by Alan Parker
“See what I mean?” said Bugsy, through gritted teeth. “A champion. A born champion.”
Cagey Joe’s eyes narrowed even more and beamed their way into Leroy’s face like powerful searchlights. Cagey Joe had coached more champions than anyone in New York and he knew boxing talent when he saw it. The timing of Leroy’s punch, the casual way it was thrown, and the strength with which it hit the target were all taken in by those reptilian eyes. He blinked, and the information was recorded and stored away in the boxing computer which was the back of his head. He walked round Leroy once more. This time, he squeezed the boy’s muscular arms, and noticed the way his strong neck muscles grew out of his hefty shoulders. There was no doubt about it. Cagey Joe was impressed.
“What’s your name again, kid?”
“Leroy Smith.”
Bugsy, nursing his sore fingers, which felt like a hand of last week’s bananas, sensed that Cagey Joe had bitten the bait.
“With you showing him to ropes, Cagey Joe, he could be a champion in no time.”
Cagey Joe shrugged his shoulders and said, “OK, I’ll give him a try. But I tell you now, he’ll be no good unless he’s got ‘it’.”
“It?” puzzled Leroy.
Bugsy explained. “‘It’ is what makes you special in the ring, Leroy. It’s the difference between being a slugger and a champion. ‘It’ is the difference between being a champ and being a bottom-of-the-bill filler at a local charity show.”
“It’s what makes a fighter special,” chipped in Joe. “If you haven’t got ‘it’, then you haven’t got it.”
Leroy was a little confused, but before he could understand what they were talking about, he had been pushed towards the swing doors that led to the changing rooms. An enormous fighter, at least a foot taller than Leroy, leaned over the ropes and yelled, “Let me have him, Joe. I’ll make mincemeat out of him.”
Leroy had never really imagined himself chopped up on a butcher’s slab for twenty cents a pound, and the thought set his adam’s apple nervously bobbing around inside his throat. But Cagey Joe thrust some boots and a pair of red silk boxing shorts into his hands and pushed him the last yard into the changing room.
The room was damp and dark, and Leroy tripped a few times climbing into the baggy shorts. Finally, he made his entrance. As he pushed the swing doors open into the brightly lit gym, he felt like an ancient Roman gladiator hitting daylight as he stepped from the tunnel into the Coliseum. There was silence as he climbed into the ring. Bugsy tied his gloves tightly around his wrists for him and slapped him on the black for encouragement. Then Cagey Joe yanked at the bell rope and the metal ball inside crashed against the brass to start the first round.
The tall fighter came out of his corner and met Leroy centre ring. He was even meaner-looking up here, thought Leroy, who was manoeuvring his large lips to try and cope with the awkward gumshield that protected his teeth. The tall fighter flicked out three punches in a row that picked off Leroy’s head like it was a melon on a stick. Leroy blinked, and the two fighters circled one another. The tall boy let go a series of one-two combination punches that mainly hit Leroy on the side of his ample arms, which were dug into his sides to protect his porky frame. Bugsy watched through the ropes with the rest of the fighters, who had stopped to watch the contest – or the no-contest as they all presumed.
Bugsy was getting a little anxious, because so far Leroy hadn’t even thrown a punch. The other fighters smiled, waiting for the knockout blow. It came the very next punch – except that it was Leroy who threw it. He ducked a wild swing from the tall boy and let go a left hook that caught his opponent under the chin and lifted him a clear two feet in the air before he collapsed in a heap on the canvas – out cold.
The spectators were dumbfounded. Bugsy clapped his hands with joy, and Leroy looked at the left glove that had K.O.’d his opponent with as much surprise as everybody else. Cagey Joe shrugged his shoulders and had to admit. “He’s got it.”
Leroy smiled his blazing white, toothy smile. He’d known it all along.
IN THE DISUSED garage, the illicit still bubbled and steamed away through a maze of pipes and containers, until the dark, treacle-like liquid finally poured out into a wooden barrel. A boy in brown overalls and a dirty, wrap-around apron operated the tap that trickled the sarsaparilla, by way of a funnel, into bottles. They were all neatly stacked in rows, and full crates were piled, six high, ready for collection. This was where Fat Sam made all his illegal drinks for his speakeasy, and it was a surprise to no one – except to the man who operated the still – that this would be the place Dandy Dan’s gang would strike next.
