Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Vol. 14, No. 68, July 1949

The Big Shots by John Di Silvestro

We can’t tell you everything the author of “The Big Shots” wrote to us: we wish we could; it would help every would-be writer to persevere, to hang on, to keep the light of hope burning; it would help every reader, casual or serious, to understand better the problems of the young writer, and through that understanding, appreciate more tolerantly the near-misses as well as the hits; it would help every literary critic and every literary agent to remember what John Di Silvestro, who was only 20 years old when he wrote “The Big Shots” has yet to learn — that money, and what money stands for, is not everything an intelligent person can want. Yes, John, there are things more precious than money: talent is one of them, and to compromise talent for money is too big a price for anyone to pay...

John Di Silvestro wrote “The Big Shots” back in 1945. It poured out of his typewriter like blood spurting out of a slashed jugular. He showed the manuscript to a Chicago editor who “said nice things about it” — but couldn’t buy it. So 20-year-old John threw the story into a dark place.

Two years later John sent the manuscript to a New York editor. This time it was returned without comment, without encouragement.

Tine next year John gave the story another whirl on the wheel of misfortune. He sent it to a literary agent who promptly rejected it as “not being magazine stuff.”

Then another agent read “The Big Shots” and turned thumbs down — it “wouldn’t go for magazines,” he said.

Last year John mailed the manuscript to EQMM. His accompanying letter wold more between the lines than perhaps John realized — the slow heartbreak of despair. We read the story and were immensely impressed. We simply could not understand how it had failed to excite at least one editor or literary agent sufficiently to be thrust into print.

We rushed a special delivery letter to the author, praising the story, making an offer to purchase it, and suggesting that the story be officially submitted to our annual contest. John agreed, and we cannot resist quoting from his letter: “Ellery Queen wrote me a special delivery. I was staring at wet trees when the postman’s car slid to the curb. I watched him. He got out. I heard him at the box. I ran down the stairs.

“ ‘Mr. Di Silvestro?’

“ ‘Yes.’

“I tore the envelope to shreds. I readandreadandread, then I put some paper into the typewriter. I tried to be casual. I tried to be honest. I tried to make Mr. Queen understand that his letter was the brightest, purest, finest thing that ever happened to the one called John, by some.”

In a later note John wrote us: “I know you’ll play down the slum angle. I read the truth of the matter is that your first letter hit me at a time when I would have done anything — maybe even be honest.”

And now, completing the circle, we are back to our original theme: John, there are things more precious than the golden apples paid to compromisers. This above all, be honest. Be honest until the cows come home; be honest until hell freezes over; be honest to the end of time, to the crack of doom, to the “last syllable of recorded” manuscript. And never make any excuses for being honest. And don’t worry that you’ve “yet to leave the slums” You’ll leave the slums, and help eliminate the slums — by being honest. “The Big Shots” is honest, and its honesty is a slashing condemnation of the slum conditions which breed juvenile delinquency. That is why we are so proud to publish it...

Fat Tonу Ovaki’s face was an unhealthful pallor, his dirty blond hair a mass of greasy ringlets shading a meaty nose that was speckled with blackheads; his squat body was crouched forward as if futilely trying to escape the sloven clothing.

He joined slender Pete Semo on the corner of the street that was cool and breezy in the early morning sunshine. The tall rooming houses on either side of the street were solid brick buildings with blunt, unpainted, disreputable fronts of seamed and cracked bricking, ever ready to spawn another generation of slumjohns.

“What’s the matter, Fat?” asked Pete when he got within talking distance. “You look scared.”

“Nothin’,” said Tony Ovaki.

“Somebody picking on you?”

“Naw, nobody’s acting smart.” Tony told him.

“For a guy with your built you’re plenty yellow,” sneered Pete. “You look sick. Come on, tell me. You’re in my gang.”

“Just trouble at home,” said Tony. “Old lady want you to go to work, huh?” laughed Pete. “I thought you gave her the twenty bucks you had.”

“I did,” snapped Tony, his dirty face weak with rage. “She pulled me outta bed, that dirty—”

“Shut up. You’re the only guy I know that goes around cursing his own old lady.”

“She’s a—”

“I told you to shut up. I don’t like that kinda talk.”

Tony slowly met Pete’s eyes. “You angling for anything, Pete?”

Pete gurgled his abrupt little laugh. “You even act tough today, Fat. ’ He brought out a crumbled pack of cigarettes, stuck one between his lips.

Tonу looked at the two cigarettes left in the pack. “You got an extra, Pete?”

Pete put the pack back into his shirt pocket. “Go an’ call Tommy and Roachy.”

“Okay, Pete, but save me the butt.”

“You heard me, didn’t ya?”

Tony slowly turned away; for two seconds Pete fooled with the match folder. He lighted the cigarette.

The early morning sunshine spanked against this side of the street; he crossed, walking into the shade of the North side of the street.

Pete forced his eyes away from the littered curb, grimaced savagely; some day he was going to get outta this neighborhood, have an apartment out on the drive with glamor dames around and plenty of good liquor.

He sucked wistfully on the cigarette, the smoke panging against his lungs. He exhaled quickly; he was a little dizzy.

He thought of food for a while. Breakfasts just like in the movies — those round glass dishes with big grapefruits in them. He had tasted grapefruit once; he wondered why the rich guys always ate them in the movies.

He dipped his hand into his right hip pocket and brought out the nickel and three pennies. He walked up the street, forcing his legs to wide quick strides, his wide thin shoulders swinging aggressively.

The cigarette burned his fingers but he managed to choke down one last swallow from it and flipped it into the gutter and walked into the smells of cheeses and greens of Tompo’s grocery store.

“Longjohn,” said Pete.

“Three for eight cents,” grumbled Tompo.

“Just want one.”

Tompo wiped his hand on his green sweater and waved the flies away from the wooden tray and picked up a twisted longjohn.

“Gimme one with some sugar on it,” said Pete.

“What the hell you want for three cents?” Tompo said sharply, handing over the roll.

Pete bit deeply into the greasy roll, pocketing the two cents change from the nickel. He now had some change to rattle.

He walked out into the crisp morning coolness. The stench of kerosene assailed his nostrils. He breathed deeply and again bit into the roll, thoughtfully holding it away from his nose as he chewed the slightly cooked dough. He wished he had some place to go, maybe some girl who wore tennis shorts and had a tennis racket under her arm. Boy, that would be class. Would the rest of his gang get hot...

