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CLEAN BREAK

by

Lionel White

CHAPTER FIVE

1

Nikki stretched a lean, corded arm up over his head and felt around blindly until his fingers found the square of chalk hanging from the string. Brown eyes still studying the table, he worked on the end of the cue tip.

He smiled, without mirth but at the same time with no viciousness, and didn’t look at his opponent as he spoke.

“You’re a sucker,” he said. “A real first-class sucker. So I’ll give you a buck even on the six in the side pocket—and I’ll play it off the ten ball.”

“You got it!”

The small, wizened man with the face of a half starved coyote, perched on the high stool at the side of the table, turned to his fat companion.

“Can’t be done,” he said. “Willy Hoppe himself couldn’t do it.”

Nikki heard him.

“For you,” he said over his shoulder, “I’ll give you ten bucks to five it can be done. Ten to five I do it.”

“Take him,” the fat man said.

“Take him hell,” said the other. “I just said it can’t be done—I didn’t say Nikki couldn’t do it.”

Nikki finished chalking his cue, released the chalk and walked around to the side of the pool table. He leaned over, carefully studied the lay. And then he leveled the stick and sighting along its straight surface, made his shot. The cue ball rolled straight and true and barely grazed the ten, swerved at an oblique angle to strike the six. The green ball rolled with infinite slowness and plunked into the side pocket.

Johnny Clay walked into the billiard parlor as Nikki raised the cue from his follow-up position, his face expressionless.

“That boy’s got an eye like a bomb sight,” the fat man said.

Johnny didn’t approach the table, but stopped at the bar and ordered a beer. Nikki saw him at once.

Johnny waited until Nikki had racked his cue, collected his bets and reached for his coat. Then he downed the beer and went back outside. Nikki followed him out—caught up with him a few yards from the entrance. He fell in step and spoke out of the side of his mouth, his lips barely moving.

“Jesus, Johnny,” he said, “when did they spring you?”

“Tell you later,” Johnny said, looking straight ahead. “Grab off a cab.”

Five minutes later they were in the back of a yellow taxi, the window closed between themselves and the driver, who had been given the address of a midtown hotel.

Johnny waited until they were in Nikki’s room before he spoke.

“You got the letter?”

Nikki stripped off his jacket, tossed it on the bed and shrugged as it slipped off to the floor. He didn’t move the gray felt hat, cocked over one eye. He leaned against the dresser.

“I got it, Johnny,” he said. “And you could a knocked me over with a damp feather when the five bills rolled out. What’s the pitch? I thought you were still in the house.”

“I’ve been out for a little while,” Johnny said. “Probation. I was still in when the letter was sent you.”

Nikki nodded.

“I figured when there was no signature. But I knew where it came from.”

He paused a moment, watching Johnny closely. “You’re looking good, boy.”

“Feeling good,” Johnny said. “What’s with you?” 

“Taking it easy,” Nikki said. “Three up and one to go. So I’m taking it easy. Got a policy job nights. But about the five bills, Johnny. I suppose…” his voice drifted off. 

“Right,” Johnny said. “I want it. The chopper.”

“That’s what I figured, Johnny, when the dough dropped out. I got it all ready for you.”

He pulled a cheap, imitation leather suitcase from under the bed, inserted a key from a ring he carried in his side pocket. A moment later he tossed open the top and took out a long, heavy bundle wrapped up in a Turkish towel. He carried it over to the bed and unwrapped it. It was a broken down Thompson sub-machine gun.

“Pretty baby,” he said.

He began to assemble it.

“These things are hard to come by today,” he went on, working steadily, his lean strong fingers finding the parts automatically. “Very hard to come by. Know anything about them?”

Johnny half shook his head.

“I only know what they’re for,” he said.

Nikki nodded.

“Well, they’re really simple enough. This is an old-timer; probably left over from prohibition days. But it speaks with just as much authority as the new ones. It’s simple; I’ll show you how it’s done.” He reached for a clip.

