“Now you, Johnny,” Massino said. “You’re a well known
character in this town. People like and respect you. You’ve got a
reputation. How would you like to take over the one-arm bandits?”
Johnny stiffened. This was the last thing he expected to be
offered . . . the last thing he wanted. Bernie Schultz, a fat, ageing
man, looked after these gambling machines for Massino: had looked
after them for the past five years. He had often moaned to Johnny
about his worries, how Andy was continually chasing him if the take
from these machines fell below what Bernie declared was an
impossible weekly target.
He remembered Bernie, sweating, dark rings around his eyes,
saying, “The goddamn job isn’t worth it, Johnny. You’ve no idea.
You’re always under pressure from that sonofabitch to find new
outlets. You walk your goddamn feet off, trying to get creeps to take
29
the machines. Then if they take them, some goddamn kid busts
them. You never stop working.”
“How about Bernie?” Johnny asked to gain time.
“Bernie’s washed up.” Massino’s amiable expression changed
and he now became the cold, ruthless executive. “You can handle
this, Johnny. You won’t have trouble in finding new outlets. People
respect you. It’ll be worth four hundred and a one per cent cut: could
net you eight hundred if you really got stuck into the job. What do
you say?”
Johnny thought swiftly. This was an offer he dare not refuse. He
was sure if he did, he would be out and he wasn’t yet ready to be
kissed off.
Looking straight at Massino, he said, “When do I start?”
Massino grinned and, leaning forward, he slapped Johnny’s knee.
“That’s the way I like a guy to talk,” he said. “I knew I’d picked
the right one. You start the first of the month. I’ll have Bernie fixed
by then. You talk it over with Andy. He’ll wise you up.” He got to his
feet, looked at his watch and grimaced. “I’ve got to move along. Got
to take the wife to some goddamn shindig. Well, okay, Johnny, that’s
a deal. You’ve got yourself eight hundred bucks a week.” He put his
heavy arm around Johnny’s shoulders and led him to the door. “Talk
to Sammy. If he wants the job, tell him to see Andy who will fix his
uniform. You two do the next collection and then you start your new
jobs . . . right?”
“That’s fine with me,” Johnny said and moved out into the big
hall where the butler was waiting.
“See you,” Massino said and strode up the stairs, whistling under
his breath and out of Johnny’s sight.
Reaching his car, Johnny stood hesitating. He looked at his
watch. The time was 21.05. Knowing Melanie’s eating capacity he
guessed she would be occupied for another half hour. He decided it
might pay off to have a word with Bernie Schultz.
He drove across town and reached Bernie’s apartment in fifteen
minutes. He found Bernie at home, his shoes off, a beer in his hand,
watching T.V.
Bernie’s wife, a big, fat happy-faced woman let him in and then
went into the kitchen because she knew these two were going to talk
business and she never mixed herself up in any of Bernie’s
machinations.
Johnny didn’t hedge.
As soon as Bernie had turned off the T.V. and offered beer which
Johnny refused, Johnny said, “I’ve just talked with Mr. Joe. You’re
getting the kiss off, Bernie, and I’m getting your job.”
Bernie stared at him.
“Come again?”
Johnny repeated what he had said.
“You really mean that . . . no kidding?”
“I’m telling you.”
Bernie drew in a long, deep breath and his heavy, fat face lit up
with a broad grin. Suddenly, he looked ten years younger.
“Is that great news!” He clapped his hands together. “I’ve been
praying for this for years! So, now I’m free!”
“I guessed you would feel that way,” Johnny said. “That’s why I
came right over. What’ll you do, Bernie? You’ll be out of the
organization.”
“Do? Me?” Bernie laughed happily. “I’ve got money put by. My
brother-in-law owns a fruit farm in California. That’s where I’ll be:
partners, picking fruit in the sun with not a goddamn care in the
world!”
“Yeah.” Johnny’s mind shifted to his dream boat and the sea.
“Well, I’ve got your job, Bernie. What’s it worth?”
Bernie finished his beer, belched and set down the glass.
“Mr. Joe pays me a flat eight hundred a week and one per cent
of the take, but the one per cent means nothing. All the goddamn
years I’ve worked, I’ve never reached the target above that
sonofabitch Andy’s target, so you can forget the one per cent. But
you get paid eight hundred steady, Johnny, although the job is sheer
31
hell. I’ve managed to save out of what I got paid and you can too.”
Eight hundred a week and Massino had offered him only four
hundred and one per cent which according to Bernie meant nothing!
A cold, fierce rage took hold of Johnny, but he controlled it.
You’remybestman,Johnny.There’ssomethinginyouthatgets
tome.
That’s what the thieving, double-crossing sonofabitch had said!
Well, okay, Johnny thought as he got to his feet, I’ll be a thieving
sonofabitch too!
Leaving Bernie, he went down to where he had parked his car.
Still raging, he drove fast to Melanie’s pad.
