Reilly did some quick faro-math and figured Stiffy’s plan an eighteen-to-one favorite. He had to get on that train and pray it was leaving soon, before the Irish brute had a chance to notice his absence. Reilly clasped Stiffy’s hand in both of his own, said, “How can I thank you? You saved my life.”
“Ah, puh-shaw,” said Stiffy with pronounced humility, exposing a top row of yellow, brown, and black. “I don’t leave my business associates hangin’ out to dry if I kin help it. No, sirree.”
“What about you?”
“I got places to stay ’round here. Don’t you worry none about yer old friend Stiffy Lacoume. I’ll be just fine. Now, you best git, pardna.” Then, after two breaths of awkward silence: “Go on, now.
Reilly nodded, walking briskly southwest in the direction of the train station.
In the heat of the moment, neither man mentioned the five thousand dollars Reilly had left behind in the fight pit. After he was well on his way to safety there was a very good chance Reilly himself would write the money off as an acceptable loss. After all, things had gone amazingly wrong and he had at least managed to escape with both his skin and freedom intact.
Thanks to his dear and thoughtful friend, Stiffy Lacoume.
In the alley behind Bob’s, Stiffy whistled low as he strolled leisurely to the alley’s mouth. When he hit the stone pavement of Franklin Street, he turned left, and walked to the corner before going left again. Half circle.
Upon arriving at Crawfish Bob’s front door, which was currently padlocked from inside, Stiffy stopped briefly to ponder the night’s events as he listened with amusement to the muffled chaos raging inside. He shook his head and let out a chuckle, scratched his greasy head and said out loud, “Lord, lord, lord.” After an additional second or two of meditation, Stiffy raised a gnarled right fist and knocked with just enough force to be heard over the ruckus, not quite hard enough to break the skin of his knuckles.
The sound of chaos faded, then all but ceased.
A mass of muttering. Almost quiet. A small burst of laughter. An admonishing shush. Finally: Near total quiet.
The fresh silence was gently broken by the clickety sound a key makes in a padlock.
The door creaked open slow, just enough to expose one very serious-looking mug.
“Well?” inquired Crawfish Bob.
Stiffy: “Cooled out and on the broad, Bob.”
That being con-man talk for:
Chapter twenty-four. Dog
At six-foot-one and two hundred twenty pounds, Dropsy Morningstar certainly had the looks of a killer-especially with his face freshly bloodied on the job at Crawfish Bob’s. In truth, Dropsy was nothing more than a large child and incapable of hurting a fly. At the other end of the spectrum, Jim Jam Jump looked harmless enough at sixteen years of age and ninety-six pounds, but most certainly was a killer. So, between Dropsy’s unsettling looks and Jim’s unsettling inclinations, the two believed they didn’t have cause for concern as they walked through the dark alley behind Marais Street, their pockets stuffed with equal fair shares of Eugene Reilly’s recently plundered life savings.
“Think that Yankee fella done got what he deserved, Jim?” Dropsy was prone to feelings of remorse after a good touch-and counted on Jim’s uncanny ability to soothe his dented conscience.
“Hell, Dropsy, that New York mick was as crooked as they come. Only got beat because he was aimin’ to beat out Bob, ain’t that right? Fella lookin’ ta cheat deserves to be cheated-ain’t that right, too?”
“S’pose so, Jim.” Dropsy’s internal conflict melted only slightly, but enough for now.
With half his face swollen and a cut above the left eye, Dropsy was as exhausted from his performance as the Christ Kid as he looked. Rest, however, was an unlikely option, for Jim didn’t have it in him to let a good night of larceny end at such an early hour. After thirty more strides of walking and thinking, Jim had formulated a fully detailed scheme with which to fill the night’s remainder. His keen ears detected an alien hum coming from somewhere up ahead-Jim made a quick mental note of it, but refused to let it break his train of thought.
“Dropsy, my goodly and bestest partner, yer old pal-Jim Jam Jump myself, that is-has been thinking hard on these many strides, thinking in terms of continuous and profitable fun on this night, a night blessed thus far with luck and substantial financial reward.”
Dropsy winced lightly.
“Limmity-hay, whaddaya say, ol’ pal o’mine, my buddy, my friend, my partner in time and jiminey-crime?”
Dropsy let out a sigh. “Damn, Jim. I’m thinking in terms of my busted-up head resting its poor self on a nice pillow ’bout now. Down for the night is what.” Wishful thinking was more like it. Dropsy knew better than to argue, but watching Jim turn the angles had become a sort of pastime of his, even if Dropsy himself was at the receiving end of the current angle in question.
“Well, sure-sure you are, Dropsy. I understand that.” Jim could barely conceal his amusement. Dropsy’s game was to supply the obstacles upon which Jim thrived-and they both knew it. Continuing with faux concern, and the all-important-never-ending-angle-in-progress; “That’s why I figured on fun with minimal physical labor on your part, old pal. Have a looky here.”
With the precise and edgy movement of an alley cat, Jim shot a hand into his left breast pocket to extract two small, white objects. Jim held his hand close to Dropsy’s face-in case moonlight proved insufficient to their revelation. Dropsy knew before looking that Jim held two sugar cubes marked with black dots from a fountain pen. Homemade dice. One was straight, the other tat. Crooked die.
“I swear by almighty, Jim, I ain’t a clue as to where you find the energy. After killin’ that buncha rats and all.”
“New world record is what!” Jim Jam Jump the Astounding Ratboy of Orleans Parish and Surrounding Territories beamed brightly with hard-earned pride for a moment before returning to the topic at hand. “Dang, Dropsy, that was hours ago. I’d caught my breath up and was ready fer more before you was anywhere’s near dying in that second round.” Jim put on his most fetching who’s-yer-pal? smile. “So whaddaya say? How’s about a little tat? Rat a cat tat map flap whap tat? Eh, ol’ pal? C’mon, Dropsy. Don’t be an old woman about it.” A look of mock distaste spread over Jim’s face.
“Dunno, Jim. Mighty tired is what I surely am.”
Dropsy’s half-hearted protest trailed into a growl, but the source of the growl came from twenty feet ahead, towards the alley’s mouth. Both stopped cold, looked up. Two eyes reflected red from the sparkle of moonlight. Two eyes and lots of teeth. Not long ago this same growl was far off enough to be perceived as a hum; that same hum being an integral part of Jim’s already-figured calculations.
“Well, looky there,” said Jim with twitchy glee. “We got ourselves a foamin’-at-the-mouth doggie-higgity-hog lie-shy, times…” Looking around to see if there might be a “dog” in the plural sense-“…times one!”
“Dang, Jim, hold still and talk quiet. Dog like that’ll kill a person. Mostly pit by the looks of him.” With only dull moonlight through low hanging fog, Dropsy couldn’t see the dog well enough to determine breed-but he figured to err for caution, and assumed the worst. Pit bulls in Louisiana were mostly bred to kill black folk.
