“Thank you, partner,” said Arky.
Down the bar, a glass fell and shattered, and little by little the yackety-yacking began to die down.
Harry Radabaugh had seen Arky and was staring at him with shocked surprise through the thin haze of tobacco smoke hanging in the heavy air. Instinctively, Harry looked about him for a fast way out; but he was surrounded by his husky, blue-chinned, cigar-smoking stooges. Besides, the place was packed with other people he knew, people who some time back had started to fawn on him, after ignoring him for so many years. His face hardened slightly, and he tossed down a full drink with one motion of his arm.
Anyway, what the hell could the farmer pull in a place like this? Outside, it was another matter. Only thing to do was stick—face him out. However, it still wouldn’t be a bad idea to take precautions. Turning, he looked meaningly at a tall young man behind him, who was drinking in the third tier. The young man followed Harry’s gaze and started slightly; then he nodded.
The young man’s name was Watrus and he was a special investigator for the D.A.’s office, a budding Harry Radabaugh that the harried D.A. hadn’t caught up with yet—the same fellow who had buzzed Turkey in the parking-lot behind the Club Imperial.
He worked his way through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible, and finally managed to squeeze in behind Arky, who had watched his progress out of the comer of his eye.
“Hello, sir,” said Watrus, putting his hand on Arky’s back and running it up and down, feeling for the shoulder strap of his holster. “How are you?”
“How’s the D.A.?” asked Arky.
“Nice old gentleman. How’s tricks?” Watrus continued to paw him.
“Pretty good. We got beat a little on the Front last night. But it’ll pass, I hope. I’ll hold still for a frisk, son.”
“Oh, no,” laughed Watrus. “Nothing like that. Just glad to see you.”
Arky turned all the way around and looked at Watrus. His blue eyes were hard as glass and menacing. “I said I’d hold still for a frisk. You better frisk me. Might save trouble later.”
“Okay. Okay,” said Watrus, hurriedly. “If you look at it that way, we’ll frisk.” With the hands of an expert, he quickly patted Arky all over, laughing at the same time as if it was all in fun. “Well, I’ll give you a clean bill of health. What an idea!”
“It was Harry’s, not mine,” said Arky. “How about a drink?”
“Thanks just the same,” said Watrus. “I got friends waiting for me.”
“It’s like this,” said Arky. “I just dropped in for a quiet drink to settle my nerves. Haven’t been sleeping so good lately.”
“Is that a fact?” said Watrus, looking at Arky curiously.
“Yeah. Lots of worries.”
“Sorry to hear it,” said Watrus, still studying Arky, wondering if maybe the talk floating around might not be true at that: Arky was losing his grip. All the same it was mighty strange for him to be showing up in the Regent, of all places.
Watrus worked his way back through the crowd slowly, and took up his third-tier spot behind Harry, who turned and brought him a drink.
“Well?”
“He’s clean. Says he just came in to get a drink to quiet his nerves.”
“They might be jumpy at that,” said Harry. “Well, well.” The clamor of loud conversation, which had died down to some extent, rose again; there was much laughter as Front scandal was passed and gags repeated, but some of the gamblers and hangers-on, knowing Arky’s reputation, scented trouble, and in spite of Harry’s apparent indifference, began, one by one, to drift down to the far end of the bar, and then out into the street or through an archway into the thronged lobby. Little by little, although the place was still very crowded, pressure was eased along the line of the bar.
Newcomers arrived and pressed forward, unconscious of the slight tension. A nationally known radio comic, on tour, showed up with his writers and a few other stooges, and a place was made for him. Laughing, expansive, he got off half a dozen carefully rehearsed ad libs and had the people round him roaring at his cleverness while his writers glanced at each other with sardonic amusement.
Time passed. Arky had his fourth drink, and settled his bill. The radio comic went out, waving to his public like a touring president, followed at a little distance by his glum-looking entourage. Meanwhile, a dark sweat-stain had appeared on the back of Harry Radabaugh’s coat.
