Willie the Actor

by David Barry

  ‘Bill,’ he said elaborately. ‘How you doing?’

  ‘You forgotten something, Johnny?’

  A momentary expression of incomprehension on Eagan’s face, then sudden realization. ‘Jesus, Bill! I forgot. It went clean out of my head. ‘

  ‘That’s because you were out of your head, Johnny. ‘

  ‘I swear to you, Bill, it’ll never happen again. ‘

  ‘You’re right,’ Bill replied. ‘It won’t happen again. You and I are through, Johnny. ‘

  ‘Hey! Now wait a minute. . . ‘ Eagan protested. ‘You can’t do that. What about Doyle? We need to do a job to pay Doyle. ‘

  ‘You should have thought of that last night, before you went out and got loaded. ‘

  ‘It was a m-mistake,’ Eagan stammered. ‘A fucking mistake. ‘

  As if a wire holding up Eagan’s head had been cut, his head dropped forwards, and he stared miserably into his drink. Bill noticed Frank Costello’s girl was studying him with great interest. Maybe it was because he had the upper hand. She was the usual gold-digging good time girl, attracted to men like Costello and Eagan as if they were trophies for her bedroom shelf. She gave Bill her sexiest smile, shrugging off the loser and favoring the winner. Bill ignored her.

  ‘No hard feelings, Johnny,’ he said. ‘I wish you luck. ‘

  Eagan slurped some liquor noisily, and it seemed to give him the impetus he needed. He rose and shook a finger at Bill.

  ‘You can’t do this. Not after what I’ve done for you. I got you out of Sing Sing, remember. ‘

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Bill hissed.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me,’ Eagan ranted, ‘you’d still be sitting in a fucking five-by-nine. ‘

  Bill glanced nervously at the bartender, who was now paying them particular attention. He knew there was only one way to get Eagan to shut up.

  ‘Okay, Johnny,’ he said. ‘We’ll talk about this later. In private. When you haven’t had a drink. ‘

  Bill turned abruptly and walked towards the door. He could feel the bartender’s eyes boring into him as he left the speakeasy. He heard Eagan calling after him:

  ‘Okay! We’ll talk later, Bill. We’ll sort something out. ‘

  Bill had no intention of talking to Johnny Eagan ever again. He would work on his own for a while; do some burglaries like he and Doc used to do back in the early twenties, which would provide him with enough money to pay off Doyle. Technically speaking, he realized Eagan owed Doyle half. But he didn’t think his ex-partner would ever conquer his addiction. And rather than work with a liability like Eagan, he would sooner pay Doyle the full amount himself.

  Outside the speakeasy, rain was falling as if a tap had been turned full on. Although he was soaked through, Bill couldn’t stand the way the rain filled the brim of his hat then trickled over and poured down his face and neck. In the vain hope that it might ease off in a little while, he took shelter in the doorway of a barber’s shop. There was a closed sign on the door and the shop was in darkness. He stood there shivering, wondering what his next move should be. Run to the nearest subway and head back to his room? He was trying to avoid the subway as much as possible. His picture had been blasted on the front pages of all the tabloids, and he didn’t want to sit opposite anyone who could stare at him for any length of time, wondering where they might have seen that face before.

  As he stared at the driving rain, the bleakness of the night emphasized his feelings of loneliness. There was an aching emptiness inside him. He longed to see Louise and his baby daughter. He thought about how close they were. He was in the same city as them, less than twenty minutes on the subway, yet they might as well have been on the other side of the world. He couldn’t hope to see them. He knew the cops would keep them under surveillance, just in case he decided to show up.

  A car pulled up outside the speakeasy. From the shadows of the barber shop Bill watched while a man wearing a trench coat stepped out of the back of the car, while the driver stayed put, keeping the motor running. The man in the trench coat was carrying a tommy-gun, held down by his side. As he stepped inside the speakeasy, he raised the gun to waist level.

