Bugsy Malone (3 page)

O
UT IN THE
street, the sidewalk still glistened from the rain. The sign in the lighted window said ‘
Pop Becker's Book Emporium. Books, Books and more Books. From 5 cents.'
And another read
‘A book is cheaper than a steak. Read one, learn a little, and maybe you'll eat better.'
The window of Pop's store was crammed with books of every description.

Bugsy Malone looked at his reflection in the glass. He straightened his tie and tilted his hat to a smart, acceptable angle. He pulled at the bottom of his jacket and, for a moment, the creases vanished – but promptly sprang back again. Bugsy wasn't the smartest guy in town, but he had an air about him that was difficult to describe. A sort of inner dignity that didn't rely on crisp white cuffs and a diamond stick pin. He was no hood. He'd been around them, sure. He'd had his scrapes. And he generally came out on top. But he got a funny kind of pleasure just from being in the middle of things. Always there, but never involved. He'd been quite a useful boxer in his day, too. Except for one slight handicap. He had a jaw that had more glass in it than Macy's front window. But he still kept in trim. Made a few bucks – from “this and that”, he liked to say. In the main they were honest bucks – looking for promising fighters and steering them in the direction of Cagey Joe at Sluggers Gym. Cagey Joe would teach them all he knew. And he knew a lot. If they made out, Bugsy made a few bucks. To date, he hadn't found a Jack Johnson, but he'd made enough to pay his rent and treat himself to the occasional turkey dinner. And this was at a time when a bowl of soup and a crust of bread was Sunday lunch for most people.

Bugsy pushed open the door of the bookstore. A brass bell rang. Behind the counter, Pop Becker looked up from his dinner. He peered at Bugsy over the top of his glasses and underneath his green eye shield.

“Hi, Bugsy.”

“Hi, Pop.”

Without another word, Pop swivelled in his chair and passed over a small, red, leather-bound book. It wasn't asked for but it was received without question.

“Thanks, Pop.”

Pop waved, not looking up from his racing paper or his dinner of salt beef and pickled cucumber, which he munched with as little enthusiasm as he had shown to his customer. Bugsy opened the book and placed a dollar bill inside. He moved to the side of the store. The whole wall was a mass of heavy books on creaking shelves. He tapped on one of them and a row of six books disappeared to reveal a small peep-hole. The tubby face of Jelly filled the hole.

“Hi, Bugsy.”

“Hi, Jelly.”

Bugsy passed the book to Jelly, who took out the dollar bill. He reached down and pulled back the whole wall of books, which moved as one. Revealed was the smoky, noisy hubbub of Fat Sam's speakeasy.

Bugsy walked through and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs that led down to the speakeasy floor. Jelly pulled the door closed behind him. On stage, the Fat Sam Grand Slam Speakeasy show had begun. Razamataz, the leader of the band, pounded away at his piano, belting out the music that couldn't be found anywhere else in town. At least, that's what Fat Sam used to say. And, for the most part, his regular customers would agree with him.

Centre stage was Tallulah. She was the star of the show and everyone knew it. Her hair was a work of art, patiently created at Madame Monzani's Hair Parlour. She peeped out from behind her curls with eyes that were wide open – but could narrow to a cool stare that cut guys in half. And often did. Tallulah was as cool as they come, and she pouted her red cupid-bow lips as she sang her songs in that ever-so-slinky way that drew besotted stares from the guys and envious looks from the girls. She was also Sam's girl, which made life a little easier for her and a little tougher for the rest of the girls. Not that Tallulah was without talent herself. She put over a number like no one else.

Backing her were Loretta and Bangles. They dutifully filled in the musical scraps that Tallulah threw them. The other girls took care of the dancing. They were the slickest line-up in town, and their clicking, tap dancing feet would rattle away on that wooden stage with such speed and agility that they never failed to bring a gasp from the speakeasy first timers.

Bugsy walked down the stairs. He looked a little out of place in the crowd, his clothes not quite up to the standard of the other, snazzier-dressed customers. But Bugsy had a confident air that made up for his wardrobe. He stopped to talk briefly to the hat-check girl. She seemed pleased to see him and he returned her smile by kissing his finger and touching her on the nose. She liked that.

All around him, waiters and waitresses weaved their way in and out of the tables. The customers chatted amongst themselves, or sat sipping their drinks riveted by the spectacular floor show. Bugsy made his way over to the bar and leaned against the wooden counter. The sour-faced barman ignored him. He wiped and polished the glass in his hand until it sparkled. Bugsy waved to get his attention. “Excuse me. Er... excuse, me, fellah.”

