Physically they were a queerly assorted pair for teamwork. Tracy was barely over average height, quick, nervous, alert, dynamic; Broadway was stamped on his sleekly groomed person, in his wise, nasal speech. Burch was utterly different. Six foot two, with big bones and solid, wind-tanned beef. Slow of words; a deep voice with no nasal twang in it; a fist like a dark red uncooked ham. Six years’ exile in Staten Island hadn’t soured him; the twinkle still lingered in his deep-socketed blue eyes. His curly tangle of gray thatch made a comb and brush seem like a silly idea. He looked incorruptibly, belligerently honest—and he was. There was more chance of Diogenes turning pickpocket than there was of Danny Burch reaching out to snare a dirty dime.
He puffed vigorously on an imitation briar pipe and said: “All right, son. Sam Volga, for instance. What about him? You brought the subject up. You’ve got something?”
Tracy shook his head. He was smiling.
“Just curious. I like to freshen up on him every once in a while. Run over the record, Danny. I mean just the personal jobs—his own stuff. The stuff you can’t prove.”
“Well, there’s about seven sure ones. You know ’em. Everybody does. Swinky Schwartz was one. Art Epstein. Dope Rogers. The chicken merchant—what’s his name?—Isaac Pintzer. The guy from Buffalo that was gunned on the tennis court last winter—you know, opposite Grant’s Tomb—or anyhow, his body was picked up there. … Hell, you know the list better than I do, Jerry.”.
“What about dames?”
“Dames?” The inspector looked puzzled. “You mean killings? I don’t getcha.”
“A few fluffs got burned, I understand, playing with Volga’s matches.”
Danny Burch’s eyes became attentive.
“You’ve got an angle, Jerry. Don’t try to kid the old man. What’s bothering you?”
“It’ll keep. Go ahead and recite your lesson.”
Burch sucked at his pipe. The stem bubbled and he made a wry mouth and spat. He scratched noisily at the roots of his tangled gray hair and his eyes probed Tracy.
“I don’t see,” he said slowly, “how the dame angle gets us anything. What’s your idea?”
“A hunch. A presentiment. A funny feeling.” He grinned. “You know—‘by the pricking of my thumbs, something evil this way comes.’ ”
“What the hell’s that? Mother Goose?”
“A mugg named Shakespeare.”
Danny said, “Oh,” without much interest. He frowned at the bowl of his pipe. “Let’s see, now. The Devore gal went out an eighth floor winder and busted an ashcan with her back. Then there was the Mallory woman—how do you pronounce that first name of hers again?—Yoo-neece, eh? She went snow, got picked up pretty reg’lar for solicitin’; I think she finally croaked on Welfare Island, but I’m not sure. I could look it up. Want any more?”
“Never mind. Listen, Danny. Here’s the news. Sam Volga’s on fire. The smoke is rising from him. Not the dame this time. Sam Volga, the big icicle, the hard guy! He’s still hard, but this time he’s hot. Do I sound interesting?”
“You sound kinda stupid.”
“Maybe. But I saw Volga off guard last night and his mind’s not on business. He’s thinking about words like oft, white, warm. I walked up to his table last night and he didn’t see me till spoke.”
“Who is the dame?”
“Just an umpchay. Like all the others. Straight as a string. Pretty little devil with the biggest dam’ dark eyes you ever drowned in.”
“He must like ’em that way. Mallory had eyes like that. So did Devore. They usually do—Eyetalians, I mean.”
“Go ’way. You’re wet. The kid’s a Heinie from way back.”
“I’m talking about Devore.”
“No kiddin’. I didn’t know that. A wop?”
“Sure. Her real name didn’t come out; we gave the family a break. Her real name was—lemme see—pshaw, I hate to have a name like that slip when I almost—Wait a second. … Antonelli! That’s it. Came from Bridgeport. Funny how they all come from outside, Jerry. Don’t kids born in Manhattan ever hit trouble? Seems to me—”
His voice rumbled on reflectively. Jerry wasn’t listening. His eyes were shut as he groped fiercely for an elusive; mental wraith. A forgotten sound that made his mind twang feebly like a ghostly tuning-fork. Was it a word spoken, a word seen? Instantly, he saw it. Printed words—two of them. Joseph Antonelli. A taxicab with a cardboard Owner-Driver stuck in the window to placate strikers. A guy that carried a gat. Jerry had said to him: “I getcha,” and the guy had snarled: “The hell yuh do!”
