IV
Joe awoke from a doze and turned to look out the window. Still dark. He couldn’t have been asleep long. Wasn’t it ever going to get light! He got up and walked to the front of his cell. It wouldn’t be so bad if there were some other guys to talk to; but the cells on either side of him were vacant; also the ones across the corridor.
“They sure ain’t taking no chances with me,” said Joe.
He began to feel very uneasy. Something seemed to be dragging at his stomach and he had a rotten taste in his mouth.
“Some of that high-hat grub I et,” said Joe.
The turnkey came down the corridor and stopped in front of Joe’s cell.
“Say, buddy,” he said, “they’ll be wanting you up front pretty soon.”
“Yeah?” said Joe. “Listen, can’t you do me a favour and get me a pack of cigs. I got plenty of money. Ask the Sergeant.”
“Can’t cut it,” said the turnkey.
“What’s doing up front?” asked Joe.
“A show-up.”
“Yeah?” said Joe; then, “listen, I’ll give you a couple of bucks for some cigs.”
The turnkey laughed.
“Say, there’s a guy in eighteen that’d give me a hundred berries for some snow. Not a chance. They sure are putting the clamps on us now. It’s that goddamn Crime Commission business. Tough on you birds.”
“Ain’t it!” said Joe.
The turnkey went away. Joe threw himself down on his bunk. Yeah, now it was coming. That goddamn peroxide dame had sure put the skids under him. Well, there you was! Can’t tell how things are going to break. If he’d’ve been wise, he’d’ve sent Olga to see the Big Boy or Rico. But then there’s no use letting a dame get too familiar with everything. Anyway, he had an alibi. But Flaherty was a rough agent and you could never tell what he would pull. Joe felt mechanically for his absent cigarette case.
“Hell,” he said, “I lost my head! I lost my head! Rico ought to put a hunk of lead in me. As long as I been in the game and then don’t know no better. God, but I was dumb.”
He turned over irritably and sat up. He heard the keys clanking down the corridor. A policeman stopped in front of his door and called:
“All right, dago.”
Joe got up. The turnkey unlocked the door. There were two policemen and a plainclothes man standing a little way down the corridor. When Joe came out one of the policemen said:
“There’s the guy that plugged Courtney.”
They stared at him. Joe felt sick at his stomach.
“Yeah,” said the plainclothes man, “they won’t do much to that bird.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm.
“All right, kid,” he said.
Joe walked between the turnkey and the policeman, who had called him. They took him into a big room where there were three policemen and about a dozen prisoners. Joe saw Bugs Liska, Steve Gollancz’s lieutenant. They exchanged a glance.
A police sergeant got to his feet and shouted:
“All right, you birds, let’s go.”
The turnkey pushed Joe into line. A big door was swung open and he saw a small, brilliantly lighted room with a crowd of people lining the walls. Joe looked for the peroxide blonde. There she was, pale and hardboiled, between two bulls. Joe startled. God, he had her now. She was standing side of Courtney when he dropped. Joe began to sweat.
The line in single file was herded in. Bugs Liska, who was in front of Joe, whispered:
“Say, what’s this all about?”
The sergeant heard him and leaping across the room grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Any more of that,” said the sergeant, “and some of you bad eggs is gonna get cracked.”
“Drop dead,” said Liska.
Joe found himself face to face with the blonde. She stared at him. Flaherty walked along the line and examined the prisoners. When he got to Joe, Joe looked away.
“How’s that bath?” asked Flaherty.
“OK,” said Joe.
Liska said:
“Say, Irish, what’s this all about?”
“Shut your dirty mouth,” said Flaherty.
A man Joe had never seen before, a big husky man with curly grey hair, went over to the blonde and said:
“Is he in that bunch, Mrs. Weil?”
The blonde nodded.
“Well, Mrs. Weil, this is a very serious matter so don’t make any mistakes. Now if you’re sure he’s in that bunch, point him out.”
The blonde compressed her lips and walked over to Joe.
“There he is. There’s the dirty skunk.”
“Jesus,” said Liska, glancing at Joe, “it’s your funeral, huh?”
The blonde stood glaring at Joe.
“I hope they hang you,” she cried, “shooting a guy like Jim Courtney.”
“I never shot him,” said Joe.
“Shut up,” said Flaherty. “All right, sergeant, march ’em out.”
In the big room Liska said:
“Joe, it sure looks tough for you.”
“They can’t prove nothing,” said Joe.
The sergeant rushed at them.
“Where do you birds think you’re at!” he cried.
Stepping back, he struck Joe a hard blow with his fist. Mechanically Joe set himself and raised his hands, then, coming to himself, he dropped his hands and stood looking at the floor. Liska said:
“Say, sergeant, I guess I can go home, can’t I? My old mother’ll be worried to death.”
