Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 18, No. 5, May 1973

The Dip and the Svengali by Michael Zuroy

That welcome light at the end of the tunnel may turn out to be a mirage.

Stanley was shifting among the department store crowds. Dressed mod — tight, tan suit with flare pants, big lilac tie — elegant, lithe, he could have been a name singer, a boxer, a racing driver, or a steeplejack on a holiday.

He was, in fact, a dip; a pickpocket in camouflage, fingers quicker than a blink, lighter than air. Air, you could feel; not Stanley’s soapy fingers. This came from talent — from practice, years of it. He was proud of his trade. He had class; he’d never have to sink to a regular job.

He was prowling the store for a mark when he spotted the chick. It took him only minutes to figure out that she was working the territory too, shoplifting.

What caught him, Stanley never could say. She had dark-haired, liquid-eyed looks, and a body, sure; but it wasn’t only that. Class she had, like a little lady, palming that watch in style so no store-dick would have tumbled, but it was more than that. How’s a guy say what’s special for him in a chick? Whatever, there it was.

There was nothing to warn him she had a whammy on her.

“Nice work,” he told her quietly.

Her dark eyes didn’t scare. She kept them masked, but he got a feeling they liked what they saw; all that was needed was trust. They were meant to click, a matched couple with class, a sharp, talented couple.

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

“The watch.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She walked away.

He stepped right with her. “I’m in the fine myself. A dip.”

“Sure,” she said.

“Why would I say so?”

“You could be a bull.”

“Uh-uh. I’m a dip.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“Take somebody.”

“Okay,” Stanley said. He looked along the swarming aisle. “That fatty.”

The collision seemed entirely accidental. Stanley wove a quick tangle of words and motions, apologizing, steadying the stout, irritated man. They slipped on with the crowd afterward, quickly losing the man, angling and shifting among the aisles, Stanley steering for the exits.

“So?” the girl asked.

“Got it,” Stanley said.

“Oh, come on! I didn’t see you snatch anything.”

“That’s right. You don’t see it when I operate.” Stanley lifted his arm part way, showing her the billfold in his sleeve, then dropped his arm.

“Say, that was great,” the girl said. Her eyes were on him now with respect. The pupils had contracted to pinpoints of excitement. “That was slick. Smooth. That was like — like music.”

“Yeah,” Stanley said.

“Where was it?”

“His inside jacket pocket.”

“How’d you know? How’d you know it wouldn’t be in his pants?”

They went out the revolving doors. Outside, Stanley dropped the billfold into his pocket and headed her toward Fifth. “I can read clothes,” he told her. “Takes more than fingers, see? There’s not much sign, but there’s a little. You got to read drape, takes years to read right most of the time. You got to watch their minds, make sure their minds are off the snatch. It don’t work without the fingers, though. Altogether, it’s a specialty.”

“I’ll say.” She gave him a quick sideways glance as they walked. “Looks like you picked me up all right, didn’t you?”

“It’s what I was hoping,” Stanley said. “You, I like. I got an idea we can run up some mileage together.”

“You’re cute yourself,” she said. “I’ll give you some good advice before it’s too late. Forget the mileage. Run before you get burned.”

“Like hell,” Stanley said. “What’s the danger? You married?”

“No, it’s not that. For one thing — I’m bad.”

“Big deal,” Stanley said.

“Also, I got a whammy on me.” “Whaddya mean, you got a whammy?”

“A whammy, a spell, a curse.”

“Like what?”

“Like I don’t own myself. Somebody else does.”

“Who?”

“Good-bye,” she said.

“Nothing doing,” Stanley said.

“All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Whaddya mean, somebody owns you? What are you, a slave?”

“More like a prisoner.”

“You’re walking around, aren’t you?” Stanley said.

“I got to go back to him every night. I got to work for him. Whatever I take goes to him. He tells me something, I got to obey. I get the screaming meemies if I try to fight it. It’s in my head. A whammy.”

“Who is this guy? Svengali?”

“Who? No, his name is Hogan. Big Boy Hogan.”

“How’d he get this whammy on you?”

“I don’t know. I was seeing him, and then — there it was.” She looked at him sideways again. “What’s the use of talking? Let’s go to your place. You got a place?”

