The Talking Clock

Chapter Ten

“New York,” said Johnny Fletcher. “I don’t know why I ever leave it.”

“I know why,” said Sam Cragg sarcastically, “but I won’t tell.”

Johnny reached forward and tapped the driver of the sedan on the shoulder. “You make a left turn here and go straight through to the express highway over there.”

“Thanks,” said the driver. “Any special place I should let you off? And d’you know a good hotel me and the missus can stay at reasonable?”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “The 45th Street Hotel. The manager’s a personal friend—”

“Friend?” cried Sam Cragg.

“Friend,” repeated Johnny, firmly. “You ask for Mr. Peabody and tell him Johnny Fletcher sent you and if he doesn’t treat you right, why—” he chuckled — “why, I’ll come and check in myself for a few weeks. That’ll hold him… And you can let us off right here, Mister.”

The Iowan, who was coming to see the World’s Fair, pulled over to the curb. Johnny and Sam climbed out and shook hands with the driver and his wife.

“Folks,” Johnny said, gratefully, “we sure appreciate this lift you’ve given us all the way for Chambersburg.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said the Iowan’s wife. “If you ever come through Shell Rock, Iowa, stop in and say hello. Everyone there knows us — the August Schultz’s.”

“Nice people,” said Johnny when the car with the Iowa plates had pulled on. “And now — let’s see if the old town’s changed any.”

“The cops will be tougher with the fair going on,” Sam said, sourly.

“I like ’em tough,” Johnny said. “That’s why I like New York. She’s always tough and I’m at my best when the goings tough. Well, let’s go see Mort Murray first of all.”

“Yeah,” said Sam, a gleam coming into his eye. “We’ll ask him how come he sent those books to Poplar City, Minnesota, express collect. That’s what started all our troubles.”

Twenty minutes later they turned into West Seventeenth Street and paused before a pre-Civil War loft building. Johnny regarded it fondly. “And from this moment on, our troubles are over.”

They entered the building and climbed four flights of stairs for there was no elevator in the place. On the fourth floor landing Johnny turned toward a door. With his hand on the knob, he groaned.

“What’s this paper on the door?” he snapped.

“An eviction notice!” Sam Cragg yelped. “Why the dirty… They can’t do this to us!”

“They didn’t do it to us,” Johnny said, sadly. “They did it to poor Old Mort. No wonder he sent us those books collect. He was strapped. Damn a big express company that doesn’t trust an honest man for a dollar or two.”

Johnny jiggled the doorknob and even tried kicking the door. It was firmly locked. He tore the eviction notice from the door and read it. “For a lousy eighty bucks — two months’ rent!” he snorted. “Why, they ought to be glad they can get even a non-paying tenant for this rat’s nest.”

He threw the sheet of paper to the floor and started for the stairs.

“Now, what’ll we do?” Sam wailed. “Mort was our only chance. Even if he couldn’t give us any dough, he’d a come across with some books. He never failed us like this.”

“That just goes to show. Mort’s one of these honest guys. He pays his bills and they get in the habit of expecting money from him, so when he doesn’t come across what do they do? They lock him out— Hey!…”

They were coming down the final flight of stairs as a mournful-looking man in a seedy suit opened the door. He was in his early thirties, needed a shave and his bare head was a shock of black hair combed in a rough pompadour. Mort Murray could have posed for a cartoonist who wanted to draw a caricature of a Union Square orator.

“Mort!”

Mort Murray’s mouth fell open. “Johnny Fletcher! Sam Cragg!…” He sprang forward to meet Johnny and threw his arms about him with the fervor of a man who’s just been saved by an evangelist.

“Jeez, Mort!” cried Johnny Fletcher. “What’d they do to you, the dirty rats?”

Mort stepped back and there was moisture in his eyes. “The going’s been tough, fellas. They threw my stepfather off the WPA, and I’ve been afraid to even go around to my mother’s place. You know, she used to slip me a buck now and then. Why, last night—” Mort’s voice broke with self-pity. “Why last night I hadda sleep on the subway!”

Johnny shook his head in sympathy. He forgot that he and Sam Cragg, for the last two weeks, would have been glad of a friendly, sheltered subway to sleep in. “No wonder you had to send those books express collect up to Minnesota!”

Mort Murray winced. “I never let you down before, boys, did I? I hope it didn’t inconvenience you…”

“Hell, no!” said Johnny.

“Hell, no!” said Sam Cragg. “All it did was get us thrown in jail. And we’ve practically starved ever since — but don’t give it a second thought, Mort.”

“Tsk, tsk!” said Johnny. “Everything’ll be all right now, Mort. Look, we’re stony. But don’t let that worry you. You’ve got a few books that aren’t locked upstairs?”

Mort Murray drooped. “Not a book, Johnny. They caught me by surprise. If I’d only known…”

Johnny scowled and bit his lips. “How about the windows?”

“They open on a courtyard and besides — there are bars on them.”

“Damn, that makes it tough. Who’s your landlord?”

“The Sailor’s Safe Seaport. They own all the real estate around here. You know how they are.”

“The toughest! All these charitable institutions are tough. Well, look, give them a ring. Ask them how much they’ll take on account to open up.”

“How’ll I call them? Uh… either of you got a nickel?”

Johnny looked at Sam. The latter scowled. “You know I haven’t.”

