Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

“Still got your little toy, kid?” Cole’s sarcasm carried a friendly tolerance unnatural to the killer.

“Got to clean my fingernails, you know.” Johnny quirked a good-humored brow at Cole and pocketed his knife.

Cole laughed uncontrollably for a minute. “Just don’t cut yourself, kid,” he jeered. Then suddenly his expression changed.

“Ain’t you gonna ask me what ten years in stir was like, Johnny?” The rasp-like whisper carried a complete flip in mood now, and as Cole leaned over the table Johnny watched the strange grin spread and the kid-like excitement grow in the wide eyes.

As quick as that, Johnny knew. The pinched look — the dry mouth. Cole’s a user! He’s on the junk! The knot tightened in the con man’s stomach. Booze, snow, and hate! This guy’s dynamite — he could blow any minute! But Johnny kept his face expressionless.

“Sure, Jim, I’d like to know,” he stalled Cole sociably. “How was it?”

“Rotten!” A gloom stormed into the glassy eyes. “Filthy rotten! Every stinkin’ day of it!” Cole moved spasmodically and took a drink straight from the bottle before his eyes burned into Johnny’s again. “They gave me ten years in a hellhole on the say-so of one bastard flatfoot!” The low tone became a shout, breaking on every high note. “Well this time they can fry me!”

Johnny battled with his growing tension and Harry’s fear clattered in the glasses behind the bar.

“I’m gonna get that dumb cop — that goddamned, lousy Mahoney!” Cole screamed his hatred. “Then I’m gonna drag in every crummy bull in the city to view his ragged carcass!”

Watching the insane rage flare and burn low again, Johnny gripped the lucky-piece in his pocket and fought for composure. He’s nuts! Johnny had heard about guys who couldn’t take stir. Somehow, feeding on revenge, Cole had made it back to the outside. With a monkey on his back! A flicker of something like pity mingled with Johnny’s fear and was gone. The meanest guy I’ve ever seen, dope-crazed and stir-bug now.

Johnny flashed around in his mind for a reason to leave. Then something jelled and a hunch shook him clear to his shoes. Company, Cole had said — Harry’s blanched face — the empty bar! It was going to be right here and soon!

He looked at the bottle and got an idea. “I’ll get us something else,” he told Cole. “I’m tired of this stuff.”

At the bar Johnny punched a loud number on the juke box. Then he asked Harry for another bottle, adding through stiff lips: “What’s the deal, Harry?”

“Mahoney checks the bars every night at this time.” Harry’s words were suppressed terror as he fumbled under the counter for the liquor. “He’ll hit here about six.” Johnny glanced at the clock. Two minutes till six.

Harry’s dark eyes flashed an indisputable SOS. “Cole’s not going to give him a chance!”

Without answering, Johnny took the bottle Harry offered and headed back to Cole’s table just as the rattle of the front door echoed through the bar.

Just some guy wanting a drink, Johnny hoped as he tensed all over. But a second persistent jiggle of the door told him, even before he heard the Irish brogue, that Mahoney was outside.

“Harry... Harry are you in there?”

Harry never closed until midnight. Everybody knew that no cop as good as Mahoney would fail to investigate such an unusual break in routine. Sweat formed between Johnny’s hand and the bottle as he fought against panic.

He put the bottle on the table, glancing quickly from the petrified Harry to the leering Cole.

With a satanic grin, the killer took in the bartender’s immobile state before turning to Johnny.

“That must be my company, kid. Let’s see you play butler and let him in.” The blue nose of a thirty-eight revolver slipped in silent menace over Cole’s side of the table.

Johnny stalled for time. Maybe the damned fool cop will beat it if I can con this S.O.B. for a minute.

“What’s the matter, kid?” The old contempt was back in Cole’s face. “Still ain’t got the guts for some things?”

Cool, Johnny, cool! “After ten years in the business, Jim” Johnny laughed, “a guy grows guts. I was just thinking that no flatfoot’s worth it. Why not quit when you’re ahead?”

Cole studied him for a minute, while Pop banged on the door, and Johnny met his gaze levelly. Suddenly the killer grinned.

“You know, Johnny, you turned out better than I thought. You’re pretty damned cool.”

But before Johnny could answer, the front door rattled again and Cole’s eyes narrowed, as the thirty-eight moved out over the table.

“Open the door, kid.”

“It’s your show,” Johnny shrugged.