Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Johnny’s thumb pressed the little button and the last of the con man cracked away as the sharp blade flicked out firmly. Maybe, just maybe, if I’m lucky. Swiftly, by the tip of the blade, he slipped the knife from his pocket and the kid from Lacy Street broke through as he sent the stiletto slashing through the air toward Cole’s gun hand.

The blade missed its mark, sparking against the gun’s blue metal, and Cole whirled toward Johnny in a vicious scream of profanity — his gun blazing.

Hot fire went through Johnny’s shoulder. He saw the floor of the bar tilt toward him and heard the other shots. A hood dies this way too — sometimes — sorry, Pop.

“He’s coming around, Pop.” It was Harry’s voice.

Johnny tried to move and couldn’t.

“Johnny — can you hear us, lad?” That was Pop Mahoney.

“How do you feel, Johnny?” It was Harry again, anxious now.

Somewhere Johnny heard a steeple clock strike twelve, and he opened his eyes. He was in a hospital bed and Pop and Harry were leaning over him. The old cop was still in uniform and Harry’s bar-apron hung down from under his suit coat. A laugh rolled out of Johnny and he winced at the stab of pain it brought.

“Easy, lad.” Pop laid a hand on Johnny’s arm. “They’ve just dug a bullet out of you.”

He was fully conscious now, and he looked from Harry to Pop for an explanation.

“It was really something, Johnny!” Harry began excitedly. “After you threw the knife, Pop grabbed his gun and got Cole the same second you fell. It took four slugs! That crazy Cole just wouldn’t drop that gun.”

“Johnny” — Pop began slowly — “I’ve always said that—”

“I know, Pop,” Johnny moaned in surrender, “I haven’t got the stomach for it.”

“That’s not what I meant, son. I never thought you lacked guts.” The gray eyes smiled with gratitude. “It’s your heart that’s not right for it,” the old man continued, “and I was thinkin’ of your future — you could get out of the rackets now and—”

“Pop” — Johnny cut in with a groan — “will you knock it off! How much future do you think I’ve got after tonight?”

“The doublecross, Pop,” Harry said quickly. “He’s thinking about what they’ll do to him when they find out he crossed up Cole.”

The old man’s face relaxed into the smile Johnny remembered from Lacy Street. “Nobody knows but the three of us what happened at Harry’s tonight, Johnny.”

“There’s this busted shoulder and the hospital bit, Pop. They’ll know,” Johnny said with resignation.

Mahoney’s eyes held a solemn oath as he looked at Johnny and spoke each word evenly. “Every hood in the underworld knows right this minute, lad, that you were in Harry’s tonight with Cole — that I killed him and accidentally shot you.”

For a minute Johnny just stared at Mahoney, while understanding and relief flooded through him. Then he smiled. “You fronted one more time, didn’t you, Pop?”

“To the last detail, lad,” Mahoney grinned, fishing in his pocket. “I picked this up from the floor.” Then he tossed Dom’s little stiletto on the bed.

The Knife by Glenn Canary

He was struck by the beauty of the knife, a switch-blade, simple and deadly effective. He bought it for six dollars. He bought with it a sense of power... and the need to prove it.

* * *

Paul Talent was cold and miserable. The weather had closed in over the city, shutting out even the false glamor of Times Square and leaving only the dirt to be seen. The wind came sharp down Broadway and little swirls of dirt and papers pyramided at intersections. The sky was grey and low, hanging below the tops of buildings.

The day depressed him. He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and bent his head as he walked. The wind reddened his face and made his lungs hurt. He was trembling with cold, trying not to think, trying to pull in on himself like an animal.

He came to a corner and stopped, waiting for the signal. Standing still, he was hurt even more by the wind. The light turned green and he hurried across the street with the crowd. On the sidewalk again, he walked close to the building, huddled in his coat. A man bumped against him and hurried on without looking at him or speaking to him. Talent looked after him, resenting him. A girl skittered by him, her hair whipped loose. He watched her, trying to think of anything except the cold.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to be sheltered. It was a long way yet back to his office and he could not make it without being warmed first.

Without looking in the window to see what kind of store it was, he stepped off the sidewalk and into a small shop. Two clerks were standing in the rear. There were no customers. One of the men came to the front. “What can I do for you?” he asked.