Bugsy Malone

by Alan Parker

  Tallulah’s reply was quick.

  “Listen, honey, if I didn’t look this good you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

  Sam didn’t like getting the worst of this verbal sword fence.

  “I’ll see you in the car,” he muttered, heading for the door.

  Tallulah paused to drop a soft goodnight kiss on the top of Fizzy’s head as she followed Sam out.

  “’Night, Fizzy.”

  Fizzy sighed, and picked up his broom again. As he swept, his broom seemed to make the rhythmic sound of a drummer’s brush on the side drum. Softly, all alone in the empty, dimly lit speakeasy, Fizzy began to sing. It wasn’t a happy song. Not the song you sing when you’re in the bath. It was a sad, gritty song about not being given a chance, about being passed over, about being taken for granted like the tables and chairs around him. Fizzy turned as he sang and opened a small broom cupboard under the stairs. He reached inside and took out a parcel wrapped in a blue chequered duster. Slowly he unwrapped a pair of spanking new tap shoes. The boots he was wearing were worn out and shabby – but not these shoes. They were made of the finest, crispest, brown and cream leather, with hand stitching and neat bows. They had cost Fizzy ten weeks’ wages but they were worth every cent. The leather soles had never been trodden on. The shiny metal plates had never seen a scratch. Fizzy was the greatest tap dancer on earth, he always said. But it wasn’t really on earth, because on earth he couldn’t dance a step. It was in his imagination. Somewhere up there in a cloudy, never-never land where dreamers live.

  As he sang his lonely song, he heard a noise in the upstairs corridor. His expression changed to a sheepish grin as he saw Velma, the black girl dancer, coming down the stairs. Velma took the situation in at once. She said nothing, but she dropped her coat on the ground and began to dance for Fizzy. As they say in show business, Velma could dance a bit – which was an understatement, because Velma could dance a lot. She glided amongst the tables, her feet scarcely making contact with the floor. If Sam had ever seen Fizzy and Velma’s secret double act he’d have made them the Grand Slam’s star attraction. But it was an act that no one ever saw, except the tables and chairs who silently partnered them on the speakeasy floor.

  THE NEWSPAPERS HIT the streets late that night. It had been what’s called a ‘no-news’ night, until the sinister splurge guns had burst into action and made the headlines their own. Every editor in town was glad of it. The Record had been running as its lead story an item on a movie star’s fifth husband, whilst The News was occupied, as it had been for three no-news nights, with the evergreen rise in taxes. They had all stopped their late issues and reset their front pages. The size of the type in The Record was enormous. It had been a little bigger when world war was declared, but not much. ‘New Weapon For Mobsters!’ it screamed, and followed up with six whole columns of editorial. The News tried a well-trusted formula for their headline: ‘New Gang War Flares’ flashed across their printing rollers and ended up in neat, string-tied bundles.

  One of these bundles was thrown on to the sidewalk on East 6th Street. The paper boy cut the string with his penknife and lifted the papers on to his knee. He flipped the top copy off the bundle. The ink was still wet and he touched his forehead with his blackened thumb as he read the headline, ‘New Weapon Revealed’. He hadn’t had a break like that in weeks. He read the article and then began to shout at the top of his voice. “New weapon revealed. Read all about it. Gang war flares. Read all about it. New weapon revealed...” He repeated his sales pitch until he was hoarse. It didn’t bother him – tonight he would sell out.

  At the International Press Exchange, the row of glass-fronted phone booths were jammed with newsmen screaming their messages to news desks in faraway places. The Frenchman in the first booth was the most emotional. He also had his suitcase with him. He was obviously taking no chances, and would be on the next boat home if things got out of hand. The next booth was occupied by a German who spat his story into the phone and punctuated his sentences with sharp clicks of his heels. Next to him, an Indian gentleman in a turban shouted hurriedly into his phone, interspersing his story with worried glances over his shoulder in case the situation worsened. The Japanese journalist was quite carried away with his version of the story. He emphasised his description of the splurge guns with demonstrative karate chops on the telephone directories. The Englishman next door was calm and collected on the surface, but was expressing alarm with as much emotion as his stiff upper lip would allow. He spoke rather than shouted into the receiver. “There’s been a frightfully bad show here in American, chaps, and this time the Yanks have gone too far. What’s more, what I have to tell you is certainly not cricket...”