“This thing holds exactly twenty-five shots. You want to remember that. Twenty-five. Most jobs shouldn’t take that much. I’m giving you three extra clips, just in case. But remember one thing. The chances are pretty much against your having time to reload, in case baby has to talk.”

Johnny nodded, watching him intently.

“If you do use her, remember to touch her just lightly, very lightly. One burst will release five or six shots a lot faster than you can count them. Don’t throw them away or you’re likely to end up holding a piece of dead iron in your mittens while someone is taking potshots at you.

“Also, watch the accuracy. Don’t stand too far away; don’t try to use this as a sporting rifle. It’s designed for close quarters. And don’t shoot it at all unless you’re ready to kill. You hit ‘em once and the chances are you hit ‘em half a dozen times. Too much lead to be anything but fatal.”

Johnny reached over and touched the barrel.

“Looks plenty lethal,” he said.

“It is. That’s the beauty of it. They only have to see it and they behave right proper. Even the heroes don’t give a typewriter an argument.”

For the next few minutes he explained the operation of the gun, showing Johnny the safety catch and the various mechanisms. He then went over breaking the gun down and putting it together. Finally he rewrapped it and put it back in the suitcase. He closed the bag and took the small key off the ring and handed it to Johnny.

“I’ll throw in the keister for free,” he said.

Johnny reached for the bag, put it between his feet and then sat down on the edge of the bed.

“One more little thing,” he said.

Nikki looked up at him sharply.

“Yes?”

“You say you’re working policy. Right? Can’t be too much in it.”

“There isn’t,” Nikki said. “But also there isn’t much trouble in it, either.”

“That’s right,” Johnny said. “On the other hand, there isn’t much trouble in five thousand dollars.”

For a second Nikki just stared at him. Then he walked slowly over to the exposed sink in the corner of the room, took a half pint flask from the shelf above it, which also held his razor and his toothbrush. He took his time and poured a stiff shot into a plastic toothbrush glass and handed it to Johnny. He lifted the flask to his own lips, wordlessly, his eyes on the other man.

Johnny nodded, grinned, drank.

Nikki took the bottle neck from his mouth, coughed and tossed the empty flask into a half filled trash basket; walked across the room and sat in a broken leather chair. He leaned forward, facing Johnny, his slender, long fingered hands clasping each other between his bony knees.

“Who do I have to kill?”

Johnny looked him straight in the eye, unsmiling.

“A horse,” he said.

Nikki blinked.

“A horse? You mean a horse’s…”

“A horse,” Johnny said. “A four-legged horse.”

For a minute Nikki just stared at him. Then he slouched to his feet.

“All right,” he said, “so you’re on the junk. Too bad.” 

Johnny didn’t get up.

“I’m giving it to you straight, boy,” he said. “I want you to shoot a horse.”

“And for that I get five thousand dollars?”

“For that and…”

“Yeah, and. I figured there had to be a gimmick.”

“Not a bad gimmick,” Johnny said. “The ‘and’ isn’t as tough as it sounds. You shoot a horse and, if by any chance you get picked up, you don’t crack. Under no conditions do you crack. That’s all.”

“You mean,” Nikki said, still looking baffled, “all I got to do is bump a horse.”

“It’s a special horse, Nikki.”

“So-o-o?”

“I better give it to you,” Johnny said. “For certain reasons, including your own protection in case anything happens, I’m not going to tell you the whole story. Just your part.

“Next Saturday, a week from today, the Canarsie Stakes are being run. Seventh race—the big race of the year.” He was watching the other man closely as he talked and he saw his mouth turn down in a twisted smile as he slowly nodded his head.

“There’s a horse in that race—Black Lightning—one of the best three-year-olds to come along in the last ten years. A big money winner. He won’t pay even money. Just about half of that crowd out there is going to be down on him. Well, there’s a parking lot less than three hundred feet from the northwest end of the track. From a car sitting in the southeast corner of that lot, you get a perfect view of the horses as they come around the far corner and start into the stretch. A man, sitting in a car parked in that spot, using a high caliber rifle with a telescopic sight, should be able to bring down any given horse with a single shot. A man with your eye wouldn’t hardly need the telescopic sight.”

