Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 3, February 1974

Three for the Money by Louis Riley

There was a bushel of loot in that cracker box safe, just crying for three smart guys like us to take it away. All it needed was two murders, a triple-cross — and five grand we didn’t have.

It was a balmy Sunday night, and Big Lefty, Little Manuel and I were sitting in the back room of Solemn Sol’s bar and grill, drinking double hookers and speculating on what to do next — whether to go over to Madam Chang’s for a little disportation, as the licentious Little Manuel had suggested, or go see if we could slip in and sandbag Chippy Parkington’s eternal crap game.

While we were taking a vote, there came a discreet tapping at the door and Solemn Sol himself stuck in his shiny bald head to announce:

“You boys have got company.”

Big Lefty jerked his massive head up and glowered at Solemn Sol.

“What company already, baldy?”

The fat, basset-eyed proprietor winced and almost recoiled from the big man’s menacing look, and I can’t say I blame him.

You have to see this Big Lefty to believe him. He is an ugly, scar-faced semi-Indian giant. Nobody — and I do mean nobody — could be more meaner and evil in appearance than he is. This boy could scare the snakes off Medusa’s head just in passing by.

Recovering a little, Solemn Sol said: “Dixie Dan Shivers and The Dummy are here to see you fellows.”

Big Lefty lit a long, strong black cigar and expelled a pungent cloud of acrid smoke at the cracked ceiling. He cocked a shaggy brow at Solemn Sol and asked: “What do those bums want?”

The owner shrugged. “They didn’t say. All they told me was that they wished a meet with you.”

Big Lefty sighed. “All right, Sol,” he said. “Show the schmucks in. I ain’t had a good laugh in quite a while.”

Solemn Sol nodded and shut the door. The slick-haired Little Manuel took a snort of Bourbon, leaned back in his chair and said: “Now I wonder what those petty larcenists want.”

We didn’t have to wait long to find out, for a moment later Solemn Sol re-opened the door and ushered the disreputable pair in. Dixie Dan Shivers was taller than me, indeed, almost as high as the towering Big Lefty. Prematurely gray, lean and gaunt looking, he sported two prominent front teeth that gave him an hyenic appearance when he spoke, laughed or even smiled. The Dummy, on the other hand, was of average height and bore practically nondescript features. This man could hear, but could not speak save for some incoherent garbling sound he made from his throat whenever he became excited. Some time back he had managed to get his tongue sliced out by a disgruntled fellow convict in the federal pen at Leavenworth. Snitching, I believe they called it.

The three of us sat quite still, politely ignoring Dixie Dan’s outstretched hand, then he awkwardly replaced it at his side. Mustering up an ingratiating smile, he said: “Well, h’ra, boys? Haha! You all look like you been eating high on the ribs, these days. Haha!”

Big Lefty sneered. “We eat,” he said laconically.

“Yeah,” I put in. “We eat. What’s on your mind, Dixie? I know you didn’t come around here just to comment on our dining habits.”

“Haha! You’re right, Lucky. Haha! Dining habits. Haha! well, I’ll get right to the point, then, and get it over with, Haha! Ahh... umm... er—”

“Well?”

“Ah, yes. Well, we came around to see if you fellows would lend us five thousand bucks for a day or so.”

Big Lefty’s dark eyebrows shot up in amazement and there was a moment of stunned silence as we checked our ears out. Then the big lefthander laughed and said: “Dixie, you are not only out of your tree, pal; you are in the wrong jungle!”

“Haha! Wrong jungle. Well, I suppose so. Anyway, I told you I’d get right to the point.”

“You sure did, jocko,” Big Lefty agreed. “And what’s more, I’ll get right to the proverbial point also. The answer is no.”

Dixie Dan Shivers looked at the floor. “Oh,” he said quietly.

I lit a cigarette and gazed through the smoke at Dixie Dan’s crestfallen face. “What do you need five grand for, Dixie?”

He looked at me with a fleck of hope in his hazel eyes. He said: “We want to buy a bank job from the Caser, Lucky.”

“The Caser?”

“Yeah. You see, he’s in town tonight, and he’s got a small hick jug lined up somewhere in this vicinity that’s worth at least fifty Gs. But he won’t sell the plan for nothing but cash, which we ain’t got.”

“I see. And he wants five thousand for the layout?”

“Right on, Lucky. But like I say, we can’t seem to get it together.”

A conniving look appeared in Big Lefty’s murderous black eyes.

“That’s really too bad, Dixie,” he said. Then in a more intimidating tone: “But then again, I don’t think you boys are cut out for taking a bank in the first place. That type of chore is more in our line of business than yours.”

“Well,” Dixie Dan tentatively agreed, “maybe you’re right, But then again, I think this bank is just a snap burglary deal. Maybe we could handle it. I don’t know, for sure.” He looked into Big Lefty’s menacing eyes and quickly changed his tack. “I guess you’re right after all, Lefty. Maybe it is too much for us.”

“I know I’m right,” the big Indian said with typical immodesty. “I’m always right in these things, Dixie. And a lot of other things too,” he added, looking significantly at Little Manuel and me.

“Hooray,” I said.

“Ole,” echoed Little Manuel.

Big Lefty ignored us. He went on talking to Dixie Dan Shivers.

“I tell you what I’m going to do, Dixie,” he said, spreading his great hands magnanimously. “I’m going to stake you to a half C, and then maybe you can run it up over at Chippy Parkington’s crap game. All you got to do is tell me where the Caser is. I think me and the boys here will buy in on that piece of action ourselves.”

Dixie Dan fidgeted a little in nervous disappointment, appeared to think the proposition over and then finally shrugged in deprecation. He said: “I guess I got no choice in the matter. You see, to tell you the truth, Lefty, we’re in quite a bind, right now. In fact, we’re actually hungry, we got the shorts that bad. That fifty will look mighty good to us.”

He eyed the bottle of Bourbon on the table. “Come to think of it,” he added, “we ain’t only hungry; we’re pretty thirsty, too.”

Little Manuel snickered and spoke up: “Solemn Sol will give you each a glass of water on your way out. Tell him we said so.”

Big Lefty chuckled and then looked directly at me. “Give Dixie fifty dollars, Lucky.”

I stiffened and stared at him. “Me? Why me? Why don’t you give it to him, big shot? It’s your brainstorm.”

