When King Henry VIII set his face against other monks, he let no hostile hand be laid on the few Floratines.
“They do much good,” the monarch said, “and, in sooth, they have nothing worth the taking, these Little Brothers of the Flowers.”
They kept the name, and it gave rise to a custom. When a man left the world behind to enter their ranks, he left his name, too, and took the name of a flower.
In the first light of a new day they sat in their refectory, forty-four men in snuff-hued robes, most of them growing old. Their tonsured polls were brown from the sun, their faces serene from inner peace.
“Brother Geranium is late with the milk,” observed Brother Tulip, eying his dry porridge.
“Perhaps the cow kicked him,” suggested Brother Hollyhock.
“She wouldn’t. She’s fond of him,” said Brother Nasturtium. “I’ll go down to the dairy and see if anything has happened to him,” volunteered Brother Nasturtium. But as he rose from his bench, Brother Geranium, popeyed and panting, burst into the room.
“There’s a naked man lying in the petunia bed,” he gasped out. “I think he’s dead.”
* * *
—
Little John Sarto thought he was dead, too, when he opened his eyes in the infirmary and saw Abbot Jonquil and Brother Nasturtium at his bedside.
“I made it,” he exclaimed huskily. “I beat the rap.”
“Take it easy, son,” said the abbot. “You’ve been badly hurt.”
“But I ain’t in hell,” said Little John. Then he added, “Or if I am what are you guys doing here?”
“You’re alive and in a safe place.”
Sarto stared at him.
“Say, do you know who I am?” he asked.
“No.”
“You musta seen my mug in the papers.”
“We don’t see newspapers here,” the abbot said. “And we don’t ask who a man is if he needs help.”
Sarto touched his bandaged head.
“How long am I in for?” he inquired.
“Until you are well and strong again.”
“I got no money.”
“Neither have we,” said the abbot. “So that makes you one of us, doesn’t it?”
“That’s one for the book, mister,” said Little John.
“I’m Abbot Jonquil. This is Brother Nasturtium, your nurse. If you wish us to notify your friends—”
“I got no friends,” grunted Little John.
“You have now,” said the abbot.
“I tell you I’m broke.”
“You poor fellow,” said the abbot gently. “What a life you must have led!”
“I been round long enough to know you never get sumpin’ for nuttin’.”
“I think you have talked enough for the present,” the abbot said. “Try to rest and try not to worry—about anything. You may stay here as long as you wish, as our guest.”
He went to the door.
“I’ll look in again this evening,” the abbot said. “Meantime, if you need anything, tell Brother Nasturtium.”
His sandals shuffled softly away down the stone corridor.
Sarto squinted at the bulky monk.
“Get me a slug of bourbon, Nasty,” he said.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather be called Brother Nasturtium,” said the other mildly.
“Whatever you say, only gimme a snort.”
Brother Nasturtium brought him a glass of water.
“Try it,” he said. “ ’Twill give you strength.”
“Water?” said Sarto disdainfully.
“Look at lions and tigers,” said Brother Nasturtium.
As he drank the water, Little John studied the man. He noted the dented nose, gnarled ears, lumpy knuckles and the jaw like an anvil.
“You was a fighter, wasn’t you?” said Sarto.
“We don’t ask questions like that,” said Brother Nasturtium. “What we were, rich or poor, big or small, good or bad, does not matter here.”
“That’s double jake by me,” said Little John. “I think I’m going to like it here.”
“I hope so.”
“Say, tell me sumpin’, big boy. What’s your graft?”
Brother Nasturtium’s eyes twinkled.
“ ’Tis twenty years and more since I’ve heard such talk,” he said. “We raise flowers and sell them in the city.”
“There’s a good gelt in that,” said Sarto. “You boys must be cuttin’ up a nice profit.”
“What we clear, and it isn’t much, goes to the poor.”
“That’s a nutsy way to run a business,” observed Little John.
* * *
—
He closed his eyes. Presently he said:
“How does a guy join up with this outfit?”
“It’s fairly easy,” Brother Nasturtium told him, “if a man wants to be a lay brother—”
“A which?”
“Lay brother. I’m one. They don’t take holy orders. They have few religious duties, chiefly saying their prayers. They are not permitted to go outside the walls, and they must obey their superiors. The discipline is rather severe. Some men say it’s like being in prison—”
“They do, do they?” said Little John.
“Except that there are no bars.”
“That might make a slight difference,” conceded Little John. “What are the other catches?”
“Before a man can take his first vows as a lay brother, he must be on probation for a year. That means—”
“I know about probation,” said Little John. “Where do I sign?”
“You’ll have to talk to the abbot.”
“Shoo him in.”
“Lay brothers do not shoo abbots.”
“Then tell him I wanta proposition him.”
“If you’re in earnest about this,” Brother Nasturtium said, “you might be choosing the name we are to call you.”
“Just call me ‘Lucky.’ ”
“It must be the name of a flower.”
