The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

by Robert Bloch

  He took me down to his little room — an ordinary little room, with a rickety old bed, a straight chair, a secondhand dresser, and a dirty rug on the floor. "Come een," he said, and I stepped inside.

  I wish somebody had cut my legs off, instead.

  Tarelli went to the closet and dragged out his big black suitcase. He opened it up and pulled something out — a little picture, in a frame. "Look," he said, and I looked. I wish somebody had torn my eyes out, instead. "Rosa," he mumbled. "Ees my daughter. Eighteen years. You like?" I liked, and I said so.

  I wish somebody had cut my tongue off, instead.

  But I walked into his little room and looked at the girl with the black hair and the black eyes, and I told him she was beautiful and I sat there staring at her and he grinned and he spilled it all out to me. Everything.

  I can remember almost every word, just as I can remember almost everything that happened from that afternoon on until the end.

  Yeah, I learned a lot. Too much.

  Let me boil it down, though. About Tarelli — he wasn't a lamster, in the old country. He was a Professor. Sounds screwy, but the way he pitched it, I knew he was leveling with me. He was a Professor in some big college over there, university, I don't know what they call it. Had to blow during the war, got as far as Cuba, got mixed up in some mess down there, and then met Big Pete Mosko's pal, Rico. Rico got him into this country, which is what he wanted, and now he was looking for a way to latch onto a bundle.

  "I am what you call financial embarrass," he said. "Rico, for bringing me here take all I have save up."

  This I could understand. Any pal of Big Pete Mosko would be apt to be like that. A grabber.

  "So now I work. Mosko employs the physicist, the most eminent of metaphysicians, to — rig, they say it?—games of chance. Ha! But I weel do anytheeng to earn money, to have Rosa here."

  The deal was all set, I gathered. All Tarelli needed to do was scrape together a G-note and Rico would fetch Rosa on the plane. Easy as goniffing candy from a brat.

  "So you're saving your pennies, huh?" I said, taking another look at Rosa's picture. "What's Mosko paying you for this machine job?"

  "Twenty dollar."

  Twenty dollars for a piece of work Mosko would have to pay easy two-three grand for if he got it done by any professional. Twenty dollars for three crooked wheels that would pay off maybe a grand or more a week clear profit. Big-hearted guy, Mister Mosko. And at that rate, Tarelli would have his Rosa over here just in time to collect her old-age pension.

  I took another look at Rosa's picture and decided it wasn't fair to make poor old Tarelli wait that long. Matter of fact, I didn't want to wait that long, either.

  It wouldn't do much good to tell Tarelli that Mosko was playing him for a sucker. The thing to do was figure an angle, and fast.

  I put Rosa's picture away. "We'll work something out," I said. "We got to."

  "Thank you," said Tarelli.

  Which was a funny thing for him to say, because I was talking to the picture.

  I didn't have much time to talk to pictures the next couple weeks. Because Mosko had his roulette wheels operating and the take was good. I kept busy quieting the squawkers, hustling out the phonies, and handling the guys who were sauced up. The two hotshots he hired to handle the wheels kept rolling.

  Mosko was busy, too—just sitting in his office and counting the take. Must have been about two-three weeks after the wheels went in that I happened to pass his little private back office when Tarelli went in and gave him a pitch.

  I couldn't help but hear what they were saying, because both of them were yelling pretty loud.

  "But you promise," Tarelli was saying. "Rosa, she ees all alone. Ees not good for young girl to be alone. She must come here."

  "That's your worry. Blow now. I got things to do."

  "Theengs to do like counteeng monies? Monies you make from the crooked wheels I feex?"

  "Never mind. Get outta here before I lose my temper."

  "Ees worth plenty, thees job I do for you. Get Rosa for me. I pay you back. I work long, hard. Anytheeng you say."

  "Blow."

  "You must do sometheeng. You must!" Tarelli was almost bawling, now. "How you like, I tell somebody about crooked wheels?"

  "Listen. One peep outta you and I tell somebody," said Big Pete Mosko. "I tell somebody about a guy who sneaked into this country without a passport. Get me?"

  "You would not do thees!"

  "Wait and see."

