Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 1, No. 1, May 1957 (British Edition)

The Gold Ring by Mann Rubin

Only Harold The Pusher knew what was in the smokes he sold — but the reaction they got was really gone!

The pusher’s name was Harold. He was a small, ugly guy, always grinning and wearing thick glasses and smelling bad underneath a dirty tweed coat. We’d meet him every Friday afternoon behind the Soldiers’ Monument on Riverside Drive. He kept the cigarettes in a tin box he carried in a pocket of his coat. The price was twenty-five cents apiece. He wouldn’t talk much, just the grin on his face and a hand with dirty fingernails, collecting the money quick.

Me and Arnie Kraft discovered him. Me and Arnie Kraft gave him his start in the neighbourhood. Up to the time we began doing business with him, he was nothing. Nobody else in the crowd knew he existed. Most of the kids just talked about marijuana, and a few pretended they knew junkies, but it was me and Arnie Kraft who created action.

Only it wasn’t like we talked them into anything — that wasn’t so! Everybody wanted to ride the broomstick. It was the fad of the times, the natural thing. The papers were running daily editorials, and boards were being set up all over the city to combat juvenile delinquency, and everybody wanted in on the act. The summer was coming, and the girls were wearing tight dresses again, and there had to be something. Hell, we were sixteen!

The first time, it was me and Arnie Kraft alone. We bought two butts each and went to his apartment. Arnie lived on West End Avenue. He was eighteen floors up, with big rooms, deep carpets and a television set. Another good thing was that his mother was ah ways out playing mah-jongg.

We pulled the shades down and kicked off our shoes and sat on the soft couch in his living room and lit the stems and waited. At first there was nothing, only a crazy smell and thick, grey smoke coming out in every puff. We kept inhaling and looking at each other and wanting the good things to happen.

After awhile, I started to laugh, and I thought that was it, but I was wrong. It was just that I was nervous and cued up and anxious to meet the pitch. Arnie put on some jazz records, and we listened to Fats Waller wrestling with a fast piano. We watched each other and smiled, and the grey smoke gathered and circled against the ceiling.

It was Arnie who reached it first. He was beating his hand against the side of the couch in time to the music. It was a thing he always did when he heard music because he’s a rhythmic kid, and sometimes, when he wants to, he can Lindy as good as any professional. Only now he was beating a little too fast, and his voice was wailing off key, and his eyes were moving all over his head. Suddenly he stopped and began inhaling real fast on the butt and rubbing at his cheeks.

“Zazu Pitts,” he said. He got up and stood over me, with the cigarette hanging from his mouth and some ashes spilled on his sweater. He rubbed at his cheeks and said, “Zazu Pitts, Zazu Pitts,” over and over. Suddenly he slapped with his hands and screamed at the music and closed his eyes tight so they wrinkled.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’ve got it!” He screamed. “I’ve connected. I’m linked.” He dropped to the floor and tried a somersault across the carpet, but he couldn’t get his legs over. He flopped on his stomach and lay there scratching his fingers into the fuzz.

Right then, I started receiving my own joys. With me, it came with a dizziness and then cleared into a beautiful technicolor movie. Everything was technicolor — Arnie, the apartment, even the music draining out of the phonograph. I sat and waited for something else to come on. The technicolor stayed and became locked.

I jumped up on the couch and began swaying back and forth, because I knew I had it good and nothing could take it away. Arnie joined me, and we started laughing and pounding each other on the back and being very proud of our common bond. In between congratulations, we described sensations and chain-smoked into our second cigarettes.

It was a mad afternoon. First we raided the ice-box and ate dill pickled with our fingers and drew pictures of women on the kitchen floor with a whip-cream sprayer. We tossed a baseball around his living room and then flung it down his courtyard to see how many stories it would bounce. We also made phone calls. I called a girl I hated and disguised my voice and made a date for a formal dance I never intended to go to.

Arnie tried getting hold of a French teacher in our high school who was going to flunk him. We were going to tell her she was fired, but Arnie got a hard time from the information operation, and we had to give up in desperation. It would have been a scream if he got through, because Arnie is very talented, and he can change his voice to any range. The old woman would never have gotten wise, but, like I said, we couldn’t get through.

