Chapter 2
CHICAGO - NEXT DAY
The street is covered with snow. John and Ford, without overcoats, the collars of their tuxedos turned up against the bitter cold, come down the steps of the elevated train, carrying their instruments. The only thing that keeps Ford from freezing is that he is boiling over inside with anger. As they proceed along the sidewalk, Ford finally can't hold it any more. “ Greased Lightning! Why do I listen to you? I ought to have my head examined!”
“I thought you weren't talking to me,” John states over his shoulder as they dash through the snowy street.
“Look at the bull fiddle - it's dressed warmer than I am,” Ford whines.
They come up to a building in front of which are gathered several small groups of shivering musicians, also equipped with instruments. John and Ford exchange frozen waves with their colleagues, start through the entrance. Once inside, they head up a flight of stairs, then John moves down the corridor, Ford tagging along grimly beside him. Other job-seeking musicians mill around and a mélange of musical sounds and singing voices issues from the various offices, studios and rehearsal halls. John and Ford come up to a door marked: Keynote Musical Agency - Bands, Soloists, Singers. John opens the door, revealing a crummy office, with a blond secretary behind a desk.
“Anything today?” John asks.
“Nothing,” the secretary replies.
“Thank you,” John replies and shuts the door, and they shuffle along to the next agency, which is marked: Jules Stein - Music Corporation of America. John opens the door. This is like the other office - except a little crummier. There is redheaded secretary behind the desk.
“Anything today?” John asks.
“Nothing,” the secretary replies.
“Thank you,” John replies and shuts the door, and they shuffle along to the next agency, which is marked: Sig Poliakoff - Bands for All Occasions. There is the usual secretary behind the usual desk, and her name is Nellie. She is a brunette, somewhat past her prime, but still attractive.
“Anything today?” John asks.
Nellie looks up seeing who it is and snarled, “Oh, it's you! You got a lot of nerve.”
John sees he’s made a mistake, “Thank you,” he says and he shuts the door quickly, and starts to move on.
Nellie’s voice filters through the door, “John - come back here!” she ordered. John stops in his tracks. With a resigned shrug to Ford, he opened the door again, and the two of them start inside the office. Beside Nellie, there is another secretary pecking away at a typewriter. Nellie's face is grim as John and Ford come up.
John knows he’s in hot water with this woman, so tries to turn on the charm. “Now look, Nellie - if it's about last Saturday night - I can explain everything.”
Nellie ignores John, not feeling particularly inclined to John’s charms at the moment and looks at Ford, while pointing at John. “What a heel! I spend four dollars to get my hair marcelled, I buy me a new negligee, I bake him a great big pizza pie...” she then glares at John directly, “- and where were you?”
Ford is inclined to feel for Nellie, as that is a lot of effort and turns to John, “Yeah - where were you?”
“With you,” John tells Ford hoping he’ll get with the program.
Ford looks confused, “With me?”
John loves Ford like a brother, but some days he wouldn’t mind being an orphan per se. “Yeah, Don’t you remember?” he says, hoping Ford will get the hint, for there is no way he could tell Nellie was really at the track. He turns to Nellie, “He has this bad tooth - it got impacted - the whole jaw swole up…”
Ford not catching on right away, “It did?” he asked, then saw the look John was throwing him, and figured it out, that he has to cover once again for John’s blunders, but dutifully goes along. “Boy, did it ever!”
“So I had to rush him to the hospital and give him a transfusion...” John tells her, thinking that was the most stupidest thing he ever said, as he turns to Ford for support, hoping to get out of this mess before he makes it worse. “Right?”
“Right. We have the same blood type...” Ford agrees, wondering if it’s the lack of food that was making John’s brain go on the fritz, as he was usually a better liar than this. Not that being a liar was one of John’s best qualities…he didn’t use to do it that often, but as of late?
John hurries to agree, thinking Nellie is buying his spiel, “Yes, Type O.”
“Oh?” Nellie asks, only a small hint that she’s on to his BS.
