Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

He grunted. “I’ll take you back to the County Home on Arsenal Street if you want,” he snickered.

“Just let me off at Kings Highway so I can call the cops.”

“OK,” he said. “OK, OK.”

It took us about four minutes to get out to Kings Highway. He stopped at a red light, I saw a bar, and I jumped out of the Buick and didn’t even say thanks. I was sure the kids hadn’t seen me, not with the bunch of people on the sidewalk there. When I got inside the bar and ducked into the phone booth I could think again.

Everything made sense. The only creep who knew where I lived was Kelly Burke, so he had to be the guy who tipped off the kids. Otherwise, why would they be waiting for me with knives? All of which meant one thing: the robbery was a phony, and Kelly was in on it. Maybe he was insured. He’d pay the kids to put cm the act, ditch his cash for a while, and call the cops but not give a description.

I put a dime in the phone and dialed the eighth precinct. When the tired sergeant’s voice answered, I said, “There was a stickup at Kelly’s Liquor Store on Grand and Laclede about two hours ago.”

“What’s your name, Mister?”

“Right?”

“I can’t give out police infor—”

“You want to know something about it or not?”

“Go ahead, sir. Where you at now?”

“You got a call about the holdup?”

“OK, Mister, so we got a call. Usual thing. Look, you give me your name and address, and—”

“Did you get a call since then?”

“I can’t give out police information, sir.”

“OK, I’ll give you some. Almost an hour ago I told Kelly the name of the guy who stuck him up.”

“Now, ain’t that nice. You didn’t bother to call us.”

“Did Kelly call in again?”

The police sergeant was quiet for a moment. I heard some muffled voices. Then he said, “What was the guy’s name, Mister?”

“Then Kelly didn’t call?”

“What was the guy’s name?”

“Kelly had some guys try to knife me ten minutes ago! Look, officer, my name is—”

A hand reached over my shoulder and pushed down the phone hook, and a voice said, “Pussycat.” The tip of a knife was tickling my neck just under my right earlobe.

I turned slowly. Behind the big kid were his two buddies, standing side by side and staring back at the customers in the bar, waiting to see who’d be first to come over and tell them to get out. Nobody moved.

“Come on, Pussycat,” said the big guy. “Kelly wants to see you.”

They had me right in front of a bunch of people, so it wouldn’t do any good even to make noise. They sat me in the back seat of the car, one of them on each side; of me while the third one drove.

“Man, that pussycat’s a hero,” the driver said. The other two laughed.

I said to the big kid, “Look, you’re just getting in deeper, letting Kelly use you like that. He makes most of the loot while you guys take all the chances.”

The big kid said, “Pussycat’s a real good hero.”

“He’ll turn Sammy over to the police. When the chips are down, he’ll—”

“Why, Pussycat?”

I swallowed. “I told them that I told Kelly who robbed the store, but Kelly didn’t call in. They’ll wonder why.”

“Sligo,” the big kid hissed at the driver. “You put us off in the alley back of Kelly’s, then go get Sammy. You tell that boy to sneak in quiet, hear me?” He pushed his big fist against the side of my face and grinned. “Pussycat, you ain’t got much more chance.” It wasn’t cold, but I shivered anyhow.

From the back room, when the liquor store cleared of customers, the big kid called out to Kelly. The man grinned at me. “Always got to be some buttinski around,” he said. He gestured toward the two kids. “Just keep him back here for a while. Later on we’ll figure how to make him keep his fat mouth shut.”

“The cops been here?” said the big kid.

Kelly grinned. “Early. You know.”

Kelly went back out front to the store. The jingle bell on the door rang a moment later. Customers, buying whiskey. A guy getting a pack of cigarettes and making some remark about the hot weather. Quietly the back room door opened and Sammy came in, gave me a sober look and leaned against the partition wall between the store and the back room. The front door opened again. Two men, walking heavily.

“Hello, Kelly.”

“What’s up, Sergeant?”

“Who’s the name of the kid who did it, Kelly?” This from the other officer.

Kelly laughed nervously. “I wish I knew,” he said. “I’d nail the little—”

“A guy told you, didn’t he, Kelly?”

“Somebody’s telling you boys fairy tales.”

“OK,” said the sergeant. “You better close up and take a ride with us.”

“Hey, I’m running a business!”

“You’re withholding evidence. Come on.”

Kelly’s voice dropped. All of us in the back room strained to hear it. He said, “Listen, officers, it’s a tough neighborhood. Even if I did know.”

“Get your hat, Kelly.”

“OK,” Kelly whispered. “I was scared to tell, understand?” He was breathing quickly. We heard one of the cops scratch a match and light a cigarette. Kelly said something else, but outside a streetcar was going down Grand Avenue, and we only caught the last couple words: “...Maple and Twenty-Third. Look, you guys—”