Read Online The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery by Andrew Bergman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrew Bergman
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anything that might arise, and I’m confident you’ll do the same for me.”
“For two-hundred fish, you can count on it.”
Butler stood up, which meant he had had enough of me. “That’s all I ask, Jack. Just keep me informed. All my life I’ve kept on top of things and it has brought me this.” He waved his arm around the office. “And I’m not letting anybody,” and his voice dropped to a whisper, “ any body, take it from me.” I was getting a ham hero with everything on it, but managed to keep a straight face.
“I don’t think anybody said they were going to take away your office, Mr. Butler.” Eileen opened the door and held it there. Time to go. “Afternoon.” I turned and walked out, chucking the redhead under her chin.
“Stay as sweet as you are, Eileen.”
“Get lost,” she said, showing me all four rows of teeth.
I left the Schubert Building feeling a little like a mogul and the uniformed turkey downstairs smiled at me—doormen and guards can judge how much is in your wallet by the way you walk or something. It’s uncanny. I decided to hold on to the cash rather than stick it in my office safe, figuring it would help intimidate the boys at the poker table that evening. When three Sunnyside low-stakes gamblers get a whiff of sawbucks in the air, their game gets affected. It has to.
Which is why I only lost five bucks that evening, at least two or three below par for me. I’m not the most effective poker player in the world for the simple reason that I smile whenever I get a good hand. It’s what they call a reflex. So the hundred didn’t do me all that much good on Friday night.
But it did me a lot of good on Saturday, beginning at 3:00 A.M ., when I heard soft pounding on my door and someone whispering, “Mr. LeVine, Mr. LeVine. Jack LeVine?” I got up slowly, not all that sure I was hearing right, but the beating on my door got more insistent and I didn’t want to wake up the whole building. Peering through the peephole was, as always, useless, and I was so foggy and crusty-eyed that I wouldn’t have recognized Rita Hayworth standing naked in the hall. It wasn’t Rita anyhow. It was some guy who asked me to please let him in because he had to talk with me. He realized it was a funny hour but his life was in great danger. Another hour and he might be dead. I wasn’t sure that I was doing anything right but I let the guy in.
He said his name was Al Rubine.
I UNLOCKED THE DOOR and Rubine came through it like he’d been shot out of a circus cannon. He went to the living-room window, opened the Venetian blinds a little, and looked down into the street, just like in the movies. He was breathing hard and perspiring like a guy laying asphalt at high noon.
“Thanks for letting me in, Jack. I appreciate it.” He sat down on the living-room couch, took off his hat and turned my big three-way lamp to low. I just stood and looked at him, still more asleep than awake.
“I’ll make some coffee,” I told him and somnambulated into the kitchen, trailing the cord of my white terry-cloth robe. I fussed with the kettle, got a high flame going and stuck my head out of the kitchen archway to size Rubine up. He sat short and squat in dark slacks, an open sport shirt, and tan lightweight sport jacket. A pinkie ring adorned his left hand. He had a few black hairs combed carefully across his head, but in a stiff wind he’d be as bald as I am. Rubine’s high-cheekboned face was a blank: his nose had been broken a few times, his lips were thick, his skin sallow, and his eyes had been turned off a long time ago. Al Rubine looked like a smalltime crook. And he was in my apartment at a quarter past three in the morning, huffing and puffing like a marathon runner, because he was a small-time crook who found himself in the big time and wanted to get the hell out before he wasn’t in any kind of time at all. Rubine looked very unhappy sitting on the couch. I watched him slick back his side
“For two-hundred fish, you can count on it.”
Butler stood up, which meant he had had enough of me. “That’s all I ask, Jack. Just keep me informed. All my life I’ve kept on top of things and it has brought me this.” He waved his arm around the office. “And I’m not letting anybody,” and his voice dropped to a whisper, “ any body, take it from me.” I was getting a ham hero with everything on it, but managed to keep a straight face.
“I don’t think anybody said they were going to take away your office, Mr. Butler.” Eileen opened the door and held it there. Time to go. “Afternoon.” I turned and walked out, chucking the redhead under her chin.
“Stay as sweet as you are, Eileen.”
“Get lost,” she said, showing me all four rows of teeth.
I left the Schubert Building feeling a little like a mogul and the uniformed turkey downstairs smiled at me—doormen and guards can judge how much is in your wallet by the way you walk or something. It’s uncanny. I decided to hold on to the cash rather than stick it in my office safe, figuring it would help intimidate the boys at the poker table that evening. When three Sunnyside low-stakes gamblers get a whiff of sawbucks in the air, their game gets affected. It has to.
Which is why I only lost five bucks that evening, at least two or three below par for me. I’m not the most effective poker player in the world for the simple reason that I smile whenever I get a good hand. It’s what they call a reflex. So the hundred didn’t do me all that much good on Friday night.
But it did me a lot of good on Saturday, beginning at 3:00 A.M ., when I heard soft pounding on my door and someone whispering, “Mr. LeVine, Mr. LeVine. Jack LeVine?” I got up slowly, not all that sure I was hearing right, but the beating on my door got more insistent and I didn’t want to wake up the whole building. Peering through the peephole was, as always, useless, and I was so foggy and crusty-eyed that I wouldn’t have recognized Rita Hayworth standing naked in the hall. It wasn’t Rita anyhow. It was some guy who asked me to please let him in because he had to talk with me. He realized it was a funny hour but his life was in great danger. Another hour and he might be dead. I wasn’t sure that I was doing anything right but I let the guy in.
He said his name was Al Rubine.
I UNLOCKED THE DOOR and Rubine came through it like he’d been shot out of a circus cannon. He went to the living-room window, opened the Venetian blinds a little, and looked down into the street, just like in the movies. He was breathing hard and perspiring like a guy laying asphalt at high noon.
“Thanks for letting me in, Jack. I appreciate it.” He sat down on the living-room couch, took off his hat and turned my big three-way lamp to low. I just stood and looked at him, still more asleep than awake.
“I’ll make some coffee,” I told him and somnambulated into the kitchen, trailing the cord of my white terry-cloth robe. I fussed with the kettle, got a high flame going and stuck my head out of the kitchen archway to size Rubine up. He sat short and squat in dark slacks, an open sport shirt, and tan lightweight sport jacket. A pinkie ring adorned his left hand. He had a few black hairs combed carefully across his head, but in a stiff wind he’d be as bald as I am. Rubine’s high-cheekboned face was a blank: his nose had been broken a few times, his lips were thick, his skin sallow, and his eyes had been turned off a long time ago. Al Rubine looked like a smalltime crook. And he was in my apartment at a quarter past three in the morning, huffing and puffing like a marathon runner, because he was a small-time crook who found himself in the big time and wanted to get the hell out before he wasn’t in any kind of time at all. Rubine looked very unhappy sitting on the couch. I watched him slick back his side
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