Manhunt. Volume 14, Number 1, February/March, 1966

“Sure you do,” I said. “Get out of this grease box and have fun. You’re only young once. Go on, now, don’t keep him waiting.”

“And what about Henderson?” she said.

“So what about Henderson?” I shot back. “You can see him in the morning.” Stan hollored out just then and Mary Ellen jumped like a jack-rabbit.

“Maybe he’d like something to eat,” she said.

“Yeah, sure. Go on, now.” She started away. “Wait a minute.” She stopped. “I wouldn’t say anything to Stan about Henderson. He might not like the idea. I’m sure he won’t!”

Pure disgust at that. She pecked me on the cheek and left.

I was glad business was slow. It gave me a change to think. I took my time steel-wooling the sink and mopping the floor. It was starting to smell under the floor boards in back of the counter, so I leaned them against the cabinets and scrubbed the concrete with lye soap, flushing it clear afterwards, and mopping it dry. Once I had a colored fellow to do things like that. When I had money.

The tan leather bag bombed into my mind again. The twelve G’s jabbed me like a needle. Money could square everything. All the bum years. Once I thought I could hit it real big like those big boys. Howard Johnson. What the hell had gone wrong? I had the guts and the drive. I poured time and muscle into this dump. What had gone wrong?

Easy answer. No breaks. No dough. That’s it. Dough. Take any flop and there’s the reason. The lousy dollar sign.

I looked out across the road at Jim Parrish’s place. There’s a success story for you! But money built it. Not brains or guts or muscle. Just money. If my Trolley Lunch was big enough... bright enough, I’d give that blowhard a run for his money. There’s nothing like dough to knock out competition. And Parrish had it! If I had a few bucks twenty years ago, I never would have lost Grace to that insurance man. But that’s another story and what the hell am I thinking of that for now? I scowled at the “Drivers’ Dream”. All those flashing signs! Looked like Coney Island! But there was only one big rig parked outside his place. That made me feel good just thinking about his overhead.

Fred Chanlek from the filling station dropped in and tried to pull me into an argument about socialism. Finally, he gave up, paid his tab and left.

I helped myself to a cup of coffee and sat at the counter like a customer. It was only nine o’clock. One of the fluorescents started to flicker in the overhead socket. A few days and that would bloop out. More money out. Always money out. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer, like the song says. The idea is to get rich. Then you get richer. A law of nature. A little money is the magnet for a lot of money. Now, if I had some money I’d shut this dump and move to Florida. That’s what any guy with brains does, go to Florida. Everything makes money there. Motels. Pools. That’s a good racket. Swimming pools. Or maybe a frozen custard stand on a busy highway with cute car hops. I’d call the place “MacCrae’s Main Line.” That’s a good name. Now the “Trolley Lunch”: that’s corny and old hat. Trolleys are dead. But that was my brother Joe’s idea. He thought a folksy name would pull in the truckers. Well, it did for a while.

A siren screamed up the road. Cops tightening the net on Klegman. It wouldn’t be long. Cops had issued an all-points bulletin and the roads were jammed with bluecoats. I wondered about Klegman. Maybe he was a money-nut like me, without talent or schooling or connections. A nothing. And maybe he saw his chance and grabbed and a goof got in his way and he cut him down. That’s the breaks. And Klegman had the moxie to grab his chance. God! Think of that jackpot. Twelve thousand dollars. If I worked forever I’d never make that much coin. You got to take a chance. Mary Ellen did this afternoon, rolling her eyes and wiggling her keester like a Water Street tramp. Henderson. Never heard of him. Not in the same league with Zanuck, or DeMille, or Preminger. But maybe he wasn’t in the same league with anybody.

Bells went off in my head. Those eyes. Those snake-eyes! Those were killer’s eyes. The guy didn’t talk like a movie bigwig. And he didn’t look like one, except for his expensive clothes. But anybody can put on a big front.

Excitement whipped me over to the phone... a wall phone, the kind you put money in. My fingers were shaking so bad I couldn’t get a dime in the slot. Just as well. Take a minute. Think. Five G’s reward against twelve G’s in the bag out back. Smart guys take a chance. At least one big chance in their life. Klegman took a chance today in broad daylight with the whole chicken town against him. Easy, MacCrae. Twelve less five is seven. Seven thousand beautiful bucks. That’s the difference between being smart and being a boob.

I shoved the dime back into my pocket. I remembered the bottle of whiskey in the back cabinet and finished it off. Half a pint, I guess. Maybe less. My hands stopped shaking, and I felt calm and strong.