“Hey, Pete.” Tony’s voice neatly penetrated his dreamy mood. He quickly gulped down the remainder of the roll, wiping away the flakes of sugar from his chin with his palm.

“Hi,” chorused Roachy and Tommy.

“You got a cig?” asked Roachy, grimacing like Bogart.

“I got a nickel,” said Pete. “Let’s chip in and get a pack.”

“I’m broke,” said Tony.

“Didn’t ask you, Fat,” said Pete, pushing out his palm and driving Tony against tall, skinny Tommy.

Roachy laughed, running his thin fingers through his bushy, black curly hair. “What we gonna do, Pete?”

“Feel like goin’ horse-back riding,” said Pete. “But where can we get four bucks?”

“Jeez, do they charge half a buck an hour?” asked Tommy.

Pete nodded, hitching his belt around the leanness of his waist.

“Have they got black and white horses?” said Tommy. “Them are called pintos, that’s what they call them little horses.”

“I had a big one last time,” said Pete. “I didn’t call it no pinto.”

“Let’s go to the warehouse,” said Tony. “They need help there, they pay half a buck an hour. I know.”

Pete looked at the aproned, loose haired women shuffling onto the front stoops to get some early morning sunshine. He spat into the gutter. “Yeah, let’s go earn ourselves some dough.”

They walked to the huge towering Wong warehouse that bordered the slit of the Chicago river, the waterway being diverted to make passage for the Great Lakes boats to land their materials at the warehouse loading platforms.

“We see a guy called Rock,” said Tony. “He does the hiring.”

They walked through the shadowy alleys formed by the piled crates and oil cans leading to the employment shack.

“Yeah?” said Rock, turning from the small scarred desk that was papered profusely with bills of lading and routing sheets. His bare arms came up sharply, then thudded against the arm-rests of the swivel chair.

“We wanta put in a little time,” said Pete. “Tony here” — he pointed to the big figure of Ovaki — “said you hired him before.”

“I know,” Rock said. “You guys kin work, but you better not let me catch you smoking.”

“We ain’t got no cigarettes,” said Roachy.

“Okay,” wheezed Rock, slowly getting to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll show you where you work.”

They followed him to the high platform adjacent to the swirling dirty water.

“You guys just take the crates that that boat will have on board,” said Rock, pointing to a squat steamer pulling in toward the pier. “Got it?”

“Yeah,” said Pete, matching Rock’s ugly grin.

“You see that they do a good job,” Rock said to Pete.

Pete spat into the water. “Sure, Rock.”

As Rock got out of hearing distance Roachy cursed sullenly. “You lucky baba,” he told Pete.

“I’m sorta foreman,” grinned Pete, “and you guys are gonna work.”

“Who the hell feels like riding a horse?” said Tony.

“I do,” snapped Pete, “and if you don’t work, Fat, I’ll throw you in the river.”

They laughed for a while, then the squat river boat battered against the pier and two husky seamen were tying her secure.

“Go on,” ordered Pete, “jump on the boat, and start bringing those crates up here.” He watched them jump aboard. He vaguely wished he could join them. It must feel nice being on a ship, being so close to land with nothing to worry about.

Pete pushed the crates farther back onto the pier as Roachy, Tony, and Tommy dumped them on the edge of the platform.

Two hours later they struggled onto the pier.

“We put in a buck’s worth,” groaned Tony, “let’s go get our dough.”

“We need car fare to get to the stables,” said Pete. “C’mon let’s work a little more. Then we can even buy something to eat.”

“Sure, you ain’t doin’ nothing,” growled Roachy, knuckling the sweat from his eyes.

Pete brought up his clenched fist, smashed it into Roachy’s shoulder.

Roachy’s head bobbed down and he charged Pete, swinging his left with all his strength. Pete easily dodged it, grabbing Roachy’s left arm and sticking out his right foot. As Roachy lurched past him, he smashed a pile-driving fist into his stomach.

Roachy thrashed on the splintery dock.

They watched him choke, a trickle of vomit slipping past his lips. He didn’t have any breakfast to splurge on the pier. He rolled from Pete’s foot, got to his knees, and weakly tackled Pete as he closed in. They rolled and thudded against the planking.

Finally Pete had his knees on Roachy’s arms, his feet effectively keeping Roachy prostrate.

“If you really wanta get hurt, Roach, just make a move.”

Roachy’s head twisted miserably. “Okay, I had enough.”

Pete got up and before he could straighten up, the dock crashed against his face. He twisted over on his back. Rock reached down and dragged him to his feet.

“You shouldn’t’ve been fighting, sonny,” said Rock. “Now get to work.”

Pete shook his head numbly; he reached up for it, tried to screw it on. A sudden flash blinded his vision and he fell against Rock’s chest. He reeled back rather than lean against him. Tony and Tommy caught him.

Pete shook off the protecting hands of his friends. “You hit me when I wasn’t looking,” snarled Pete, moving toward Rock.

Rock easily held him off. “If you want another smack, kid, just keep on acting smart.”

Pete lashed out with his foot, it completed a shallow arc against Rock’s thick shinbone. He yelped and hopped backward. Pete’s foot came up again, this time against Rock’s unprotected stomach. Rock went over backward.

The crew aboard the boat yelled and moved toward the platform.

Tony and Tommy picked up the small but heavy crates, and heaved them against the oncoming crewmen. They cursed and jumped back onto the deck of the craft.

Pete grabbed Roachy’s arm. “C’mon, let’s get outta here,” he yelled, helping the unsteady Roach to find his stride.

They reached the comparative safety of high tiers of crates, then they raced through the street, weaving through the tangle of traffic before the street side of the warehouse.

Their breaths were hot and hard against each other’s cheeks as they paused in the alleyway to catch their breaths.

“Dirty sklink,” Pete said thickly, “we didn’t even get paid.”

“Do you think he knows where we live?” gasped Roachy.

“He knows where I five,” Tony said tonelessly. “I worked a week there. He even got my social security number.”

“You lousy fat stink,” shrieked Pete. “You—”

“Aw cut it,” said Roachy. “It isn’t his fault. We gotta think of something.”

“You kicked him,” cried Tony. “I ain’t worried.”

Pete moved toward Tony but Roachy weakly held him off. “That’ll make it worse. We gotta stick together.”

Pete quickly regained his composure. “Sure.” He was the boss, couldn’t let a big slob scare him. He’d showed them.