The following morning when Melanie had gone to work, Johnny
returned to his apartment and cooked himself breakfast which was
his favourite meal. He had the whole day before him with no plans.
He was in a surly mood. Massino’s meanness still irked him. He had
now no misgivings about robbing him, that was for sure.
As he was sitting down to three fried eggs and a thick slice of
grilled ham, the telephone bell rang. Cursing, he got up and lifted the
receiver. It was Andy Lucas on the line.
“Mr. Joe says you’re to take over Bernie’s job,” Andy said. “You
two had better get together. See him today. He’ll take you around
with him and give you introductions.”
“Okay,” Johnny said, eyeing his breakfast. “I’ll do that.”
“And listen, Johnny.” Andy’s voice was cold. “Bernie has been
lying down on the job. I’ll expect you to increase the business. We
want at least two hundred more machines out and that’ll be your job
. . . understand?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. . . go talk to Bernie,” and Andy hung up. Johnny returned
to his breakfast but he hadn’t the appetite he had had before the
telephone call.
A little after moo, he went out and headed for Bernie’s office: a
one-room affair on the top floor of a walk-up office block. As he was
waiting for the traffic lights to change so he could cross the road, he
saw Sammy the Black waiting to cross on the other side of the street.
Sammy grinned and waved and when the traffic stopped, Johnny
join
ed him.
“Hi, Sammy . . . what are you doing?”
“Me?” Sammy looked vague. “Not a thing, Mr. Johnny. Not much
doing on Saturday . . . just mooching around.”
Johnny had forgotten it was Saturday. Tomorrow would be
Sunday. He hated Sundays with the shops shut and people going out
of town. Usually he spent Sunday mornings reading the papers and
then joining Melanie in the late afternoon. Sunday morning she was
always busy, cleaning her apartment, washing her hair and doing all
the goddamn chores women seem to find to do.
“Want coffee?” Johnny asked.
“Always say yes to coffee.” Sammy looked uneasily at Johnny.
The hard expression on Johnny’s face bothered him. “Something
wrong?”
“Let’s have coffee.” Johnny led the way to the cafe and propped
himself up against the bar. He ordered the coffees, then said, “I was
talking to Mr. Joe last night.” He went on to tell Sammy what
Massino had said. “It’s up to you. Do you want to drive his car?”
Sammy’s face lit up as if he had swallowed a lighted electric light
bulb.
“Is this straight, Mr. Johnny?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Sure do!” Sammy slapped his pink palms together. “You mean I
don’t have to collect any more money?”
Johnny thought sourly: another one! Bernie, beaming from ear
to ear, now Sammy. They have it smooth while I get it rough.
“You have to wear a uniform and drive his Rolls. Like the idea?”
“Sure do! Is this good news!” Sammy paused then looked at
Johnny. “When do I start?”
“The week after next.”
33
Sammy’s face fell.
“You mean I’ve got the collection next Friday to do?”
“That’s right.”
Sammy’s eyes rolled and sweat broke out on his face.
“Couldn’t the new man do the job, Mr. Johnny? Who’s the new
man anyway?”
“I wouldn’t know. We make the collection together on the 29th,
Sammy.” Johnny finished his coffee. “So forget it.”
“Yes.” Sammy blotted his sweating face with his handkerchief.
“You think it’ll be all right?”
“Can’t go wrong.” Johnny moved away from the bar. “I’ve things
to do. Go see Andy. Tell him you’ll drive for Mr. Joe. He’ll fix
everything. It pays a hundred and fifty.”
Sammy’s eyes opened wide.
“A hundred and fifty?”
“That’s what Mr. Joe said.” Johnny looked thoughtfully at
Sammy. “Are you still keeping your savings under your bed?”
“Where else should I keep it, Mr. Johnny?”
“I told you, you dope, in a goddamn bank!”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Sammy said, shaking his head. “Banks are
for white people.”
Johnny shrugged.
“Be seeing you.” He paid for the coffees and walked out of the
cafe. Ten minutes later he was in Bernie Schultz’s office.
Bernie was resting behind his battered desk, his chair pushed
back, his thumbs hooked to his belt. When he saw Johnny, he
straightened up.
“Andy said I was to look in,” Johnny said. “He said you’d give me
introductions and take me around.”
“Sure will,” Bernie said, “but not today. This is the week-end for
God’s sake! No business at week-ends. Suppose we start Monday,
huh? Come here around ten o’clock. I’ll show you around. Okay?”
“Anything you say.” Johnny started towards the door.
“Oh, Johnny . . .”
Johnny paused and looked at Bernie who was scratching his fat
jowl.
“Yeah?”
“I guess I flapped with my big mouth.” Bernie shifted uneasily in
his chair. “Andy told me I wasn’t to tell you what I get paid. Can you
forget it?”
Johnny’s hands turned to fists, but he managed a cold grin.