The giant sighed and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Then: “Manuel?”

“What?”

“Give Dixie the half C.”

“Non comprende.”

“I said give him the fifty, you sawed-off little spick!”

“Nix, you overgrown halfbreed mick!”

The big conniver sighed again and then hoisted his massive bulk from the table. “Sometimes,” he said reproachfully, “I think you two birds are the chintziest crooks on the face of the city!”

“Yeah,” I said. “I ought to be ashamed of myself.”

“Me too,” accorded Little Manuel, giggling inanely.

Big Lefty grunted. He took out his roll and peeled off two Jacksons and a Hamilton.

“Here you are, Dixie,” he said. “Have a meal and a drink on me. Now, tell me where to find the Caser. And woe betide you, boy, if you’re just trying to con me. I’ll have Manuel castrate The Dummy and then cut out your tongue without washing the blade.”

The silent Dummy looked dismayed as Dixie Dan Shivers eagerly accepted the money.

“Thanks a lot, Lefty. And I swear on Capone’s grave that I ain’t conning you about the Caser. You can find him at the Royal hotel, room six-twenty. He’s registered under the name of Brockman. But listen — you’ll have to get to him tonight, as the job he’s got lined up has to be done by tomorrow morning.”

“Okay, pal. Now, you take your dumb buddy and get to hell out of here. The boys and I are going to have a little private chat.”

“Umm. Haha! Private chat. Right on, Lefty. C’mon, Dummy. And thanks again, boys, We’ll see you guys.”

After the sorry twosome had left, the monster re-lit his cigar, poured another round of double hookers, sat back down and said: “Well, clods, what do you say? I think it’s time we got acquainted with the Caser and buy a piece of action from him. Are we agreed?”

“Suits me, jocko,” Little Manuel said amiably.

“Likewise,” I concurred.

Big Lefty beamed. “That’s fine,” he said. “You know, clods, it don’t digest well with me to be sitting around on my thumbs and laurels, whatever that is. I like to be up and about, doing things and making the scene. You know, we ain’t had our grubby little paws in the till for some time, and so I think we should do something about it.”

“Hear, hear,” I said.

“Amen,” followed Little Manuel.

“Good. I’m glad to see you clods are staying in the right frame of mind. Now,” he continued, smiling wolfishly at us, “each of you dig down and come up with one thousand six hundred sixty six dollars and sixty six and two thirds cents!”

“Awrrk! What in the hell for?”

“It’s to be your fair share of the five grand we pay the Caser for the setup, you dungheads!” he glared at us.

“Oh.”

“Echh!”

“Yeah. And when it’s over, I pull the fifty I gave Dixie Dan right off the top before we even talk about the split. Understood?”

“Ah— Okay with me.”

“Manuel?”

“What?”

“Understood?”

The little card-sharp shrugged, “Si,” He said. Then sighing, he added: “I’ll flip you gringos for that extra two-thirds cents.”

Five minutes later found us riding along in my white station wagon heading for the Royal to see the Caser. Although we had never before conducted any business with tire Caser, we knew of him, and of his reputation very well. This fellow went around and about the country casing banks, jewelery stores and anything else appealing to the underworld. When he lined out a job it was practically infallible, and if anything did go wrong during the operation, it was generally odds on that it was through some negligence or oversight on the taker’s part. For it was well known that the Caser makes few mistakes, if any.

After he checks a potential taking inside out, upside down and crosswise, the information is available to a professional taker for a reasonable price. And I’ve never heard of him having any dissatisified customers. He was considered a real artist in his line, and so we were a little more than anxious to get in his face.

I found a place to park about half a block from the main entrance of the Royal. We got out and made the short walk back. We crossed the gray-tiled floor of the lobby to the antique registration desk where the giant asked the goggle-eyed clerk for Mr. Brockman in room six-twenty. This desk clerk was obviously a homo, and he favored Big Lefty with what he probably considered his most charming smile.

“Yessir, big boy,” he cooed. “You may use that self-service elevator over there.”

Big Lefty grunted and the led the way to the elevator with Manuel and I smiling at each other behind him. With a frankfurter finger the giant punched the sixth floor button, and as the car ground slowly upward we stood in a semi circle smirking and chuckling until Lefty shook his head in hopeless resignation at our humor.

“I don’t know,” he said in apparent dispair, “how I ever got tangled up with you two oddballs.”

Little Manuel mocked the desk clerk’s effeminate voice: “You were just lucky, big boy. Teehee!”

I laughed and started to add my bit but Big Lefty cut me off.

“Never mind,” he snarled. “Here we are.”

The doors slid open and we walked down a long, green-carpeted corridor looking at room numbers. We found six-twenty on the left at the far end of the hall. I tapped lightly on the paneled door and then Big Lefty shouldered me aside impatiently.

“That ain’t no way to knock,” he growled. “You got to lay it on good like a man, not like some kind of pansy!”

Taking his ham-sized fist he delivered four resounding blows that sorely taxed the wooden fibers and, indeed, even rattled a heavily-urned plant standing in a nearby corner.

“Madre Dios!” Little Manuel exclaimed. “The poor man will think the police are arrived!”

“Ahh, shut up!” said the big man. “In this world you gotta be assertive, whatever that is.”

At that point the door swung open widely, and there standing before us was a tall, heavyset blond man looking to be in his thirties. He wore a satiny maroon robe over his shirt and slacks and was puffing importantly on a freshly lit cigar. He looked at us, an amused glint in his ice-blue eyes.

He said: “I thought I heard someone knock. Did you gentlemen wish to see me?”

“Mr. Brockman?”

The man seemed to be appraising us all simultaniously as he framed his answer. Then: “Yes,” he admitted. “I’m Brockman.”

“Good,” said Big Lefty. He bobbed his great head and winked conspiritorily. “We’ve come to discuss a matter of business with you, Mr. Brockman.”

The man took the cigar from his sardonic mouth and smiled.

“You have?” he said politely. “May I ask in what capacity?”

Big Lefty looked up and down the hall before answering. “We can’t discuss it out here, fellow. This has to be private.”

“Oh. Well, in that case—” The man stood accomodatingly aside and made a gesture for us to enter.