The sergeant stared at Liska, then he laughed.
“I’m gonna hang on to you just for fun,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Liska. “Well not long, cause Steve’s gonna spring me.”
The sergeant motioned for the turnkey.
“Lock the dago up,” he said; “you plant yourself over there in a chair, Bugs.”
Joe lay down and tried to sleep. Over his head the barred window began to get grey. Morning sure was slow in coming.
Suddenly he thought of Red Gus. He got to his feet and began to walk back and forth. Yeah, they sure put the rope on old Gus, and there wasn’t a tougher guy in the world. Yeah, he was so tough he didn’t die right away and kept kicking. Cops fainted and all that stuff. Joe climbed up on his bunk and stood tiptoe to look out the window. Morning was coming. He saw a milk wagon passing the jail. How come he had to think of Red Gus?
He thought he heard a noise and turned around. There were two cops standing in front of his cell, looking at him. Joe felt uneasy.
“Want me?” he called.
They didn’t say anything; they just stood there looking, then went away.
Joe got down from the window and sat on his bunk. No use trying to sleep. Down the corridor someone began to scream. The turnkey passed his cell on the run. Joe felt his hair stirring and sweat stood out on his forehead.
“Christ,” he said, “it’s only that dope.”
In a minute, the turnkey came back and stopped at Joe’s door.
“Couple of guys coming back to take a look at you,” he said.
“Yeah?” said Joe; “say, what was all the noise?”
“The dope blew his top again,” said the turnkey; “the Doc’s gonna give him a shot pretty soon.”
The big man with the curly grey hair, Flaherty, and two policemen came down the corridor.
“All right,” said Flaherty, “let him out.”
The turnkey unlocked the door and pushed Joe into the corridor. They all stood staring at Joe; nobody said anything.
Finally, the grey-haired man said:
“Well, it’s too bad. Nice-looking boy.”
“Yeah,” said Flaherty, “but he’s hell with a gun.”
Joe didn’t say anything. But Flaherty said:
“Joe, I never thought you was the kind of a bird that’d shoot a guy in the back.”
Joe didn’t say anything.
“Hanging’s too good for you, Joe.”
“Poor old Jim never even had a gun on him. You lousy dago!” cried one of the policemen, and took a step towards Joe.
Flaherty motioned him back.
“Just let the law take its course. Luke,” he said, “they’ll hang this baby sure.”
“Will they?” said Joe.
The grey-haired man shook his finger at Joe.
“Yes, my boy, I’m afraid they will.”
“They can’t prove nothing on me,” said Joe; “I wasn’t even in that end of town the night Courtney was bumped off. That dame’s full of hop.”
One of the policemen stepped past Flaherty and knocked Joe down. Flaherty grabbed the policeman and pushed him back. Joe got to his feet and stood holding his jaw.
“I’m gonna put it to you birds for this,” said Joe.
Both of the policemen made a rush at Joe, but Flaherty held them back.
“Well,” said Flaherty, “got an eyeful, Mr. McClure?”
Joe stared at the grey-haired man. So this was the Crime Commission guy that was kicking up all the row. Joe took a good look at him so he’d know him the next time he saw him. Maybe, if things broke right, he could deliver a nice package at the bird’s house some morning.
“Yes,” said Mr. McClure, “lock him up, turnkey.”
The turnkey took Joe by the arm and flung him into his cell. Joe fell on his hands and knees.
“Say,” said Joe, “what’s the idea?”
The turnkey came over and put his face against the bars.
“Orders, buddy,” he said, then he went away.
Yeah, it was orders all right. They wasn’t going to let up on him till he spilled something. Joe felt panicky. He flung himself face down on his bunk and began to sob.
“Won’t I never get out of here?” he said.
They had been questioning Joe for over two hours. He sat under a blazing light and they sat round him in the darkness. Joe was so thirsty that he could hardly swallow. They took turns at him: first, Mr. McClure, then Flaherty, then Rieger. Flaherty sat near him, and when he was slow with his answers rapped him over the knuckles with a ruler. But Joe stuck it out.
The turnkey took him back to his cell and gave him some water. Joe took a big drink then lay down on his bunk and tried to sleep, but it was no use. He felt hot all over and his tongue was swollen.
He put his hands under his head and lay looking at the square spots of sunshine in the dark corridor.
“God,” he said, “I can’t stand much of this.”
In five minutes the turnkey came back.
“They want you again, kid,” he said.
“God, I can’t move,” said Joe.
The turnkey unlocked the door and came into the cell.
“Get on your feet,” he said, “and snap it up. The prosecutor’s in there now and you’re gonna ketch hell.”
Joe got slowly to his feet and the turnkey led him down the corridor.