by Jerry eBooks
They worked until two in the morning, Shorty and Eddie alone, making hamburgers, pouring coffee. Twice Eddie burned the meat; once he slopped a cup of coffee all over the place.
“You’ll get onto it,” Shorty said.
They closed at two, and Eddie watched as Shorty emptied the till. A hundred in there, he figured. An easy hundred. Twice what he’d be paid every week.
“Five o’clock tomorrow,” Shorty told him. “That’s when the day man goes off.”
Eddie found a hotel room. He slept until eleven and he had to go out and buy a razor when he awoke. He had one shirt, one suit of underwear, one pair of socks. When he walked into the diner, the ten was down to less than six.
The diner wasn’t the same that afternoon. They weren’t alone, he and Shorty. As he entered, Shorty called him over.
“Eddie,” he said, “this is Lois. My wife. She hops tables and she’ll give you a rough time.”
She was nice-looking, with capable, big hands and big forearms. She grinned at Eddie’s appraising look and said, “Just keep your eyes on the hamburgers and we’ll get along, boy. Okay?”
AFTER six o’clock, Eddie couldn’t take his eyes off the hamburgers. The diner crowd came in then. Lois hopped tables and yelled orders at him. Shorty worked the counter and yelled orders at him. Every order brought a zing on the cash register. The dollar plate—zing! Hamburger—sing! Pie and coffee—zing! Zing, zing, zing! A hundred? This was worth two, three hundred easy. Every night.
Eddie didn’t know how many orders Lois and Shorty had to repeat, how many hamburgers he burned, how many fell apart on him. Somehow he got through the rush, and then it was eight o’clock. Lois came around in front of the counter in a street dress.
“You did all right, kid,” she told him. “We’ll get along.”
After she left, Shorty and Eddie worked the long, slow hours and the merry zing, zing, zing died to an occasional whisper. The drifters came in, the drunks and late dates, the old men with bleary eyes and pockmarked faces—and sometimes the cash register didn’t zing at all.
“That boy’s had a rough time,” Shorty would say. Or, “We’ll give the old man a break, kid; this one’s on the house.”
But it was there when they closed up—all that long green—just waiting for somebody to pick it up.
That was Tuesday. Wednesday, Eddie’s ten was down to a deuce. Lois grinned when he came in. As the rush started she told him, “Keep ’em straight tonight, buddy. Take it easy.” Shorty said, “You’ll catch on. Don’t worry.”
He listened to the orders Wednesday but the zing of the cash register was still in the background. The long green was still there, just waiting.
Thursday he watched it grow and heard it grow. And Friday. And Saturday—with a slim two bits in his pocket—Saturday was pay day.
Shorty shoved the money into his hand. “You’re off tomorrow, kid,” he said.
A measly fifty bucks, minus deductions. Not fat, lush twenties you folded lengthwise for a bar or a dice table. Hard money, money you hung onto. Money that bought respectability, but not much else.
Saturday night he watched as Shorty took that long green out of the drawer and counted it.
“Shorty,” he said, “you always take that cash home with you?”
“No, sir,” Shorty replied. “There’s a bank around the corner and it goes into the night depository. Here, I’ll show you.”
He filled out the bank envelope, stuffed the money into it, showed Eddie how much to leave for morning, how to fill out a duplicate ticket.
“If you ever close up, kid,” he said, “do it this way, see? Then lock the door and keep the key. I’ve got an extra.”
“Yeah, sure, Shorty,” he said.
It was easy. Too easy.
Sunday, his day off, Eddie took a streetcar ride, out to the North Side, away from the diner and the long green there. Away from Al.
Because always in the back of his mind was the thought of Al. Al would find out; he’d know Eddie had a soft touch set up. He’d be around to collect on it. To change that green from pay-day money to soft money—fat, lush twenties. The kind of easy money he always carried.
Sooner or later Al would come around. So why wait? Why cut Al in?