The garage door was smashed practically off its hinges and crashed down on to the floor. The still operator jumped up in fright. He wasn’t the bravest person at the best of times, and the sight of Chinese Benny Lee rushing at him, screaming a war cry from his distant oriental past, was more than he could take. His teeth chattered and his knees knocked like Spanish castanets. Benny Lee was followed by Yonkers and Shoulders, and then by Bronx Charlie, who pinned the unfortunate operator against the wall with his splurge gun. The rest of the gang caused havoc with the still. Yonkers and Chinese Benny chopped at the barrel lids and upended them until the contents gushed all over the garage floor. They threw the full bottles at the wall – and the glass smashed into a million pieces, spreading the thick sarsaparilla liquid across the dry bricks. Shoulders wielded a large axe at an enormous wooden storage vat, and the hole he split open sent a river of sarsaparilla flowing through the garage.
In seconds, they had finished. Bronx Charlie wound a rope around the boggle-eyed operator and tied his hands behind him with tight knots. The rest of the gang stopped briefly to eye their destructive handiwork, allowed themselves a chuckle, and then splashed out over the door which they had stampeded only minutes before.
The petrified still operator edged himself slowly towards his desk. He banked the side of it with his head and the stick phone toppled on to the floor. He crawled over to it, as well as the tight ropes would allow, and managed to dial a number.
In Fat Sam’s office, the secret phone rang in the desk drawer. Sam yanked it open with his podgy hand and snatched the receiver from the cradle.
“Hello?”
“They got to the still, Boss. The whole lot’s gone.”
Fat Sam took the news badly. He’d known something like this could happen, but he had always put it into the corner of his mind where people forget things they don’t want to think about. His red face drained to a milky white.
“No. Not the sarsaparilla racket, too? You’d better get round here right away.”
“I can’t, Boss.”
“Why not?”
“I’m all tied up, Boss?”
“I don’t care how busy you are. Get round here right away.”
Fat Sam crashed down the phone. He put his head in his hands and muttered low Italian moans. But there was no one to hear them. He was on his own. He would have moaned even more if he’d known what was happening on the other side of town.
Shoulders’ huge, powerful legs pounded the pedals up and down and the hoods’ bike sedan reached an alarming speed before it crashed into the wooden gates of the Stacetto Brothers’ grocery yard.
Under the impact, the gates splintered and cracked, and pieces of wood flew in all directions. The two grocery men, who were loading their trucks in the yard, were taken completely by surprise. Dandy Dan’s hoods threw them into a corner. Piles of crates were toppled over and the hoods began trampling on the green vegetables that spilled out across the floor. The grocery men were powerless to do anything.
It didn’t take long for Dan’s men to do their work. In two minutes flat the grocery yard looked like an elephant had run amok through it. The hoods jumped into their car and reversed out into the street. They wore big, satisfied, Cheshire cat smiles on their faces – which is more than could be said for Fat Sam when he heard the news.
He listened with utter disbelief
as the squeaky voice on the phone gave him the sad tidings. Tallulah had joined him, and sat on the corner of his desk, painting her nails with a red varnish that perfectly matched the colour of her glossy lips. Sam gulped, and reached for his orange juice cocktail.
“Not the grocery racket too? Oh, no. That’s terrible. Terrible. All right. OK, sure. NO, I’m sure you did your best. Go home and get washed up, OK. ’Bye.” Sam gently put down the receiver. He stroked the rim of his cocktail glass and stared sadly into open air. He croaked as he spoke. “That’s the whole empire gone, Tallulah. You hear me? Everything. And they’ll be coming here next.”
Tallulah breathed on her nails to dry them. She really couldn’t have cared less. Sam continued to stroke his glass nervously.
“There’s only one thing for it. You’ll have to get him to help me.”
“Who? The Lone Ranger?”
“No, you dumb dora. Bugsy Malone. Call him.”
