Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde Read online

  McMann poured himself a stiff drink, squirting in a little seltzer. “Hey, why’nt you wash Spat up?” The phone rang. Bill took off the receiver, remembering the cop who’d knocked at Paddy’s flat so long ago. “Hello. Yeh? What do you mean a riot?” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. “The hotel says the neighbors’ve been complaining and to cut it out…. Hello, if your walls were sound-proof as you claim, there’d be no complaints.”

  “The brain guy,” laughed McMann. Everybody grinned except Duffy. Why in hell didn’t Mac quit that line? thought Bill. Gee, he was sick of it. Something tricky in that line about being a brain guy. He soaked a towel in the bathroom, bending over Spat. Suddenly loathing the brutality. Hell, it hadn’t been a show. It was real. This was a man beaten to death almost. He washed the blood from Spat’s nose and face. The towel became reddish. Spat’s bleeding lips were cracked badly. He soaked the towel again as they all watched, bathing the eyes. Slowly Spat came to, peering between his bluish lids. “It hurts opening them,” he said.

  Poor Spat. He forced a drink of water between his lips. Spat coughed, choked, seemed to get a little better. He pushed Bill away. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Bill helped him to Duffy’s bed. Spat lay down.

  “He took a pounding if a guy ever did,” said Ray.

  “His own fault,” said McMann. Everybody agreed it was Spat’s fault. No one said it wasn’t.

  After the visitors had gone, Duffy thought how McMann had framed him, stealing his kids. McMann had to be fixed. Now and then he called: “How you coming, Spat?” Finally Spat’s groans got stronger. Spat was strong as a bull, thought Duff, staring at Spat sitting up in bed and fingering his swollen face. His eyes could hardly be seen. “Lucky the bastard didn’t land one right on the eye, or I’d be blind as a bat,” he said to the boss.

  “How you feel?”

  “You’re a helluva swell boss.” He returned from the bathroom, his hair dripping. “I look swell.”

  “Not my fault.”

  “My fault, maybe?”

  “Didn’t I say not to fight? That bastard’s got Ray and Schneck bulldozed. It was a frame-up, plain as hell. He’s out for the kids.” He chucked his dressing-gown on a chair. Outside his gorgeous shell, he was skinny in pyjamas. He dressed swiftly, talking all the while.

  “You let me down,” said Spat, “you did.”

  “Could I help it with four of them? We got to spike McMann. You rest up, then round up all the kids you can find. Say, about seven tonight, to meet at the poolroom.” Duffy gasped at Spat lingering. The beaten wop was himself. Duffy looked around as if maybe the Spat he used to command was hiding.

  “Don’t you rush me.”

  “Forget it, Spat. We’ll fix him.”

  “You let me down.”

  “Too many, Spat. Gwan, get the kids.”

  When Spat was gone, Duffy felt sick. Spat mightn’t ever come back. He had a good job as a numberbook and he didn’t need Duffy. “Spat, too,” he muttered. His face was pink in the cheeks as if from disease. He dressed, taking the elevator down to the lobby. On Eighth Avenue he darted into a drug store to make a call, dropping a nickel in the slot. In a steady voice he asked for police headquarters. A voice answered, stalling around, saying: “Will you hold the wire?” Duffy had a fear of a radio car. He said swiftly: “Tell Detective Hanrahan that the guys in the Ninth Avenue stickups are Red McMann and Bill Trent. The guys are McMann and Trent. Got it? He’ll know.” He hung up, walking outside. An apple-peddler clapped mittened hands, his box of red fruit waxy and artificial in the gray February light. They could trace that call. The booth Duffy had used was now occupied by a cloak-and-suiter insisting he was Simmy, yeh Simmy, she’d met him before, and could he come over?

  At eight that night the proprietor of the pool parlor nodded at Duffy hurrying to the private room. “Who’s that guy?” a customer asked. The prop had a reputation for being a clam. He said Duffy was a politician.

  Right off the bat, Duffy didn’t like the looks of things. The room was noisy, mischievous as a classroom of boys who didn’t give a damn about teacher. They’d been bulling when Duffy marched in. They helloed him. None of the leaders were there, only a dozen or so of the crumbums and chiselers. Out of the twenty or thirty kids, six or seven counted. They weren’t around. Spat was smoking a cigar, his battered face like a gargoyle’s. The kids’d had a swell time kidding Spat, rubbing it in. Some fighter he was, the hell he was. You bunk inta door, huh Spat? Hey, Spat, who’s been kissin’ your puss? Hey, Spat, you thinking your mug’s a beefsteak all carved up? Hey, Spat, better stick to numbers, numbers don’t sock. Ha and haw and ho for Spat.

