Boy's Cinema (1930-31)

8 Tlie bar-toiidei- tried to seize the plate on wliicli the unwanted visitor had jjilcd bread and savisagc, but failed. "I wouldn't do that, either," Cookie told him. "Oh, you're a tough guy, eh?" "Yes, sir. Sometimes I don't even know my own strength!" "Xo? Well, we'll find out about the -.tiongth!" And the bartender shot Du*. a formidable fist intended for Cookie's jaw. But Cookie quietly parried the blow, whipped up a. long loaf of French brCiul, and brought it down with all hi, might upon liis assailant's head. I'he bar-tender stiiggcred backwards, then snatched up a heavy glass mug with intent to use it as a weapon. But ajjuiii the loaf descended, and this time ilu; white-coated assistant went down on his back. "Do you hear the little birds going tweet, tweet?" inquired Cookie, sar- castically. "Let's go 1" And he turned i< wards the door. Opportunity. AT a table against the wall, opposite tiie bar, three men were sitting, one of them obviously an Italian, another a stockily-built curly-hciided tellow, the third a lean-faced individual with shifty eyes. " Well, what do you think about-a ilat'/" said the Itiiliau with sonic amuse- ment. A burly fellow employed by the pro- prietor of the cafeteria to maintain Older, appeared from nowhere in parti- fular between Cookie and the door. "This is the clbance of a lifetime!" he -M-ied, advancing with clenched ftsts. "You're going to take the air!" Cookie backed briskly to the bar, grinning as though he were thoroughly I iijoying himself. "L)you like boloney?" he inquired V. ith mock politeness, and without wait- ing for any reply, ho whipped up a huge Bologna-s<iusagc and struck the newcomer viciously m the face with it. With the roar of a bull the "bouncer" feccived the blow, then struck out with right and left. He imagined himself to I.e invincible, but he liad met more than li!-; match. Tho Itialian sprang up from iiis chair to watch the fight that fol- lowed. "I like-a dis guy!" he crowed. Cookie was parrying blows and biding liis time. The time came, and his left h iat swept up almost as it seemed from , I'e region of the floor. The recipient of that terrific blow was lifted clean off his feet by its violence, and sent (I asiiing «mong the tables, to fall in a huddled heap while glasses and cups :Mid saucers rained down upon him. "\Vhat a fighter you are!" tautitcd Cookie, striding over to whore the bruiser lay. "Fighting with your back ;'^ainst the floor 1" "I tcU-a you I like-a dis guy!" riiod the Italian, almost dancing be- side his table. " He's got-a what you call til es.sc !" He watched Cookie return to tlic bar, and grinned delightedly as that wrath- ful young man pelted the bartender with sau.-i;iges and loaves of bread. He u uched him on the arm. "Hullo, ono minute," lie said in a f I iendly way. "\Vhat do you want?" demanded Cookie, ready for further battle, but not neccssjiriry inviting it. "Nothing." was tiie eager reply. "I just-a own (la place." "Oh, is that so?" drawled Cookie. " Well. I wouldn't brag al)OUt it. Any objiction"; to niv eating here?" JuJy li^tli, 1U31.~ BOY'S CINEMA "Ilolp-a yourself," said the Italian, and called a waiter. "Pete," he dir- ected, "fix him a plate!" He indicated tho table he had left. "Come, sit down !" "'J'haiiks," said Cookie. The curly-lioaded man, addressed as Joe, was 'equcsted to move over, which ho did; and Cookie and the Italian sat side by side. Food was brought, a huge glass mug of near-beer. Cookie ate and drank with relish, studying his chance companions without openly appearing to do so. "What's your name?" inquired his benefactor. Cookie told him, omitting the " Chauncey." "You're a pretty tough guy!" "That ain't half of it, brother," was the somewliat boastful rejoinder. "You ought to lave seen me when I had my health. VVhy, I was so tough I was scared of myself!" "If dafs only ten per cent true, 1 could-a use you in my business." "Doin' what?" "Drivin' a truck." "What is your business?" "Meat packing. The Three Star Packing Co. Marino is my name." The owner of a moat-packing company running a cafeteria which was fre- quented by rough-looking customers ? Cookie, as an old-time ^reporter on the "Herald," knew quite a lot about gang- sters and boot-leggers. "I see," he remarked gravely. "You get your stuff from Canada, don't you?" Marino looked suspiciously at him, but most of his face, at the moment, was hidden by the glass mug. His one eye gleamed. Marino decided to be frank. He nodded. "Sure must be a lot of profit in that Canadian bacon," said Cookie, and put down the empty mug. "Dat's why we can use tough guys like-a you." "Thanks for the compliment—but 1 don't know." "Well, as you like." Marino took out a card-case, extracted a card, and wrote on it with a fountain- pen. "You take-a dis card" to Mulligan," he said. " He's in charge of my trucks." Cookie examined the card. The ware- house of the Three Star Packing Com- pany, it appeared, was in Clinton Street, near tho water-front. The message Marino had written ran: "This guy is O.K.