Vince guessed George would be at the 54th Street drugstore. They didn’t serve booze, but they’d sell a man a setup at the soda counter and there was always somebody hanging around out front hawking half-pints of the cheap stuff.
It was only a little before eight, but George was nursing his last rum and coke at the counter before heading home. He coughed on a swallow when Vince sat down next to him.
“Don’t choke yet, George. I might have to do that for you.”
The short, soft man looked up at Vince through watery eyes. He was still coughing and couldn’t speak.
“George, you’re in deep shit. I don’t want to take you back in the alley, but if I have to, you know I will.” The guy wasn’t bad, just stupid. He should know better than to be in the kind of trouble he was in, and Vince felt sorry for him. But not much.
“Vince, I, I’ve got thirty bucks. If I don’t bring it home the wife’s gonna kill me.”
Vince slumped for a moment. He was good at acting the tough guy, maybe he got it from all the movies he watched, but it took effort. “That’s not enough. You’re about to get it at both ends, George, the wife and me.”
“Wait, wait, Vince, maybe we can work something out.”
Vince waved a fist in front of his face to shut him up. “That’s what we did last week. And the week before and the couple of weeks before that. The Luccas are done making deals, George. They’re not the patient type. Finish your drink and we’ll go for a walk.”
“Jeez, Vince, wait, I, you, you can have my car. You can hold onto it until I come up with the dough. That oughta be worth at least the six hundred.”
The car wasn’t worth anything like that. It was a beat-up old Ford coupe that might go for a couple of hundred if it was nicely polished and parked in the dark when the buyer took a look. Problem was, the car plus thirty bucks still wasn’t enough. The jerk was wearing a watch, but it was a crappy Timex. His wedding ring didn’t look like much either. Maybe the Luccas’d think a good beating was worth another hundred.
George was never going to be good for the rest of the money no matter what happened. Sooner or later the Luccas would have to write off the debt, which Vince knew wasn’t going to happen. Or have Vince kill the guy, which was a line he wasn’t willing to cross. Roughing up a mope was fine with Vince, he understood the necessity. It was business. But offing a guy? Vince didn’t really much care if George lived or died, but leave him out of it. Once he did that there’d be no going back. The Luccas would own him, forever. He’d be stuck doing whatever the hell they wanted him to. So long as he was making money for them and didn’t do anything they could hold over him, he was his own man, mostly.
“Hand over the keys, George.”
The soft guy smiled. “Thanks, Vin.” He handed them over.
“And the thirty bucks.”
He lost his smile. “Gee, Vin, can’t I? You know, the wife, she’s gonna...”
Vince didn’t smile. “No, you can’t, George. Fork it over.”
He pulled out his wallet and took out two tens and two fives, carefully, with two fingers like he was handling something hot. “How’m I gonna get home, Vin? You gonna give me a ride?”
Vince was getting happier by the moment about having to pound on the guy. “No, George, you’re gonna have to figure out how to get home on your own. We’re going out to your piece-of-shit car, you’re gonna give me the registration and sign over the pink slip if you’ve got it.”
He could drag George into the alley once the paperwork was done. There wasn’t much sense in letting the guy know what was coming next. It’d just make him harder to handle.
The car was parked in the alley. That was perfect. It was even more of a heap than Vince had remembered. That wasn’t so good.
“Damn, George, look at this thing. It’s not worth a hundred fifty bucks.”
“It runs good, really it does, Vince. You’ll see. It just needs some detail work, that’s all, really.”
“Shut up and get me the papers.”
George fished the registration and the pink slip out of the glove box. He must’ve been expecting something like this. Who the hell drives around with their pink slip?
“Sign the car over, George.”
“Vince, can’t you just hold onto this stuff? Let me have the car back when I get you the money?”
“No, George, I can’t. This shit barely covers the vig. I’m gonna have a hell of a time convincing the Luccas not to take it out on me.”
“But Vince, I—”
The little guy didn’t see the solid right that took the wind out of him. He doubled over, his eyes going bleary, tears squirting. Vince looked down at him in disgust. His fist had sunk so deep into the blubbery gut that he was amazed it came back out so easily. He waited for George to catch his breath.
The stupe finally straightened up.
“Sign it over and you don’t have to get hit again.” Of course he was going to get hit again, and worse, but for the moment Vince needed him conscious and cooperative.
George’s hand shook like he had the palsy when he signed the pink slip. Vince angled the paper toward a dim streetlight to make sure the signature was legible. The idiot had signed the car over to him. He’d have to go down to Motor Vehicles, register it, then sign it over to the Luccas or whoever they wanted him to. They weren’t going to be happy about the delay. They weren’t going to be happy about any of this. He might even have to take a beating of his own. He folded the papers and put them in his jacket pocket. George was walking away toward the street.
“Hold up a minute, George. We’re not done.”
George turned left into the first punch. His nose popped, exploding blood off to the right. A follow-up left in the ear turned George’s head the other way, putting his jaw right where Vince wanted it for an uppercut. On his way down Vince gave him a quick couple of shots to the ribs. He thought he could hear one crack.
George fell whimpering and gasping next to the right rear tire of a new Caddy. Vince sank a shoe deep into his belly. This time he did have trouble getting it out, the lump doubled up on it. It took another kick to straighten him out and get his foot back.
George’s head made an inviting target, but Vince didn’t want to kill him. He was nearly mad enough to, but not so mad that he didn’t know it was a bad idea. He levered the guy over on his back and gave him a hard stomp on his stomach. Air rushed out of his mouth and he went slack; not dead slack, just unconscious.
There wasn’t any sense beating on a guy who didn’t know it, so Vince paused to catch his breath. George’s head lolled just behind the Caddy’s tire. Almost gently, Vince moved it out of the way. He stepped back to look at the limp man on the ground. He bent down again and pulled on an arm, laid one of his hands where it’d get run over if he didn’t come to in time and the Caddy’s driver didn’t notice him. That was George’s tough luck.
Vince eased behind the wheel of George’s piece-of-shit Ford. He’d take it somewhere and stash it. Then he’d have to come back for his car. It was becoming a lousy night. Vince turned the key and pulled out of the alley onto the Avenue. At least George hadn’t been lying, the car seemed to run pretty good.
If only there hadn’t been a bad taillight. He’d made it about twenty blocks up the Avenue and was looking for a spot to park so he could find the next guy on his list: a two-bit movie producer with a sideline making nudies and a bad slots habit who usually held down a stool at the bar in the Alabam. A car started to pull away from the curb, just across the street and a little up in front of the Downbeat, and he stopped to wait and take its place. That’s when the red light and the short squeak of a siren got his attention.