Jerry Tracy opened his eyes.
Burch said: “What’s bitin’ you, son?”
“Not a thing, Danny. I had a little time to waste and I thought I’d blow in and wise you on the woman thing. When Volga smokes up he’s sure to get careless. There might be an in for a square cop to do the city a favor.”
“What’s your in, Jerry? A grudge?”
Tracy shook his head.
“I just want to play cards, Danny. Nothing personal in it at all. You want Volga out of circulation, Danny? Well, so do I.”
“You sound like a cop.”
That made the Daily Planet’s famous columnist grin ruefully for an instant.
“A hell of a fine pinched-back cop I’d make!”
“Okey. Then what’s your in?” the inspector persisted.
“You really want to know?”
“I asked you twice already.”
“Broadway,” Jerry said curtly. He sounded husky, oddly defiant. “Can I slop for a minute and give you a laugh?”
“Go ahead. I never heard you slop before.”
“Broadway,” the columnist repeated in a low voice. “Not the street, Danny. Not the car-tracks, nor the million lights. Not the cop whistles and taxi horns and the big shoes and little shoes going in droves north and south past the Astor flower shop—a million of ’em shuffling in short-step formation every night. … The greatest street in the universe, Danny—but not the car-tracks or the chewing-gum ads.”
He took a deep breath. Talk raced viciously out of him.
“Laugh, old-timer, and go to hell! Do you know what I’m thinking about, Danny? Old Pete Dailey and Lillian Russell and Georgie Cohan. Rector’s and Shanley’s and Murray’s. Top hats and opera capes and twenty-course dinners. Guys that could spend intelligently and women that were worth it. Real theatres along the Stem, not gold-plated movie coops for sixty-cent sports. Broadway! That’s what it was. That’s what it should be.
“Now it’s a hive. A smelly, fly-specked circus alley full of orange drinks, cashew nuts, press a button and take yourself ten lousy tin-types for a dime, gyp haberdashers, henna-topped hustlers from Second Avenue—fat-legged little bims, the kind that Denys Wortman draws every day in the World-Telly. … Pimpled soda jerkers. … Flashy as hell and cheaper than a bag of peanuts. Larceny Lane, they call it. Want to know why?”
The police inspector said very, very softly: “Why?”
“Because the lugs made it that way. The wise yids, the con men, the dips and the shills and the punks. The hired guns. The muggs that know in advance who’ll cop in the third at Pimlico—and never saw a horse. Cheap guys with their cheap dames festering up Broadway, because only honky-tonks and clutch parlors can make the grade with the whole town on the make. … The crooks think Sam Volga is a hot shot—and he is—he runs the works. Him and a few kingpins like him, with blue jowls and blue guns. Behind them a whole cadging army of yes-men and pimps and parasites. … That’s my in on Volga! I’d like to see Volga bumped, shoved down a corner sewer and shot out to sea with the rest of the garbage.”
“Why?” persisted the police inspector, his voice softer than silk.
“Because—” Tracy got it out with difficulty and his face was red. “Because Broadway happens to be my home town,
Danny, and I love the —— damned place.”
“You and me both, sonny,” said the gray-haired cop who was cradled in
Harlem w
hen Harlem was white.
Neither of them said anything more for a minute. Finally, Tracy lit a cigarette and picked up his slate-colored; snap-brim. His lips crinkled with the I old rakish grin. He was Tracy the hard-boiled, the money player, the cynical peep-hole specialist.
“Ay tank ay go home.”
“What do you want me to do about Volga?”
“Hands off, Danny, if you don’t! mind.”
“Feel hopeful about that down-the-sewer stuff?”
“Very.”
“Got something special under the hat?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me a buzz if anything breaks. Day or night, boy. You know how to reach me—if and when.”
“Check,” Tracy said.
The hairy uncooked ham reached out; and crushed the slim manicured fingers with friendly pressure.
“I liked your speech, Jerry,” the old man said gruffly. “Come in again some time.”
“Horse,” said Tracy.