—Marino." "All right, Marino," said Cookie, stewing *hc card in a pocket. " But don't set your heart on it." Two hours later, Marino paid a visit to his warehouse in Clinton Street, l>assing thiough a gateway into a yard where motor-lorries were being loaded with quarters of beef, some of them genuine, some fakes filled with bottles of wine and spirits. He crossed the yard to a flight of stone steps, accompanied by Joe, and went through tiie warehouse into a private office. Ho seated himself at a desk and rang a bell, while curly-headed Joe helped himself to a cigarette. A tall negro entered the room, ob- viously in a nervous state, and the story ho had to tell drove Marino into a state of fury. Cookie, it ajjpeared, had called while Mulligan was out, and tho negro—who was known as Alabam—had dealt with liim, or, accurately. Cookie had dealt with Alabam. "You—you idiot!" spluttered Marino, and burst into a string of Italian oatlis. Every Tuesday "How was I for to know dat guy was a hijacker?" protested Alabaui. "He had a card from jou, boss!" "Sure," bellowed Marino. "Ho gives you a card vit my name on eet, and you make-a him a present of a motor-truck vis a hundred oases!" "I didn't make him no present," cried Alabam wildly. "While I was readin' of the card, he pinched my rod and stuck it in my ribs, and what was dis nigger a-goin' to do?" "I tell-a you what you're goin' to do!" roared Marino. "Porto lo furo I You're through! Joe! Joe! Porto lo furo—throw heem out!" Joe, thus commanded, seized hold of the terrified black, and struck him violently between the eyes. Then, as Marino darted across the room and tugged open the door of an emergency exit, Joe bundled Alabam out to the top of a flight of stairs, and knocked him backwards down them. "Boss! Boss!" moaned the black, sitting up on the mat at the bottom and nursing his jaw. But, the door was closed with a crash, and Alabam picked himself up and tottered out by a back way to the water-front. A Birthday Re-union. A YEAR later one of the most popular restaurants off Bi-oad- way was situated in Eighth Avenue, not far from Times Square. Appropriately enough, it bore on its discreet windows, in letters of gilt, the single word: "Cookie's." It had an imposing entrance with a glass canopy over its revolving doors, and its interior was luxuriously furnished. In the big, pillared room downstairs an orchestra played dance music for the benefit of its patrons, and the polisiied door between the rows of tables was re- puted to be one of the finest in New York. There were upstair rooms for private parties. A big negro attendant in a chocolato uniform, decorated with much gold braid, guarded the revolving doors, bowing and scraping to the wealthy and fashionable folk who streamed in and out. Cookie's had become the meal-time mecca of pleasure-seeking New Yorkers! Alabam made an excellent attendant, from Cookie's point otview, for he knew by sight nearly evei-y gangster, every tough, and every policeman in the citj ; and his job was not quite so innocent ae it seemed. The negro started violently one even- ing as a thick-set, chubby-faced man in evening clothes, who had stepped out from a taxi, touched him on the arm and sreeted him by name. "Want nie, lieutenant?" gasped Alabam. "Not this time," replied Mike O'Dowd with a grin. "I want to see Mr. Cookie —but don't worry, it's a social call." He made his way info the foyer and mounted the wide stairs, but Alabam followed him. "Coining up, eh?" said Mike. "No, auh—just 'phoning the boss," was the reply, "Don't trouble," barked Mike. "I tell you it's a social call." Alabam, more or less satisfied, went back to his post. Mike deposited his hat and coat in the cloak-room an.l entered the restaurant. Tho pl.ice was crowded with men and women in evening clothes, and the orchestra was playing a fox-trot. Miko caught sight of (/ookie in the distance, hovering near a table in a little recess —a round table set against n semi- circular seat—and made straight for him. "Top of tho evening to you, Chauncey," he said, offering his baud.