Strip for Violence | Page 7

and with the high cost of living --"
"And we dicks aren't exempt from the high cost of living."
He sucked on his fat upper lip. "How many days you think it will take? And expenses, what will they amount to?"
"Hard to say. Let's turn our cards face up, Johnson. What were you planning to spend?"
"Well..." he coughed and swallowed. "See, I'll make a deal with you. I'm a poor sucker and..." he waved a hand at my office "... so are you. Suppose I give you all I can afford--a hundred and fifty bucks--and let's say you put in a week on it, full seven days, and forget the expenses? That a deal?"
He clinched the deal by taking out an old wallet and decorating my desk with fifteen tens. "I'm buying it, only remember, I can't guarantee a solution in a week. But I'll give it a good try."
"That'll all I want, just try hard for a week--seven days."
"Where do you live and when can I see your apartment?"
"I live at 22 Staymore Avenue, that's Marble Hill, up past Spuyten Duyvil. I'm off today, it's my comp day. See, any time you want to...."
"Have a lunch appointment Suppose I get up there around two?"
The mailman said fine and we stood up and shook hands-at the door he turned, said, "Don't lose that stone, or break it. It's... well... a memo to me." He sounded worried.
"I'll take good care of it."
When he left, I gave Anita four of the tens, told her "Might as well pay your salary for the week. This is a weirdie."
"He's lying," she sad, looking at the stone. "Odd dark color."
"You'll probably find there's some construction work near by and this came off while blasting."
"I'll...?"
"Sure, I'll look the apartment over and then you can make like Dick Powell."
"Oh no, not on this crummy stone?"
"If you'd rather pound out form letters...."
Anita thumbed her nose at me. "Giving me a big choice, but I'll take the stone deal, Hal... Darling." The way she said it left no doubt as to her meaning.

7
I PHONED A COUPLE of fellows working for the electric and phone companies whom I sent some good rye to every Christmas, asked if they had a Marion Lodge as a customer... and drew a blank. At eleven Bobo dropped in, got the address of the construction job he was to guard, signed out for a night stick. Curly Cox who'd been a fair lightweight when I was an amateur flyweight, came in to put the bite on me for work. I promised him something over the week-end, slipped him two bucks, then drove down to the 5th Street Casino.
Thirty or forty years ago this had been a club for wealthy sports, now it was a seedy-looking place, badly in need of a coat of paint and about everything else. It had a capacity of 250 people, and a sagging balcony with a few dozen tables and a dirty bar. Boscom looked like a walking caricature of an old-time saloonkeeper: short and fat, beady eyes, pink nose, thick little mouth--even an ancient pearl stickpin in his loud tie. He had a bullet-headed punk with him, local tough written all over his nasty puss. Evidently this was my competition.
"When I introduced myself, they both looked astonished and bully-boy, whose name I never did get, asked Boscom, "Hey boss, you kidding? This little blond nance is a guard?" I let the "nance" crack go by, although the punk's short thick neck was interesting. Boscom was sitting at an old desk, puffing on a cheap rope, and he squeaked, "He's been keeping order at my dances... Ain't had no trouble and..."
"And you pay him off with a few bucks and leftover bottles," I cut in. "You're a businessman, Mr. Boscom, and policing your dances should be done on a strict business level that..."
"Look, anybody starts anything, I give them the business all right--with this!" The punk held up a beefy fist.
It was a warm day, I had on one of my good suits and the carpet was dirty as hell, so I didn't want to take this joker. I tried to keep calm as I told Boscom, "Bet this clown hasn't a license--that means if there's a real rumble, you not only could be sued, and lose your liquor license but..."
"Who you calling a clown?" tough-boy growled. Boscom seemed to be amused by it all.
"Let me tell you something about policing a dance," I said to Boscom but watching the punk's feet. "There's a difference between a guard and a bouncer. Using your fists or a billy is the last thing you want done. Know who the best guard I ever had was? A midget! Lost him when he got a steady job with a carnival. Only real trouble you get at