“Because when we were jumped, it was Tommy that took the bullet meant for me and saved my life. He got patched up by an abortion doc in Minneapolis. Then we both lit out for Cuba, so Tommy could recover. I came back to find the rat that double-crossed us.”
Mummy went for his .38. I raised the Luger and put a 9mm Parabellum slug right through his heart. His pistol fell from his hand.
Claire screamed, “You son of a bitch!” She dug a little automatic out of her purse and aimed it in my direction. Tommy grabbed up Mummy’s .38 and shot her in the head. Her gun went off as she fell and the bullet put a hole in Mummy’s shoulder.
In December, I was behind the wheel of the Duesenberg, driving Tommy to see a surgeon at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester. We shot the breeze about the events.
“Didn’t go as planned,” Tommy said.
“It went better,” I said. Originally, Tommy brought Mummy back from Chicago by offering him a partnership in the casino. We were just waiting for me to be sprung, so I could be in on the kill. We made everyone think I was gunning for Tommy, to throw the rat off base. Mummy should have known, if you harm us, you pay.
“Claire was the joker in the deck,” Tommy said. “But it worked to our advantage.”
We told Frank O’Hara that Mummy had wanted to take over Tommy’s operation and tried to kill him. Claire attempted to stop him. But Mummy shot her with his .38. As Claire fell, she shot him in the shoulder. Before he could get off another shot, I killed him.
Frank went through the motions, but he bought our story because he wanted to.
“You know Claire had talent and would have gone far,” Tommy said. “But I wonder, was she a good lay?”
“Not as good as that Follies dancer in Paris,” I said.
“Yeah,” he chuckled. “Now she was a good lay! After this operation I’m going to have to make up for lost time.”
You see, I knew Claire was lying when she said Tommy had made her his mistress. When Tommy took that bullet for me, it clipped a nerve and rendered him impotent.
CHILI DOG
BY CHRIS EVERHEART
Aquick chili dog for lunch and I gotta get moving. There’s never enough time in this racket. I start driving across town at 8 a.m. collecting the receipts, drive all the way out west to Lake Minnetonka to get them looked at, pick up a bundle of cash there, and drive back to the east side of St. Paul, stopping along the way at each establishment to distribute the money. I tell you, it’s a meat grinder. But this is the best part of my day—a quick stop at the Gopher Bar and Café on 7th Street in downtown St. Paul for a beer and a Coney Island—a chili dog piled so high with toppings that you have to eat it with a knife and a fork. This is what accounts for a lunch break—twenty minutes with an axe hanging over my head. Then back on the road again, driving clear out to Hudson to pick up yesterday’s receipts and drop off yesterday’s cash. Hudson is always a day behind because they’re way out there. Benno could front them the money, but he doesn’t trust anyone—not even me. I hate to think what would happen if he knew I stopped here every day, leaving his payroll in the car, even for only a few minutes.
But what the hell am I supposed to do, eat lunch in the car? I ain’t no pig! I hate eating in the car, spilling food all over my custom upholstery. And trying to keep a big Continental on the road and eating a chili dog at the same time is more frustration than I can stand. Hell, if I wanted to work under those conditions I would have taken a job at my uncle’s foam factory over in Northeast and spent my life working on the dock, breathing truck exhaust and wrenching my back every other day. I chose a life on the streets because it had more pizzazz, more excitement, and, for Christ’s sake, more money. Now I end up working for Crazy Benno, still humping an impossible schedule and making minimum organized crime wage. It ain’t fair. So, yeah, I guess my little chili dog break is a “fuck you” to the new gangster order.
I rush out the front door of chili dog heaven, digging a piece of sweet onion out of my teeth, and head toward the parking lot. I hate to leave the car sitting very long. You can’t be too careful when you’re carrying $70,000 in cash. Granted, it’s in a strong box in the trunk and only me and Benno know the combination, but I still get nervous every time I stop— kind of like driving without car insurance: You know nothing is going to happen, but you’re worried anyway.
As I round the corner of the building, headed for my car, someone slams into my shoulder, knocking me down as I say, “What the…?”
Next thing I know, the guy is on top of me. “Where are they?” he says.
I quick reach for my gun but it ain’t there, and I feel a sharp, sweet whack at the back of my head. I look up and there’s this grubby tattooed guy with my gun in his hand.
“He said, where are they?” growls Tattoo, and whacks me again. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, then I realize Dude #1 is digging in my pocket.