The barman walked up to him slowly. He scowled at Bugsy all the way.

“A double. On the rocks,” Bugsy said.

The barman took the glass he had been polishing and placed it on the bar-top. He filled it with a scoop of ice and then topped it up with Coke. He didn't take his eyes off Bugsy, who tried to soften the scowl with a joke.

“You look like you put your face on backwards this morning.”

The barman fingered the lapels on Bugsy's crumpled jacket. “I don't think much of your suit,” he said at last.

“I'll tell my tailor,” Bugsy answered.

“You've got too much mouth.”

“So I'll tell my dentist.”

Bugsy felt he had got a points decision on the encounter and moved away into the crowd. As he did so, he collided with Blousey, who was on her way to the exit. Her heavy bag crunched into his shins and the drink he was holding spilled down his suit. Bugsy let out a yell. “Ouch! Look where you're going, will you, lady.”

“I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry.” Blousey apologised.

Bugsy brushed at his jacket and rubbed his sore shins.

“What have you got in there – an ice-hockey stick?”

“No, a baseball bat.”

“You're a baseball player. Right?”

Blousey propped herself on a stool whilst she straightened herself out. “No, I'm a dancer. My mother made me pack it.”

“You're a sports nut. Right?”

Blousey started moving through the crowd. Bugsy followed her. “It's for my protection, in case I get robbed,” she said.

“And you take it everywhere with you. Right?”

Blousey manoeuvred herself through the crowd. She stopped for a moment, her path blocked by a waiter who was trying to unload a precarious-looking tray of drinks. Blousey was not really in the mood to talk to Bugsy and explained reluctantly, “I'm here about a job.”

The way she said it you would never have believed her disappointment. She wasn't about to let on to this guy, whom she didn't know from Adam, that she'd not even got past Fat Sam's office door.

Bugsy persevered. “Did you get it?”

“They said come back tomorrow.”

She tried to lose him by taking a different direction through the crowd but Bugsy caught up with her. He made one more attempt at being friendly. “What's your name, anyway?”

“Brown,” Blousey replied.

“Sounds like a loaf of bread,” Bugsy joked.

“Blousey Brown.”

“Sounds like a stale loaf of bread.”

Blousey's smile was one of those big phoney types that disappear the moment they are formed. Bugsy laughed at his own joke, and was about to follow it up with something a little more polite, when suddenly the music in the speakeasy was interrupted by a loud scream.

Suddenly there was pandemonium. People scrambled over themselves in an effort to get under the tables. Chairs and glasses toppled over. At the top of the stairs, four sinister-looking hoods stood in line. In their hands each one carried a splurge gun.

The hood on the left made a small, almost unnoticeable nod. It was all the signal they needed. Suddenly, with a strange slurping sound, the guns burst into life. Along the mirrored barback splattered a great white line of splurge. The barman ducked down out of sight. Fat Sam, alarmed at the sudden outburst of screaming, crashed out of his office. As he appeared at the top of his stairs, the hoods trained their guns on him. He dived for the floor. Knuckles, always a little slow, caught a splurge salvo on the arm. Then, having made their point, the hoods vanished as quickly as they had appeared, brushing Pop Becker out of the way as they did so.

Under their table, Bugsy and Blousey struggled to get out her baseball bat. They both clung to it – not really sure what to do with it. Fat Sam regained his posture and started to straighten up the overturned chairs. Nervously, he tried to reassure his customers. He fooled nobody. “OK, everybody, it's OK. Nothing to worry about now. Back to your tables. The fun's over. No one can say Fat Sam's ain't the liveliest joint in town. Razamataz! Music! I wanna see everybody enjoying themselves.”

Razamataz hesitantly began playing his piano. The rest of the band joined in. The sound was a little ragged at first, but gradually it got back to normal as everybody once more began to talk, and returned to their places at the tables. Fat Sam moved to the bar. The rest of his gang, more than a little confused, followed him. Knuckles propped himself up at the bar and Sam examined his splurged arm. He touched the gooey mess of splurge and quietly looked at the end of his fingers. He looked very thoughtful, if not a little worried. He spoke softly to himself. He wouldn't have liked anyone else to know his concern.

“Dis means trouble,” he said.