Inside the small foyer Big Lefty doffed his hat and then indicated with a sharp nudge in my ribs for Little Manuel and I to follow suit. We threw the lids on a stiff-backed embroidered chair and stepped into a compact sitting room.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” our host invited, “and tell me what you have in mind.”

Big Lefty said: “Mr. Brockman, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’m going to lay my proverbial cards on the proverbial table, get down to the proverbial brass tacks and speak the proverbial turkey.”

Oh, Lord, I thought. Proverbial, indeed.

But the blond man only regarded Big Lefty a little curiously, and then the big conniver went on hurriedly. He said: “We were talking to Dixie Dan Shivers earlier this evening, and he told us you had a little something going for a fee of five grand. Now, we’re here to ask you; is there any truth in this matter?”

The man rolled the cigar thoughtfully around in his mouth, went to a small buffet drawer, opened it, then paused and turned back to us. “Before we proceed any further, gentlemen, I believe I’m entitled to know with whom I’m dealing.”

“Oh, of course!” Lefty accorded. “I’m called Big Lefty, this platinum blond towhead is Lucky Jack Silver and the runt there is called Little Manuel. I think he’s a wetback, but he claims he’s a Chicano.”

Little Manuel bristled. “At least,” he retorted, “I ain’t no fugitive from any half-breed reservation!”

The man chuckled lightly, then: “Ah, yes. I’ve heard of you boys. You’re said to be quite a team of free-lancers — despite your quarrelsome natures.”

Big Lefty beamed. “That’s us all over,” he proclaimed. He sat down heavily on a small divan, and Little Manuel, looking around, decided to sit next to him. I chose a red psuedo-leather chair nearby.

Brockman procured a bottle of Scotch from the buffet drawer and placed it on the coffee table in front of the contrasting pair on the couch. Next he produced some drinking glasses, poured some liquor into each and passed them around, retaining one for himself. He sat down on a chair that matched mine, raised his tumbler in a tentative toast, took a sip and then looked directly at the big semi-Irish-man.

“You mentioned Dixie Dan Shivers, Lefty,” he said. “Am I to understand that you wish to purchase the setup he had in mind?”

Big Lefty nodded. “This is true,” he answered. “Dixie can’t make it, Caser. Er — you are the Caser, ain’t you?”

The man grinned at him. “That’s what they call me, Lefty. You say Dixie can’t make it?”

“This is also true,” the big man confirmed. “You see, Dixie and The Dummy came to us tonight wanting to borrow the bread. I told him no. If I was a bank president back in Willy Sutton’s heyday, I’d sooner have given Willy a job as a security guard than advance any money to Dixie. That’s how much I trust the bum.”

A small chuckle, then: “I see. All well and good then, gentlemen. It doesn’t really matter to me who buys the work, just so long as it is taken on by responsible people. I have my reputation to maintain, you know, and I can’t farm it out to any incompetents.”

“Sure, Caser, we realize that.”

“Good. Now, of secondary — but yet paramount importance — is my monitary consideration. No offence, gentlemen, but in my business I cannot afford to extend credit to anyone.”

“I hear you, Caser,” said Big Lefty. “Cash on the proverbial barrelhead. And I don’t blame you. There are very few honest crooks around these days.”

“I’m glad you see it my way, Lefty. You brought the cash with you?”

The scar-faced giant nodded. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he extracted a sheaf of bills. “Here it is, Caser,” he said. “Five thousand iron men in ice cold cash.”

“Good.” Our host accepted the money, riffled through it with a quick professional count and appeared satisfied at the result. Then, discarding his suave air and sophisticated manner of speaking, he laid it out to us sharp and quick in an argot much more familiar to us.

“Now,” he said, “here is the situation. There is a small burg called Morningside fifty-three miles north of here, and they have a tin and plywood cigar box there that they call the Farmers Mutual Trust. Normally, they don’t keep enough dough in there to buy a second hand bicycle, but just for tonight, it’s different. You see, the rube merchants up there have sponsored a county fair for the hicks in the surrounding area for the last three days, Friday, Saturday, and today, Sunday. Now, all the receipts from this hillbilly cow review are resting in a heavy breadbox they call a safe, and it’s just waiting for the right takers to come along. But the takers will have to come along tonight, as they will move the dough tomorrow, Monday. My estimation of the take, based on personal observation, is between fifty and sixty thou.

“As for the law, there is only one cop, and this moron keeps himself occupied with a frowzy-haired waitress in the all-night local greasy spoon five blocks away from the old jug. Now, there is a burglar alarm on this jug, but that can be easily circumvented by disconnecting one main wire outside the bank. Once the alarm is kaput and you go into the side window you got no sweat. The safe is so old and decrepit that its still got ‘wanted’ posters of the James boys and the Daltons in it.

“And this vault isn’t even locked; it just looks like it is. They can’t lock it because the only one that knew the combination croaked on a fish sandwich Friday at the fair, and the local rustics ain’t had time over the weekend to get an expert in to re-set the tumblers. All you have to do is turn the handle slowly to the left, and the door will obligingly swing open.

“Another thing: Regardless of all that loot in there, you won’t have to worry about the yokels taking any extra precautions such as having spare police on duty. They live in a sublime, naive community where crime is practically unheard of. The last crime wave they had was when a hobo swiped a shirt off a clothesline and that was forty years ago.”

Little Manuel giggled. The Caser smiled at him and then went on “Be sure to bring adequate luggage with you to carry the money. It’s mostly in small bills with quite a bit of change, and should be rather awkward to handle. You can tote it right out the back door and load it into your car, which you can park in the unlit alley behind the bank. So you see? That’s how simple the whole thing is.”

It sounded simple, all right. Almost too easy. But then again, this was no less than the Caser, and with his reputation, he was to be trusted implicitly.

We smoked, drank, asked a few questions and then the blond man brought out a large sheet of paper on which was a general layout of the town and, most importantly, a detailed diagram of the bank itself.

Penciled in, in a fine hand, were all the notations necessary to completing the work, and to our professional eye the taking looked to be a snap And if what the man said about the take was true, then this sheet would be well worth five grand.

Satisfied of its authenticity, Big Lefty stood up stretched like Gargantua and said. “Well, boys, I guess we better get going if we’re gonna crack that gizmo tonight. What time is it, Lucky?”

I consulted my hot watch “A little after ten”

“Good. We’ve got plenty of time. We’ll go back to Solemn Sol’s, pick up some hardware and hit the road for Morningside.”

