“Yes.”
A man with a Racing Form in his hand stood behind the girl. He whistled softly. “So that’s the way it’s done!”
Tommy put his things back into the tool box and closed it. He got out of the car and the girl climbed in to try the key for herself.
The man with the Racing Form stepped back so he could size up Tommy. “Ain’t I seen you around?” he asked.
“Probably,” said Tommy.
He had seen the other, at a cafe here and there, a drive-in, the bowling alley. He was one of the boys. You saw them all the time. They were always well-dressed and freshly shaved. They usually carried a Racing Form. They were faces you saw around the Boulevard.
The girl was satisfied, finally, that the key would work. She slid over to the curb side of the seat and opened her purse.
“How much do I owe you?”
He had told Andy ten bucks. He said to the girl, “Five dollars.”
She exposed a folded sheaf of clean, new bills and stripped off one of them. Then she fumbled around in the bottom of her purse and located a half dollar.
“Here you are.” She handed him the five-dollar bill, smiled beautifully and put the half dollar into his hand. “And that’s for yourself.”
Tommy’s palm burned where the half dollar touched. He looked down at the coin and said, “Thanks. Thanks.”
She stepped on the starter and the motor turned over at once. She flashed him a final, impersonal smile and the car shot away from the curb.
Tommy remained standing where he was, looking after the car.
At his shoulder the man with the Racing Form whistled suggestively. “Some babe!”
It wasn’t worth while ramming the half dollar down the man’s filthy throat. Tommy put the money into his pocket and walked to his own car.
He drove to the dingy apartment house on Las Palmas where he had a dingy apartment with a sagging bed and a squeaking rocking chair that should have been used for kindling wood twenty years ago.
Chapter Two
Jerk isn’t quite the correct definition of lugan. There is a note of contempt in jerk that is missing in lugan. A lugan, if we must define the word, is a harmless not-so-bright character who is always around, but to whom nobody pays much attention. That was Herbie the Lugan.
He was seated on the stool, finishing his coffee and talking to Trent and Trent was eating his breakfast and paying no attention whatever to Herbie.
“You never saw anything like it,” Herbie the Lugan was saying. “The dame loses her car keys, so this guy from the key shop comes up. He uses a match and a file and in less time than you could run three furlongs he’s got a car key for the dame.”
“What?” Trent asked absent-mindedly.
“I said, imagine a guy who can go down a hotel corridor without a passkey and open every door in about thirty seconds flat.”
“Who?”
“This guy I’m telling you about, that I saw last night.”
“I heard you say something about a man opening a door with a match. That’s silly.”
“No, no, I said he used a match. Near’s I can figure it out, the match was to make the key black so that when he put it in the lock he could tell where to use the file. It was the slickest stunt you ever saw. From scratch he makes a car key.”
“Well, that’s a locksmith’s business, making keys; isn’t it?”
“I guess you’re right, but it was the first time I ever saw it done. Although come to think of it, people are losing keys every day of the week and you don’t hear of them breaking down their doors.”
Trent nodded. “You see these little lock and key shops all around town...” Then he looked thoughtfully at Herbie. “You didn’t happen to notice what shop this one came from?”
“No, he had a regular car without a sign on it. But I’ve seen the fella around.”
“Where?”
“Mostly around Melrose, come to think of it. Yeah, the bowline alley below Highland.”
“Make up your mind,” said Andy. “If you’re going to play, come on, if not let’s go to a movie.”
“Okay,” said Tommy.
“Okay, what?”
“I’ll play.”
“Well, come on, then, get your mind off the dame.”
Tommy went over the balls in the rack, found his favorite one and went to the chalk stand. Andy came over to chalk up his own hands.
“What’d she look like?”
“Like nothing I ever hope to see again in this world. Once, over in Germany, that time I stopped one, I was out of my noggin for a few hours and I saw an angel all in white except for blood dripping down—”
“Cut it out!” cried Andy.
“Then go ahead and roll!” Tommy snarled.
Andy got his ball, ran down to the foul line and sent the big sphere hurtling toward the pins. He got seven and picked up the other three with his next ball. He looked at Tommy.
Tommy was staring down the alley, watching the pins being set up. Then he sent his own ball down and the pins went crashing. A strike.
Trent and Herbie the Lugan, who had come up, nodded approvingly.
“Not bad,” said Trent.
“Perfect,” agreed Herbie.
Andy got his ball again and made one of the worst shots of the year. With a spare, all he picked off was an end pin. With his second ball he got two pins, for a total score of thirteen.
Tommy’s second ball was a strike.
“Pretty good,” Trent said.
“Great!” Herbie chimed in.
Andy gave them a dirty look and knocked over six pins with his next two balls.
“Hold it a minute,” said Trent to Tommy. “I got a hunch he can beat you even with the start you got.”
Tommy surveyed Trent with cold disdain. “This is a private game, Mister.”
“Okay, so it’s private. But I got a five says he can beat you.”
“Save your money,” Tommy retorted and sent his ball down the alley for a third strike.
“I’ll still bet you,” Trent taunted.
Herbie the Lugan stared at Trent in astonishment. “I’ll take that bet, Willie.”
“I didn’t offer it to you,” Trent said coldly.
“What’s the difference? I got ten bucks...” Then Herbie saw the look in Trent’s eye and gulped hard.
Tommy Dancer stepped over. “You want to lose money so bad, it’s a bet.”
“You’re on.” Trent grinned thinly. “I’m a form player. Some horses can run when they’re out in front, some can’t. I size you up as a man who goes to pieces when the chips are down.”
Tommy Dancer then proceeded to prove to Trent that he was a poor judge of character. He rolled two strikes, then a spare and picked up the remaining pins with the next ball, cinching his victory. Trent paid off with good grace. “I was wrong.” He winked at Dancer. “I’m a man who can admit it when he’s made a mistake. You roll a good game and you don’t get nervous when the money’s on the line.”
“Thanks,” Tommy said sarcastically.
“How about a drink?”
Tommy shrugged. “Beer’s all they sell here.”
“A beer’s good enough for me.” He started to turn away toward the bar at the side of the bowling alley, then looked back. “Your friend, too.”
Andy hesitated, frowning, but finally followed the others to the bar.
“Beers,” Trent said to the bartender. He produced a fat roll of bills from his pocket and, skimming through, found a small one, a ten-spot. He dropped it on the bar, poured out the bottle of beer and raised the glass.
“To you.” He looked questioningly at Tommy Dancer.
“Tommy Dancer.”
“Tommy Dancer,” Trent drank some of his beer. “What’s your racket, Tommy?”