“Look,” said Pete, sticking his finger into Tony’s sloping stomach. “You go home, hide in the hallways, tell your old lady to tell whoever comes asking for you that you left town. If nobody comes, okay. I just wanta know if that guy Rock’s going to do something.”

“Yeah, that’s smart,” said Tommy, flexing his arms and straightening his dirty polo shirt.

“Okay, get on home,” ordered Pete, “and run. He might’ve gone to your house already.”

Tony’s face slackened. “Yeah? What if he did already? I ain’t going.”

“You ain’t yellow?” said Pete. “Or are you?”

“Yeah,” said Roachy. “Are you yella?”

“Okay,” said Tony. “I’ll go home. If he does come around asking for me what do we do?”

“We’ll protect you,” said Pete. “Now get.”

They watched him walk away.

Roachy smiled ruefully. “He’s the guy who knows our names. Rock only knows where he lives.”

“I know,” said Pete.

Tommy cursed. “He’ll talk if Rock gets ahold of him, you can bet on it.”

“We gotta take that chance,” said Pete.

Tony ducked into the alleyway, darting swiftly through the vast parking space of the Cab Company, and had to pause for breath when he hit South Halstead Street.

His hands shook miserably as he cleared the sweat from his eyes. He wished he had a cigarette.

He cursed shrilly. Only two more blocks now. He carefully walked into another alley, automatically flattening his back against the wall of a building. The chipped bricking of the wall bit into his spine but he didn’t notice. He panted but he knew he wasn’t that tired. He remembered a George Raft picture, but it seemed sorta silly now. He didn’t even have the girl Raft had had to fight for; he was just acting scared.

He counted slowly up to ten, glanced up the mouth of the alley; no danger from that quarter. He walked deeper into the smells and debris of the alleys that sliced up the neighborhoods just a ten minute trolley ride from the Loop.

He looked up at the back porch of the tall, narrow building. His mother was hanging shirts and pillow-cases on the clothes-line. It cringed every time she yanked the rope outward to place more clothing on the line.

He carefully unhooked the bar of the door and went into the yard. He quickly went up the stairs.

“Ma.”

She sighed deeply, viciously yanking the cord.

“Ma... you gotta listen.”

She rummaged for some clothespins in the deep pocket of her dirty apron.

“Did anybody come lookin’ for me, Ma?”

She jerked around. “What did you steal?”

“Nothin’, Ma, honest. Just some big guy’s looking for me. He’s gonna beat me up.”

Her thick neck reddened angrily. “What did ya rob?” she repeated doggedly.

“Honest to God I didn’t pick up anything, Ma. I’ll tell you: I went to the warehouse to put in a little time like you told me this morning.”

“Then why ain’t you working?” she thumped, rubbing the rust from her hand against her thigh.

“I’m trying to tell you,” he screeched. “Listen, Ma: Rock, the foreman at the warehouse took me and the guys on to work. Then this guy Rock slugs Pete for nothin’ at all. We guys just knocked around the other guys who try to pile on us. Then we ran away.”

“What you worried about? You’re in the right.”

“Yeah... but this guy Rock is tough.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” she repeated. “Anyhow, that kid Pete had it coming to him; he’s a troublemaker.”

“Ma, will you listen,” he snarled. “Rock doesn’t know Pete’s last name or address. He only knows my name and address. Jeez, why did I have to go to work there?”

“What the hell you want me to do?”

“Listen: when somebody comes askin’ for me you just tell ’em I went to the country, you don’t know where.”

She sighed, her meaty shoulders rising and falling with the motion; her hand went to the back of her dress. At length she said, “Okay, I’ll tell that. You really going outta town?”

“Naw, I’ll be in the hallway.”

She laughed. “You nuts? Why don’t you go outta town? You’ll learn what it means to be on your own.”

“Oh, Ma. Honest, when this blows over I’ll get a steady job and really work.”

“Okay, but don’t hang around the hall.” She stared at the reddish streak of rust on her apron. “Somebody’ll see you skulkin’ ’round and really get suspicious.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“What did ya steal?”

“Dammit, I told you I didn’t steal anything!”

“Better be right orest I’ll kick you out. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, and leave the kitchen window open. I’ll sneak in late tonight. So don’t get sore.”

She reached into the wicker basket and brought up a pair of tattered shorts, carefully pinning them to the clothes-line, jerking it forward with another whine of the rusty pulley.

“Ma?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you loan me twenty cents? I’m dying for a smoke.”

“There’s some beer bottles, go get the deposits.”

“I can’t be seen on the street.”

“Then get the hell outta here.”

“Please, Ma. I mean it, I’ll get a job, just give me twenty cents.”

“Ain’t got it.”

“C’mon, Ma.”

She picked up the empty basket and grunted as she stepped over the high wooden plank leading into the kitchen. For a minute she stood stock-still, her elbow working furiously. He looked at the swaying mass of clothes on the line.

“Go buy some beer an’ I’ll give you the money,” she said, flattening her hand against her bulky hip.

“You bum,” he choked out, and charged out the kitchen door.

He made his way through the alleys. He walked slowly, carefully, sort of storing up his energy if flight became imperative. He wasn’t shaky any more. Hell, if it wasn’t for him picking up those crates and heavin’ ’em at the guys on the boat, Pete woulda got killed sure.

He ran across Meriden Street, squeezed between the bent bars that encircled the large YMCA baseball diamond, and trotted behind the park benches, his feet dully padding against the loose gravel.

He paused at the water fountain which stood at the path leading onto Sholwa Street, drank deeply, the water splashing against his bare throat.

He gulped the air noisily, quickly twisting around. Not a person in sight.

He walked slowly up Sholwa Street, waited for the light to switch to green, dashed across the avenue, and again eased his gait. He glanced behind: no one was tailing him.

He walked very slowly past the Church, made certain that no one was in sight, and quickly ran up the stairs and entered the gloom of the House of Worship.

He dipped his finger in the Holy Water font, hurriedly made the sign of the cross. He peered deeply into the darkness of the Church.

“Pssstr.”

He jerked erect.

“Over here, Tony.”

He followed the damp echo, gently making his way to the extreme right where a row of pews were set.

A sickly smile spread over Tony’s face as he nodded to Tommy and Roachy, who were sitting on the kneeling board below the benches. Pete Semo was sprawled on the bench.

“What did your old lady say?” husked Pete.

“She’ll tell ’em I went to the country if anybody comes nosing around.”