  Bill felt helpless. He was unarmed, and there was no way he could warn anyone without endangering his own life. He felt numb with the shock of what he knew was about to happen. A brief moment passed, while he tried to think if there was anything he could do to help. Then the sound he was expecting came suddenly, a distant but deadly staccato, as the stuttering of the sub machine gun spit out its lethal spray of bullets. Bill’s body trembled and shook, and he knew this had nothing to do with the cold.

  The man in the trench coat ran out, leaped into the car, and barely had the door shut when the driver gunned the engine and the car took off like a thunderbolt. Oblivious now to the rain, Bill stepped out into the street, and made his way to the speakeasy next door. As he swung open the door, the first thing to hit him was the music on the radio playing low and distant, like an eerie requiem, which accentuated the dreadful silence of the bar. And as he came close to Eagan’s table, he was filled with horror at what he saw. Blood formed great puddles on the floor like bright paint seeping slowly from a can. Bill looked away. There was nothing he could do. There was no sense in dwelling on the horror of the murder scene. But as he started to walk away, he glanced quickly over the other side of the bar and saw the bartender lying face down in a pool of blood. An innocent bystander had been senselessly gunned down simply because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Bill got outside quickly. He wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and the speakeasy. As he splashed through the heavy rain, he had to stop several times to collect himself, bending over like he had cramps in his stomach. He realized it was an instinct to vomit that he was trying to suppress. He induced saliva into his mouth and swallowed, eventually overcoming the need to be sick, and struggled on through the rain.

  He thought about his ex-partner. Eagan had been stupid having an affair with a mobster’s girl. But had he deserved to die over it? And what of the girl? She was just a kid. Murdered simply because of a damaged ego.

  As his clothes clung to his body, and the rain lashed against his face, he began to enjoy the cleansing sensation and didn’t care how wet he was. And he thought grimly about Eagan, whose partnerships had been terminated twice in several minutes.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 1933

  A large bonfire lit a square in front of Berlin University last night.

  The flames were not fed by logs or kerosene. Books were burned - books the Nazis have decided are “un-German”. And in Munich yesterday, thousands of school children watched as books described as were burned. “As you watch the fire burn these un-German books,” the children were told, “let it also burn into your hearts love of the Fatherland.”

  Bill sighed as he closed the paper. He loved books. More than anything else it was what had kept him sane during his prison stretches, and the thoughts of burning books - any kinds of books - filled him with dismay.

  He dropped the paper onto the floor and lay back on the sofa, his feet up on the armrest, and drew heavily on a cigarette. He coughed, and his chest hurt from the dryness of the cough. A metal ashtray lay on the floor, brimming with cigarette butts, spent matches and ash. Usually meticulous and tidy, Bill had recently been careless about his domestic standards. His heart was sinking rapidly and he couldn’t seem to do anything to block the fall into deep depression and apathy. He was desperately lonely. He longed to pick up the phone and call Louise, but knew it would be foolish. The police probably had the phone tapped.

  Feeling the heat from the tip of the cigarette burning his fingers, he sat up quickly and ground it into the ashtray. He stared into space for several minutes, then recognized that he needed to drag himself out of this rut. He knew he couldn’t just sit around the a
partment for the rest of the day. During the last two months he’d barely been out, except to pick up groceries and newspapers, and had spent most of his time reading or listening to the radio.

  His apartment was on the third floor on East 97th, a district that tipped over into El Barrio, but at the same time was comfortably close to the more opulent streets below East 96th. It was a small but comfortable apartment and he’d been lucky in renting it, as few questions were asked once the landlord saw the color of his money. He’d lived here for more than three months now, and had rented it on the proceeds of three burglaries which netted him $3,000 dollars, once he’d paid Doyle what he owed. He now had only $2,000 dollars left, a substantial enough sum, but it wouldn’t last indefinitely and he needed to reconnoiter a few banks and start making plans. But he’d need some accomplices, and he knew that most of the joints where the criminal fraternity hung out was where he was most vulnerable and risked being caught.