“Sure, I got a place.” Stanley felt a little shocked; he’d meant to start working up to this. He said, “I was going to take you out to eat and—”

“I know,” she said. “Why waste time? It’s what you’re after, isn’t it?” Her eyes had turned bright and he saw the same pinpoints of excitement in them. “And you’re cute. Let’s go.”

“How about your whammy?”

“Won’t stop us. Hogan doesn’t know about you, and he can’t help what he doesn’t know.”

Stanley took her arm. “By the way, my name is Stanley Vebell.”

She laughed. “Iris Jackson. Pleased to meet you.”

Stanley liked to live fancy and Iris was happy with his East 52nd apartment. She twinkled around it, singing. A few hours with her and Stanley felt like he was hooked, whammy or no whammy; so he had to know, he had to act. When she told him she had to go back to Big Boy Hogan, Stanley said, “I’m going to break that whammy.”

“How, Stanley? How can you help me?”

“I’m going to see that Svengali and make him let you go.”

She looked at him and began to laugh. She went on laughing as he began to mutter. She laughed harder when he said: “What’s so funny? I can handle myself in a scrap.”

She said, “Big Boy would make two of you, Stanley. Big Boy is in the rackets, he’s a mobster. He has knocked off people — I personally guarantee it. He would wipe you away like a spot. You want to get killed, Stanley? You are, after all, only a dip. Dips are artists, not heavies. Dips are not tigers, not killers. You are a very cute dip, but not in Big Boy’s class. Stay away from him, Stanley.”

“I ain’t afraid of him,” Stanley muttered, but said nothing more. All those things she’d said about dips were true, but he’d thought that was fine, to make out without taking bad chances. Now, he was feeling small and low. There was not enough respect from her. He would show her, Stanley decided. He would show her he was no French pastry at heart, and he would break her whammy too, someway.

The scene was different, seeing Iris — flashes of sunlight, pools of shadow, and a lot of rainbow. Altogether, she turned him on, but full. Without her around, he felt like an empty wallet. With her, he was more than himself; he needed to be more, for her. Devil in her eyes, taunt in her voice, whammy in her soul to be rubbed away; these made him dare.

They were walking on Fifth one afternoon. She had already lifted a pair of pearl earrings in a jewelry store, with a cool finesse that had almost raised his hair, but made him proud of her. It only bothered him that the loot would go to that lousy Svengali. That goon remained the spoiler, keeping the jealousy smoldering, deep and steady. He wasn’t anxious to tangle after what Iris had told him about Big Boy, but maybe if he could wrap her up close enough, the whammy would fade.

Iris said, “Where’s his wallet, Stanley?” She’d stopped along the curb.

Stanley followed her eyes. The man was looking into a shop window at a display of Oriental art. He was tall, well-dressed and wore a wide-brimmed, Western hat. Texas type, Stanley figured automatically, big spender...

“Hip pocket,” Stanley answered, reading the clothes.

“Take him, Stanley.”

Stanley laughed.

“Why not?”

Stanley’s laugh faded as he saw she was serious. “It’s all wrong. Out on the street. Crowds aren’t close enough, I could be spotted. The guy is wrong, wide-awake — he’d know I’m close, I couldn’t scramble his mind. Reflection from the window...”

“Scared of the hard ones, Stanley?”

“I ain’t scared,” Stanley retorted quickly. “This setup just ain’t professional.”

“Small-time,” she said. “I guess you can’t help it.”

Stanley felt the contempt. He had to dare, or lose.

He eased alongside the mark, inspecting the Oriental art too. He turned sharp, from toe to scalp, a tuned-in dip, receiving waves from the passing world and the mark, sensing for the instant. This would have to be perfect.

“Different, huh?” Stanley said, nodding at the art, gentle, friendly.

“Yup, kind of like it. Bet it’d open a few eyes if I brought one back home.” The genial, open drawl was Western, all right.

“Out-of-state, huh?” Stanley’s voice was casual as he made his move. It was now. Talking, the mark was as off-base as he’d be. Couple of eye-flicks and Stanley had registered the passing scene, the crowd positions, picking a proper split-second. Stanley could work with either hand. His left hand became an eel, the ghost of an eel, flowing behind, between jacket and trousers, fingers crawling into the pocket slit, delicately absorbing the wallet, flowing back almost as soon as it had started.