  Duffy listened to them kidding around, waiting for their leaders to arrive. Ray was the first, lean, muscled, with a face like McMann’s. Then Mike and husky Schneck, so wide it seemed as if a dozen inches had been cut off his height. “Hello, Duffy,” said Ray smoothly. “Howya?”

  “Fine, kid, how you coming?”

  “Fine.” Smoking to beat the band, the mob sat back for his spiel. Duffy choked inside. Ray and Schneck had been lining them up. He was licked before he started. Mike McQuade had his hoofs on the table so they could all see he needed new soles. Babe’s mouth was curved, wise-guying everybody without saying a word. Frisco whispered to Schneck and the Chisel. All these kids of his, none of them much over twenty, were sniffing around like a pack of wolves given a scent. “Give us the spiel,” said Ray.

  “You guys shut up and listen to me,” began Duffy. “McMann and Bill’ve been trying to steer you wrong. This morning they asked me to lend them some of you kids to stick up a speak. I said no.” They broke into voice, excited, commenting. Spat stared gloomily at Duffy. Louder than the rest, clowning to the crowd, Schneck was socking some invisible enemy. “Shut up. Shut up. I could’ve said yes, but I didn’t want to get you fellers in trouble. I’ve known you a long time and it’s nothing in my pocket to have some of you killed. McMann don’t care.”

  “You’re too conservative,” shouted Ray.

  Haw haw, listen to the big word, ain’t Ray smart? Hey, Ray, you’re smart. What collitch you go to? Conservative. Duffy grinned, thinking: Damn those hellcats, damn Schneck, damn Ray, they’ve made ‘em daffy.

  “You want a bullet in your hair, Ray?” asked Duffy.

  “No such chance. McMann’s a weasel. And we want dough. Looka the way he pulled off those jobs with the cheese store and paint supply. Slick ain’t the word.”

  You bet they wanted dough. “We want dough,” some kids hollered.

  “McMann’s got inside dope from Bill,” said Schneck. “He’s a weasel and so’s Bill.”

  “What you driving at?” asked Duffy, avoiding Spat’s smile.

  “If McMann says we can take a speak, we can.”

  “You’re crazy, Ray. Where does he get this dope — this wonderful dope?”

  “From Bill. Bill used to work for Stanger. He’s got the ins and outs of a hundred stores.”

  “You’ve swallowed the hook. Bill’s the brain guy? Bunk. Listen to me, Ray. Brain guy or no brain guy, he ain’t keepin’ you from dodging bullets.”

  The kids began to talk all at once. Mike exclaimed he was ready for anything. Pete sake, his shoes were full of holes, and every time it rained, his feet got wet. Pete sake, he wished he was in with McMann on the cheese store. It was soft for the guys in. Things were lousy when Ray and Schneck and a couple others were in and others were out. Ray bellowed that’s just what McMann said. Why the hell should they starve? There was all Ninth to stick up when things cooled down. In the meanwhile a few uptown speaks could keep them in bread and butter. “McMann says we’ll get a clubhouse and a chink to cook us grub. McMann’s got guts. Let’s take a chance with him.”

  They broke into voice, all the wild young voices. Duffy shivered like an old man caught up with in a dark place. Schneck was fight-talking a group, their heads lowered,. glancing at Duffy now and then as if he were out of earshot. Duffy was licked. It was in the air. He was licked. The
leaders were all tied up by Schneck and Ray. They were all for McMann. The holdups of the cheese and paint stores clinched things. They weren’t saying it in so many words. It was in the air that McMann was a stronger and more profitable leader. Spat’s licking proved something.

  “Shut up,” Duffy cried, his eyes burning little hells. “Get it straight. Me and Spat’ve been working and thinking for you.” (Mike hollered to looka his shoes and the holes. Laughter.) “Yeh, working even if you don’t appreciate it. Tell me how McMann and Bill ever met you. They came to me. They had jobs. I took them on because things were slow. Now these two eggs’ve gone cuckoo. They want to go in things that’s bound to kill some of you.”

  “Me for that. A swell funeral with new shoes.” They all laughed, the gang of wild boys, so intoxicated with their humor it was impossible for them to conceive death or calamity.