That was the first time. We talked about it the rest of the week and told a lot of guys who didn’t believe us. By the time Friday rolled around again, we had four new fellows interested. We met Harold at the same spot and gave his business an increase. The shindig was repeated at Arnie’s house, and this time the kicks were even greater.

After that, it became the rage. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew about Harold, and soon all the girls were pestering like hell to be included. We brought five girls along on our third excursion. They added a lot of colour. They were all regular except for one deadhead, who smoked three butts and said she didn’t feel a thing.

All she did was sit in a corner, complaining about the smoke and calling it nonsense when anyone reached a peak. The rest of the girls were swell and took to the weed like ducks to water, but the other one was never invited again. Nobody likes a wet blanket.

We formed a club after the fifth session — nothing social or fancy with dues or jackets or secret handshakes. Just a fraternity among ourselves when we held our regular Friday smokes. Someone suggested calling ourselves the “Junkies” and the name stuck almost immediately.

The girls organised too and branded themselves the “Junkettes.” Pretty soon, there were as many girls at the smokes as there were guys. We tried to meet at a different house each week, so that every one had to kick in a little service, like soda and music and a living room where we could dance and have fun.

No one was ever sick from the butts — that was the best part of it. You could go home to your own house and do your homework or watch television or listen to your parents quarrel, and nobody would ever know what you had done or how high you had gotten so quickly.

Harold never let us down. He would be at the Monument each Friday, the grin pressed on his face and his hand in his pocket ready for business. Usually, only one of us, either me or Arnie, would buy the cigarettes for the whole crowd. He always has as much as we wanted, and then he would ask how it was going and how the girls enjoyed his products.

You could see the hard-up way he was about girls by the way he spoke and the way he looked after them whenever one passed. You could see he spent his profits on sexy magazines.

Then, toward the end of school, someone brought up the idea for a big farewell party before we scattered for the summer. The idea spread like soft margarine, and, before long, everyone was discussing the feats, and some girls were going around collecting a dollar from each standard member. It was going to be up at Arnie’s house.

Arnie was pretty good that way. His mother was on vacation in Canada, and he had the whole apartment for himself, except for a maid who never bothered anyone. He wasn’t handsome, but he had a lot of personality, and everybody liked being around him, and anyway his house was the birthplace of our kicks.

We bought a big supply from Harold for the special night. He figured it was something different and tried to jack up the price another quarter, but Arnie conned him into selling the cigarettes at the usual rate on the condition that Harold could attend the party. When this was mentioned, his eyes got wide behind his glasses, and his lips spread in a thick smile, and you could see that’s what he was hoping for all along.

The party was held on the last Saturday in June — a cool, blue night with stars and a moon and black clouds. The crowd started showing up at eight-thirty — about fifteen people were invited, but about twenty-three shoved their way in. Nobody minded.

Harold came a half-hour later, carrying the goofers in a brief-case. He got a cheer as he came through the door. He grinned the big grin, took off the tweed coat and stood around in a blue jacket that was worn at the sleeves and elbows. Nobody paid any attention to him after the first minute.

Arnie started playing his jazz records to get the party off on the right beat. Some guys brought bottles, and we were drinking cokes with shots in them, but everybody was waiting for the main event. The windows were closed off in the living room, to prevent too much smoke from getting out, and, after we were settled in our places, Arnie started handing out the butts.

The lights were down low to create a mood, and, slowly, the loud talk dwindled away, and the smoke drifted through the room. First one cigarette got lit, then another, then another. It was a beautiful sight — the people sitting quietly with the smoke blue and white against the darkness rising up to the ceiling, and the small dots of red spaced evenly across the floor.

Almost everyone was coupled off, each waiting for the butt to click, waiting for the grey happiness to take over. The smoke got heavier, and, in the background the jazz music cried out its sad lament, and Harold sat alone on the piano bench, looking toward the moment when his creations would make magic within us all.

I guess everybody caught the gold ring at the same time. If there was a first, no one could claim it separately. It belonged to all of us — the music reached a climax, and someone started to laugh, and soon the whole room was a carrousel of movement, colours and noise. Boys reached for girls, and girls reached for boys.

