The Lucky Stiff

by Craig Rice

  A faint, pre-dawn mist drifted in from the lake, blurring the edges of deserted office buildings, changing the street into a mysterious canyon, turning every alley into a hiding place of unnamable horrors.

  The hour before dawn. Malone suddenly found himself remembering things Grandmother Malone had said, years ago. The last hour before ghosts and ghouls returned to their lairs. The hour when the Wicked One could prowl the earth unchallenged and mark the unwary with his sign.

  Not, Malone reminded himself, that he believed in ghosts and ghouls.

  He remembered suddenly a young interne who had once confided in him that more deaths occurred in hospitals in the hour before dawn than at any other time of the day.

  “Scientific nonsense,” Malone announced to the empty street. “Anybody can be a liar, but it takes an education to be a statistician.”

  He began walking a little faster. Quite a little faster.

  When he’d been a very small boy, Grandmother Levinsky had told him stories she’d heard from Polish peasants. Werewolves, who had to return to their natural forms at sunrise, committed their most hideous deeds just before dawn.

  A small, mangy mongrel darted out suddenly from an alley between two towering office buildings in pursuit of an even smaller and mangier cat. He ran in front of Malone, barking and yelping. The little lawyer broke into a run. The mongrel changed direction and followed Malone, snapping at his heels.

  Joe the Angel was sitting in back of his cash register, adding up the back bar bills of his best customers. There were only two other people in the place: a City Hall janitor, eating cold pork sandwiches, drinking beer, and reading the Racing Form, and a recently fired Tribune reporter sleeping off a drunk in one of the booths.

  It was a pleasantly quiet place, up to the time when Malone burst in, breathless and panting, shoved a stool against the doors, half collapsed on the bar, and muttered something about needing a drink, fast.

  Joe the Angel served the drink, fast, but his face had paled at the sight of Malone. He said. “This is on the house. Drink up quick, Malone, and get out of here.”

  “Can’t,” the little lawyer panted, trying to catch his breath and gulp the drink at the same time. “Out there? Werewolf!”

  The recently fired reporter woke up in time to hear the last word. He propped his chin on his hand and went on listening.

  “Malone,” Joe the Angel said gently, “you go home and go to bed and go to sleep. I’ll call up for a taxi. You never mind about imagining werewolves. You gonna feel a lot better after a good sleep.”

  “No!” Malone gasped. He glanced apprehensively toward the door.

  “Listen, Malone,” Joe the Angel said. “You’re an educated man. You don’t believe in a lot of nonsense.” He poured Malone another drink. “This is on the house, too, Malone. And don’t you go imagining—”

  Out on the sidewalk the frustrated mongrel let loose a melancholy, unearthly howl that echoed and re-echoed the length of Clark Street. Joe the Angel ducked under the bar. For the first time in years Malone spilled his drink. The ex-reporter gave a yell and dived into the back room.

  There was a very long interval of almost unbearable quiet. Then the City Hall janitor looked up from his Racing Form and remarked that some fool dog must be chasing some fool cat. Joe the Angel came up from under the bar and tried to look as though there hadn’t been any interruption in what he was saying. Malone put down his glass, practically untasted. In the back room the ex-reporter passed out quietly under a table, where he was discovered three hours later babbling about witches, wizards, and werewolves.

  Malone unwrapped a cigar and managed to light it on the third try. “Quite an experience,” he said with a hollow laugh, “being chased down Clark Street by a vicious dog.”

  “You said werewolf,” Joe the Angel said.

  “Come, come,” Malone said. “You misunderstood.”

  “You said werewolf,” Joe the Angel repeated.

  “There is no such thing,” Malone said firmly. “You’ve been seeing too many movies.”

  The City Hall janitor, a Hungarian, finished the last scrap of his sandwich and the last drop of his beer, shoved a few coins across the bar, and slid off his stool. At the door he paused and remarked, “In the old country there are werewolves. One of them destroyed the grandmother of my wife’s aunt.” He opened the door and went on out. The melancholy little dog slipped in between his feet, sat down in the middle of the floor, and began scratching for fleas.