Arky nodded to the bartender, who was very friendly now, lit a cigar, puffed on it briefly, then started out of the bar, toward the side entrance. His way took him past Harry, who turned to watch his progress. Arky paused and smiled at him. “Hello, Harry. How’s tricks?”
“Fine. With you?”
“Tolerable.”
Arky stood smoking for a moment; then he moved through three tiers of drinkers and took a place at the bar beside Harry.
“How about a drink?” he asked.
“All right,” said Harry.
Arky ordered, then he said: “Sure is warm in here tonight. Too bad a man can’t take his coat off. Emil!” he called. “Mighty hot in here. How about me taking my coat off?” The stiff-faced German bartender turned and glanced at Arky contemptuously. He hadn’t the faintest idea who the man was. “No rule against it,” said Emil. “But we just don’t do it.”
“You mean I’ll get tossed out?”
“No,” said Emil. “But maybe looked out.”
Laughing, Arky took off his coat and hung it over his arm. Harry turned and glanced at him, feeling a great relief; in spite of the frisk he’d still had a few nagging doubts; but now it was obvious that Arky was naked—no heater; and little by little Harry’s relief turned to irritation, then to anger. No use trying to kid himself: he was afraid of Arky, and for over half an hour had been sweating with fear. Harry began to look Arky over surreptitiously: a tough-looking boy with a reputation for not backing up, but too slender, too long-legged; the kind of guy you could easily get off balance and upset. Harry was a dirty saloon fighter and knew all the holds, tricks, and blows.
After all, he was taking over. The Big Boys were in for good now, and it was only a question of time until Arky would be completely out in the cold, if he wasn’t already. Why not do it up to perfection before a large and appreciative audience?
Arky was standing with his hands loosely on the bar, the coat over his left arm. Harry waited, steeling himself. In a moment, Emil put the drinks down before them and Arky dropped a bill on the bar.
“Well,” said Arky, “here we go.” He picked up his glass.
But Harry pushed his own glass away from him with such a violent gesture that it overturned and spilled. Emil grabbed up the bar-rag without a word.
“I changed my mind,” said Harry. “I don’t see any reason why I should drink with you.”
“No?” said Arky, showing mild surprise. “Something wrong?”
Beyond them, men were nudging each other and pressing forward to listen, tense with anticipation and excitement.
“Why don’t you put your coat back on?” asked Harry. “You look like a farmer in for the State Fair. Gives the place a bad name. Emil don’t like it. Do you, Emil?”
“No,” said Emil, mopping the bar.
“Just because a man’s a little hot…” Arky began mildly.
But Harry cut in. “We all heard you’d gone back to Arkansas, didn’t like the city ways any more. It’s a good idea, Arky. Why don’t you get... going?” As he snapped out the word “going,” Harry turned with the ease of a boxer and gave Arky a hard shove in the chest.
Arky staggered back, knocking into a few men, who immediately and sharply drew aside, causing a pressure jam beyond. There was much shoving and loud talking. And then... the roof seemed to fall in. Three loud explosions shook the bar, and heavy blue smoke rolled upward. Emil stood transfixed, staring at Harry Radabaugh, who tried to say something to him, but coughed blood.
And then, all of a sudden, Harry fell to the floor as if somebody had pulled a rug out from un
der him. Men drew back from him in a semicircle, then froze. Watrus, shaken with horror and fear, tried to keep his wits about him, and turned to look for Arky. But much to his surprise, Arky was standing there in his shirtsleeves, his coat over his arm, his hands on his hips, looking down at the body of Harry Radabaugh. As Watrus watched him, Arky turned and searched the crowd behind him with his eyes.
“Well, that was a fast one,” he said.
Completely baffled, Watrus ran for the phone booths. A fattish little man got in his way before the booths and apologized.
“What happened, chum?” he asked. “I was trying to find a number when…”
Watrus brushed him aside, flung himself into one of the booths and dialed a number, then screamed into the receiver: “Emergency! Casey! Downtown!”