Tallulah picked up the stick phone carefully so as not to spoil her nail varnish. She dialled with the end of at Sam’s desk pen. He muttered to himself as she did so.
“I’m in trouble. Real trouble. And all I’ve got for company is a female comedian.”
Tallulah tucked the phone ear piece neatly under her blonde hair, taking extra care not to disturb her curls. Not that there was much hope of that. At Madame Monzani’s Hair Parlour on 2nd Avenue, they pasted curls down for good, and boasted that even a hurricane wouldn’t put a hair out of place.
The phone rang at Bugsy’s end for some minutes.
“There’s no answer.”
“Then you’ll have to get him personally,” Fat Sam snapped. His girlfriend never ever reacted to his rudeness. Well, not so as you’d notice. Her eyebrows would make the teeniest of movements, which said all, should you be close enough to catch it.
Sam repeated his command. “You deaf or somethin’? I said you’ll have to get him to help me personally.” He pronounced it ‘poysanally’.
Tallulah looked down at him through her eyelashes.
“Personally?”
“Poysanally!”
“Poysanally.”
Tallulah picked up her fox shoulder fur and walked to the door. “So long, lover boy. Take it easy.”
She blew him a kiss and pulled the door closed behind her. She was on her way to Bugsy Malone’s apartment where she would get his undivided attention. Poysanally.
BUGSY WHISTLED TO himself as he ran up the stairs to his apartment. Correction – for apartment, read room with an alcove to wash in. It wasn’t a fancy place, or a snazzy neighbourhood, but it suited him – and at one dollar ninety it suited his pocket. As he turned the corner on the stairs, he passed his upstairs neighbour with her child. He raised his hat to the lady and smiled at the little girl. The courtesy to the mother was genuine enough but the smile was false. The little horror whose hand she held had kept Bugsy awake too many nights with her screaming for him to like her.
He moved toward his own door – and suddenly pulled himself up dead in his tracks. The door was ajar. He could see a crack of light spreading across the carpet outside. He stepped softly backwards towards a small cupboard at the end of the hall. In it he found a small, sawn-off broom which he grasped tightly in his hands. He eased back towards the door. Taking a deep breath, he burst through it – and tripped over a well-placed suitcase which launched him headlong into the room. He landed by a pair of shoes. A pair of ladies’ shoes. The roller-blind snapped up and light flooded in, filling the room with sunshine. Bugsy looked up from the shoes and saw that they belonged to Tallulah.
“I like my men at my feet,” she said.
Bugsy smiled with relief, helped himself up and sat down in the wickerwork chair at the side of the bed.
“What are you doing here, Tallulah?”
“I’ve got a message for you.”
“What’s wrong with Western Union?”
“I thought you’d... er... like the company.”
Bugsy gulped with embarrassment. Tallulah was always too quick for him. “When I get lonely, I walk around Central Park,” he joked.
Tallulah rather enjoyed seeing him sweat.
“You gonna fix me a drink?”
“I’m right out.”
She gave up. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Where?”
“Fat Sam’s place.”
Bugsy suddenly had visions of being caught talking to Sam’s girl in Sam’s place. That was madness... that meant a knuckle sandwich at least from Fat Sam, not to mention a broken nose. And Bugsy told himself he was far too pretty to have his face messed up. It wouldn’t be fair to the world.
“Won’t Fat Sam be there?”
“He sure will.”
Bugsy couldn’t believe his ears. He wasn’t going to risk having his neck broken.
“Maybe I’ll stay home.”
Tallulah sighed heavily and picked up her fur. “Don’t flatter yourself, tiger. He’s the one who wants to see you, not me.” She straightened his tie and brushed a mock fist across his nose. “Come on. Let’s go, before your suspenders strangle you.”
Bugsy blew out a deep sigh of relief as Tallulah moved towards the door. He picked up his hat and used it as a fan. In the last few minutes he’d got a little hot under the collar.
