The Leather Duke

Sam groaned audibly but followed Johnny into the place, which turned out to be a long narrow room with a bar at the front and four pool tables in the rear.

They stepped up to the bar, which was quite well patronized.

“A short beer,” Johnny said to the olive-complexioned bartender.

“Me, too,” said Sam.

The bartender drew the beer, leveled off the foam and set the glasses before Sam and Johnny.

Johnny took a sip of the beer. “Carmella been around?” he asked casually.

“That’s twenty cents,” the bartender snapped.

Johnny put two dimes on the bar. “I asked if Carmella had been around tonight?”

“Carmella who?”

“Carmella Vitali.”

The bartender pointed to a frame on the back bar mirror. “There’s my license for the bar,” he said. He pointed to the wall behind Johnny. “And there’s the one for the pool tables. There are no rooms in back and if anybody’s betting on the games, they’re doing it on their own. I just rent ’em the tables.”

Johnny returned the man’s truculent look with interest. “The hell with your pool tables and your gambling. I merely asked you if a guy named Carmella Vitali’s been around. I’m not a cop, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

“So you ain’t a cop, but I never saw you before and you come in asking for Carmella Somebody. I got a uncle named Carmella, but he can’t be the guy you’re looking for on account of he’s been dead for twelve years and, anyway, he lived in Pittsburgh. He was born and raised in Pittsburgh and he died from gallopin’ pneumonia.”

Johnny gulped down the last of his beer and slammed the glass on the bar. “T’hell with you!” He signaled to Sam, who finished his beer and hurried after Johnny.

“What makes people so suspicious of everybody?” Johnny snarled as they resumed their walking down Oak Street.

“I dunno,” said Sam, “but if somebody came around asking me about you, I’d figure they were after you for something.”

“That’s because somebody usually is after me, but all these people can’t have somebody after them.”

“Why not? Ain’t somebody usually after somebody for somethin’?”

Before Johnny could reply to that sage remark, a man stepped out of a doorway.

“Hey!” he cried, “what’re you fellows doin’ around here?”

It was Joe Genara, the swarthy man who had helped Sam Cragg pile up the barrels that morning at the Towner leather plant.

“Hiyah, Joe,” Sam responded. “We’re just takin’ a walk.”

“You live around here?”

“No,” said Johnny, “but since we’ve taken a job in the neighborhood, we thought we’d look around and get acquainted.”

“With this neighborhood?” Joe wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Phooey! Ain’t nothin’ around here worth seeing.”

“Maybe not, but the people are interesting.”

“You kidding?”

Johnny shrugged. “You’ve lived here all your life, you can’t see that your people are colorful... Carmella lives around here, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, sure,” agreed Joe, then looked sharply at Johnny. “Carmella?”

“The lad the cops picked up for questioning about Al Piper.”

Joe looked steadily at Johnny. “What’re you driving at?”

“Nothing, only I’d like to meet Carmella.”

“Why?”

“I got his job today. If he hadn’t quit, I’d still be pounding the streets looking for work. I guess I owe Carmella a drink or two.”

“I don’t think he’s in the mood to appreciate it, the way the cops gave him the one-two-three today.”

“Maybe he needs cheering up.”

Joe looked thoughtfully at Johnny, then glanced at Sam and a wicked grin spread over his features. “This might be fun, at that. I’ll probably hate myself tomorrow, but — come on!”

He stepped to the curb and started across the street. Johnny and Sam followed. Joe led the way to a tavern and poolroom that was almost a twin of the one they had been in a few minutes ago.

Joe passed the bar and proceeded down the line of pool tables. He stopped at the fourth and nodded to the last table.

“Go ahead, sports.”

Carmella Vitali was just bending over the table. “Seven ball in the side pocket,” he announced to an audience of four or five young men, all of whom had pool cues and stood around the table.

“Ten cents says you’re crazy,” one of the men exclaimed.

“Bet,” said Carmella laconically.

He took careful aim and hit the cue ball with his cue. It struck the seven ball at the far rail and banked it neatly into the side pocket. The player who had made his bet banged his cue on the floor.

“Lucky shot!” He tossed a dime to the green covered table and Carmella pocketed it. He looked around the table, found the eight ball almost concealed behind the eleven ball.

“Dime you can’t make it,” said Johnny.

Carmella looked around, spied Johnny and scowled. “Private game.”

“That’s all right,” said Johnny. “I’m not playing, but just the same I got a dime says you can’t make that shot.”

“I said this was a private game,” Carmella repeated sharply.

“Sure, but you just took a bet on an easy shot; this one’s harder. I got a dime says you can’t make it.”

Carmella’s mouth twisted in anger, then his eyes took in the balls on the table. “Wise guy,” he sneered. “I got a buck says you can’t make that shot.”