Little John thought a moment.
“I’ve picked my new tag,” he announced.
“What is it?”
“Brother Orchid.”
* * *
—
At dusk Brother Nasturtium left the sickroom to get his patient’s supper.
When he had gone, Little John began to laugh. It hurt him to laugh, but he couldn’t help it.
“Boy, oh, boy!” he said. “What a hideout!”
* * *
—
As he weeded the rose garden Brother Orchid sang softly:
“Johnny saw Frankie a-coming,
Out the back door he did scoot.
Frankie took aim with her pistol,
And the gun went rooty-toot-toot.
He was her man—”
He turned the tune deftly into “Abide with Me” as he saw Brother Nasturtium come out of the greenhouse and head toward him.
Three nights before he had taken the vows that made him a full-fledged lay brother. As he flicked a ladybug from a leaf, he reflected that it hadn’t been such a tough year. The routine didn’t bother him; he was used to one far more rigid; but he was not used to men like Abbot Jonquil, Brother Nasturtium, and the rest. At first he felt sure that some sly, dark purpose lay behind their kindness to him. He watched, warily, for the trap. No trap was sprung. Always they were thoughtful, patient, pleasant with him and with one another.
“Maybe I’ve got into a high-class whacky-house,” he thought.
Whatever it was, he decided, it was perfect for his plans. There he could bide his time, snug and safe, ready to strike. He was old enough to know the wonders time can work. And he was wise enough to know that while Jack Buck reigned as c
zar he must remain in exile. If he ventured back to his old kingdom now, he might just as well go straight to the morgue and book a slab. But czars slip, and czars fall, sometimes suddenly in this violent world. He’d wait and be ready.
“Well, Brother Orchid, your roses are doing well,” said Brother Nasturtium as he came up.
“Lay you three to one they bring more than your lilies,” said Brother Orchid.
“It’s a hundred to one they won’t bring anything,” said Brother Nasturtium, somberly. Brother Orchid looked up and saw that the face, usually so benign, was grave.
“What’s the gag?” he asked.
“Our market is gone.”
“How come?”
“They won’t handle our flowers.”
“Who won’t?”
“The wholesalers. We don’t belong to the association.”
“Why don’t we join it?”
“They won’t let us. Not a flower can be sold in the city that isn’t grown in their own nurseries.”
“I get it,” said Brother Orchid. “The old chisel. Who’s the wheels in this shakedown?”
“A man named Buck is behind it, I believe. So Abbot Jonquil learned when he was in town. He tried to see this Mr. Buck to plead with him not to take away our only means of livelihood. One of Buck’s ruffians kicked him downstairs.”
“I suppose the abbot was sucker enough to go to the coppers,” said Brother Orchid.
“He did go to the police.”
“What did they do—slug him?”
“No. They were polite enough. But they said that so far as they knew the Floral Protective Association was a legitimate business concern.”
* * *
—
“The bulls still know the answers,” said Brother Orchid. “And the D.A. said he’d like to do sumpin’, but his hands is tied, because you gotta have evidence, and all the witnesses is scared to talk.”
“You seem to know all about it.”
“I seen movies,” said Brother Orchid.
He weeded away, deep in thought.
“Have we got any jack in the old sock?” he asked suddenly.
“About four hundred dollars, the abbot told me.”
“Peanuts,” said Brother Orchid. “But enough for a couple of secondhand choppers. You and me could handle ’em. We’d need roscoes for the rest of the boys. But I know an armory that’s a soft touch. You and me and Geranium and Lilac could charge out tonight, hustle a hot short, and knock it off. Once we was heeled we could move in on Buck and his gorillas and—”
“Man alive, what sort of talk is that?” demanded the scandalized Brother Nasturtium.
“Forget it, pal,” said Brother Orchid. “I guess this sun has made me slap-happy. What are we goin’ to do?”
“Be patient and pray.”
“And eat what?”
“Heaven knows.”
“Yeah, and they claim it helps guys that help themselves.”
“Maybe Mr. Buck will see the light.”
Brother Orchid plucked up a clump of sour grass.
“Maybe this weed’ll turn into an American Beauty,” he said.
He wrung the weed’s neck and hurled it into his basket.
“That’s the only way to treat weed,” he said.
“But is it?” said Brother Nasturtium. “Wasn’t everything put into the world for some good use, if man had the sense to find out what that use is?”
“That’s a lot of words,” said Brother Orchid. “Weeds is weeds.”
“No,” said Brother Nasturtium, as he turned away, “weeds are flowers out of place.”
* * *
—
Hungry after their day of work, the Little Brothers of the Flowers waited in the refectory for their abbot to come in and say grace. They tried to make light talk of events in their small world. But there was a shadow over them.
Abbot Jonquil entered, walking slowly. It came to them for the first time that he was a very old man.
“I’m afraid I have more bad news,” he said. “Our funds have been taken from my safe. Of course none of us took them—”
He stopped and looked down the long table.