We necked — only it was on a temporary basis. That had been agreed on before hand. It was too good an evening to spend in one particular pair of arms. Everyone had the restless feeling. We were going to make the most of the opportunity.

After a couple of minutes, the lights came on again, and singing began, and most everyone was reaching for a second helping of heaven. The smoke was curling against the ceiling, and the apartment was warm, and nothing was real except the knowledge that everyone was feeling the same joy. That’s when we started playing the game.

It was called “Truth.” One of the girls got it going, and all the other girls started squealing their approval. You know how girls become comrades when they think something’s cute as hell. Before you can say King Farouk, we’re sitting in a circle, and a cigarette is being passed from one person to another, and everyone had to take a puff and pass it on. The one dropping the ash has to get up and tell some intimate detail about his life.

It was a crazy game, but it passed time, and it made the girls happy, and it meant another cigarette. Harold was sitting on the piano bench, and nobody had eyes for him anymore, except maybe me, because I usually notice lots of things, no matter how high I am. He was still grinning and watching the girls, and then one of them made the ash fall.

She stood up in the centre of the circle, screaming that she couldn’t think of any truth to tell, but she was wobbling and giggling so you could tell she’d eventually come around. She walked and screamed in the circle, pretending she was real gone, but her eyes were alive, and, pretty soon, she remembered a truth.

She told about catching her father one night with his private secretary down at his office, and how, ever since, her father gives her plenty of clothes whenever she asks him. The way she told it, she was screaming and wailing that he’d never forgive her if he was found out. But you could see she was enjoying the limelight, and was proud of her achievement.

Another girl dropped the ash, and she told how she hated piano lessons as a kid, so she told her family her teacher was always caressing her when she practised. The women was fired and driven out of the community, and the girl didn’t have to practise ever again.

The game got so good they were passing around two cigarettes in opposite directions, and the ashes started falling much more often. One guy told about his mother being an alcoholic, and another guy told how he walks in his sleep. Still another guy told...

That’s when Arnie stood up and shouted, “You’re the one!” in a falsetto voice and got a terrific laugh.

After that, all the confessions were anti-climatic and soon we were passing the fumes again. Arnie and a girl rolled up a rug and began doing a wild Lindy, while the rest of us sat around cheering and holding our women. I looked up, and there’s a girl making a pass at Harold. Just for a gag, of course, but it was a riot. She started talking to him, and, moving on to the piano bench, she circled his head with her arm and began patting his face.

The goofy guy stammered and turned all colours and tried to answer back. We, in the know, ah most died, trying to keep back the laughter. She continued to stroke his face and told him how handsome he was. He sat there, taking it all in, sweating and trying to draw away, but looking into her eyes through the thick glasses like he was a lovesick cow that never had a chance.

It was the greatest. She was another Theda Bara, and the way she vamped him, telling him he ought to be in movies. The rest of us were bursting at the seams, watching him squirm. It was the greatest, the greatest, and then the doorbell rang, and it was the doorman and there was a cop with him, and some fool had thrown an alarm clock out the window. They came in before we could ditch the smokes, and the air was heavy with the smell, and that’s how they found out about us.

Then it was like a rain spoiling a big picnic. They drove us all down in a wagon fifteen minutes later. Everybody was sore at everybody else, and all the girls were crying and sniffing, and the butts were wearing off fast. About six cops surrounded us, and the people of West End Avenue must have gotten big charges sticking their heads out the windows and seeing us taken away in the caboose.

It was like the ending of a crime picture, only there was no fade-out, and no lights coming up reminding you of the illusion. This was real, this was the Law. No rough stuff or handcuffs, just the fright, just the blue uniforms staring at you like you’re a convict.

They lined us up in night court, the girls weeping and blowing into wet hankies, and the rest of us trying to act tough and nonchalant and angry at the bum rap. The court was full of drunks and seedy-looking characters, and the judge looked the toughest of all.

He sat on his bench, drinking a white medicine from a bottle near his side and giving us the once-over as we marched in. One of the cops went forward and discussed our case, and soon a woman cop was taking all our names and phone numbers, and the girls are crying louder because it means their parents have to come and get them.