Monday came, and Tuesday, and Wednesday, and still he waited, still he listened to the zing of the cash register and thought of that long green. It was too easy, too simple. Friday would be the night. Friday was a big day; Saturday was bigger but the help was paid out of Saturday’s take.
Then at nine o’clock Wednesday, Shorty came up to him.
“Take over, kid,” he said. “I’m going home to bed. I’m sick.”
“Take over?” Eddie asked. “Me?”
Shorty put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “Sure,” he said. “You. Why not?”
FIVE minutes later, there he was, Eddie Donohue, alone in the joint. With all that long green just waiting for him. All alone.
A customer came in, and Eddie served him and rang up his two bits. With the drawer open, he tried to estimate the number of tens but he couldn’t. When the customer had left he riffled through them.
Twenty-three. More than two and a half in that drawer. Just put it in the envelope, Eddie, and leave the envelope in your pocket and keep moving. You’ve got ten hours, maybe more, before Shorty finds out, before the cops are on your trail.
He slammed the drawer shut. Somehow, even before he turned around, he knew that he’d find Al at the counter. Smiling, dapper, greasy, self-confident Al.
“How much, Eddie?” Al asked.
Eddie walked along behind the counter until he was opposite Al, close-enough to slap his face.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Al said, “Maybe I’m hungry. Maybe I been casing the joint ever since I heard you were working here, and I just waited till you were alone.”
“What do you want?”
“What do you think, Eddie? There’s a lot of it in that drawer, isn’t there? lust waiting.”
Eddie walked over to the cash register. The telephone was on the wall next to it; he took the receiver off the hook, dialed “O.”
“I don’t get it, boy,” Al said.
“You’ll have to plug me, Al.”
The operator said, “Operator.”
“I don’t get it,” Al said. “If this joint gets clouted, the law knows your record. You ain’t got a chance. You might as well figure in the split.”
“Operator!” said the voice over the phone.
Al said, “I don’t get it, boy.”
“It’s up to you, Al. What do I tell her?”
The expression on Al’s face didn’t change; the steady gaze of his eyes didn’t falter. He shrugged imperceptibly and said, “If you figure on cutting me out of this, you’re making a mistake, boy.” Then he walked out.
Eddie hung up and leaned against the wall. His stomach was quivering, his hands were moist, and he was angry.
What was the matter with Shorty, he asked himself. Why was the lug so simple? Why did he leave it there, just waiting to be picked up? Why did he have to get sick and shove Eddie in front of that loaded cash register, pockets empty and six years of hate and planning behind him?
It wasn’t fair. Because now he wouldn’t take it. He couldn’t. Shorty had seen to that, and somehow it made Shorty unfair.
That night he locked up at two, counted the money, put it in the envelope, dropped the envelope in the night depository. Then he went to his room and slept.
Thursday, Shorty didn’t show up, and
Lois stayed until almost ten to help.
“He’s a sick boy, Shorty is,” she said. “He ought to take a month off.”
“Sure,” said Eddie.
“I figure,” she said, “with you here, maybe he can.”
“Me?”
“Sure. You’re all right, Eddie. You and me—we can run this place by ourselves, can’t we?”
Thursday night they did. Again Eddie locked
up, again he reached the depository with the envelope, dropped it in. Friday was next, the big night. The night when any smart operator would hit a restaurant. The night to watch out for because Al would be back. Al was a smart operator, and he knew that Eddie was there to take the rap.
Friday Shorty was at work again, peaked and pale, but grinning.
“You did good, kid,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll be all right now.”
That night the rush was bigger than ever. But Eddie wasn’t listening to the cash register. He was watching out the window instead, looking for a shadow across the street, a car parked overlong, the glow of a cigarette where no human was visible. He was listening, as the evening wore on, for the sound of the door opening, the tip-toe of suede shoes on the floor.
“BUT for all his listening, he didn’t hear it ” and he almost dropped the coffee cup in his hand when the voice behind him said, “Hello, Eddie.”
It wasn’t Al, or any of the boys. It was a girl, alone at the counter, with a low-cut gown instead of a tight blouse, bright lipstick, bright rouge and bright, beady eyes. Too bright.
