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Authors: Frank Kane
Tags: Crime
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piece of modeling clay into a semblance of the human figure.
Barney Ryan was the name of the cop who walked the beat on the block where Jack Allen lived. Ryan was before the days of the new breed, back when a cop spoke with a brogue instead of a cultivated accent, when he won more arguments with a nightstick than with logic. There were none of the bleeding hearts to decry police brutality and to coddle the underprivileged when Ryan found it necessary to line some of the boys up against a wall and rap their shins with his nightstick if he wasn’t satisfied with their answers.
The neighborhood hangout, unlike the candy stores of today, was the local poolroom. Here behind shuttered doors, in the midst of the odor compounded of part stale nicotine, part untended toilets, many an education that had been started in P.S. 104 was completed.
It had been on a winter night around this time of the year that Barney Ryan strolled into Mac’s Poolroom, his nightstick dangling from the oversized pin that held his badge in place. He closed the door behind him, wrinkled his nose at the characteristic odor of the place, squinted through the ever present fog that swirled in the inverted cone of light spilling from the lamps down onto the green tables.
Mac, the operator of the poolroom, was sitting in his regular spot behind the glass case displaying cigarettes and an open cigar box. He was thin to the point of emaciation, wore a black, sleeveless sweater over a wool shirt, a spit-stained unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips.
The muted clicking of the pool balls stopped, all eyes in the room turned to stare at the red-faced man in the blue uniform.
“Old Doc Schwartz was robbed tonight,” Ryan told them in his husky brogue. “Whoever did it hit the old man too hard. He might die.” His eyes glared balefully around the room. “That would mean that some rat faces a murder one.” He turned to the thin man with the sleeveless sweater. “I warned you what would happen to you if anybody got out of line on my beat. Who did it?”
Mac’s face gleamed wetly in the reflected light. He lifted the dead cigarette from between his lips, shook his head. “Why ask me, Barney? I ain’t been outta the place since I opened up at noon.” The hand holding the cigarette shook.
Ryan walked over to the glass case where the thin man sat. Contemptuously he shouldered past him, almost knocking his high stool over. He reached for a sliding panel behind the counter, slid it back, exposing a pile of cartons of cigarettes. “Whoever robbed Doc got away with a lot of butts.”
He started to turn to face the room when it happened. Rusty Garsen, at table one, inverted his cue in his hands, caught in by the shooting end. It described a short arc, caught the patrolman across the side of his head with a sound like the popping of an overripe pumpkin. Ryan’s uniform hat flew halfway across the room, blood ran down the side of his face as he tumbled into a heap behind the counter.
There was a sudden silence. The others in the room stood frozen, with vacant, staring expressions on their faces. Suddenly they all seemed to come to life at once. Garsen threw the cue across the room, sprinted for the door. The others stampeded after him. As suddenly as it happened, it was all over. The room was empty save for Mac, the poolroom proprietor, wringing his hands. He stood staring with stricken eyes at the unconscious man, whose blood was running down his face to stain the blue of his uniform a dark black.
Jack Allen had no idea where he was going when he ran out of the closeness of the poolroom to the cold clearness of the winter night. All he did know was that he was not going home, that he probably could never go home again. He’d listened too often with morbid interest to the description of what happened to cop killers in the back rooms of the precinct houses. He never returned to the East Side.
Weeks later, when he had bummed his way half across the
Barney Ryan was the name of the cop who walked the beat on the block where Jack Allen lived. Ryan was before the days of the new breed, back when a cop spoke with a brogue instead of a cultivated accent, when he won more arguments with a nightstick than with logic. There were none of the bleeding hearts to decry police brutality and to coddle the underprivileged when Ryan found it necessary to line some of the boys up against a wall and rap their shins with his nightstick if he wasn’t satisfied with their answers.
The neighborhood hangout, unlike the candy stores of today, was the local poolroom. Here behind shuttered doors, in the midst of the odor compounded of part stale nicotine, part untended toilets, many an education that had been started in P.S. 104 was completed.
It had been on a winter night around this time of the year that Barney Ryan strolled into Mac’s Poolroom, his nightstick dangling from the oversized pin that held his badge in place. He closed the door behind him, wrinkled his nose at the characteristic odor of the place, squinted through the ever present fog that swirled in the inverted cone of light spilling from the lamps down onto the green tables.
Mac, the operator of the poolroom, was sitting in his regular spot behind the glass case displaying cigarettes and an open cigar box. He was thin to the point of emaciation, wore a black, sleeveless sweater over a wool shirt, a spit-stained unlit cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips.
The muted clicking of the pool balls stopped, all eyes in the room turned to stare at the red-faced man in the blue uniform.
“Old Doc Schwartz was robbed tonight,” Ryan told them in his husky brogue. “Whoever did it hit the old man too hard. He might die.” His eyes glared balefully around the room. “That would mean that some rat faces a murder one.” He turned to the thin man with the sleeveless sweater. “I warned you what would happen to you if anybody got out of line on my beat. Who did it?”
Mac’s face gleamed wetly in the reflected light. He lifted the dead cigarette from between his lips, shook his head. “Why ask me, Barney? I ain’t been outta the place since I opened up at noon.” The hand holding the cigarette shook.
Ryan walked over to the glass case where the thin man sat. Contemptuously he shouldered past him, almost knocking his high stool over. He reached for a sliding panel behind the counter, slid it back, exposing a pile of cartons of cigarettes. “Whoever robbed Doc got away with a lot of butts.”
He started to turn to face the room when it happened. Rusty Garsen, at table one, inverted his cue in his hands, caught in by the shooting end. It described a short arc, caught the patrolman across the side of his head with a sound like the popping of an overripe pumpkin. Ryan’s uniform hat flew halfway across the room, blood ran down the side of his face as he tumbled into a heap behind the counter.
There was a sudden silence. The others in the room stood frozen, with vacant, staring expressions on their faces. Suddenly they all seemed to come to life at once. Garsen threw the cue across the room, sprinted for the door. The others stampeded after him. As suddenly as it happened, it was all over. The room was empty save for Mac, the poolroom proprietor, wringing his hands. He stood staring with stricken eyes at the unconscious man, whose blood was running down his face to stain the blue of his uniform a dark black.
Jack Allen had no idea where he was going when he ran out of the closeness of the poolroom to the cold clearness of the winter night. All he did know was that he was not going home, that he probably could never go home again. He’d listened too often with morbid interest to the description of what happened to cop killers in the back rooms of the precinct houses. He never returned to the East Side.
Weeks later, when he had bummed his way half across the
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