  He looked over at the window. A beam of sunlight streamed in, throwing a bright pool of warm yellow onto the drab carpet. After months of depressing rain and drizzle, sunshine was the tonic he needed. Suddenly, he snapped out of his ennui, and made up his mind that he was going to go out somewhere. Anywhere. He felt the need to walk in the long-awaited warm weather. But he had become so sedentary in recent months, that when he rose from the sofa, his body ached with the effort. He went over to a wall mirror and studied his reflection, smoothing his newly grown moustache with an index finger. The face that stared back at him was nothing like the police photograph on the wanted posters, and he seriously thought he could go to any police precinct and stand under one and nobody would recognize him.

  He changed into a black, chalk stripe, double breasted suit, checked his appearance in the mirror before leaving, grabbed his hat, and made for the door. But there was something on his mind, something that made him stop and coincidentally stare at the copy of the New York Times that lay on the floor by the sofa. It was as if it was trying to tell him something. What was it? He looked at the date. 11th May, 1933. There was something about it that was. . .

  Suddenly it came to him and he smacked the heel of his palm onto his forehead. Of course, it was Jenny’s birthday. His beautiful baby daughter was two years old today. How could he have forgotten such an important date? He should have sent her a gift. Or a card, at least. He remonstrated with himself for forgetting and wondered how he could rectify the oversight. Western Union. That was it. He’d send her a telegram. He realized that a telegram would be meaningless to a two year old. But he felt the need to send it anyway. Maybe in years to come, his lovely little girl might appreciate the telegram she’d received from her daddy on her birthday.

  Bill had intended taking a long walk in the sunshine, maybe through Central Park, but after he’d sent Jenny the birthday telegram, he felt desperately lonely. So much so, that it seemed to hurt him physically, a pain that stretched across his chest. Or maybe that was the tobacco. Perhaps he was smoking too much. He made up his mind that he’d try and cut down on. As soon as he’d made this resolution, he couldn’t help but notice a neon sign for Lucky Strike cigarettes, saying: It’s toasted. Immediately he wanted to light up but resisted the urge.

  Wearing his loneliness in the way he slouched along, shoulders hunched, hands embedded deeply in his pants’ pockets, he passed the Roseland Dancehall, where any man could get dance with a dime-a-dance hostess provided he had ten cents to spare. Although he hadn’t been on a dance floor for many years, Bill considered himself a reasonably able dancer, and he felt in need of some female company, even if it meant paying for the privilege. He realized it was still quite early, and things might not be in full swing yet. But inside the dancehall it was surprisingly busy, with dozens of men like him, desperate for some female company. But, he reminded himself, most were good honest men, maybe unemployed, waiting and hoping for Roosevelt’s New Deal to have some significant effect. Not living off the fruits of armed robbery like himself. These poor honest Joe’s had to cherish each dance and make each ten cents count. Onstage a band played ‘Stormy Weather,’ and a crooner sang smoothly into a closely held microphone. . . . “since my gal and I ain’t together, I’m weary all the time. . . “

  Which echoed his feelings: weary all the time. He needed to put some action back into his life. The only times he felt truly alive was at high risk time when he was relieving a bank of its money, or when he was in the arms of a beautiful woman.

  He purchased two dollars’ worth of tickets and looked around at the dancing couples. Right away he spotted a truly attractive girl, maybe in her mid-twenties, her brunette hair bobbed and shiny, with a cute little button nose and full lips. She was dancing with a tall, lanky guy, who stared down at her and grinned, moving zombie-like, as if he’d never danced with a real girl before and couldn’t believe his luck. When the number petered out the man looked awkward and lost, his smile fading as he backed away from her, nodding his thanks. Bill watched him carefully. He felt sorry for the guy. Shy and out of money. Using a dime to buy a fantasy that the attractive girl who danced with him was going to become his lover. Like most of the men at Roseland, hope was the one luxury he could afford.

  As soon as the man had shuffled off, Bill went over to the girl, and handed her a ticket. ‘Care to dance?’ he said.

  ‘It’s why I’m here,’ she replied, slipping the ticket into a small purse strapped diagonally across one shoulder.

  The band started playing a more up tempo number and she slid a hand into his, while he slid his other hand around her waist. She smelled vaguely of powder and roses and the linen of her dress felt cool to his touch, in spite of it being hot in the dance hall.