  Everything was quiet for a minute. Way I figured it, things would stay quiet. Mosko had Tarelli, but good. If the little guy didn't watch his step, Mosko could turn him over to the Feds. There was nothing anybody could do about it. Except —

  "One theeng more — " Tarelli said.

  "Blow."

  "No. Leesten. Suppose I construct for you something very special?"

  "How special?"

  "Sometheeng — how can I tell you? — no one ever has before."

  "Gambling device?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Cost money to make?"

  "A few pennies."

  "New huh?"

  "Special."

  "All right, go ahead. We'll see."

  "Then you weel send for Rosa?"

  "We'll see."

  Mosko let it go at that, and I didn't butt in. I was willing to see, too. And in another couple of weeks, I saw.

  I was there the morning Tarelli took the wraps off his big secret. It was on a Sunday, and Mosko and the four sharpies who worked his wheels for him were downstairs, divvying up the take from the big Saturday night play.

  Me and Al, the bartender, were sitting around in the tavern upstairs all alone, chopping the heads off a couple glasses of beer. There weren't any customers — never were on Sunday—so Al looked kind of surprised when he saw this little truck drive up and stop outside.

  "We got company," he said.

  "Company? Why, it's Tarelli," I told him.

  Sure enough, little Tarelli hopped out of the truck and made some motions to the big lug who was driving it. The lug went around back and then he and Tarelli lifted down a big weighing machine. Before I knew what was happening, they dragged it into the tavern and set it up right in the corner.

  "Hey," says Al. "Whatsa big idea?"

  "Ees no idea. Ees scales. For weighing," Tarelli said, turning on his grin.

  "Who ordered scales around here?"

  Al came around the bar and we walked up to the weighing machine.

  "I order," Tarelli told him.

  "I promise Mistair Mosko to find sometheeng wonderful."

  "Don't see anything wonderful about a penny scale machine," I said, giving it a fast case.

  And there wasn't anything wonderful to see. It was just a regular weighing machine with a round clock face glass front, and a pointer that spun up to four hundred pounds, depending on who stood on it and dropped a penny in the slot. It was made by the Universal Scale Company of Waterville, Indiana, and the decal on the back said, "This machine property of Acme Coin Machine Distributors."

  I noticed all this stuff kind of quick, without paying too much attention — but later, I memorized it. Checked up on it, too, when the time came, and it was all true. Just an ordinary weighing machine, made at the factory and rented out to Mosko for ten bucks a month plus 30 percent of the take in pennies.

  Oh, one other thing. Besides the big glass front over the dial showing the weight, there was another little hunk of glass and a spinner knob you turned when you dropped your penny. This knob turned about twenty slides up, for fortunetelling. You know, the regular questions you always find on scales. Like, "Will I marry rich?" Then when you dropped your penny, out comes a card with a gag answer on it, like, "No, you won't marry rich. You'll marry Eddie!' Corny stuff. And on top of the machine it said, "Tell your fortune — 1$. Honest weight, no springs!'

  Al and I looked at the scales and the guy driving the truck went away from there. Tarelli kept grinning up at us
and at last he said, "How you like?"

  "Phooey!" said Al. "Whatsa matter with you, Tarelli? You oughtta know bettern'n to louse up the joint with a penny machine. We got customers come in here to drop a big wad at the tables; you think they gonna fish out pennies to get their weight told?"

  "Yeah," I said. "Does Mosko know you ordered this?"

  "No," Tarelli answered. "But he find out fast."

  "And he'll get sore faster," I told him.

  "No he don't. You see."

  "I'm gonna hate to see, Tarelli. When Big Pete sees this phony fortune-telling gimmick he'll go through the roof. He thought you were coming through with something big."

  "Right. Thees ees of the most wonderful. Wait until I feex."

  Tarelli waved at me and went downstairs. Al and I got back to our beers. Every once in a while Al would look over at the big, ugly white scales in the corner and shake his head. Neither of us said anything, though.

  In a little while Tarelli come upstairs again. This time he was lugging his suitcase and a big canvas tarp. He set his suitcase down right next to the scales and then he got out a hammer and nailed up the tarp, right across the corner. It hid the scales and it hid Tarelli and his suitcase.

  "Hey, now what you up to?" Al yelled.