The fattish little man shrugged and, turning, went out into the lobby.
Several of Harry’s blue-chinned, cigar-smoking friends, their faces the color of parchment, were now bending over him. Arky put on his coat and walked slowly back toward the side entrance. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him except one man, who moved along the bar with him parallel to his course.
Smirking, he came up to Arky as they neared the entrance.
“Somebody was trying to hang one on you, Ark,” he said, “and missed.”
“Is that a fact?” asked Arky.
“Yeah,” said the fellow with a wise look. “I’m tipping you. That was a pitcher and catcher routine. Somebody pitched somebody a gun.”
“How do you like that?” said Arky.
“Yeah,” said the fellow. “And between ourselves, it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
The fellow winked and melted back into the crowd. Arky went out the side entrance. The taxi was waiting for him, he got in, and the hackie drove off without a word. When they had turned the comer, Arky said:
“Metropole.”
Arky saw the big black Cadillac waiting for him in front of the news-stand. The taxi drew in behind it. Arky leaned forward in his seat and offered the taxi-driver a bill.
“I’m took care of,” said the driver.
“This is extra,” said Arky.
The driver took the bill, starting slightly when he saw its denomination. “Okay, mister. Thanks a million.”
Arky got out and walked toward the Cadillac, past the brilliantly lighted news-stand. The biggest and blackest headline he’d ever seen in his life hit his eye, and he stopped to buy a paper.
The kid leaned out. “I got one, mister.”
Arky got into the front seat, took the proffered paper, and the kid drove off toward the dim, faraway lights of River-view to the north.
The headline read: COMMISSIONER STARK BACK
Staring blankly, unable to understand how the Commissioner could possibly be back, Arky switched on the overhead light and started to glance through the long, two-column article. It was a tremendous scoop for the Journal, but Arky knew nothing about that.
The article read in part:
… Commissioner Stark is back in our midst. Appalled by the death of his old friend Judge Greet and by the brazen activities of the underworld, recently appointed Justice Stark has asked for and obtained temporary leave of absence from his duties at the Capitol. His appointment as Director of Public Safety is momentarily expected ... the boys are running for cover as the inevitable shake-up has already started. Police Captain Megher of the Paxton Square District has been removed and suspended. Police Captain Dysen, of Pier 7 Station House, and the most powerful police figure in the city with the exception of Chief of Police Herman Frick, has been removed, suspended, and allegedly put under arrest. No confirmation of these moves has been forthcoming from Chief of Police Frick, who is at Greet Memorial Hospital suffering from a virus condition ... it says here. But Mayor Charles Marley has given us the confirmation …”
Arky sighed and turned off the light.
“What’s it all about?” asked the kid.
“Church is out, son, that’s all,” said Arky, then he laughed. “Now the Big Boys will have to tuck their tails between their legs and git back home where they are appreciated. My hunch to get out was sure right.”
Arky laughed grimly, then they rode in silence for a long time. They had passed over the Dearborn Street Bridge and through the business district long ago, and now were moving through a close-in suburb with a large shopping-center and cars parked all over the place. It was a little after nine and a warm night. There were crowds at all the corners and people were pouring into a big movie theatre for the last show.
They finally cleared the shopping-center, where the going was slow, and turned off into a wide boulevard that passed through a pleasant middle-class residential section. Here the lights were dim, the traffic not very heavy.
After a moment, Arky turned to the kid and said: “We got a tail on us. Where’s the gun?”
The kid reached under the seat between his knees and came up with a heavy .45 revolver. Arky took it from him and put it in his lap. “Slow down little by little,” he said. “We’ll see what these guys are after.”
The kid obeyed, and the car behind them followed suit.
“They’re either tailing me to see where I’m staying,” said Arky, “or they’re looking for a dark place to knock me off. Speed up a little.”
