Pop had never seemed to understand that a kid who lives on Lacy Street grows up wanting just one thing — to get off of it. And he does it the quickest way he can — the rackets.
Johnny returned irritably to his chair by the table. Refilling his glass, he caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. What the devil! He smoothed his rumpled hair and stared at the tense lines in the usually inscrutable face of the con man.
“Harry’s right,” he told the reflection, and he put the drink down. “You’re hitting it too hard. One lousy flatfoot is set-up and all of a sudden you’re a lush!”
Then it hit him. Harry’s place. That’s where he’d left the stiletto. He began to dress hurriedly. Lucky or not, Johnny wanted that knife.
When he walked into the Silken Peacock, he could feel the tension even before he saw the calcimine grimness of Harry’s face. Scanning the dimness with trained eyes, Johnny saw the reason almost instantly. In the shadows at a corner table sat Jim Cole.
A chill went over Johnny and his first impulse was to do a quick fade. But it was too late. Cole’s eyes met his across the room and he played it cool when Cole spoke to him.
“Well if it ain’t Johnny Manse.” There was still a hint of the old sarcasm that Johnny remembered. Cole had never made any secret of his contempt for a guy who didn’t like guns.
“Hello, Jim.” Johnny smiled, slipping by habit into the safe concealment of the confidence man. “How goes it?” he asked, approaching Cole’s table.
“Great, Johnny. Just great.” The voice was friendly, but the eyes were bright and guarded, studying Johnny. “I been in town almost a week now and I ain’t seen nothin’ of you till now.” The grin on Cole’s unshaven face just missed being a sneer. “You ain’t hot for sellin’ the Third Street Bridge to the cops or something, are you?”
Johnny laughed and took a chair. Automatically he cased the bar and caught Harry’s nervous glance, as the bartender hurried past them. The last two customers were leaving and he heard Harry locking the door. What the hell?
Johnny raised his eyes to the clock behind the bar, but Cole seemed to read his mind.
“Five o’clock, Johnny. It ain’t exactly closing time, is it?” Cole leered. “But you see, I’m expecting some company and I need a little privacy.”
“You sure I won’t make a crowd?” Johnny asked casually, as Harry waddled over with another glass.
“Nuts, Johnny! Stick around.” The tone had more command than invitation.
But Johnny pretended not to notice and poured himself a drink from Cole’s bottle. Whatever this was it was smart to take it slow.
“I guess it feels pretty good to be back, eh, Jim?”
“Yeah — it’s real good.” Cole drew the words out slowly and for an instant his eyes held Johnny’s like a magnet. “Real good!” he repeated.
Something’s cockeyed, sure as hell, Johnny told himself. Harry’s nervous as a cat and this gun-happy torpedo’s too chummy.
Harry was back again. “You forgot your lucky-piece, kid.” As the bartender’s shaky hand laid the little stiletto on the table, his eyes telegraphed an alarm signal that froze Johnny’s spine.
“Still got your little toy, kid?” Cole’s sarcasm carried a friendly tolerance unnatural to the killer.
“Got to clean my fingernails, you know.” Johnny quirked a good-humored brow at Cole and pocketed his knife.
Cole laughed uncontrollably for a minute. “Just don’t cut yourself, kid,” he jeered. Then suddenly his expression changed.
“Ain’t you gonna ask me what ten years in stir was like, Johnny?” The rasp-like whisper carried a complete flip in mood now, and as Cole leaned over the table Johnny watched the strange grin spread and the kid-like excitement grow in the wide eyes.
As quick as that, Johnny knew. The pinched look — the dry mouth. Cole’s a user! He’s on the junk! The knot tightened in the con man’s stomach. Booze, snow, and hate! This guy’s dynamite — he could blow any minute! But Johnny kept his face expressionless.
“Sure, Jim, I’d like to know,” he stalled Cole sociably. “How was it?”
“Rotten!” A gloom stormed into the glassy eyes. “Filthy rotten! Every stinkin’ day of it!” Cole moved spasmodically and took a drink straight from the bottle before his eyes burned into Johnny’s again. “They gave me ten years in a hellhole on the say-so of one bastard flatfoot!” The low tone became a shout, breaking on every high note. “Well this time they can fry me!”
Johnny battled with his growing tension and Harry’s fear clattered in the glasses behind the bar.
“I’m gonna get that dumb cop — that goddamned, lousy Mahoney!” Cole screamed his hatred. “Then I’m gonna drag in every crummy bull in the city to view his ragged carcass!”
Watching the insane rage flare and burn low again, Johnny gripped the lucky-piece in his pocket and fought for composure. He’s nuts! Johnny had heard about guys who couldn’t take stir. Somehow, feeding on revenge, Cole had made it back to the outside. With a monkey on his back! A flicker of something like pity mingled with Johnny’s fear and was gone. The meanest guy I’ve ever seen, dope-crazed and stir-bug now.
Johnny flashed around in his mind for a reason to leave. Then something jelled and a hunch shook him clear to his shoes. Company, Cole had said — Harry’s blanched face — the empty bar! It was going to be right here and soon!
He looked at the bottle and got an idea. “I’ll get us something else,” he told Cole. “I’m tired of this stuff.”
At the bar Johnny punched a loud number on the juke box. Then he asked Harry for another bottle, adding through stiff lips: “What’s the deal, Harry?”
“Mahoney checks the bars every night at this time.” Harry’s words were suppressed terror as he fumbled under the counter for the liquor. “He’ll hit here about six.” Johnny glanced at the clock. Two minutes till six.
Harry’s dark eyes flashed an indisputable SOS. “Cole’s not going to give him a chance!”
Without answering, Johnny took the bottle Harry offered and headed back to Cole’s table just as the rattle of the front door echoed through the bar.
Just some guy wanting a drink, Johnny hoped as he tensed all over. But a second persistent jiggle of the door told him, even before he heard the Irish brogue, that Mahoney was outside.
“Harry... Harry are you in there?”
Harry never closed until midnight. Everybody knew that no cop as good as Mahoney would fail to investigate such an unusual break in routine. Sweat formed between Johnny’s hand and the bottle as he fought against panic.
He put the bottle on the table, glancing quickly from the petrified Harry to the leering Cole.
With a satanic grin, the killer took in the bartender’s immobile state before turning to Johnny.
“That must be my company, kid. Let’s see you play butler and let him in.” The blue nose of a thirty-eight revolver slipped in silent menace over Cole’s side of the table.