by Atoms
“He had a look on his face that was out of this world,” Schick says.
“ ‘How’d you like the picture?’ I ask him.
“ ‘It was wonderful,’ he tells me. ‘Just what I’ve been looking for all these years. And to think I didn’t know.’
“ ‘Didn’t know what?’ I ask. But he isn’t talking to me any more. You can see that. He’s talking to himself.
“ ‘I thought there must be something like that,’ he says. ‘Something better than Dracula, or Frankenstein’s Monsters, or all the rest. Something bigger, more powerful. Something I could really be. And now I know. And now I’m going to.’ ”
Max Schick is unable to maintain coherency from this point on. But his direct account is not necessary. We are, unfortunately, all too well aware of what happened next.
Max Schick sat there in his chair and watched Andrew Benson change.
He watched him grow. He watched him put forth the eyes, the stalks, the writhing tentacles. He watched him twist and tower, filling the room and then overflowing until the flimsy stucco walls collapsed and there was nothing but the green, gigantic horror, the sixty-foot-high monstrosity that may have been born in a screenwriter’s brain or may have been spawned beyond the stars, but certainly existed and drew nourishment from realms far from a three-dimensional world or three-dimensional concepts of sanity.
Max Schick will never forget that night and neither, of course, will anybody else.
That was the night the monster destroyed Los Angeles....
THE PROFESSOR PLAYS IT SQUARE
BUGSY and me are sitting in the lobby of the Cash Inn when this character crawls out of the woodwork.
“Look,” Bugsy says. “A cucumber!”
Sure enough, this is a real green specimen—a little old shriveled-up guy with white hair and rimless cheaters. He is carrying an umbrella and wearing a black suit which he probably bought special for President McKinley’s funeral.
“Dig the umbrella,” Bugsy whispers. “What do you suppose he’s lugging that around for?”
“Maybe he thinks the roof leaks,” I tell him.
But I have to admit the old party is kind of conspicuous, because the Cash Inn caters to what you might call an exclusive-type clientele. Meaning normal citizens like Bugsy and me, who don’t go in for whacky outfits. For instance, this evening Bugsy is dressed for dinner in an ordinary black-and-white checked suit with matching spats, and I am sort of casual in orange trousers and a green shirt to match the beret.
Most of the other guests in this pad wear pretty much the same kind of duds, so we are a little surprised when this old geezer wanders up to us and makes with the mouth.
“I beg your pardon,” he says, “but would you two gentleman happen to be gamblers, by any chance?”
“Not by chance—on purpose,” says Bugsy. “What’s with you, Dad?”
“Permit me to introduce myself,” the old character mumbles. “I am Professor Ladislaus Glockenspiel, of Parnell University.”
Bugsy gets up and does the honors. “Lay five on me, Pops,” he tells him. “I am Bugsy Roach from Pasadena, and this here is my business associate, Mr. Knuckle-Nose Mahoney.”
“A pleasure,” the Professor says, flipping me some skin. “And where are you from, Mr. Mahoney?”
“A small island just off San Francisco,” I inform him. “I forget the name.”
“But you gentlemen are gamblers, I hope,” he murmurs. “They told me this was a sporting rendezvous.”
“The best in the West,” I say. “Bugsy and me, we always hole up here when we hit town, on account of the homey atmosphere. For instance, if you’re down on your luck, you can always match the desk clerk double or nothing for your room. And see that weighing machine over in the corner of the lobby? If you guess your weight right, it pays off a jackpot in pennies.”
“All the comforts of home,” Bugsy chimes in. “When a guy suffers from insomnia, like I do, it is a great comfort to have a nice big slot-machine right there in your room, so you can get up and try your luck to pass the time away. Also, it is the only hotel I know of that prints the daily race results on the menus.”
“How fascinating!” says the Professor. “You simply must tell me more. And I hope I might have the pleasure of learning about games of chance from you through actual experience.”
“You mean you’d like to play with us?” Bugsy asks. “You’re looking for some action?”
