Carmen was gone when he went outside, and he knew for sure then she and Tony had played him for a patsy. At first, the hot Sicilian blood of his ancestors had made him think of murder, but a guy would have to be nuts to destroy that lovely body. Besides, he still wanted her.
It took him all night, in his slow thinking way, to figure out a caper that he was sure would work. Even so it didn’t crystallize until Marty Shanagher told him Carmen had moved into Tony’s apartment.
There was only one thing wrong with the plan. He didn’t have any money, and he knew Tony wouldn’t accept his marker.
He’d have to have cash. There was only one possibility, Lew Kronig, the loan shark.
Lew’s Pawn Shop was on Third Avenue. Joe went there, hardly noticed the broken-shoe bums he passed along the way, but carefully looking over the slack-clad girls that disgorged from a second floor furrier’s sweat shop.
He found Lew inside the steel-mesh cage in the back of the shop, a watchmaker’s glass in his eye. He was inspecting a large stone which Joe figured would be a hot diamond.
Lew took the glass out of his eye, looked at Joe.
“What’s on your mind?” Lew said.
Funny he’d never noticed before what a tough-looking mug Lew was. You know a guy all your life and don’t think much about his looks until you have to do business with him. Then he looks like all the other loan sharks, only worse.
“I need five C’s,” Joe said.
Lew watched him.
“What you got to sell?” he said.
“Nothing’. I got nothin’ to sell. I just need five hundred bucks.”
Lew shrugged.
“A week,” he said. “I get six hundred back.”
Lew counted out the money.
“Don’t make me come and collect it,” he said.
Joe went to Angelo’s Barber Shop at two o’clock. Angelo’s was just two doors down the street from Tony’s horse parlor, and Ears Mulcahey ran a small hand-book in the back room.
The small, smoke-filled room was crowded, and Joe eased into a corner where he wouldn’t be noticed, but where he could see the results board.
He sweated out race after race, chain-smoking, fidgeting, thinking of how he was going to get even with Tony and Carmen, if the right deal would only come up.
Finally, Ears was writing up the 7th at Jamaica. Joe held his breath.
A longshot by the name of Miss X had won the heat. The favorite, Rembrandt, had wound up in the three hole. This was it. Joe waited only long enough to get the place pay-off on Miss X. She’d paid $46.30 to win, and $20.20 to place.
Joe scrambled out of there and ran the two doors down the street to Tony’s. He had his dollar watch in his hand as he entered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the 7th at Jamaica wasn’t chalked up yet on Tony’s blackboard. As usual, Tony was waiting for the late sucker money. Tony knew the result already, but would take late bets on anything, to win, except Miss X. If anybody asked for that one, he’d say it was too late.
“Hey, Tony,” Joe said, “am I in time to lay a hundred on Rembrandt’s nose?”
He made it loud so all the other players would be sure to hear.
Tony looked at the electric clock.
“That lousy watch of yours is slow again, but, for a friend, okay.”
“Thanks, Tony,” Joe said. Then he paused and added, “And gimme four hundred to place on Miss X.”
The color drained from Tony’s face. Rage showed in the white line around his lips, but he couldn’t renege. He was stuck with it. Welshers didn’t last long in the neighborhood.
When he wrote up the result of the 7th at Jamaica a moment later, Joe saw that his hand shook, especially when he wrote $20.20 for the place on Miss X.
Tony paid Joe $4,040, but his eyes were mean slits.
“You wouldn’t be pullin’ a fast one, would you, Pal?” he said.
“Naw,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t even know which end of a horse eats. You remember who picked Arab Dancer for me, dontcha?”
“Yeah,” Tony said. “Yeah!”
“Well,” Joe said. “See you around, pal.”
He walked out of Tony’s and headed east. He knew where Tony’s apartment was, and he knew about the drug store on the corner. You could see the apartment house entrance from there. He hurried there and waited by the telephone booth.
He didn’t have long to wait before Tony’s flashy convertible slammed to the curb in front of the apartment, and Tony erupted from it. He raced up the stone steps, and flung the door back with a loud crash as he entered the building.
Joe dropped a coin in the telephone slot, and dialed the police. When he got his connection, he asked for the riot detail.
“Yeah?”
“A dame’s getting the hell beat out of her,” Joe said. He gave the address and the apartment number. “Better hurry.”
He hung up, looked at his dollar watch, and grinned. He’d go pay Lew the six C’s. Then he’d pick Carmen up at the police station. He could afford her now.
She’d be marked up some, but hell, that wouldn’t hurt nothing.
The Hero
by Floyd Mahannah
Mel had been framed once, and now he was out of jail. But somebody was trying to frame him again...
1
I drove the stolen Ford back into Santa Caralita; and when I came to an outdoor phone booth in a service station that was closed for the night, I stopped and called Julie.
There was the chance, of course, that the police had tapped Julie’s phone; but it was a chance I had to take. And after forty-eight hours without food or sleep, I was too tired to care much one way or the other. I knew this last, forlorn scheme of mine had less than a prayer of working, but you have to play out your hand.
“Hello?” It was Julie’s voice.
“It’s Mel.”
I could hear the sharp intake of her breath, then the break in her voice: “Mel — where are you?”
“No matter. Julie, I want you to do something for me.”
“Mel, you’ve got to give yourself up. They’re hunting you — with guns — I’ve been so scared.” She sounded close to tears. “Mel, why did you do it?”
“I didn’t kill Vince Dobleen. You’ve got to believe that.”
“Then who—”
“I don’t know who. There’s a chance, a very long chance, that I can find out. If you’ll help me.”
“I’ll do anything for you, Mel.”
“I want you to get in your car, drive out Twelfth Street to the park, make the loop around the lake, then go straight back to your apartment. That’s all there is to it.”
“But how will that help you?”
“No time to explain. Just do exactly what I said. Start in twenty minutes.”
“All right.” Tears were in her voice now. “Mel—”
“Yes?”
“I love you. Please take care of yourself.”
“Sure, kid.”
I waited until I heard her hang up, I jiggled the hook like I’d hung up too, then I waited, listening. After a while there was a click, but I don’t know enough about wire tapping to tell if it meant anything or not. I hung up.
I sat there a little longer, very tired, not thinking of anything but Julie now. I remembered how the dark hair framed her face — her face with its clear, unmarked quality that made her seem so young. It was a dark-eyed, full lipped, snub-nosed face that was on the edge of being plain, until she smiled. When she smiled, she was beautiful — it was as if somewhere in her a light started to shine, and the warmth and happiness of it came from her to you.
And she loved me. I think that’s all that kept me from going crazy those two long years in prison. And it was all that kept me from running away now.