  Cricket it certainly wasn’t. The morse code tappers worked overtime that night as the message flashed across the headlines of the world. ‘Official: the Splurge Gun.’

  Back in New York, the local radio news announcer interrupted, for the umpteenth time, the programme of music that traditionally occupied Friday night. The Roscoe Ravelo Combo were getting a little fed up with having their repertoire interrupted. Roscoe himself had thrown his baton at the wall at the last announcement, and with this interruption he let his Latin temperament get the better of him and promptly snapped the baton in two across his knee. The news announcer rushed on.

  “We interrupt Roscoe Ravelo’s delightful music to bring you a further bulletin on developments in the latest outbreak of hoodlum gang warfare. Police now officially state that the new weapon of devious foreign manufacture known as the ‘splurge gun’ is now being widely used by the mobster gangs. We interrupt our interruption to go straight over to our reporter, Seymour Scoop, who is on the spot at the latest splurging...”

  The alleyway where Roxy had been so effectively splurged was filled with newsmen. As police officers tried to keep the inquiring journalists under control, flashing camera bulbs lit up the already electric atmosphere. Seymour Scoop, the radio station’s ace reporter, jostled to the front and pushed his microphone in front of Lieutenant O’Dreary, the second in command of the police investigation team. His superior, Captain Smolsky, was busy shouting out instructions to his officers.

  “Have you located the splurge gun yet, Lieutenant?”

  O’Dreary, who had not been the brightest of cadets at the police academy, tried to give the impression he was in control. He said, “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

  “You’re not at liberty to say?” probed Seymour Scoop.

  “No. I don’t have the answer.”

  It was the truth. And not only in this investigation either. O’Dreary hadn’t the answer to any questions.

  Another journalist managed to push the resourceful Scoop out of the limelight and shot in a question of his own. “Have you located the source, Lieutenant?”

  The only source O’Dreary knew about was the ketchup he put on his hamburgers. He kept his dignity. “We... I’m not at liberty to say. You’ll have to ask Captain Smolsky that question...”

  As if on cue, the burly Smolsky pushed his way through the crowd. He wore a dirty, beige-coloured trench coat that was belted tightly at the waist. He chewed on a toothpick and also gave the impression that he knew everything but would say nothing, which was roughly the opposite of the truth. He talked out of the corner of his mouth and his top lip curled up as he did so.

  “OK, O’Dreary, break this crowd up.”

  Scoop regained his front position and put in his question. “Seymour Scoop, RTZ Radio, Captain Smolsky. Captain Smolsky, have you located the splurge gun yet, sir?”

  “No comment.”

  “Have you located the source?” Scoop’s rival beat him to his second question.

  “No comment.”

  “Is it true, Captain Smolsky, that the gun is being used by only one gang?”

  “No comment.”

  At this point, O’Dreary appeared with his boss’s evening snack. He handed the thick sandwich over the heads of the crowd.

  “I fixed you a
pastrami sandwich, Chief. Is that OK?”

  Captain Smolsky was as deaf to this question as he had been to the others. He treated it in the same way.

  “No comment.”

  The flash bulbs dazzled his eyes as Smolsky’s ruddy face shared the picture with a pastrami and rye sandwich.

  THE BARLADY IN the drugstore yawned once more. She looked up at the clock. It said 2 a.m. and she yawned yet again and cleared her throat, as if to point out the fact. Across the other side of the drugstore, in a booth of their own, were Bugsy and Blousey. As far as the barlady was concerned they had outstayed their welcome. She wasn’t the friendliest of souls at the best of times, and when she missed her beauty sleep she got even meaner. Beauty sleep was a joke anyway. She had the kind of face that needed a personality behind it. It was the kind of face what girls call plain, and guys call the back end of a down-town bus. She was built like a Mack truck, and her shoulders would have done credit to an all-in wrestler.

