By that time Sam was engaged with his quota. He followed through on Carmella, grabbed him about the midriff and raising him clear slammed him into another man. Both went down to the floor. Sam hurdled them, caught another man in the crook of his arm and hugged him to his side. The victim belabored Sam with his fists and Sam hit him in the face, once. The man went limp, but Sam held him under his armpit. He turned, dragging the man with him to face Carmella and his ally getting up from the floor.
Sam whisked the unconscious man from under his arm, raised him to the height of his head and hurled him down on Carmella and his friend. The three men landed in a heap and did not get up.
Sam turned to go to Johnny’s aid, found him exchanging blows. Johnny was doing fine, but Sam looked at the horde of men swarming to the rear of the room, from the other tables.
“Time to go, Johnny!” he cried. He ducked under Johnny’s flailing arm, caught hold of his friend’s antagonist and cuffing him with one hand scooped him up with the other. He raised him a good eighteen inches over his head, hurled him clear across a pool table in the general direction of the advancing crowd. The man took two or three others to the floor with him.
That was all there was to it. Johnny and Sam walked out of the poolroom without anyone else trying to molest them. And no one followed them out, not even Joe Genara.
On the sidewalk, they hurried to Milton, turned north and ran a block to Hobbie Street. There they scooted west and after a few minutes came out on Crosby street. They walked quickly down Crosby and just as they reached Larrabee a streetcar came along. They boarded it.
The car had only a few passengers and Johnny and Sam had no trouble finding a seat. Johnny drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his cheek.
“Kind of warm for a minute,” he admitted.
“Oh, it wasn’t bad,” said Sam. “Best workout I’ve had for quite a spell.” He grinned. “Little Italy isn’t so tough.”
“It was a waste of time, though — and money. Now we’ve got to find a place to sleep — for a dollar and twenty cents.”
They got off the streetcar on Madison and began walking westward. Johnny studied the signs along the way. There were plenty of “hotels,” advertising rooms at a dollar and 75 cents. At Canal the prices began to come down and soon they saw signs advertising rooms as low as 35 cents, but Johnny was not satisfied with the appearances of the places.
“Flea bags,” he said.
“As long as they’ve got beds, I don’t care,” Sam said. “If we’re going to get up at dawn to go to work I want to hit the hay.”
They reached Halsted Street and turned south and in the second block found a freshly painted sign, reading: “Private rooms, 30 cents.”
“The sign’s clean, anyway,” said Johnny. “Let’s bunk.”
They entered a dimly lighted corridor and the smell of disinfectant struck their nostrils. A flight of stairs led to the second floor and a small cubicle, containing a chair, a small bench and a grilled window in the wall. A frowzy old man was behind the grilled window.
“Got a couple of nice rooms?” Johnny asked. “For thirty cents?”
“Thirty apiece,” was the reply. “Only one person to a room.”
“That’s us, kid.” Johnny slipped thirty cents under the grill and Sam followed the example.
The man slipped an open book under the wicket. “Gotta register.”
Johnny signed the names, Glen Taylor and Henry Wallace, and returned the book. The clerk looked at the names. “Again?” He yawned. “Okay. Rooms seven and eight, next floor.”
“The sign said private rooms — where are the keys?” Johnny exclaimed.
“At the price we can’t afford to lose keys. There’s a bolt on the inside of every room. You can lock yourself in. But we ain’t responsible for valuables.”
“If we had valuables we wouldn’t be staying here,” Johnny retorted.
They climbed the stairs to the third floor and reached a narrow corridor, lighted by a single unshaded electric light bulb. On each side was a row of doors, some open, some closed. Johnny stepped to a door bearing the number seven.
Inside was an iron bedstead containing a mattress, an uncovered pillow and a ragged cotton pad. The room was one inch longer than the bed and two feet wider. It contained no other furnishings. The top of the cubicle was covered with chicken wire.
“Well,” said Johnny, “it isn’t the Palmer House, but I guess it’s home, for tonight, anyway.”
“Jeez,” said Sam morosely, “we eat dinner with a zillionaire at the Lakeside Athletic Club and then we bed down at a dump like this.”
Johnny exhaled wearily. “Who knows? Maybe tomorrow night we’ll sleep out at Towner’s home. A good night to you, Sam.”
He stepped into Room 7, groped for the light switch and found there was none. Johnny swore under his breath, slammed the door shut and shot the shaky bolt. Then he threw himself upon the bed without even taking off his shoes.
He was asleep in five minutes.
Chapter Nine
A man came along the corridor in the morning and banged on the doors. “Rise and shine,” he roared. “Seven o’clock.”
Johnny groaned and sat up on the bed. He blinked and shook his head to clear away the sleep. Then he saw where he was and got to his feet. He opened the door and stepped out into the hall, to meet Sam just coming out of his own room.
“Hey, you!” roared Sam at the man banging on the doors. “What’s the idea, waking people in the middle of the night?”
“Everybody’s got to be out by eight o’clock or pay extra,” the man retorted.
“We’ve got to be at work by eight, Sam,” exclaimed Johnny. “Come on.” They hurried to the rear of the corridor where a sign over a door, said: Lavatory.
Inside was a galvanized iron washtub and a couple of long grey towels, hanging from a nail. Being already dressed they had the edge on the other guests of the hotel and were washed before anyone else came into the room. The late risers would find the towels slightly soiled and rather wet.
They left the hotel and walked to Madison. Turning east, they found a restaurant where for fifteen cents apiece they had oatmeal, two stale rolls and coffee. That left them thirty cents, but Johnny decided that they ought to keep a small stake and they walked the two miles to the Towner leather factory, arriving there at three minutes to eight.
The office was deserted, those employees apparently not coming to work until nine o’clock. And the elevator was not running, so they were compelled to climb to the fifth floor.
They were just entering the counter department when the eight o’clock bell rang. All the counter sorters were at their benches, with one exception, Elliott Towner.
Joe Genara came up, grinning. “Hi, fellas, enjoy our neighborhood last night?”
“Where’d you disappear to?” Johnny asked suspiciously.
“I watched it from the sidelines. Wasn’t my fight. If I were you I wouldn’t go walking around Oak and Milton tonight. Carmella and his gang are ready for you.” He winked at Sam Cragg. “Nice exhibition, Sam.”
“I didn’t even get warmed up,” said Sam.
Hal Johnson came into the sorting department from between two rows of barrels. “Break it up,” he snapped. “The bell rang five minutes ago.”
Genara scurried to his bench and Sam went off, scowling. Johnny grabbed up a couple of counters but Johnson remained at his side. “You’re a disturbing influence, Fletcher,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I made the mistake of my life hiring you. Who hit you in the face?”
Johnny touched the broken skin on his cheek.
“Had a little trouble with the Black Hand last night.”
“The Black Hand! Are you crazy?”