For a minute Nikki looked at him, completely aghast.

“Jesus Christ!” he said at last. “Je-zuz Key-rist!”

“Right,” said Johnny.

“Why, that horse is worth a quarter of a million bucks,” Nikki said. “The crowd would go completely nuts. Nuts, I tell you.”

“So what,” Johnny said. “Let ‘em go nuts. You could do it—easy. And you shouldn’t have too much trouble getting away in the confusion. Black Lightning will, without doubt, be leading into the stretch. He runs that way, takes an early lead and keeps it. So he goes down, a half dozen others are going to pile up on him. There’ll be plenty of damn excitement.”

“For the first time you’re making sense,” Nikki said. “There sure as hell would be.”

“That’s the point,” Johnny said. “So in the excitement, you make your getaway. For five grand you can afford to leave the rifle behind. And another thing, suppose by accident you do get picked up. What have you done? Well, you shot a horse. It’s not first degree murder. In fact it isn’t even murder. I don’t know what the hell it would be, but the chances are the best they could get you for would be inciting to a riot or shooting out-of-season or something.”

Nikki sat slowly shaking his head.

“The way you say it, kid,” he said, “you make it sound simple as hell. But Jesus Christ, knocking over the favorite in the Canarsie Stakes! Brother.”

“Five thousand,” Johnny said. “Five thousand bucks for rubbing out a horse.”

Nikki looked up and all at once Johnny knew he was in. “How do I get it?”

“Twenty-five hundred on Monday afternoon. The rest one day after the race.”

Nikki nodded.

“And what’s your angle, Johnny? Why are you willing to pay five grand to knock off Black Lightning? Hell, the horse gets killed and they probably call off the race.”

“Maybe,” Johnny said. “But what my angle is, is my business. And, Nikki, that’s why I’m paying five grand, so nobody has to know my business.”

Nikki nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

They talked over the details for another half hour and finally Johnny stood up to leave. He reached down for the suitcase.

“So I’ll see you Monday, Nikki,” he said. “I’ll have the map with me.”

2

Maurice Cohen’s mother answered the doorbell. A short, dumpy near-sighted woman with gray streaks showing through the henna of her carefully marcelled hair, she held a dressing gown across her huge breasts with one tightly clutched hand. She was careful to keep the door itself on the safety chain. These days you could never tell who was wandering around the Bronx, as likely as not ready to rob and murder you right in your own living room.

“Mister Cohen?” Johnny said.

“Mister Cohen ain’t home. He’s at work. Where he should be in the afternoon. At work.”

She started to close the door.

“Mister Maurice Cohen,” Johnny said.

“Ah, Maurice,” she said. “He’s in bed. Who shall I say?” 

“Mr. Clay,” Johnny said.

She closed the door without another word. Johnny waited in the hallway of the apartment house, leaning against the wall and lighting a cigarette. Five minutes later the door again opened. A tall, deceptively slender, dark boy who didn’t look more than twenty-one or -two, slid out. He wore a sports shirt, a thin, well-creased suit and tan, open-work shoes. He was smoking a cigar.

His eyes lit up with surprise and recognition when he spotted Johnny.

“Johnny,” he said. “Well for God’s sake, Johnny.”

His mother was calling something after him as they entered the self-service elevator. He didn’t pay any attention as he pushed the button for the main floor.

They went to a bar and grill a half a block away and took a booth at the back. The place was empty except for an aproned bartender and a faded looking blonde who sat at the end of the bar and stared at an empty highball glass.

The bartender brought them two bottles of beer and two glasses and Johnny got up and went to the juke box. He dropped a quarter in the slot and pushed five buttons at random. The blonde looked up at him, vacant-eyed, as he returned to the booth.

“I got your letter,” Maurice said, above the noise of the machine.

Johnny nodded.

“What you been doing with yourself since you been out, Maurice?”

The slender, almost effeminate youth looked at him and smiled without humor.

“You wrote you had something to tell me, not ask me,” he said.

