here for more than a beer. He moved to the end of the bar and I followed him.
“What’s up, Mistah Hammah? Somethin’ I can do fuh yuh?”
“Yeah. You got the numbers running in here?”
Sam gave a quick look around before he answered.
“Yeah. De boys take ’em down same’s they do the othah places. Why?”
“Is George Kalecki still the big boy?”
He licked his thick lips. Sam was nervous. He didn’t want to be a squealer, yet he wanted to help me. “It’s murder, Sam,” I told him. “It’s better you tell me than have the bulls drag you to the station. You know how they are.”
I could see he was giving it thought. The black skin of his forehead furrowed up. “Okay, Mistah Hammah. Guess it’s all right. Kalecki is still head man, but he don’t come around hisself. De runners do all the work.”
“Is Bobo Hopper doing the running yet? He was with Kalecki some time. Hangs out here all the time, doesn’t he?”
“Yassuh. He’s head now, but he don’ do no mo’ running. He done had a good job the last few months. Keeps bees, too.”
This was new. Bobo Hopper was only half human, an example of what environment can do to a man. His mental age was about twelve, with a build that went with it. Underfed all his life, he developed into a skinny caricature of a person. I knew him well. A nice Joe that had a heart of gold. No matter how badly you treated him, you were still his friend. Everything was his friend. Birds, animals, insects. Why, once I saw him cry because some kids had stepped on an anthill and crushed a dozen of its occupants. Now he had a “good” job and was keeping bees.
“Where is he, Sam? Back room?”
“Yassuh, You know where. Last I seed him he was looking at a pitcher book of bees.”
I polished the beer off in one swallow, hoping the guys that had used it before me didn’t have anything contagious. When I passed the high yellow and his friend, I saw their eyes follow me right through the doors of the back room.
Bobo Hopper was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. The place used to be fixed up with a dice table and a couple of wheels, but now the stuff was stacked in a corner. High up on the wall a single barred window was trying hard to keep out what light seeped down the air shaft, leaving all the work to the solitary bulb dangling on the wire strand from the ceiling. Rubbish was piled high along one side, held back by a few frail pieces of beer poster cardboards.
On the walls a few duty pictures still hung from thumbtacks, the scenes half wiped out by finger smudges and dust. Someone had tried to copy the stuff in pencil on the wallpaper, but it was a poor try. The door to the bar was the only exit. I fished for the bolt lock, but there was nothing to slide it into so I let it be.
Bobo didn’t hear me come in, he was so absorbed in his book. For a few seconds I looked at the pictures over his shoulders, watching his mouth work as he tried to spell out the words. I slammed him on the back.
“Hey, there, don’t you say hello to an old friend?”
He half leaped from his chair, then saw that it was me and broke into a big smile. “Gee, Mike Hammer! Golly, I’m glad to see you.” He stuck out a skinny paw at me and I took it. “Whatcha doin’ down here, Mike? Come down just to see me, huh? Here, lemme get you a chair.” He rolled an empty quarter keg that had seen better days over to the table and I parked on it.
“Hear you’re keeping bees now, Bobo. That right?”
“Gee, yeah, an’ I’m learning all about it from this book here. It’s lotsa fun. They even know me, Mike. When I put my hand near the hive they don’t bite me at all. They walk on me. You should see them.”
“I’ll bet it’s a lot of fun,” I told him. “But bees are expensive to keep, aren’t they?”
“Naw. I made the hive from an egg box. And painted it, too. They like their hive. They don’t fly away like other guys’ do. I got ’em on my roof where the landlady lets me keep ’em. She don’t like bees, but I brought her a tiny bit of honey and she liked that. I’m good to my bees.”
He was such a nice kid. He bubbled over with enthusiasm. Unlike so many others who were bitter. No family, no home, but now he had a landlady who let him keep bees. Bobo was a funny kid. I couldn’t quiz him or he’d clam up, but when you got him talking about something he liked he’d spiel on all day for you.
“I hear you’ve got a new job, Bobo. How are you making out?”
“Oh, swell, Mike. I like it. They call me the errand manager.” They probably meant “erring,” but I didn’t tell him that.
“What land of work it is?” I asked. “Very hard?”
“Uh-uh. I run errands and deliver things and sweep and everything. Sometimes Mr. Didson lets me ride his bicycle when I deliver things for his store. I have lots of fun. Meet nice people, too.”
“Do you make much money?”
“Sure. I get most a quarter or a half buck every time I do something. Them Park Avenue swells like me. Last week I made nearly fifteen bucks.” Fifteen bucks. That was a lot of dough to him. He lived simply enough; now he was proud of himself. So was I.
“Sounds pretty good, Bobo. How did you ever manage to run down such a good job?”
“Well, you remember old Humpy?” I nodded. Humpy was a hunchback in his late forties who shined shoes in Park Avenue offices. I used him for an eye several times. He’d do anything to make a buck.
“Old Humpy got T. B.,” Bobo continued. “He went up in the mountains to shine shoes there and I took his place. Only I wasn’t so good at it like him. Then folks asked me to do little things for them and I did. Now I go down there every day early in the morning and the give me things to do like running errands. I got a day off today on account of I gotta see a guy about buying a queen bee. He’s got two. Do you think five bucks is too much to pay for a queen bee, Mike?”
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I didn’t know a queen bee from a king cobra, but queens usually run high in any species. “What did Mr. Kalecki say when you quit running numbers for him?”
Bobo didn’t clam up like I expected. “Gee, he was swell. Gimme ten bucks ‘cause I was with him so long and told me I could have my old job back whenever I wanted it.” No wonder. Bobo was as honest as the day was long. Generally a runner made plenty for himself, taking a chance that the dough he clipped wasn’t on the number that pulled in the shekels. But Bobo was too simple to be dishonest.
“That was pretty nice of Mr. Kalecki,” I grinned, “but you do better when you’re in business for yourself.”
“Yeah. Some day I’m just gonna raise bees. You can make a lot of money from bees. Even own a bee farm, maybe.”
Bobo smiled happily at the thought of it. But his smile passed into a puzzled frown. His eyes were fastened on something behind me. I had my back to the door, but when I saw Bobo’s face, I knew that we weren’t alone in the back room any longer.
The knife went under my chin very slowly. It was held loosely enough, but the slim fingers that held it were ready to tighten up the second I moved. Along the blade were the marks of a whetstone, so I knew it had been sharpened recently. The forefinger was laid on the top of the four-inch blade in proper cutting position. Here was a lug that knew what it was all about.
Bobo’s eyes were wide open with terror. His mouth worked, but no sound came from it. The poor kid began to sweat, little beads that ran in rivulets down his sallow cheeks. A brown-sleeved arm came over my other shoulder and slid nicely under my coat lapel, the hand reaching for my rod.
I clamped down and kicked back. The table went sailing as my feet caught it. I got the knife hand and pulled down hard, and the high yellow landed in a heap on top of me. Just in time I saw the foot coming and pulled my head aside. The coal black missed by inches. I didn’t. I let go the knife hand and grabbed the leg. The next moment I was fighting for my life under two sweating Negroes.
But not for long. The knife came out again and this time I got the hand in a wristlock and twisted. The tendons stretched, and the bones snapped sickeningly. The high yellow let out a scream and dropped the knife. I was on my feet in a flash. The big black buck was up and came charging into me, his head down.
There was no sense to busting my hand on his skull, so I lashed out with my foot and the toe of my shoe caught the guy right in the face. He toppled over sideways, still running, and collapsed against the wall. His lower teeth were protruding through his lip. Two of his incisors were lying beside his nose, plastered there with
