Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

“There’s some who think we got too many cops in this precinct.” Harry’s dark eyes swept up to meet Johnny’s so briefly a less skilled man would have missed their portent.

Then, as quickly as it had disappeared, the smile was back. “I’ll bring you another drink.” And the bartender hurried away with the empty glass.

So the little lush he’d run into last night had somehow got hold of the real dope, and — if Johnny could guess at all — the punk was probably keeping the bottom of the West River company right now.

A shudder went through him and he shifted in his chair to bring out a small knife from the pocket of his topcoat. Cole was back after ten years in stir. He’s gonna get the bull that put him away, the drunk had garbled. And Harry had backed it — too many cops in this precinct. It was Mahoney all right. His testimony had been the clencher that nailed a ten-year murder rap on Cole.

So, okay! He’d got a tip and he’d been curious. Now he knew. Johnny flicked the button on the tiny stiletto and watched the silver flash of the steel blade. How many cops had he seen picked off in his thirty years without losing any sleep over it? He took a candle from it’s holder on the table and began to carve on it.

But as he watched the wax chips fall he thought of Mahoney again. Somehow he couldn’t make this deal set right. A cop was a cop and Johnny steered clear of all of them. Hell, Cole’s right. There are too many of them. There’ll always be too many.

It was just that Pop Mahoney had never been a cop to him the same way the others were. Say that out loud, con man, he warned himself quickly, and you’ll be fish-food too.

Johnny thought back to the old days of the neighborhood here, when Mahoney was a beat-cop over on Lacy Street. There had even been times when Pop was more like Johnny’s old man might have been — if he’d ever had one. Johnny laughed, Damned if he wasn’t almost a member of the gang in those days. The way he helped them with this and that, fronted for them when they got in trouble. Always trying to make something out of them besides hoods.

And every darned one of them was a hood today, except Harry. Johnny ticked them off in his mind: Nick Morelli, dope syndicate; Charlie Burke, protection racket; Jim Cole, professional killer. And Johnny Manse, top man in the con game, they called him. The others in the gang were either working for one of the Big Three or were on Johnny’s payroll.

Where the devil is Harry with that drink!

Above the pile of chips, Johnny smiled to himself as he remembered that Pop was almost pleased with Harry. He recalled one of the cop’s grave speeches to his friend:

“All your crimes, Harry, are going to be sins of omission. But they’ll be bad enough, lad — you’ll have to watch it.”

And bad enough they were, Johnny laughed again. Harry’s business thrived on racket money.

Harry’s fat hand passed in front of him and put a drink on the table.

“Still got it, eh, Johnny?”

Brought too quickly from his thoughts, Johnny raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“Your lucky-piece, kid,” Harry explained quietly, pointing to the knife. “You’ve had it a long time.”

“Yeah,” Johnny’s glance met Harry’s dark, brooding eyes and held a minute. “Yeah,” he repeated soberly.

The bartender pulled out a chair and sat down. He remained quiet, but as he folded his arms on the table, Johnny knew they were thinking of the same thing.

He and Harry didn’t see much of each other anymore, but years ago on Lacy Street they’d been like brothers. Johnny and the Donato boys, Harry and Dominick, had grown up in the same tenement house, belonged to the same gang, fought the same battles for survival. It was Dominick’s knife that Johnny had carried as part of himself for fifteen years. The special-made keepsake from the old country — the lucky-piece he held now.

He felt his jaw tighten at the misnomer. Johnny carried it — maybe for luck, he didn’t know — but it had brought no luck to Dominick Donato the night a rival gang cut him down in an alley.

Johnny and Harry had found the slender three-inch stilleto, unopened, on the blood-smeared pavement by Dom’s hand.

“You remember who paid for Dom’s funeral?” Harry spoke as though continuing a conversation. “Pop Mahoney,” he answered himself quietly and looked penetratingly at Johnny.

Avoiding the stare, Johnny clicked the stiletto shut and laid it on the table. “How about another drink, Harry?” he asked, downing the one in front of him.