Johnny laughed.

“Right,” he said. “I was just making talk. I want to tell you how you can make $2500.”

“That’s different,” Maurice said. “All right, I been doing nothing. I’m supposed to be working with my old man; as you know, I’m on pro. But I can’t take the hours. So I stay in bed most of the day and then I just wander around nights. I’m watching the corners until I get clear again.”

He watched Johnny closely as he talked and went on after stopping to take a sip of beer.

“I’m thinking about things,” he said. “No more rough stuff for me. One rap was one too many. Twenty-five hundred sounds very interesting according to what I got to do to get it. No guns, though.”

“No guns,” Johnny said. “Maurice, you used to play football in high school—that right?”

“Right,” Maurice said. “I was the lightest tackle old Washington Heights ever had. Good, if I say so myself. But what the hell—you ain’t running a football team, are you, Johnny.”

“No, I am not. But I’m ready to pay you—or some other guy—twenty-five C’s to run a little interference.”

“With cops?”

“With cops—private cops.”

“Start all over,” Maurice said, “and tell me about it. Tell me the whole story. For that kind of dough, it must be some interference. But remember one thing, I might go for the deal but as I say, no guns. Also, I want nobody taking potshots at me, either. How tough are those private cops going to be?”

“Here’s the story,” Johnny said. “I’m only going to give you your end of it. That’s why I’m willing to pay big dough—for what you do and for what you don’t have to know.

“I want you out at the track during the running of the Canarsie Stakes a week from today. In the clubhouse, near the bar at the center door. I’ll give you the details later. It so happens I know that there’s going to be quite a little riot going on—say just about at the end of the big race. You are going to be at the bar and during the first part of that little riot, you are to do nothing—nothing except keep your eye on the door leading into the main business office, about thirty feet from the bar where you will be standing. You are a casual bystander.

“Along about the middle of that little riot, that door is going to open and I’m coming out of it. Fast. I’m slamming the door behind me and I want to melt away into the crowd.”

“What crowd?” Maurice said. “I thought you said this will be during the big race. The crowd will all be out in the stands.”

“There will also be a lot of people between the bar and that door,” Johnny said. “I told you there will be a small riot going on. Just take my word for it. Anyway, I’m coming out of that door. There is every chance no one will follow me, at least for about fifteen seconds. But there is also a chance that someone might. You are to stop them. Anyway you can—slug them, give them a burn steer as to the direction I have taken, get in their way—do anything you have to. But be there and be damn sure that I have a chance to mix in with the crowd.”

“What will you be carrying?” Maurice asked, his eyes wise.

Johnny watched the other man closely for a second, and then continued. “If I carry anything, I will drop it,” he said, “as soon as I slam that door behind me. It will be a chopper. That’s when you go into action. There is a good chance no one but you will see me. The minute I drop that gun, you yell. Something like, ‘Look out—he’s got a gun!’ Bring attention to it, once I’m clear of it. That door is going to fly open and they’ll be after me within seconds. You got to get them going in the wrong direction. If necessary, you got to stop them. Get in their way, do anything, but stop them. I’ve got to have a chance to get out of the clubhouse.”

Maurice looked at him shrewdly.

“You’ll never get away with it,” he said.

“Get away with what?”

“Why, Goddamn it, you know…”

“Twenty-five hundred, Maurice,” Johnny said, “is so you won’t know. I just told you, I’m dropping that gun at the door and I’m leaving clean. I’m not getting away with anything.”

Maurice again shrugged.

“You got to tell me more,” he said.

“No, I don’t, kid. I’m offering you a lotta dough so I don’t have to tell you.”

“Yeah, an’ suppose I get picked up?”

“So what? What have you done? Nothing. You are at the track, a riot starts. You are as excited as everyone else. You see a guy run. That’s no crime. Maybe you get in the way.

