"Beat it, ya bum," Patterson growled at the figure before him. "Y'know something, Mac, y'stink. I betcha ya ain't had a bath in a year of Mondays."
Not even Henshaw had seen the beard that appeared on Indy's face moments after he left the cab. It was a perfect fit that Gale had prepared for him, using theatrical glue to secure it to his face. Whoever saw this miserable creature would never think of Indiana Jones or anyone who looked like him.
Stooped over, wheezing, the old "seaman" tried to push past Patterson. "I ain't botherin' nobody," he whined. "Just wanna hear the music, y'know?"
A massive fist hung threateningly before the disheveled bum. "Ya don't get outta here, y'creep, all ya gonna hear is da birdies singing, y'get me? Now beat it before I whack ya into da middle of next week!"
"Don't hurt me," the old man pleaded, cringing.
Patterson guffawed. This was going to be a pleasure. The beefy fist closed around the windbreaker, hauling the other man from his feet until only his toes touched the sidewalk. The other fist drew back to deliver a pulverizing blow.
It never got started. The old man pushed his face close to Patterson's features. With little effort, he blew a cloud of powder from his mouth into Patterson's eyes. Fire seemed to erupt in the vision of the doorman. He howled with sudden agony, reeling backwards, tripping over an awning stanchion, and falling clumsily to the ground. "I'm blind!"
he screamed. "I can't see! My eyes . . . I can't see!"
Several men rushed from the jazz club. They stopped short at the sight of Patterson groveling on the sidewalk, knuckles rubbing his eyes frantically. Jack Shannon of the Shannon Brothers, club owners and managers, took swift stock of the situation. Immediately he grasped the smelly bum by the arm, as much to hold him upright as to keep him on the scene.
"What happened here, old man?" Shannon demanded an explanation. He gestured to Patterson. "Did you do that?"
"I didn't mean no harm," the seaman whined. "Want to hear the music, that's all. Gotta listen to this guy, Shannon."
"How do you know his name?" Shannon barked. The question came without thinking. Shannon was known through the nightclub life of Chicago. But this creature—Shannon stopped abruptly as the old man leaned heavily against him. There was no mistaking the muzzle of the heavy pistol pressed beneath Shannon's armpit.
The old man placed his mouth almost against Shannon's ear. The smell of fish and garlic nearly overwhelmed Shannon.
"Inside," wheezed the old man, coughing a spray of garlicky spittle across the side of Shannon's face. The pistol nudged just a bit harder. "We go in like we was old buddies, got it? Friend of the family. Then we walk to the back of the club, see?
We goes into your office and you close the door and you don't let nobody else come in. You got it?"
Shannon, tall and slender to the point of cadaverous, nodded. This was wildly confusing and he was sure the old man was crazy, but you don't argue with a gun barrel in your armpit. "Okay, okay," Shannon told him quietly. "But take it easy with the hardware, old fellow, all right? You won't have any trouble."
"Button it, mister." The gun prodded again. "Start walking and don't forget to smile."
Another wave of fish and garlic prompted Shannon into obeying this crazy bum. Club waiters stared as Jack Shannon, the immaculate highsociety blues club owner, waltzed arminarm with some derelict along the dim recesses of the back of the club, but nobody said a word. Shannon was one of the master blues musicians, and everybody knew how many band members were down on their luck in the depression gripping the country. Shannon was a soft touch for his buddies who were down and out. So you minded your own business. They'd seen sights like this before.
Shannon stopped short of his office door. The gun jabbed against his ribs.
"Remember, nobody comes in," came the hoarse whisper of a warning.
"No problem, oldtimer," Shannon said gently. The trick was to keep the old guy from getting excited. A good meal and a shot of whiskey would straighten him out.
Shannon looked to a large man who eyed the scene suspiciously. "Hey, Syd, this is an old buddy of mine,"
Shannon told him. "Do me a favor. This is sort of personal and I don't want anyone to bother us, okay?"
"Yes, sir, I got it," the man said. Something didn't seem right but orders were orders.
Inside the office the old man turned Shannon back to the door. "Lock it."
Shannon turned the lock.
"Now, sit down in that easy chair. Over there." The stranger stepped back to place distance between himself and Shannon. Now the weapon was visible. Shannon stared down the barrel of a powerful sixshot Webley .445. That thing could take down even a moose with a single round.
Shannon's brow furrowed. There was something strangely familiar about the weapon he studied. Guns in Chicago were as common as cigarettes. But who carried a Webley? A Smith & Wesson, sure. Or a Colt auto. Even a longbarreled Remington, but—
Shannon's eyes widened as the old man tossed aside the knitted cap. A moment later he tugged the false beard from his face, and broke into a huge smile.
The windbreaker was tossed aside, and the Webley disappeared beneath a dark blue suede sport jacket.
"Hello, Jack," the nolongerold man said.
Shannon was halfway out of his chair, eyes wide. "I don't believe this," he whispered. "Good Lord Amighty, I don't believe this. Indy!"
"The one and only," Indy grinned at him. Shannon was on his feet, rushing forward, throwing his arms about his closest friend, hugging him fiercely. They pounded one another on their backs.
Shannon pushed Indy back, staring at him. "Man, you're a sight for sore eyes," he said, his delight unquestioned. "But . . . but why the routine?" He held up a hand. "Just hold it a minute, Indy. After what you put me through, I need a drink." He half turned as he took a bottle and two glasses from a wall bar. "And you, old friend, need some mouthwash and a bath!"
"All part of the show, Jack. Let's have that drink. I can hardly stand this garlic and fish smell any more than you can."
Shannon brought the glass to Indy, his friend from longgone schooldays, the same man who'd been his closest pal for years. They clinked glasses and for the moment drank in silence. Shannon poured again, but this time Indy sipped slowly.
"You look great, Jack. Still thin as a rail, but—" He shrugged. "How's your playing?"
"Better than ever. We got a regular crowd now. Some people have the idea I'm setting a new trend with the blues."
Shannon finished the second drink, put aside the glass, and dropped back into the easy chair.
"But I still don't believe all this!" he burst out suddenly. "Indy, what is all this? You didn't need to go through a routine to come in here! We've been pals forever."
Indy swilled a taste of whiskey around his mouth to cut down the fish and garlic and to remove the last of the powder he'd held in a capsule until he needed it to cut down the doorman. He put down the glass, still half full.