“Hello,” she said. “Remember me, Eddie?”
“Sure,” Eddie said. “What’ll you have?”
“Don’t you want to talk to me, Eddie? My father isn’t around now.”
“No, I guess he isn’t,” Eddie said. “What’ll you have?”
She’d been drinking. “Nobody wants to talk to me,” she said. “My old man watches me like I was the family jewels, and nobody talks to me.”
Eddie poured a cup of black, strong coffee and placed it in front of her. “You’ve had too much,” he said. “Take this.”
She spooned sugar into it until the coffee slopped over into the saucer. “Maybe I have,” she said. “But nobody wants to talk to me.”
She smiled at Eddie. “My old man’s at one of his stinking meetings and he thinks I’m home in bed.” She giggled. “He thinks I’m on the wagon. He’ll never know. What time do you get off, Eddie?”
Then, suddenly, she slumped to the floor, slowly, almost gracefully, and lay there, propped up against the stools.
Shorty came over and he and Eddie lifted her up and put her in one of the booths, smoothing her skirt out and pulling it down over the white of her legs.
“A friend of yours?” Shorty asked.
Eddie said, “I know who she is.”
“Why don’t you take her home?” Shorty asked. “I want to lock up early tonight, anyway.”
“No,” said Eddie. “I better stay with you.”
“I’m all right. I can make it. Go ahead, call a cab and take her home. I’ll stake you to the fare.”
Stubbornly, Eddie said, “I’d better hang around here.”
“What for?”
Yeah, what for, Eddie? What are you going to tell him—that he might be held up? That one of your pals might stick him up? That you might be in on it?
“Go ahead,” Shorty said. “Take her home. I’ll flag down a cab for you.”
He stepped out of the door, to the curb, and there was nothing else to do. Take her home. Put her to bed and hope her old man wasn’t there.
In the cab, with its windows open, her head on Eddie’s shoulder, she revived a bit and giggled.
“Kiss me, Eddie,” she said. She put her arms around his neck and drew his head down until their lips met. Hers were warm and moist and young, and Eddie remembered the words scribbled on the cell wall and the hoarse, feverish stories he’d heard for six years.
Then she giggled once more. “ My old man would beat me if he knew,” she said. “Look.”
She pulled her dress off one shoulder, revealing its thin white sharpness, and in the flashes from the street-lights, she pointed to a bruise far down on her chest.
“That’s from when he hit me,” she said. “I wouldn’t tell him where I’ve been tonight if I died.”
She was suddenly conscious of the nakedness of her shoulder and once more she giggled. “Kiss me again, Eddie,” she said.
But she fell asleep then and there, and Eddie put her dress back in place. In her purse he found the house key and he opened the door, carried her upstairs, put her on a bed, removed her shoes and stockings.
He shook her shoulders, and she stirred. She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“Kiss me, Eddie,” she said.
“How did you get that bruise?” he asked her.
“Fell,” she said. “In the bar. Kiss me, Eddie.”
ON HER dressing table a clock showed that it was 12:45. The girl closed her eyes again, and Eddie went out and walked along the darkened sidewalk. Maybe, he thought, Shorty had a few late customers. Maybe he wasn’t able to close early. Eddie stretched his long legs and hurried.
It would be easy, he knew, to pay Mylin back for those six years, to bring new circles under those black eyes, new memories of pain.
But he knew, too, that he wouldn’t. Mylin was repaid already for all the damage he could have done to any man. The slate was wiped off. The grill was clean, ready for the next order. Mylin was part of a life that was gone now.
A new life was waiting for Eddie—if he weren’t too late. Only four blocks ahead.
Eddie had covered two of those blocks when he heard the whine of the police sirens in the distance. Second by second they were coming closer, growing ominous and frightening. He drew back in the shadows and waited until the squad car had gone by, instinctively unwilling to be seen by the police or be closer to them than he could help.
He was only one block from Shorty’s when he saw where the police car had stopped. In front of the bank. Only ten feet from the night depository.
