James Chase - Miss Shumway Waves a Wand

“Oh, he’ll turn up,” I said, tossing my hat on the chair, “you know Whisky. He’s found a lady friend and is getting acquainted.”

Doc Ansell came in just then. “Found Whisky?” he asked anxiously.

“Don’t get excited,” I said. “He’ll turn up. He’s just finding his feet. A big dog like that wants some exercise and he’s having a look around.”

Ansell looked at Myra, “Well,” he said, smiling, “how pretty you look this morning. Did you have a nice lunch?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, pulling off her hat. “It was very nice.”

Sam said, “Aint you worried about Whisky?”

She blinked, “Why, no. If Ross thinks…”

“Ross?” Sam’s eyes opened, “Gee! Have you two gone soft on each other?”

Myra turned on me. “You’d better tell them,” she said and ran out of the room. Ansell and Sam looked at me suspiciously. “What’s buzzin’?” Sam demanded.

I wandered over to an armchair and sat down. “I don’t know,” I returned. “A lot’s happened since I last saw you,” and I told them about Peppi and Andasca and Lydia Brandt.

They sat listening in silence, then Doc said, “I’ve heard of Andasca. He’s no good to anyone.”

“So have I,” Sam said, “he used to carry a gun for Jo-jo in Chi when I was there. You don’t want to get mixed up with him.”

I jerked my thumb at the ceiling. “That’s what she wants,” I said, slowly. “She wants me to drop you two and live with her. She says nothing else matters so long as we have each other and I work for Andasca. What do you make of that?”

They didn’t make anything of it.

“She doesn’t want to be bothered with her father. She doesn’t mind being impersonated. Almost as if she was someone else,” I went on, looking hard at Ansell.

“Yes,” he said, “I see what you mean. Now, I wonder…”

“It wants looking into,” I said, closing my eyes. “Maybe I’d better see Andasca.”

“I think so,” Doc said. “Take Sam with you.”

“Where’ll I find him?” I said. “Either of you know?”

“Last time I heard of him,” Sam said, “he lived in a joint off Mulberry Park. Maybe someone knows what he’s doing now.”

“We’ll go to Mulberry Park,” I said. “In the meantime keep an eye on the girl friend. Don’t let her leave the apartment. I may be wrong, Doc, but I’m suspicious of her change of heart.”

“Leave ft to me,” Doc said, and we went out into the street, leaving him on his own.

Now, Mulberry Park lies north of the Brooklyn Bridge and a hundred yards or so from Chinatown. Right now it is a tree-shaded square which the city has equipped with swings, wading pools and showers for the kiddies. It looks quiet and faded but a century ago it was the toughest spot in Manhattan; Five Points was situated there and nearby a huge rambling building called the Old Brewery where swarms of Negroes and whites used to live. Seventy-five men, women and children once lived in one room of the Old Brewery. That ought to tell you how tough the place was. Murder was a daily occurrence and the kids in Old Brewery lived for years without leaving the rooms because in the hails they might get themselves knocked off by some guy with the blood-itch. The young punks were strong enough to stand up for themselves met their pals in alleys and there formed the first gangs of New York.

For the next hundred years the stretch from Mulberry Bend through Chatham Square and up the Bowery remained the centre of the sin industries of the metropolis. The gangs flourished.

So in those days the Mulberry Park district was plenty tough. Now the old gangs were dead, Chinatown and Mulberry Bend had faded into seeming innocence, but the district was still the breeding ground for thugs.

Anyway, it was like a breath of home to Sam as we into the Square and picked our way through the kids that cluttered up the sidewalk.

“Where do we go from here?” I asked, feeling the eyes of the slatternly women hostile on my back as they stood in open doorways of their drab, dirty apartments.

“There’s a guy I used to know,” Sam said, head, “who had a gin mill around here some place. what was his name?” He screwed up his face while he thought.

I waited patiently, trying to pretend I wasn’t there. Even the kids had stopped playing and were watching us.

“Good-time Waxey,” Sam said suddenly. “That’s the runt. He’ll know about Andasca. He knew every punk around here.”

We found Good-time Waxey behind the bar of an evil looking dive at the corner of Mulberry and Kenmare. He was lolling over the bar, the mid-day sporting sheet spread out before him, looking down the list of horses for the three o’clock handicap.

He looked up suspiciously as we fumbled our way into the dark little tavern.

“Hey, Waxey,” Sam said, grinning, “still carrying your corns in a snood?”

Waxey stiffened. His fat, brutish face, glistening with sweat, lit up and he shoved out a fist the size of a mellon. “Bogle!” he said, shaking hands, “where ta hell yuh spring from?”

Sam grinned as he pumped the big man’s arm up and down. “Thought I’d look the old dump over,” he said. “How’s tricks, Waxey?”

Waxey lost his smile, “Looka,” he said, “six years I work in dis burg, an’ where does it get me? A lousy handout a thoity bucks a month! Starvin’ an’ freezin’… fuh what? Peanuts!” and he spat disgustedly on the floor.

“Gees!” Sam said, his eyes opening. “I thought this burg was all right.”

“It was,” Waxey returned darkly, “when da boys were around. Lucky… remember Lucky?

. . When he was around, dat was somethin’. But, now… Hell, might as well wait for Santa Claus tuh take care of me.”

“Meet my pal Millan,” Sam said, pushing me forward. “He’s an all right guy, Waxey. We work together.”

Waxey looked at me sharply, then stuck out his hand. “Any pal a Sam’s pal a mine,” he said, crushing my hand in a grip that made me shuffle my feet.

“We looked in ‘cause we thought you might wise us up,” Sam said, lowering his voice. Waxey stroked his shapeless nose and his little green eyes showed interest. “Yuh in a racket, Sam?” he asked, hopefully.

“Not tight now,” Sam returned cautiously. “But, it looks like it was headin’ that way. What do you know about Andasca?”

Waxey blinked. “What yew mean?”

“Just that. This guy’s going to work for him,” Sam said, jerking his thumb in my direction.

“But he wants to know what line he’s in first.”

Waxey studied me. “Lu’s gettin’ somewhere,” he said at last. “Twenty buck shoits. A hundred an’ fifty buck custom tailored suits. Da fat a da land he live off of. An’ he’s got a flock a dames at’d make youse guys water at da mout’.”

“But what’s the set-up?” Sam persisted.

Waxey lowered his voice, “Peppi Kruger’s behind him,” he said “Between da two a dem, dey have da Bowery sewed up tight, see?”

“How tight?” Sam asked, looking hopefully at the row of dusty bottles behind Waxey’s head, “and how about a drink, Waxey?”

“Sure.” Waxey produced a black bottle without a label from under the counter. “Dis is da McCoy,” he went on, slapping the bottle down in front of us. “Help yuhselves.”

While Sam poured the drinks, I said, “I heard Kruger’s almost washed up, that’s why I’m nervous about going in with them.”

“Hoid what?” Waxey gasped, “yuh crazy? Looks yew, both dese guys are tops, see? Nuttin’s goin’ tuh stop ’em. Dere ain’t any punk tuh touch ’em now.”

But I wasn’t listening any snore. I was staring out of the tavern into the street. “Hang on, Sam,” I said suddenly, “I’ll be right back,” and I left them gaping after me.