Manhunt. Volume 2, Number 10, December, 1954

For a Friend by Bob McKnight

No smart man plays the horses when he needs money. But Joe had a special system worked out...

Joe Rossotti’s luck ran out the day he put five hundred fish on Arab Dancer. It was “to win” and it was in the fifth at Jamaica. His pal Tony booked the bet.

“It’s past post time,” Tony said, “but for a friend I’ll book it.”

“Sure,” Joe said. “Sure, Tony.”

Less than thirty seconds later, when Tony posted the results, Joe was stunned to find Arab Dancer had run second in a photo finish. Carmen had said he was a cinch to win.

He looked at Tony, still not quite believing a truth that had been proving itself to him for weeks. Hell, you don’t get to suspect a lifetime pal overnight, or the girl you want, either.

Still, Tony didn’t believe in giving a sucker an even break, and he’d been a sharp operator ever since they were kids. Tony had always had money in his pocket even when they were in grade school.

Now Tony was the neighborhood bigshot, bigger than Lew Kronig, the loan shark, one of the six-for-five boys that made a fine art out of collection. They’d all three been kids together, but kids grew up fast in the neighborhood. Joe was the honest one, by neighborhood standards.

Joe began to think of the day he’d propositioned Carmen. She hadn’t rejected it. She’d made a counter-proposition.

“See me when you got at least a thousand, Joe,” she’d said. “You’ll need that much if we’re going to have ourselves a time.”

All he could see was the full ripeness of her lovely body, the earthy passion that was there for the guy who could afford it.

Joe wasn’t a fast thinker like Tony and Lew, but he didn’t have to have it spelled out for him that a lush beauty like Carmen wouldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait, either.

“What am I supposed to do, make with a stick-up or something?” he said.

Her big black eyes sparkled.

“You got five C’s,” she said. “You heard of horses, haven’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, “but you’ve got to be on the inside.”

She put her hands on her well rounded hips, drew her shoulders back to emphasize her richly endowed equipment. He knew then he was going to invest his dough on a horse, any horse she wanted to suggest.

“I hear things,” she said. “Maybe there’ll be something going tomorrow. Meet me in front of Tony’s.”

“Tony’s my friend.”

Carmen’s temper blazed.

“If you change your mind, meet me like I said.”

She had turned away from him then, swinging her hips, and as he watched he knew he’d be in front of Tony’s.

Carmen was gone when he went outside, and he knew for sure then she and Tony had played him for a patsy. At first, the hot Sicilian blood of his ancestors had made him think of murder, but a guy would have to be nuts to destroy that lovely body. Besides, he still wanted her.

It took him all night, in his slow thinking way, to figure out a caper that he was sure would work. Even so it didn’t crystallize until Marty Shanagher told him Carmen had moved into Tony’s apartment.

There was only one thing wrong with the plan. He didn’t have any money, and he knew Tony wouldn’t accept his marker.

He’d have to have cash. There was only one possibility, Lew Kronig, the loan shark.

Lew’s Pawn Shop was on Third Avenue. Joe went there, hardly noticed the broken-shoe bums he passed along the way, but carefully looking over the slack-clad girls that disgorged from a second floor furrier’s sweat shop.

He found Lew inside the steel-mesh cage in the back of the shop, a watchmaker’s glass in his eye. He was inspecting a large stone which Joe figured would be a hot diamond.

Lew took the glass out of his eye, looked at Joe.

“What’s on your mind?” Lew said.

Funny he’d never noticed before what a tough-looking mug Lew was. You know a guy all your life and don’t think much about his looks until you have to do business with him. Then he looks like all the other loan sharks, only worse.

“I need five C’s,” Joe said.

Lew watched him.

“What you got to sell?” he said.

“Nothing’. I got nothin’ to sell. I just need five hundred bucks.”

Lew shrugged.

“A week,” he said. “I get six hundred back.”

Lew counted out the money.

“Don’t make me come and collect it,” he said.

Joe went to Angelo’s Barber Shop at two o’clock. Angelo’s was just two doors down the street from Tony’s horse parlor, and Ears Mulcahey ran a small hand-book in the back room.

The small, smoke-filled room was crowded, and Joe eased into a corner where he wouldn’t be noticed, but where he could see the results board.

He sweated out race after race, chain-smoking, fidgeting, thinking of how he was going to get even with Tony and Carmen, if the right deal would only come up.

Finally, Ears was writing up the 7th at Jamaica. Joe held his breath.

A longshot by the name of Miss X had won the heat. The favorite, Rembrandt, had wound up in the three hole. This was it. Joe waited only long enough to get the place pay-off on Miss X. She’d paid $46.30 to win, and $20.20 to place.

Joe scrambled out of there and ran the two doors down the street to Tony’s. He had his dollar watch in his hand as he entered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the 7th at Jamaica wasn’t chalked up yet on Tony’s blackboard. As usual, Tony was waiting for the late sucker money. Tony knew the result already, but would take late bets on anything, to win, except Miss X. If anybody asked for that one, he’d say it was too late.

“Hey, Tony,” Joe said, “am I in time to lay a hundred on Rembrandt’s nose?”

He made it loud so all the other players would be sure to hear.

Tony looked at the electric clock.

“That lousy watch of yours is slow again, but, for a friend, okay.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Joe said. Then he paused and added, “And gimme four hundred to place on Miss X.”

The color drained from Tony’s face. Rage showed in the white line around his lips, but he couldn’t renege. He was stuck with it. Welshers didn’t last long in the neighborhood.

When he wrote up the result of the 7th at Jamaica a moment later, Joe saw that his hand shook, especially when he wrote $20.20 for the place on Miss X.

Tony paid Joe $4,040, but his eyes were mean slits.

“You wouldn’t be pullin’ a fast one, would you, Pal?” he said.

“Naw,” Joe said. “I wouldn’t even know which end of a horse eats. You remember who picked Arab Dancer for me, dontcha?”

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Yeah!”

“Well,” Joe said. “See you around, pal.”

He walked out of Tony’s and headed east. He knew where Tony’s apartment was, and he knew about the drug store on the corner. You could see the apartment house entrance from there. He hurried there and waited by the telephone booth.

He didn’t have long to wait before Tony’s flashy convertible slammed to the curb in front of the apartment, and Tony erupted from it. He raced up the stone steps, and flung the door back with a loud crash as he entered the building.

Joe dropped a coin in the telephone slot, and dialed the police. When he got his connection, he asked for the riot detail.

“Yeah?”

“A dame’s getting the hell beat out of her,” Joe said. He gave the address and the apartment number. “Better hurry.”

He hung up, looked at his dollar watch, and grinned. He’d go pay Lew the six C’s. Then he’d pick Carmen up at the police station. He could afford her now.

She’d be marked up some, but hell, that wouldn’t hurt nothing.