  She cleaned her counter for maybe the hundredth time. Bugsy and Blousey hadn’t taken any notice. They were too busy talking to one another. On the table of their booth was a litter of empty plates and banana sundae glasses. They had eaten well.

  “Are you going back to the speakeasy tomorrow?” Bugsy asked.

  “It depends. I’m going to try my luck at the Bijoux Theatre. They’re auditioning.”

  Bugsy looked up from his drink. He furrowed his brow a little. “Lena Marrelli’s show?”

  “She’s walked out. They’re looking for a replacement.”

  Bugsy nodded. He knew that Lena Marrelli walked out of that show four times a week and everyone except Blousey knew that she always came back. It was all part of being a star. You stamped your feet, tossed your head in the air and, in a blur of mink, vanished out of the stage door. Bugsy knew they were auditioning for supporting acts, but he wasn’t going to let on to Blousey. It was nicer being nice, and she’d already had one disappointment that night. He changed the subject slightly.

  “How long have you wanted to be a singer?”

  “Since I was a kid, I guess. Actually, I don’t want just to be a singer and a dancer, I wanna be a movie-star, in Hollywood.”

  Bugsy smiled into his sundae. He stirred at the pink drink with his straw. He hoped she hadn’t seen him smile – but she had.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Bugsy wasn’t sure whether to be honest or tactful. He decided on the latter. It seemed a little more charming and the sparkle in his eye was working overtime. “I don’t know. It’s just that there used to be a time when people were happy to be railway engineers or nurses or something.”

  Blousey was annoyed. She wasn’t over-ambitious, but it smarted when she met someone so complacent it made her seem so.

  “Don’t you want to be anybody?”

  He shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  “No, I’m happy being me.”

  He had put her down without really meaning to. She was irritated at first, but then she smiled. She was beginning to find him interesting. “And what do you do?”

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “Oh, crooked, huh?”

  “No, in between – walking the line, trying hard not to fall either side.”

  It was true enough. He’d spent his life on the Lower East Side and it was a lot harder keeping on the straight and narrow than going crooked. With an Irish father and an Italian mother he had naturally grown up somewhat confused. He couldn’t see his future as a spaghetti waiter in a restaurant or as a clerk at City Hall, filling in endless forms. So he’d drifted from this to that. Never very crooked, not always completely honest. But generally to do with boxing, his great love.

  “But what do you do for money?” Blousey asked.

  “I find fighters... boxers.”

  “Oh really?”

  “I used to fight myself.”

  “You did? How good were you?”

  Bugsy put on a mock voice. “I could have been a contender.”

  It was true – in a way. He could have been a contender but he would never have made champion. He had a lot of style. He was very quick and made his opponents look slow and awkward. For a round or so, that is. After that he was about as tough as a cotton-wool ball, and one punch was generally enough to send him on the way back to the dressing room, usually on a stretcher. They’d slap his face and get out the smelling salts and he’d come round and say he never saw the punch. He’d also say he’d never do it again. But he always did, until one day he really woke up and called it a day. He looked at some of the other fighters and realised how much better he looked without cauliflower ears and a nose that spread itself halfway across his face and nearly shook hands with an ear. It had really saddened him at the time, but he knew if he carried on, the only title he’d end up with would be ‘bum of the month’.

  Blousey was very interested. “You could have been a contender?”

  “Sure. But for a few things.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, like a glass jaw, jelly legs, no stamina and most of all... I got scared.”

  “Some contender.”

  They both laughed. Blousey had reached the bottom of her glass and there was a small silence for a while.

  “Do you want another drink in there?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

  Bugsy was persistent. A lot more persistent than he ought to have been, considering he was broke. “Come on.”

  “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “You haven’t? Then how are we gonna...?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll think of something.”

  Bugsy had no idea how he was going to pay, but that bridge wasn’t to come for five minutes or more, so he saw no reason to worry about crossing it now. With great bravado, he twisted in his seat to face the sour-faced lady. “Two more drinks, please.”

  The barlady had had enough. She threw her cleaning cloth into the sink, leaned on one muscular arm and said, “Look, pal. The food counter’s closed, the bar’s closed, my eyes are closing – in fact, the whole joint’s closed.”

