The “boy” was built like an All-American tackle, and it wasn't only his behind filling the back of his pants—he was packing a rod and a sap. He took us down a long hallway flanked by rooms full of people typing or working adding machines. If the “Cat” had all these people working on his legitimate deals, I wondered how many he had working in out of the way lofts, figuring his bookie business and his rackets.
We stopped before a door and the “boy” pressed a button. There was a moment of waiting, while somebody probably gave us the eye through a concealed peephole, then the door buzzed open and the office boy said, “Gowan in” and left us. When he spoke he showed two rows of dirty teeth that looked like they grew on the mossy side of a swamp tree.
Franklin's office was strictly out of this world; only slightly smaller than Madison Square Garden, it was a study in contrasts. It looked like a business office with “Cat” sitting behind a modern metal desk, a typewriter and a dictaphone near him, the wall behind him full of books. There weren't any windows, but the air conditioning was perfect. The walls were a loud pink with red stripes, the chairs were stuffed banana-shaped couches—the kind that fit the contours of your body. At the other end of the office was a small bar, a tremendous TV set, a fireplace, and several pinball machines. A plush, deep-red carpet covered the entire floor, with a nude woman at least twenty feet long woven into it.
Lefty Wilson, the same gorilla-faced bodyguard I'd seen at the Emerald last night, was sitting at another modern desk. It took us a few seconds to walk across the huge carpet and Franklin stood up, held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Darling. Didn't I see you last night, listening at a keyhole?”
“That's right,” I said as we shook hands gingerly.
“Said I wanted to see you? What makes you think I wanted to...?”
“You wouldn't let me in here if you didn't...” I was saying when Lefty recognized Bobo, yelled, “What you chicken-hearted sonofabitch! I been waiting a long time to give you a pasting!”
Lefty came around his desk, adding, “Now you'll get it!” Lefty had a rubber tire around his waist, bags under his eyes. Since Bobo was a physical culture bug and always in top shape, I knew he could take Lefty with little trouble. I had time to glance at Franklin, see if he was going to call off his man. But he was watching it all with an amused look. I glanced at Bobo... he was backing away, hands down, mouth open in panic!
I didn't want to see Bobo beaten up, among other things it would be a wrong start with the “Cat.” As Lefty came at Bobo, I stepped in his way, said, “Cut the clowning, we're here for some talk.” He had a handy neck for grabbing, but I was watching his feet.
He put his weight on his left foot, tried to push me aside with his hand. I ducked, whirling on my left shoe so we were
“Lefty, take a walk,” Big Ed said.
The ex-champ got to his feet, split a scowl between me and Bobo, walked out of the office. Franklin pointed to one of the odd half-moon shaped chairs, said, “Take a seat, Mr. Darling.” He motioned Bobo to another of the chairs. “You'll find these chairs unusually comfortable, they take much of the strain off your heart. People don't realize how they constantly overstrain their hearts. By the way, your exhibition was very neat. What do you call that?”
I sat—or rather stretched out—on the chair. It was comfortable. I said, “That's
“That the same as judo?” Franklin asked, taking a bottle and several thermos-pitchers from his desk.
I nodded. “You've seen the basic idea of judo—take advantage of the other guy's rush. Judo is mainly redirecting the other chum's energy, turning it against himself. The more powerful your opponent, the less good it does him.”
“Sounds interesting. Like a shot? I have gin—with grapefruit, orange, pineapple, or grape juice.”
I took mine with orange juice and Bobo tried it with grape juice. It was a very smooth drink, warming my guts at once. The “Cat” poured himself a straight juice drink, asked, “Now—what is it you wish to see me about?”
“What you wanted to see me about,” I said, fencing with words.
Franklin smiled. It was hard to think he'd ever been a strong-arm goon—looked more like a fugitive from a man-of-distinction ad. But he had the beefy shoulders of a muscle-man, and when the rest of his face smiled, his eyes were always alert, watching... waiting.
He said, “You're an interesting little man—and I'm not referring to size, but rather that you're a very, very small businessman. I could buy and sell you a hundred thousand times over. However as businessmen...”
I finished my drink. I didn't know whether it was the chair or the drink, but I sure felt relaxed.
“... let's have a talk. I operate on the theory that there's two ways to do things, the hard way and the simple way. Like all other businessmen I have certain... eh... trade secrets. Now I believe in live and let live, but let us assume you—or somebody—stumbled on to some of my trade ideas. In that situation I can do it the hard way,
I nodded. I could have dozed off then and there. I reached out, put the glass back on the desk. Bobo's eyes looked watery, he was half high. I told Franklin, “Let me have another shot. This is great stuff.”
He made another drink, gave it to me, said, “I find people can think best when relaxed. You're not drinking gin but straight hospital alcohol, 190 proof, with juice.”
“190 proof? I thought a 100 proof was...?”
Franklin smiled, pleased with his own knowledge. “Most people confuse volume with proof. 100 proof, for example, only means the contents are 50 per cent alcohol by volume. This is a handy drink, puts people at ease, off their guard.”
“Think I'm off guard?” I asked, taking a big gulp, acting like a kid showing off. The stuff sure gave me a glow.
“You and I, we haven't any reason to be on our guard, or have we?”
