Skeleton Crew

'I ain't going to hurt you,' Scollay said, quieter still. 'Just tell me the rest.'

'He say the whole town laughing at you.' We had stopped playing and there was dead silence for a second. Then Scollay turned his eyes to the ceiling. Both of his hands were shaking and held out clenched in front of him. He was holding them in fists so tight that it seemed I could see his hamstrings standing out right through his shirt.

'ALL RIGHT!' he screamed. 'ALL RIGHT!' He broke for the door. Two of his men tried to stop him, tried to tell him it was suicide, just what the Greek wanted, but Scollay was like a crazy man. He knocked them down and rushed out into the black summer night.

In the dead quiet that followed, all I could hear was the messenger's tortured breathing and somewhere out back, the soft sobbing of the bride.

Just about then the young kid who had braced us when we came in uttered a curse and made for the door. He was the only one.

Before he could even get under the big paper shamrock hung in the foyer, automobile tires screeched on the pavement and engines revved up—a lot of engines. It sounded like Memorial Day at the Brickyard out there.

'Oh dear-to-Jaysus!' the kid screamed from the doorway. 'It's a fucking caravan! Get down, boss! Get down! Get down—' The night exploded with gunfire. It was like World War I out there for maybe a minute, maybe two.

Bullets stitched across the open door of the hall, and one of the hanging light-globes overhead exploded.

Outside the night was bright with Winchester fireworks. Then the cars howled away. One of the molls was brushing broken glass out of her bobbed hair.

Now that the danger was over, the rest of the goons rushed out. The door to the kitchen banged open and Maureen ran through again. Everything she had was jiggling. Her face was more puffy than ever. Rico came in her wake like a bewildered valet. They went out the door.

Gibson appeared in the empty hall, her eyes wide and shocked. The little man who had started all the trouble with his singing telegram had powdered.

'It was shooting,' Gibson murmured. 'What happened?'

'I think the Greek just cooled the paymaster,' Biff said. She looked at me, bewildered, but before I could translate Billy-Boy said in his soft, polite voice: 'He means that Scollay just got rubbed out, Miz Gibson.' Gibson stared at him, her eyes getting wider and wider, and then she fainted dead away. I felt a little like fainting myself.

Just then, from outside, came the most anguished scream I have ever heard, then or since. That unholy caterwauling just went on and on. You didn't have to peek out the door to know who was tearing her heart out in the street, keening over her dead brother even while the cops and newshawks were on their way.

'Let's blow,' I muttered. 'Quick.' We had it packed in before five minutes had passed. Some of the goons came back inside, but they were too drunk and too scared to notice the likes of us.

We went out the back, each of us carrying part of Biffs drum-kit. Quite a parade we must have made, walking up the street, for anyone who saw us. I led the way with my horn case tucked under my arm and a cymbal in each hand. The boys stood on the corner at the end of the block while I went back for the truck. The cops hadn't shown yet. The big girl was still crouched over the body of her brother in the middle of the street, wailing like a banshee while her tiny groom ran around her like a moon orbiting a big planet.

I drove down to the corner and the boys threw everything in the back, willy-nilly. Then we hauled ass out of there. We averaged forty-five miles an hour all the way back to Morgan, back roads or not, and either Scollay's goons must never have bothered to tip the cops to us, or else the cops didn't care, because we never heard from them.

We never got the two hundred bucks, either.

She came into Tommy Englander's about ten days later, a fat Irish girl in a black mourning dress. The black didn't look any better than the white satin.

Englander must have known who she was (her picture had been in the Chicago papers, next to Scollay's) because he showed her to a table himself and shushed a couple of drunks at the bar who had been snickering at her.

I felt badly for her, like I feel for Billy-Boy sometimes. It's tough to be on the outside. You don't have to be out there to know, although I'd have to agree that you can't know just what it's like. And she had been very sweet, the little I had talked to her.

When the break came, I went over to her table.

'I'm sorry about your brother,' I said awkwardly. 'I know he really cared for you, and—'

'I might as well have fired those guns myself,' she said. She was looking down at her hands, and now that I noticed them I saw that they were really her best feature, small and comely. 'Everything that little man said was true.'

'Oh, say now,' I replied—a non sequitur if ever there was one, but what else was there to say? I was sorry I'd come over, she talked so strangely. As if she was all alone, and crazy.

'I'm not going to divorce him, though,' she went on. 'I'd kill myself first, and damn my soul to hell.'

'Don't talk that way,' I said.

'Haven't you ever wanted to kill yourself?' she asked, looking at me passionately. 'Doesn't it make you feel like that when people use 'you badly and then laugh at you? Or did no one ever do it to you? You may say so, but you'll pardon me if I don't believe it. Do you know what it feels like to eat and eat and hate yourself for it and then eat more? Do you know what it feels like to kill your own brother because you are fat?' People were turning to look, and the drunks were sniggering again.

'I'm sorry,' she whispered.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry, too. I wanted to tell her... oh, anything at all, I reckon, that would make her