Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

The guy hadn’t got a collar or a shirt. Under the overcoat was a cotton undervest. The pant-legs showing under the overcoat were too short and the cuffs at the bottom were grimed with mud that never came from New York.

Every time he passed a store or somewhere where it was light he stuck his head down into his coat collar. Once he saw a kid carrying some bread, and he licked his lips like a hungry dog. His nose was bothering him. He hadn’t a handkerchief and it was sore. If you’ve ever tried blowing your nose on newspaper you’ll know what I mean.

He turned off Bowery at Kenmare. He was limping. He had a blister on his right foot where the shoe was broken. He hastened his steps with an effort. On Mott he saw the newsboy.

The boy was standing on the edge of the sidewalk looking around. When he saw the guy in the dirty grey fedora he crossed the street and stood in the shadow. Further down the limping guy crossed and slowed up. Then he looked around, too, and worked up slowly towards the boy.

The boy made a play of selling him a news-sheet. The limping guy took it. On the front page he could see his own picture, and across the top of the sheet was a banner caption — ‘Fremer Breaks Jail — Kills Two Guards’.

That was him.

He spoke to the boy through the side of his mouth. He licked his lips before he spoke.

‘Talk quick,’ he said. ‘Where’s that blonde of Franchini’s?’

The boy grinned at him. ‘You’re in luck, mug,’ he said. ‘She’s in Moksie’s dive. She’s hangin’ around there plenty. An’ is she drinkin’ or is she? She’s the rye queen an’ toppin’ off with rum. Does she get high!’

The limping guy swore quietly.

‘Where’s she gettin’ the dough, kid?’ he asked.

The newsboy spat graphically.

‘She ain’t,’ he said. ‘Moksie’s puttin’ it on the cuff.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Seen that in the sheet about you?’ he muttered. ‘They’re offerin’ five grand for you, dead or alive. How’d you like that, pal?’

But the man was gone. The newsboy looked after him as he disappeared into the shadows and spat once more.

The guy limped towards the waterfront. He stood up under a light in an alley and read the paper. What the kid had said was true. They were offering five grand for him dead or alive. He licked his lips and grinned — like a wolf. Then he began to walk.

It was midnight when he dragged himself down the stairs at Moksie’s speak on the waterfront. The place was near empty. Moksie was leaning over the bar reading a news-sheet. The limping guy walked over slowly and looked at Moksie.

‘Keep your trap shut, and like it, sucker,’ he said. ‘I’ve gotta gun in my pocket that’s liable to go shootin’ itself off supposin’ somebody starts to do anything that even looks screwy. Where’s Franchini’s girl?’

Moksie nodded his head towards the far corner. The guy looked over and saw her. There was a measure of rye at Moksie’s elbow. He picked it up and drained it. Then he limped over to the woman.

She was twenty-eight and still pretty. She was pretty high, and a half-bottle of rotgut with a fake bacardi label stood in front of her. Her eyes were heavy and her last perm had gone haywire on her. Her skin was good and her hands were trembling. She kept tapping on the floor with a four-inch heel.

The guy slumped into a chair opposite her. She looked at it and then him.

‘So what?’ she said. She grinned cynically. ‘You ain’t the only guy worth five grand,’ she said. ‘Feelin’ good, I suppose, because you broke out. Well... maybe they’ll get you, sucker. They do get ’em, you know. An’ what do you want anyhow?’

He leaned towards her.

‘Listen, kid,’ he said. ‘I gotta talk fast an’ you gotta listen. I been on my feet for forty-eight hours, an’ unless I get under cover they’ll pick me up and fry me. I’m nearly through. I’m soaked an’ hungry, an’ I could use liquor’ — she pushed the bacardi towards him and he took a swig from the bottle — ‘but I gotta contact Franchini. I tell ya I gotta. Now, don’t give me that stuff about not knowin’ where he is. I know all about it. They’re offering five grand for him, too, ain’t they? An’ you’re his girl, ain’t you? Well... so you gotta know.’

She jerked up her head and looked at him. A gleam of faint interest showed in her eyes.

‘I contacted Marelli tonight,’ he went on. ‘He says that he can get Franchini an’ me away if I can lay under cover for two days. Well, where’s Franchini hidin’? Join me up with him. Another two hours an’ they’ll have me. Marelli will get us outa this burg in two days, an’ I can fix to get him paid an’ he knows it. Well... I’ll do a trade.

‘Get me along to his hide-out. I got no dough — nothin’ except an empty gun an’ a cough. Fix me some eats an’ contact Marelli. He’ll get us out of here on Thursday. I’m tradin’ my lay-up with Franchini for the getaway for him. Well... do we deal?’

She smiled. Her teeth were white and even.

‘What a fine pair of killers youse two are,’ she said. ‘Takin’ it on the lam both of you an’ both scared stiff.’ She looked at the paper. ‘So you bust out up the river,’ she said. ‘How’dya get down here? Hi-jacked a car?’

He nodded. ‘I bumped a guy in a Ford,’ he said. ‘I think I done him too. He took two slugs. They got plenty on me now...’

She took another drink and passed the bottle back to him.

‘D’ya meet a guy called Lloyd Schrim in the big house?’ she said. ‘A young kid — about twenty-three. He got life for a killin’.’

He nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘He got it for rubbin’ out Gerlin’ at the Polecat Road-house. He told me he never done it. He said he took the rap for some other guy. He’s not a bad kid. He’s ill. He’s got no dough, so they got him workin’ in the jute mill. He’s got TB — they get that way in the mill. I reckon he was played for a sucker by the guy who did the job, but he wouldn’t talk. That’s why they’re ridin’ him an’ makin’ it tough. I don’t reckon he’ll last much longer.’

She looked at him.

‘Why don’t he try a break?’ she asked. ‘You done it. Why can’t he?’

He grinned. ‘I got friends outside,’ he said, ‘friends with dough. You can make a break, but it costs dough. It cost some pals of mine seven grand to get me out.’

She grinned.

‘Ain’t you the expensive baby?’ she said. ‘Seven grand to get you out and the cops offerin’ five for you. You oughta feel swell.’

He coughed. Underneath the table she heard his shoe squelch.

‘Listen, kid,’ she said, ‘I’ll fix it. I’ll trade puttin’ you up with Franchini until Marelli can get you both away. Franchini ain’t got no pals like you with dough and contacts, an’ he can’t put his nose outside the dump. They’re offering five grand for him, too.

‘Now, listen. I’m going outside to grab a cab. Pull your hat down an’ get in so the driver don’t see you. Get him to drop you on Tide Alley at Parata Wharf. Down the bottom is a bust-in warehouse. Franchini’s on the top floor, but be careful. He’s liable to shoot anybody he don’t know.

‘I’ll be along in half an hour. When I come you tell me where I contact Marelli, an’ we’ll fix the job. So long — killer!’

Franchini opened the door and looked at the limping guy. Franchini was tall and thin and dirty. He hadn’t shaved for a week, and his mouth was still twitching from cocaine.

He grinned. ‘Come in,’ he said. ‘You’re Fremer. The dame ’phoned me. I reckon the idea of gettin’ out of this hell-broth looks good to me. I’m for Canada.’

The other grinned. ‘Me too,’ he said.