Peter Rabe - Murder Me for Nickels

“You’re stalling Lippit,” I said. “Thirty per cent of your business, Bascot, is Lippit.”

And a hundred per cent of Lippit’s coin depended on Bascot, so I shouldn’t have opened this way, maybe.

“And a hundred per cent of…”

I shouldn’t have opened this way. I told Bascot to shut up and not start out with this desperate talk because what I had come over for was strictly business and not his and my friendship.

“I’m not trying to be personal,” he said. “I got nothing against you.”

The dislike stuck out of him like his big, bony nose.

“Why this crap?” I asked him. “Why this stall with the records and then nothing at all?”

He stepped back into an alley of racks and picked at one of the marker cards on a shelf.

“You don’t like the way I been giving service, St. Louis, then why in hell you been letting me service your outfit for all this time? And the first complaint you ever had, don’t come in here and act like a-act the way-” He gave up, all choked with nerves and bad temper.

I put one arm on a shelf, which looks casual. “Please, Bascot. I just got this one question.”

“What? What question?”

“But I first want to apologize. I’m sorry, Bascot, for the way I sounded.”

This embarrassed him and he frowned like a prune.

“Okay, Bascot? I’m sorry.”

“Okay, okay. Forget it.”

“And the question is, why the runaround?”

He blew his stack. He said he didn’t know about any runaround and hadn’t he paid for picking up all those wrong records and what in hell more did we want.

“Service, Bascot That’s all.”

“Service, service, service! You think all I got to do is supply your jukes?”

As far as I was concerned, all he had to do was give me one straight answer. But he was much too uncomfortable for that.

“I know,” I told him. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure.”

“Damn right.”

“Who’s doing it, Bascot?”

“What? What in hell you talking about?”

“Or, how is he doing it?”

For a minute I thought he might open up, he looked that uncomfortable, but then he had a lot of habit to save him. He got nasty again.

“Don’t come in here on no big horse, St Louis. I don’t owe you nothing and I don’t even know you. Lippit Enterprises is what I deal with and I deal with that outfit like with any other. Now why don’t you just get out of here and wait your turn.”

“When?”

“When what? What, more questions?”

“When will that turn be, Bascot?”

“You’ll be taken care of. Don’t worry.”

“But I do, Bascot I’m worried about when it’s our turn to get the records we got on permanent order.”

“You’ll get taken care of.”

“I don’t mean it that way. I’m asking about the records.”

“Soon as I get straightened out, that’s when. That soon.”

He was getting very irritated and I myself didn’t find much humor left in the situation. Only he was more honest about it. He looked mean and ratty.

“So you go on and get out of here, St. Louis, and tell Lippit to wait his turn.”

“How long?”

“Doomsday, for all I know!” he said, in just short of a squeaky scream.

“That’s too long, Bascot.”

It looked as if he were afraid of his own excitement, because instead of saying anything else, screaming maybe, he started to turn.

I reached out and held him by the lapels.

“Bascot. Listen to me, businessman. You make one fourth of the price of a record and you sell us a hell of a lot of them, every month. You drop us, Bascot, and who’s going to take up the slack?”

He wouldn’t answer and strained at his clothes, but I yanked him up short.

“Who, Bascot?”

“Let go!”

“Why don’t you answer, Bascot?”

Bascot did not answer but somebody else did.

“Because he only works here.”

I looked over Bascot’s shoulder. Where the long warehouse got dim in the back, there was Benotti. He looked squat, even small, because he stood at the end of an alley made by rows of tall racks.

They were like tool-crib racks, thin two-by-four skeletons with a lot of tiers which reached up higher than the head of a man. The warehouse had line after line of these racks and on the shelves were black stacks of records.

I let go of Bascot. Benotti, at the end of the alley, started to walk. Once he stopped and laughed at me. He favored one foot, because of the jump off his porch, and when he stopped he held on to a rack for a moment, making the thin structure sway. It swayed with a small creak, which was the only sound in the warehouse for that moment, and then Benotti laughed again. He walked my way, feeling good. He had a wicked cut down one side of his nose-not as raw as when I had put it there-but he still looked chipper, or eager. Too eager.

I forgot about Bascot and took a few steps toward Benotti, he walking from one end of the alley, me from the other.

“He’s working for you?” I asked him.

“Lock, stock and barrel.”

No strong-arm in this maneuver. Just brains. Benotti had sewed up our source of records.

Then I saw him move toward me, like before, and it was strong-arm again. I didn’t feel like coming any closer. I stopped and looked back, where I had left Bascot. He was no longer there and did not count. What counted were the two at the end of the alley, one man long and ugly and the other one short and ugly. Or maybe they only looked ugly to me because that was how my mood was turning.

“Just crowd him,” said Benotti behind me. “He’s mine.”

I stood still, not knowing what to do for the moment, and worried about feeling no spunk but instead clearly scared.

“You wouldn’t consider,” I said, “talking this over?”

I said it for a joke, to change from scared to a joke, but Benotti’s answer was as expected.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he said to me.

“No?” I said.

“No.”

I said, “Tsk,” hoping it would sound like bravado and, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

Then I tried it like a monkey’s uncle. Up the side of the rack, to the top tier, while the thin, wooden structure gave a horrible creak. The damn thing swayed and I crunched some records. I could see Bascot again, far away, and of course all the others.

Bascot didn’t say a thing. He just worked here. But Benotti cursed good and loud and the tall pug he had brought along tried it the way I had done it. The rack swayed and creaked. The short pug was running around the far end, waiting for me on the other side.

“Just crowd him!” yelled Benotti. “Just do that and bring him to me.”

The tall pug had big-knuckled hands and they came up on the top rim of the rack. I stepped on them.

The man screamed but he didn’t let go. Good for him. I skittered to the other side of the rack, bent a little, and jumped over the alley.

The rack behind me made a sound like a crate, then like a crate coming open, then like the same thing spilling its guts. Two-by-fours flying, records flying, maledictions flying, and the tall one underneath. At least I figured he was, while I was running.

I ran the length of tiers, jumped from one to the other, with things creaking, crunching, swaying, and mostly falling down.

It reminded me of a railroad yard, with sidings here, spurs there, and the whole thing in mid-air like a nightmare landscape.

If I could make it to the far row of racks where the sliding door to the loading ramp showed-halfway open and the bright sunshine outside…

But that was the rack which started swaying all by itself. The short pug showed on the top and somebody underneath was helping him up.

I could run around a little bit longer, jump back and forth a little bit longer. No. I couldn’t.