"None, Joe. Honest to God. I've _never_--"
"Shut up. You stink, Ray-boy. Chuck Connolly didn't call me up to
change his bet; I wouldn't of even known about it if you hadn't told
me. Sam Washburn called me, Sam the waiter at Feratti's. I eat there
often and know him; he almost always takes a buck bet instead of a tip,
and sometimes adds cash of his own.
"So he called just before you came here, said he'd got worried about
his bet on Birthday Boy and wanted to change it a little. Said he gave
you five besides a one tip, all on the horse's nose. Got a little
doubtful about the hunch and wanted to play the six across the board.
And I had a hunch about _you_, Ray-boy--that you've dragged down on me
before by playing bookie on your own. I decided to see if you'd give me
that six bucks. I gave you every break, even asked you, God damn it, if
you had anything else to tell me. Waited till you were clear out the
door before I sent Bill to get you back. And what happens when I get
you back? You know I've got something on you and you pop off on a deal
I wouldn't of known about otherwise. And then stand there with your
bare face hanging out and swear Connolly's is the _only_ bet you ever
dragged down." He held up the wallet. "How many other bets from today
and tonight you still got in here?"
"None, Joe. Honest to God, I--"
"Shut up." Joe Amico opened the wallet and, without taking them out,
checked the bills in it. "Fifty bucks. How much was Connolly's bet, and
on what? Don't bother lying because I'll check with Connolly on it."
"Thirty," Ray said miserably. "Thirty across, on Blue Belle. Fifth,
Aqueduct."
Amico put the wallet down on the desk beside him. "Bill," he said,
"take thirty-six out of that. Make slips on both bets--you heard 'em.
Then give him his wallet and his lousy fourteen bucks change back."
Monahan went around behind the desk.
Ray said, "My God, Joe, I know this looks like I was dragging down on
you on purpose, but--"
"Shut up. From now on don't say a God damn word, till I finish and ask
you if you understand, and then you damn well better say yes. Just yes
and nothing else.
"Somebody else taking bets in my name, dragging down on me, that's
one thing--_the_ one thing I won't stand. Don't matter if it's six
bucks--that's all I knew about for sure at first--or thirty-six or a
million. Or six cents, for that matter.
"We're through, Ray-boy, finished. You come around here with a grand in
cash and want to lay it, I don't take it. I don't deal with chiselers.
"I made you a nice easy deal--four months I'd of took to get all that
four-eighty at thirty-five bucks a week. I meant it and you could
of had the deal, but at the same time I was testing you, to see if
you were going to give me that lousy six bucks. I knew if you ever
dragged down on me you would tonight, on account of you're behind the
eight-ball."
Monahan came around from behind the desk and held out Ray's wallet to
him. Ray took it and put it back into his pocket with a hand that was
shaking badly.
Joe Amico was saying, "Do I have to tell you that deal's off now? You
got a new deal and here it is. I want that money, _all_ of it, by this
time tomorrow night. You got twenty-four hours to raise it. I don't
care how you raise it. Sell your car. Sell your wife. Rob a bank."
"Joe, I _can't_--"
"I said shut up. Bill, if he opens that yakker of his again put a
fist in it. Ray-boy, I almost _hope_ you can't. Because I'll get a
four-eighty kick outa what I'm going to do if you don't."
He looked at his wrist watch. "Just twenty-four hours from right now
I start putting out the word that you're marked lousy, that you're a
cheap crook and a welsher besides. I start with all the tavern and
liquor store owners I know--and I know plenty. Chuck Connolly will be
on top of the list. I tell 'em if they're friends of mine they won't
deal with a rat like you. I'll ask 'em to pass the word to the other
guys in their racket, the ones I don't know. And some of the boys, the
ones I know best and do business with, are going to phone in your boss
and complain about you, about the way you treat 'em, the way you act in
their joints.
"It'll take a little while for the word to get all the way around, but
you'll be lucky, Ray-boy, to make fifty bucks in commissions next week
or to hold your job for two weeks.
"Oh, and you'll never lay another bet, even if you ever get any money
to lay. I do know every other bookie in town and they come right after
the bar owners. And I know who at least some of your friends are, too,
and I spread the word there. By a couple weeks from now you won't be
able to sit in even a penny-ante stud game in a private house.
