Jake rarely dreamed, and when he did he had only two kinds of dreams. One might concern some babe he'd recently seen on the street or in a bar. The other was always about Arno....
Now, Arno shook him awake, asked, “Didn't you read the morning papers.” Arno was sucking on perfumed hard candies from Vienna.
“Sure.” Jake blinked. “You know, I start at the back and only look at the sport pages and the jokes. Why?”
Arno waved the folded paper in his hand. “The why is we got to make a fast trip to hocksville. I'll need your star sapphire ring, the money clip with the diamond and... Cut the dumb look, you got 'em, haven't you?”
Jake came awake fast. “Sure I have 'em. I thought we still had a grand?”
“We have. But we need another five hundred,” Arno said, sitting on the bed, spreading the paper so Jake could read about Tommy. “I've had a chat with Cork. He says this is all a numbers rap, needs five yards to get even.”
Jake skimmed through the news story, muttered, “Tight-mouthed old bastard never said a word when we were out running just now. Don't say a word about no numbers here?”
Arno explained the real story Tommy had told him, ended with, “So we have to pay up. Otherwise in a week or so this Shorty joker may go to the cops or the goons. Either way Tommy will be no good to us.”
“I think this is great. Let the numbers boys kill him for us.”
“You think—you dummy! What if they had killed him last night? Most likely they'd merely break a leg, cripple him. Then where are we? Or suppose the cops throw his skinny ass in the can? No, we're set, got our chips on the table, and we have to play the hand out. Maybe we'll have to speed up things—if we can. That's why I don't want to touch our grand, that's working money, gives us time to maneuver.”
“How come I'm always the one has to go to the hock shop?”
“Because you're the thrifty ant, putting your dough in rocks. What you worrying about? You'll get it back. You'll be able to buy that set of diamond cufflinks, if the fence still has them.”
“The stuff I have now is hot,” Jake began.
Arno shook his head. “It was hot in California a year ago. Here it's okay.”
Jake tried hard to think. All he could come up with was, “Why can't we raise some dough on the car?”
“Because it's dangerous. Depending on how things work out, we may not want to leave any traces. I can easily make us a grand with the car mortgage swindle. You don't know that one—pick up a guy in a bar and offer him a hot bargain; three hundred interest for a one month loan of a one thousand on the car. He sees the car, the papers, and I insist he take a chattel mortgage on the car. He's up the creek and can't get his dough or the car because over six per cent is usury in this state and that cancels any agreements... Look, what are we wasting time with talk? Get your stuff, I'll give you the pawn tickets. I'm sweetening the pot with my watch.”
“For a hundred, while I'm putting up four times as much to pay up a debt the dumb mick got into. Four to one, fine rooking you're handing me.”
“I never asked you to save your dough, stupid, that's for marks. Now give me the stuff and stop whining. Jake, don't get me riled. I haven't forgot you disobeying me, going with that whore. Just don't get me sore.”
After Arno left for the nearest pawn shop, Jake had a hard time falling asleep—it took him at least five minutes. At times Arno's smug manner gave him a hell of a pain. When he did doze off, Jake had his other favorite dream— where he was punching Arno's fat face out of shape.
TOMMY
Around four in the afternoon Tommy dropped into the Between Rounds, accepted the good natured kidding of the bar regulars. He saw Alvin and Walt in a booth, talking earnestly over beers. Tommy walked over and heard Walt saying, “I don't know, always thought I'd have more remorse at killing a man... even in the line of duty, as the saving goes. But it's been business as usual with me all day long—to my amazement. Anyway, thanks for making me a detective, first grade.”
“Thank me? Congratulations, Walt, old man, you've certainly earned your promotion. And the hard way.”
Walt didn't tell Alvin how bewildered he still was by the day's happenings. He couldn't explain that when he was called down to the headquarters in the morning he had expected to be broken to a beat cop. But with full publicity he had been promoted, the Commissioner himself giving Walt his new badge. Evidently the syndicate was as anxious as the police to keep things quiet. (A new man had been assigned to Big Burt's territory twenty minutes after Burt died.)
Alvin asked, “I suppose you didn't have time to check on Jake Watson's fingerprints?”
“I did. I had most of the day off. Nothing, except I know his real name.”
Tommy sat down in the booth, all smiles, cutting in on Walt with, “Well you guys were all wrong about Arno! This morning, after I came in from the road, Arno was waiting for me. He'd read the papers. He says, 'What's the matter with you, Irish, fooling around with gangsters? Why you might have got yourself killed.' Yes sir, Arno was all concerned and upset over me. To show you what an ace he is, when I told him about May... why an hour ago he took me down to the market and paid off Shorty James. Gave him five hundred bucks just like that. Of course, I owe it to Arno, but...”
“Who's Shorty?” Alvin asked.
“Some fellow Tommy's wife owed money to,” Walt said quickly, giving Tommy a slight kick under the table.
“Yeah, May happened to bust up his car,” Tommy said. “But the main thing is, Arno volunteered to pay the debt, said he didn't want me worried. You see how wrong you were about him wanting to kill me? If that was so, Arno wouldn't have been so concerned about last night.”
“By the way,” Walt said, “Jake Watson's real name is Hal Bari. No real police record, except for some minor j.d. stuff.”
“So what?” Tommy asked. “Lots of pugs take fancy names, or they used to.”
Walt nodded. “Except they're supposed to put their right name on their license application.”
“Wait a minute.” Alvin ran a long finger down a typewritten list of names. “Had my secretary check on all ring deaths in the last five years. Yes, thought that name rang a bell. Here it is. On March 17th, 1958, a fighter named Harold Barry killed a pug named Teddy Smith in the third round of a bout in a place called Preston, Utah!”
Walt glanced at the paper. “Hal—Harold. Barry—Bari... It's too much of a coincidence.”
Tommy, who had been peering at the paper over Walt's shoulder now said triumphantly, “Naw! Not only is the name spelled wrong, but look at this—Harold Barry weighed a hundred and thirty-five pounds, a lightweight. Why Jake is a good hundred and fifty pounds!”
Walt said slowly, “But in two years, a guy would grow, put on weight. Tell you, Al, for the first time I think you may have something.”
“Exactly what I've been trying to get through to you,” Alvin boomed. “Now what do we do?”
“We could alert the D. A. I suppose, but so far we haven't any real proof. Even if Bari and Barry are the same guy, that still doesn't prove any insurance tie-up or...”