  “And then,” Ray said as if in rebuttal, as if he and Duffy were holding a debate the others didn’t grasp, Duffy seconded by Spat, and Ray by Schneck, “McMann says after we get some dough from a coupla speaks, we’ll rent a house, a whole house, a clubhouse for us guys where we can throw parties and sleep and have a dame if we wants, too.”

  In all the uproar they heard Duffy screaming: “Bunk, all bunk, and all of you falling for it.”

  “Like hell. Bill usta be in real estate. He says we can rent a house in some neighborhood for seventy-five to a hundred a month. Bill’s got connections.”

  They couldn’t get over this Spanish castle. Gee, it was just plain swell’n elegant. McMann’s plans were the nuts. A clubhouse. After hanging out on corners, in speaks and coffee-pots, and now a regular dive where a feller could drink his beer or play cards or line up a dame. Boy. Swarthy, frowning, his shoulders sloped, his face branded by the new power, the new enemy that had appeared against them, Spat looked at his boss. They were gaga over McMann. Showed what a little smearing could do. Ray and Schneck had sold them out. If Ray and Schneck had said: It’s all the bunk … not one of them would’ve given a nickel for the clubhouse. Leaders. Damn them for bossing the bunch. Duffy thought: I’ve built up a mob for them bastards.

  “All right,” he said. “You want to take chances, take them. Go uptown. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. When you get plugged you’ll remember Duffy warned you.”

  “No one’s getting hurt,” said Schneck. “Bill’s got it planned.”

  “Who in hell is Bill, God Almighty?”

  “He’s a swell planner. And with McMann leading the stickups, boy, oh, boy, it’s a cinch for a clubhouse.” They gossiped again of that clubhouse, ignoring Duffy. Spat was out of it altogether. Hell, thought Duffy, McMann beat him up so the gang’d have a good laugh looking at him. He had his showdown. Maybe Hanrahan’d stop McMann and Bill. If not? The kids didn’t give a damn about him. His guts soured at their excitement. He thought of murder, of some guy, say some dope, knocking off McMann. Some dope could fix the bastard with his crap about clubhouses. Duffy was cool inside, his mouth crisp as if from a mint drink. He sneered at the kids, that thought of his making him strong again. He said: “O.K., you kids. You wanta hold up a speak? Gwan. McMann’ll see Ray and Schneck and fix it up. I’m out of it.” They listened. “McMann wanted me’n Spat to split, but I won’t touch it. If the stickup’s pulled off, our share goes to the bunch, to the guys that won’t be in on’t. So Mike’ll have shoes.” He smiled at their laughter. Hell’n Maria. Holy Moses. That was swell of Duff. That was swell of the boss.

  Ray and Schneck were silent. Schneck didn’t catch on. Ray grinned in a nasty way as if to say: Hell, you ain’t fooling me, Duff. McMann wouldn’t’ve give you a lousy cent.

  Duffy left, but Spat stayed behind. So Spat was trailing the mob. He’d have to fix McMann to win back control. The customers, outside, leaning on their sticks, were awed by Duffy. “Gee,” said one of them, “that’s the big shot.” He chalked his cue enviously.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  IT RAINED for many days, and the air was blue with chill. On the third morning Joe got up at six, dressing for work. Today’d be like all the others. Everyone’ll make believe things are just the same. Oh, my God, why didn’t something happen? He’d haul in tubs of butter like before, and every-one’d make believe things were the same. And they’d be watching, Sam and Murray and Metz, like three clever cats hoping he’d slip up. Joe lifted up the shade. The saturated light, ghostly, defeated, rolled in over Bill’s sleeping face. Bill had it easy. Bill had it soft. He shook Bill’s shoulder, pushing the dog to one side. Damn the mutt. Couldn’t he wait with his kisses? Morning was morning to Spotty and he was always happy to be alive and see his friends alive. “Lay down, Spot. C’mon, boy. You’ll get your breakfast.” His hand was wet from the slobbering tongue. Bill’s eyes were wide awake, as if he hadn’t been sleeping worth a damn, rising out of sleep like Lazarus out of death with a comprehending knowledge. “Well,” said Bill, “what is it?”

  “I don’t want to see all of them again. I don’t want to return, Bill. All day, especially with no customers around, they’ll be staring at me. I can’t go back, Bill.”

  “You must. If you don’t, it’s a give-away.” He averted his eyes from Joe’s agonized face. It was as if a huge trap gripped both of them.

  “Oh, Bill,” he cried hopelessly, as if Bill were letting him down.

