Ray Fleck's reluctant footsteps stopped on the sidewalk of an apartment
building on Willis Street, just on the edge of the downtown business
district, and he hesitated before entering it, as a man hesitates
before stepping under a cold shower.
This talk with Joe Amico was bound to be an unpleasant one. But Joe
had told him to come, and before ten o'clock, and Joe was mad at him
already and would be madder if he didn't show up. So he'd better get it
over with.
In a way, he thought, it was lucky Dolly Mason had told him not to come
before nine; that gave him time to come here--Joe's apartment was only
three blocks from the drugstore from which he'd phoned Dolly--and still
get to Dolly's in plenty of time. Surely Joe wouldn't want to keep
him more than a few minutes. What was there to say to Joe except to
reassure him that he'd pay the money as soon as he could possibly raise
it?
Yes, it was far better to get the interview with Joe over with now.
That way, if Dolly lent him money, even fifty dollars, he could stay
with her a while, almost two hours, until time to head for the game.
That way he'd at least be sure of keeping his capital intact. And he
knew that if she was free she'd let him stay. For that matter, it might
be just as well for him to stay with Dolly even if she couldn't or
wouldn't lend him money. If he spent the time elsewhere he was at least
as likely to diminish his fifty dollars as to augment it.
He entered the building and saw that the self-service elevator door was
closed and that the indicator above it showed that it was at the fourth
floor and going up. So he didn't wait for it but went to the door that
led to the staircase instead; Joe's apartment was on the third floor
and he'd rather walk two flights than wait.
Going up the stairs his mind went back to Joe. Damn him, he thought,
it was as much Joe's fault as his that he was in this jam; Joe should
have told him how deep in the hole he was getting. He hadn't kept track
and had thought he was in only for maybe a couple of hundred. Until
yesterday when he'd tried to phone in a fifty dollar bet. Big Bill
Monahan, who worked for Joe and who usually answered the phone at the
apartment, had said, "Just a minute, Ray. Joe said he wanted to talk
to you the next time you phoned." And Joe had come on. "Ray-boy, don't
you realize you're in the soup for four-eighty? You'd better pay that
off before you do any more betting." He'd told Joe that he'd stop in,
thinking at first to ask Joe to show him the slips on the bets; from
the names of the horses and the amounts he'd know whether all the bets
were his or not. Maybe Joe or Big Bill had made a mistake. But after
the call he'd tried to remember all the bets he could and had added
them up. They'd come to four hundred and ten dollars and since he was
sure that he hadn't remembered all of the bets, he was willing to take
Joe's word on the total.
But why hadn't Joe called him on it sooner? Twice before Joe had called
him on running into debt, both times when the amount involved was a
couple of hundred. Both times he'd been able to raise the money within
a few days. The first time he'd done it on a signature loan, but that
wouldn't work again because he'd got behind on his payments and had
had a fight with the loan outfit. He'd paid it off eventually but the
damn company had marked him as a poor credit risk. And loan companies
keep one another posted on things like that. He'd found out when he'd
applied for a second loan from another outfit and had been turned down.
He'd raised the money that time by putting up his car for security but
that wouldn't work again either right now. He'd had his present car
only six months and had made only five payments on it. It was financed
over a two-year period and he still owed too much on it for him to
borrow anything against it. He could probably sell it for a few hundred
more than he owed on it but he needed a car to hold down his job.
He pressed the door buzzer and after a moment Big Bill opened the door
a few inches on the chain and looked out through the opening. He said,
"Hi, Ray," and then closed the door momentarily so he could take the
chain off and open it wide. It was a silly system; Ray had kidded Bill
about it once and he'd shrugged and said, "Boss's orders." It was still
silly. Were they afraid of a raid? Amico paid for protection and got
it. He had to take a raid once in a while but he was always tipped off
in advance exactly when one was coming--usually just before a local
election. When a raid came, Amico wouldn't be there nor would there
be any clients. The cops would serve the warrant on Bill Monahan or
whoever was working for Amico at the time, and find and confiscate some
betting slips--phony ones with fake names on them; Amico would have
the real ones. Monahan would appear in court and pay a fine or, if the
police wanted to make a better showing than usual, sit out a short jail
sentence. Amico wouldn't even get his name in the papers, and would
meanwhile be opening up in a new location, already rented in advance,
and spreading the word on his new address and phone number. No raid was
expected tonight or Big Bill wouldn't have let him in; clients never
got caught in one.
Big Bill closed the door behind Ray and said, "Joe's laying down. Had a
headache and took some aspirins."
"Maybe he's asleep," Ray said. "Maybe I better come back some other--"
"No, he wants to see you. Said if he was asleep when you came to wake
him up. Just a minute."
Big Bill crossed the room--a living room furnished like any living room
except for the addition of a desk with two telephones on it--opened the
door of the next room and looked in. He turned back and said, "He's
awake. Go on in."
Ray Fleck went in and, in case he was going to have to take a bawling
out, closed the door behind him. The room was a bedroom and Joe Amico
was lying on the bed but on top of the covers and fully dressed. Ray
had never seen him otherwise; like many small men Joe prided himself on
being dapper. Even on the hottest days of summer he always wore a suit
coat over a white shirt and a necktie and the shirt was always so fresh
and clean that Ray thought he must change shirts at least twice a day
and possibly oftener. The bed was a big one and Joe was so small that
he looked almost like a doll lying there on it.
