NOT ON THE PROGRAM
The new bus boy at the Seventy Club was making progress. The boss liked
him. He had eyes in his head and a tongue in his cheek. He also knew what
they were for. He did his work in an intelligent manner. He talked little
and asked no questions.
From time to time the boss called him to his desk. There he plied him
with questions regarding their mutual friends in another city. The boy
knew an amazing amount about this man's underworld friends there.
On the third night the boss pressed a telephone slug into the boy's hand,
and said:
"Go call your friend." He added a wink.
The boy entered one of the six booths, closed the door firmly, slipped
the slug into its place, heard it click, then felt himself slowly
descending.
There are those who might have cried out at this extraordinary
occurrence. Not this boy. He merely mumbled:
"So that's it."
After that he was all eyes for what was to come. He had not long to wait.
Having dropped some fifteen feet, in the manner of a slow elevator, his
curious conveyance stopped. At the same time a door directly before him
slid open. He passed out. The door closed.
He found himself in a second dining room. At the back, too, there were
tables for cards. But how different it all was! Here was music, dancing,
drinking, gambling; just such a life as the hard working members of
gangland demand while off duty.
From that night on, the new boy carried dishes and brushed crumbs from
the tables on the floor below, this secret meeting place of gangland. Did
he prefer it so? Who could have told? He went about his work in the same
mechanical, precise manner. He talked little. He asked no questions. When
the boss descended to the floor below, he rubbed his hands and seemed
pleased.
Despite the drinks, the music, the dancing in this place, it possessed a
somber air.
Pure unadulterated joy never comes to those who attempt to extract
pleasure from that which has cost other people days of arduous toil. This
is a law of nature. Like the laws of the Medes and Persians, this law
altereth not.
Men and women did not frequent this place for pleasure alone. We have
said it was a club. Men meet in their clubs for purposes of business. It
was so here. That this business might be transacted in the strictest
privacy, booths had been provided. It was the duty of the new boy to
bring away dishes from these booths.
On the second night of service here on the floor below, the boy saw a
tall, broad man with the features of a southern European, but the
complexion of an Anglo-Saxon, with close-set eyes of blue, and a mass of
tumbled hair, enter the second booth from the center. He had a companion.
The companion was younger than he. At times this youth's face seemed a
mask; at others, when he smiled, it changed. They ordered a sumptuous
feast, these two: chicken, Italian style; creamed new potatoes; lobster
salad; and a great black bottle. They ate in silence.
As the bus boy removed the dishes, he noted the large man's hand. It
appeared to give him a start. He barely avoided spilling a glass of water
on the table. Perhaps this was because there was a hole in the center of
the man's hand.
Dinner disposed of, the younger man of the pair left the booth, walked
out upon the floor, talked for a time to one of the entertainers, a tall
blonde, then held out his hand for a dance.
Shortly after that he returned to the booth, poured a drink from the
black bottle, then sat in the semi-darkness talking in guarded tones to
his companion, him of the hole in his hand.
At that instant a curious thing happened. Against the wall, on the
darkest side of the booth, appeared a singular phenomenon. A red arrow as
long as a man's forearm was distinctly to be seen. And even as the two
stared at it in astonishment, the arrow appeared to flame, as if perhaps
the walls were on fire.
The younger of the two men shot a startled glance at his companion. Then,
with fingers that trembled ever so slightly, he drew a chain that flooded
the booth with light.
Instantly the arrow of fire vanished.
The light was extinguished. The arrow did not return.
Once more the light was thrown on.
Chancing to glance down at the table, the younger gangster uttered a low
exclamation, then put out a hand to grasp a note that had appeared from
nowhere.
Holding this up to the light, he read aloud these words:
"_Justice is an arrow of fire. It goes straight to hearts that are evil.
It burns as it strikes. No one shall escape._"
The thing was done on white paper with a typewriter.
For a full moment the two men stared at one another in silence. Then they
rose abruptly to disappear into the secret booths where one does not
telephone.
It is a curious fact that no man ever grows so hard, so stoical, so
impervious to emotions that he fails to retain a superstitious fear of
that which seems unnatural and uncanny. The flaming arrow, the mysterious
note, stirred up within the hearts of these killers a sense of dread such
as no display of arms, no great body of police, could ever inspire within
them.
This little affair most certainly was not on the program as it had been
prepared by the heavy-set, stolid man who presided over the door. Yet,
strange to say, neither the man with a hole in his hand, nor his
companion, spoke one word to the manager regarding the affair as they
left the clubroom above, for the cooling air of night.
The name by which the younger of these two gangsters was known was Jimmie
McGowan. Jimmie was not the name his mother had given him at birth. Nor
was McGowan the one he had inherited from his father. His face was dark.
His parents had come to America from a foreign land.
This gave Jimmie no occasion to be ashamed. That foreign nation has
furnished the world many of her bravest warriors, her wisest statesmen,
her sweetest singers. Still Jimmie had chosen another name.
On the following night Jimmie and his companion, who was named Mike
Volpi, returned to their booth on the lower floor of the Seventy Club.
The slender bus boy who hovered about the place did not appear to notice
them.
They had ordered dinner and were seated in the shadows talking when, of a
sudden, the flaming arrow once more appeared on the wall.
Like a flash Jimmie's hand threw on the light. His sharp eyes looked for
a note. There was none. The need was not great. The message of the
flaming arrow was burned on his brain:
"Justice is an arrow of fire."
The two men rose without a word. They left the place without dining. They
did not return. Their actions spoke louder than words. They appeared to
say:
"Here is something alarming, sinister, terrifying. Are we warned or
threatened? Who is to stand up against such an invisible force?"
Was there, from time to time, about the corners of the slim bus boy's
lips on that night the suggestion of a smile? Who can say?