He suddenly side-stepped, did a graceful jig on the sidewalk—felt as pleased as if he already had the house, or the money for one.
Passing the diner he dropped in to tell Butch, “May's okay. She's with her cousin.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
Tommy shrugged. “Anyway, she said to tell you thanks for all you done.” Tommy motioned toward four or five men at the counter. “This Shorty James around?”
“Who's he?”
“Okay, forget you saw me.”
“I forgot the first time I ever saw you,” Butch said, still annoyed at having his sitting ritual disturbed earlier in the evening.
Tommy couldn't help but see the meat plant. He asked a driver unloading a track full of frozen sides of beef where he could find Shorty. Glancing at Tommy's face, his clothes, the driver shouldered a side of beef, said he'd see if he could find him. Minutes later a tall man wearing a bloody once-white butcher coat over layers of sweaters and dirty fur-lined boots, came out holding a baling hook in one hand. A stained ski cap with earflaps was pushed back from his swarthy face. The driver was carrying a heavy wooden mallet. The tall man asked, “You looking for me?”
“Yeah, if you're Shorty James,” Tommy said, watching the driver edging over behind him.
“What you want?”
“I have some private talk for you.” Tommy glanced at the driver who didn't make any move to walk away.
The tall Shorty said, “I don't know you. What we got to talk about?”
“I'm May's husband. May, the waitress at the diner. I come to tell you she didn't mean to hold out, that I'll make up the dough coming to you.”
A smile formed on Shorty's dark face. He told the track driver, “It's okay, Al.” As the driver went back to unloading his truck, Shorty told Tommy, “We thought you were a loan-shark goon. You have my money?”
“Not with me. Ill have to get it up. But my May isn't a thief and you'll get every cent due you. Six hundred bucks.” Tommy pulled out a ten dollar bill, handed it to him.
“What's the ten spot for?”
“On account. Look, I don't know if I can raise the dough in one hunk, but the main thing is you know you'll get it. What the devil, if you got it all at once you'd probably ball it away. My way...”
“Don't worry about me balling away my dough. Ill worry about that. How soon will I be paid?”
“I don't know. I got to raise it. But May isn't running out on you. She admits you're owed the six hundred, that's the important thing. I'll get it to you soon as I can. I know what it means to score a hit and not get paid off.”
Disappointment flooded Shorty's long face. “When I found out I'd hit I... Look, will I get the dough next week, next month? When?”
“Get the spot I'm in, Mr. James. My wife's in a jam, didn't know what she was getting into. But that ain't none of your worry. I'm trying my best to straighten things out. Ill get you the dough as soon as I can. That's the best I can tell you, except you won't loose a cent of the six hundred.”
Shorty gently scratched his leg with the bailing hook. “Okay, I knew May would never job me. I was surprised when she started picking up the digits, but I give her my bets because I figured she was absolutely on the level. Try to pay me soon as you can, I'm up the creek for dough, and I'd like it in a lump sum. You know where to find me. Not six hundred, only the five hundred and forty I expected, I would have ripped May the difference.”
Tommy pocketed the ten dollar bill. “You don't have to worry, I never welshed on anything in my life.”
Switching the bailing hook to his left hand, Shorty shook hands with Tommy, told him, “It's a deal. I hear May got worked over. I'm sorry about running to Big Burt. Tell May I'm sorry. But you know how it is. Keep playing every day and when you get a hit that might make you at least even. It gets messed up. I swear I never thought Big Burt would whip her.”
“Sure.”
“I don't go for women being beaten. I wouldn't have said a word if I'd known that was going to happen. I thought Burt would pay me, that's how I went to him. May badly hurt?”
“I don't think so,” Tommy said, Big Burt's name making the anger deep within him boil again. “Say, what's this Burt look like?”
“Heavyset guy, tall as a basketball player. Wears a beret. A pretty boy.”
“Is he around now?”
Shorty hesitated. “Well, yeah. He's picking up the play for tomorrow. Generally find him hanging around the all-night bar on West Street. Listen, if you're thinking of tangling with him—don't. Your face says you been in plenty of brawls, but Big Burt ain't as soft as he looks. He's handy with a knife. Said to have cut up lots of guys.”
“I only want to tell him you and I are straight, so hell leave May alone. I'll see you soon.”
“I'll be waiting.”
Tommy found West Street. There was only one open bar, an ancient place with neon beer signs in the dirty window. A few produce men were having “lunch” and beers. Tommy asked the bartender, “Where's Big Burt?”
“He'll be around.”
“When?”
“What's the matter, you guys can't wait to lose your dough? Must of had a hot dream. He's got his rounds to make. He'll be here. Want anything?”
“Later.” Tommy leaned against the bar, yawning. He was usually in bed before midnight. Jeez, he thought, even the barkeep has plastered down hair. All they need is gas-light.
Fifteen minutes later the bartender came over. “Ready now?”
“Gin—straight.”
Tommy was on his second gin belt a half hour later when Big Burt entered. He sported a worn blue beret and was well over six feet and fleshy. He wore a blue work shirt, dirty white bow tie, a once-white sweater, and a baggy heavy overcoat. These were his work clothes. He knew it was poor advertising to dress in his usual flashy manner around the markets. His large-featured face was loose, and almost over-handsome. Tommy took in the soggy chins, the padded shoulders, the lardy backside, decided Burt was big, but that was all. Not that it mattered. He wasn't here to fight. And while he believed the old fight maxim—a good big man can whip a good little man—he also was aware of the difference between a pug and the ordinary man.
Burt stopped to talk to a man at a table, and pocket a half a dollar. Burt took out a deck of cards. He was using hearts for the first figure, spades for the second, and clubs for the last number. On the joker he wrote the man's initials and one-half. Then he penciled the initials on one comer of the five of hearts, in the same comer of the two of spades, and on the comer of the nine of clubs. He had the man down for fifty cents on 529. Thus if Burt was ever picked up —and now and then he had to stand still for a routine arrest (but 'somehow' never for an indictment or conviction) Burt didn't have any slips or evidence on him. There wasn't any law against carrying a deck of cards, even marked ones.
The barkeep called Burt over and whispered. Burt approached Tommy, asked, “You looking for me? You're new around here.”