“Call yourselves hoodlums?” Fat Sam was saying. “You’re a disgrace to your profession, do you hear me? A disgrace. And most of all you’re a disgrace to Fat Sam.”
Fat Sam poked his chest proudly with his thumb. He mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief. Still the gang remained motionless. Fat Sam walked to the drinks cupboard. He yanked at the handle and pulled down the veneered front flap. He took out a crystal decanter of orange juice, and toyed with it as he spoke.
“We all know who’s behind this, don’t we?”
The gang replied in mechanical unison. “Sure do, Boss.”
“You don’t need a head full of brains to know that, do you?”
“Sure don’t, Boss.”
“We all know who’s been monkeying us around, don’t we?”
“Oh yeah, Boss. We sure know.”
“So who it is, you dummies? Tell me who?”
The gang looked at one another for a moment. They weren’t sure if they should risk mentioning that dreaded name in Fat Sam’s office. They decided together. They were all wrong.
“Dandy Dan, Boss.”
Fat Sam was so incensed he fell off his box. His face bloated out to become a passable imitation of a Christmas balloon. He screamed, “Don’t mention that man’s name in this office.”
The gang redeemed themselves by picking him up and brushing him down. Fat Sam seethed away and steam seemed to squirt from his ears. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and the gang stiffened visibly. Ritzy looked even starchier, Snake-Eyes clicked at his dice, Knuckles cracked his knuckles. Louis pulled back his shoulders, shot out his cuffs and did his impersonation of Shakedown Louis. Fat Sam kept his dignity. After all, he was Fat Sam.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened, and a curly blonde head popped nervously around it. It was Blousey. She had finally tired of waiting and had plucked up the courage to come in. The gang looked at her incredulously.
“Er... Mr Stacetto, I’m Miss Blousey Brown. I’ve come about the job. I’m a dancer.”
Fat Sam couldn’t believe his ears. He bellowed, “A dancer! A dancer! Believe me, honey, right now I don’t need a dancer. Come back tomorrow.”
Blousey retreated in despair, but before she could close the door, the little janitor, who had been waiting behind her for his chance, also made his plea for showbiz stardom.
“Er... Mr Stacetto, I wondered if I could have my audition... last week you said...”
Before he could finish Fat Sam had jumped in feet first and trampled on his sentence. “Am I going mad? Fizzy, will you get out of here.”
Fizzy had anticipated the answer. It wasn’t new to him, and he ducked out of the room as Sam’s words hit the door. In his speedy exit, he forgot that he’d left his bucket outside and put his foot in it, toppling headlong over Blousey as he retreated.
Inside, Fat Sam continued to bellow at his gang.
“Dancers! Dancers! I’m surrounded by mamby-pamby dancers, singers, piano players, banjo players, in-whistle players – at a time when I need brains, you hear me, brains. Brains and muscles.”
The last words sizzled the gang’s eardrums and rattled the pictures on the wall. Knuckles took it upon himself to speak for the rest. He offered meekly, “You’ve got us, Boss!”
Knuckles took the soda siphon from the shelf and attempted to top up Fat Sam’s glass of orange juice. The soda water went many places but Fat Sam’s glass wasn’t one of them. Sam looked down at his drenched suit.
“You! You great hunk of lard. Your trouble is you’ve got muscle where you ought to have brains. My canary’s got more brains than you, you dumb salami!”
Fat Sam pulled Knuckles’ hat over his head, snatched the siphon and squirted it at him. As the soda water dripped from his face, Ritzy, Louis, and Snake-Eyes giggled nervously. That was a mistake.
Sam turned to them, siphon poised. “So what’s funny? Something make you laugh?”
The remainder of the gang felt the full force of the soda as it bounced from hood to hood, leaving their sharp, smiling faces damp and droopy.
Outside in the corridor, Fizzy the janitor helped Blousey with her things. She picked up her heavy case and straightened her hat. Fizzy offered her a little consolation.
“Don’t worry, honey, I’ve been trying to see him for months and months.”
“You have? What do you do?”
“I’m only the greatest tap dancer on earth.”
“You are?”
“Of course I are. Cross my heart.” Fizzy’s heart must have been in a funny place, because he crossed his face. “But all he ever says is come back tomorrow. I ask you, how many times can I come back tomorrow?”
Blousey smiled. For a moment she looked like she couldn’t care less about the cancelled interview. But she was pretending.
OUT IN THE street, the sidewalk still glistened from the rain. The sign in the lighted window said ‘Pop Becker’s Book Emporium. Books, Books and more Books. From 5 cents.’ And another read ‘A book is cheaper than a steak. Read one, learn a little, and maybe you’ll eat better.’ The window of Pop’s store was crammed with books of every description.
Bugsy Malone looked at his reflection in the glass. He straightened his tie and tilted his hat to a smart, acceptable angle. He pulled at the bottom of his jacket and, for a moment, the creases vanished – but promptly sprang back again. Bugsy wasn’t the smartest guy in town, but he had an air about him that was difficult to describe. A sort of inner dignity that didn’t rely on crisp white cuffs and a diamond stick pin. He was no hood. He’d been around them, sure. He’d had his scrapes. And he generally came out on top. But he got a funny kind of pleasure just from being in the middle of things. Always there, but never involved. He’d been quite a useful boxer in his day, too. Except for one slight handicap. He had a jaw that had more glass in it than Macy’s front window. But he still kept in trim. Made a few bucks – from “this and that”, he liked to say. In the main they were honest bucks – looking for promising fighters and steering them in the direction of Cagey Joe at Sluggers Gym. Cagey Joe would teach them all he knew. And he knew a lot. If they made out, Bugsy made a few bucks. To date, he hadn’t found a Jack Johnson, but he’d made enough to pay his rent and treat himself to the occasional turkey dinner. And this was at a time when a bowl of soup and a crust of bread was Sunday lunch for most people.
Bugsy pushed open the door of the bookstore. A brass bell rang. Behind the counter, Pop Becker looked up from his dinner. He peered at Bugsy over the top of his glasses and underneath his green eye shield.
“Hi, Bugsy.”
“Hi, Pop.”
Without another word, Pop swivelled in his chair and passed over a small, red, leather-bound book. It wasn’t asked for but it was received without question.
“Thanks, Pop.”
Pop waved, not looking up from his racing paper or his dinner of salt beef and pickled cucumber, which he munched with as little enthusiasm as he had shown to his customer. Bugsy opened the book and placed a dollar bill inside. He moved to the side of the store. The whole wall was a mass of heavy books on creaking shelves. He tapped on one of them and a row of six books disappeared to reveal a small peep-hole. The tubby face of Jelly filled the hole.
“Hi,