Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

“Get out of it while you can, son,” the old man had said once. And the memory of the still-unconquered brogue was a strange ache somewhere in Johnny. “You’ve not got the stomach for it, boy.” Pop’s mouth had-curved in gentle irony. “You wouldn’t even make a good cop. I know — I’ve watched you.”

“Sure, Pop. I know!” Johnny had snapped impatiently. “So I’m no good with rods and shives. I don’t need ’em — I do it the easy way. So lay off, will you!”

There had been a mixture of disappointment and contempt on Mahoney’s face when he’d answered.

“Kid, you’re nothin’ but a punk right now, who can’t sec past his nose. How long do you think you can stick to your private little ways?” The gray eyes had grown wet with frustration. “One of these days, Johnny, you’re going to have a dissatisfied client. And it’s going to take some of Nick’s or Charlie’s men to keep you out of a real jam. If they don’t get you in a worse one.”

Then Pop’s voice had softened. “Nobody can stay just half-hood, Johnny. There always comes a time when he’s got to go all the way — or else!”

Johnny lit a cigarette and went back to the window. The old man should have played the ponies, he thought. He could sure call the shots. Johnny Manse hadn’t made many mistakes, he remembered with professional pride. But there had been a time or so when a couple of Charlie’s boys had called on one of his clients, as Mahoney called them. Nothing rough — just a little reminder that worse things could happen to them than dropping a few grand. And, in return, Johnny had done a thing or two he hadn’t liked for Charlie. But... oh, the hell with it!

Pop had never seemed to understand that a kid who lives on Lacy Street grows up wanting just one thing — to get off of it. And he does it the quickest way he can — the rackets.

Johnny returned irritably to his chair by the table. Refilling his glass, he caught sight of himself in the mirror across the room. What the devil! He smoothed his rumpled hair and stared at the tense lines in the usually inscrutable face of the con man.

“Harry’s right,” he told the reflection, and he put the drink down. “You’re hitting it too hard. One lousy flatfoot is set-up and all of a sudden you’re a lush!”

Then it hit him. Harry’s place. That’s where he’d left the stiletto. He began to dress hurriedly. Lucky or not, Johnny wanted that knife.

When he walked into the Silken Peacock, he could feel the tension even before he saw the calcimine grimness of Harry’s face. Scanning the dimness with trained eyes, Johnny saw the reason almost instantly. In the shadows at a corner table sat Jim Cole.

A chill went over Johnny and his first impulse was to do a quick fade. But it was too late. Cole’s eyes met his across the room and he played it cool when Cole spoke to him.

“Well if it ain’t Johnny Manse.” There was still a hint of the old sarcasm that Johnny remembered. Cole had never made any secret of his contempt for a guy who didn’t like guns.

“Hello, Jim.” Johnny smiled, slipping by habit into the safe concealment of the confidence man. “How goes it?” he asked, approaching Cole’s table.

“Great, Johnny. Just great.” The voice was friendly, but the eyes were bright and guarded, studying Johnny. “I been in town almost a week now and I ain’t seen nothin’ of you till now.” The grin on Cole’s unshaven face just missed being a sneer. “You ain’t hot for sellin’ the Third Street Bridge to the cops or something, are you?”

Johnny laughed and took a chair. Automatically he cased the bar and caught Harry’s nervous glance, as the bartender hurried past them. The last two customers were leaving and he heard Harry locking the door. What the hell?

Johnny raised his eyes to the clock behind the bar, but Cole seemed to read his mind.

“Five o’clock, Johnny. It ain’t exactly closing time, is it?” Cole leered. “But you see, I’m expecting some company and I need a little privacy.”

“You sure I won’t make a crowd?” Johnny asked casually, as Harry waddled over with another glass.

“Nuts, Johnny! Stick around.” The tone had more command than invitation.

But Johnny pretended not to notice and poured himself a drink from Cole’s bottle. Whatever this was it was smart to take it slow.

“I guess it feels pretty good to be back, eh, Jim?”

“Yeah — it’s real good.” Cole drew the words out slowly and for an instant his eyes held Johnny’s like a magnet. “Real good!” he repeated.

Something’s cockeyed, sure as hell, Johnny told himself. Harry’s nervous as a cat and this gun-happy torpedo’s too chummy.

Harry was back again. “You forgot your lucky-piece, kid.” As the bartender’s shaky hand laid the little stiletto on the table, his eyes telegraphed an alarm signal that froze Johnny’s spine.