“Precisely,” the Professor answers. “Looking for action—what a picturesque phrase! How idiomatic!”
“Please,” I say. “No insults.”
“I beg your pardon,” the Professor mutters. “I am merely interested in everything pertaining to gambling. The laws of chance have always absorbed me, and I came out here for the express purpose of studying them. I’ve saved my money for years just to make this trip.”
“How much lettuce you got in the patch?” Bugsy wants to know.
The Professor frowns and looks blank.
“He means cabbage,” I explain. “Moola, Loot. You got the scratch?”
“I am wearing my winter underwear, gentlemen,” the Professor admits. “But—”
“Dough,” I tell him. “You loaded?”
“Oh!” He puts a grin on his chin. “Well, I don’t exactly have a fortune in my possession. But I thought that with eleven thousand dollars, perhaps I could learn a little something.” And he hauls a roll out of his vest pocket.
I look at Bugsy and Bugsy looks at me. Then we both look at the roll. The manager of the Cash Inn passes by and gives us a dirty look, because I guess he does not like to see us drool all over his nice new carpet.
“Professor, you have a real deal,” Bugsy tells him. “For eleven grand I think we can promise you that you’ll learn a whole lot. And you sure come to the right teachers.”
“Wonderful!” the Professor says. “I was hoping I might start tonight, if you’re not too busy—”
“Well, we did have a date with a stiff who runs a prayer meeting,” I admit. “But he’d probably try to rip the bricks on us, anyway.”
“You were going to church?” the Professor asks.
“No,” Bugsy explains. “A prayer meeting is a private crap game. A stiff is a guy who’s down on his luck. And to rip the bricks means to switch the dice.”
“Cheating?” The Professor shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with dishonest players.”
“Then stick with us,” I tell him. “We’ll get up a nice friendly little game of stud poker.” I turn to Bugsy. “Let’s use your room,” I suggest. “How about inviting Nifty Novotny, and Cold-deck Charlie and old Sticky-fingers?”
“Sorry,” Bugsy answers. “Nifty Novotny is still hiding out after that job he pulled in Las Vegas. Cold-deck Charlie is doing five in San Quentin, according to what I hear around town. And old Sticky-fingers has a regular night job, remember? He’s peddling reefers down at the drive-in restaurant.”
“Well, don’t worry,” I say to the Professor. “I’m sure we can find some other good friends of ours who are just as trustworthy. I’ll get on the phone and you go on up to Bugsy’s room and get started with your education.” Well, the way it turns out, I have no trouble lining up three finks for the game. I choose some small-time operators on purpose, because there is no sense complicating the details by cutting them in. The Professor is our pupil, and we are going to do all the teaching, so we might as well collect the tuition fee.
When the game gets started, we commence learning him things right off. For example, he finds out that a deck of cards is called a devil, and that he is supposed to sit between Bugsy and me when he plays. This is called a cucumber sandwich, but we do not tell him that. We figure there is plenty for him to learn as it is, without bothering his head with such useless information. And believe me, when anybody sits down to play poker between Bugsy and me, such information is useless.
I must say this for Professor Glockenspiel, though—he is an eager student
and he does not seem to worry about paying for his lessons.
Right off the bat he spends two hundred bucks to find out that the pair of kings he holds is called a pair of bulls—but does not beat my three fives.
Then he shells out another hunk of dough to discover that aces are called bullets or dreadnaughts, but do not beat the straight Bugsy has in his hand.
After that we take six hundred clams to demonstrate that aces and eights are the Dead Man’s Hand, and a grand or so to prove that twos are called deuces, and cannot beat a full house. We also teach him never to draw to an inside straight, and finally we demonstrate that four of a kind is better than a flush.
By the time night-school is over, the Professor is out his eleven grand, but we hope he has the satisfaction of being a finished student.