“Sure. I’ve forgotten it, Bernie. See you Monday,” and he left the
little office and tramped clown the six flights of stairs, swearing
under his breath.
As he was within a five-minute walk from the Greyhound bus
station, he made his way there. Reaching the station, he paused to
look across the street and up at Massino’s office windows. Massino
was probably in flight to Miami for a long week-end, but Johnny was
sure that Andy was up there in his poky office.
He went into the bus station and made his way to the left
luggage lockers. He stopped to read the instructions printed on the
door of one of the lockers. The key, he read, had to be collected from
the attendant. He glanced around. Seeing no one among the milling
crowd he knew, he wandered over to the attendant’s cubby hole. A
big, sleepy-looking negro peered at him.
“Let’s have a key,” Johnny said. “How much?”
“How long do you want it for, boss?”
“Three weeks . . . maybe longer. I don’t know.”
The negro handed over the key.
“Half a buck a week: that’ll be a buck and a half for three weeks.”
Johnny paid, dropped the key into his pocket, then went to
locate the locker. It was conveniently placed: just inside the entrance
door. Satisfied, he walked out into cold and made his way back to his
apartment.
He spent the next hour, sitting before his window, thinking of
35
Massino. Around 14.00 just when he was thinking of getting a snack
for lunch the telephone bell rang.
Grimacing, he got to his feet and lifted the receiver.
“Johnny?”
“Hi, baby!” He was surprised that Melanie should be calling. He
had arranged to take her for a drive on Sunday afternoon and then
spend the night with her.
“I’ve got the curse, Johnny. It started just now,” Melanie said.
“I’m feeling like hell. Can we forget to-morrow?”
Women! Johnny thought. Always something wrong! But he
knew Melanie really suffered when she had her period. This would
mean a long, lonely, dreary weekend for him.
“Sorry about that, baby,” he said gently. “Sure, we’ll forget
tomorrow. There’ll be plenty of other Sundays. Anything I can do?”
“Nothing. As soon as I get home, I’ll go to bed. It doesn’t last all
that long.”
“You want any food?”
“I’ll take in something. You have a nice time, Johnny. I’ll call you
as soon as it’s over and then well have fun.”
“Yeah. Well, look after yourself,” and Johnny hung up.
He wandered around the room wondering what the hell he
would do over the week-end. He took out his wallet and checked his
money. He had one hundred and eight dollars of his pay left. This
would have to last him until next Friday. He hesitated. It would be
good to get in his car and drive down to the coast: a three hundred
mile drive. He could put up at a motel and walk by the sea, but it
would cost. He couldn’t afford that kind of week-end. Fine for
Massino who had all the money in the world, but strictly not for
Johnny Bianda.
Shrugging, he crossed over to the T.V. set and turned it on. He
&
nbsp; sat down before the screen and gave himself over, with bored
indifference, to a ball game.
As he watched, his mind dwelt on the time when he would be on
his boat, feeling the lift and fall of the deck, feeling the spray of the
sea against his face and the heat of the sun.
Patience, he told himself, patience.
THREE
Johnny came awake with a start and looked at his strap watch,
then he relaxed. The time was 06.30 . . . plenty of time, he told
himself and he looked at Melanie, sleeping by his side. Her long black
hair half covered her face and she was making a soft snorting sound
as she slept.
Cautiously, not to disturb her, he reached for his pack of
cigarettes on the bedside table, lit up and dragged smoke gratefully
into his lungs.
Today, he told himself was D-day: Friday 29th. The collection
began at 10.00. By 15.00 be and Sammy would have collected
something like $150,000! The Big Take! In eighteen hours time, if he
had any luck, all this money would be his and safely stashed away in
a Greyhound luggage locker.
Ifhehadanyluck.
He fingered the St. Christopher medal lying on his bare chest. He
thought of his mother: as long as you wear it, nothing really bad can
happen to you.
Lying still, he recalled the past days that had slipped away so
quickly. On Monday, he had gone the rounds with Bernie, meeting
people, hearing them yak, looking for new sites for the one-arm
bandits. To Bernie’s startled amazement, Johnny had placed five
machines in new locations on his first day. As usual, Massino had
made the right choice in picking Johnny. Most people, living in the
City, knew Johnny by reputation: a tough, hard man and good with a
gun. When he walked into some cafe and looked directly at the
owner, suggesting in his quiet voice that the owner could do with
one of Massino’s gambling machines, there was no argument.
Even Andy had been pleased when Johnny’s total for four days
had been eighteen machines placed in new locations.
Now here was Friday 29th. One more collection and he would
then move into the world of one-arm bandits and Bernie would
gratefully bow out. These past four days had told Johnny that the job
wasn’t all that bad. Unlike Bernie, he had the reputation behind him
to wave in people’s faces: he realized no one respected Bernie and
he marvelled that Bernie had lasted as long as he had.
Johnny touched off the ash of his cigarette as he stared up at the