Get a Load of This

     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?”