The Leather Duke

It was shortly after nine-thirty when Harry Towner, his daughter Linda and Johnny entered the offices of the Towner Leather Company.

Nancy Miller was at the switchboard, her face somewhat pale and strained even under heavier than normal makeup. Harry Towner, in the lead, gave her a curt nod. Linda, coming next, smiled sweetly. “Good morning, Nancy.”

Johnny said: “Hi, Taffy, you’re looking like a million.”

Nancy only stared at Johnny.

Johnny went to the elevator, which was waiting at the first floor and rode up to the fifth floor. He stepped out and began strolling leisurely through the flat counter department, the gluing department and the molding machines until he reached the counter sorting department.

Hal Johnson was leaning against his high desk, his back to the sorters, and looking gloomily down the line of molding machines.

His eyes flickered over Johnny’s battered features. “Got a good one this time,” he commented.

“A beauty,” admitted Johnny.

“Johnny!” boomed the voice of Sam Cragg. He came pelting down the aisle. Johnny moved to meet him. Sam skidded to a halt and stared at Johnny.

“Carmella worked you over, Johnny! I’ll kill ’im.”

“I may let you do just that, Sam.” Johnny sized up Sam. “You don’t look any the worse.”

“Me? Heck, that wasn’t nothing. I hadda kind of lump on the old noggin, but Janie...” He suddenly coughed and looked past Johnny at Johnson.

“I know all about it, Sam,” said Johnny grinning. “You spent the night at the girls’ apartment.”

“Yeah, Johnny, but don’t get no wrong ideas. Janie wanted me to come up and put some cold compacts on the bean, then, well, I, uh, she thought I’d better stay there in case I needed more treatments. I... I slept on the couch.”

“Sure, Sam, it’s all right.”

“On’y I couldn’t sleep much on accounta worrying about you, Johnny.”

“I spent the night out at the Duke’s house.”

Hal Johnson heard that. “You spent the night at the Towner estate? Thirty-nine years I’ve worked for him and I’ve never even seen the layout. Forty-eight hours ago you hadn’t even met Harry Towner.”

“Well,” said Johnny, “the food’s lousy at the Towner house. I mean, they didn’t even give me any breakfast.” He grinned feebly. “Being a pal of the Duke’s has some drawbacks... about seventy-five, I’d say. All over my body. I think two of my ribs are cracked.” He nodded down the department. “I see Elliott’s on the job, this morning.”

“Came in ten minutes ago,” said Johnson.

Johnny’s eyes fell upon Cliff Goff, the horseplayer. “Just a minute,” he said to Sam and Johnson. He strode away from them, to Goff.

The horseplayer was sorting counters. He was looking at them, but he wasn’t seeing them. His mind was miles away, riding with Arcaro at Pimlico, or Skoronski at Arlington, or Longden at Santa Anita.

Johnny tapped him on the shoulder. Goff exclaimed, shook his head and looked at Johnny.

“I want to put two bucks on a horse,” Johnny said, “who’ll I give the bet to?”

“Oh, Al,” said Goff, automatically, then grimaced. “Al’s dead.”

“He owe you any money?”

“No, I owed him. Fourteen dollars.”

“Thanks,” said Johnny and walked back to Johnson and Sam.

“Al Piper was the factory bookie,” Johnny said to the foreman.

“Who says so?” Johnson demanded.

“I said so,” retorted Johnny.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Not officially, no, but no employee could take horse bets around here for more than two days without the foreman knowing about it.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Johnson persisted. “But I don’t see why it should make any great difference. You can’t keep people from betting on horses. They’d sneak out or make bets, or an outside bookie’d be sneaking in all the time. Somebody on the inside books a few quarters or half dollars, what difference does it make?”

“None to me,” said Johnny. “Personally, I’ve sent a few bookies’ sons to Harvard and a few daughters to Vassar and Smith.”

“You’re going to snitch to Towner?”

“Tell me just one thing — and this I can and will prove. Was Al Piper cutting you in for a percentage, for the privilege of taking bets?”

“No,” said Johnson bluntly.

“But he was paying some one?”

Hal Johnson did not answer that. Johnny shook his head. “You knew that Carmella was trying to muscle in on the business?”

“The hell with Carmella,” snarled Johnson. “And the hell with you, Fletcher.” He started to turn away, but whirled back. “And you,” stabbing a thick forefinger at Sam Cragg. “If you’re working here, get back to your bench, or go down and draw your pay.”

“I’m fired?” Sam asked, eagerly.

“Either I’m foreman here,” Johnson said, doggedly, “or I’m not. You’re fired.”

“Great!” exulted Sam.

Johnson looked at Johnny. “Is he fired?”

“You’re the foreman, Hal,” Johnny said, quietly.

“All right, then he isn’t fired.”

“No!” howled Sam. “You can’t go back on it. You said I was fired...”

“Ah,” said Johnson in disgust and walked off.

Sam appealed to Johnny. “Let me be fired, Johnny. I feel silly sitting at a bench like this, squeezing them little hunks of leather. It ain’t no kind of a job for a grown man.”