4
A STIFF GALE WITH A nip in it like an icy buzz-saw was boring southward down Lafayette Street, kicking stray newspapers aloft in crazy spirals and rattling at window-panes that were frosted with a thick coating of white. This was Manhattan’s second unpleasant day of Alaskan weather. The mercury still hovered at zero. Pedestrians slanted doggedly along in the pale, sickly sunlight. On the corner, the face of the unfortunate traffic officer was as purple as an eggplant.
Jerry Tracy thumbed a cab without much trouble. The taxi strike was officially over. Violence was waning. There were a lot more cabs rolling.
Tracy rode three or four blocks, immersed in thought; then he tapped on the glass.
“First drug-store you see, Bud. I wanna phone.”
He got out, folded himself into a coin booth and dialed a number.
“Hello? Tracy talking. How you like de culd wedder, hah? Ice wit’ friz-zink wit’ snow. … Paul there? What? … Okey. No, never mind. I’ll try it myself. Thanks.”
He swore, dropped in another nickel and clicked more holes around.
“ ’Lo? Yeah, in the flesh. … Say, is Paul there? Uh-huh, put him on. … Hi-yuh, keed? Slam on your hat and hop uptown. The Times Square coop. Right. … Nope, nothing much. … Yow-suh.”
He banged the receiver and continued uptown to his private kennel where he transacted most of his Rialto business. It was a faded office in a faded building. The chief adornments were a subway entrance and a theatre with a grand old name. The theatre had slipped to talkie movies for people with an hour to kill. Play brokers and agents infested the halls of the office building. Except for the wise buzz of their nervous and hopeful chatter about Paramount and other holy symbols, you might just as well have been in Massillon, Ohio. But you could stand at Tracy’s dusty window and hit Times Square with an easy toss.
The columnist of the Daily Planet glanced at his watch. Ten-thirty. He fished a folded slip of paper out of his pocket, reached for the phone and gave Flip Kern a buzz.
“Morning, keed. You sound sleepy. … I should say not! You needed some shut-eye, babe. Sure; do you good. … No, not a thing. … He didn’t, eh? He won’t for a coupla days. ’Member what I told you? Yeah. … If Volga phones, be nice. Sure, go out with him. Why not? … Uh-huh. Sure, I will. Yes, yes, yes, Dope! … Okey; g’wan back to bed. S’long.”
Whistling cheerfully, Tracy sat down at his dictaphone machine and listened, frowning a bit, to the playback of his canned wise-cracks and embalmed dirt-nuggets.
The office door opened and a man came in. Tracy quit listening to his reproduced voice. He scraped his chair around.
“Hello, Paul.”
“Hi-yuh, Jerry.”
The man was smallish like Tracy. Sandy-brown hair, thin nose and jaw, thin lips. Sandy-brown mustache. He snuffled and blew his nose vigorously.
“ ’Smarter, Paul? Got a cold?”
“Yob. Dab stiggid wedder if yuh ask be.” He studied Tracy shrewdly. “Subthig?”
“Yeah. Sit down. Nothing important. Routine job. Know anybody in the hack license bureau?”
“Yob. I doe Perry.”
“Wake up, me lad. They broomed Perry out last week. This is a new administration, sweetheart.”
“You tellid be! It’s tough, tryig to keep trag of thigs.” He sneezed.
“Listen. Go down to the bureau, Paul. Look up a mugg with a fat face and rimless eyeglasses. He’s a regular old woman and his name is Dave Wein-coop. Tell him the favor’s for me. The subject is a wop hack driver named Joseph Antonelli.”
Tracy wrote the name on a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk.
“I want to find out if I’m playing with a coincidence. I’d like it if this particular wop is not a coincidence. In that case he’ll come from Bridgeport. Owner-driver. Get all the dope on him you can. Find out where his stand is and ask questions without starting too much. You’ll know how to do that. Get me a picture. And anything else you can pick up. … Want any dough?”
“No. Puddid od the reg’lar bill.”
He brandished his handkerchief and made soupy noises with his inflamed beak.
“So lug.”
“ ’By, Paul.”
