She studied him. “What’s he got on you?"
George turned away, then faced her, tried to speak, and couldn’t.
“Okay,” she said. “I withdraw the question.”
Two customers came in. Stella escorted them to a table and went on with the regular routine. She seemed calmly competent, completely unworried. George Ollie, on the other hand, couldn’t get his thoughts together. His world had collapsed. Rubber-glove Giffen must have found out about George’s bank job with the green accomplice, otherwise he wouldn’t have dropped in.
News travels fast in the underworld. Despite carefully cultivated changes in his personal appearance, some smart ex-con while eating at the restaurant must have “made” George Ollie. He had said nothing to George, but had reserved the news as an exclusive for the ears of Larry Giffen. The prison underworld knew Big Larry might have use for George — as a farmer had use for a horse.
And now Larry had “dropped in.”
Other customers arrived. The restaurant filled up. The rush-hour waitresses came on. For two and a half hours there was so much business that George had no chance to think. Then business began to slacken. By eleven o’clock it was down to a trickle. At midnight George closed up.
“Coming over?” Stella asked.
“Not tonight,” George said. “I want to do a little figuring on a purchase list.”
She said nothing and went out.
George locked the doors, put on the heavy double bolts, and yet, even as he turned out the lights and put the bars in place, he knew that bolts wouldn’t protect him from what was coming.
Larry Giffen kicked on the door at 12:30.
George, in the shadows, pretended not to hear. He wondered what Larry would do if he found that George had ignored his threat, had gone away and left the place protected by locks and the law.
Larry Giffen knew better. He kicked violently on the door, then turned and banged it with his heel — banged it so hard that the glass rattled and threatened to break.
George hurried out of the shadows and opened the door.
“What’s the idea of keeping me waiting, Georgie?” Larry asked with a solicitude that was overdone to the point of sarcasm. “Don’t you want to be chummy with your old friend?”
George said, “Larry, I’m on the square, on the legit. I’m staying that way.”
Larry threw back his head and laughed. “You know what happens to rats, Georgie.”
“I’m no rat, Larry. I’m going straight, that’s all. I’ve paid my debts to the law and to you.”
Larry showed big yellowed teeth as he grinned. “Ain’t that nice, Georgie. All your debts paid! Now how about that National Bank job where Skinny got in a panic because the cashier didn’t get ’em up fast enough?”
“I wasn’t in on that, Larry.”
Larry’s grin was triumphant. “Says you! You were handling the getaway car. The cops got one fingerprint from the rear-view mirror. The F.B.I. couldn’t classify that one print, but if anyone ever started ’em checking it with your file, Georgie, your fanny would be jerked off that cushioned stool by the cash register and transferred to the electric chair — the hot seat, Georgie... You never did like the hot seat, Georgie.”
George Ollie licked dry lips. His forehead moistened with sweat. He wanted to say something but there was nothing he could say.
Larry went on talking. “I pulled a couple of jobs here. I’m going to pull just one more. Then I’m moving in with you, Georgie. I’m your new partner. You need a little protection. I’m giving it to you.”
Larry swaggered over to the cash register, rang up No Sale, pulled the drawer open, and raised the hood over the roll of paper to look at the day’s receipts.
“Now, Georgie,” he said, regarding the empty cash drawer, “you shouldn’t have put away all that dough. Where is it?”
George Ollie gathered all the reserves of his self-respect. “Go to hell,” he said. “I’ve been on the square and I’m going to stay on the square.”
Larry strode across toward him. His open left hand slammed against the side of George’s face with staggering impact.
“You’re hot,” Larry said, and his right hand swung up to the other side of George’s face. “You’re hot, Georgie,” and his left hand came up from his hip.
George made a pretense at defending himself but Larry Giffen, quick as a cat, strong as a bear, came after him. “You’re hot.”... Wham... “You’re hot, Georgie.”
At length Larry stepped back. “I’m taking a half interest. You’ll run it for me when I’m not here, Georgie. You’ll keep accurate books. You’ll do all the work. Half of the profits are mine. I’ll come in once in a while to look things over. Be damn certain that you don’t try any cheating, Georgie.
“You wouldn’t like the hot squat, Georgie. You’re fat, Georgie. You’re well fed. You’ve teamed up with that swivel-hipped babe, Georgie. I could see it in your eye. She’s class, and she goes with the place, Georgie. Remember, I’m cutting myself in for a half interest. I’m leaving it to you to see there isn’t any trouble.” George Ollie’s head was in a whirl. His cheeks were stinging from the heavy-handed slaps of the big man. His soul felt crushed under a weight. Larry Giffen knew no law but the law of power, and Larry Giffen, his little malevolent eyes glittering with sadistic gloating, was on the move, coming toward him again, hoping for an opportunity to beat him up.
George hadn’t known when Stella had let herself in. Her key had opened the door smoothly.
“What’s he got on you, George?” she asked.
Larry Giffen swung to the sound of her voice. “Well, well, little Miss Swivel-hips,” he said. “Come here, Swivel-hips. I’m half owner in the place now. Meet your new boss.”
She stood still, looking from him to George Ollie.
Larry turned to George.
“All right, Georgie, where’s the safe? Give me the combination to the safe, Georgie. As your new partner I’ll need to have it. I’ll handle the day’s take. Later on you can keep books, but right now I need money. I have a heavy date tonight.”
George Ollie hesitated a moment, then moved back toward the kitchen.
“I said give me the combination to the safe,” Larry Giffen said, his voice cracking like a whip.
Stella was looking at him. George had to make it a showdown. “The dough’s back here,” he said. He moved toward the rack where the big butcher knives were hanging.
Larry Giffen read his mind. Larry had always been able to read him like a book.
Larry’s hand moved swiftly. A snub-nosed gun nestled in Larry’s big hand.
There was murder in the man’s eye but his voice remained silky and taunting.
“Now, Georgie, you must be a good boy. Don’t act rough. Remember, Georgie, I’ve done my last time. No one takes Big Larry alive. Give me the combination to the safe, Georgie. And I don’t want any fooling!”
George Ollie reached a decision. It was better to die fighting than to be strapped into an electric chair. He ignored the gun, kept moving back toward the knife rack.
Big Larry Giffen was puzzled for a moment. George had always collapsed like a flat tire when Larry had given an order. This was a new George Ollie. Larry couldn’t afford to shoot. He didn’t want noise and he didn’t want to kill.
“Hold it, Georgie! You don’t need to get rough.” Larry put away his gun. “You’re hot on that bank job, Georgie. Remember I can send you to the hot squat. That’s all the argument I’m going to use, Georgie. You don’t need to go for a shiv. Just tell me to walk out, Georgie, and I’ll leave. Big Larry doesn’t stay where he isn’t welcome.
“But you’d better welcome me, Georgie boy. You’d better give me the combination to the safe. You’d better take me in as your new partner. Which is it going to be, Georgie?”