Sammy grinned and waved and when the traffic stopped, Johnny joined him.
"Hi, Sammy . . . what are you doing?"
"Me?" Sammy looked vague. "Not a thing, Mr. Johnny. Not much doing on Saturday . . . just mooching around."
Johnny had forgotten it was Saturday. Tomorrow would be Sunday. He hated Sundays with the shops shut and people going out of town. Usually he spent Sunday mornings reading the papers and then joining Melanie in the late afternoon. Sunday morning she was always busy, cleaning her apartment, washing her hair and doing all the goddamn chores women seem to find to do.
"Want coffee?" Johnny asked.
"Always say yes to coffee." Sammy looked uneasily at Johnny. The hard expression on Johnny's face bothered him. "Something wrong?"
"Let's have coffee." Johnny led the way to the cafe and propped himself up against the bar. He ordered the coffees, then said, "I was talking to Mr. Joe last night." He went on to tell Sammy what Massino had said. "It's up to you. Do you want to drive his car?"
Sammy's face lit up as if he had swallowed a lighted electric light bulb.
"Is this straight, Mr. Johnny?"
"That's what he said."
"Sure do!" Sammy slapped his pink palms together. "You mean I don't have to collect any more money?"
Johnny thought sourly: another one! Bernie, beaming from ear to ear, now Sammy. They have it smooth while I get it rough.
"You have to wear a uniform and drive his Rolls. Like the idea?"
"Sure do! Is this good news!" Sammy paused then looked at Johnny. "When do I start?"
"The week after next."
Sammy's face fell.
"You mean I've got the collection next Friday to do?"
"That's right."
Sammy's eyes rolled and sweat broke out on his face.
"Couldn't the new man do the job, Mr. Johnny? Who's the new man anyway?"
"I wouldn't know. We make the collection together on the 29th, Sammy." Johnny finished his coffee. "So forget it."
"Yes." Sammy blotted his sweating face with his handkerchief. "You think it'll be all right?"
"Can't go wrong." Johnny moved away from the bar. "I've things to do. Go see Andy. Tell him you'll drive for Mr. Joe. He'll fix everything. It pays a hundred and fifty."
Sammy's eyes opened wide.
"A hundred and fifty?"
"That's what Mr. Joe said." Johnny looked thoughtfully at Sammy. "Are you still keeping your savings under your bed?"
"Where else should I keep it, Mr. Johnny?"
"I told you, you dope, in a goddamn bank!"
"I wouldn't do that," Sammy said, shaking his head. "Banks are for white people."
Johnny shrugged.
"Be seeing you." He paid for the coffees and walked out of the cafe. Ten minutes later he was in Bernie Schultz's office.
Bernie was resting behind his battered desk, his chair pushed back, his thumbs hooked to his belt. When he saw Johnny, he straightened up.
"Andy said I was to look in," Johnny said. "He said you'd give me introductions and take me around."
"Sure will," Bernie said, "but not today. This is the week-end for God's sake! No business at week-ends. Suppose we start Monday, huh? Come here around ten o'clock. I'll show you around. Okay?" "Anything you say." Johnny started towards the door.
"Oh, Johnny . . ."
Johnny paused and looked at Bernie who was scratching his fat jowl.
"Yeah?"
"I guess I flapped with my big mouth." Bernie shifted uneasily in his chair. "Andy told me I wasn't to tell you what I get paid. Can you forget it?"
Johnny's hands turned to fists, but he managed a cold grin.
"Sure. I've forgotten it, Bernie. See you Monday," and he left the little office and tramped clown the six flights of stairs, swearing under his breath.
As he was within a five-minute walk from the Greyhound bus station, he made his way there. Reaching the station, he paused to look across the street and up at Massino's office windows. Massino was probably in flight to Miami for a long week-end, but Johnny was sure that Andy was up there in his poky office.
He went into the bus station and made his way to the left luggage lockers. He stopped to read the instructions printed on the door of one of the lockers. The key, he read, had to be collected from the attendant. He glanced around. Seeing no one among the milling crowd he knew, he wandered over to the attendant's cubby hole. A big, sleepy-looking negro peered at him.
"Let's have a key," Johnny said. "How much?"
"How long do you want it for, boss?"
"Three weeks . . . maybe longer. I don't know."
The negro handed over the key.
"Half a buck a week: that'll be a buck and a half for three weeks."
Johnny paid, dropped the key into his pocket, then went to locate the locker. It was conveniently placed: just inside the entrance door. Satisfied, he walked out into cold and made his way back to his apartment.
He spent the next hour, sitting before his window, thinking of
Massino. Around 14.00 just when he was thinking of getting a snack for lunch the telephone bell rang.
Grimacing, he got to his feet and lifted the receiver.
"Johnny?"
"Hi, baby!" He was surprised that Melanie should be calling. He had arranged to take her for a drive on Sunday afternoon and then spend the night with her.
"I've got the curse, Johnny. It started just now," Melanie said. "I'm feeling like hell. Can we forget to- morrow?"
Women! Johnny thought. Always something wrong! But he knew Melanie really suffered when she had her period. This would mean a long, lonely, dreary weekend for him.
"Sorry about that, baby," he said gently. "Sure, we'll forget tomorrow. There'll be plenty of other Sundays. Anything I can do?"
"Nothing. As soon as I get home, I'll go to bed. It doesn't last all that long."
"You want any food?"
"I'll take in something. You have a nice time, Johnny. I'll call you as soon as it's over and then well have fun."
"Yeah. Well, look after yourself," and Johnny hung up.
He wandered around the room wondering what the hell he would do over the week-end. He took out his wallet and checked his money. He had one hundred and eight dollars of his pay left. This would have to last him until next Friday. He hesitated. It would be good to get in his car and drive down to the coast: a three hundred mile drive. He could put up at a motel and walk by the sea, but it would cost. He couldn't afford that kind of week-end. Fine for Massino who had all the money in the world, but strictly not for Johnny Bianda.
Shrugging, he crossed over to the T.V. set and turned it on. He sat down before the screen and gave himself over, with bored indifference, to a ball game.