"Are you referring to me?" I asked.
"I sure am," he replied. "And I'm making you a proposition. I don't exactly know what arrangement you had with the Boss, but you just tell me straight what it was and I'll up it ten per cent."
"I had no complaints about my treatment."
"Now that's talking like a white man, Jack," he said, and added earnestly, "And don't get me wrong, I know you and the Boss was like that." He held up two large, white, glistening episcopal fingers as in benediction. "Like that," he repeated. "And don't get me wrong, I'm not criticizing the Boss. I just want to show you I appreciate you."
"Thanks," I said with some lack of warmth.
The lack of warmth was such, I presume, that he leaned slightly forward and said, "Jack, I'm going to make that twenty per cent."
"That's not enough," I said.
"Jack," he said, "you're right. That's not enough. Twenty-five per cent."
I shook my head.
He showed a slight uneasiness and the couch creaked, but he rallied with a smile. "Jack," he said soothingly, "you just tell me what you think's right, and I'll see how we make out. You tell me what's enough."
"There ain't enough," I said.
"Huh?"
"Listen," I said, "didn't you just tell me that I am the guy whose word is his bond?"
"Yeah, Jack."
"So you'll believe me if I tell you something?"
"Why, yeah, Jack."
"Well, I'm telling you something. You are the stinkingest louse God ever let live."
I relished the moment of profound silence which followed, then plunged on, "And you think you can buy me in. Well, I know why you want to. You don't know how much I know or what. I was thick with the Boss and I know a lot. I'm the joker in the deck. My name is Jack and I'm the wild jack and I'm not one-eyed. You want to deal me to yourself from the bottom of the deck. But it's no sale, Tiny, it's no sale. And it's too damned bad, Tiny. And do you know why?"
"Look here!" he said with authority. "Look here, you can't be–"
"It's too bad because I do know something. I know a lot. I know that you killed the Boss."
"It's a lie!" he exclaimed, and heaved on the couch and the couch creaked.
"It's no lie. And it's no guess. Though I ought to have guessed it. Sadie Burke told me. She–"
"She's in it, she's in it!"
"She _was__ in it," I corrected, "but not any more. And she'll tell the world. She doesn't care who knows. She's not afraid."
"She better be. I'll–"
"She's not afraid, because she's tired. She's tired of everything and she's tired of you."
"I'll kill her," he said, and the perspiration exuded delicately on his temples.
"You won't kill anybody," I said, "and this time there's nobody to do it for you. For you're afraid to. You were afraid to kill the Boss and you were afraid not to, but luck helped you out. But you gave luck a little push, Tiny, and I swear, I admire you for it. It opened my eyes. You see, Tiny, all those years I never thought you were real. You were just something off the cartoon page. With your diamond ring. You were just the punching bag the Boss used, and you just grinned your sick grin and took it. You were like the poodle I heard about. You ever hear about the poodle?"
I didn't give him time to answer. I watched his mouth get ready, then I went on. "There was a drunk had a poodle and he took him everywhere with him from bar to bar. And you know why? Was it devotion? It was not devotion. He took that poodle everywhere just so he could spit on him and not get the floor dirty. Well, you were the Boss's poodle. And you liked it. You liked to be spit on. You weren't human. You weren't real. That's what I thought. But I was wrong, Tiny. Somewhere down in you there was something made you human. You resented being spit on. Even for money."
I got up, with my half-empty glass in my hand.
"And now, Tiny," I said, "that I know you are real, I sort of feel sorry for you. You are a funny old fat man, Tiny, with your heart getting bad and your liver nigh gone and sweat running down your face and a mean worry on your mind and a great blackness like water rising in a cellar inside you and I almost feel sorry for you but if you say a word I might stop feeling sorry for you. So now I'm going to drink up your whisky and spit in the glass and go."
So I drank off the whisky, dropped the glass on the floor (on the thick rug it didn't break), and started for the door. I had almost got there, when I heard a croak from the couch. I looked around.
"It–" he croaked, "it won't stand in a court."
I shook my head. "No," I said, "it won't. But you still got plenty to worry about."
I opened the door and walked through and left the door open behind me and walked down the long hall under the great, glittering chandelier, and walked out into the brisk night.
I took a deep drag of fresh air and looked up through the trees at the distinct stars. I felt like a million. I had sure-God brought off that scene. I had hit him where he lived. I was full of beans. I had fire in my belly. I was a hero. I was St. George and the dragon, I was Edwin Booth bowing beyond the gaslights, I was Jesus Christ with the horsewhip in the temple.
I was the stuff.
And all at once the stars I was like a man who has done himself the best from soup to nuts and a Corona Corona and feels like a virtuous million and all at once there isn't anything but the yellow, acid taste which has crawled up to the back of the mouth from the old, tired stomach.
Three days later I got the registered letter from Sadie Burke. It read: Dear Jack: Just so you won't think I am going to welch on what I said I would do I am enclosing the statement I said I would make. I have got it witnessed and notarized and nailed down as tight as you can nail anything down and you can do anything with it you want for it is yours. I mean this. It is your baby, just like I said.
As for me I am getting out of here. I don't mean just getting out of this cross between an old folks' home and a booby-hatch, but out of this town and out of this state. I can't stand it round here and I'm pulling out. I'll be gone a long way and I'll be gone a long time and maybe somewhere the climate will be better. But my cousin (Mrs. Sill Larkin, 2331 Rousseau Ave.) who is the nearest thing to a relative I got will have some kind of address for me sometime, and if you ever want to contact me just write me care of her. Wherever I am I'll do what you say. I'll come if you say come. I don't want you thinking I am going to welch. I don't care who knows anything. I'll do anything you say about that piece of business.
But if you take my advice about that piece of business you will let it drop. This is not because I love Duffy. I hope you will give him an earful and let him wet his pants. But my advice is to let it drop. First, you cannot do anything in law. Second, if you use it politically the best you can get will be to keep Duffy from being re-elected, and you know as well as I do he will never get nominated even. The boys will never nominate him for they know he is a dummy even by their standards. He was just something the Boss kept around. Springing this stuff won't hurt the gang any. I will just give them an excuse to get rid of Duffy. If you want to get the gang you got to let them dig their own grave like they sure will now the Boss is gone. But third, it is sure going to be rough on that Stanton dame if you break this stuff. She may be so noble and high-toned like you said that she will want you to do it, but you are a sap if you do. She has maybe had plenty to put up with already in her way, and you would be a sap to crucify her just because you got some high-faluting idea you are an Eagle Scout and she is Joan of Arc. You would be a sap to tell her even. Unless you are so blabber mouthed you have done it already. Like you maybe have. I am not going on to say she is my best friend but she has had her troubles like I said and you might give her a break.
Remember I am not welching. I am just giving you my advice.