The guy didn’t feel a thing. The wallet palmed up his sleeve, Stanley thought he’d made it, but the guy was sharp-eyed — been right not to trust him — and there was the dim window-reflection. The mark’s hand clapped the back pocket, leaped for Stanley’s wrist.

Stanley matched the reflex. Stanley was no longer there — he was twisting through the crowds. The mark came pounding after him, yelling. It was the first time in Stanley’s pro career that he’d been chased, but his talent held true, scared though he was. He slid among the bodies like a needle through thread, dodged into a building that he knew went through to underground shops, turned and cornered through the lower levels, walking fast, no longer running, emerged on a different street, safe, the mark lost. He was on home ground; the other guy hadn’t had a chance.

Still, Stanley was frowning. He might have been grabbed. The stunt hadn’t made sense, but if it made him bigger with Iris, it was worth it.

“That was beautiful,” Iris said later. “Thrilling. Graceful. The way you ditched him... like ballet.”

“Nothing,” Stanley said, modestly, but Iris was extra-loving for a while, and the take had been high, too.

Only, the whammy remained.

Stanley couldn’t take the knowledge that only a piece of Iris was his, most of her still belonging to the Svengali. He was hooked on her stronger all the time, like he’d never been hooked with a skirt; he needed more than her spare time.

He kept trying to make himself so big with her that she’d come to him all the way and forget the whammy. He’d come to know that she had this thing about danger and excitement, and he went along when she prodded him to chancier and chancier jobs, like snatching billfolds inside an elevator, and practically under the eyes of cops, and in banks, and removing jewels from ladies in theaters. He’d developed a certain kind of thrill in it himself, and there was the kick of her admiration as she watched, and afterwards — but there came a time when Stanley had to add it up.

Nothing had helped the whammy; it was still there. His stunts didn’t satisfy her for long. She kept wanting bigger and better, and it scared him to think how he might finish. Something else would have to be done.

“I’m taking you to a shrink,” he told her.

“You are what? I ain’t nuts.”

“Who says you are? Shrinks ain’t only for nuts, they’re for anything with heads. The whammy’s in your head, right? So maybe a good head-doctor could chase it.”

“Hmm,” Iris said, looking speculative. “I ain’t never been to a shrink. Might be exciting.”

So Stanley asked around and made an appointment with a head-fixer. Nine times he took her there — nine big bills he paid.

She still had the whammy.

“How much longer, Doc?” he asked the shrink.

The shrink removed his pipe from his chunky, eyeglassed head and said, “Can’t tell. Two, three years, perhaps.”

“Wh-what?” Stanley said.

“Her case is complex. I don’t believe that hypnotic suggestion is involved; her fixations are more deeply rooted than that, twisted. I find an excessive need for male domination coupled with an obsessive resentment of the male. I’d say that these fixations continually require a male object to focus upon, as now; yet the very depth of the resentments precludes the devotion of a permanent relationship. Rather, a succession of such male objects, with possible destructive terminations, is indicated.”

Stanley looked at the shrink. He wasn’t paying for double-talk. “So what about the whammy, Doc?”

“There is no whammy, in the sense you mean, as I’ve just explained.”

If a shrink couldn’t tell a whammy when he saw one, who needed him? If a shrink couldn’t fix a plain, ordinary whammy, what good was he?

“I was getting tired of him, anyway,” Iris said. “I had to do all the talking. He should have paid me, that’s what I decided.”

“I will figure something else,” Stanley said.

“We better say good-bye,” Iris said. “For keeps.”

Stanley’s heart turned into a doughnut, with a hole right through it. “Whaddya mean, good-bye?”

“I get bored,” Iris said. “You’re cute, but you’re still small-time. You pulled some tricks, but you’re still only a dip. I need nerve. I need power. It takes a man with fangs to reach me.”

“Oh, yeah? I got fangs.”

“Do you? Show me. Pull a heist, at least.”

“A heist? But this ain’t my line, Iris.”

She laughed scornfully. “That’s what I just said. You’re not in that class. Big Boy Hogan would think nothing of it.”

“Big Boy Hogan, Big Boy Hogan.”

“If you had the nerve, we’d have a blast, Stanley. We’d pull it together. But you won’t. Goodbye, Stanley.”

“Okay, we’ll pull a heist,” Stanley said.