Big Lefty snatched up the diagram, folded it and stuffed it in his pocket. We all shook hands with the Caser, who wished us good luck, and we took our leave.

On the way down in the elevator, Big Lefty said to me “Lucky, what means incompetance, paramount and monitary?”

“Nothing,” I told him. “It’s just the Caser’s way of showing us how smart he is with words.”

“Aha! That’s what I thought.”

“Yeah.”

He looked at me. “You sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“No.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Downstairs, as we passed back through the lobby, the fairy desk clerk asked ‘Big Boy’ if he’d found Mr. Brockman all right.

Without breaking his great stride, Big Lefty doffed his hat at the fellow an announced: “Why, yes, madam, I found Mr. Brockman very all right, indeed. And tomorrow, I might come and see how you are.”

We went out the door with Little Manuel giggling again.

In less time than it takes to tell we were back at Solemn Sol’s, and as we passed through the crowded outer bar I put the snatch on a fresh jug of Bourbon from the rear shelf and carried it to the back room. Big Lefty shut the door, checked the bolt on the other door lealding to the alley and then told Little Manuel to get out the guns.

I poured a round of drinks and then sat down to check out my thirty-eight snubnose. Big Lefty fondled his forty-five automatic lovingly, worked the mechanism a couple of times, loaded it and then jammed it into his belt. Compared to his massive proportions the big piece of ordnance resembled a toy, whereas the small twenty two target pistol Little Manuel stuck in his own belt was analogous to a cannon.

Big Lefty lowered his huge frame into a chair opposite me.

“What,” he said, “are we going to put the bank money in?”

I thought for a moment and then came up with. “I’ve got a couple of old suitcases over in my apartment.”

“That should be good enough,” he said. “Manuel, how’s about you going over after them.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you’re the best lookingest.”

“Don’t try to con me, ‘Big Boy’ ”

“And,” Big Lefty went on, “you’re also the smallest.”

“Which means?”

“Which means you’re gonna get it if you don’t get cracking!”

“I hear you, fester-head I’ll go. But that don’t mean I’m afraid of you.”

“Manuel, If I thought you were afraid of me or anyone else I wouldn’t associate with you.”

“I told you, boy, don’t lay no snow on me.” Little Manuel swiveled his head around to me “Gimme your door key, Lucky.”

I handed him the key to my apartment, which was only a block away. “Just take the suitcases in the bedroom closet, half pint,” I told him. “Nothing else.”

“Don’t worry, you tow headed albino,” he sneered. “You ain’t got nothing in that flea-ridden flophouse I want anyway, except that black-headed bitch that lives across the hall from you.”

“Leave her alone too, you self-styled Casanova.”

“Ha! If I ever get my hands on her she’ll never even look at another man!” Then with a haughty air familiar to Little Manuel, the small goniff downed his shot and left out the back door that led to the alley.

After Little Manuel had gone. Big Lefty re-bolted the alley door, took out the diagram and spread it on the table. He looked at me, his teeth bared in an evil grin.

“Well, Lucky, my boy,” he said, “if everything goes all right, by this time tomorrow the three of us stand to be at least forty five grand richer.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

We both drank to it. Then we toasted the Caser. We saluted a number of other things as well, and then as we were about to pay homage to Madam Chang’s prosties on Newport Road there came a knock on the door leading to the outer bar, and Solemn Sol stuck in his round, shiny head.

Big Lefty regarded the sad-eyed proprietor with irritation.

“Sol,” he said, “can’t you see we’re in conference?”

Solemn Sol looked at him and then shifted his gaze to the table.

“What conference, already?” he cracked. “You two schlemiels look more like you’re having a race to the alcoholic ward.”

“Leave our livers out of it, baldy. What you got on your mind this time?”

“Dixie’s here again, Lefty.”

“What! For Chrissakes! What does the schmuck want this time?”

“I donno. He just says it’s very important he talks to you Both him and The Dummy look all shook up about something.”

The big left-hander emitted a long, tolerant sigh. “All right, Sol,” he said patiently, “send the phonies in.”

Dixie Dan Shivers and The Dummy came in with their hats in their hands, and it was obvious they were in a state of very nervous disorder.

Big Lefty looked them over sardonically. “What’s the matter with you two jackasses?” he demanded. “You act like you got a bad case of the galloping crud.”

His lean frame shaking visibly, Dixie Dan eyed the paper on the table. Then, his voice nasal and quivering, he said: “You... you’ll probably kill us, Lefty.”

The giant nodded. “I probably will,” be agreed. “And in damn short order too, if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind”

Dixie Dan Shivers pointed a nervous finger at the diagram on the table. “D— Did you get that from the Caser?”

Big Lefty scowled mockingly. “Y-Yes, I g-got it from the Caser! So what? We paid five grand for it!”

“Oh!”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘oh?’ ”

“I mean... I mean... well — we were over at Chippy Parkington’s dice game and we heard the latest Word.”

Big Lefty’s cruel black eyes narrowed and the scars on his saturnine features paled.

“Go ahead, Dixie,” he said slowly, “tell me about that Word.”

“You ain’t gonna like this. The Word is that a professional con man has come to town looking for the first hoods lie can score on before he takes off like a big bird.”

I began to get a queasy feeling in my stomach.

Big Lefty’s venomous voice seemed to emanate directly from hell as he said: “Go on, Dixie baby.”

Dixie Dan Shivers’ eyes widened in fear. He gulped twice, gave a nervous look at The Dummy and then panned jerkily back to Big Lefty. “This con-artist,” he stuttered, “is posing as the Ca-Caser. And what’s worse, he goes by th-the name of Brockman!”

Well, it is almost impossible for me to record the next few seconds accurately, as I was in a temporary state of apoplexy. I do recall, however, the blood-red face of the infuriated Indian as he crumpled up the diagram and hurled it with tremendous force at hapless Dixie Dan, the balled up paper striking the latter in his narrow chest to drop into the hat he was holding.

He yelled wildly, then he and The Dummy beat a hasty retreat from our accumulating wrath while they were still in one piece and we were temporarily immobilized with stupification.

It was a full five minutes before I could locate my tongue, and when I found it I rolled it around in a dry mouth as I mentally framed the scathing words I wanted to spit out. I kicked the gaping door shut and glared hotly at the hulking, brooding Big Lefty.