“Where is Brother Orchid?” he asked.
“Maybe he’s in his cell, praying,” said Brother Nasturtium. “Shall I fetch him?”
“Yes, please.”
Brother Nasturtium came back alone. His big ruddy face was twisted with trouble.
“Maybe I was wrong about weeds,” he said.
* * *
—
In his office, Thomas Jefferson Brownlow, special prosecutor of rackets, was talking to the press. The reporters liked him. He was so earnest and so green.
“Same old story, boys,” he said. “All I can tell you is that men are selfish animals, and that’s not news. I know Buck is back of all these new rackets. So do you. But I can’t prove it in a court of law. The men who can simply will not go before the grand jury and tell their stories. They put their skins before their civic duty. I’m not blaming them. But the fact remains I can’t force them to testify. They’re not afraid of me. I wish they were. That’s all today, gentlemen.”
The reporters filed out. Brownlow bent morosely over the indictment of a jobless man who had stolen a peck of potatoes.
Swerling, his assistant, bustled in. He was excited.
“Chief,” he said, “they’re back.”
“Who?”
“Those florists and laundrymen and fruit peddlers. And they’re ready to talk.”
“The devil you say!”
“Better grab ’em while they’re hot, Chief,” urged Swerling.
“But what’s got into ’em?”
“You have me there.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Brownlow, “if they’ll talk. Send ’em in and lock all the doors.”
Once they started to talk Thomas Jefferson Brownlow had a hard job to stop them. The Grand Jury was back before its seats in the box had cooled off, and shortly thereafter Jack Buck and three of his top aides were passengers on a special train that would not stop till it had carried them to a station near a big, gray gate. Most of his lesser lieutenants also took trips, accompanied by large, official-looking men, who returned alone. A few escaped, some by taking to their heels, others by wriggling through loopholes in the law.
Mr. Brownlow was walking toward his office, debating whether he should run for governor or the Senate, when he bumped into Mr. Chris Poppadoppalous, emerging from the room where witnesses are paid their fees. Mr. Poppadoppalous beamed, bowed, and handed Mr. Brownlow a large box.
“Gardenias,” he said. “I brink dem for you.”
“Thanks,” said Brownlow. “And there’s one more thing you can do for me.”
“Anythink,” said Mr. Poppadoppalous with another bow.
“One day you boys were afraid to talk. The next day you talked. Why?”
“We were afraid not to,” said Mr. Poppadoppalous.
“Afraid of me?” asked Brownlow, rather pleased.
Mr. Poppadoppalous tittered apologetically.
“Oh, no, sir,” he said. “You’re a nice man. You don’t say, ‘Talk, you Greek so-and-so, or I’ll tear out your heart and eat it before your eyes.’ ”
“Did somebody say that to you?”
“Yes, sir. To all us boys.”
“Who?”
“The little fellow,” said Mr. Poppadoppalous, and bowed, and scurried away.
* * *
—
From his hotel window Little John Sarto looked out over the lighted city spread at his feet. Somebody knocked on his door.
“Come in,” said Sarto.
The freckled young man came in. He had on a new suit, moss-green this time, and he was still jovial.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said.
“Hello, Eddie,” said Sarto.
“You know why I’m here.”
“Sure,” said Sarto. “Have a drink?”
“Why not?” said Eddie, and poured out a drink from a bottle of bourbon on the table. Sarto took one, too.
“Nice going, boss,” said Eddie, raising his glass. “We’ll run this town right.”
“We?”
“You will, I mean,” said Eddie. “I’ll be glad to work under a man with your brains. Poor Jack didn’t have many. Nerve, yes. But he never looked ahead. You do. Well, what do you say, boss? Dummy and some of the boys are waiting downstairs for the answer. They’re solid for you, boss. Anything you say goes.”
Sarto didn’t say anything. He went to the window and looked out over the city.
“Of course, things are rather ragged right now,” said Eddie. “We’ll have to take it slow and easy for a while. But the boys are counting on you to work out some nice, new, juicy angles. The town’s yours.”
“I don’t want it,” said Little John.
“What do you mean?” Eddie was not jovial now.
“I got other plans.”
“You can’t run out on us.”
“I’m walking out,” said Sarto. “Right now.”
“The boys won’t like that.”
“I’m doing what I like.”
“That’s always expensive,” said Eddie.
“I know all about that.”
Eddie shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay,” he said, and sauntered out of the room.
Hurriedly, Little John Sarto began to strip off his loud, plaid suit.
* * *
—
“I’m right,” said the warden to the chaplain, laying down the morning paper. “You say all men have some good in them. I say some men are all bad and nothing can change them. Take this fellow, Sarto. Last night in Chicago, as he was getting on a bus, he was filled full of lead.”
“That hardly proves your point.” The chaplain smiled. “Bullets are very democratic. They’ll kill good men as well as bad, you know.”
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 81
