At the moment, Porky was not working. Or, one might better say, he was engaged in one of his lesser income-producing pursuits. He stood, thoughtfully chalking a pool cue, at the nine-foot, professional table in Sawicki’s Pool Hall, carefully considering the plethora of goodies left him by an inadvertent miscue on the part of his opponent, none other than Sawicki himself. The proprietor of the pool emporium, his face twisted in understandable pain as he foresaw the inevitable result of his error, leaned back against the nearby cigar counter, his head and shoulders shadowed in the darkness that lay beyond the cones of light cast by the twin shades, and waited for total disaster. Porky, satisfied that the campaign he had planned would result in clearing the table, leaving himself a proper break shot, and reducing Sawicki’s profit for the week considerably, put aside the chalk and bent down, prepared to begin the mayhem. But before he could begin his stroke, the telephone rang. Porky straightened up again politely as Sawicki put down his cue and went to answer the phone. It was not that Sawicki had the slightest doubt, Porky knew, of what was going to happen, but it was simply safer, in that milieu, to have witnesses to the feat — particularly the man who was going to have to pay.
At the telephone behind the counter, Sawicki spat carefully into a spittoon by way of preparation, raised the receiver, and growled into it in his normal foggy voice, “Sawicki’s Pool Hall.”
“Is Porky Frank there?”
Sawicki covered the mouthpiece with a hand the size of a pool rack and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper that carried the length of the room, disturbing players at several distant tables. “Hey, Porky — you in?”
“Who is it?”
“Same guy calls you here every now and then. Calls you Frank. Quiet voice. Usually sounds tired.”
“Ah!” Porky said. He laid aside his cue and moved toward the telephone. “Well, these people who keep silly hours — like nine to five — come the wee hours of the morning and they’re all through. No stamina,” Porky said sadly, and took the telephone from Sawicki’s hand. “Hello?”
“Porky?”
“I suspected it was you, Mr. R,” Porky said, pleased with his deductive powers. “Tell me, in confidence, why would a recently married man climb out of a warm bed at this hour of the morning — or any other hour, as far as that goes—”
“I’m not married,” Reardon said shortly. “Look, Porky, I have to—”
“Not married?” Porky was properly shocked. “I sat right next to you in Marty’s Oyster House less than three weeks ago and heard you propose to a lovely young lady. And I heard her accept. Tahoe was mentioned, object matrimony. And now you tell me you’re not married? I shall be a witness. In fact, I’ll offer the services of my lawyer—”
“I don’t need any lawyers. Porky, I have to—”
“Not for you! You, sir, are a cad! I meant the lawyer for the young lady. I shall suggest she sue for breach of promise, malfeasance in office, contributing to the delinquency of a major — unless the young lady had made colonel by this time, of course—”
“Porky, shut up! Can you talk?”
Porky was far from intimidated by the other’s tone; still, he glanced about. Sawicki had tactfully retreated to the pool table, where he gazed upon the spread with anguish, but other ears were in evidence in the smoke-filled room.
“I can speak of ships and shoes, and pool cues, and dollar bills with wings,” Porky said cautiously, “but nothing of greater delicacy, I fear. Why?”
“Because if you can’t talk, I want to see you someplace else, right away. What places are open at this hour?”
“Now? You want to see me now?” Porky stared in horror back toward the pool table, with the balls laid out there for the easy seduction of his cue. “Right now?”
“Right now. Where can we meet? What’s open at this hour?”
“Other than Sawicki’s Pool Hall, I gather you mean,” Porky said sadly, and sighed at the vicissitudes of an unkindly fate. “You sure you couldn’t wait half an hour...?” He sighed. “No, I suppose not. Well, the Mouse Trap’s open and relatively safe, if you don’t try their drinks; and there’s always Tommy’s Joynt—”
Reardon suddenly remembered he hadn’t eaten for hours. “Tommy’s Joynt in fifteen minutes,” he said abruptly, and hung up.
Porky put the receiver back on its hook, stared at the instrument a moment, and then walked dispiritedly back to the table. Sawicki was watching him curiously.
“Sawicki,” Porky said, reaching over to retrieve his stick and beginning to dismantle it, “if anybody drives up in a dog sled and asks you, you have my permission to reveal that you’re luckier than a guy with two straight cues.”
“Hey!” Sawicki said in his gravel voice, unable to believe his good fortune. “Hey, hey! You quittin’?”
“A call from my dying mother’s bedside,” Porky said dolorously, “and the only thing in this world that could prevent me from putting you into instant bankruptcy.” He slid the two halves of his stick into their case and placed the case in his locker. He twisted the combination lock, and moved toward the door. “Remember me in your will,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “It’s the least you can do.”
“Yeah,” Sawicki said. He paused and then figured he might as well try it. “But what about the charge for the table?”
Porky stopped and looked the big man in the eye.
“I was only askin’,” Sawicki said defensively, and started to rack the balls again to avoid that baleful look. Porky shook his head unbelievingly at the ingratitude of man to man, sighed, and walked out.
Saturday — 1:55 A.M.
Lieutenant Reardon was in the act of biting into a large hot roast beef sandwich, a stein of foaming ale at his elbow, when Porky Frank arrived at Tommy’s Joynt. Porky waited until the counterman had provided him with a tuna-salad sandwich, carried it to the bar, where he received a flagon of ale, and brought his booty to the last table under the small deserted balcony, where he joined the stocky detective. The table had been well chosen; at that hour especially it assured as much privacy as could ever be assured at Tommy’s. Porky placed his burden on the table, sat, drew a bowl of pickles over more from habit than from need, neatly tucked a paper napkin into his collar, and picked up his sandwich.
“Tuna salad is getting hard to come by,” he advised Reardon, apropos of nothing at all. “According to Consumer Reports, they’re running out of bat wings and mice hair so essential to the manufacturing process.” He bit into the sandwich, chewing slowly, his eyes calmly studying the lieutenant across the table.
Reardon took another bite of his sandwich, chewed a moment, swallowed, and edged his beer closer. “There’s been a kidnapping,” he said quietly.
Porky’s face froze slightly, but other than that he betrayed little emotion. There was a slight stiffening of his fingers as he lowered the sandwich. It was not that Porky was without emotion; it was simply that the expression of emotion was a habit he had spent years learning to avoid. It did not fit in with his various businesses.