The funny part is, he does seem to be satisfied. When he gets up to leave he is still smiling. “Thank you for a very rewarding experience, gentlemen,” he says. “It is kind of you to put up with an amateur like myself.”
“The pleasure is ours,” Bugsy assures him. “Too bad you don’t have better luck.”
“On the contrary, it is a rewarding experience,” the Professor says. “I have learned far more than I hoped.”
“If you want to try your luck again, be sure to look us up,” Bugsy tells him, as he eases him out the door.
But Professor Glockenspiel shakes his head and sort of sighs. “I doubt if I shall have the opportunity,” he says. “My losses tonight represent the savings of twenty years.”
“What if you won?” I want to know.
“Odd that you should ask me,” he answers. “I was hoping to increase my capital to endow Parnell University with a special chair.”
“You can buy a mighty fancy chair for eleven grand,” Bugsy says. “Maybe even gold-plated.”
“I am referring to a chair of research,” the Professor tells him. “The University refuses to allow me funds to pursue my hobby, so I thought I might win enough to institute a teaching department of my own. But apparently fortune is not with me.”
“Tough,” I say. “But if you do get hold of any more geedus, we’ll be around. Always glad to show you a little action.”
Then we say good night, and Bugsy and I salute the loot
“A big score,” he grins. “The kind you hit once in a lifetime. Why the mark does not even give us any grief with a beef. Too bad he is cleaned out.”
“Let’s stick around a few days,” I suggest. “Maybe he will wire home for money.”
“What can we lose?” Bugsy agrees. So we stay over at the Cash Inn, and for the next couple of afternoons we go out to the track to play the bangtails and for the next few nights we watch the wheels go around at the tables.
And sure enough, on the third evening the Professor shows up in the lobby again. He has a friend with him—a tall, skinny kid with a crewcut like a worn-out welcome mat. Regular Joe College type, horn-rimmed glasses and all.
The Professor comes right over and lays on the introduction. “This is Oswald Fing,” he says. “One of my star pupils from Parnell University. He is out here on vacation, and I told him how royally you gentlemen entertained me the other evening. He is anxious for a little session.”
Bugsy and I stare at the square, and then Bugsy gets the Professor over in a corner. “You know how luck is,” he whispers. “Can he afford to lose?”
The Professor winks at him. “The young man is, as you say, loaded. And I was wondering, if I brought him to you gentlemen for a game, if I might venture to claim a share of the—er—profits. I shall not be participating in the session myself, you understand. I am merely—what is the term?—a steerer.”
Bugsy shakes his head. “Naughty, naughty!” he says. “But I see you learn fast. And I think we can cut you in. Shall we say one-third?”
“Fair enough,” the Professor agrees. “Now, can you find a few other players for the evening? I would suggest you select some rather substantial investors.”
Bugsy tips me off and I round up Big Mike Rafferty and Philadelphia Phil, two of the largest operators in these parts. There is no sense telling them what is going to happen—it is going to be a little secret between Bugsy, the Professor and me.
This time we play in my room, which has the advantage of being soundproof. Something tells me this kid Oswald Fing may not be as good a loser as the Professor, and I do not wish to disturb the neighbors with his cries of anguish when we lay it on him.
Right away we explain to him that this game calls for a bit of action, as Big Mike Rafferty and Philadelphia Phil do not indulge for peanuts, and Bugsy and me have eleven grand to work with, plus another four of our own to feed to the kitty.
Oswald Fing looks at the Professor and shakes his head. “You did not tell me the stakes are so high,” he says. “And I know absolutely nothing about poker.”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” the Professor answers. “I can assure you, you’ll learn in a hurry with these able instructors.” Then he smiles at Oswald Fing and winks at me, and the game starts.
That is the last smile anybody sees around the table from then on. Because something funny happens to the game.
Oh, Oswald Fing doesn’t know anything about poker—that is easy enough to see from the start. He cannot even call his hands, but merely lays them down and lets the Professor do the talking.
The trouble is, he lays down nothing but winning hands.