“Well, hot shot,” I finally spat, “this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into’”

“Ah, shut up’” he growled.

“Yeah,” I went on heatedly, “there he sits’ Behold the big schlemiel in his brutish idiocy! There he presides at the table — a fugitive lord from the lunatic ward! The big brain. ‘Lucky,’ he says, ‘this time tomorrow,’ he says, ‘this time tomorrow we’ll be forty five thousand dollars richer,’ he says! Horsecrap, I say! Not only this time tomorrow but right here and now we are five thousand dollars poorer!”

“I told you to shut up!”

“I’ll set you on fire first! You fouled up good and proper this time, baby. This time you did it up real brown. Only the brown is on us, you imbecile! We have been thoroughly and totally messed upon!”

The big goon jumped to his feet and his chair clattered back against the wall. He leaned across the table and shook his bowling ball fist in my fist.

“I told you to shut up, you hard-headed jackass’” he bellowed. “How in the hell can I think with you shooting off your mouth all the time?”

I jumped up and shouted right back: “Whoever heard of a rhino thinking!? You couldn’t think if you were in a monastary!”

“Listen here, you dumb son of a—” He pulled up short, cocked his head and held up his platter-sized hand for silence. “Did you hear something, Lucky?”

“Not with your liver-lipped mouth flapping, no!”

“Listen!”

Then I did hear it. It was our secret knock on the alley door. That would be Little Manuel back with the unneeded luggage. Boy, I thought, just wait till the little sidewinder finds out how we’ve been taken Man, was he in for a surprise!

But I was in for a surprise myself.

Big Lefty stalked over, slid back the heavy bolt and swung the door open. In walked Little Manuel looking a mite disheveled, a cold, impassive expression on his dark, aquiline features. He held his open stiletto to one side, the long blade dripping fresh, rich red blood.

“Goddam, Manuel!” Lefty exclaimed. “What in the continental hell have you been into?”

Silently, Little Manuel shut the door, bolted it, then crossed the wooden floor to a small wash basin and began washing off the gleaming steel as Big Lefty and I watched him in mute fascination. He dried the wicked looking blade on a paper towel, then deftly flicked it shut with an ominous clack. He regarded us with cool, impersonal eyes and then blandly announced “I just killed Dixie and The Dummy.”

Surprisingly enough, Big Lefty looked aghast. “You — what?”

“You heard me, jumbo. Even now the two dead bastards are laying out there in the alley waiting for the bus to hell.”

“I’ll be double damned,” I said.

“And you deserve it,” Big Lefty agreed, then turned back to Little Manuel. “Tell us what happened, pal. I don’t quite get it. I know we was hot at Dixie Dan for steering us into a con man, but not enough to— Hey! Wait a minute! Manuel, how’d you know about them telling us the Caser was a phoney?”

Declining to answer immediately, the little killer took a wad of crumpled paper from his breast pocket and spread it open on the table. It was the diagram Big Lefty had flung at Shivers a short time ago, and we both stared at it stupidly.

Little Manuel watched our confoundedness with something akin to amusement, then smiling enigmatically, he re marked casually “Who said anything about the Caser being phoney?”

“Why,” said Big Lefty, “Dixie Dan came in right after you left and told us as much. He said Brockman was a ringer.”

Little Manuel snorted. “Sure,” he smirked. “And do you know why? I’ll tell you why. He was making a do-or-die attempt to get his hands on this bank layout we got. That’s why. And he was succesful too, up to a point. A stiletto point, that, is.”

“I don’t get it,” I said, scratching my head.

“I know you don’t,” Little Manuel conceded “But you will when I tell you what happened.”

“So tell us already, you little shrimp!”

“So I will already, if you guys will just sit down and open those potato farms you call ears.”

Big Lefty retrieved his fallen chair, replaced it at the table and sat down. I poured out three rounds and sat also

Little Manuel snapped off his slug quickly and then helped himself to another Still standing, he places his slender-fingered hands on the table, leaned over it like a junior executive about to deliver a progress report, and then with a great deal of gesticulations that reminded me of an Italian I once knew, he proceeded to give us an accounting.

“Well,” began Little Manuel, waving his frail arms, “I am heading for Lucky’s pad when who do I see coming toward me but No-name. He seems all excited about something, and signals me into a dark doorway where we can talk. He says he wants to return us a favor from the time we save him from that big Courthouse in the Sky. Then he goes on to tell me that he overhears Dixie Dan talking to The Dummy a while ago as they are standing over the grate that is just above No-name’s basement room window in Fu’s flophouse on Eighth.” He paused, and then proceeded.

“Now, according to what he hears, the syndicate has a contract out for these two, and so they are a little more than anxious to get out of town. In fact, they are desperate. But the two feys are broke, and between them they ain’t got enough dough to get to the city limits, let alone out of town — as if it would do them any good. But at least they could live a time longer if they got scarce, and so they contacted the Caser. But as you know, they couldn’t raise the loot to buy the job we did. Incidently, the Caser is alive and well, and living at the Royal under the name of Brockman. And he ain’t no ringer.

“Now, to get back to Dixie Dan and his pal, they figured we already bought the job they had in mind in the first place, and so they don’t know which way to jump. No-name learns all this as he is listening and watching from his basement window. Next, The Dummy writes something down on a pad, tears it off and hands it to Dixie Dan. His buddy reads it, thinks it over and then says okay, anything is worth a try, as they are walking dead men anyhow. He wads up the note, throws it into the grate and away they go.

“No-name reaches out, spears the message and it goes something like this: ‘Lets go see if we can fool Big Lefty out of whatever plan he got from the Caser tonight. Tell him the Caser’s a con man. Maybe we can get the details free, pull the job and get outta the country.’

“So,” went on Little Manuel, “that was enough for me. I slipped No-name a double saw and beat tracks back this way to warn you about what Dixie Dan had in mind. Just as I got near I saw the two of them scurrying out the front door of Sol’s here, and Dixie’s got the diagram in his hand, just as they’d planned. I stopped them on the corner and displayed my iron. Then I marched them around to the alley and was going to bring them in here when the scurvy mongrels tried to scrag me. They came at me hammer and tongs. For a moment they almost got me. I dropped my gun in the fight.

