I made the wash-room, just a few feet ahead of my heel. The door swung closed behind me. I looked down the length of that room. One man had his head buried in a wash basin; the attendant was cleaning out another bowl down the line — and there was no one else about. I turned quickly as the door swung open and the boy friend came in.
One for the Book
by Stewart Stirling
Johnny Hi Gear is an unbidden guest at a private pineapple party.
1
The Big man tilted the dull silk hat off a wind-tanned forehead, rested a foot on the brass rail and an elbow on the mahogany:
“How long you been running a carnival gyp, Joey?”
The white mustaches of the old Italian on the other side of the bar bristled, the musty skin flushed darkly and he turned frosty blue eyes in the direction indicated by the ebony cane which the other pointed at the far end of the speakeasy.
“Ha. Datta t’ing, you mean? It is nota mine... I no lika you see it in my place.” He glared at the aluminum-painted machine, with its slots and dial and hand-crank, as if it were a dangerous animal.
The man in evening dress fished a slice of orange from the bottom of his glass.
“They’re rigged to clip seventy, eighty per cent for the house, aren’t they? The suckers don’t ask for a break, do they? What the hell?”
The speakeasy proprietor shrugged.
“I don’t needa jack so bad. It’s a stick-up racket, mister, around men who been drinking. You know what?”
The other chewed the orange, shook his head.
“Lasta week, two deesa bums muscle in here and dump datta junk on my bar. ‘Run it and like it,’ dey tella me. ‘Cut us for feefty a week and you taka de rest yourself.’ ”
The big man smiled.
“Baloney!”
“I tol’ ’em where dey could stuffa de slot machine... and I kicked da collector out on his pants w’en he try gyp me for first week’s rent,” said the Italian.
“Watch your step, Joe.” The big man climbed into his overcoat. “You don’t want to be taking slugs, instead of the machine. Lot of these jack-pot babies are sniffers, you know.”
Little Joe Massetti nodded.
“Yellow-bellies w’en dey’re offa de stuff and mad dogs w’en dey have a card... I know, Johnny.”
“Well... be seeing you.”
“Be good boy, Johnny.”
The big man closed the inside door after him and let himself out through the iron-grilled door which led to the areaway. Before he could swing the gate behind him, two figures stepped close beside him from the shadowy gloom under the steps.
“Back up... back up,” said one pleasantly.
Johnny hesitated. He could not see either of them clearly... could not be sure whether they carried guns.
“Whassa matt’r. Whass wrong?” he said thickly.
“Go on back, you mug.” The other man’s voice was a high, piping falsetto. “Reverse it.” He put a hand against Johnny’s chest, shoved hard.
Several things happened so fast as to be practically simultaneous: Johnny slipped, he swung a short uppercut, his hat skidded off into the slush, something hard jabbed painfully in his stomach and he recognized it for an automatic while he was saying “Hah,” quite involuntarily.
He had dropped his cane: now he lifted his arms from his sides and showed gloved palms.
“No need of the broderick,” he said, quietly. “And you won’t find any heavy dough on me, either... but go ahead.”
The pleasant voiced one swore savagely and swung a hard flat hand at his face.
“—! This ain’t Massetti. This kluck’s twice as big as Little Joe—”
He poked the gun lower and Johnny grunted at the hurt.
“Jeeze,” squeaked the falsetto. “That’s a honey, boss. Nearly give the works to the wrong beezark.” He laughed, shrilly. “What we gonna do with him?”
The one with the gun kicked the silk hat to one side, picked up the cane and broke it over his knee.
“Ah, go on, you mug,” he snarled at Johnny. “Beat it before I change my mind and plug you.”
Johnny started up the three steps to the sidewalk when they pushed him. He sprawled flat in wet snow. Something hit him in the back of the head... . It was the broken cane.
He got to his feet, fighting mad, saw the two figures watching, caught the reflected gleam from the automatic; thought better of it.
He brushed his trousers and limped slowly down the street.
2
His face was scratched and bleeding, his shins ached, his groin pained fiercely. He was hatless, soaking wet and cold with rage.
But he walked far enough down the block to spot the black sedan with the open windows and softly purring motor. The driver he deduced from a glowing cigarette tip; he could not see his face. The license was sure to be a fake, but he noted the cracked head-lamp, the dented fender and new hub-cap.
That watchful driver meant that whatever was due to happen at Little Joe’s would be over in a rush: if Johnny was going to step into that picture he had to do it in a hurry. He turned and limped back towards the speakeasy.
Behind him, gears meshed softly; tires slithered in the snow. The getaway man was going into action.
All Johnny needed was a minute; he counted on uncertainty in the lookout’s mind for sixty seconds. As he dived into the areaway, he picked up the broken cane. He shoved the piece with the crook on it, through the scrolled opening in the grille about a foot under the metal plate guarding the latch, held it hard against the knob inside, pressed and pushed upwards slightly and leaned on the gate. There was a click; the door swung open.
He got inside, closed the door as the sedan slid to a stop before Little Joe’s place. The driver was on the running-board, as it pulled up.
Johnny paused at the inner door to work his gun free from his shoulder-holster; he put his ear to the wooden panel.
“Dio Mio! Notta dat... ” Little Joe’s voice was hoarse with terror. “I’ll pay... for da machine... don’t maka me—” The words ended with an unpleasant gurgling sound.
Johnny went in, quietly.
The white-haired old Italian was bent grotesquely backwards over his own bar, his head resting on the brass plate used to drain beer sloppings. A waxy-skinned, pinch-featured thin man behind the mahogany held the white hair in one hand while with the other he attempted to force something that shone of copper between the speakeasy proprietor’s clenched teeth.
A blocky, beefy-faced man with lustreless gray eyes and a cruel slit of a mouth stood before Little Joe and twisted his wrists savagely.
“Swallow ’em, punk,” sneered the red-faced man, as Johnny got the door open. “Get ’em down. They’re only,32’s. Good f’r what ails you... cure guaranteed to last. Easier t’ chew ’em than have ’em pumped into you. This way you last three, four days. Maybe that’ll straighten up somea you gees that been high-hattin’ us lately.” He laughed as Waxy-Face stuck his thumbs into Massetti’s jaws and forced them open.