  "No questions. I feex. You cannot see."

  "Lissen, you sawed-off little jerk — who you giving orders to around here?" Al hollered.

  He got up, but I held his arm. "Take it easy," I said. "Give the little guy a chance. He's doing this for Mosko, remember? Maybe he's got some angle. Look what he did for the wheels."

  "All right. But what's the big idea of the tarpaulin?"

  "Secret," Tarelli called out. "Nobody must know. Three weeks I work to do. Ees miracle. You see."

  We didn't see anything. We didn't even hear much of anything; some banging and clanking around, but not much. I guessed Tarelli was working on the weighing machine with special tools from his suitcase, but I couldn't figure the angle. All I know is he worked on and on, and Al and I kept drinking beers and waiting for Big Pete Mosko to come upstairs and bust up the act.

  But Mosko must of been plenty busy counting the take. He didn't show. And the fidgeting went on behind the curtain until Al and I were going screwy trying to figure things out.

  "I got it!" Al says, at last. "Sure, I got it. Plain as daylight. Tarelli fixed the wheels downstairs for the big-time marks, diden' he? Well, this is for the little sucker — Mr. Bates, who comes in upstairs for a drink. We work the old routine on him, see? Plant a steerer at the bar, get him into an argument about what he weighs, work him into a bet. Five, ten, twenty bucks. I hold the dough, get it? Then we take him over to the scales. Mr. Bates knows what he weighs, because before the showdown the steerer goes away to wash his hands, and I say to Mr. Bates, 'Quick, hop on the scales before he gets back. Then we'll know what you weigh for sure.' So the chump weighs himself and let's say he weighs 165. The steerer comes back and this time Mr. Bates offers to double or triple the bet. He can't lose, see? So the steerer falls for it and we have Mr. Bates for fifty or a hundred bucks. Then we weigh him official. And of course the scales says 170 or 175 — whatever I want. Because I got my foot down on the pedal that fixes the scales. Get it? A natural!"

  Somehow it didn't seem like such a natural to me. In the first place, no Mr. Bates was going to be dumb enough not to see through the routine with the crooked scales, and he'd raise a holy stink about being cleaned. Secondly, Tarelli had promised Mosko something really wonderful. And for some funny reason I had faith in Tarelli. I knew he was working to get Rosa over here — and he'd do anything for her. After seeing her picture, I could understand that. No, I expected Tarelli to come through. A big scientist, physicist or whatever kind of Professor he was in the old country, would do better than fix a weighing machine.

  So I waited to see what would happen when Tarelli finished and took the tarp down.

  Finally he did, and I saw — exactly nothing. Tarelli ripped down the canvas, carried his bag back downstairs, and left the scales standing there, exactly like before. I know, because Al and I rushed up to look at the machine.

  Only two things were changed, and you had to look pretty hard to realize that much. First of all, the little selector knob you could spin to choose your fortunetelling question just didn't spin any more. And second, the small glass-covered opening above it which gave the questions was now blank. Instead of printed questions like, "Will I marry rich?" there was now a sort of black disk behind the glass. It kind of moved when you got up close to it, as though it was a mirror, only black.

  I know that sounds screwy and it was screwy; but that's the only way I can describe it. It was a little black disk that sort of caught your reflection when you stood on the scales, only of course you can't get a reflection off something dull and black.

  But it was as if the scales were looking at you.

  I hopped up and fished around for a penny. Closer I stood, the more I felt like something or somebody inside the scales was giving me a cold, fishy stare. Yes, and there was, come to think of it, a soft humming noise when I stood on the platform. Deep down humming from inside.

  Al went around back and said, "Little jerk opened up the machinery here, all right. Soldered the back on tight again, though. Wonder what he was up to? Coin company's sure gonna squawk when they see this."

  I found my penny and got ready to drop it in. I could see my reflection in the big glass dial where the weight pointer was. I had a kind of funny grin, but I guess that came from looking at the black disk below and listening to the humming and wondering about the wonderful thing Tarelli had done.

  I held my penny over the slot, and —

  Big Pete Mosko come running up the stairs. Tarelli was right behind him, and right behind Tarelli were the four sharpies.

  "What's the pitch?" Mosko yelled. "Get off that machine and throw it out of here."