“There’s one more thing. I come out of that door with a handkerchief over my face. I take it off the sec I slam the door behind me. I also have on a yellow checked sports jacket and a soft gray hat, pulled over my eyes. Well, when I drop that handkerchief, and I hope it’s before anyone but you see me, I also start stripping out of that coat and get rid of the hat. I’ll have another hat with me, and I’ll have a sports shirt on under the jacket. What they’ll look like, you won’t have to know. But if and when anyone starts asking questions, just be sure about your description of me. That is, be sure it’s all wrong.”

“You figure a Pinkerton will be coining out of that door after you?”

“I know one will—unless the chopper is hot when I drop it and I don’t want it that way. You’re to see that the detective gets mixed up before he has a chance to get anywhere. Trip him, fall into him, slug him if you have to. You can always say you didn’t realize he was a cop and that he jostled you. You’ll know he’s a private cop all right, but there is no reason you should.

“They’ll question you if they pick you up. On the other hand, in the confusion, you may get clear. Either way, you are just a patron at the track, an innocent bystander and a guy runs into you and you slug him.”

“It could cost me my parole,” Maurice said. “Just being at the track could…”

“That’s another reason you get the twenty-five bills,” Johnny said. “You got to take that chance.”

“And if I get picked up and they find out about my record, it can cost me one hell of a beating.”

“What kind of dough did you get the last time you were in the ring in that Golden Gloves fight?” Johnny asked softly. “The one where you got the broken ribs and the injury to your optic nerve.”

Maurice smiled thinly.

“I gotta bronze medal,” he said.

“All right, so they question you. You don’t know nothing. They beat hell out of you. You still don’t know nothing. Twenty-five hundred is a lot better than a bronze medal.”

“It is. But there is also the business about breaking parole.”

“That’s right,” Johnny said. “And that’s why you get real money. For taking that chance.”

“I don’t quite understand this whole thing,” Maurice said. “Hell, Johnny, for what you want me to do, any hoodlum would handle for a hundred bucks.”

Johnny picked up the two empty bottles and went over to the bar. He got a couple of refills and came back to the table, dropping another coin into the juke box as he passed.

He sat down, poured the glasses full, leaving an inch of foam.

“Not any hoodlum, kid,” he said. “I don’t want a hoodlum; I want a smart guy. A guy smart enough not only to do the job and that I can depend upon, but a guy smart enough to know that he is being well paid to take a chance and that if things don’t turn out just right, he won’t squawk. That he’ll remember that he is being well paid.”

Maurice nodded.

“I don’t suppose,” he said, “that you feel like cutting me in on a piece of the job itself—and let’s say we skip the twenty-five cash?”

“Can’t,” Johnny said. “It isn’t mine to cut up.” 

Maurice slowly nodded.

“I’m your boy,” he said. “When …?”

“Monday afternoon, here. I’ll have a grand at that time and full instructions.” He stood up.

“I’ll hang around here for a few minutes,” Maurice said. He smiled, held out his hand.

Johnny shook hands with him.

“Tell your mother,” he said, “that that burglary chain would give with one good shove. I’ll be seeing you.” 

“I’ll buy her a new one—after the race,” Maurice said.

3

A thin, harassed-looking man in a sweat shirt four sizes too big for him told Johnny at Stillman’s that he hadn’t seen Tex around in a couple of weeks or more.

“He won’t train,” the man said, “so goddamn it, I hope he don’t ever come back. He could be a good boy if he’d only train.”

Johnny thanked him and went downstairs and got into a cab. He didn’t want to be walking around the midtown district in broad daylight. He gave the driver the address of a third-rate hotel down on West Broadway.

Tex had left the day before and from the way the day clerk acted, he left without paving his bill.

Another cab dropped Johnny at Third Avenue and East Eighth Street and he started downtown, systematically making the stops at every bar. He found Tex at his fourth stop, leaning against a juke box, his squinty blue eyes misty and his head slowly weaving back and forth in time with the music. Tex didn’t see him when he entered and went to the bar. Johnny ordered a Scotch with water on the side.

“That son of a bitch plays Danny Boy just one more time and I throw him out,” the bartender said, sliding the glass across the bar. “Jesus!”