  “You win. Go downstairs. Have Mrs. Gebhardt phone Metz you’re sick and will be in tomorrow. We’ll talk it over.” He rolled over on his side like a prophet summoned from the grave for one last prophecy, returning to sleep again, the word spoken. Joe sighed in the dead used air of the bedroom. He opened the window to breathe the rainy air. The trucks weren’t backing up to the warehouse yet, but he could imagine them, the horses lowering their meek heads. He turned on the faucet. Spotty attacked his hand, interfering with his washing up. Hell with fourteen hours of work. The hell with it. He was sick. Thank God, he was sick.

  The Ninth Avenue Els rattled towards South Ferry. Glancing down to the street level, the laborers employed in the fruit and meat markets below Fourteenth Street saw the little gink; he was hot stuff that gink. Good for a laugh at seven every morning. Getting a laugh at seven was a stunt. The little dark man in a straw hat hopped out the dairy store in the pouring rain, shouting at two clerks sloshing his big window. That was funny.

  When Joe failed to show up. Metz promptly thought: Oi it is him’n his brother, a shame, a verdamten shame. He couldn’t say why it was such a shame except that two such fine educated boys with a good family….

  Joe’s absence had the effect of shoving him in a chair. Let that Hanrahan burn in hell. Detectives. American detectives. Why couldn’t he work at his job without making peoples for rotten spies? He’d been a spy for a long time, spying on Joe. Phew. Metz had been born in Czarist Russia. He hadn’t forgotten the elaborate spy system. He hated spies. His business was to sell cheese and butter, the best quality. Hanrahan’s business was spywork. Helping the law was well and good. Every American must help the law, the law was such a baby, but where was it said in the Constitution for Americans to do spywork? The phone rang, and Mrs. Gebhardt, feeling the importance of the poor speaking to bosses, asked for Mr. Metz. She would like to say Joe was sick and said for her to call. Joe wouldn’t be in today. He had the flu from the rain. He’d be in tomorrow. Metz exploded, doing what he wanted, his heart easier within him. “You tell Joe he’s fired. I can’t afforda sick people. I’m not sick. I send him what I owe him. What’s the address?” When he went back to the counter, he was grinning, abashed. He’d over-shouted the woman. Poor woman. Always poor people. But he’d done Joe a favor. Let that cop do what he wanted without making him busy with spywork. He tapped his straw hat, winked at the clerks, who marched in wet and sulky, the rain spattering the window they’d just cleaned. “Hello,” he said, “nice spring weather, ain’t it?” Later he phoned the police, informing the person answering to have Hanrahan get in touch with him. Who was him? “Say Metz. He know.”

  Hanraha
n burst out of the phone booth, cursing mildly as if too much violence’d harm the delicate balance of his digestive system. He bought a cigar from the clerk, sniffing at the premium coupons. “Counterfeit money.” He put the cigar in his pocket. Standing outside, half in, half out of the rain, a kid begged for the coupons. Hanrahan handed them over, buttoning his overcoat tight over his paunch, chewing a toothpick. Men slopped past him for a pack of butts or three cigars for a dime or for wintergreen for smelly mouths, surprised at Hanrahan smoothly easing his clumsy bulk out of the way. He chewed his toothpick until the wood dissolved, the tiny mushy splinters in his gums and teeth, licking his tongue as if it were a swell morsel. The kid picked up some more coupons.

  The rain didn’t appear to be the soaking kind, but it did the trick, filling the depressions on the sidewalks with little pools. Everyone without rubbers was due to get his feet wet. No co-operation, thought Hanrahan philosophically. Metz couldn’t wait for the kid to quit. Oh, no. Had to sack him himself because the kid said he was sick. God. These foreigners never were good citizens. He pulled down his derby, thinking about Metz and the phony tipoff, not so phony either, that had been buzzed into headquarters about McMann and Bill being behind the robberies on Ninth. Bill was. McMann could be. Billy must be a corker to work in with a hound like Mac.

  For lunch he ordered roast beef, arguing bitterly when he examined his portion. “Why in hell don’t you serve better mashed? Potatoes are cheap as dirt with all them farmers starving.”

  Bill yawned awake. In the gloom, the red hair on his chest glinted dark and steely. He looked up at Joe as if he hadn’t ever met him. Joe grinned, his hands restless so that they seemed grinning, his body trembling with mirth. “Mrs. Gebhardt phoned and guess what happened?”

  “They made you chief cheese and raised your pay to a thousand a minute.”