Instead of sticking in every pot, the way the Professor does the other night, he drops out half the time. But whenever he does stay, he has the cards.
If I draw three tens, he sticks on three jacks. If Bugsy holds a straight, Oswald has a flush. If Big Mike Rafferty or Philadelphia Phil catch full houses, there is Oswald with four of a kind.
Either he has a sure thing or he folds. Not once does he call without the top hand, and not once does he bluff. Rafferty and Phil find that out the hard way, and I figure they blow about twenty grand before they have enough. Then they get up and leave.
This suits me fine, because I know now that something is very much haywire, and I tip Bugsy the nod. This means we get down to business with a new deck. This new deck happens to be one of Bugsy’s specials.
We bring it into play, and all at once the kid jumps up.
“Not that deck!” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask. “Are you incinerating that we’d cheat?”
“Yes, dear boy,” the Professor chimes in. “Don’t you trust these gentlemen?”
“Call it a hunch,” Oswald says. “I want the other deck.”
So there is nothing to do but bring back the old deck and hope for the best. I look at Bugsy’s pile and my own and figure we have maybe six grand left between us—from all the dough we won the other night plus our own. We will have to sweat it out.
And the next hand that comes up brings out the old perspiration in a hurry. I find myself sitting with aces back to back. As the cards go around, I cop a third bullet. I bet it up and Bugsy drops. Oswald stays, showing a straight in the works.
On the seventh card I catch the fourth ace. That’s when I shoot the works.
Oswald sees me—and raises.
I give Bugsy a peek at my hand and he grunts. Then he shoves the rest of his chips over to me. I call.
And Oswald lays down his straight. Only it is a straight flush, king high.
I am busted.
Also, I am pretty angry. In fact, I am just about to get up and reach for a heater which I happen to have laying around in the top drawer under my socks, when the Professor stops me.
“Sit down,” he says. “I think I have what you’re looking for.”
Sure enough, he holds a big equalizer in his hand, but he is not giving it to me—merely pointing.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Bugsy wants to know.
“You sit down, too,” the Professor suggests. “I believe I am holding what you call a Harlem hand.” He grins. “You see, I have done a bit of studying on my own, gentlem
en.”
We sit there and watch while Oswald Fing counts up his winnings.
“Forty thousand dollars,” he announces. “You were right, Professor.”
“Of course I was,” the Professor tells him. “I have the utmost confidence in my hunches. And in yours.”
“You can’t cheat us—” Bugsy snarls.
“This isn’t cheating,” the Professor says. “So let us have no more of that kind of talk. And I suggest you gentlemen remain seated until after we have left, or else I shall be forced to ventilate your ventricles.”
I do not understand this jive, but the gun tells me all I wish to know. So I sit there until they walk out, and Bugsy keeps me company.
Afterwards we are too weak to get up. Besides, being broke, there is no place for us to go.
I guess the Professor and his pupil check out the same night. Anyway, the next day they are gone. Bugsy and I stick around, hoping we can raise the dough to pay our hotel bill.
We are still there a week later, and we are still arguing about what happens. We can’t figure out why Oswald wins that way.
Not until one afternoon when Big Mike Rafferty comes up to us with a New York paper in his hand.
“Here,” he says. “Read about your friends.”
I sneak a peek at a little item on page 5. It tells me all I want to know:
PROFESSOR ENDOWS UNIVERSITY CHAIR
Professor Ladislaus Glockenspiel has just endowed Parnell University with a $40,000 Chair of Parapsychology. He will use the money to continue his research in ESP, or extrasensory perception.
Readers may recall his experiments with student subjects; among them, Oswald Fing, who amazes experts by running through a pack of ordinary playing cards and calling them off correctly 52 times out of 52.
When questioned as to the source of his funds, Professor Glockenspiel said he had recently received contributions from philanthropists in the West.
That’s what the article says, and I don’t pretend I understand it all. I don’t dig this “Parapsychology” or this “extrasensory perception” bit, either.