  “Imagine being as superstitious as that poor guy!” Malone said with another hollow laugh. He glanced sympathetically at the small dog and said, “Joe, you got any meat scraps around here? A bone, maybe?”

  “You said werewolf,” Joe the Angel said, breathing hard, and ignoring the request for meat scraps or a bone.

  “A vicious dog pursued me down Clark Street,” Malone said. Again he looked briefly at the mongrel. “A big dog. This big. Frothing at the mouth. Probably rabid. Eyes like balls of fire.”

  Joe the Angel stared long and silently at Malone. He walked out to the tiny kitchen in back, stepping neatly over the legs of the ex-reporter, and returned with a plate of scraps which he set in front of the small dog. Then he returned to his post back of the bar, poured the little lawyer another drink, and drew himself a short beer.

  “Malone,” he said earnestly, “I been in business here a long time. Twenty-two years to be exact about it. Through prohibition. Through repeal. I work hard, I save money. Three wives I’ve buried, seven children I’ve sent through school. I’m an honest man. I make an honest living.”

  He drew a long breath. “Understand, Malone. You and me, we’re friends. For a long time now, we’re friends. Because for a long time we’re friends, I tear up the little bar bill you owe me. All you have tonight, it’s on the house. A bottle of good bourbon I give you for a present, to take home. Now, Malone, will you please go away and not come back, yes?”

  “No,” Malone said. He added bitterly, “Friendship!”

  Joe the Angel sighed. “Maybe it wasn’t, outside, a werewolf. All right, it was, maybe, a dog. But last night you come in and a ghost comes in and sits beside you. Tonight you come in and talk werewolf.”

  “A dog,” Malone said.

  “O. K., dog, werewolf, I don’t care. But a ghost is a ghost. Malone, my old friend, maybe you don’t understand. This is bad for business. So now go away. Go home.”

  “No,” Malone said. He added, “Joe, where can I buy some flowers?”

  The small dog, having finished up the scraps, howled loudly for more. Joe the Angel groaned. “Very well. You may remain, Malone, my friend. I will go home.” He began untying his apron.

  “Now, wait a minute,” Malone said. “We’ve got to talk this over. Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Me?” Joe the Angel looked at him indignantly. “I am an educated man.” He added, “But last night—”

  Malone slid off the bar stool and stood as though he were about to address a jury. “Last night you saw the earthbound spirit of a poor, innocent girl who had been framed for a murder rap and sent to die in the electric chair. She bears no animosity against you. She bears no animosity against me. She only seeks our help. She longs only to attain the peace and happiness of her heavenly home. Yet, because she was the helpless victim of a cruel conspiracy that sent her to her death, until she is avenged she must haunt the city of Chicago”—he gulped down the rest of his drink—“beating her poor broken wings against prison bars more grim than any man has devised.” He leaned on the bar. “Joe, I know you want to help her.”

  Juries had broken into tears at the sound of that voice. Joe, made of sterner stuff, simply gulped and said, “You bet I do.”

  “Fine,” Malone said, getting back on the bar stool. “Now, where can I get some roses, hyacinths, and violets at this hour of the morning?”

  “Roses, violets, yes,” Joe the Angel said. “Hyacinths, no. But gladioli, carnations, pink and white both, orchids, even. In nic
e baskets, and with ribbons.”

  “Gladioli, carnations, and orchids will be O. K.,” Malone said. “But where?”

  Joe beamed. “My brother, Rico di Angelo, opened a very fine undertaking parlor on West Division Street yesterday. A big party. Everybody sent flowers, even the mayor. I dropped in at the party myself. Roses, violets, gladioli, carnations, orchids—”

  “I knew you could help me out,” Malone said gratefully.

  “Only,” Joe said, “you have to wait until nine o’clock. That is when Rico opens for business.”

  “At nine o’clock I’m going to be in my office,” Malone said firmly. “And these flowers have got to be at a certain place before then.”