“Why didn’t you stay in the hallway like I said?” croaked Pete, hopelessly trying to curb his tone to the cooly elegant quiet of the Church.

“That wouldn’t be smart,” said Tony. “Somebody’d see me sneaking around and get suspicious.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” muttered Pete.

The quick precise clicking of heels stopped at their pew. They quickly turned. Father Littono regarded them suspiciously. “The Church is no place for gossip, boys.”

Pete gazed at the sleek blackness of Father Littono’s street suit, the glistening white collar about his throat being the immature halo that someday he would lay permanent claim to.

“We just thought we’d give a little prayer,” Pete said a bit quicker than he’d intended. “We got a ball game tonight.”

“Very fine thought,” said the priest. “Let me know how you make out. I’ll remember your intention, boys.”

“Gee, thanks,” Pete said, hastily making for the entrance, his gang behind him.

“Say, boys,” called Father Littono.

They turned.

“You can tell me how you made out this Sunday — at nine o’clock Mass.”

“Sure thing, Father,” yelled Pete, and they ducked out before the echo thundered back at them.

They walked away from the Church, heading toward the Loop.

“Damn you,” barked Pete, after the two required blocks from the Church had been covered.

“I didn’t do nothin’,” Tony yelped.

“We coulda stood there longer if you didn’t haveta come. It’s cool in the Church.”

“I told you I couldn’t stay around the house.”

“Okay — okay.”

“Hey? You know something?” said Roachy. “Us being in Church and all I just remembered.” He waited for their “yeahs.”

“You know old man Stoki who owns the Gaytime Theater?”

“What about him?” said Tommy.

“He owns the burlesque joint on Water Street too.”

“I knew that,” said Pete.

“Yeah,” droned Roachy. “But he’s an usher in Church on Sundays.”

“How do you know?” sneered Tony.

“I was in Church once,” Roachy said, staring hard at Tony.

“Okay, so you were in Church,” grunted Pete.

“Don’t you get it?” Roach said excitedly. “That’s an angle, we could—”

“Blackmail him,” finished Pete. He thoughtfully slitted his eyes as he’d seen movie badmen do at sinister moments. Something could be done with this.

“Here’s what we do,” commanded Pete. “You, Roachy, since you thought of it can go and brace him.”

“Hell, no, he’ll call a cop.”

“On the ’phone, dummy, on the ’phone,” snapped Pete.

“That’s different,” mumbled Roachy.

“You just tell him,” continued Pete, “that if he don’t leave fifty bucks — no, make it a hunnerd — with the guy who’ll be near the fire exit near the alley tomorrow night, Father Littono will find out about his owning the cheap feeler.”

Roachy shook his head negatively his bright eyes eagerly seeking a similar attitude from his friends. “I ain’t got a nickel to phone with,” he said weakly.

“Jeez, are you yellow too?” growled Pete.

“I just ain’t got a nickel.”

Pete brought out his five pennies, handed them over. He pointed to a drug store half a block up the street. “We’ll be walking down the street. You catch up with us.”

They watched him hurry up the street.

Pete brought out his cigarette pack.

“I’ll light it for you,” offered Tony.

Pete broke the cigarette in half, giving pieces to Tommy and Tony. He lighted the remaining whole one. The smoke was a hot burst against his lungs.

Then Roachy joined them.

“What did he say?” asked Tony.

“Almost nothing.”

“About the money, the money?” growled Pete.

“He laughed at me.”

“What did he say?”

“I told him to have it or else.”

“Or else what?” snapped Pete.

“Or else I’d tell the priest.”

Pete’s face slowly turned skyward. “What did he say to that, Roachy?”

“He said he didn’t want to go to Church any more anyway.”

They regarded Pete silently for a full minute, then exploded into bursts of ragged laughter.

“What’s so funny?” growled Roachy.

“I’m going home and listen to the ball game,” choked Pete, trying to catch his breath. “What the hell... we ain’t got any money and Rock doesn’t know where to find us.”

“Yeah,” said Roachy, his lower lip savagely protruding. “But Fat Ovaki here can get nailed.”

Pete sobered. “Remember, Tony, no matter what time it is, if anybody comes looking for you, you let me know.” His lips relaxed with a smile. “Maybe Rock won’t come looking for you himself, see?”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Tony. “Okay, I get in touch with you if anything happens. Where will you guys be?”

“We’re all going home,” Pete said wearily.

“Yeah,” echoed Tommy and Roachy.

Tony raked them with hot, black eyes. “What if he does come looking for me. What do we do then? That’s what I’m worried about.”

“We take care of him,” said Pete.

“Okay.” Tony walked away. He turned once but they were walking off into different directions. He wondered if he could buy cigarettes in jail. He wished he’d went and bought the beer for his old lady...

The blistering rays of the sun twined through the railing of the back stairway as he made his way up to the flat.

His mother was drinking a cup of coffee. “He was here,” she said.

Somehow tears managed to trickle down his quivering cheeks. He blew his nose. “What did he want, Ma?”

“Said he had something personal to tell you.” She noisily gulped down some of the coffee. “He caught me guzzling beer. The fruit, he wouldn’t even have a drink with me. I told him you went out to the country.”

“Yeah, yeah. But what did he say?”

“That he had something personal to tell you.”

Tony ran his fingers over his fuzzy cheeks; the bones felt weak. He furiously tucked his shirt into the band of his dirty pants. “Is he coming back?”

“Said he’d try and locate you.”

“God.” The sweat swept to the base of his tightened jawline. “Was he a big guy, Ma?”

“Ya little runt, what did you steal?”

“I told you, I didn’t steal anything.”

“Then don’t try and trip me up by saying the guy was big.”

“Jeez, he sent one of his friends. Ma — Ma I gotta get outta town, gimme a couple of bucks.”

“Ain’t got it,” she said promptly. “But, Ma—”

“Get outta here. If you’re scared, what you want me to do?”

“But, Ma—”

“Nuts.” She picked up the coffee cup, dashed the contents into the sink, washed the cup with cold water, took the quart bottle of beer from the window ledge and slowly filled the cup.

He dashed out, went down the stairs, and ran through the alleyway; the sun didn’t reach the alley. The narrow confines of the back pathway lead to any destination — if you knew the right short-cuts.

He walked into a backyard, looked about carefully. Two dirty tots played in the adjoining yard, clothes fluttered from lines about him. He moved under the protection of the porch’s shading, reached between the bars, and knocked against the window pane of the basement flat.

