nothing. All the goddamn years I’ve worked, I’ve never reached the target above that sonofabitch Andy’s target, so you can forget the one per cent. But you get paid eight hundred steady, Johnny, although the job is sheer hell. I’ve managed to save out of what I got paid and you can too.”
Eight hundred a week and Massino had offered him only four hundred and one per cent which according to Bernie meant nothing!
A cold, fierce rage took hold of Johnny, but he controlled it.
That’s what the thieving, double-crossing sonofabitch had said! Well, okay, Johnny thought as he got to his feet, I’ll be a thieving sonofabitch too!
Leaving Bernie, he went down to where he had parked his car. Still raging, he drove fast to Melanie’s pad.
The following morning when Melanie had gone to work, Johnny returned to his apartment and cooked himself breakfast which was his favourite meal. He had the whole day before him with no plans. He was in a surly mood. Massino’s meanness still irked him. He had now no misgivings about robbing him, that was for sure.
As he was sitting down to three fried eggs and a thick slice of grilled ham, the telephone bell rang. Cursing, he got up and lifted the receiver. It was Andy Lucas on the line.
“Mr. Joe says you’re to take over Bernie’s job,” Andy said. “You two had better get together. See him today. He’ll take you around with him and give you introductions.”
“Okay,” Johnny said, eyeing his breakfast. “I’ll do that.”
“And listen, Johnny.” Andy’s voice was cold. “Bernie has been lying down on the job. I’ll expect you to increase the business. We want at least two hundred more machines out and that’ll be your job… understand?”
“Sure.”
“Okay… go talk to Bernie,” and Andy hung up. Johnny returned to his breakfast but he hadn’t the appetite he had had before the telephone call.
A little after moo, he went out and headed for Bernie’s office: a one-room affair on the top floor of a walk-up office block. As he was waiting for the traffic lights to change so he could cross the road, he saw Sammy the Black waiting to cross on the other side of the street.
Sammy grinned and waved and when the traffic stopped, Johnny joined him.
“Hi, Sammy… what are you doing?”
“Me?” Sammy looked vague. “Not a thing, Mr. Johnny. Not much doing on Saturday… just mooching around.”
Johnny had forgotten it was Saturday. Tomorrow would be Sunday. He hated Sundays with the shops shut and people going out of town. Usually he spent Sunday mornings reading the papers and then joining Melanie in the late afternoon. Sunday morning she was always busy, cleaning her apartment, washing her hair and doing all the goddamn chores women seem to find to do.
“Want coffee?” Johnny asked.
“Always say yes to coffee.” Sammy looked uneasily at Johnny. The hard expression on Johnny’s face bothered him. “Something wrong?”
“Let’s have coffee.” Johnny led the way to the cafe and propped himself up against the bar. He ordered the coffees, then said, “I was talking to Mr. Joe last night.” He went on to tell Sammy what Massino had said. “It’s up to you. Do you want to drive his car?”
Sammy’s face lit up as if he had swallowed a lighted electric light bulb.
“Is this straight, Mr. Johnny?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Sure do!” Sammy slapped his pink palms together. “You mean I don’t have to collect any more money?”
Johnny thought sourly: another one! Bernie, beaming from ear to ear, now Sammy. They have it smooth while I get it rough.
“You have to wear a uniform and drive his Rolls. Like the idea?”
“Sure do! Is this good news!” Sammy paused then looked at Johnny. “When do I start?”
“The week after next.”
Sammy’s face fell.
“You mean I’ve got the collection next Friday to do?”
“That’s right.”
Sammy’s eyes rolled and sweat broke out on his face.
“Couldn’t the new man do the job, Mr. Johnny? Who’s the new man anyway?”
“I wouldn’t know. We make the collection together on the 29th, Sammy.” Johnny finished his coffee. “So forget it.”
“Yes.” Sammy blotted his sweating face with his handkerchief. “You think it’ll be all right?”
“Can’t go wrong.” Johnny moved away from the bar. “I’ve things to do. Go see Andy. Tell him you’ll drive for Mr. Joe. He’ll fix everything. It pays a hundred and fifty.”
Sammy’s eyes opened wide.
“A hundred and fifty?”
“That’s what Mr. Joe said.” Johnny looked thoughtfully at Sammy. “Are you still keeping your savings under your bed?”
“Where else should I keep it, Mr. Johnny?”
“I told you, you dope, in a goddamn bank!”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Sammy said, shaking his head. “Banks are for white people.”
Johnny shrugged.
“Be seeing you.” He paid for the coffees and walked out of the cafe. Ten minutes later he was in Bernie Schultz’s office.
Bernie was resting behind his battered desk, his chair pushed back, his thumbs hooked to his belt. When he saw Johnny, he straightened up.
“Andy said I was to look in,” Johnny said. “He said you’d give me introductions and take me around.”
“Sure will,” Bernie said, “but not today. This is the week-end for God’s sake! No business at week-ends. Suppose we start Monday, huh? Come here around ten o’clock. I’ll show you around. Okay?” “Anything you say.” Johnny started towards the door.
“Oh, Johnny…”
Johnny paused and looked at Bernie who was scratching his fat jowl.
“Yeah?”
“I guess I flapped with my big mouth.” Bernie shifted uneasily in his chair. “Andy told me I wasn’t to tell you what I get paid. Can you forget it?”
Johnny’s hands turned to fists, but he managed a cold grin.
“Sure. I’ve forgotten it, Bernie. See you Monday,” and he left the little office and tramped clown the six flights of stairs, swearing under his breath.
As he was within a five-minute walk from the Greyhound bus station, he made his way there. Reaching the station, he paused to look across the street and up at Massino’s office windows. Massino was probably in flight to Miami for a long week-end, but Johnny was sure that Andy was up there in his poky office.
He went into the bus station and made his way to the left luggage lockers. He stopped to read the instructions printed on the door of one of the lockers. The key, he read, had to be collected from the attendant. He glanced around. Seeing no one among the milling crowd he knew, he wandered over to the attendant’s cubby hole. A big, sleepy-looking negro peered at him.
“Let’s have a key,” Johnny said. “How much?”
“How long do you want it for, boss?”
“Three weeks… maybe longer. I don’t know.”
The negro handed over the key.
“Half a buck a week: that’ll be a buck and a half for three weeks.”
Johnny paid, dropped the key into his pocket, then went to locate the locker. It was conveniently placed: just