Johnny swallowed his drink, washed it down. He left a quarter for the bartender and went to the juke box. He put a quarter in the machine and carefully selected Danny Boy and punched the button five times. He winked at Tex, turned and went out.

Tex came up to him at the corner, a minute later. “Laddie,” he said, “you’re a sight for sore eyes. I been waiting for you to show, Johnny, me boy. Waiting.” 

“Waiting is over,” Johnny said. “Where’s a quiet place?”

Tex turned, taking him gently by the arm.

“Any cemetery,” he said. “But we’ll hit a gin mill instead. Come on, boy.”

Turning into a bar and grill ten minutes later, Johnny thought, Hell’s Bells, I might just as well be a businessman—everybody I talk to, it’s gotta be in a barroom. He switched back to beer after they’d found a deserted booth.

“I see you broke training,” Johnny said.

“Training broke me,” Tex answered and smiled widely.

“Boy, am I glad to see you. An’ am I broke! What have we got, Johnny?”

“A fight,” Johnny said. “Twenty-five hundred dollar purse. Win, lose or draw.”

Tex took a long breath and slowly expelled it.

“Who do I hit, Johnny?”

“A bartender.”

“I’d rather it be a bookie or a loan shark,” Tex said. “What’s the pitch, laddie.”

Johnny leaned close and spoke in a low voice. He talked very slowly and carefully, making sure that the big man followed him.

“It will be out at the race track, a week from today,” he said. “Up in the clubhouse. You’re going to slug a bartender—I’ll tell you which one, later. Get in a fight over your change or something. Only you don’t slug him hard. You got to be very damned careful. Not hard. I want him conscious and I don’t want him hurt. He’s a friend of mine.”

Tex looked at him blankly but didn’t say anything.

“The bartender is going to call a cop. A private track dick. When he comes, you slug him, too. I want to be sure that you get arrested.”

The big man nodded dumbly.

“Pinched?”

“Right,” Johnny said. “For certain reasons of my own, you gotta be pinched. And I want you to make it good. If it takes two cops to get you out of the place, so much the better.” 

“I can take half a dozen,” Tex said. “Private cops? Hell, Johnny, I can make it take a full dozen. I…”

“Two will be fine,” Johnny said and smiled. “I don’t want you hurt either.”

“Do I ask any questions, Johnny?”

“No. Not now or later. Here’s what you have to know and all I want you to know.”

He talked then for the better part of a half hour, going over much of the same material he had discussed with the two other men he had seen that day. Tex, however, differed from the others in that he showed not the slightest curiosity. It was good enough for him the way Johnny put it. He was being given a job to do, he was getting paid for it, he would do it.

“There’s just the one thing,” Johnny said. “Timing. You got to time it exactly right. On the button.”

“I got no watch,” Tex said.

“You won’t need one,” Johnny told him. “There’s a big clock right over the center of the bar. One thing you got to be sure of; keep the fight going long enough so the cops show. And then get them to rush you out of there as quick as you can.”

“Hell,” Tex said, “I can keep ‘em busy for a half hour, you want I should.”

“I don’t,” Johnny told him. “Getting out, that is, getting the cops out, is the whole deal. You have to time it perfectly.” 

The big man nodded.

“An’ for that I get twenty-five hun’ert?”

“For that, Tex, and for taking the rap which you will be sure to get. Probably about ninety days. Also there will be a lotta questions thrown at you. Why you did it, who you know and all the rest of it.”

“I did it because the goddamn bartender tried to cheat me. I don’t know nobody. Right?”

“You got it perfect,” Johnny said. “I wish there were more like you.” He hesitated a second, then went on. “I can get you about half the dough by Monday, the rest after it’s all over.”

“Your word’s good with me, laddie,” Tex said. “You can make it all after, if you want to. In fact, you can wait till I get out of the clink. That’s if they got enough guys there to get me that far.”

“They got enough, Tex,” Johnny said. “No, we’ll do it my way; say a grand on Monday and fifteen as soon as I can get it to you after Saturday.”

Tex nodded, satisfied.

“I hate to ask it,” he said, “but I could use something like a twenty in cash right now.”