“So there was nothing for it, but the blade. I came out with my shiv and was so damned mad I ready worked them over And if I do say so myself, it didn’t take me all night to finish the business. I know just how and where to go about it, and in less time than it takes to tell they are lying dead at my feet.”

Little Manuel stopped his rapid-fire narration and brought his arms in for a landing.

“Go on, Manuel,” Big Lefty urged, impressed.

“Go on? That’s all there is, unless you want my life story.”

“Funny Anyhow, you did a good job But we’ll still have to get those suitcases.”

I said “I’ll get them myself when we get rolling.”

“Good enough,” Big Lefty nodded “But first we’ll have to do something about Dixie Dan and The Dummy out there.”

Little Manuel shrugged “There’s nothing you can do about them,” he said. “They’re beyond all help.”

Big Lefty registered exasperation. “I know that, Manuel,” he said patiently. “What I mean is, we can’t leave them so close to our headquarters. We got to get rid of them. You dig?”

“Ugh! Me dig.”

“Ah, shut up. Now, Lucky?”

“Here I is, boss.”

“Boss, schmoss! Don’t get cute Just be cute enough to go get your wreck and bring it around into the alley. We’ll get Sol to lock this door behind us and we’ll meet you out there.”

“Okay. But I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I always know what I’m doing, towhead. You just do like I told you. We got no time to lose.”

“All right, big boy I just wanted to make sure.”

“Get out of here!”

“See you in the alley,” I said.

In a matter of minutes we had the cadavers loaded into the rear of the wagon and covered with an old tarp. Next, I drove to my place, ran up to the apartment, grabbed the two old suitcases from the closet, blew accumulated dust off them and sprinted back to the waiting car In my short absence, Little Manuel had gone across the street to an all-night drugstore, and was now back in his seat chomping noisily from a long bag of hot, buttered popcorn.

“I told the little hoodlum,” Big Lefty said, “not to put that greasy junk in his belly on top of all the booze he drank tonight, he must have a calcified stomach, whatever that is.”

“I’m entitled to a snack now and then,” Little Manuel countered. “I get a little hungry once in a while.”

“Just stop making so much noise with it,” I told him. “You sound like a Malayan frog war.”

“Sez you.”

“Knock it off,” Big Lefty said. “Let’s go get rid of Dixie and The Dummy Head for Kennedy Park.”

“Right,” I agreed, and drove off.

To say I was nervous with the two bodies in the car would be an understatement. And the nauseating racket Little Manuel was producing with his damned popcorn, rattling the stiff paper bag and smacking his lips after each swallow, did nothing to quell my inner tension.

“I wish you’d hurry up with that stuff,” I said. “You remind me of a hog eating acorns.”

“You’re a farm boy, hey, Lucky?”

“Ah, shut up!”

We entered Kennedy Park from the main entrance at the south end, and I drove through the winding gravel roads until we reached the top of Art Hill. Up here, in front of the Museum of Science and Natural History there were several life-sized replicas of prehistoric dinosaurs standing about, and I parked in the shadow of Tyranosaurus Rex, the most fearsome, ferocious and vicious predator ever to roam the face of the earth That was, of course, until Big Lefty had come along.

And speaking of that particular monster, he now said “This is a good spot, Lucky You guys sit tight and I’ll do the honors.”

With a minimum of effort the mammoth hoisted the last mortal remains of Dixie Dan and his pal from the wagon and propped them thoughtfully if not artistically against one of the trunk-like legs of Rex, took off his hat and held it in mock sympathy to his chest for a moment, then spat on the ground and got back in the car.

“Let’s go,” he said.

I aimed the car at the northern exit and drove along much more at ease, even though the crackling of Little Manuel’s bag was increasing as he delved deeper and deeper into his matinee ambrosia.

We hadn’t got two blocks from the park when I heard a siren screaming behind us, and the rear-view mirror reflected the red flashing lights of a fast approaching police car Now what? I thought.

“Pull over to the side and let them go ahead on, Lucky,” Big Lefty ordered. “They’re probably after somebody.”

I did as he said. But instead of going ahead on, the damn cruiser squealed to a noisy stop and parked diagonally in front of us, the siren dying in a low, ominous growl. Two cops jumped from the squad car and came swiftly toward us, flanking the wagon. I heard Little Manuel cock his target pistol, and from the corner of my eye noticed Big Lefty ease his automatic from his belt and hold it low. I’d already gotten my snub-nose out and it was lying beside me, next to the door.

“All right, boys,” said the cop at my window, “We got you.”

“Got us for what, officer?” I asked innocently. “I’ve been obeying all the traffic laws.”

The one at Big Lefty’s window said: “We ain’t got you for no traffic violation, bud. We got you for that nasty little mess you just left behind.”

Chrissakes! They must have seen us dump the bodies! I swear I could hear my arteries hardening.

Big Lefty said: “Look here, officer. We don’t have to answer any questions if we indicate in any manner that we don’t want to. It’s the law. We got our rights, you know.”

“Now look here, big boy, We got you dead to your so-called rights! We seen it with our own eyes! Which one of you is responsible?”

“I am, officer,” Little Manuel piped up from the back seat. “These two guys had nothing to do with it.”

Big Lefty swung his head around. “Shut up, you self-incriminating little fink!” Then to the cop: “Responsible for what, officer?”

“What!? Responsible for what, did you say? I’ll tell you what. We’ve got you cold turkey on a seven twenty four, a littering violation!”

“Littering?”

“Yas, godammit, littering! Who threw the damn popcorn bag out the window?”

They issued Little Manuel a citation under one of his aliases, and the little litterbug agreed to appear in court on his own recognizance. After they left I sat there swearing for a full sixty seconds without repeating myself, and both Little Manuel and Big Lefty marvelled at my expertise in unbridled profanity. Finally sighing in resignation, I shifted into gear and resumed the journey.

We stopped once more at the edge of town to gas up, get a sack of hamburgers and some strong black coffee to offset the liquor we’d consumed, and then at last we were on the highway to Morningside.

As we hummed along in the night Big Lefty took out the crumpled plan of the bank and studied it under the dash lights, clucking satisfactorily and nodding to himself now and then. Little Manuel busied himself sharpening his knife.

