The Hoods (38 page)

The cashier hesitated.

“Cash them,” Max ordered.

“Look, bastard,” I growled, “we can clip all of it anyway.”

“That's about all there is,” the cashier complained in a hopeless tone. Maxie prodded him with the Tommy. He hurriedly counted out the money.

I thought Maxie went to a lot of trouble for nothing, to beat the wheel and everything. Now the chips, I laughed to myself; all he had to do was take the money out of the drawer, and throw the chips away.

Maxie was sizing up the cashier. “What's your name?” he asked.

“Simon Robinson,” he retorted meekly.

“What does the boss pay you a week?”

“Forty dollars.”

Maxie flipped his ashes. “Your boss is a cheap bastard, ain't he, Si, to pay a guy so little who handles big money like you do.”

“I agree with you on that,” the cashier smiled weakly.

Maxie looked at him speculatively. “You look okay to me, Si. How come you tied in with a crumby outfit like this?”

Si shrugged his shoulders.

Maxie turned to Pipy who was standing quietly near the door. “How did you make out in the dice game, Pipy boy?”

“I was just getting warmed up,” he replied. “I'm ahead anyway. Seven grand. Do you want the dough now?”

“We'll straighten out later,” Max said.

I was watching the entrance to the lobby intently. I whispered, “Hey, Max, this looks like the big shot coming in.”

Si looked out and nodded, “Yes, that's him.”

I watched him striding toward the office with two of his outside guards for escorts. He was the loud, sporty type. His suit was a bright powder blue. He was wearing a noisy red-striped tie, barber pole style. His pearl white hat was slouched on the side of his head a la Jimmy Walker.

“Pat, you stay with him,” Big Max pointed to the cashier. “You guys behind the door,” Maxie gestured to Cockeye, Pipy and Goo-Goo. I followed Max back into the toilet.

The sporty big shot burst through the door. He bellowed through the side of his mouth like a movie gangster.

“What the hell is going on here? What's up?”

He spied Patsy. “Who the hell are you?” he shouted at Pat.

Patsy was about to say something. He didn't have a chance to answer. The big shot snapped sharply to the cashier, “Goddamn you, Si. How many times did I tell you never to allow anybody in here? Where the hell is Paul? That sonofabitch is never around when you want him.”

His rasping voice annoyed us.

We walked into the room. Max pointed the Tommy gun at him.

“What have you got, diarrhea of the mouth, you bastard? Don't you ever close that trap of yours?”

Max spit on him.

His mouth opened wide, but no sound came out. Then he saw Cockeye, Goo-Goo and Pipy with guns in their hands.

The silence was broken with Patsy's laugh at the bastard's quick change. He just stood there speechless, like a deflated balloon. He seemed to have shrunken. There was no more wind coming from that loud mouth.

He whispered, “Is this a heist?”

“Look—you—friggin—bastard.” Big Max spit out every word separately with a slow savage violence. “You're—full—of—wind—and—piss —like—a—barber's—cat. From—here—on—I—do—all—the—talking —or—I—plug—your—mouth—with—this.”

Big Max with ferocious brutality jammed the nozzle of the Tommy right in his mouth, knocking two teeth out. He fell back with a yelp of pain. He spit teeth and blood out of his mouth. He sat down on a chair, holding a handkerchief to his mouth.

“Pat and Cockeye take care of things up here.” Maxie motioned to me to pick up the trap door. “Everybody else down the hole,” Max barked.

Patsy yanked the big shot up by the collar and pushed him down the cellar. “More garbage coming down, Jake.”

Jake was standing at the bottom of the stairway, grinning. He had two guns in his hands.

“Okay, all you goornoughs with horns, get to one side,” Max snapped, once everybody was downstairs.

They obeyed with alacrity, all but one of the uniformed guards. He was pale and in a sweat. He didn't move.

“Get going,” Maxie lashed at him.

“I can't. I got a nervous stomach,” he stammered. “I got to go upstairs.”