Her eyes pinpointed again. She drew a sharp breath. “I know where I can get the rods.”

The liquor store was on a side street in the Village area. They’d settled on it because it wasn’t always crowded like a main-drag store, but still did heavy business. They hit it just before closing time. Two customers were still in the store.

Their movements were planned. As soon as they were in, Iris put her back against the door and Stanley went down the side, along the bottles, both pulling their rods. So located, they could cover the counter and the occupants, but the guns could not be seen from outside. Also, at this hour, the chances that anyone would try to peer in were small; the street had turned quiet.

“This is a stickup,” Stanley said. “Don’t move your hands and do what you’re told and no one will get hurt.” He waved the two customers to the rear section of the counter. Stanley was astonished at how cold he’d become. A moment before hitting the store he’d been shaking inside like a cocktail; now he was calm. Maybe, after all, he had a talent for this, too.

A glance at the customers and he’d figured they wouldn’t give trouble; one was a tall, skinny guy who looked like a rumpot, the other a middle-aged citizen, and they’d both come on scared. There were two store guys behind the counter; the young, dark-haired clerk, who’d gone white-faced, didn’t worry Stanley either. The other one — they knew he was the owner from casing the place — was something else. He was short and pudgy and didn’t look like a fighter, but his fat face had turned red and his eyes were bulging and glaring behind his glasses.

Stanley tossed the canvas bag onto the counter. “Fill it,” he ordered the owner. “Clean out the cash register.”

For an instant, the owner didn’t move. Then Stanley saw the flicker in his eyes and the twitch beginning in his hand. What Stanley couldn’t believe was that he knew he would shoot if the guy went for a gun under the counter. He’d never hurt anybody in his life, aside from swiping money, but he was ready to kill this guy, he was anxious to kill him, right on the brink. “Don’t.” Stanley heard himself whisper, hoping the guy wouldn’t listen and would make his move so he could shoot.

The pudgy man met his eyes, saw his death. He clinked open the register and hastily began filling the bag.

Stanley ordered them all to lie down on the floor away from the door window, and they made their getaway in Stanley’s car, clean and easy. In his apartment, they counted over $1200.

Iris was looking at Stanley in a new way. “You’ve got it,” she said. “I never thought you did, but you’ve got it. You were going to kill him, weren’t you, Stanley?”

“Yes,” Stanley said. He felt sick, he felt sad, thinking about it now. That couldn’t have been himself, crazy to kill, that one instant back there. He hadn’t known he’d had that in him, or maybe everybody had it if that certain time came; but he was sorry for it, sorry to know. He wished he’d never pulled this heist; he wished he could go back — but there was Iris, looking at him in this new way, hopped up.

“Satisfied?” Stanley said. “This could help you forget Big Boy Hogan? And that stinking whammy?”

Iris looked at him a long time, smiling a small smile. She said, finally, “No, Stanley, the whammy’s still got me. That whammy ain’t never left my head. Big Boy’s got me and I can’t break loose. I hate him, but he’s got me. Nothing you can do can break the whammy — except one thing.”

“What’s the thing?” Stanley asked, afraid to hear, but knowing, as somehow he’d known for a long time.

“Kill Big Boy Hogan,” Iris said.

It was out, and they both grew very calm. Iris’ eyes were narrowed and pinpointed.

“Oh, sure,” Stanley said.

“Help me,” Iris said. “I never asked you because I didn’t think you were man enough. Now I see different. Help me.”

“Okay,” Stanley said nonchalantly, nothing seeming important now except Iris. “I’ll kill him.”

“Face to face, like a man, Stanley, so I can respect you. No sneaking.”

“Okay, like that.”

“I want him to know why. Say my name to him when you do it.”

“Okay,” Stanley said stonily. “I knock him off, I tell him, ‘Iris.’ ”

She laughed, low and wild. “That’s it. The last thing he’ll hear. Iris. Me. End of whammy. He’ll know.”

Stanley didn’t rush. This was a thing that needed consideration. To knock off a tough guy like this Svengali, this Big Boy Hogan, this killer-mobster and get away with it, would require thought. He waited for days. He spent hours every day with Iris, checking on Big Boy and his habits, figuring how, where and when. He’d have to get him alone, that was sure.

