smooth as a varnished plank. Englander was a good joe to work for, and he liked our sound. Of course that made him aces in my book.
The guy in the white suit sat down at the bar and I forgot him. We finished up the set with “Aunt Hagar’s Blues,” which was a tune that passed for racy out in the boondocks back then, and got a good round of applause. Manny had a big grin on his face when he put his trumpet down, and I clapped him on the back as we left the bandstand. There was a lonely-looking girl in a green evening gown who had been giving me the eye all night. She was a redhead, and I’ve always been partial to those. I got a signal from her eyes and the tilt of her head, so I started weaving through the crowd to see if she wanted a drink.
I was halfway there when the man in the white suit stepped in front of me. Up close he looked like a pretty tough egg. His hair was bristling up in the back in spite of what smelled like a whole bottle of Wildroot Creme Oil and he had the flat, oddly shiny eyes that some deep-sea fish have.
“Want to talk to you outside,” he said.
The redhead looked away with a small pout.
“It can wait,” I said. “Let me by.”
“My name is Scollay. Mike Scollay.”
I knew the name. Mike Scollay was a small-time racketeer from Shytown who paid for his beer and skittles by running booze in from Canada. The high-tension stuff that started out where the men wear skirts and play bagpipes. When they aren’t tending the vats, that is. His picture had been in the paper a few times. The last time had been when some other dancehall Dan tried to gun him down.
“You’re pretty far from Chicago, my friend,” I said.
“I brought some chaperones,” he said, “don’t worry. Outside.”
The redhead took another look. I pointed at Scollay and shrugged. She sniffed and turned her back.
“There,” I said. “You queered that.”
“Bimbos like that are a penny a bushel in Chi,” he said.
“I didn’t want a bushel.”
“Outside.”
I followed him out. The air was cool on my skin after the smoky atmosphere of the club, sweet with fresh-cut alfalfa. The stars were out, soft and flickering. The hoods were out, too, but they didn’t look soft, and the only things flickering were their cigarettes.
“I got a job for you,” Scollay said.
“Is that so.”
“Pays two C’s. Split it with the band or hold back a hundred for yourself.”
“What is it?”
“A gig, what else? My sis is tying the knot. I want you to play for the reception. She likes Dixieland. Two of my boys say you play good Dixieland.”
I told you Englander was good to work for. He was paying us eighty bucks a week. This guy was offering over twice that for one gig.
“It’s from five to eight, next Friday,” Scollay said. “At the Sons of Erin Hall on Grover Street.”
“It’s too much,” I said. “How come?”
“There’s two reasons,” Scollay said. He puffed on his pipe. It looked out of place in the middle of that yegg’s face. He should have had a Lucky Strike Green dangling from that mouth, or maybe a Sweet Caporal. The Cigarette of Bums. With the pipe he didn’t look like a bum. The pipe made him look sad and funny.
“Two reasons,” he repeated. “Maybe you heard the Greek tried to rub me out.”
“I saw your picture in the paper,” I said. “You were the guy trying to crawl into the sidewalk. ”
“Smart guy,” he growled, but with no real force. “I’m getting too big for him. The Greek is getting old. He thinks small. He ought to be back in the old country, drinking olive oil and looking at the Pacific.”
“I think it’s the Aegean,” I said.
“I don’t give a tin shit if it’s Lake Huron,” he said. “Point is, he don’t want to be old. He still wants to get me. He don’t know the coming thing when he sees it.”
“That’s you.”
“You’re fucking-A.”
“In other words, you’re paying two C’s because our last number might be arranged for Enfield rifle accompaniment.”
Anger flashed in his face, but there was something else there, as well. I didn’t know what it was then, but I think I do now. I think it was sorrow. “Buddy Gee, I got the best protection money can buy. If anyone funny sticks his nose in, he won’t get