Peter Rabe - Murder Me for Nickels

“I haven’t even asked…”

“You were going to ask if Walter is here and the answer is no.”

“Maybe I was going to ask…”

“Anything else, the answer is no, too,” and she hung up.

I called up the club where he had that room and somebody answered to tell me Mister Lippit was in the steam room. That’s when I felt that the rest of the operations must be going all right.

It was a nice forenoon with bright sun and a breeze to keep the heat down, at least till noontime. I put the top down on the car and drove to the club.

There were athletes even at that hour. I could hear them make sports noises in the gym and that health odor of theirs came as far as the lobby.

“Where is Mister Lippit at the moment?” I asked at the desk.

“He maintains a room on…”

I nodded and went up there but Lippit wasn’t in the room. There was a kid at the table, by the name of Davy, and he was supposed to hold down the phone. There hadn’t been any phoning he said, and Lippit was still in the steam room, or at the next stage, he said, which he thought might be the masseur.

“You mean nobody’s checked in from the West Side or anything?”

“There haven’t been any calls,” said Davy. “But I’ve called the West Side every hour, the way Mister Lippit said.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” The kid smiled politely but he was clearly impatient. He was rolling and unrolling a magazine about how to do it yourself-I couldn’t tell what-and I was interrupting him.

“Did you reach Folsom?”

“No. He’s not at the number I got. He’s out running things.”

Good commander, that Folsom.

“And he hasn’t called in either?”

“No, Mister St. Louis.”

Requiring no supervision, that Commander Folsom.

I went downstairs and checked around for Lippit, but he was still sweating himself in the steam room. So I left.

Perhaps it was the clear, pretty morning, but there seemed to be real peace on the West Side. Not that I had expected a war, but some war nerves, maybe. At least that. But Morry, in the bowling alley, was toting up last night’s receipts, and he was happy. Louie, who had a very clean looking patch on one side of his nose, was also happy, because he felt secure and protected. Then I went to a couple of bars, but bars always look peaceful in the forenoon. There were just the few who drink before ten in the morning, but they never talk and are silent types. There was peace. Dead, maybe, but peace.

I went to the bar on Liberty and Alder where Folsom had one of the goon squads waiting. I didn’t see them at first because the place was so dark. There was the long bar, with one morning drinker and the bartender was doing a crossword puzzle. And there was a gray cat. She sat on top of the jukebox and her eyes were closed. Suddenly she gave a screech like a woman and flew off the machine. Somebody laughed. They were sitting behind the jukebox, at a round table, playing cards. But without much interest. One of them was laughing.

The bartender came over with the cat on his arm. The cat was clawed into his shoulder as if she were afraid of the height.

“Listen,” said the bartender. “Who done that?”

The cat smelled a little bit of burnt fur and the bartender knew very well who had done that But he was short and thin and the one who was laughing was big and fat.

“Phew,” he said, “what a stinker,” and threw his cigarette on the floor.

It hit me on the shoe and I stepped back a little. Then I stepped on the cigarette and rubbed it out.

“They been bothering you?” I said to the bartender.

He knew me and didn’t know what to say. He knew that those punks and I worked for the same outfit, but he felt different about them and me.

“It’s just the cat here, Mister St. Louis. They keep bothering the cat.”

“We’re here to see nothing happens to jukeboxes,” said the big one, “and cats sitting on top of jukeboxes is not allowed. Right, fellers?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” they said, or something like that.

“She just sits there,” said the bartender. “The light from underneath keeps her warm and she likes that.”

“Not allowed,” said the big one.

“Put the cat back up there,” I told the bartender.

He did it and nobody said anything while this went on. There wasn’t any noise at all except for the slow scrape of the chair when the big one got up. He leaned one arm on the jukebox and looked at me.

“So you’re that feller with the name,” he said. “New Orleans, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t have to answer because he filled the space right after that crack with a long, phlegmy laugh. After a while it even sounded stupid to him and he let it die down. Then he talked as if he had never laughed before in his life.

“Folsom’s been telling me about you, New Orleans.”

“St Louis. And now I’m going to tell you about me.” I came just a little closer to make it more personal. “Folsom is running you and the rest of the apes, but the orders come from me. You sit down and hold still. You wait till you hear from Folsom before practicing your art and in the meantime no extracurricular activities. And leave that cat alone.”

He looked at me and then at his buddies and I think he didn’t answer anything right away because he wasn’t sure of all the words I had used.

Then he said, “You come all the way down here to tell me about that cat?”

He hit the ridiculous part of the conversation right on the head and I didn’t feel very impressive. Which was no trick anyway. I’m just built average but he wasn’t. I felt I should talk about something else.

“You don’t look,” I said to the men at the table, “as if you’ve been doing any work today.”

“I might any minute though,” said the big one at the jukebox.

“I’m asking because we haven’t heard from Folsom. There’s been nothing today?”

“Just the cat,” said somebody at the table.

“And you,” said the big one.

I was getting that feeling in my hands and along both shoulders, that fine little tickle and tension I always get before I just have to take a sharp swing. I would have enjoyed that Only it wouldn’t have been part of the business. Besides, I felt he was too big for me.

“I’m leaving,” I said. “So don’t worry.”

“I’m worried? I’m not leaving. I’m not worried.”

“When Folsom comes, ask him to call, will you?”

“St Louis,” said the big one. “Are you trying to change the subject?”

“Yes,” I said. “Frankly, yes.”

It was now a good time to leave because what I had said made him open his mouth in sheer wonderment I nodded and turned but then he thought of a way to revive his spirits.

“You gonna go like that and no instructions about this cat?”

I turned to look back and he was just pointing his finger at the cat The cat sat, hunched, and its eyes gleamed as it watched the finger.

I was wishing he wouldn’t think of anything else to do. I don’t really like cats and I didn’t feel then, or any other time, like Saint Francis or Sir Francis, or whatever his name was, who loved all those creatures-and why in hell couldn’t that cat sit someplace else, like on the roof.

“Now you leave her alone,” said the bartender. “Tell him, Mister St. Louis.”

“Nice gray cat,” said the big one, and all his brother apes were watching. “Nice and gray, this one. Not yellow at all.”

I don’t take that kind of thing up. It doesn’t make me feel self-conscious and besides, why should I be at the beck and call of every punk who gets his kicks that way. But this time I had to take it up somehow.

“Leave her alone,” I said, “before she eats you up.”