The kid speeded up and as before the car behind them followed suit. Arky studied the car in the rear-view mirror for a long time, then finally he said: “Pull into the curb just beyond the next intersection and park.”
The kid glanced at Arky in surprise.
“It’s prowl,” said Arky. “Probably from Downtown. This is no good. We’ll have to see what they want.”
“How about the gun?”
“I got a permit for this one.” He opened the glove compartment and shoved the gun in.
The kid drew into the curb and parked. In a moment the prowl-car swished past, and turned the comer up ahead of them. They sat waiting. In a few moments the prowl came round the comer behind them and parked.
A uniformed copper got out and came toward them cautiously. Arky leaned out.
“You want something, officer? I notice you been following me.”
The copper came up to him. He was young, big, and tough, looking like a professional football player. Arky noticed the new uniform and the word “Special” stitched into his shirt.
“Where do you live?” asked the copper.
Arky told him, giving him his old address in the 17th Ward.
“What’s your occupation?”
Arky told him, adding: “Used to run a book, too, till things got too rough.”
The cop merely stared. “Get out,” he said.
Shrugging, Arky obeyed, and stood still while the copper frisked him. “Okay,” said the cop.
“I got a gun in the car,” said Arky. “A permit gun.”
“Get it out.”
Arky unlocked the glove compartment, removed the gun, then carefully handed it to the cop, butt forward. The cop took it gingerly, smelled it, then broke it open and shook out the shells. Putting the shells in his pocket after examining them, he handed the gun back to Arky, who tossed it into the car. “Let’s see the permit.”
Arky gave it to him. The cop studied it with his flashlight, then he turned and called: “Okay, Ed. This is the guy we want.”
The other cop got out, came over and took a look at Arky. “Were you in the Regent Bar a while back?”
“Yeah,” said Arky.
“Anything happen?”
“Yeah. A guv got shot.”
“Know him?”
“Yeah.”
“Friend of yours?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I know him.”
“What did you shoot him for?”
Arky laughed slightly. “Who said I shot him? Somebody must be crazy. I was standing there with my coat off and my hands on the bar. What would I shoot him with?”
“He pushed you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. We had
a couple of words. Nothing serious. Say, you boys work fast.”
“We got a tip.”
“Did the guy who handed you the tip tell you he frisked me and gave me a clean bill of health? Now don’t you young fellows get yourselves in trouble taking me in. They’ll just let me go again.”
“Don’t get tough, chum.”
“I’m not getting tough,” said Arky. “I’ll go in with you if you want me to. Just trying to save you a little trouble.”
A call began to come in on the car radio and the second cop hurried back to see what it was. In a moment he returned, looking a little surprised.
“Everybody seems to want this guy,” he said. “You’re Orval Wanty, right?”
“That’s me.”
“You’re wanted in the Commissioner’s office. General bulletin just came over.”
The two cops started to look at Arky with different eyes now, in spite of themselves, but Arky was shaken and began to wet his lips. Finally he took out a cigar and chewed on it, unlit.
“Don’t know what the Commissioner wants with me,” he said, “but…”
“Let’s go, fellow,” said the first cop.
“All right,” said Arky; then: “I guess I’ll just send the boy on with the car. Okay? You don’t want him, do you?”
The cops hesitated.
“Hell, he’s just a punk kid drives for me,” said Arky. “Ain’t even eighteen years old.”
The first cop glanced into the car at the kid, then finally said: “I guess it’s all right, eh, Ed?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“All right, Joe,” said Arky. “You know what to do with the car.”
Tight-lipped, the kid nodded.
17
COMMISSIONER STARK was sitting at the desk in his old office in the dingy, antiquated City Hall. It was very hot downtown, the big buildings cutting off any breeze, and all the windows were open, admitting the clamor of the thronged streets below.
The Commissioner was smoking one of his cheap stogies, the smoke polluting the heavy air. Seated opposite him, Charles Marley, the Mayor, looking pale about the gills anyway, drew back from the smoke and finally coughed.
Little Men, Big World Page 23