The Whispering Master

Chapter Five

He walked west on Forty-second Street, jingling the forty cents in his pocket, thinking: I’ve got to make a stake.

He walked past a phonograph record shop, then turned and went back. He entered the store. “What’s the latest Con Carson record?” he asked a clerk.

“Chapel in the Subway, and a pip!”

“Oh, I’ve got Chapel in the Subway and a Pip,” Johnny said, carelessly and wondered why the clerk gave him a dirty look. “There’s a later one than that... Moon on the Desert, or something like that.”

“No such record.”

“Mariota Records,” Johnny said positively. “Look and see, will you?”

The clerk did not budge. “Wrong, buddy. Con Carson was with Continental. We got ’em all — forty-some pieces. I know...”

“So you know. Well, I know Carson recorded a number called Moon on the Desert, for Mariota...”

“Five’ll get you ten you don’t know what you’re talking about...”

“Twenty’ll get you ten I’m right!”

The clerk signaled to one of his colleagues. “Sid, this guy says Con Carson waxed a ditty called Moon on the Desert for Mariota Records...”

The number two boy smirked, “What’s the bet?”

“He’s laying me twenty to ten,” Johnny said.

“You lose,” said the second clerk.

Johnny pointed to a phone. “Call Mariota Records...”

The first clerk hesitated. “Is that a bet?”

“You’re laying me twenty to ten—”

“I said ten to five...”

Johnny pointed at the second clerk. “You want the same?”

“It’s a sucker’s bet,” exclaimed the second clerk. “But if you insist on giving me the money... call Mariota, Joe...”

Joe turned to a typed sheet pasted on the wall behind the telephone, ran his finger down to the m’s and made his call. “To settle an argument,” he said into the phone, “did Con Carson ever make a recording for Mariota Records? What...?” His face fell. “Okay, thanks.”

He hung up and looked at his fellow worker. “He made a record for them just before he died...”

The second clerk recoiled. “W-what was the name?”

“Moon on the Desert,” said Johnny. The first clerk nodded a glum confirmation. “All right, sports,” Johnny went on, “dig down...”

The two record clerks exchanged glances. Then the one called Sid exclaimed, “It ain’t been released yet, has it?”

Joe shook his head. “No, but...” Then he got his colleague’s drift and, brightening, whirled on Johnny. “Wise guy, huh, you come in here with advance information—”

“Advance information, hell,” Johnny snapped. “Con Carson was killed two days ago. You boys are in the business — if you don’t know about Carson making a record for Mariota, who should know? Me? I don’t even know how a record’s made...”

“Scram, buddy,” Joe snarled. “Get...!”

Johnny placed both of his palms on the glass counter. “Ten bucks apiece, boys.”

“You hear what he said,” Sid cut in. “Beat it, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Twenty bucks is good for me,” Johnny said. “Twenty bucks or this counter gets busted...”

An older man came mooching along behind the counter. “Here, what’s going on...?”

“A con game, Mr. Bezzerides,” Joe whined. “This slicker comes into the store and tries to get me and Sid—”

“I came in to buy a record,” Johnny said coldly, “and this... this clerk” — pointing at Joe — “started making cracks about how bright I wasn’t. He insisted on betting me that Con Carson never made a record for Mariota Records—”

“He didn’t,” said Mr. Bezzerides. The two clerks winced.

“That’s what they said. They insisted on betting me ten to five that I was wrong and then...” He stopped and looked at the two clerks. They were on the verge of letting Mr. Bezzerides walk into the trap. But Johnny needed an ally. He said:

“He made one just before he was killed. They telephoned the Mariota people—”

Bezzerides scowled. “So you got took, eh?”

“It’s a game,” Sid cried. “He tricked us — like he almost did you.”

“I?” Bezzerides was indignant. “You never saw me fall for any stunt like that. Teach you boys a lesson — you made a bet, pay the man...”

“I’ll settle for ten bucks cash,” said Johnny.

It was a mistake. Joe took three dollars out of his pocket.

“That’s all the dough I got in the world... I haven’t even got lunch money left over...”

“I only got two bucks,” Sid chimed in. He turned sidewards and took some money surreptitiously out of the far pocket.

“Ten bucks,” Johnny snapped.

“Let them off for the five,” Mr. Bezzerides said, relenting.

Johnny hesitated, then accepted the money. He winked at the trio of music shop men and walked out.

“A guy could make a living doing that,” Johnny thought jubilantly as he continued his promenade down Forty-second Street.

He tried it again near Sixth Avenue. It didn’t work. The clerk was indifferent to Con Carson. One on Seventh Avenue and Forty-third Street was a Con Carson fan and gave Johnny a bit of an argument, but wouldn’t go for the bet. So Johnny gave it up. It’s hard to repeat a good thing.

But he had $5.40 now — only $6.80 short of retrieving Sam’s suit, including the interest.