Pete peered out. “Come on in, my old man’s working.”

Tony entered. “Some guy came looking for me, Pete.”

“Was it Rock?”

“No, my old lady said he wasn’t a big guy.”

Pete went to the radio and screwed it into silence. “Did your old lady keep quiet about you?”

“Yeah, she said I went to the country like I told her.”

Pete glared at his dirty fingernails. “Go to Green bow Street, you know, where all the factories are at. There’s an old trailer there, the one we used as a clubhouse before. Go inside, I’ll get Tommy and Roachy.”

“Don’t be long,” Tony said, quickly darting out.

Pete went out of the front entrance, walking swiftly, yet with an easy loose movement. He glanced in store windows to check his strides. He grinned; he was glad that he’d read that book telling about how tough adventurers walked — with quick, easy, effortless strides.

He moved up the stairway of a sturdy red brick building. “Oh Tommy,” he called.

Tommy materialized quickly in the doorway. “What’s happened, Pete?”

“Just go to the old trailer on Green-bow Street.”

“Okay... but?”

“Go on, get started,” ordered Pete. “I’m getting Roachy.”

Roachy answered his call and quickly they were moving toward Greenbow Street.

“Jeez,” muttered Roachy after the details had been given him. “Are we really gonna give Rock the big push?”

Pete smiled carefully, wondering if his lips were properly slitted. They just felt blubbery against his teeth.

“Say,” said Roachy. “Monty said he got something to tell you.”

Pete nodded absently.

“Ain’t you gonna see what he wants?” said Roachy, pointing to the pool room across the street.

They crossed the street, walked into the gloom of the pool room. A dance tune coming from the radio harshly toned the large room. The clicking of pool balls penetrating the low hum of conversation as effectively as the music blared away any civil tone.

“Got something to tell me?” Pete said loudly to the very old, very thin man behind the narrow cigar counter.

“Yeah,” said Monty. “A little guy was in here asking for you. He didn’t know your last name but he almost described you to a T. He said you got brown hair, described your built good too. What’d you do, Petey?”

“What did he want with me?” asked Pete softly.

“Something personal.” The old man smiled. “He wouldn’t say.”

“Was he tough looking?”

“You can’t go much by looks.” Monty chuckled, running his stiff fingers over his pigeon chest. He continued gently, “This guy was ’bout five eight, but he had a crisp way of talking. He kinda made you wanta say yes-sir or no-sir.”

“Copper,” slammed out Roachy.

“Get the hell outta here,” barked Monty. “You punks are too smart for your age nowadays. Get out.”

“What did you tell him, Monty?” Pete asked, almost catching Monty’s dangerous inflection of tone.

“Not a damn thing,” said Monty, pointing to the door. “Now get.”

Outside, they walked silently side by side, their arms heedlessly jostling each other as they moved quickly toward Greenbow Street.

They walked up the silent street. The huge factory buildings on either side vibrated slightly from the vast amount of machinery in operation within, but once accustomed to these deep, almost inaudible, rumblings they paid no attention to them.

“Jeez,” said Roachy, “this street always gives me the creeps. Just think! There’s hunnerds, maybe thousands, of guys working in those sweatshops and you don’t see any of ’em by the windows.”

Pete’s gaze darted upward; he forced his eyes away from the dirty windows. “Sure.” He laughed with a bitterness that he could never have emulated purposely. “That’s why us guys got to get our dough quick, maybe start up some kind of syndicate. I’ll die first before I go to work in shops like these.”

Roachy nodded. “There’s the trailer.”

They paused long enough to look up the narrow alley between two squat, average-sized factories toward the weedy, sloping, uneven, wide, empty space that comprised a hobo’s dream of home. After nightfall the many little wooden shelters were peopled by the careless hordes of tramp adventurers.

They walked the weedy, sloping ground into a basin-like level which reminded Pete of almost every cowboy picture he had ever seen. He liked walking in this empty lot. You couldn’t see the buildings from here, but you could look up and just see the sky, all blue with little white clouds that drifted like wreckage in technicolor movies.

They walked fifty feet to the edge of this plate-like plane indented between the sloping gravel heaps.

There, amid the knee-high, rank growth of weeds and shoulder-high mounds of dung-colored, sandy piles, stood the old trailer. Once it had been the pride of the Mulhooney freight lines. You could still make out the bold red of the Mulhooney trademark.

They went through the ajar doors of the rusty trailer and tried to bring into focus their friends’ shapes.

“Tony, Tommy,” whispered Pete.

“Wait’ll I light the candle, Pete,” Tony croaked. A match flare sent shuddering shadows up the evilly warped sides and ceiling of the trailer.

“We’re hot,” growled Pete. “Boys, we gotta stay outta circulation for a while.”

“They’ll remember you, Pete,” Tommy said. “You’re the guy that powdered Rock.”

Pete laughed. The shadows were comforting. Tall, bold, unflinching shadows that moved with your every motion. The impotent guardian angels of every man.

Pete swallowed carefully. “Tony?”

“Want a cig?” Tony said-shakily. “We got some now.”

“No.” Pete felt the same raw delight he’d felt when he’d first attempted to shave, the same sensation as the powerful after-shave lotion burning into his cheeks. “Tell me everything your mother said.”

“I told you,” said Tony. “He wasn’t Rock because she said he wasn’t big. My Ma told him I went to the country, that she didn’t know where. He said he had something personal to tell me.”

“That’s the same thing he told Monty,” Roachy said.

“Dammit,” whirred Pete, grabbing Roachy’s arm and spinning him against the side of the trailer.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” yelled Roachy.

“You mean they’re after you too?” cried Tony.

“Jeez,” said Tommy prayerfully.

“Okay.” Pete didn’t waste a glance in Roachy’s direction. “Did you tell your old lady that we were with you?

“What difference would it make?” screeched Tony. “Everybody saw us over at the dock.”

“Did you?” growled Pete.

“Yeah, I had to. I told her the truth.”

“Think,” said Pete, “what else did she say?”

“She said that he wouldn’t drink some beer with her.”

“He’s a copper,” Roachy said hollowly.

Pete’s voice lashed out viciously. “You said that before, Roachy. How do you know?”

“ ’Cause coppers don’t drink on duty.”

Tommy laughed. “Wucko, the street cop’s always in the tavern.”

“Yeah, but this was a plainclothes-man,” husked Roachy. “Jeez, are we in trouble.”