O
N
E
AST
6th Street, by Perito's Bakery, the broken gutter still turned the rainwater into a nasty brown liquid that dripped on to the sidewalk. The rain had held off for a while and the pool of water had resumed its earlier puddle proportions. The bricks glistened as they caught the light from the neon signs. The ginger alley cat that had made its home in the trash cans spat as he looked upwards to the black metal fire escape. This was his alley and he hated intruders. Up there, hidden away from the flashing neon light, was a dark figure who moved slowly and secretively from shadow to shadow. The ginger cat scurried for cover, his courage deserting him, as the dark feet begin to move down the iron stairs. At the bottom of the fire escape the figure stopped, and remained silent.

Shoulders had always been a little more secretive than was necessary. He liked being shady, it made him feel important. Around the corner of the alleyway a car approached. Shoulders jumped back against the wall as its lights lit up the wet street. The alley cat dashed for cover once more and took refuge in a pile of garbage. It was obvious to him that he wasn't going to get any sleep that night. A white sedan pulled to a halt. Shoulders moved out of the shadows and walked up to it. It was driven by a grey-uniformed chauffeur who never looked anywhere but ahead. He was well trained. The windows in the rear of the sedan were covered by blinds. Shoulders moved closer to one of the back windows. The white, fringed blind snapped upwards.

Inside the car sat a figure that was smart, dapper – in fact, entirely immaculate. He was dressed in an astrakhan-collared coat and carried a black cane with a silver top. His hat would have won prizes at a hatter's convention. He ran his gloved finger along his moustache which was, not surprisingly, also immaculate. There was no doubt that this man was special. There was no doubt this man had arrived on the scene. There was no doubt that, to Fat Sam, this man spelled trouble. He was Dandy Dan.

Out of the window he passed a brown leather case with reinforced corners and brass hinges.

“You know what to do?”

“Sure, Dandy Dan,” Shoulders confirmed.

Dan turned away and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder with his cane. “Step on it, Jackson.”

This Jackson dutifully did, and the sedan drove off into the night.

 

Inside the barber shop, the barber snipped away at the back of his customer's head. Not a lot of hair was cut off, but a great deal of snipping certainly gave the impression that the client was getting his money's worth. It was an old barber's trick. The head of hair belonged to Frank Bloomey, Fat Sam's lawyer. ‘Flash Frankie' always called here for a haircut on his way uptown. He had a swanky office overlooking Central Park but most of his clients had premises overlooking the East River. On the wall above his desk was a framed certificate from the New York Justice Department, but everyone knew it was the downtown hoodlums who kept him in business. Flash Frankie's silver tongue could get a guy out of jail quicker than a truckload of dynamite.

He relaxed into a reclining position as the barber placed a hot towel over his face. On top of the hot towel cabinet, an old radio buzzed out a tune.

In the street outside, Shoulders crept towards the barber shop window. Shoulders always crept. He couldn't walk like ordinary people, it wouldn't have been secretive enough. Even when he went shopping he would creep from store to store. He stopped, and bent down to open the case that Dandy Dan had given him. He clicked open the brass hinges and lifted the lid. Inside, laid out in neat order, were the shiny metallic components of what looked like a gun. Shoulders clicked the pieces together and the gun took shape. He loaded it up with a number of round white pellets that dropped neatly into the chamber. Then he moved towards the door of the barber's shop.

It is fair to say that Bloomey was more than a little surprised as his chair was swivelled around and the steaming hot towel pulled from his face. His eyes, like his mouth, were wide open with astonishment – in the brief moment, that is, before his face was submerged in a curious sticky mess. The splurge gun had struck again.

 

The violinist in Mama Lugini's Italian restaurant scratched away at the violin which was securely tucked under his chin. In fact, even when he wasn't playing and the violin was locked away in its case, his chin would clamp on an invisible instrument. Such was the effect of playing all night, every night, that his chin was permanently tucked into his shoulder. This made playing the violin very easy but sipping soup very difficult. He had practised hard at his instrument for more years than he could remember, and never forgave himself that he wasn't playing on a concert hall platform instead of to the unappreciative ears of the diners at Mama Lugini's.

A very slim gentleman sat sucking enormous quantities of spaghetti through his rather comic toothbrush moustache. His wife picked at her dinner. She never seemed to eat any – she just toyed a twirled her fork in the pasta. Her face was long and bored, which would normally have been the first thing you'd have noticed about her but for the ridiculous feathered hat she was wearing. The couple rarely spoke to one another except for the occasional, “Irving, would you please pass the salt,” or sometimes, “Irving, would you please pass the pepper.” This was the sum of their conversation. Irving would often make loud slurping sounds with his spaghetti, but very rarely did he speak. The violinist had little effect on either of them. He could scratch away at his Italian love songs until the strings of his violin wore through and snapped – it still wouldn't have helped the conversation between Irving and his wife.