In the speakeasy, Fizzy slopped water over the floor and whistled as he slid his mop to and fro. Behind the bar, the barman was polishing glasses. Fat Sam walked slowly up to the counter. He shouted at Fizzy without even looking at him. “Quit whistling, Fizzy. It makes me edgy.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
Sam leaned heavily on the bar, took a toothpick from a glass and snapped it viciously between his fingers. He beckoned the barman with a click of his fingers. The barman stopped his glass-polishing immediately.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Get me a double on the rocks.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
The barman scooped crushed ice into a glass and pulled the cork out of the ‘green special’ bottle. Then he made a big mistake.
The flower in Sam’s lapel was a bedraggled, pathetic specimen of horticulture, two days overdue for being thrown away. The barman sniggered. Fat Sam fixed him with a dangerous glare.
“So what’s funny, buster? You find me amusing?”
“No, Boss... I wasn’t smiling at you. Honest I wasn’t.”
“You find my suit amusing or something?”
“No, Boss. It was... it was... your flower.” The barman pointed nervously to the drooping snowdrop.
Fat Sam looked down at it and smiled. At least, he seemed to smile. “Oh, yeah. It’s kinda droopy, ain’t it?” He beamed as he said it and the barman also started to smile.
“Yeah, a little, Boss,” he giggled nervously. He thought it was strange to find Sam in such a good mood. Sam laughed even louder.
“In fact, it’s very droopy!” Sam bellowed with laughter and so did the barman. He couldn’t believe his luck. No one had ever got on this well with the boss before. Maybe he was in for promotion.
“Yeah, Boss. Very droopy,” he giggled.
Sam took the floppy flower from his lapel and handed it to the barman.
“Here, hold it a minute, will you? It needs a little water.”
Still smiling, the unsuspecting barman took the flower in his hand. Sam picked up the jug of water that stood on the counter and threw the entire contents at the flower – with the result that it, and the barman, were completely drenched. Sam grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and yanked him across the counter, scattering empty bottles and glasses. Suspended inches from Sam’s nose, he caught, head on, the verbal broadside that spouted from Sam’s mouth.
“Now don’t let me see you laughing at me again, you hear? I’ll ram that smile right down your throat. I’m Fat Sam. Don’t ever forget that. Number one man. Top dog. Mr Big. Always have been. Always will be. Now get out of here.”
The barman bounced from side to side as he was propelled
by Fat Sam in the direction of the exit.
The fat hoodlum brushed his hands down his suit and poured himself another drink. He was still the number one man – the Mr Big around this joint who always managed to keep his head up. But not for long – because he walked into Fizzy’s shiny wet floor, broke the world record for the heavy fall, and landed on his backside with a thundering crunch that would have bruised him more had he not been blessed with a back-end that nature had thoughtfully built to take such shocks. Fizzy was terrified. He blurted out a warning that was as pointless as it was late.
“Be careful, Boss. The floor is wet.”
Quite simply, Sam went mad. He grabbed a table and pulled himself up. Fizzy didn’t waste a second. He scuttled around the table in the opposite direction. Sam cleared the upturned chairs with one sweep of his hand. They clattered around Fizzy’s ears, but he still kept running. Sam ran after him and up the stairs to the stage. If he’d caught the little janitor there’s no telling what he would have done with him, but, luckily for Fizzy, at that moment the door opened, and in came Tallulah and Bugsy.
“Here he is, honey. As promised.”
Fat Sam stopped, and his face turned from rage to pleasure. “Bugsy, how are you? How you been?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Oh, a little difficult at the moment, Bugsy. Why don’t you pull up a chair and sit down? Tallulah, honey, fix him a drink, will you?”
“What’s your pleasure, Bugsy?” said Tallulah with a smile.
“Special-on-the-rocks, Tallulah, please.”
Bugsy and Sam pulled up chairs. Sam pushed his closer to Bugsy and dropped his voice to an intimate whisper.
“Bugsy, I need your help. I’m in a jam. Dandy Dan’s breathing down my neck and any minute now he’ll be taking over my entire organisation.”
Bugsy found it hard to believe. After all, there was still the speakeasy. Bugsy could see it with his own eyes and in the evenings he could see how much money it made, too. He said, “You’ve still got all this.”