Get a Load of This (21 page)

     
     Slug Moynihan eased his weight against the lamp-post and thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. The hard light from the lamp threw his face into dark shadows, hiding his eyes and lighting his square jaw. He was wearing a light sport's coat over a white polo sweater, and his shabby flannel trousers were noticeably frayed at the turn-ups.
     People who passed, glanced at him curiously, and then, as he turned his head, they looked away hurriedly. Slug was a tough bird and he didn't like people looking at him. He belonged to a team of third-rate boxers who fought at Henklestien's saloon twice a week. He made a little money and took a lot of punishment. He was still under twenty-five, so he found that the punishment didn't affect him. All the same, it sometimes worried him when he watched the older fighters gradually going slug nutty. He could see that happening to him before long.
     Right now he wasn't worrying about that. He had other things to worry him. He had got Rose Hanson on his mind. Usually, Slug was particularly callous with women. When he wanted one, he'd find one, take her and then forget her. He generally got what he wanted without any trouble. Chiefly because he was careful whom he chose. There were still a lot of dumb blondes who fell for a fighter, but apart from their physical use, Slug just didn't give them a second thought. Now Rose Hanson had blown along and things were different. Slug didn't realize it, but he had got Rose in his system in a bad way. He had made his usual overture to her, saying: “Listen, honey, you and me could get places. How about settlin' down in bed together?” which generally proved effective. Rose had looked through him and had given him the air. She didn't even give him the pleasure of embarrassing her as some of the more prudent ones had done. She simply ignored him as if he hadn't spoken, and that certainly had done things to Slug.
     He had first met her at the Ciro Dance Hall, which stood at the corner of Forty-third and Western Avenue. She was dancing with a tall, thin guy who looked as if he'd got a lot of dough. Slug considered starting trouble, then decided that it would only get himself in bad with Rose. All the same, his fingers itched to get a grip on this thin guy's neck, and the temptation had been so strong that he had left the hall and gone home.
     He thought he could forget about Rose, but he found that she was continually coming into his daily existence. He saw her several times on the street and once in a snack-bar having lunch. The tall, thin guy was with her and Slug saw them come out together.
     Every time he saw Rose, his desire for her mounted until he decided that something had got to be done about it. He found out with considerable difficulty where she worked. She was a manicurist at a smart little barber's saloon run by a guy named Brownrigg. Slug decided that he'd go and have a manicure. It cost him a lot to get himself in the saloon. He was sweating visibly to think that his companions might see him undergoing sissy treatment to his broken fists. However, he walked in and nodded ferociously at Brownrigg, who was a little guy, with a lot of black wavy hair and a pencilled moustache.
     “You gotta dame here who fixes nails, ain't you?” Slug asked, taking off his cap and mopping his face.
     Brownrigg opened his eyes. “Sure, Mr. Moynihan. Come right in and sit down.”
     Slug looked at him suspiciously. “How the hell do you know I'm Moynihan?” he asked.
     Brownrigg smiled. “I follow your fights,” he said. “You're goin' to get somewhere one of these days. I know a champ when I see one.”
     Slug grunted and sat down. “Yeah?” he said. “Well, hustle this dame along. I ain't got all day.”
     Brownrigg went behind a curtain at the end of the saloon and then came back after a few minutes. “Miss Hanson's just comin',” he said. “Would you like a hair-cut or a shave as well?”
     Slug scowled at him. “No,” he said, “get out in the front of the shop. I want to talk to this dame.”
     Brownrigg hesitated, and then said: “That's all right, Mr. Moynihan, you go ahead.”
     Slug sneered at him. “Sure it's all right,” he said. “Get movin', Clippers, an' don't come back till I've gone.”
     Brownrigg went into the shop meekly enough, but he left the saloon door open an inch or two. He didn't like the look on Slug's battered face.
     Rose Hanson came from behind the curtain, wheeling a little table on which was set out all her manicure paraphernalia. When she saw Slug, her face hardened.
     She was a swell-looking dame with curves in the right places and thick auburn hair. “Oh, it's you,” she said disdainfully. “What do you want?”
     Slug looked at her admiringly. “Just fix my nails, baby,” he said, “and I'll tell you some bedtime stories.”
     She shook her head. “You don't want a manicure,” she said. “You want a pneumatic drill with hands like yours.”