"Hi, Ray-boy," he said. "Pull a chair around where I can see you from
here. I'm gonna stay flat. This damn headache--"
It was going to be all right, Ray thought; Joe wasn't angry and
wasn't going to get tough about the dough. He pulled a chair around
to the side of the bed and sat down. He remembered that Joe had once
mentioned sinus trouble and asked, "Sinus headache?"
"Yeah. Get 'em every once in a while, in streaks, in series like. One
at the same time every day for about two weeks. They get worse each day
for the first week and taper off during the second. I'm over the hump
this time; this is about the tenth day."
"Can't a doctor do anything for them?"
"Naw, I been to a dozen of 'em. The pills they give me don't help any
more than plain aspirin. And it ain't bad enough for an operation; I
get a streak of headaches only about once a year and I'd rather stand
'em than have a--what do they call it?--sinusotomy. What are you doing
about that money, Ray-boy?"
"Trying to raise it, Joe," Ray said. And then, to give himself some
leeway: "Might take a few days or even a week, but I'll get it."
"What if you can't?"
"Hell, I can--somehow. I've always paid you before, haven't I?"
"Yeah. But what if you can't scare it up this time, in one chunk? I
know how much you make--about how much anyway--and that's quite a piece
of cash for you. Close to a month's income. I shouldn't of let it get
that big but I wasn't keeping track and didn't realize how far into me
you were till Bill called my attention to it yesterday."
"Sure, Joe, it's quite a piece of cash. But don't worry; I'll get it.
And this damn losing streak can't last forever."
"Maybe not, but one can last a hell of a lot longer than yours has.
That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I think you'd better lay off
any kind of gambling till you're back even again--and that'll give
your luck time to turn maybe. I don't run an installment business but
I'm willing, in your case, to let you pay it off by the week. Say fifty
a week; that'd take you a little less than ten weeks."
Ray winced. "My God, Joe! I can't pay fifty a week--I wouldn't have
enough left to live on. How about twenty-five--if I can't raise the
whole thing, that is."
"Fifty might be rough on you, yeah. How about thirty-five?"
"Okay," Ray said. "Give me a week to see if I can raise the
four-eighty. Then if I can't pay you at least most of it I'll start
forking over thirty-five every payday. A deal?"
"A deal. All right, that's settled. Isn't anything else you wanted to
tell me, is there?"
A little puzzled--what was Joe getting at?--Ray said, "Nothing I can
think of. Except thanks, and I'll do my best to raise the dough without
having to make it in installments. Well, so long."
Crossing the living room on his way out he walked almost jauntily. It
was over with, and it hadn't been half as bad as he'd expected. He had
a full week to raise or win the money and even if he didn't succeed
things wouldn't be too bad. At thirty-five a week it would take a hell
of a long time to pay off four-eighty but it would still leave him
money for small bets and as soon as he started winning he could pyramid.
Monahan went to the door with him and opened it; they said so longs
and then the door closed behind him. But it opened again when he was
halfway to the stairs and Monahan stepped out into the hall and said,
"Come back, Ray. You forgot something."
Forgot something? He hadn't forgotten anything. As he walked back he
was thinking of Joe's "Isn't anything else you wanted to tell me, is
there?" That had been puzzling too. What went on?
He went back. Big Bill held the door open from outside, then followed
him in and closed it. This time there was the sound of the chain.
Joe Amico had come out of the bedroom, and in a hurry, because for the
first time Ray saw him less than completely immaculate; his straight
black hair was mussed from having lain on the bed and he hadn't taken
time to comb it. He was sitting on a corner of the desk, legs dangling,
and he no longer looked like a doll. You could have taken him, though,
for a malevolent little marionette with eyes as cold and hard as
marbles.
He didn't raise his voice but it was as cold and hard as his eyes. "How
long you been making book yourself, Ray-boy." This time the "Ray-boy"
didn't sound like an affectionate nickname; it sounded like a swear
word.
"Wha--" Suddenly in the middle of a word Ray Fleck realized what had
happened, what _must_ have happened. "My God, Joe," he said. "That bet
I took to place with you for Chuck Connolly--he must've phoned you to
change it or something and said I had the money for you. I have, but
_honest_, Joe, I forgot, completely forgot."
"How many other times have you made book yourself on dough somebody
gave you to give me?"
"Never, Joe, honest to God, never." And, in fact, he'd never before
done it, to speak of. A few times, not over half a dozen, he'd taken a
small bet, never over two or five, to give Joe, thinking that he'd be
seeing him or phoning in some bet of his own; then had decided against
laying anything that day himself and hadn't bothered to phone in the
peanut bet. Once one of the horses had won and he'd paid off on it,
twelve-forty on a two-dollar win bet. But never until tonight had he
deliberately held out a bet to raise money.
He was taking his wallet out of his pocket with a hand that he tried
to keep from trembling, opening the wallet to take out the three tens
Connolly had given him. But Joe was saying, "The whole thing, Ray-boy.
The wallet."
His eyes had been looking down at the bills in the wallet, trying to
focus on it to pick out the three bills. He looked up in surprise and
that made it too late. Big Bill jerked the wallet out of his hand and
tossed it to Amico, who held it in his hand, tapping a corner of it on
his knee, not as yet opening it.