“Look.” Pete gripped Tony’s shoulders tightly. “You go home and tell your old lady that you’re really going outta town. Tell her you’ll try to get a job and make somethin’ outta yourself.”

“Gee.” The darkness hid Tony’s blush; the gee had been involuntary. “That’s swell, Pete. Will we hop a freight tonight?”

“Yeah, Tony, just go on home and get your clothes.”

“Gotta make it look good,” agreed Tony, and he was quickly through the half-shut steel doors.

They waited for his forced haste to diminish in the still heat of the afternoon.

“Are we really going to leave town?” asked Roachy.

“You stupid baba,” snapped Pete. “You had to spill the beans.”

“What did I say?”

“You told him about the guy askin’ for me at Monty’s.”

“Jeez, that don’t mean nothing.”

“Like hell it don’t.” Pete’s voice was even, his tone murderous; he had practiced it often enough before the mirror in his bedroom. He hoped there was more light in the hulk of the trailer. “Don’t you get it?” he continued. “Tony musta talked.”

“Then what are we gonna do?” shrilled Tommy.

“Remember that I said we’d have to give Rock the big push if it came to him or us?” said Pete.

The shadows converged.

“Well, it ain’t smart to push Rock,” growled Pete. “He’s got too many friends, and anyway we ain’t got any guns.”

“Then what?” said Roachy.

“Who’s the only one who can spill the names of us guys?” Pete said, eagerly picking up the dramatic cue.

Roachy said stiffly, “You mean Tony?”

“He’s the only guy,” said Pete. “That’s why I didn’t want him to know that Rock was getting close to me too.” He paused thoughtfully. “He’s going home now and telling his old lady that he’s leaving town. When he gets back here I’ll put the shiv into him before he knows what hit him. We can bury him out here tonight. If they find his body the cops’ll blame the hobos.”

In the candlelight their faces were white, milk white. For the first time in their lives they couldn’t thwart their plans with the thought of food and clean rooms and steam-heated flats. The acute, perpetual need of food was iced from their bellies. Fear crookedly steadied their faces; the boyish cast was gone from their visages. They were men now, taking a step that was the only action that would absolve them.

“You going to do it?” Roachy’s voice raggedly beat against the walls and tumbled down over their heads and shoulders.

“Yeah,” said Pete. He took the pocket-knife from his hip pocket, opened it. “There’s a certain spot in the back.”

“I–I’ll wait outside for him,” Tommy said with a detached tone that steadied the ache from swirling to his throat and choking him.

“If you can’t take it, okay,” said Pete.

“Okay, I’ll stay,” said Tommy. God, what if Pete thought he’d run away and tell. No. “Sure I’ll stay, Pete. What do you think I am?”

“Okay.”

Somehow a chill wind sliced through the blackness of the hulk, blotting out the light.

“What if Tony told his mother that he was leaving town with us, Pete?”

Pete didn’t recognize the voice. He swore. It hadn’t been one of his friends. It sounded almost like Monty’s dead, old voice.

“Who said that?” Pete yelled.

“I did. Me, Tommy.”

The candle was relit.

“I’ll ask him when he comes back,” said Pete. “Don’t get jumpy over everything. We gotta keep cool. Remember: If you make a slip or get scared, you’re stretching your own neck. We gotta stick together.”

That, thought Pete, was a smart little speech. He almost felt happy, but the hardness of the haft of the knife against his palm reminded him of his chore. He lapsed into silence.

Then Tony stormed in. “Got my extra pair of pants and two shirts, even a dollar. When do we get started? It’s almost dark now.”

“Did you tell your mother that you were blowing town with us?” Pete asked very, very gently.

“Naw.” Tony’s voice was happy, almost tender with affection toward his buddies. “I couldn’t; she woulda thought I was just going to bum around with you guys. I told her I was going by myself.”

“Where did you tell her you were going?” Pete said.

“Told her I didn’t know.”

“Got something to show you, Tony. Come over here.”

“Bring it near the candle, Pete. I can’t see in the dark good yet.”

“I’ll light a match, Tony.”

“Okay, Pete.”

The air moved sluggishly in the trailer. Tony walked toward Pete, causing air currents to brush across Tommy’s and Roachy’s faces. Tommy tried to trip Tony — anything to keep him away from Pete — but he misjudged the distance in the gloom and Tony was facing Pete.

“Owww,” cried Tony, “my shirt musta stuck to my back. Jeez, it almost hurts bad.”

Tommy and Roachy jumped to their feet.

Pete reached for the knife hilt which was fast against Tony’s back, drew it out quickly.

Tony screamed. “What happened... a rat... guys, a rat bit me... gotta get to a hospital.”

Pete slashed the blade against Tony’s throat. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? The jugular vein was difficult to miss with a slashing sweep of the blade at such close quarters.

Tony crashed against the wall. Finally he slid to the floor.

“We shouldn’ta,” sobbed Tommy. “Oh, God, please forgive me. I didn’t mean to. Oh, God, please, God. I’ll go to Church every Sunday, please, God.”

Pete stooped over and placed the red knife next to the candle and turned to Tommy, slashing viciously across his face with clenched fists. All the suppressed rage that came from killing a guy who wouldn’t admit he was dying surged through his veins. He beat his fists against Tommy’s nose, eyes, ears, neck. Tommy began to slide down the side of the trailer.

Pete held him; once, twice, again and again he slashed at the black blob before him with fists made of iron. Then his arm was too weak to hold him up any longer. He allowed Tommy to thump to the floor.

Pete slumped down next to the flickering candle. He looked up. Roachy had the knife in his hand.

“Don’t try anything with me, Pete.”

“I hadda slug him, Tom. He was pa-pa-panicky.”

It was dark out when Tommy started to mumble. They quickly slapped him into consciousness.

“What happened?” Tommy asked.

“You went outta your head,” said Pete. “I hadda slug you.”

“Okay, Pete.”

“We gotta bury Tony now,” Pete said.

“I’m too weak,” said Tommy.

“We’ll do it,” said Roachy, leaning over and patting him on the shoulder. “Just take it easy, Tom.”

Pete went out; no one was in sight. He called to Roachy. “We’ll have to bury him near the trailer,” grated Pete. “We haveta... I ain’t got much strength left.”

“Me neither,” mumbled Roachy.

With their hands they clawed at the weeds, getting into the comparative softness of the dirt below. Finally they were leaning, elbow deep, into the hole to bring the dirt out.