Then he saw Big Boy Hogan for the first time. Iris gave him the address and he hung around, watching them come out together. Big Boy was big, all right, with a rocky, red face. Ordinarily he would have scared Stanley, but it made a difference who was the hunter — and he was confident.

Putting it all together, Stanley figured his play. He was a dip, he was used to operating in crowds, and it was in a crowd that Big Boy could be most alone and least dangerous — and Iris said that Big Boy liked to go to the races.

Iris gave him the tip-off.

The sky was bright blue over the track, small white clouds chasing each other like horses. The stands were filled with the race crowds, bright and dull in dress, fancy and plain; the colors and hues of the clothes made mosaics, faces were calm, anxious, laughing, excited, morose. There were field glasses, the flutter of form sheets and women’s hair. The continuous mob sound rose and fell, from a steady drone to fevered roars when closely-packed horses pounded to a finish.

Stanley was hardly conscious of this around him. His eyes and soul were focused on the backs of Iris and Big Boy Hogan, aisles below. He was waiting for the right time.

He hadn’t wanted Iris to come along with Big Boy. She wouldn’t stay away. She had to watch.

It was after the fourth race that Stanley felt his signal. He saw that Big Boy had won a bet and was heading across the grounds toward the booths to collect, leaving Iris in the stands. Stanley sauntered down, unconcerned.

He met Big Boy coming back with the mob. Big Boy was looking comfortable, race money in his pocket, pretty girl waiting, great day for the horses, nothing about death in his mind. Big Boy was swaggering in checkered jacket crossed by field-glass straps, tawny trousers, cleaving his way, haughty and mighty.

Stanley was wearing dark glasses and a charcoal jacket, in case of blood. At the last moment, Stanley put away the glasses; let it be eye to eye.

Big Boy’s eyes touched Stanley without a bump, moved past like he was a pebble. Stanley floated in. His hands were like eels again, losing substance in the special way of a dip, slipping inside Big Boy’s dappled jacket. Their eyes met this time, and in that split instant Stanley saw that the eyes were human, soft, and he almost wavered; but in that same instant he knew that eyes were only jelly and behind the jelly could live a louse. The sudden anxiety to kill hit Stanley. The knife had slid from sleeve to hand; he was a dip who was putting now, not taking. “Iris,” Stanley said.

He put the knife into Big Boy three times, rapidly. Big Boy might be tough, but his flesh was butter to the knife. Stanley saw the glaze start in the eyes. The knife was back in his sleeve and he was disengaged, past, and moving away. There had hardly been a pause.

Stanley wove within the mob until he was only a distant dot in the pattern. He knew that behind him Big Boy was collapsing, falling. A knot was forming around the body, but murder would not be suspected, at first; a stroke, a heart attack, a sickness, rather. Only when someone discovered the blood would they know... and by then Stanley would be traveling.

Driving away in his car, he looked at his sleeve; a small stain, hard to see, but inside it felt sticky. Stanley began to feel sick. Later, he threw jacket and knife into a sewer.

That night, Iris came to him.

She was like a dark, tender pool. Her face was meek, admiring. “He’s dead,” she said.

“I knew it when he started to die.”

“It was lovely,” Iris said.

He didn’t answer.

“I’m free. His whammy is dead.”

“That’s good,” Stanley said.

“Stanley—”

He hit her. He had never hit a woman before. She reeled away and fell, hand to her cheek.

“Damn you,” Stanley said. “You made me kill. I never wanted to kill. I’m not the same, now.”

She came crawling back. She embraced his knees, lifting her head, tamed, entreating. “He deserved killing,” she purled. “I’m yours now, Stanley, not his. I’ll work for you, I’ll wait on you. Just tell me, I’ll do; show me the hoop, I’ll jump. You’re the new owner, Stanley. I feel a new whammy, and you got it on me.”

Stanley looked at her. There was a flash in his mind. A curtain parted, briefly. There was the double-talk of the shrink — and it was not double-talk. There was Big Boy Hogan, the Svengali, who’d been no Svengali. There were faceless dead men, dead the way Big Boy was dead, for the same reason. There was, in shadows — the shadows of the nearing future — another dead man. It was himself.

The whammy had never been on Iris. It had been on Big Boy, it had been on others, it was now on him.

The curtain closed.

Stanley looked at the beautiful girl, now his. He kissed her... tenderly.