“Okay,” Maxie said, “you got to go, you got to go. Goo-Goo, you escort this gentleman up to the office crapper.”

Big Max bowed with mock politeness.

Maxie called derisively after them. “Hey, Goo-Goo, make sure the jerk defecates and doesn't masturbate.”

We thought the remark was hilariously funny. I saw Goo-Goo turn to Maxie and laugh. That was his mistake.

We heard a shot.

Big Max whipped around with his Tommy.

Goo-Goo was falling down the stairs.

We saw a pair of legs running up.

Big Max sprayed a stream of hot lead after them.

The guy in uniform came tumbling down.

He lay sprawled on top of Goo-Goo.

He was shrieking, “Oh, my legs!”

Blood was pouring all over Goo-Goo.

It came from the holes in the guard's legs.

Patsy came running down the stairs.

His face bore a wild murderous look.

“You'll croak for this, you friggin bastard.” Max stopped him with a reprimand.

He held his Roscoe ready in his hand.

Goo-Goo was grimacing in awful pain.

I took his jacket and shirt off. There was a nasty hole in his back high up around the right shoulder. I tore his shirt and bandaged him up.

Max bent over anxiously. “What do you think, Noodles?”

“He'll be okay,” I said. “We can't waste too much time. Hell need attention. The bullet's got to come out.”

“I'll make it short and sweet with these bastards,” Maxie promised.

“Hey, Pip,” I called, “get two bottles of whiskey from the bar.”

“Good idea,” Maxie said. He held his big hand over the wounded guard's mouth to suppress his loud crying.

I took the guard's pants off. Funny how the holes were evenly distributed. He had four in each leg. I tore his shirt into strips. I made two tourniquets, one on each leg. I plugged up the holes and bandaged them.

I whispered to Maxie, “This guy needs a hospital, bad, or hell be a goner.”

Maxie shrugged indifferently.

Pipy came down with two bottles of whiskey. I gave one to Goo-Goo, the other to the guard.

“Sip them slowly,” I said.

Maxie asked Pipy, “How are the people upstairs? Did they hear the shooting?”

Si, the cashier, answered, “A few people asked questions. I told them it was nothing, just some workmen using a pneumatic drill down the cellar.”

“Thanks for the cooperation. I won't forget you,” Max said. “Okay, Pat, you better go back upstairs.”

We took the politician owner of the place to one side. Jake and Pip stood guard on the rest. We backed him up in a corner. There was no getting away from it. Loudmouth's braggadocio was all gone. Even his clothes, including his tie, seemed subdued in the dim light. His hat was no longer at a rakish angle. There was fear in his eyes.

“The first thing, bastard,” Maxie had the nozzle of the Tommy dug into the guy's belly. “You close the joint up, okay?”

He mumbled a timid, “Okay.”

I interrupted, “I think I better go up to the attic and get our clothes. It's chilly down here.”

“Right,” Max said. I left.

I came down with our shirts and suits. We dressed quickly.

“Okay, bastard,” Maxie nudged the guy sharply with the Tommy towards the stairway. “Upsa daisy.”

When we got upstairs, Maxie gave fast and curt instructions.

“Pat, you go around with Si. Tell everybody to leave. Everybody— shills, guards, everybody. Tell them the place is closing early tonight. As soon as they start moving out, come back here with Si. We'll cash all the outstanding chips for the customers. And you, bastard,” Maxie motioned menacingly with the Tommy to the quaking boss of the place, “you stay by the window to assure any of your men who may get suspicious that everything's okay and for them to scram. One wrong move from you, I'll splatter you over the floor like cow crap. Noodles, you stay with him.”

Maxie went into the toilet. I stood alongside the guy, my shiv sticking in his ribs.

In twenty minutes most of the people had left. Only a few stragglers stood around.

One of the shills seemed a little too inquisitive. He kept asking at the window, “Why we closing so early, boss? What's up? What happened to your mouth, it's bleeding?”