“This is far enough,” wheezed Pete. “Let’s throw him in.”

Roachy complied, dragging Tony’s leaden body toward the shallow pit. Pete rose from the ground and helped Roachy tumble him into his grave.

Frantically they covered the hole, tossing lébris and the scattered weeds over Tony’s shoddy grave.

Roachy fell to his knees over the loose dirt. He spoke aloud, evenly. “God, I guess I’m a killer too. I couldn’t stop Pete f-from doing it to Tony. If you wanta do anything to me, just go ahead. I ain’t complaining. I’m going to be good, God, even try to be a priest. I ain’t no killer, God.”

Pete screamed savagely, hurling his body toward Roachy. They thrashed and twisted over Tony’s grave, biting and gouging, the rusty cans and sharp gravel tearing into their bodies.

... Roachy rose slowly, glanced down at Pete. He was out. “Tommy, Tommy,” he called weakly.

Tommy appeared at the iron swinging-door of the trailer, clutching at the panel for support. He stumbled toward Roachy.

“Gotta bring him around,” screamed Roachy. “Go on — slap him around.”

Tommy fell to his knees, pinched Pete’s bleeding face, slapped his lax mouth. Pete stirred slightly.

Then they were leaving the darkened lot, their faces clotted with blood, their clothes tattered.

As they reached the mouth of the alleyway leading to the street of factories Tommy halted abruptly. “What about that little bundle of clothes Tony brought with him?”

“Might as well leave it there,” Pete said, trying to keep his eyes from twitching by heeling them with his blood-crusted hands.

“Fingerprints?” said Tommy.

Pete laughed. His body was a swollen mass of skin and bones, but it was forgotten. “We fooled around that trailer before lots of times. Our prints were there before tonight.”

“But the candle?” Roachy’s voice sapped through. “And maybe the cops can tell fresh prints.”

Pete stripped the remnants of his shirt from his torso and back. “Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ll go back, get the candle and do a little wipe-up job.”

They didn’t glance at his retreating figure.

“Why did you and Pete fight?” Tommy said thickly, the gash on his lip reopening with the movement of his lips. The blood went unnoticed, quickly seeping down his chin.

“ ’Cause I prayed.”

“I did too, Roachy.”

“I’m going to be a priest, Tommy.” It was good saying Tommy’s name.

“I’ll come with you, Roachy.”

“Let’s go to Church from now on, Tommy.”

“Try and stop me.”

Tears went down their cheeks, burning down the welts that streaked their faces.

Then Pete was with them again.

“I wiped up as much of the place as I could and threw the candle away from the trailer. The cops are gonna pull us in.”

“What will we say?” said Tommy.

“That we didn’t see him tonight.”

“Yeah,” agreed Roachy. “Then his old lady’ll say he left town, and the cops will think he just slept here for a night and the hobos killed him.”

Pete laughed. “They won’t find Tony for a long time — maybe never.”

They didn’t exchange a word until the wide streets of their own neighborhood materialized before them. A bolt of lightning shattered the night’s quiet. Rain hosed down...

They must have just been standing there, for Tommy remembered when it had been just a thin drizzle.

They separated, each going to his own home. It wasn’t a house tonight. It was their last and only haven.

The rain kept them awake for long agonizing periods.

Finally they slept.

Next morning Pete was sitting on the back porch of the basement fiat which was level with the backyard. The rain had mudded the backyard and the wind still hissed damply.

He glanced at the sky. It was black. He didn’t feel like eating, smoking, or thinking.

He was sitting at the enamel-topped table in the kitchen with his burning forehead against the coolness of the table top when the two large men entered through the open door.

“Your name Peter Semo, kid?”

“Yes.”

“Come along.”

“Who’re you?” Pete said slowly; he had to keep a good grip.

The shorter one brought out his wallet, flipped it open; a badge was attached to it. Pete went along meekly.

The station house was big; the desk sergeant didn’t look as sappy as movie desk sergeants. He looked sore. The cops floating around the room didn’t talk to each other. And guys with cameras took his picture.

“In here,” said the larger detective, after he had posed with Pete for the picture.

The office was large and the man seated behind the steel desk was broad-shouldered and wore glasses. He looked like a piano-playing halfback who’s ready to stomp or grin at a moment’s notice.

“I’m Lieutenant Pierce,” he said good-naturedly. “How old are you, Pete?”

Pete’s tongue wallowed uncertainly in his mouth. “Sixteen, sir.”

“What happened to your face, son?”

Pete ran a hand over his swollen, taped face. “Hadda little argument with the gang — my pals.”

“What about?”

“They just acted smart.”

“You the Big Head, Pete?”

“Yessir, I’m sorta chief, we hang out together.”

“Too bad about Tony,” Pierce said very gently. “He in your gang too?”

Pete forced the rampant thought from his mind that Tony’s body had been found. They couldn’t have.

“What about Tony?” said Pete. His voice sounded okay.

“Some hobos found his body near an old abandoned trailer in the Bo jungle near Greenbow Street,” Pierce said with a detached tone.

“Jeez, is he okay now?”

“He was stabbed twice,” said Pierce, lighting a cigarette. “You smoke, Pete?”

“Nosir.”

“Fine.” He smiled nicely. “Oh, yes, we have your friends Tommy and Louis — guess you boys call him Roachy.”

“Yessir.”

Pierce exhaled noisily, the smoke swirling over Pete’s head. “Was it a serious quarrel you boys had, Pete?”

“Nosir.”

“You’re all pretty well banged up, and Tony’s dead. Why did you knife him, Pete?”

They had squealed. One of them must have. How could the cops have found the body so soon? Pierce was lying about the hobos finding it — that was it — nobody could have found Tony’s body so soon. But if anybody had blabbed, it would be Tommy. He’d even prayed when Pete had jabbed the knife into—

“Come on,” Pierce’s voice lashed out. “Your friends admitted you put the knife into Tony. I haven’t all day to waste on you.”

“I didn’t,” cried Pete. “Honest to God, mister. I didn’t!”

Pierce sighed wearily. “You did have a knife, didn’t you?”

“Nosir, I didn’t. When I was a kid I did, but my pa made me throw it away.” Thank God, he’d thrown that knife down the sewer.

“Quit lying.” Pierce rose, walked around the desk, stood over him.

Here it came. Pete steadied himself. They could kick him around all they wanted. Nobody talked on a murder rap. But somebody had. Maybe they did have him dead to rights, but the cops always used that old trick of saying your friends squealed on you. But he knew Tony was dead. How did he know? How?