“All right,” said Johnny. “How about the Italian Delicatessen across the street? Does he know you well enough to let you use his phone?”

“It’s a pay phone.” Mort winced. “I owe him a couple of bucks now.”

“Then a nickel more or less won’t matter. Come on…”

They left the loft building and crossed the street to the delicatessen. “Hello Tony,” Mort greeted the proprietor, cheerfully. “Can I use your phone?”

“Sure,” said Tony, sourly. “You put in the nickel and make the dial.”

Johnny took command. “Look, Tony, Mort’s broke and I forgot my money at home… I left it on the piano. Mort wants to call up his uncle and ask him for twenty dollars. His uncle’s captain of the 44th Precinct, you know. Now, be a good fellow and let Mort have a nickel. Then when he gets the twenty he’ll pay you those couple of dollars he owes you. Thanks, pal!”

Tony glared at Johnny Fletcher but punched the No Sale on his cash register and produced a nickel. Mort took it and went into the telephone booth. He was inside for three minutes, then came out perspiring.

“Okay, Mort?”

Mort shook his head.

“How much do they want?”

“A hundred and twenty dollars.”

“But you only owe them eighty!”

“I know, but another month’s rent is due next week and they say they won’t unlock unless I pay that too… I even told them I was an old-time sailor, but it didn’t work.”

Johnny began swearing. Sam Cragg joined in, but Mort Murray was too discouraged for even that bit of relief. Tony, the delicatessen man, came around from behind his counter.

“Look Meester Murray,” he said, “you needing one hundred twenny dollar?”

“I won’t need it in heaven.”

“You got beezness, Meester Murray,” said Tony. “Theese friend — they are customer, maybe?”

“The best I ever had. But they can’t work unless I give them some books. And I’ve got other orders for books. They’re piled up, but they’re all credit orders…”

“Well, Meester Murray,” said Tony. “I feex him for you. I getting you the money.”

“What?” cried Johnny Fletcher. “You’re going to lend Mort the money?”

“Me? Who you t’ink I am? Rockyfeller, maybe? No, I got brudder-in-law; he give you the money. Wait, I calling him on the telephone…”

He went into the phone booth, closed the door and came out in a half minute. “He be right here. I catching him in the pool room around the corner. Carmella, he giving you the money.”

Carmella came strolling into the delicatessen in a few minutes. He was a slit-eyed, olive skinned man of about thirty. He wore an expensive pin-striped suit and had a diamond pin stuck in his flaming red tie.

“Hello, boys,” he said, smoothly. “Hear you need a little money.”

“A loan shark!” exclaimed Johnny.

Carmella regarded Johnny calmly. “The name is Carmella Genualdi. I work for Julius, just so you won’t make any mistake. Now, which one of you is it wants the money?”

A little shiver ran through Mort Murray. “M-me. A hundred and twenty dollars.”

Carmella looked at his brother-in-law, the delicatessen man. The latter bobbed his head up and down. “He gotting the business ’cross the street. Book, or something.”

Carmella took a thick roll from his trousers pocket, took off the rubber band and counted off five twenty-dollar bills. “Since you’re a friend of Tony’s, I’ll give you a break, on the interest. It’ll be ten dollars a day. You won’t owe any interest until Wednesday. One of the boys’ll be around to collect it… every day.”

“Say, isn’t that pretty steep interest?” asked Johnny.

“It’s more’n the bank’d charge,” said Carmella. “But can any of you birds borrow money at a bank?” He smiled thinly at Mort. “And don’t forget, we like our interest paid prompt. Huh?” Without waiting for a reply he nodded and left the store.

“Brr!” Johnny shuddered. “Nice relations you got, Tony.”

“Oh, sure, Carmella’s all right. He’s out on, what you call? The bail? He’s breaking fella’s arm, last week.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Sam Cragg.

“Hey!” cried Tony. “You paying me the two dollar forty cent you owe?…”

“Tomorrow,” said Johnny. “Mort’s got to save for the interest to pay your brother-in-law. Come on, Mort.”

Outside he said to Mort, “Now, let’s run over to this sailors outfit. We’ll give them eighty bucks and if they don’t take it, I’ll choke it down the admiral’s sanctimonious throat.”

“That’s the stuff, Johnny,” said Sam Cragg. He smacked his lips. “I feel better already. Our troubles are over. Yours, too, Mort. Which reminds me… uh…” He took the handkerchief and cards from his pocket. “Ever see the old handkerchief trick, Mort?”

“What?” exclaimed Mort. “You taking up magic?”

Johnny grunted. “It’d be magic if his tricks ever worked.”

Sam ignored Johnny. He draped the handkerchief across his arm, fanned out his pack of cards and said, “Take a card, Mort… That’s fine. Now put it back here.”

He shuffled the cards and then took the handkerchief and spread it out on his right palm. With his left hand, he placed the pack of cards in the center of the handkerchief. He started to fold the handkerchief over the cards, then muttered: “No, I don’t do it that way. Let’s see… I got to double the handkerchief first…” He uncovered the cards, fumbled the pack and it fell to the sidewalk.

“Is that the trick, Sam?” cried Mort.

“That’s it, Mort,” said Johnny. “The idea is to see how far you can scatter the cards… Come on, let’s get this rent business cleaned up. I feel nice and mean.”