In due time we reached a sign that told us Morningside was five miles ahead. Big Lefty half turned in his seat so he could see both Little Manuel and myself, then said:

“All right, boys. Here’s the way we’ll do it: when we get into town, we’ll drive around the jug once, then we’ll roll over and see if that rube cop is in the all-night restaurant with the waitress. Next, we’ll go back to the alley behind the bank. Lucky and I will get out with the suitcases and then Little Manuel will take the car back to the greasy spoon to keep his beady little eyes on the fuzz. In twenty minutes he returns, drives into the alley again where we load up and head south like a bird with snow hitting him in the tail. Now, how does that sound?”

“Wait a minute,” Little Manuel complained. “How come I don’t get to go in the bank? I like a little excitement too!”

“You’ve had enough excitement for tonight, Manuel,” the big man told him. “Besides, the Caser said the stuff would be heavy and bulky.”

“So?”

“So I don’t think you’re strong enough.”

“Ha! One time I took on four broads in an hour!”

“So you say. I say you’re too weak to carry a heavy load. You stay with the wagon and keep an eye out for twenty minutes. If the cop leaves the cafe, go by the bank and blow the horn two short blasts.”

“Well, okay, if you say so.” “I say so, Manuel.”

“So be it,” I slipped in lightly.

As the town began to unfold a little at a time the houses became more frequent, then the small business buildings appeared and we soon found ourselves on Main Street, USA, long after closing hours. There was just a smattering of lights, and only one major stop sign at the corner of Main and, of course, Elm. Every little community must have a tree-lined thoroughfare called Elm Street. I believe it’s un-American if they don’t.

We circled the Farmers Mutual Trust carefully and found that everything looked kosher. Next we drove down Main to cruise past the tiny cafe, and sure enough a wire-haired cop was in there strutting back and forth, motioning with his arms as he talked to the ash-blond waitress who lolled over the counter, her chin resting lazily in the heels of her cupped hands. There was no one else in the place. On the small parking lot outside the cop’s police car was nosed up to the side of the clapboard wall.

“Okay,” said Big Lefty. “Let’s go to work.”

I swung left at the next corner and headed back to the bank where I parked in the alley behind the squat gray building with my headlights switched off. Big Lefty got out, removed the suitcases and Little Manuel clambered behind the wheel as I slid out also. I shut the door, then leaned into the window and leveled a finger at the little miscreant.

“Be sure,” I told him, “that you be very careful with this car, my friend.”

“You go straight to hell,” he responded, then drove jerkily off into the night.

“Come on, Lucky!” Big Lefty hissed. “Stop worrying about your wreck. Little Manuel will take care of it. We got work to do.”

“Okay, okay,” I said testily. “But I got money invested in that automobile.”

“How much? Twenty cents? Come on!”

“I’m coming.”

We walked into the deeper shadow of the bank and set the bags down. A tall wooden pole was to our left, at the top of which was the main wire of the antiquated alarm system we were to disconnect.

Big Lefty said: “I’ll climb up and knock it out.” He pulled on his gloves and shinnied up the pole like a monkey — and I was reminded of King Kong on the Empire State Building.

A moment after he reached the top I heard him exclaim: “Goddam!”

I peered up in the darkness. “What’s the matter?”

“The damn thing’s already been disconnected!”

“Oboy!”

“Look out! I’m coming back down!”

He slid down the pole and thumped heavily to the ground. Turning to me, he said; “There’s something fishy here.”

He didn’t have to tell me that. I could smell it out for myself. I said: “Yeah. There’s something rotten in Morningside.”

“Yeah. And you told me once before it was in Denmark.”

“Never mind Denmark. Forget Denmark. In this case it applies here and now.”

“You’re so right. So shut up and follow me. We’ll go look at the window.”

We rounded the south-east corner of the bank and came to the window we’d planned on entering. This window faced a narrow gangway between the trust company and a haberdashery — and there was a small neat hole in the glass exactly where we’d figured on cutting to get at the old lock.

And of course the window wasn’t latched!

Big Lefty lifted it slowly and then looked at me.

“Maybe they’re still in there,” he whispered.

“Who?”

“Who! Whoever got here before we did, you fool! Look! You go in the window — it’s too small for me to get in without any noise — and then you sneak to the back door and let me in. We’ll go to the vault room together and maybe we can catch the dirty crooks in the act.”

“Okay. I just hope we’re not too late.”

“Me too, pal. Now get in there.”

I climbed inside with a minimum of racket, then unlimbered the snub-nose and listened intently to the darkness. Nothing but silence. Surely if anyone was still here robbing the safe they’d certainly be making some noise. I cocked an ear even harder. Still nothing.

Big Lefty’s voice hissed from the window. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m listening,” I whispered.

“Well, listen to me for a change! Go open that back door!”

“On my way.”

My eyes accustomed to the dark now, I crept across the rubber-tiled floor, stepped over a low wooden railing and made my way to the rear, passing through a small stockroom, and in another moment I was opening the back door.

Big Lefty stepped inside with his forty five out, shut the door quietly, and then in his hoarse whisper he said: “How’s she look, Lucky?”

“Lousy.”

“That’s what I figured. Well, be quiet and follow me. We’ll go to the vault room and if that safe is empty I’m gonna kill that goddam Caser!”

“Likewise,” I said. “He must have sold the plan to someone besides us.”

“Yeah. Now come on, and don’t make any noise just in case they’re still here.”

Back through the stockroom we went. Over the low railing and around behind the two tellers’ cages. As we approached the door to the vault room we could see it was partly ajar, and there was a feeble light glowing from within.

Just outside the room Big Lefty stopped me, motioned for silence. Then contradicting his own gesture he violently kicked the door all the way open and almost off its hinges.

But the vault chamber was now devoid of any thieves save ourselves. The safe across the room stood solidly on casters, the heavy door agape and the interior staring vacantly at us, with a look like a yawn.

“Son of a bitch!” Big Lefty swore slowly.

“Me too,” I agreed. I went over, stooped and probed about inside the ancient safe. Nothing in there but some useless papers and a yellowed placard which I took out and examined.

Big Lefty said: “Is it empty?”

“As empty as your toad-faced head.”

“That stupid Caser really screwed up on this one!”

“Well,” I commented dryly, “he was right about one thing, anyhow.”

“Huh? What’s that, Lucky?”

