Tommy took his tool case and left the shop. Outside he climbed into his flivver and started up Melrose. Across the street a car made a U-turn and took off after him. At Highland Tommy eased over to the right ready to make a right turn, but when the lights turned green, he gunned his motor, shot out into the intersection and made a frantic left turn in front of a through-bound car, whose driver slammed on the brakes and tooted wildly.
Tommy, oblivious, scooted south on Highland to Oakwood. A few minutes later he was back on Melrose at Highland and this time made the correct right turn.
He drove on Highland to Santa Monica where he turned right on the car tracks and went several blocks until he found a clear spot at the curb. He pulled in and, shutting off the ignition, leaned back and rested his head on the seat cushion. He closed his eyes.
Tommy dozed for a half hour then, yawning, switched on the ignition. He drove leisurely to McCadden and Hollywood Boulevard and parked his car.
Leaving the lot he strolled to Hollywood Boulevard and turned left to Highland.
Tommy crossed the street and entered the Hollywood-Highland Bank and walked to the Safety Deposit window. He nodded to the girl behind the counter and filled out a blank. “Want to put some papers in my box.”
She pressed the door buzzer. Tommy followed her into the vault.
“Key, please.”
Tommy handed the woman his keys. She put one in the lower lock of Box 365, turned the upper lock with the bank key and said to Tommy: “You oughtn’t to keep both keys together. This way you lose one you lose both.”
“I know.”
She removed the bank’s key and left the vault. Quickly Tommy drew another key from his pocket and inserted it in the upper lock. It turned smoothly. Tommy exulted to himself: “I’m the best damn key man in the country.”
He removed the key as well as his own and dropped them in a pocket. He waited a moment, then closed the door of Box 365 and left the vault. Leaving the bank, he strode to the curb to cross Highland Avenue. A man stepped up beside him and said: “Hi, pal.”
It was Herbie the Lugan.
A chill began to seep through Tommy’s body. “What are you doing here?”
“Not a thing, chum. Not a thing.”
The traffic lights turned to green and Tommy started across the street. Herbie the Lugan trotted along at his side, chattering, “Doing any more bowling lately? Used to play a pretty fair game myself. If you aren’t busy some night I’d like to roll a few lines with you.”
“Sure, sure,” Tommy agreed.
“Tonight?”
They had reached the other side of the street. “Can’t tonight.”
Herbie the Lugan winked slyly. “Date, huh? Somebody said they seen you with a cute package. Blonde.”
“Look, Herbie, I can’t spend the day here gabbing with you. I’m a working man.”
“Work?” smirked Herbie. “What’s that?”
Tommy snorted and strode away from the dapper little man. He walked to McCadden. It took all of his self-control to keep from looking over his shoulder to see if Herbie was following him. As he turned on McCadden he risked a quick sideward glance, but did not see Herbie. He got his car from the parking lot and drove south toward Melrose. On Melrose he drove slowly past the bowling alley and on a sudden impulse pulled into the curb.
He got out of his car and strode into the alley. It was shortly before noon and only one of the alleys was in use.
Rudy, the proprietor, was behind his glass-topped cigar counter. He looked at Tommy in surprise. “What are you doing here at this time of the day?”
I got a tip on a horse, Tommy replied. “I’d like to put a couple of bucks on it.”
“Haven’t you got enough trouble,” exclaimed Rudy. “Why don’t you just take a hammer and hit yourself on the head with it? It’s no worse than taking tips on horses.”
“This is a sure thing.”
Rudy wrinkled his face in disgust. “They’re all sure things.” He shrugged. “What’s the nag?”
“That’s the trouble. I forgot.”
Rudy groaned. “He gets a tip on a horse and can’t remember the horse’s name!”
“It’s running in the third at Belmont. Have you got a
Rudy reached under the counter and brought out a much creased
“Fighting Don, that’s it.”
“Fighting Don!” snorted Rudy. “That’s a helluva tip. He’s the favorite. He’ll go to the post at even money.”
“Well, I’d like to put two dollars on him just the same.”
“Okay, two dollars on Fighting Don.”
Tommy drew out a package of cigarettes and, putting one in his mouth, lit it. He leaned against the showcase. “You don’t handle these bets yourself, Rudy? I mean, you give them to a bookie, don’t you?”
Rudy looked at him suspiciously. “I’ve got enough trouble running this bowling alley. Joe Abbott gives me a cut, hot or cold.”
“Who’s Joe Abbott?”
“The bookie.”
“Do I know him?”
Rudy shrugged. “He’s in here often enough. Little fellow with a rogue shirt and sport coat.”
