It was new to Little Maxie, running. Not from the cops, he was used to having the cops after him. There were a lot of places to run and hide from the cops. But there was nowhere for Little Maxie Lima to hide from a contract. So he ran.
He was a careful man, Maxie. He had some money put away in selected locations. That gave him the price of three months running. But Little Maxie would not have taken a lead nickel for his chances. He was a practical man, a realist, and he knew how much chance a man had when there was a contract out on him. No chance at all. Unless he could get far out of the country with enough money to hole up in some quiet place where the local police could be bought. And that was when Little Maxie Lima thought of Walter Midge.
There were only five ways Maxie knew to get money, the kind of money he would need to go far enough and be safe enough: killing, stealing, borrowing, gambling, and blackmail. No one would hire him to kill a fly now, and the small-time stealing he could do safely on the run would not get him to Brooklyn from Manhattan. He had no stake for gambling, and if he had ever had any friends, he didn’t have any now, so borrowing was out. That left blackmail.
The little killer was in Los Angeles at the time he thought about Walter Midge. In his room he actually smiled. Next to murder Maxie liked blackmail the best, especially the blackmailing of a fellow crook. There was more risk, more brains were needed, when you blackmailed a fellow criminal, and that gave Little Maxie a lot of pleasure. Outsmarting them was almost as much pleasure as killing them.
In that Los Angeles hotel room Maxie started to work on outsmarting all of them: Syndicate, cops, and Walter Midge. He rolled a cigarette of cheap pipe tobacco in a strip of torn newspaper and began to think.
There was a risk in going back to New York. Maxie had to weigh that against the safety of, say, $20,000 and a ticket to Brazil. That was the first step for any good businessman — weigh the gain against the risk. Maxie was a good businessman and this time there was no question. Without money they would get him within two weeks — the cops would if the Syndicate didn’t. But Maxie had to be sure Walter Midge was his man.
All he had was one piece of information — inside information. A very hush-hush rumor said that big, dumb Walter Midge, a hanger-on at Big Frank Arcarti’s crap game in New York, had driven the get-away car of the big Newark armored car robbery four months ago. Only a rumor, but Walter Midge was just the kind of man Little Maxie himself would have used to drive a get-away car.
But Maxie was the careful type; he wanted to check it out. The only man the little killer could think of who would know and who might still talk to him was Manny Gomez in Chicago. Maxie put his .38 in his pocket and headed for the airport.
Manny Gomez seemed glad to see Little Maxie. But not glad enough to forget that talk is cheap and information costs money. Manny smiled, but it cost Little Maxie a twenty-dollar bill.
“Yeh,” Manny said as he checked the twenty to be sure it was good, “I heard about Walter. I tell you, Maxie, it’s a hard one to figure. Word says he drove the car. He spilled to a broad, told her all about how he worked on a big job, told her what a great driver he was. She told some people Walter said stick with him and she’d be big. He’s spending, but not spending much. Not real loud, you know, but more then he ever had. He moved to a better pad. He gets his suits pressed now, and he walks big.”
“A dame?” Little Maxie said. “Walter never had a real dame in his life. They laughed at him.”
“One ain’t laughing,” Manny said.
“Maybe she just likes him,” Maxie said. “What kind of dame?”
“Not cheap, not high-price, you know?”
“The cops?” Maxie said.
“I heard they talked to him, but I ain’t sure. If he didn’t talk himself, I wouldn’t know nothing,” Manny said.
“Walter always did have a big mouth,” Little Maxie said. “Okay, Manny, and thanks.”
“What’s a pal for?” Manny said.
Back in his Chicago hotel room Little Maxie thought it all over. It was still only a tip, hot information, but it fitted, it made sense. Walter was just the kind of bum for a job like that. Walter was the kind who would spill to a dame, and Walter had money now. It was logical. Little Maxie liked logic. He was going over it again when he heard the noise.
A noise like a button hitting metal. Outside the window on the fire escape. Maxie held his breath, then took out his .38 and flipped off the safety. He glided like a ghost across the room to the window. Flattened against the wall beside the window, Maxie waited. He did not have to wait long.
The man was in the room almost before Maxie realized that the window had been opened. Little Maxie admired professional work; the man moved almost as silently as Maxie himself. The man was good, but not quite good enough.
Little Maxie hit the man expertly behind the ear, and the man went down and out. Maxie thought about his “pal” Manny Gomez.
Maxie checked the fire escape. It was empty. Maxie dragged the man into the light. A stranger. It was always a stranger. He searched the man. Not a cop. Maxie sat back in a chair and waited for the visitor to revive. He rolled another of his newspaper cigarettes and smoked until the man groaned, rolled over, and started to get up. Little Maxie waved his .38.
“Stay down, friend. Against the wall, hands flat on the floor. Right. Now don’t move and maybe you’ll live.”
“You won’t, little man,” the man said.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Maxie said. “You’re pretty good, but the fire escape was a dumb play. You get this close to a mark, you got no business blowing the play. How come you tried a dumb move, friend?”
“We all ain’t as good as you, Maxie,” the man said.
“You got a point, friend, only you ain’t that bad either, right? Now the way I figure it is you tailed me to Manny Gomez. When you talked to my pal Manny, you figured I was working some angle and maybe I’d get away, right?”
“If you’re gonna shoot, shoot,” the man said.
“No hurry,” Little Maxie said. “Yeh, that’s it. You know something and you figured you had to move in fast. I got brains, friend, that’s the score. I ain’t perfect. Manny talked, right?”
“About what, little man?”
“Walter Midge, friend, and my ticket out.”
The man on the floor sneered. “Midge? That loony? How’s Midge gonna get you out? That two-bit bum ain’t even any good on the door of a crap game.”
“I hear he ain’t on the door no more, I hear he’s in the game now,” Maxie said softly.
The man on the floor showed no reaction, maybe a faint blink of the eyes, but Maxie did not expect to see a reaction. The man said, “You hear too much. So Midge ain’t on the door no more, so he rolled some drunks and came up with a few bills.”
Maxie hadn’t been sure Walter Midge wasn’t on the door of Big Frank’s game any more, now he was sure. And the man on the floor had made a dumb move because they were worried. That meant they knew about Walter, too. If Walter was still alive. You had to figure all the angles, weigh the facts. They knew about Walter, but only this guy knew that he, Maxie, knew about Walter. This guy and his partner, he had to have a partner. The partner would be watching the front.
Maxie said, “So Walter’s a loony, eh? He never had any money, he never worked a big job, that’s your story, friend! You never heard of the big job, you don’t know nothing?”
The man laughed. “Walter? A big job? You must be off your rocker, little man.”