Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“How’ll I call them? Uh… either of you got a nickel?”

Johnny looked at Sam. The latter scowled. “You know I haven’t.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “How about the Italian Delicatessen across the street? Does he know you well enough to let you use his phone?”

“It’s a pay phone.” Mort winced. “I owe him a couple of bucks now.”

“Then a nickel more or less won’t matter. Come on…”

They left the loft building and crossed the street to the delicatessen. “Hello Tony,” Mort greeted the proprietor, cheerfully. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure,” said Tony, sourly. “You put in the nickel and make the dial.”

Johnny took command. “Look, Tony, Mort’s broke and I forgot my money at home… I left it on the piano. Mort wants to call up his uncle and ask him for twenty dollars. His uncle’s captain of the 44th Precinct, you know. Now, be a good fellow and let Mort have a nickel. Then when he gets the twenty he’ll pay you those couple of dollars he owes you. Thanks, pal!”

Tony glared at Johnny Fletcher but punched the No Sale on his cash register and produced a nickel. Mort took it and went into the telephone booth. He was inside for three minutes, then came out perspiring.

“Okay, Mort?”

Mort shook his head.

“How much do they want?”

“A hundred and twenty dollars.”

“But you only owe them eighty!”

“I know, but another month’s rent is due next week and they say they won’t unlock unless I pay that too… I even told them I was an old-time sailor, but it didn’t work.”

Johnny began swearing. Sam Cragg joined in, but Mort Murray was too discouraged for even that bit of relief. Tony, the delicatessen man, came around from behind his counter.

“Look Meester Murray,” he said, “you needing one hundred twenny dollar?”

“I won’t need it in heaven.”

“You got beezness, Meester Murray,” said Tony. “Theese friend — they are customer, maybe?”

“The best I ever had. But they can’t work unless I give them some books. And I’ve got other orders for books. They’re piled up, but they’re all credit orders…”

“Well, Meester Murray,” said Tony. “I feex him for you. I getting you the money.”

“What?” cried Johnny Fletcher. “You’re going to lend Mort the money?”

“Me? Who you t’ink I am? Rockyfeller, maybe? No, I got brudder-in-law; he give you the money. Wait, I calling him on the telephone…”

He went into the phone booth, closed the door and came out in a half minute. “He be right here. I catching him in the pool room around the corner. Carmella, he giving you the money.”

Carmella came strolling into the delicatessen in a few minutes. He was a slit-eyed, olive skinned man of about thirty. He wore an expensive pin-striped suit and had a diamond pin stuck in his flaming red tie.

“Hello, boys,” he said, smoothly. “Hear you need a little money.”

“A loan shark!” exclaimed Johnny.

Carmella regarded Johnny calmly. “The name is Carmella Genualdi. I work for Julius, just so you won’t make any mistake. Now, which one of you is it wants the money?”

A little shiver ran through Mort Murray. “M-me. A hundred and twenty dollars.”

Carmella looked at his brother-in-law, the delicatessen man. The latter bobbed his head up and down. “He gotting the business ’cross the street. Book, or something.”

Carmella took a thick roll from his trousers pocket, took off the rubber band and counted off five twenty-dollar bills. “Since you’re a friend of Tony’s, I’ll give you a break, on the interest. It’ll be ten dollars a day. You won’t owe any interest until Wednesday. One of the boys’ll be around to collect it… every day.”

“Say, isn’t that pretty steep interest?” asked Johnny.

“It’s more’n the bank’d charge,” said Carmella. “But can any of you birds borrow money at a bank?” He smiled thinly at Mort. “And don’t forget, we like our interest paid prompt. Huh?” Without waiting for a reply he nodded and left the store.

“Brr!” Johnny shuddered. “Nice relations you got, Tony.”

“Oh, sure, Carmella’s all right. He’s out on, what you call? The bail? He’s breaking fella’s arm, last week.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Sam Cragg.

“Hey!” cried Tony. “You paying me the two dollar forty cent you owe?…”

“Tomorrow,” said Johnny. “Mort’s got to save for the interest to pay your brother-in-law. Come on, Mort.”

Outside he said to Mort, “Now, let’s run over to this sailors outfit. We’ll give them eighty bucks and if they don’t take it, I’ll choke it down the admiral’s sanctimonious throat.”

“That’s the stuff, Johnny,” said Sam Cragg. He smacked his lips. “I feel better already. Our troubles are over. Yours, too, Mort. Which reminds me… uh…” He took the handkerchief and cards from his pocket. “Ever see the old handkerchief trick, Mort?”

“What?” exclaimed Mort. “You taking up magic?”

Johnny grunted. “It’d be magic if his tricks ever worked.”

Sam ignored Johnny. He draped the handkerchief across his arm, fanned out his pack of cards and said, “Take a card, Mort… That’s fine. Now put it back here.”

He shuffled the cards and then took the handkerchief and spread it out on his right palm. With his left hand, he placed the pack of cards in the center of the handkerchief. He started to fold the handkerchief over the cards, then muttered: “No, I don’t do it that way. Let’s see… I got to double the handkerchief first…” He uncovered the cards, fumbled the pack and it fell to the sidewalk.

“Is that the trick, Sam?” cried Mort.

“That’s it, Mort,” said Johnny. “The idea is to see how far you can scatter the cards… Come on, let’s get this rent business cleaned up. I feel nice and mean.”

As they left the restaurant Mort Murray shook hands with both Sam and Johnny. “Look, fellas, I ain’t worried about Carmella at all. Only…”

“Sure, Mort,” said Johnny, soothingly. “You can count on me. I’m going right out with these books now. Tomorrow morning when you come down to your office at nine o’clock we’ll be waiting for you. With some dough.”

“I’ll bet,” said Sam, sotto voce. He picked up a carton in each hand, carrying them as if they weighed four or five pounds instead of forty.

Mort shook hands all around again and trotted back to his office. Johnny and Sam headed for Fourteenth Street.

Johnny looked down Fourteenth Street. “There’s a cop up the street. Besides, I worked here once before. Let’s see, where else can I get a crowd without the damn cops breaking it up before they reach for the folding money?”

“How about the World’s Fair?”

Johnny scowled. “No pitchmen, even if we could afford the tax… Jeez, did you ever see so many cops in New York? Must be the fair. I’ll tell you what, we’ve got a couple of bucks, why not run out to one of the better suburbs?”

“Where?” Sam howled.

Johnny screwed up his face. “Oh, maybe White Plains or Scarsdale. Or perhaps…”

“Don’t tell me! Hillcrest!”

“Why, yes, that’s a nice town…”

“I knew it! You’ve had this in mind all the time. The clock girl lives in Hillcrest. You want to stick your nose into that business. Well, I don’t. I’m perfectly satisfied to be out of it and I’m going to stay out of it. You wouldn’t get me out to Hillcrest if you put me in a straitjacket…”

So they went to the Grand Central and rode out to Hillcrest. Arriving there, Johnny went into a store to ask directions. He came out after a moment, a strange look on his face.