He knew then what he’d find there. He knew why the police car had rushed up, why a dozen people already had gathered in a small circle on the sidewalk. He knew who would be in the center of that circle, lying crumpled on the cold cement in his own warm blood.
He ran and he shoved his way through the crowd. Shorty was lying on his face, a pitiful heap, legs drawn up, arms half outstretched, one hand still clutching the envelope that now was empty.
Eddie was sick to his stomach. His legs gave out suddenly, and he wanted to sit down, clutch at his throat, push the crowd away from him and away from Shorty, strike out against someone.
Against one person. The one who was behind this.
Like a man in a dream, he walked away. As if he were detached from himself, he could see Eddie Donohue move back through the crowd, edge along the walk past the police car, step out into the street. He could see himself hurry down the street, around the corner, walking rapidly but not too rapidly, hugging the shadows as a mouse hugs the woodwork. Squad cars would be prowling the neighborhood. He didn’t want to be picked up now. Not for another half hour, and then it wouldn’t matter.
A block away he saw one of those cars, and he stepped into the gloom of a doorway. Slowly it came on, its spotlight searching the blackness, flicking gently and softly past him and moving on.
Minutes later he was at Fatso’s, circling it warily and moving around to the back. The bar was still lighted, a half dozen men lounging against it. He ignored them and went to the rear and up the outside stairway to the second floor he had been in six years before. Too often.
The stairs creaked and groaned as he went up, the door opened softly to his touch, and he was in the room, facing Al across a table with a game of solitaire laid out on it.
“Hello, Eddie,” Al said. “Sit down.”
So he sat down, facing Al, with his back to the door.
“You’re out kind of late, aren’t you, Eddie?” Al asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“It isn’t a good night to be out, Eddie.” He said, “I came here for my cut, Al.”
“What cut?”
“Ten per cent. About thirty bucks.”
Al put down the cards he’d been holding in his right hand. “Eddie,” he said, “you’re hot. Every cop in the city will be looking for you. I don’t need you any more, Eddie. I don�
��t even want you around.”
“What about my cut?”
“You didn’t earn it, Eddie.”
Careful, Eddie said, “Why did you have to kill him, Al?”
Al picked up the cards again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, boy. I didn’t kill anybody. You’re the ex-con, Eddie, not me. You’re the boy the cops will be looking for. Got a good alibi, Eddie?”
An alibi? Eddie didn’t have any alibi except the word of a drunken girl.
“You’re the patsy, Eddie,” Al said. “For nothing.”
EDDIE was sitting about four feet from the table. With one sweeping motion he reached out, put his hands under the table top and dumped the whole thing onto Al, cards and all.
Then he leaped over the table, his fingers outstretched and groping. He scraped a shin on the edge of the table and tumbled on top of the cards and the table and Al, too, under it. Too late he saw Al’s hand dart for his shoulder holster. A blinding flame burst in Eddie’s face, the roar of a gunshot rang through his ears, the smell of cordite filled his nostrils. Like a sharp, searing knife, pain flashed through his left shoulder.
He grabbed Al’s gun hand and held on, held on, although blood spurted from the bullet hole. With the other hand he sought for Al’s thin, long throat. He squeezed with all his strength, squeezed and pressed grimly, ferociously.
And finally Al went limp under his hands, the gun arm relaxed and slumped to the floor. Slowly Eddie got to his feet.
But it was a bluff. The gun jerked upward; Al sat up, facing him, gun leveled steadily at his heart.
“You’ve done it this time, Eddie,” Al said. “You’re through now. The boys heard that shot; they’ll be up from the bar any second.”
Behind him, Eddie heard the stairs and the landing creak.
“You were the fall guy this time, Eddie,” Al said.
The door opened softly and quietly and a draft of air swung briskly through the room.
“You were a sucker, Eddie,” Al said.
“So were you, Al,” a voice from the doorway replied.
Eddie whirled around. It wasn’t Fatso or any of the boys. It was Joe Murphy. And behind him, were two other cops, in blue uniforms.
