots he was wearing were worn out and shabby – but not these shoes. They were made of the finest, crispest, brown and cream leather, with hand stitching and neat bows. They had cost Fizzy ten weeks' wages but they were worth every cent. The leather soles had never been trodden on. The shiny metal plates had never seen a scratch. Fizzy was the greatest tap dancer on earth, he always said. But it wasn't really on earth, because on earth he couldn't dance a step. It was in his imagination. Somewhere up there in a cloudy, never-never land where dreamers live.

As he sang his lonely song, he heard a noise in the upstairs corridor. His expression changed to a sheepish grin as he saw Velma, the black girl dancer, coming down the stairs. Velma took the situation in at once. She said nothing, but she dropped her coat on the ground and began to dance for Fizzy. As they say in show business, Velma could dance a bit – which was an understatement, because Velma could dance a lot. She glided amongst the tables, her feet scarcely making contact with the floor. If Sam had ever seen Fizzy and Velma's secret double act he'd have made them the Grand Slam's star attraction. But it was an act that no one ever saw, except the tables and chairs who silently partnered them on the speakeasy floor.