“I didn’t do nothing,” said Pete.

“You and your friends’ fingerprints were all over that trailer.”

“We goofed around there. But at night bums sleep in there.”

Pierce stared at his palm, brought it before Pete’s eyes. “Don’t try and pin this on the bos,” said Pierce, “they notified us of the dead kid. Tony even had a buck on him. If bums had killed him they would have taken the money and blew town.”

“Maybe they’re being smart,” Pete shrilled, coiling back into the chair away from that large, square hand. “Maybe they ’phoned you justa clear themselves.”

“You see too many movies,” Pierce snapped. “There’s a difference between bums and hobos. Hobos just don’t work but they don’t panhandle like bums. The boss of the hobos notified us. C’mon, kid, spill it.”

“Honest to God I didn’t kill him,” Pete shouted, trying to evade the hand that was a fraction from meeting his nose.

Pierce turned quickly, pressed a buzzer, and told the patrolman who entered to bring in Tommy and Roachy.

Two big plainclothesmen steered Tommy and Roachy before Pete.

Pierce pointed to Pete, roared: “This guy stabbed that kid, didn’t he?”

They remained silent. Pete’s stomach jelled warmly; Pierce had been trapping him with the idea that the guys had talked.

Pierce cleared his throat. “Did you do it, Tommy?”

“No-o, sir.”

He whirled on Roachy. “You?”

“No, honest, I didn’t.”

Pierce looked down at Pete. “You’re a smart kid,” he said. “You kids are all banged up from a fight. You all admitted you fought among yourselves. How come there wasn’t a scratch on Tony other than the knife slashes?”

“We didn’t do that,” Roachy said, staring at Pete.

Tommy tried to look away from Pete but the trembling lips, the glistening white face, were too strong an attraction.

“They’re covering up for themselves,” cried out Pete. “You gotta believe me, mister.”

“Rat,” snarled Roachy. “He did it, Lieutenant. We couldn’t stop him. You see we got a job by the pier and...”

The police stenographer was called in and Roachy repeated the story.

Roachy and Tommy were taken from the room.

“Okay, Pete,” Pierce said gravely.

All they had was Roachy’s and Tommy’s word against his.

“It was in self-defense,” said Pete quietly; he hadda keep cool. “I know what you’re thinkin’, but it ain’t right. Tony’s a husky guy, it was dark in the trailer — that’s where we had the fight — he had me on the floor and woulda killed me. I got him first with a knife.”

“No dice, kid. Your pals say you beat up Tommy after you knifed Tony, and that Roachy jumped you after you buried Tony.”

“They’re lying! You gotta believe me!”

Pierce smiled at the male stenographer. “Did you get it all, Mike?”

The stranger nodded, lighting a cigarette.

“But it was self-defense,” choked Pete. “Honest, mister.”

“Well, that’s the D.A.’s job to figure,” said Pierce. “But listen, kid, I’ll give you a tip. You better plead guilty. You might get a break — maybe one to fourteen.”

“May I interrupt, Lieutenant?” the stenographer said.

Pierce nodded. “Go ahead, Mike.”

“Have you got a lawyer, son?” asked the stenographer.

“Jeez, does my old man know?”

“He won’t have anything to do with you,” said Pierce. “I don’t blame him. He works hard to keep you eating.”

Pete laughed. “Okay, I know. Get me a city shyster, it’s the law.”

“Yeah, it’s the law,” said Pierce.

Pete’s eyes were wide, lifeless; his hands were limp, almost reaching to the floor. “How come they found Tony so quick?” he droned. It was over now.

“The rain was pretty hard last night,” Pierce said. “It loosened the dirt and Tony’s hand was sticking out from the mud when the hobos came to repair their shacks after the storm this morning.”

Pete laughed loudly; his legs were wet. “Gotta cig?”

The stenographer tossed him the pack of cigarettes.

Pete lit one, inhaling deeply. The room twirled, he felt the cigarette drop from his mouth; he hadda pick it up. He reached over, crumbled to the floor.

Pierce dragged him up, slapping his face quickly. “C’mon, kid, save that for the jury. Now, give me the story straight.”

“Okay, okay, you don’t have to hit me.”

Fifteen minutes later the stenographer re-read his notes. Pierce was grinning.

“Throw him in box A,” ordered Pierce. And when the policemen had taken Pete away he turned to the stenographer. “And, Mike, send in the reporters.”

Mrs. Margaret Ovaki stared at the chipped sugar bowl before her fingertips. Tony was dead. She thought of his father. God rest his soul.

She glanced at the alarm clock ticking nervously on the shelf over the sink. It was 10:30 p.m. The blessed dark of night had finally fallen, the reporters had gone. She should be on the street car now, riding to the loop... and then she should be taking the pail and scrubbing-brush and washing the marble floor.

A light double rap on the door penetrated her thoughts,

“Go away, I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Please,” the voice called, “it’s urgent.”

She rose and shuffled to the door, swung it open.

The little man still wore the same dark blue suit he’d worn when he’d come asking for Tony yesterday afternoon.

She mouthed an oath, but it failed to burst into sound. “You — you get outta here.”

“Mrs. Ovaki, please listen to me.”

She slumped into the chair.

He began abruptly. “The papers had the whole story. Did you read it?”

She shook her head from side to side.

“It said,” he went on hastily, “that your boy and the other three worked at the Wong warehouse yesterday for a couple of hours — two to be exact. That they had a fight with Rocky, our foreman, and that they ran into hiding fearing that Rock might get back at them through your boy. I know that Rock’s a trouble-maker. He—”

“Get outta here.”

“But Mrs. Ovaki,” he pleaded. “I must clear my conscience. I didn’t come here yesterday to cause trouble for the boys. I just dropped over to give your son the four dollars they earned — he was to give his friends their rightful shares. You see, I’m the personnel manager and I always do right by the men who work—”

She lunged for the sugar-bowl.

He bumped into the door, ducked as the bowl crashed over his head, sugar covering his head and shoulders.

“All right,” he shrieked. “I’ll mail the check to you.”

She lumbered into the bedroom, slowly reclined on the bed; she twisted over, her face crashing into the stiff coolness of the pillow.

The bed cringed under her great weight. They wouldn’t expect her down at work tonight — she could sleep.

The black cat slid through the opening of the ajar door and eagerly lapped up the sugar that the moistness of the wall had slightly watered...