Miss Shumway Waves A Wand

We found Good-time Waxey behind the bar of an evil looking dive at the corner of Mulberry and Kenmare. He was lolling over the bar, the mid-day sporting sheet spread out before him, looking down the list of horses for the three o’clock handicap.

He looked up suspiciously as we fumbled our way into the dark little tavern.

“Hey, Waxey,” Sam said, grinning, “still carrying your corns in a snood?”

Waxey stiffened. His fat, brutish face, glistening with sweat, lit up and he shoved out a fist the size of a mellon. “Bogle!” he said, shaking hands, “where ta hell yuh spring from?”

Sam grinned as he pumped the big man’s arm up and down. “Thought I’d look the old dump over,” he said. “How’s tricks, Waxey?”

Waxey lost his smile, “Looka,” he said, “six years I work in dis burg, an’ where does it get me? A lousy handout a thoity bucks a month! Starvin’ an’ freezin’… fuh what? Peanuts!” and he spat disgustedly on the floor.

“Gees!” Sam said, his eyes opening. “I thought this burg was all right.”

“It was,” Waxey returned darkly, “when da boys were around. Lucky … remember Lucky?

. . When he was around, dat was somethin’. But, now… Hell, might as well wait for Santa Claus tuh take care of me.”

“Meet my pal Millan,” Sam said, pushing me forward. “He’s an all right guy, Waxey. We work together.”

Waxey looked at me sharply, then stuck out his hand. “Any pal a Sam’s pal a mine,” he said, crushing my hand in a grip that made me shuffle my feet.

“We looked in ‘cause we thought you might wise us up,” Sam said, lowering his voice. Waxey stroked his shapeless nose and his little green eyes showed interest. “Yuh in a racket, Sam?” he asked, hopefully.

“Not tight now,” Sam returned cautiously. “But, it looks like it was headin’ that way. What do you know about Andasca?”

Waxey blinked. “What yew mean?”

“Just that. This guy’s going to work for him,” Sam said, jerking his thumb in my direction.

“But he wants to know what line he’s in first.”

Waxey studied me. “Lu’s gettin’ somewhere,” he said at last. “Twenty buck shoits. A hundred an’ fifty buck custom tailored suits. Da fat a da land he live off of. An’ he’s got a flock a dames at’d make youse guys water at da mout’.”

“But what’s the set-up?” Sam persisted.

Waxey lowered his voice, “Peppi Kruger’s behind him,” he said “Between da two a dem, dey have da Bowery sewed up tight, see?”

“How tight?” Sam asked, looking hopefully at the row of dusty bottles behind Waxey’s head, “and how about a drink, Waxey?”

“Sure.” Waxey produced a black bottle without a label from under the counter. “Dis is da McCoy,” he went on, slapping the bottle down in front of us. “Help yuhselves.”

While Sam poured the drinks, I said, “I heard Kruger’s almost washed up, that’s why I’m nervous about going in with them.”

“Hoid what?” Waxey gasped, “yuh crazy? Looks yew, both dese guys are tops, see? Nuttin’s goin’ tuh stop ‘em. Dere ain’t any punk tuh touch ‘em now.”

But I wasn’t listening any snore. I was staring out of the tavern into the street. “Hang on, Sam,” I said suddenly, “I’ll be right back,” and I left them gaping after me.

From across the street I had caught a glimpse of a dog, moving along the shadows of the wall. That in itself wasn’t anything, but the dog was a wolfhound and you don’t see many wolfhounds in Mulberry Park.

I was certain it was Whisky.

By the time I got into the open he had disappeared, but I knew which way he had gone and I chased across the street, ducked down an evil smelling alley and ran on. Something on the ground made me pause and looking down I found that I was following a trail of bright bloodstains in a disjointed string of small circles.

I increased my pace and began calling. At the end of the alley I could see Whisky dragging himself forward painfully and slowly.

“Whisky!” I shouted and ran forward, just as the dog dropped wearily to the ground.

“What’s the matter, old dog?” I asked, bending over him anxiously.

There was no need to ask. There was a great patch of hardening blood on his shoulder. Across his head was a livid gash as if he had been hit very hard with a stick. Blood ran from his foot where he must have got himself a pretty severe cut. Whisky was in a bad way and from the exhausted look in his eyes I could see he was in need of some quick attention.

“Take it easy,” I said, kneeling beside him, “I’ll get you out of here.”

“Don’t waste time with me,” Whisky growled. “They’ve got her. They kidnapped her when she was going to meet you. That wasn’t Myra who was waiting for you at Manetta’s… that was the other one.”

“The other one?” I repeated stupidly. “Who kidnapped who? What are you talking about, Whisky boy?”

Whisky struggled to speak, then, a look of terrified dismay came into his eyes. His teeth clicked and he half struggled to his feet, only to flop back exhausted.

“Take it easy,” I said, “I’ll get Sam and we’ll fix you up, you poor old devil. But, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about. Why should anyone want to kidnap Myra?”