But tonight the violinist was interrupted. Not by a clumsy waiter bumping into him or by a persistent customer asking for
‘O Sole Mio'
for the twenty-third time. He was interrupted by something far more important. In fact, the entire front window, on which was neatly painted
‘Mama Lugini's Italian Restaurant'
, shattered into a million pieces.

The customers looked up from their dinners and the violinist almost, but not quite, stopped playing. He looked up from his violin and saw, standing in line on the sidewalk, Dandy Dan's gang – their splurge guns gleaming in the lamplight. Irving stopped slurping.

A passing waiter was the first to move. He panicked – and dropped an enormous plate of tacky spaghetti into the coloured feathers of Irving's wife's hat. Irving himself was less fortunate, because it was he whom Dan's gang had come for. His puzzled stare demanded an answer. He got it. The splurge guns burst into action. Each one belched out its foamy white contents. Irving received the full blast head on, and immediately dropped into his spaghetti under the weight of the sticky onslaught. His wife, a bedraggled mess of spaghetti strands and loose feathers, started screaming. Her face wobbled up and down. In fact, the scream was some time coming, as her face seemed to tremble for an eternity before a piercing shriek escaped from her larynx. The other diners in the restaurant all ran for cover – so did the violinist. In fairness to him, it is true to say he kept on faithfully playing whilst he made his exit – ducking down behind the cheese counter.

The hoods, their work successfully completed, made their getaway. However, one of their number wasn't quite up to the slick behaviour of the rest of the gang, as they began to climb back into the sedan outside. It was Doodle.

Doodle had never been the cleverest of hoods and was a little out of place in the immaculate company of the Dandy Dan gang. In fact, he was almost dumb enough for Fat Sam's gang. He slipped in the doorway and the precious splurge gun he was carrying fell to the floor and slid across the tiles. The terrified diners stared in amazement. Doodle watched their inquisitive eyes move towards the secret gun lying on the floor. The gun he had been told to guard with his life. He was unsure what to do. He floundered in the restaurant while his worried little piggy eyes darted about behind his spectacles. One of the other hoods came back to pull him out.

“Doodle, get out of here.”

“But, Charlie, what about the splurge gun?”

“Ssh.”

“Dandy Dan said take care of the splurge gun.” He bent down to pick up the weapon. The hood grabbed Doodle very roughly and yanked him into the street. “You stupid idiot, Doodle. Watch your mouth, you fool.”

Another hood took Doodle's free arm and bundled him into the sedan. With a screech, they took off into the night.

The customers in the restaurant crawled out from under the tables, not quite sure what had happened. The violinist returned from the safety of the cheese counter and, as if nothing had happened, went straight into his very best version of
‘O Sole Mio'
.

 

Dobbs, the crooked accountant, was on the same list as Irving, only he didn't know it. He had been Fat Sam's accountant for as long as Fat Sam had run the rackets. He wasn't the fanciest accountant in the business. His office was his briefcase and his credentials were his two-year stretch in the State Pen. He hadn't thought of going straight ever since he was caught cheating in his accountancy examination finals. His one-room apartment was a mess, with empty packets of tea, his favourite weakness, strewn amongst the sheets of paper on which he'd totted up a million crooked sums. His dishonest living never worried him. He always slept well. Always, that is, unless he was interrupted – like tonight.

He first knew something was up when he heard the heavy feet of Bronx Charlie on the wooden staircase outside his door. He tried to open his eyes. This was difficult. He had been asleep for hours and his eyelids felt as if they were stapled together. He groped in the darkness for the switch on his bedside lamp. As it happened, this wasn't necessary. Bronx Charlie kicked open his bedroom door and the light from the hallway swept across Dobbs's bed. He blinked. His hair was a mess and his crumpled, dirty, blue and white striped pyjamas wouldn't have looked out of place int he garbage can. He blinked only once, or maybe twice, before the splurge gun Bronx Charlie was carrying burst into action and Dobbs was well and truly splurged against the brass railings of his bedhead. Bronx Charlie returned the way he had come, his feet thundering on the wooden stairs as he made his getaway.