I didn't like his looks. He seemed suspicious. I whispered to his boss, “Tell him to come in.”

He came in, reeking of perfume. I opened the trap door and said, “Down you go, sweet boy.”

He hesitated. I flashed the ten-inch blade at his throat. He ran down in a hurry, pale with fright. I slammed the door after him.

One at a time, we got rid of the rest of the stragglers. We locked the door. We had the place to ourselves.

Max, Patsy, the boss of the place and I adjourned to the bar. Max put the Tommy down and said, “Okay, boys, put the hardware away.”

We put our Roscoes in our holsters.

Max put four glasses on the bar. He took a fresh bottle of Mt. Vernon and poured.

Loudmouth smirked ingratiatingly as he reached for his drink. “I sure need this.” His speech sounded odd with his two teeth missing.

On our second round, Max asked, “Do you know what we're here for?”

The liquor gave him a little courage.

He simpered, “Not for any of my good, I suppose.”

He hesitated to see how we took his remark.

Maxie prompted him, “Okay. Go ahead.”

Blood was still trickling from his mouth but he managed a small smile.

He continued, “At first I thought you lads were out on a heist.” He took the bull by the horns. “I suppose you're some of Frank's boys from the Combine?”

Max deadpanned. “Never heard of the guy.” He scrutinized him speculatively. “Okay, let's say we come from a source that wants to take this joint over. What then?”

Maxie poured the third round. He was feeding him whiskey, evidently to restore him to his blatant self. Max was proving the old Roman adage,
In vino Veritas.

Sure enough.

He straightened his noisy tie, adjusted his felt hat to the rakish Jimmy Walker angle, and answered Max out of the corner of his mouth.

“Why should I give this joint up? I had big offers to sell out. This place is a gold mine. I built it. It's mine. And I tell you guys something: nobody's going to push me out or muscle in either.”

I guess he caught Maxie's warning expression. His thin veneer of Dutch courage evaporated.

“Ain't I right, fellas? Is it the right thing to do to go around bulldozing people? To scare people into giving away their rights? I—I,” he pounded his chest self-righteously, “built this casino, I tell you, fellas. It isn't legal, especially to a foreigner like this Frank guy.” His eyes lit up with justification.

“I'm an American, a hundred percent American.”

At the word “American” Max spit his burning cigar square into the guy's eyes. Ashes and sparks flew all over his face.

Patsy clipped him a left hook in the belly.

He lay on the floor moaning, wiping the ashes out of his eyes.

“You flag-waving stinkin' bastard.” Maxie spit in his face. “I was going to give you a break. I was about to give you a proposition. To let you run this joint with honest equipment. On a partnership basis. But there's no hope for you. You're lousy through and through. Aren't you, bastard? You talk about rights? You sonofabitch, you're lower than whale shit and that's at the bottom of the ocean. You run a crooked gambling joint. You grab all the profits for yourself. You underpay your help. You probably intimidate everybody with your yellow-bellied Klan set-up. You, a good American? You rob the people of their vote with your forged registration books. You consider yourself a better man than Frank? You rat bastard. A man who'll give a guy a break? Who runs his joints on the up and up? Who overpays his help? Who don't give a damn for a buck? Whose word is his bond? Who gives away more in charity? He's more of an American—”

“Yeh,” I was thinking, “they're both right. This bum is America, with his Ku Klux Klan and everything else crooked around him. Where else in the world but in America can you find a character like this crooked politician? Where else but America could a fabulous figure like Frank be produced? And the rest of us hoods, all true and typically American?” I laughed to myself. “God bless America.”

Big Maxie continued his ridiculous harangue on true Americanism. He was working himself up to a murderous frenzy. He picked up his Tommy gun and held it to the whimpering guy's head. “Pray, you goornough, pray.” The guy was looking at Max with horror.

He sniveled and pleaded. “Please, please, give me a break. I got dough. I'll give you my dough. Anything. Let me go.”