     Slug flexed his huge hands and grinned foolishly. “Listen, baby,” he said, “these mitts earn me a nice slice. I thought maybe they oughtta have a birthday present. Come on, give 'em a treat.”
     She pulled a stool up close to him and sat down, then she crossed her leg, showing him a neat knee. Slug looked openly at her shapely legs. “That's a grand pair of stems you got there,” he said. “You're certainly a red-hot number.”
     She took one of his hands. “Don't tell me,” she said, “I know.”
     Slugs pursed his mouth. This dame was hard-boiled all right, he thought. It was going to be mighty hard work to make her. “Like a ticket for one of my fights?” he said, trying the best trick of all his stock-in-trade. “There'll be a grand show tomorrow an' I can get you a ringside if you say the word.”
     She was looking rather hopelessly at his hand. “What did you say?” she asked.
     Slug heaved a heavy sigh and repeated his invitation.
     “I don't like fights,” she said, beginning to work on his nails. “But I could give the ticket to a friend of mine if you have one to spare.”
     Slug blew out his cheeks. The crust of this dame, he thought. “Is that the long guy you float around with?” he asked.
     Rose glanced up at him and then concentrated on his nails once more. “You seem to know a lot about me,” she said. “Harry is crazy about fights. He'll be pleased to get the ticket.”
     “Maybe he'll get a fight too,” Slug snarled. “I don't like guys like him.”
     Rose arched her eyebrows. “I could hardly imagine you would,” she said coldly.
     There was a long pause, then Slug, feeling that he was not gaining ground, said: “I'll have a nice roll of dough after tonight, suppose you an' me go somewhere an' spend it?”
     “Where should we go?” Rose asked cautiously, still intent on his nails.
     Slug thought rapidly. “Aw, I guess you could fix that yourself,” he said generously. “Just say where you'd like to go.”
     “Well...” She paused, then she shook her head. “No, I guess that place isn't quite what you're used to.”
     Slug scowled. “Come on,” he said, “where is it?”
     “I've always wanted to go to the Miami Club, but that's where all the swells go. You couldn't rise to that, could you?”
     With a sinking heart, Slug said fiercely: “Who says? Let me tell you, baby, there ain't no place that I can't go. If you want to go to that joint it's O.K. with me.”
     Rose sat back and looked at him. Her big eyes regarded him almost with admiration. “Gee!” she said. “Why, even Harry won't go there. Do you really mean it?”
     Conscious of a great victory, Slug committed himself, regardless of the cost. “Sure,” he said, “you wantta line up with the big-timers. A baby like you don't want to run around with a lotta dopes. I tell you that sortta dump is just canary seed to me.”
     “Why, Mr. Moynihan, I didn't realize that you were such a big-shot. Look, let's not go to Miami Club, let's go to the 'Ambassadors'. That's a place I've really wanted to go to.”
     Slug gulped. He saw too late where his boasting had led him. Miami Club was bad enough, but the 'Ambassadors' was one of the most expensive night-clubs in town. Not only that, but it was a stiff-shirt joint, and Slug hadn't got a tuxedo. He felt the sweat coming out from his body at the very thought of what the evening was going to cost him.
     Rose went on brightly. “Let's make it tomorrow,” she said, “I haven't a date then. Suppose you pick me up here at nine o'clock. Gee! I am looking forward to that. Do make yourself smart. I must get Mr. Brownrigg to give you a haircut.”
     Before he could protest she had called Brownrigg, who whipped a snowy white towel round him and, with a cold gleam in his eye, proceeded to give him the works. He had a haircut, a shampoo and a face massage and Brownrigg kept up such an incessant flow of chatter that he had no further opportunity of talking to Rose. After enduring what seemed to him a series of undignified tortures, he found himself in the street, three dollars poorer in pocket, and committed to the most expensive evening of his life.
     However, he was grimly determined to see it through. With a furtive step he went into Izzy's dress shop and spent a long time haggling over the renting of a tuxedo. By his usual threatening attitude he managed to obtain the complete outfit at a not too ruinous figure. Gingerly, he tried on an opera hat which Izzy insisted was the thing to wear. He stood before the long mirror and stared at his reflection. He couldn't make up his mind whether or not he liked himself in the hat until he noticed Izzy hiding a grin behind a grimy hand, then he realized just how awful he looked in it. He took the hat off hurriedly and gave it back to Izzy. “Gimme a black felt,” he said, “an' take that grin off your mug before I wipe it off.”
