The Leather Duke

The office was deserted, those employees apparently not coming to work until nine o’clock. And the elevator was not running, so they were compelled to climb to the fifth floor.

They were just entering the counter department when the eight o’clock bell rang. All the counter sorters were at their benches, with one exception, Elliott Towner.

Joe Genara came up, grinning. “Hi, fellas, enjoy our neighborhood last night?”

“Where’d you disappear to?” Johnny asked suspiciously.

“I watched it from the sidelines. Wasn’t my fight. If I were you I wouldn’t go walking around Oak and Milton tonight. Carmella and his gang are ready for you.” He winked at Sam Cragg. “Nice exhibition, Sam.”

“I didn’t even get warmed up,” said Sam.

Hal Johnson came into the sorting department from between two rows of barrels. “Break it up,” he snapped. “The bell rang five minutes ago.”

Genara scurried to his bench and Sam went off, scowling. Johnny grabbed up a couple of counters but Johnson remained at his side. “You’re a disturbing influence, Fletcher,” he said. “I’m beginning to think I made the mistake of my life hiring you. Who hit you in the face?”

Johnny touched the broken skin on his cheek.

“Had a little trouble with the Black Hand last night.”

“The Black Hand! Are you crazy?”

“The Mafia...”

Johnson made an angry gesture. “Don’t tell me about the Mafia, I grew up in this neighborhood. There hasn’t been any Mafia...” He stopped, looked suspiciously at Johnny. “You been listening to Karl Kessler?”

“He did mention something about the Black Hand.” Johnson snorted in disgust. “Karl’s got the Black Hand on the brain. Every time an Italian gets into an argument or a fight, he sees the Black Hand.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re doing, working in a factory, Fletcher, but you look like a man with a fair amount of intelligence...”

“Thanks, boss!”

“Ah-h-rr!”

Johnson made an impatient brushing motion and walked off. Chuckling, Johnny began to sort counters.

Ten minutes later, Karl Kessler, his face red, came up beside Johnny and began to look over his bunched counters. “What’s the idea tellin’ Hal Johnson I said the Black Hand killed Al Piper?” he demanded.

“Johnson told you I said that?” Johnny asked in surprise.

“He said you told him I was talking about the Black Hand.”

“Well, you were, yesterday.”

“But I didn’t say the Black Hand killed Al Piper. Al wasn’t a guinea and guineas only kill guineas in the Black Hand.”

“Look, Karl,” said Johnny patiently, “Johnson came along and asked me who gave me this mouse on the face and I said the Black Hand, that’s all. It was a joke, like some fellows would say they bumped into a door when they got a black eye.”

Kessler examined Johnny’s face with interest. “Who smacked you?”

“A guy,” said Johnny. “I stuck my nose into his business.”

“Yeah, that’s what you get for sticking your nose into somebody else’s business.”

“I just said that.”

“So you did and it’s a good thing to remember.” Karl pushed back a nest of counters. “These are okay for mediums.”

Johnny was about to say that the counters were heavies, but Karl Kessler trotted off and Johnny moved the bunch of counters over to the medium side.

He sorted a few counters, then became aware that Swensen, the old Dane, was casting furtive glances his way. “Ahoy, mate,” Johnny called to him.

“No yob for a young man,” the old sea dog said, shaking his head. “Should start a business. No future workin’ with your hands. Kessler, Johnson, thirty-nine years one yob. They never see the world. Me, I have been in Rome, Cairo, Sydney, Shanghai—”

“And now you’re workin’ here.”

“I get beached. Unlucky, but I have seen the world. I got memories.”

“So have I,” said Johnny.

“What memories young fellow have?”

“I’m the world’s greatest book salesman,” said Johnny cheerfully. “I’ve made fifty thousand dollars a year. One year I made more money than the President of the United States.”

“Yah!” jeered Swensen, “and I am Lord Nelson one time.”

“Okay,” said Johnny, “you have your dreams and I’ll have mine. I don’t suppose you’d believe that I had dinner with Mr. Towner last night, yes, The Leather Duke himself.”

“Yah,” snorted Swensen. “I’m thinking you’re world’s biggest liar!”

Hal Johnson came striding from the direction of his desk, his face as dark as a thunderhead. “Fletcher,” he cried. “I just got a phone call from the office... Mr. Harry Towner wants you to come right down.”

Johnny nodded casually. “Thanks, boss.” He winked at Swensen, whose mouth had fallen open.

“What’s it all about?” cried Johnson.

“Tell you later,” said Johnny easily, “mustn’t keep Harry waiting, you know.”

Johnson struck his forehead with his open palm and leaned against Johnny’s desk for support. He watched Johnny walk off.

Johnny rode down to the first floor in the elevator and approached Nancy Miller’s desk. “ ’Morning, Taffy,” he greeted her. “Where’ll I find Harry?”

“Harry?” gasped Nancy. “Have you gone completely goofy?”

“Not at all, Taffy, Harry wants to see me.”

“Mister Towner?”