"Okay, that's it. Now you can talk--one word and it better be yes, and
no more than that. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Ray said. Hopelessly he turned to go; nothing he could possibly
say would help right now, even if he dared to say it.
"Not quite yet," Amico said. "Bill, touch him up a little. Take it easy
and don't mark him. Just something to help him remember."
Ray had sense enough to know that it wouldn't do any good to fight
back; he'd get hurt worse if he did. He stood still and tried to make
himself limp when Big Bill's left hand grabbed a handful of the front
of his coat and shirt, thinking that if he went down from whatever came
first maybe they'd let it go at that.
But what came first was a pair of flat-handed slaps to the face--back
of the hand to one side, palm to the other. Slaps that rocked his head,
stung like hell, and made his ears ring.
Then Big Bill, still holding with his left, pulled his right hand back
and drove a fist like the business end of a battering ram into the pit
of Ray's stomach. The pain was so great that, as his hands went to his
stomach, he tried to double over and would have except for the big hand
still holding his clothes bunched in front of his chest. From somewhere
miles away and through a haze of redness he heard Monahan's voice say,
"Enough, Joe?" and Amico's voice say, "Yeah. Put him in a chair. Don't
put him out in the hall till he can walk. We don't want him laying on
our doorstep."
He was in a chair and nothing was holding him now; he could double over
forward in the chair and he did. He was retching. From somewhere not
quite so far away he heard Amico's voice again. "And don't let him out
till you're sure he won't puke on the hall carpet, either. If he pukes
in here keep him till he's able to clean it up."
He heard a door open and close; Amico had gone back into the bedroom.
He heard a phone ring and then Big Bill's voice answering it and then
saying, "Ten to win on Rawhide in the fourth, twenty to show on Dark
Angel in the seventh. Right, Perry."
He could straighten up now, and he wasn't going to puke. His stomach
still hurt like hell and his cheeks stung and his ears rang, but he
thought he could stand up now. He _had_ to stand up and get out of here
fast. For a moment he couldn't remember why, and then it came to him.
His date with Dolly. She was his only chance now, or the only one he
could think of. Joe Amico had meant every word he'd said.
He raised his arm to look at his wrist watch. Yes, he could still make
it in time if he was lucky in catching a taxi quickly outside. Lucky
that this was Willis Street and taxis were fairly frequent. He put his
hands on the arms of his chair and stood up. Not quite straight; the
pain in his stomach made him bend forward a little at the waist.
"You okay?" Big Bill asked him. His voice was impersonal, neither
friendly nor unfriendly.
"Sure. I got to get out of here. I'm going to be late for a date if I
don't leave now."
"Walk back and forth a few times. When I see you can navigate, okay."
He was a little tottery walking across the room the first time, better
coming back. After a few trips he was walking almost normally, as much
as it hurt him to do so.
Big Bill got up and went to the door and opened it. "Okay, Ray. No hard
feelings?"
"No," Ray said.
As he walked through Big Bill said, "Believe it or not, I pulled my
punch on that poke in the gut." And then, before Ray could answer, not
that there was anything _to_ answer, the door closed behind him and he
heard the chain slide into the slot.
No stairs this time. He went to the shaft of the self-service elevator
and pushed the button. The indicator showed that it was on the top
floor, but it started down. He leaned against the wall opposite the
elevator door to wait for it.
Suddenly he remembered something and reached for his wallet. Amico
had told Monahan to take thirty-six out, but what if Monahan hadn't
put back the change? But Monahan had; the wallet held a ten and some
singles. Fourteen lousy bucks.
He _had_ to get money from Dolly now. And he might as well try for five
hundred while he was at it--what was to lose trying? If he got that
much--and he'd offer _any_ kind of interest to get it--he'd stay out of
the poker session and not risk losing any of it. He'd keep it intact to
be _sure_ of being able to pay Joe tomorrow.
But fifty or a hundred wouldn't do him any good with Joe, so if that
was all he could get, running it up would be his only chance.
_Dolly, Dolly_, he thought, _please, Dolly. Be like the mistress of the
man in the French short story._
The elevator came and the door slid open automatically. He stepped
inside.
A minute later he was at the curb, looking frantically both ways for
a taxi. None was in sight and he ran, doubled over a bit because
his stomach hurt, to the corner, where he'd have a better chance of
flagging one.