  Joe sighed and shook his head. “Then you will have to break into Rico’s place. It will not be too difficult. Look, Malone.” He spread a paper napkin on the bar, wrote down an address, and began drawing a diagram. “Here is an alley. Here is a window. Here is—”

  “Never mind,” Malone said. He shoved the napkin in his pocket. “I can get in. Will Rico be sore?”

  “Be sore? What would he want with all those expensive flowers? Except to sell them back to the florist and have to take a cut on the price.”

  “I’ll pay him,” Malone said. “And that reminds me.” He reached in his pocket. “How much is that bar bill?”

  Joe the Angel looked at him thoughtfully for a minute, then produced the bill. “But remember, Malone. No ghosts in my saloon. And no more talk of werewolves. It’s bad for business.”

  “I’ll remember,” the little lawyer promised. He handed over the money and said, “But one thing more. I wish you’d answer a couple of questions.”

  “For my friend Malone,” Joe said, “anything.”

  “Then tell me,” Malone said, lighting his cigar, “how hard have you been hit by this new protection racket, and who have you paid off to?”

  There was a silence. Joe the Angel stared at Malone, his mouth set in a grim, hard, straight line. Then he marched to the door and flung it open.

  “This time, Malone,” he said, “you do go out. Out, and you don’t come back.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I’m not going,” Malone said, “and I think it would be better for everyone concerned if you did answer my question.” He almost added, “Let’s go somewhere where we can buy a drink and talk this over,” before he remembered where he was.

  “Out!” Joe the Angel said.

  “No,” Malone said. He walked over to the door and closed it firmly. Then he stepped back of the bar and said, “This is on the house, what will you have?”

  Joe the Angel was not amused. He stood by the door, trying to make up his mind what to do next.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time,” Malone quoted, “and I know you don’t really think I’m going to turn you in if you do happen to own a piece of the protection racket. I wouldn’t even try to muscle in on your share of it. Only it’s costing a friend of mine too much money and I’d like him to be let alone.” With a practiced hand, he set a rye bottle back on its place on the shelf and said again to Joe, “Well, what will you have?”

  “A little brandy,” Joe said hoarsely. He came slowly up to the bar and said, “I do not own any part of this racket, and I do not want to own any part of this racket.”

  “Too bad,” Malone said, pouring out the brandy, “from all I hear of it, there should be some nice profits involved, with the right management, of course.” He looked thoughtfully at the end of his cigar. “Maybe we could take it over, you and I.”

  Joe the Angel gulped his brandy and, breathing hard, dwelt again on the fact that for twenty-two years, through prohibition and through repeal, he had been an honest hard-working businessman who saved his money, buried three wives, and sent seven children through school. He also added that it would not be good for the reputation of Joe the Angel’s City Hall Bar if a late customer should come in and find Malone behind the bar serving drinks and Joe the Angel on one of the stools apparently paying for them.

  Malone countered with the statement that he had always wanted to be a bartender and that any customers coming in would simply assume that the place had changed hands, if said customers were in a state capable of assuming anything at all. That gave him an idea.

  “As a matter of fact,” he announced cheerfully, “it is going to change hands. You are going to sell the bar, and I am going to buy it from you.”

  Joe the Angel raised his eyes to the ceiling and addressed a few well-chosen remarks to an obscure Italian saint favorably known for dealing with the hopelessly insane. Malone didn’t even hear him. He went on thoughtfully, almost dreamily, “That is not a bad idea at all. In fact, it’s a very sound idea.” He leaned his elbows on the bar, beamed at Joe, and said, “In fact, I’ll even let you run up a three weeks’ bar bill in appreciation of past favors.”

  “Malone,” Joe the Angel said weakly, “I wish you would go away.”

  “I will go away,” Malone said, “as soon as you tell me all you know about the protection racket and sell me your saloon.” He added earnestly. “You see if I own this place nobody is going to kidnap and torture one of your seven children, murder your very lovely fourth wife, or chase you up an alley and beat your brains out.”

  Joe the Angel gasped, “How do you know?”

  “I’m psychic,” Malone said cheerfully. “A person gets that way running around with ghosts and werewolves.” He managed to catch Joe the Angel just before he reached the door, dragged him back to the bar, poured out another brandy, and said gently. “This also is on the house, pal.”

