Strip for Violence | Page 8

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 dances are
drunks, and when they saw this midget bawling them out, they laughed

and that was that Of course, always had another man that could handle
any real trouble. Now for twelve dollars a man, I supply you
experienced, intelligent, uniformed men who..."
"Intelligent? You cracking I'm a dummy?" bully-boy snarled, shifting
his weight to the balls of his feet.
Guess I still could have avoided trouble, but there was a gleam in
Boscom's eyes that got me sore. He deliberately had the punk in so he'd
have a ringside seat for a free brawl. I said, "Two-bit goons like you
come at bargain rates, dime a dozen. And in a real scrap you're not even
worth a dime."
"You little sawed off...!"
He didn't try to sock, instead he charged, a horrible scowl on his face. I
grabbed his lapels, pulling him toward me, jockeying around till I had
Boscom at my back. The punk had a hand at my throat, another about
to wallop my kidneys, as I sunk one foot in his stomach and suddenly
fell back on my shoulders. We landed with a boom, but his arm and my
other foot broke the fall for me. I pushed my shoe in his gut as hard as I
could and let go of his suit--fighting down a desire to grab his neck. His
body made a neat arc as it sailed through the air and crashed into
Boscom and his old desk. There was a deep grunt from Boscom, then
the sound of broken wood and glass. I jumped to my feet, brushed my
suit.
The punk was sprawled across the desk top, a busted ink bottle
dripping on Boscom, who was doubled up in his chair, both hands
holding his pot belly. The goon must have kicked him as he came in for
a landing. For a second I stared at bully-boy and was scared the clown
had broken his back--even a simple judo fall can be dangerous as hell.
But when he got his wind back, he sat up and worked his shoulders,
blinked his glassy eyes.
With mock politeness I said, "Sorry, Mr. Boscom, but you saw him
start the show. Now you know what I mean by knowing how to handle
yourself. Shall I call you tomorrow, talk over a contract?"

Boscom's doughy mouth was sucking air but he managed to grunt,
"Yeah," as I walked out.

8
I DROVE UP the West Side Highway, watching the shad fishermen
working their nets out in the Hudson, turned off at Dyckman Street and
went up Broadway. Will Johnson lived in one of these neighborhoods
where everybody had been averaging fifty a week for years--nobody
real poor, nor eating high off the hog either. I climbed five flights,
stabbed the doorbell with my finger. A plump woman in a worn, pink
housecoat opened the door. When I introduced myself, she said, "Come
in. I'm Mrs. Thelma Johnson. Willie--the detective is here." She
sounded nervous as she called Willie, and when she spoke, all her face
seemed to work.
Will came shuffling down the hallway in slippers and as he shook my
hand, Thelma said, "Excuse me, I'm cooking," and went into the
kitchen.
Their living-room was a comfortable, standard job, a couple of bad
paintings on the wall, even some artificial flowers. Except for being
neater, it reminded me of Louise's place. Will said, "Of course I've had
the window fixed, but there was a hole in the bottom pane, and here's
the one in the Venetian blinds." I examined a jagged hole in one of the
thin metal slats. He showed me the copper vase over the fireplace, the
dent in its side. "See, I was sitting here, reading,