Harold was dragged to the front of the court, and the judge looked down on him like he was a disease and yelled at him in language real suave. Harold whimpered and began shaking, and it took the two policemen holding him to carry him back to his place. They seated him and took his address, and one cop left to pick up more evidence in his room.

Ten minutes later, the first parents started to arrive. They came in with their faces tight in anger and helplessness, looking like they’d been disturbed from Saturday night sleeps.

My old lady came down in a nightgown and a coat thrown over her shoulders and her hair still up in a bun. She looked scared and white, and, when she saw me, she wailed it was my own fault, and I hung out with the wrong people. She tried to reach over and slap at my head, but the matron wouldn’t let anyone near us.

Every time a new parent arrived, some girl would sob and try to run across the court. They were all pretending the same game, playing like they were innocent bystanders seduced into sin by slick playboys. Girls are chicken when the chips are down.

The judge heard three drunk cases before he got to us. He lined us up in front of his bench and looked at each of us and asked our ages and how high we were in high school. He wanted to know why we smoked and how we first got the habit. No one tried to explain. I felt their eyes coming around to me, and I figured I better make it good.

I sort of stepped forward and raised my hand, like I wanted to make a heavy confession. I explained how Harold kept following me from school every day, trying to get me started. I told how at first I resisted, but how he kept up the sweet talk and finally got me going. I told how the habit came over me and how I couldn’t break off, no matter how hard I tried.

Arnie stuck by me and confirmed the story of Harold and how he was always soaking us for more and more money when he knew he had us hooked. W started to cry and pointed to Harold as the one responsible for the whole mess.

It went over big. The judge was boiling and screamed this menace would never harm children again. The parents yelled that no term would be too stiff, and even the people sitting in the back of the court booed and shouted until the judge had to rap for quiet.

They dragged Harold to the bar again. He was moaning and shaking and trying to fall down against the floor, but the two cops held him good. The judge let him have it with both barrels. The court became silent under the judge’s angry voice, and you could feel all the tension disappearing — the parents stood by, ready to claim their wayward kids, and the rest of us started breathing a little easier. And then the policeman, the one sent to collect more evidence at Harold’s address, came back.

He walked down the aisle, carrying a mountain of loose tobacco in a soiled white shirt and holding it by the sleeves. Harold screamed when he saw it. The detective brought it to the front of the bench and handed it to the judge as exhibit A, the shirt filled with the tobacco, and a hand machine for rolling cigarettes.

The judge stopped his speech and looked over the new stuff and then he listened as the cop whispered in his ear. When the cop finished, a strange look came over the judge’s face and he dipped his hand into the tobacco and examined it in his fingers. Everybody was watching him, even the attendants at the doors, and he must have appreciated his audience because he spent a long time studying the evidence.

Then, like there was no one around he casually took one of the cigarette papers, filled it with tobacco and slid it into the roller. He rolled a cigarette and, when it came out the other end, he picked it up and called for a match and then put it in his mouth.

A policeman came forward and handed him a light, and he bent forward and took the first puff. One of the girls let out a small whimper, like she remembered the mistake she made, and a couple of us yelled. “No, no — don’t!” But he paid no attention. He puffed and inhaled for a long time, like he’s part of a television commercial. He looked down and beckoned to one of the fathers, and, when the man came forward, he handed down the cigarette and insisted he smoke.

That’s when all hell broke loose. The parents started hollering, and the girls started wailing again, and the judge was rapping on his gavel so hard his bottle of medicine fell over. They finally called Harold again, and all he did was nod his head and corroborate their new story. He was sent to spend the night in jail, and then all the parents were allowed to grab their kids, and the case was dismissed.

Can you understand what happened? Can you understand my humiliation, my disgust with life and people?

It came out that Harold was a phony. He picked cigarettes from the street, grimy little butts that he kept in his dirty pockets. He took them home and squashed them together, added some Turkish imports and rolled them into new cigarettes.

They were stained and contaminated and unsanitary. He was taking our money and giving us nothing in return. We could have gotten diseased. The swine, the phony swine! Did you ever hear of anything so terrible?