     The clothes were carefully packed in a large cardboard box and, having paid a substantial deposit, Slug made his way home. He spent the rest of the day at the gymnasium loosening up for the evening's fight, his mind more intent on Rose and the evening he had to face at the 'Ambassadors'.
     He took Pug O'Malley, one of his sparring partners, into his confidence. “Listen, Pug,” he said, offering a cigarette, “I gotta take a dame to the 'Ambassadors' tomorrow night.”
     Pug looked at him suspiciously, suspecting that Slug was just blowing off hot air. “Huh,” he said, “so what?”
     Slug scratched his chin uneasily. “You ever been there?” he asked hopefully.
     Pug shook his head. “I ain't a sucker,” he said. “That joint charges you every time you breathe.”
     “This dame wants to go,” Slug explained.
     “I'd tell her where she got off. Jeeze, that joint is so expensive F.D.R. won't go there. I tell you when the dame takes your hat she charges you so much that you think she'll give you your hat and herself when you leave—only she just gives you the hat.”
     Slug became more worried. “What'll it cost me?” he asked. “Think twenty bucks will cover it?”
     Pug pursed his lips. “Yeah,” he said, “I guess so. This dame must be mighty good. Why not give her the twenty bucks and save yourself the trouble of goin'. You could make her for that, couldn't you?”
     Slug shook his head. “She ain't that sort of a dame,” he said. “She's class, see? When she's had a nice time, then we'll go back to her joint an' have a little tumble, but she likes a nice time first.”
     Pug shook his head. “Looks like you're goin' to ride high, buddy,” he said. “The 'Ambassadors' ain't your style.”
     Nothing further was said about it after that, and Slug went through with his fight in rather an abstract manner. He was a good enough fighter, and didn't have to exert himself to beat his opponent. The shouts of appreciation from the crowd did a lot to bolster up his confidence, and when the manager paid him fifty dollars, he did not hesitate to demand another twenty-five advance. This he got after some unpleasantness, and he immediately went back to his lodgings, refusing any attempt to persuade him to join in the celebrations that were in progress. He knew that he'd want every dollar he could lay hands on for tomorrow evening, and he was not spending anything until then.
     When he got home he searched in the back of one of the three chest of drawers and brought out a further twenty-five dollars, which he always kept handy for emergencies such as this. He now had a hundred dollars and some small change, and he felt confident that he would get by with that amount of money. All the same, it was all the dough he had in the world, and he had got to keep something to live on for the next week or so until he fought again.
     “Aw, to hell with it,” he said, and put the small roll in his pocket. He couldn't spend all that in an evening. It was enough for him to live on for a month.
     The next evening came round and found Slug struggling with his stiff shirt. With the aid of the landlady and her daughter, who were quite immune to his somewhat obscene ravings, he got his collar and tie fixed at last. When he finally took stock of himself in the glass he was agreeably surprised. The stiff black-and-white effect of the evening clothes softened the brutal coarseness of his features and his great bulk assumed a sharper outline in the carefully cut suit, making him look big and well built.
     The landlady's daughter, a monkey-like little creature with a bad squint, declared that he was as handsome as Dempsey, which pleased his vanity.
     He pulled on his slouch hat, put his small roll in his trouser pocket and left the house. He stopped at the nearest saloon and had three stiff whiskies, noting with a mixture of pride and irritated embarrassment the nudging that went on amongst his acquaintances.
     By the time he reached the barber's shop he was feeling pleasantly tight, and had got fairly used to the collar and shirt which had threatened to strangle him. He found Brownrigg closing up, and he entered the shop with a swagger that was plainly to impress.
     Brownrigg looked him over not without a certain admiration. “Say, Mr. Moynihan, you're looking swell tonight,” he said, “that's a grand suit you've got there.”
     Slug flicked an invisible speck from the coat. “You think so?” he asked. “Well, boy, this suit cost plenty. It oughtta look good.” He glanced round the room. “Ain't she here yet?”
     Brownrigg jerked his head towards the manicure parlour. “She's gettin' ready,” he said with a wink. “Where are you takin' her, Mr. Moynihan?”
     Slug selected a cigar from a box on the counter. “The 'Ambassadors',” he said carelessly. “I like to take my dames to the right joints.”
     Brownrigg whistled. “Say,” he said, “you certainly are goin' places.” He hurriedly struck a match and lit Slug's cigar.