The columnist sat back, cupped the rear of his skull with locked palms and thought about Joe Antonelli. He tried to recall details. A wop that peered shrewdly at male passengers and said, “Jist a habit, Mister,” if, like Tracy, you asked him how come. A wop that carried a gat and was quick on the draw. A wop that gunned strikers away as minor pests and growled fiercely, “I ain’t thinkin’ about ’em, atall.” What was he thinking about? It didn’t make sense unless Joe Antonelli was thinking about a pretty little kid named Dot Devore who had dropped eight stories out of a Sam Volga love-nest and jellied her bones on a hard sidewalk. Even that didn’t make sense—until a square cop in Centre Street translated Dot Devore into Josephine Antonelli. Check!
Tracy wrinkled his wise little forehead and followed the line of logic.
Volga was an armor-plated big shot; he wouldn’t be easy of access. But if you drove a cab and were patient, if you were willing to wait relentlessly for that one perfect interview—check again! You always had your eyes and ears open for stray crumbs of gossip about Volga. You learned in a general way the night spots he frequented. You cruised and earned a lousy nighthawk living, but you didn’t care about that. Your big job was just to wait. You never heard of mathematical averages but that’s the game you were playing—the law of averages. He’d be along! Some night you’d look back and you’d have a fare. Your heart would stop for a swift instant; then it would beat again, strong, happy, resolute. You’d hear blood hammering at your ear-drums with a sweet and secret rhythm that your fare couldn’t hear. You’d relax slowly. You’d take things easy. You’d have your fare!
Jerry Tracy shivered a little. His eyes opened.
After a while he got up and put on his hat and coat. His hand was on the inside knob of the door when it turned under his fingers and the door opened.
The man in the corridor lounged and filled the opening. He was heavy and fat. His head was a size too small for his shoulders. He breathed through his mouth; someone had broken his nose along time ago. He lounged there, making audible adenoid sounds. He grinned at Tracy like a bashful St. Bernard dog. Tracy half expected to see a pink tongue loll out on his chin with a drop of saliva at the tip.
“Hi-yuh, pally? How’s the colyum racket?” said the visitor.
“Pretty good, Eddie.”
“Goin’ out, was yuh?”
“I had thought of it.”
“Ain’t I the lucky stiff, Jerry? I’d o’ missed yuh sure as hell in another minute, hey? Stick around. I brung yuh a message from Sam.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m honored, Eddie. Visited in my humble abode by the king’s henchman. What does Volga want? A good tip on the seventh race?”
“Naw.” Eddie Ahearn laughed hoarsely and winked like a mastiff to show he understood good ki
dding when he heard it. “Sam wants yuh to come over an’ say hello.”
“Right away?”
“Yeah. I gotta car waitin’ downstairs. Soivice, huh?”
“Be right with you, sweetheart. Jus a sec.”
He picked up his phone and called the Planet number. He asked for a man named McCurdy. Eddie watched uneasily. He didn’t interfere. His instructions didn’t cover telephone calls.
“Mac? Say, Mac, I’m dropping over right away to see Volga. Eddie is here with the invitation. … No, he didn’t take it out, but I can see it bulge. … ” He laughed. “Of course not. Volga is a pal of mine. I’ll call you back later. If I don’t, please do something about it like a good boy. ’By.”
He locked the office door and went downstairs with the king’s courier.
On the way down Eddie turned off his vacant grin momentarily and wrinkled his low forehead in thought. He peeped sidewise at the columnist. His voice sounded pleading.
“Hey, Jerry. You wouldn’t finaygle a pal, would yuh? Honest to gawd, I never know when you’re kiddin’. Have yuh reely got a hot tip on the seventh race, pally?”
5
SAM VOLGA SAID, “OUTSIDE for a while, Eddie,” and Eddie Ahearn went away.
The room was modernistic and expensive looking. The rug cost more than a dime; somebody must have wept a little and patted that rug lovingly when it left Asia. There were etchings on the walls, nice ones that Sam Volga had never picked out. There wasn’t too much of anything and the color scheme showed brains.
“Nice doghouse, Sam,” Tracy admitted.
“I sorta like it. Cigar?”
“Nope. If you don’t mind I’ll suck on a nail.”
“Plenty of cigs in that dingus over there.”
“Thanks.” Tracy took out one of his own and lit up. “Well?”
“You had a caller last night, Jerry. Am I wrong?”
Tracy thought swiftly and decided to play through.
Jerry Tracy, Celebrity Reporter Page 20