  Blousey wasn’t about to cause an argument. She smiled politely at the ogre in the white cap.

  “I didn’t want one, anyway.”

  Bugsy turned to Blousey and stretched out to touch her hand. They began to sing to each other. This was too much for giantess behind the counter. She screamed at them, “Knock it off, will yuh? What do you think this joint is – some kind of Hollywood musical?”

  Bugsy and Blousey knew they had outstayed their welcome. Bugsy said, “Let’s go,” and helped Blousey into her coat.

  Without saying another word, he slipped into the phone booth in the corner of the drugstore. He pulled the door closed. The barlady glowered at Blousey, who blushed.

  Bugsy dialled a number and spoke very quietly into the mouthpiece. “Hello, operator? Could you test this line, please? I believe we have a fault. It’s Columbus 4181. Thank you.”

  Bugsy winked at Blousey as he went up to the counter to pay. She looked scared. Bugsy put his hand deep into his pocket to pull out his money. “How much do I owe you?” he inquired politely. The barlady, her face as sullen as ever, began to add up the bill on her scribble pad. She read out the damage.

  “Eight Banana Boozles, with double ice-cream, three Beef Spitfires, two cream Arizona doughtnuts and a Salami Special. Four dollars, eight cents.” She tore off the page from the pad with a sharp flick of her wrist. Bugsy fumbled in his seemingly bottomless pocket for his wallet. Blousey looked even more scared and the barlady even more suspicious. At that moment, the phone in the booth rang. The barlady excused herself and went to answer the operator’s call that Bugsy had set up. She pulled the door closed behind her, and as she sat down on the stool Bugsy crept quietly up to the booth. He could hear her muffled voice through the glass.

  “Yes, this is Columbus 4181. No, I didn’t ask to have the line tested. Are you sure you have
the right line?”

  Bugsy took the broom that was lying by the side of the counter and threaded it through the large brass handles on the booth door. The barlady put the phone down immediately, and, like a saucepan of milk boiling over, erupted. She suddenly realised she’d been conned and began frantically to rattle the doors, which were securely held by her own broom. The bad language she poured out ricocheted around the closed booth. Bugsy and Blousey didn’t hear her, that was for sure. They had quietly slipped out of the main door long ago.

  THE SUNLIGHT STREAMED through the window of Mama Lugini’s restaurant. The customers had long gone home, but for the police it was business as usual. Captain Smolsky belted up his coat, more out of habit than because of the cold, and paced the floor. The waiter who had seen the splurging said nothing. He watched the proceedings, almost too frightened to speak. Smolsky spat out questions.

  “Five guys there were, you say?”

  The waiter nodded.

  “How about you? What did you see?”

  The cop fired his question in the direction of the violinist, who still had his violin tucked under his chin. He had probably forgotten it was there.

  “Nuttink. I see nuttink.”

  “You must have seen something – you were playing when they broke the window, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You was playing when they fired the guns, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you must have seen something.”

  Sheepishly, the violinist owned up to his cowardice. Anyway, he thought, he was a musician, and at three dollars fifty a night he wasn’t required to be a hero.

  Smolsky turned to Lieutenant O’Dreary who was on his knees under one of the tables. He had a box of face powder beside him and was dusting the floor where the gun had been dropped by Doodle.

  Smolsky picked up a bentwood chair, turned it around and sat astride it like a rodeo rider. His scalp itched from the sweat that trickled down his neck. He scratched at it hard. It made a nasty rasping sound in his head like sandpaper on a block of wood. True, there were those who thought that a block of wood was a good description of the grey matter between Smolsky’s ears. He had probably been single-handedly responsible for all those Polish jokes at Headquarters. His Polish immigrant father had had high expectations of him but he had never quite made it to brain surgeon, as his family expected. On the other hand, he could still make President of the United States. Smolsky Senior would often tell his elderly chess partners this on the back step. It was the American dream after all – from poor boy to the highest office in the land. He’d been told it was possible when he filled in his immigration forms after getting off the boat at Ellis Island.