  I got off the machine, fast. If I hadn't, Mosko would of knocked me off. "Wait," Tarelli chattered. "Wait — you see — ees what I promise you. Wonderful."

  "Scales!" Mosko grabbed Tarelli by the collar and shook him until his hair flopped all over his face. "What do I need with scales?"

  "But they tell fortunes — "

  "Tell fortunes?" Mosko began to shake Tarelli until it looked like his hair would be torn right out of his head. "What do I need with phony fortunes?"

  "Ees — ees not phony fortunes like you say. That ees the wonderful. The fortunes, they are true!"

  "True?"

  Mosko was still yelling, but the shaking stopped. He put Tarelli down and stared at him, hard.

  Tarelli managed another one of his grins. "Yes, true. You get on machine. You put een penny. Fortune card comes out. Ees really true fortune. Tell your future."

  "Malarkey!"

  One of the sharpies, character named Don, started to laugh. He was a lanky blond guy with buck teeth, and he looked like a horse. In a minute we were all laughing. All but Tarelli.

  "Take it easy, Tarelli," said Don, grinning and sticking out his big yellow teeth. He walked over to the little old man and stood looking down at him. It was funny to see the two of them together; Tarelli in his old overalls, and this sharpie Don in a handsome set of threads that matched the color of his convertible parked outside in the driveway It was funny, and then it wasn't so funny, because the grin on Don's face was mean, and I knew he was just working up to something nasty.

  "Look, Tarelli," Don said, still grinning. "Maybe you're a big scientist back in the University of Boloney or wherever you come from. But for my money, over here, you're just a schmoe, see? And I never heard that any scientist could invent a machine that really reads a person's future." Don reached down and patted Tarelli on the shoulder. "Now you know Mister Mosko here is a busy man," he said. "So if you got anything else to say, spit it out. Then I won't waste any more time before I kick you out in the road."

  "Huh!" Mosko grunted. "I got no time for screwballs at all, Don. Telling wh
at's gonna happen to you by science — "

  "Ees not science." Tarelli talked real soft and looked at the floor.

  "Not science?"

  "No. I do anytheeng to get Rosa here, remember, I tell you that? I do what science cannot do. I make pact. Make vow. Make bargain."

  "What kind of a bargain? With who?"

  "I not say. My business, eh? But eet work. So I can build what I need for machine. Ees not science work here. Ees magic."

  "What the — "

  Mosko was yelling again, but Tarelli's soft voice cut him right off. "Magic," he repeated. "Black magic. I don' care who you are, what you are. You get on scales. Scales read your soul, your past, see you like you really are. Drop penny, scales tell your fortune. Read your future. Here, try eet— you see."

  Then Don cut loose with his horselaugh. Only this time he laughed alone. And when he shut up, Tarelli turned to Mosko again.

  "Understan' what I tell you? Thees scale read the future. Tell anybody's fortune. Ees worth much money to have here. You can make beeg business from thees. Now you get Rosa for me?"

  "Sure," said Mosko. Til get Rosa. If it works. Hey, Tarelli, whyn-cha get on the machine and see if it tells your fortune about Rosa? Maybe it'll say she's coming. Ha!"

  Mosko was ribbing him, but Tarelli didn't know it. He turned kind of pale and stepped back.

  "Oh no, Meestair Mosko. Not me! I not get on thees machine for any-theeng. Ees black magic. I do it only for Rosa — but I fear."

  "Well, what we all wasting time standing around for?" Don snickered. "Tarelli's chicken. Afraid he'll get on the scales and nothing will happen, so we boot him out. Well, I'm not scared. Here, gimme that."

  He snatched the penny out of my hand, hopped on the scales, and slid the penny down. I could hear the faint humming, and then when the penny disappeared I could hear the humming a little louder. The black disk on the scales got cloudy for a second. The pointer on the big dial behind the glass swung over to 182. Don stood on the scales, 182 pounds of what the well-dressed man will wear, including his nasty grin.

  "So?" he shrugged. "Nothing happens."

  There was a click, and a little white card slid out of the slot below the black disk. Don picked it up and read it. He shook his head and passed the card to Mosko and the others. Eventually it got to me.