The hoods clicked their violin cases shut, turned, and with a confident strut walked back up the alley. The splurge fun had claimed its first victim – and whatever game it was that everyone was playing, sure as eggs is eggs, Roxy the Weasel had been scrambled.
BLOUSEY BROWN HAD always wanted to be famous. She got the bug very early – at the age of three she gave an impromptu recital for her family at Thanksgiving. She would tap dance a little and sing some, and what her rather squeaky voice lacked in volume she made up for with enthusiasm. Her audience was always especially encouraging. But what family doesn’t have a talented child? In fact, there had been vaudeville acts in Blousey’s family since way back. They hadn’t gathered a great deal of fame amongst them – the yellowed notices in the cuttings book weren’t too plentiful – but they were remembered with great affection. At Thanksgiving, when Blousey put on her shiny red tap shoes with the pink bows and did her annual turn, someone would say, “She’s got it all right. You can tell she’s gonna be famous. There’s a kind of sparkle in her eye. Bravo, Blousey. Bravo.”
It was the last “Bravo” that did it. Since that moment, Blousey had been hooked on show business.
Life wasn’t easy – sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. Like now.
She clicked open her compact and quickly repaired her make-up. She fixed her lipstick and pinched the wave in her hair. One dollar eighty that wave had cost and already it was straightening out. The guy in the beauty parlour had said she looked terrific, and she hadn’t been about to argue. What girl didn’t like looking pretty? She had parted with her dollar eighty gladly. She checked the crumpled piece of paper in her hand once more. Scribbled in pencil were the words: Fat Sam’s Grand Slam Speakeasy. Audition 10 o’clock.
The note had been given to her by a friend who had been in the chorus at Sam’s and had got Blousey the audition. The friend hadn’t written down the address, of course. Speakeasies were against the law and the Grand Slam’s location behind Pop Becker’s bookstore was a secret. As it happens, it was probably the worst kept secret in town, because half of New York went to Sam’s place for their late night entertainment.
Blousey had pushed her way across the floor of the crowded, smoky speakeasy, following her friend’s instructions: up the stairs to the backstage corridor that led to the girls’ changing room and the boss’s office. A screen of frosted glass with neat geometric shapes etched on the panes formed the wall between the office and the corridor. On the door, printed in rather aggressive gold letters, was ‘S. Stacetto. Private.’
Blousey sat on a wicker-back bentwood double seater, to which she had been shown by a nasty-looking character who had cracked his knuckles as he said, “Sit there, lady. The boss will sees yuh in a minute.” Some minute. The minute had stretched itself to an hour and a half and she was still waiting.
Blousey ferreted nervously in her battered leather bag. She had brought too many clothes with her as usual, but she reassured herself that one never knew which number they’d ask for. Her bag was also extra heavy because of her books and baseball bat. The books were very precious to Blousey. They were old, with stiff-backed covers, and Blousey had read them and re-read them till she knew every page. Ever since she had been out of work she’d feared she might come back to her apartment one day to find that her landlady had taken them by way of rent. So she took no chances. Where she went, they went. The baseball bat was for protection. From what, she was never sure. She wasn’t even sure if she could lift it – let alone swing it – but, like the books, it went with her everywhere.
All around her in the corridor, the chorus girls trotted back and forth in their stage outfits, a flurry of sequins, organza, and orange feathers. Blousey blushed a little at the sly and giggly glances they threw in her direction. She breathed a heavy sigh. She had decided to sit it out, no matter what. Fat Sam’s black janitor whistled a bluesy melody as he swept up around her. Blousey politely lifted her feet for him to sweep under. She was beginning to feel fed up and just a little tired. She rested her head against the wall and listened to the speakeasy band as the lively music found its way backstage.
Suddenly, the music was mixed with the muffled sound of agitated voices coming from Fat Sam’s office, behind the frosted glass partition.
FAT SAM’S PODGY hand wrestled with the selector knob on the shiny mahogany, fretwork-fronted radio. As he found the right station, the high-pitched frequency whistle gave way to the drone of a news announcer, who blurted out his message.
“We interrupt this programme of music to bring you an important news flash... reports are coming in of a gangland incident on the Lower East Side, involving a certain Robert Robins, known to the police as “Roxy the Weasel”, and believed to be a member of the gang of alleged mobster king, Fat Sam Stacetto. Robinson was the victim of a sensational attack, and we go over to our reporter on the spot for a...”
Before the news announcer could finish, Fat Sam snatched at the on/off knob on the radio. Fat Sam was not pleased. Like most hoodlums, he had clawed his way up from the streets to get a little recognition. A little notoriety. But whenever he made the papers or the newscasts it made him mad. Very mad.
“Alleged mobster king of the Lower East Side,” was it? There was no ‘alleged’ about it. Sam was king of these parts. There wasn’t a racket or a shady deal in which he didn’t have his fat podgy finger. No, there was no doubt. At least, not in Fat Sam’s mind. But he was to find out that others thought differently before the night was out.
He paced up and down on the red turkey carpet that fronted the desk in his office. The rest of his gang stood around in silence. They had learned from bitter experience not to talk at times like these.
Fat Sam stopped pacing, and snatched a wooden pool cue from the rack. He stepped forward to the pool table. One of his men moved forward with the box. No one ever mentioned the box, but unless Fat Sam stood on it there was no way he could possibly reach the pool table. Sam stabbed at the first ball. To everyone’s relief it thudded down into the corner pocket. With the box preceding him, Fat Sam stalked around the table and, as he potted the balls one by one, he shouted, “So tell me how you allow this to happen? Roxy was one of my best. What have you got to say for yourselves, you bunch of dummies? Knuckles? Louis? Ritzy? Angelo? Snake-Eyes?” Fat Sam’s gang looked at each other uneasily. They always agreed with everything Fat Sam said. They weren’t stupid.
Sitting by the water cooler was Knuckles, Fat Sam’s number one man. He cracked his knuckles often, which is how he got his name. It always looked a little threatening as he idly clicked at the bones in his hands, but to tell the truth it was more nerves than bravado – though Knuckles never let on. He had a name to live up to and he was determined to do it.
Louis was called Louis because he resembled Shakedown Louis, a hero in these parts. No one ever knew Shakedown Louis, or what he did, but he had a name and it was enough for anyone that Louis resembled him. And anyway, whoever heard of a hoodlum called Joshuah Spleendecker. Mrs Spleendecker preferred Louis. And most of all Louis preferred Louis.
Snake-Eyes got his name because of those two little ivory cubes that clicked and clicked away in his palm. He had been the king of any street corner crap game ever since he learned that a dice has six faces and a hood only needs two.
Ritzy was the quietest of the bunch. He was a dapper dresser, with knife-edged creases down his trousers that could cut your throat. Ritzy was one of those people who always look like they’ve come straight from the laundry. He had starched eyelids, ears neatly pressed and steamed, and even his smile seemed to crease his face like it had been freshly applied by the best laundry