James Chase - Knock, Knock! Who's There?

The drizzling rain fell on Sammy the Black’s sweating face as he shuffled along carrying the bag of money. He was a tall, gangling negro of around thirty years of age. With the muscular shoulders of a boxer and huge hands and feet, few would guess he had the spirit of a mouse. His large black eyes rolled fearfully as he walked, aware that he was carrying some sixty thousand dollars in the shabby holdall and what was worse that everyone in the district knew it.

Every Friday, at exactly the same time, he did this long walk which took four hours. During those hours, he collected money from bars, news-stands and from the Numbers men. During this stop-start walk, Sammy sweated with fear, expecting at any moment some nut would shoot him down and grab the money.

For five hundred and twenty Fridays, he had done this walk and even after so many Fridays when nothing had happened, he couldn’t shake the fear out of his system. He kept telling himself that if it wasn’t this Friday, it could be the next.

Sammy couldn’t believe, even after ten years, in the power of his boss, Joe Massino. He couldn’t believe that any one man could have this sprawling town of close on half a million inhabitants in such a relentless grip that no one—not even a nutter—would dare attempt to steal the bag of money that Sammy was carrying.

Sammy had told himself often enough that he was crazy to be so scared since Johnny Bianda was always with him and Johnny was considered the best gunman of Massino’s mob.

“If anything happens, Sammy,” Johnny had said, time and again, “fall on the bag and leave the rest to me.”

These should be comforting words, but they didn’t comfort Sammy. The fact that even Johnny thought something could happen turned Sammy sick to his stomach.

All the same, he told himself, it was a lot better than nothing to have Johnny’s protection. He and Johnny had been Massino’s collectors now for the past ten years. Sammy, at the age of twenty, had taken the job because the money was good and his nerves were in much better shape than now. Also, in spite of his fear, he was proud to have been picked as Massino’s collector for that meant the boss trusted him. Well, maybe not quite trusted him for Johnny always went along and there was a fool-proof system against a fiddle. Sammy was given a sealed envelope containing the money and Johnny a sealed envelope containing a signed chit stating the amount of the money. It was only when they got back to Massino’s office and stood around while the money was being counted that they learned the amount they had collected and the amounts, during the ten years they had been collectors, increased every year until the take on the previous Friday had been the alarming ( to Sammy) sum of sixty-three thousand dollars!

Sure, in spite of Massino’s ruthless reputation and Johnny’s ability to shoot fast, some nutter would be tempted to snatch the money, Sammy thought as he trudged along. He looked uneasily around him. The busy, shabby street teemed with people who made room for him, grinning at him and calling out to him.

A big, black buck, nearly as big as Sammy bawled from the steps of a tenement, “Don’t lose it, Sammy ol’ boy, ol’ boy. That little ol’ bag’s got my winnings!”

The crowd laughed and Sammy, sweating more heavily, lengthened his stride. They had one more call to make before they could get into Johnny’s beat-up Ford and Sammy could relax.

Watched by the crowd, they walked into Solly Jacob’s betting office.

Solly, vast, with a tremendous paunch and a face that looked as if it had been fashioned out of dough, had the envelopes ready.

“Not bad this week,” he said to Sammy, “but tell Mr. Joe, next week is going to be a bonanza. February 29th! Every sucker in town will be trying his luck. Tell Mr. Joe you’ll need a truck to bring the money in. Don’t kid yourself you’ll be able to carry it.”

Sammy cringed as he put the envelope in the bag. “And, Johnny,” Solly said, handing Johnny his envelope, “maybe it would be an idea to get more protection for Sammy next week. Have a word with Mr. Joe.”

Johnny grunted. He was a man of few words. He turned to the door and went out into the street, followed by Sammy.

They had only a few yards to walk to where Johnny had parked his car and with relief Sammy got into the passenger’s seat. The handcuff around his thick wrist was chaffing his skin. That was another thing that scared him: to be handcuffed to the bag! He had once read of some bank clerk who had had his hand chopped off with an axe by some nutter, trying to get the bag from him. To be without a hand!

Johnny sank into the driving seat and searched for the ignition key. Sammy looked uneasily at him. He had an idea that Johnny had something preying on his mind. For the past few weeks, Johnny had been more silent than he had ever been. Yes, Sammy was sure something was preying on his mind and this worried him because he was fond of this short, thickset man with his thick black hair, shot with grey, his deep-set brown eyes and his firm, hard mouth. Sammy knew Johnny was as tough as teak and he carried a punch like a sledge-hammer blow. Sammy had never forgotten how Johnny had once handled a punk who had tried to pick a quarrel. He and Johnny were enjoying a beer in a down-town bar when this punk, twice Johnny’s size, came up and said in a voice like a fall of gravel that he didn’t drink in the same bar as a nigger.

Johnny had said quietly, “Then drink somewhere else.”

That was something Sammy always admired about Johnny: he always spoke quietly: he never shouted.

The punk had turned on Sammy who was sweating with fright, but Johnny had stepped between them so the punk had hit him. To Sammy, it seemed a hell of a punch, but Johnny didn’t even grunt. He swayed a little, then the punk took a bang on the jaw that broke it and flattened him. Sammy hadn’t seen the punch: it had been too fast, but he had seen the effect.

Yes, Johnny- was as tough as teak, but he was fine with Sammy. He didn’t talk a lot. In fact, Sammy, after going around with him for ten years, knew little or nothing about him except that he had been Massino’s gunman for some twenty years, was maybe forty- two or three years of age, unmarried, no relations, lived in a two-room apartment and Massino thought a lot of him.

Whenever Sammy got worried or had woman trouble or his young brother was playing up or something he would consult Johnny, and Johnny, speaking in his quiet voice, always managed to make Sammy feel good even if he didn’t solve his problem.

When they began the collection together, Johnny had been more talkative. He had said something that Sammy had never forgotten.

“Listen, Sammy,” Johnny had said. “You’ll make good money from this racket, but don’t let it kid you. You put by ten per cent of what you earn every week. Understand? Out of every ten dollars you earn, put one dollar aside and don’t touch it. In a few years you’ll have enough to be independent and you can get out of this racket, for as sure- as God made little apples, sooner or later, you’ll want to get out.”

Sammy had followed this ‘advice’. It made sense to him. He bought a steel box and every week when he got paid he put ten per cent of his earnings in the box which he kept under his bed. Of course there had been times when he had been forced to milk the box. There was that business with his brother who had to have five hundred dollars or go to jail. Then there was that business with Cloe who had to have an expensive abortion, but over the years the ten per cent mounted up and the last time Sammy checked the amount he was astonished to find he was worth three thousand dollars.