I showed him the placard I was holding. It was an old poster concerning the desired apprehention — dead or alive — of a certain Mr. Jesse James.

We gave the rest of the place a good shaking down, but came up with nothing for our efforts save a little experience. Finally, standing in the midst of a conglomeration of discarded checks, record books and general all-around litter, Big Lefty, his arms akimbo and his hat cocked far back on his head, said: “Well, I guess we’ve had it. Whoever cleaned this joint out did a thorough job. They got everything but the furniture and the fixtures.”

“Yeah. And we get left with the empty bag. Shat upon again!”

“I’m not going to argue with you. Come on. It’s about time for Manuel to be getting back. We better get to the rear of the place and watch for him.”

We returned to the back door and Big Lefty propped it open a crack where he could keep an eye on the alley. In another couple of minutes we could hear Little Manuel coming, so we stepped outside with the suitcases and let the door lock easily behind us.

The felonious little dwarf was all smiles as he drove up and got out of the car.

“How’d it go, boys?” he asked happily, making me even sicker than I was. “Are those two bags heavy? Do you want this weak little runt to help load them in the car? Ohh, boy! We’re rich, ain’t we! Money moneymoney! Hey what’s the matter, boys? You two master criminals look like you each swallowed a cup of warm hair!”

Oh, the poor ignorant little bastard!

“Come on, boys!” the tiny cutthroat continued, “cheer up! Oh, manomanoman! Money moneymoney! Aiyiyi! Mamacita! I just can’t wait to get a look at all that lovely money! I’m in a gleeful mood tonight, I’ll tell the world! And all I had to do was drive around while my good buddies took all the risk and even spared me from straining myself with the heavy bags! Come on, boys, lets hurry up and get someplace where we can count it all up! Money money money! I love the filthy stuff!”

“Ah, shut up, Manuel,” Big Lefty snarled. “There ain’t no damn money! Somebody beat us to it!”

Little Manuel shut up abrubtly and looked at me. Then giggling uncertainly he said: “Lefty’s putting me on, isn’t he, Lucky?”

“No, Manuel,” I replied sadly. “Lefty is not putting you on.”

“Ai, Chiwawa!” he said, slapping his head. He leaned on the car, giggled again and then said inanely: “Ah, well, That’s the way she goes; first your money, then your clothes. When you snooze you lose. Hahaha!” He slapped his knee.

“Shut up, you little moron!” snapped Lefty. He threw the empty luggage into the back seat of the wagon and then got in, slamming the door hard. “Come on,” he ordered, “let’s get the hell away from here!”

Little Manuel chuckled some more and got in. I slipped behind the wheel and aimed the heap for home, my mind just short of blowing.

As we got south of town and were zipping along homeward with grim faces, Little Manuel said: “My, my. You boys certainly do take things hard. Yes, sir, you most certainly do. Now me, I go along slow and easy. Tomorrow is another day, I always say.”

“That,” Big Lefty politely informed him, “is because you are a goddam fool.”

Little Manuel straightened up in his seat. “Me? A fool? All right, then. But answer me this, bright boy; Do you know who beat you to the money?”

“Are you crazy? Of course not!”

“Uh huh. That’s what I thought. Well, this goddam fool does!”

Stunned by that unexpected statement, I almost turned the car over. Braking and pulling over to the side of the highway, I swiveled to stare at the runt. “What did you say, Manuel?”

“You heard me. I said this goddam fool knows who beat you to the money. That’s exactly what I said.”

Big Lefty and I exchanged astonished glances, then I panned back to the Latin midget. “I know what you said, Manuel. But what are you talking about? How could you know who beat us to it? Ah, never mind. You’ve probably been on that Tiajuana grass again.”

“Nope. I ain’t been on no weed. I said what I said, towhead, and I’m ready to back it up. The guy you’re looking for is that cop in the restaurant.”

“The hell, you say!”

“The hell I don’t say! You’re hearing this goddam fool right. Listen. When I got back to that diner I couldn’t see either the fuzz or the waitress, although the cop’s car was still outside. So I figured they must be nookying it up in the back room.

“Okay. I parked next to his car and went inside, thinking maybe I’d see something hot going on — you know me, I dig sex, man — or at least get a cup of coffee. At any rate, I could keep a better eye on the fuzz from inside, so in I go. And you won’t believe this, but when I get in there, I hear the fuzz and the broad in the rear room arguing so loud they do not even realize I am arrived.

“Now, from all I can hear, he is the bird that sold the information concerning the bank to the Caser in the first place — I told you wouldn’t believe it — and then, after thinking it over and seeing how easy it was, why, he deciced to do the job himself. He is trying to convince the waitress to blow town with him, but she don’t want no part of it. Stealing is against the Commandments, or something, she says. She was trying to persuade him to put the money back when I decided to get the hell out before they seen me.”

“I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Big Lefty mused aloud. Then: “Lucky, turn this wreck around. We’re going back and get that crooked flatfoot.”

“What for?” Little Manuel said innocently.

“What for, you say? Why, to take his ill-gotten gains away from him, that’s what for!”

“No need for that,” the little libertine announced casually. “Weak as I be and goddam fool that I am, I already got the money.”

“You what?”

“That’s what I said, fester-head. While the bluesuit was still in the back trying to get the dame to leave the straight and narrow, I picked the lock on the trunk of his prowl car. Even now the swag is in the rear of this very wagon under the tarp. There’s a whole seabag crammed full of the beautiful, germ-ridden stuff, and it’s just waiting to be counted.”

Once again Big Lefty and I exchanged surprised looks. Then, beaming now, Big Lefty said: “Manuel, you sweet little bastard, I take everything back. You ain’t weak and you ain’t no goddam fool. You are a fine broth of a man, and I’ll kill the goddam fool as says different.”

“My sentiments, exactly,” I put in.

“Why, thank you, boys,” Little Manuel said happily. “You are both too, too generous with my well-deserved praise.”

There turned out to be a little better than fifty-three grand in the seabag, and for a little extra icing on the cake, the next day we split twenty thousand more that Little Manuel had gleefully collected from the syndicate for doing in Dixie Dan Shivers and the Dummy. I was so happy that I treated the little feloneer to three days of disportation at Madam Chang’s and almost wore my own self out during the process. But what a wonderful, tired feeling it was.