Johnny reached into his pocket and peeled a twenty from the money Marvin Unger had left with him that morning.

“Monday, Tex,” he said. “Here. And for Christ sake, keep out of trouble until after this is over.”

“Hell, Johnny,” the big man said, “you don’ have to worry ‘bout me. I’m your boy.”

Johnny stood up and patted him on the back, then left, wordlessly.

# # #

4

The suitcase was in the corner of the double parcel locker on the upper level at Grand Central when Johnny stopped back for it. Carrying it made him nervous, but there was nothing much he could do about that. He took the uptown IRT subway to Ninety-sixth Street and got off. Walking uptown to a Hundred and Third, he turned toward the East River. He found the place he was looking for just West of Second Avenue. It was an old law tenement, with its face lifted. He rang the bell on the ground floor and a moment later a sallow, hard-faced man stood outside the iron grill.

“Looking for Joe Piano,” Johnny said.

“Who’s looking for Joe?”

“Patsy sent me.”

“Patsy who?”

“Patsy Genelli.”

The man made no move to open the door.

“And where did you see Patsy?” he asked.

“Ossining. We roomed together. I’m…”

“Don’t tell me who you are,” the man said.

He twisted the knob and the lock clicked and he opened the gate. Wordlessly he turned and let Johnny pass him in the narrow hallway, then locked the gate and the heavy door after him. He led the way down the long hallway and turned into a small, dark kitchen. A fat girl who looked Polish got up without a word and left the room, closing the door behind herself.

The man reached over the sink and took down a half-filled gallon jug of red wine. He poured out two tea cups full and handed one to Johnny.

“How’s the boy?” he asked.

“He’s fine; doing it on his ear. Told me to tell you not to worry.”

The man looked sour.

“Doing the book on his ear. Not to worry. I worry plenty,” he said. “Goddamn it, I worry plenty.”

“He’s tough,” Johnny said. “Plenty tough. And he’s hoping to get a break.”

“I’m hoping he gets a break, too,” the man said. “Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“I want a room,” Johnny said. “For about two weeks. Just a room, no bath. I won’t be in much. Don’t want or need to have it cleaned. Don’t want anyone but myself in it. I won’t be having any visitors.”

“You leaving anything in the room?”

“This,” Johnny indicated the suitcase. “Another bag sometime next week.”

The man nodded.

“Won’t nobody disturb them,” he said, without curiosity. Johnny took out his wallet.

“Won’t be no charge,” Piano said. “You said Patsy sent you.”

Johnny nodded.

“Yeah, he sent me,” he said. “But we’re friends and I’d feel better if you let me pay you for the room. This is a sort of business arrangement and I can afford it.”

The man grunted.

“O.K.” he said. “Ten bucks a week. I’ll send the money in butts to the boy.”

He stood up and beckoned Johnny to follow him.

It was a small, rectangular room on the second floor at the end of the hallway. The door was padlocked from the outside. There was a single, heavily curtained window and the furnishings were sparse.

“It’ll do fine,” Johnny said.

The man handed him a key.

“I got the only other one,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about leaving anything here. It’ll be safe. I don’t give out keys to the front door. You have to ring. But I’m always here and I don’t care what time you come in. Doesn’t matter. Only be careful…”

“No one will ever tail me here,” Johnny said.

Again the man grunted. He turned, wordlessly, and padded off down the hallway.

Johnny went over to the dresser and pulled out the bottom drawer. The suitcase just fitted. A moment later and he closed the door of the room behind himself, turned and snapped the padlock. He put the key in his watch pocket before leaving the building.

On the way back downtown, he was tempted to stop off and have something to eat. But then he decided against it. He wanted to be back at Unger’s in time to receive George Peatty’s phone call. He’d tell George that everything was O.K. Tell him to show up for the big meeting on Monday night. The meeting at which they’d make the final arrangements.

He would be glad to get back to the East Thirty-first Street apartment.

He’d had a busy day.

# # #

Tune in next week for the next chapter of Clean Break!

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