  Joe the Angel groaned.

  “And furthermore,” Malone said, “if you don’t answer my question—” He stared significantly into Joe’s unhappy brown eyes. “Well, if you think you’ve seen ghosts yet—”

  “Believe me, my friend,” Joe the Angel said, “I will tell you anything you want to know. I will sell you the saloon. I will sell it to you for fifty cents.”

  “It’s a deal,” Malone said happily. He fished a quarter, two dimes, and a nickel from his pocket and slid them across the bar. “Next week I’ll sell it back to you for sixty cents.”

  “Maybe the week after that you’ll buy it again,” Joe the Angel said, “for seventy cents.”

  “Sure,” Malone said, “and then you buy it back for eighty cents. We could keep that up for years and one of us would be bound to make money.”

  “But not me,” Joe the Angel said in a gloomy tone.

  “All right, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Malone said briskly. “I’ll sell you back the saloon for forty cents and take a loss. All you have to do is pay my customary fee for legal advice and services.”

  Joe the Angel again raised his eyes and requested the intercession of some saint able to deal with crooked Irish lawyers.

  “Incidentally,” Malone said, “in circumstances like these my fee is usually ten cents.” He knocked an inch of ash off his cigar and leaned across the bar. “Look, Joe. As you said, we’ve been friends for a long time. Ever since I was pushing a hack and you used to slip me a commission now and then for steering out-of-town customers to your speak. I’m not doing you any harm. As a matter of fact, I’m doing this as much to help you as to help out Jake Justus.”

  Joe the Angel’s face reddened with sudden wrath. “My good friend Jake Justus? You mean they got the nerve to put the squeeze on him, too? The bums!” He reached for the brandy bottle.

  Malone pushed it across the bar and said, “This is still on the house. And what bums?”

  “My good friend Malone,” Joe the Angel said, “I do not know what bums. If I had known I would have told my cousin Benny di Angelo. Or maybe I would have killed them myself, who knows? But one day there comes into my place a man to”—he smiled bitterly—“sell me insurance. I throw him out. The next day he is back, with another friend. I throw them both out. The day after my bartender is arrested selling a glass of beer to a minor. I throw everybody out, and then—” His
story was essentially the same one that Jake had told. The arrest of a janitor for selling narcotics. Threats against himself, his children, and his new wife. And all the time the price for “insurance” going up. He ended with a helpless and almost hopeless, “Then what can I do about these bums?”

  “Nothing,” Malone said, chewing savagely on his cigar, “except pay them. But now that I own this place I can do something. I haven’t any wives or children to be threatened with bodily harm, and I can beat any framed-up rap of selling narcotics, or selling liquor to minors, or anything else they can think of, including arson, mayhem, or mopery.”

  “You are making a joke, yes?” Joe the Angel said anxiously.

  “I am making a joke, no,” Malone said. “I’ve bought this saloon and I’m going to hang onto it. And if it should be known early in the morning that the City Hall Bar has changed hands, maybe a few insurance salesmen would come around to call on me.” He grinned wickedly, “Who knows? I might even be tempted to play along with them.”

  Joe the Angel gazed across the bar. “Malone,” he said, “you are a very bad man, but you are one damn smart lawyer.”

  “And you,” Malone said, “are one damn smart saloonkeeper to sell this joint and get out from under the racket. Shall we have a drink on it?”

  He poured two drinks, they shook hands and toasted each other solemnly.

  “Now,” Malone said, “do you have any idea who is back of this racket?”

  Joe the Angel shook his head.

  “Did you pay off to—” Malone paused, scowling. He’d started to say, “Jesse Conway.” That might not be the right approach, he decided. “Who did you pay off to?”

  “A young man,” Joe the Angel said. “Thin face. Dark skin. Black hair, very shiny, like on my cousin Mike. Nice fancy clothes. Sometimes a raincoat.”

  “I think I may have seen him,” Malone said, nodding. “You don’t happen to know his name?”

  Again Joe the Angel shook his head. “Maybe,” he suggested, “when he comes to visit you, he will tell you.”