  They danced a foxtrot, weaving in and out of other couples on the crowded dance floor, and only occasionally bumped against other dancers. Every time they did, his partner giggled.

  ‘How long is it since you danced?’ she asked him.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ he admitted. ‘But at least I haven’t stepped on your feet,’

  Her eyes flashed teasingly as she looked into his. ‘Don’t count your chickens. ‘

  Her attractiveness and easy manner were so disarming that he lost concentration and stepped on her toes.

  ‘See what I mean,’

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and he felt a slight pressure on his hand as she squeezed it reassuringly. From then on he concentrated on the foxtrot, avoided looking into her eyes, and managed to dance with reasonable agility. As soon as the dance ended he took another ticket from his pocket and offered it to her.

  ‘My name’s Bill,’ he said.

  ‘Jean. Jean Courtney. ‘

  The next number was ‘Love Letters in The Sand’, and Bill was relieved that it was slower. As they shuffled around the dance floor, Bill gazed into her eyes, making it obvious that he found her attractive.

  ‘So, Jean, where are you from?’

  ‘Pennsylvania. ‘

  ‘And what brings you to New York City?’

  ‘I want to pursue an acting career. ‘

  You and hundreds of other girls, thought Bill. It must have shown on his face, because she asked him:

  ‘Is there something wrong with that?’

  Feeling guilty for the negative thought, he said, ‘Of course not. I think that’s a great career to have. ‘

  ‘Then why did you frown?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that I did. ‘

  ‘It was only a tiny frown, but a frown all the same. ‘

  Her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and he was aware that he was being teased.

  ‘Please accept my apologies for the frown. I’ll try not to let it happen again. ‘

  ‘It’s your dance. You paid for it. You can frown all you want. ‘

  He laughed.

  ‘And what do you do for a living, Bill?’

  ‘I sell insurance. ‘


  ‘You work for a particular company?’

  ‘Freelance. ‘

  ‘You must be pretty good at it. ‘

  She ran his jacket lapel between her finger and thumb, and he realized she was referring to his expensive suit.

  ‘I get by. ‘

  ‘These are hard times. You don’t look as if you suffer much hardship. ‘

  ‘Well,’ he muttered, averting his gaze from hers, ‘I work hard, I guess. ‘

  They danced in silence for a while. Just as the band were coming to the end of the number, Bill asked her if she’d like to have dinner with him some time. She seemed both amused and flattered by the offer.

  ‘Let me think about that,’ she said.

  Bill, his confidence growing, smiled at her. ‘Meanwhile, can I buy you a soda?’

  He could see her deliberating, assessing his interest in her, and he thought she was about to acquiesce when they were interrupted by a man in a striped blazer. He looked hale and hearty, an out-of-towner putting on a show of enjoying himself.

  ‘Great band,’ he announced. ‘Mind if I ask the little lady for a dance?’

  ‘Sure. Go ahead,’ said Bill, trying not to sound too miffed.

  The man handed over his ticket. ‘May I have the next dance, Miss?’

  The band struck up with ‘I Got Rhythm’, and Bill watched Jean and her partner for a bit. The man was a much better dancer than him, and Bill felt disappointed. If it was a case of prowess on the dance floor, he hadn’t been much of a catch. He decided he needed more practice and asked another girl to dance. This time he concentrated hard on dancing, paying little attention to his partner, and his co-ordination and rhythm seemed to improve. He had three more dances after that, each time with different girls, so that he could adapt to a variety of styles and movement. Then he decided he’d ask Jean for another dance. He cast his eyes round, focusing on all the hostesses in turn. He couldn’t seem to single her out at all. Then he spotted her at a corner of the dance hall, talking to a man with dark, slick-backed hair. There was something familiar about him. Bill stared for some time before he placed him, and watched while the man smiled and charmed Jean, waving his hands about and telling his usual lies. Weaving between dancing couples, Bill hurried over to rescue her. As he arrived, the man was taking out a pencil and small notepad and was about to get her telephone number or address. Bill tapped him on the shoulder.