“Oh,” said Johnny. “It’s like that”
“Yep!”
“I could yell, you know.”
“In which case I’d have to plug both you and the driver.”
“Tough guy, eh?”
Joe leaned back, away from Johnny. He smiled confidently. Johnny slid morosely over to the far side of the seat and the taxi jerked and jolted through the streets of upper Manhattan.
Crossing Fifth Avenue, at 110th Street, Joe leaned forward and called to the driver, “I’ve changed my mind. Drive to One Hundred and Thirty-fifth Street and Lenox Avenue.”
Ten minutes later the cab pulled over to the curb.
Johnny and his abductor got out. Joe kept his left hand in his pocket as he paid the cabby. Then he fell in beside Johnny.
“Now, we walk.”
They walked two blocks, turned off Lenox Avenue and went another block. Then Joe nodded to the dingiest building in all New York, a building that should have been condemned years ago, but hadn’t been.
Joe led Johnny up to the door and taking a key out of his pocket, unlocked the door.
He stepped back for Johnny to enter.
Johnny went in. A thousand smells assailed his nostrils. Inside Joe closed the door and took his left hand out of his pocket. He prodded Johnny with the .32.
“Up one flight, first door on your left.”
They climbed the stairs and Joe unlocked an apartment door, revealing a small apartment furnished with worn, shabby furniture.
“Little hideaway,” Joe said cheerfully.
“So?”
“So now we talk business. You’ve got a phonograph record...”
“Says who?”
Joe shook his head. “Let’s keep it on a friendly basis and no hard feelings, what do you say? All right — you’ve got a phonograph record.”
“Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I’ve got a phonograph record. What then?”
“Why, you give it to me. That’s all. Then you go your way and I go mine and nobody’s hurt.”
“Who wants this phonograph record?”
“I do.”
“Somebody’s paying you for this job?”
“Of course. I can’t work just for the fun of it, can I?”
“That’d be against the union rules, wouldn’t it?”
“Natch!”
“But what if I don’t give you this phonograph record?”
“Are you kidding?”
Johnny seated himself on a threadbare sofa. “I’ve got an awfully stubborn streak in me. A girl was murdered because of that phonograph record and somehow it goes against me to make her murderer a present of that record.”
There was a telephone across the room. Joe went to it and keeping one eye on Johnny, dialed a number. Then he put the receiver to his ear. After a moment he said: “Georgie? What about it? What...?” He nodded. “I’ve got the chump here. Better come over.” He hung up. “The record wasn’t in your hotel room,” he said to Johnny.
“Did your chum try the hotel safe downstairs?” Johnny asked, sarcastically.
“Oh, so that’s where it is!” Joe seated himself in a chair, facing Johnny across the room. “We’ll give your friend time to get back to the hotel, then we’ll give him a buzz, huh?”
“Buzz all you like, but it won’t get you the record.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Joe toyed with his little revolver. “Don’t go making up your mind. A fella makes up his mind too hard he hates to change it. And that makes things kinda tough. So keep an open mind, huh?”
Johnny glowered. “How much are you getting paid for this?”
“Enough.”
“A hundred dollars if I walk out of here.”
Joe showed interest. “You’ve got a hundred dollars?”
Johnny winced. “Not with me, but...”
“Turn your pockets inside out,” Joe said.
Johnny sat stubbornly still.
“This gun don’t make too much noise,” Joe went on.
“You kill me and you kill the chance of getting the record,” Johnny said grimly.
“Who said anything about killing?” Joe demanded. “I wouldn’t bump a guy for no amount of money.”
“You mean that?”
“Why, of course. They execute guys for murder. But I was thinking about your knee. One of these little slugs would kinda chew up the kneecap and make it hurt pretty bad, but a broken knee wouldn’t kill a man. So how’s about standing up and emptying the old pockets, huh?”
“You wouldn’t shoot,” Johnny said. “The people downstairs would hear the shot.”
“The people here mind their own business. A man wants to beat up his wife, it’s his business, or hers. And there’s rats in this building. We shoot them sometimes. So, how’s about getting up, huh?”
Johnny looked steadily at the man with the gun. Something he saw in his eyes caused him to get up. Joe cocked his gun as Johnny reached into his pocket.
Johnny took out his money, including the three nice new hundred dollar bills. He tossed them across the room. Joe looked down and saw the figures on the new bills.
“Pay dirt!” he cried.
“Me and my big mouth,” said Johnny bitterly.
“Oh, don’t worry, chum,” Joe said consolingly, “we’d a searched you anyway, when George got here.” He scooped up the bills. “Uh, we’ll keep this little deal a secret between us, huh?”
Down in the building a door slammed. Then heavy feet pounded creaking stairs. Joe went swiftly to the door, opened it a crack and peered out. Then he pulled open the door.
“Hi, Georgie!” he greeted the newcomer.
A man very much the size of Sam Cragg, but with the meanest look Johnny had ever seen in a human, came into the apartment. He sneered at Johnny. “So this is the sucker. He doesn’t look like much.”
“Oh, he isn’t such a bad sort, Georgie. A Utile unreasonable maybe, but I think he means right.”
“I do like hell,” Johnny snorted. “And what’s more, you took four hundred bucks out of my pocket.”
Georgie brightened. “Four hundred coconuts?”
Joe shook his head. “Not quite, George, not quite four hundred...”
“Give!”
Joe took the money from his pocket, gave Johnny another hurt look and divided with Georgie. “Fifty-fifty, right down the line. That’s being partners, Georgie.”
“You said it. Same with the grand that—”
“Hold it, Georgie...!”
“Oh, I wasn’t gonna spill the guy’s name. Don’t worry. I can keep my trap shut. Well, how about it, Sher...?”
“Joe’s my name!” snapped Joe. “Watch it.”
“Okay, okay.”
Joe pointed to the telephone. “Fletcher, your friend ought to be back at the hotel by now.”
“Maybe.”
The geniality faded from Joe’s face. “You’ll call him. He’ll get the record from the hotel people and he’ll bring it up here. And he won’t say a word to anyone — anywhere. On account of what’ll happen to you, if he does. Got that?”
“I’ve got it,” said Johnny, “but I’m not calling Sam Cragg.”
Georgie’s eyes widened. “I thought you said he was okay?”
“Maybe I didn’t ask him polite enough. Fletcher, I’m asking you again — for the last time, polite. Call your chum on the phone.”
Johnny folded his arms stubbornly. “Go to hell!”
Joe sighed. “All right, Georgie...”
Grinning wickedly, Georgie walked up to Johnny. He reached down and gathered up a handful of Johnny’s coat front, his shirt and a bit of his skin. He lifted Johnny to his feet. And then still smiling, he smashed his fist into Johnny’s face — a blow so savage that it went through Johnny’s hurriedly thrown-up defense and sent him reeling across the room. The wall brought him to a stop, but it didn’t hold him. He slid down it to a sitting position.
In a haze, Johnny saw Georgie bearing down on him. Even as the big man stooped to catch him up, he raised his foot and kicked Georgie in the groin. Georgie went back, gasping with pain.