We were sitting in this swank night spot, laughing at a wiseguy comedian who had a sharp tongue. Rose was giving me the lowdown on about what the guy was making and how much the members of the band were paid... when I suddenly felt her thigh stiffen against mine under the table. I turned and she was staring down at the table cloth, her face sickly pale in contrast to the dark frames of her phony glasses, her black hair. She was so pale even the remains of her sun tan seemed to have vanished. I asked, “You sick?”
“Oh, God! Mickey, it's him!”
“Who?” I asked, looking around wildly. “Hon, what is it?”
“It's him... the Federal man who tried to shoot me!”
“Where?” I asked, my guts full of a chill—mainly because I thought Rose was off her head.
“That table over in the corner, by the post. The big guy with the redheaded girl. Oh God, I knew we shouldn't have come to the States!”
“Take it easy,” I said, glancing around casually. I had no difficulty making him. He was staring hard at our table. He was a handsome cuss, well set-up and lean, and with a mean face. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, a nasty joker in a brawl. Younger than me, too. Maybe five or six years since he was the star halfback.
Toying with a spoon I asked a dumb question. “Rose, are you sure?” The way the guy was looking at us told me how sure he was.
“Of course!” Her voice had the shakes.
I pressed her thigh as I told her, “Listen to me: we're going to sit right here and play it cool. For one thing, with your glasses and all, he can't be positive. If he comes over, we're a couple of tourists named Anderson, so don't get excited.”
“No. He's the one... he'll try to kill me!”
For a second I realized how jerky I was acting. What was I getting tense about? Even if this proved Rose's weird story was true, Rose was in the clear. I squeezed her hand under the table—and it was cold as death. “Don't worry. If he starts anything I'll handle him.”
Rose turned and gave me a tight smile—a tender tiny grin that somehow seemed a farewell smile. “No, Mickey, stay put and be careful. Say I'm a pick-up and you don't know a thing about me. I'm going to the head. If he tries to... don't let him stop me. And don't get yourself hurt.”
Before I could argue, or ask what she meant, Rose stood up. Holding her small pocketbook in one hand, she gave me a light, phony smile, and started for the ladies room, which was located just inside the entrance to the club. The fur trimmed coat she'd bought a few days before was still on the back of her chair.
While I was wondering why the speech about going to the can, I saw big boy get to his feet. From different angles he and Rose headed for the same point. I got up and crossed directly toward him. Rose was almost running and he wasn't even watching me.
As Rose reached the few steps leading up into the tiny lobby, I saw his hand go to his back pocket and with the flap of his jacket raised for a split second— he was reaching for a gun in his hip pocket holster!
I raced over and walked into him hard with my shoulder. He stumbled and I went into a little jig I practiced when I was wrestling. I brought my left foot down on his right instep and as he bent over my right knee came up into his stomach. He dropped to the carpet, doubled over. He wasn't out, only numb the way a belly wallop gets you.
I was all one silly grin as I put on an act that it was an accident. A couple of waiters rushed over to us. Rose wasn't in sight. She'd made the ladies room. I bent down as if helping big boy to his feet. There wasn't any doubt about the gun, I could feel it in his back pocket. I wanted to go through his pockets and find out who he was, but the waiters were on us. I gave them a dumb grin and said something about being clumsy. A beefy character, obviously the bouncer, helped me lift him to his feet. People were standing up but the bouncer and the waiters were old hands: before I knew it we were walked into the manager's office. While I was explaining what a clumsy clown I'd been, a cop appeared.
The manager was a smooth baldie in a tux and as he was assuring the cop things were under control, big boy got his wind and flashed a card or something at the cop, then ran limping out of the office. The cop took off, too. I started after them and ran into a solid line of waiters. I asked, “What the devil is this?”
“Now, now, no trouble, please,” the manager said. The bouncer moved closer.
I said, “I don't want trouble but my girl went to the John and she'll wonder where I am and...” I could have bitten my fat tongue. Why did I say Rose was in the can? Could she be hiding in there, waiting?
The cop returned, growled at me, “You, sit down!” He had a firm grip on his night stick.
I sat on the edge of the manager's desk, wondering what to do. For a few minutes we were all silent, then big boy limped in, looking very mad. He held a whispered conference with the cop while glaring at me. The cop told the manager and the rest of the help to leave. The manager said, “Now George, I don't know what this is all about, but the club doesn't want any trouble.”
George, the cop, nodded and ushered him out, then he shut the door and leaned against it, one hand on his holster.
The clammy feeling in my guts said I was in for a beating. A couple of wild thoughts flashed through my mind. In a straight rough and tumble I might take these two. And if they went for their guns I'd be dead. What did Rose expect me to do, stall them? Was she still in the ladies room? Hiding there, or plain sick? Or was she waiting for me outside? Did she want me to clout these...?
Big boy limped over to stand in front of me, hands loose at his sides. “What's your name, mister?” he snapped.
I decided to bluff, do a little shoulder talking of my own. I asked, “Who are you? What is this?”
“I'll ask the questions!” His hands were itching to clout me.
With a calmness which astonished me I heard myself saying, “If you're a police officer I'm asking you to identify yourself.” I glanced at the cop holding up the door. “Officer, this man is carrying a gun.”
“He's a Fed,” the cop said.
“Oh.” I was completely rattled. I was in great shape —I'd flattened a Federal cop! But then Rose's story about the police trying to kill her had been true!
“What's your name?”
“Is walking into you, accidentally, a Federal crime?” I asked.
“I'm asking for your name, mister.”
“My name is Mickey Anderson. I'm a visitor here, stopping at a boardwalk hotel. I don't know what this show of force is about, but I demand the right to phone my lawyer before saying anything else. His name is Jackson Clair, in New York City.” That was the name of a big time lawyer I'd been reading about in the papers.