John feels he’s losing control of the situation fast, and moved around the desk, leaning just a bit on one hip, making eye contact with the slightly older woman and gives his best pout, “Nellie baby, I'll make it up to you,” he practically purrs.
Nellie snorts, “You're making it up pretty good so far.”
John turns up the heat by leaning in closer to her, “The minute we get a job, I'm going to take you out to the swellest restaurant.”
Ford rolls his eyes, seeing Sheppard at his games again, but times were hard and they needed money, so he looked at Nellie fore longingly, “How about it, Nellie? Has Poliakoff got anything for us? We're desperate.”
Nellie, feeling it’s time to get one of her own on John, gives a slight sly smile, “Well, it just so happens he is looking for a bass and a sax -“ She turned to the other secretary, “Right” she winked at her, wanting her to play along.
“Right,” the other woman quickly agreed, and turned to hide her smirk.
Ford looks like he’s ready to jump for joy. “Did you hear that, John?” he asked, pleased as punch, that Nellie was forgiving John his stupidity.
John is looking happy as well, “What's the job?”
Nellie is looking very pleased with herself, “Oh, just three weeks in Florida.”
“Florida?” Ford asked, not believing their luck.
“Yes, the Seminole-Ritz, in Miami. Transportation and all expenses paid...” Nellie tells them, enjoying the looks upon their faces.
“Isn't she terrific?” John says as he places a quick peck on Nellie’s cheek, wishing he hadn’t stood her up, even if he wasn’t attracted to her in the slightest. He then turned to Ford. “Come on - let's talk to Poliakoff.” They start toward the door of the inner office.
Nellie doesn’t want them going in at the moment and ruin the joke or get herself in trouble, so speaks up quickly, “You better wait a minute, boys - he's got some people in there with him.” And is glad to see that stops them.
***********
POLIAKOFF'S INNER OFFICE
The room is small and cluttered, and the walls are covered with photographs of Poliakoff's clients - bands, vocalists, trios, radio personalities. Sitting behind the desk, speaking urgently into the phone, is Sig Poliakoff, a gruff, likable man in his fifties. Pacing up and down on the other side of the desk is Sweet Sue, flashily-dressed broad, who has seen thirty summers and a few hard winters. As she paces, she nervously flips a large white pill from one hand to the other. Slouched in a chair is Bienstock, a somewhat prissy man of forty wearing thick glasses. He has a card file on his lap, is thumbing through it.
Poliakoff is talking urgently into the phone, “Look, Gladys, it's three weeks in Florida - Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators - they need a couple of girls on sax and bass - what do you mean, who is this? Sig Poliakoff.I got a job for you…Gladys, are you there?” He hands up and looks at the two people in his office. “Meshugeh! Played for a hundred and twelve hours at a marathon dance, and now she's in bed with a nervous collapse.”
Fanning herself with one of the files, then grabs a pill from her purse. Sue looks at Poliakoff, “Tell her to move over.” She has poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher on the desk, and now she plops the pill into her mouth, and washes it down.
Bienstock is still looking through the files in his hands, “What about Cora Jackson?”
“The last I heard, she was playing with the Salvation Army, yet…” Poliakoff seems to have an idea and checks his phone book before picking up the phone again. “Drexel 9044.”
Sue has wandered over to one of the framed photos on the wall. It shows Sue posed in front of her band sixteen girls, all blonde, all in identical gowns. On the drum it says
Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators. “Those idiot broads! Here we are all packed to go to Miami, and what happens? The saxophone runs off with a Bible salesman, and the bass fiddle gets herself pregnant.” She turns to glare at Bienstock, “I ought to fire you, Bienstock.”
“Bienstock looks shocked and a bit offended, “Me? I'm the manager of the band not the night watchman.”
Poliakoff’s voice interrupts them as the connection is finally made. “Hello? Let me talk to Bessie Malone…what's she doing in Philadelphia? On the level?” He hangs up and looks at Sue as if she won’t believe this. “Bessie let her hair grow and is playing with Stokowski.”
“Black Bottom Bessie?” Sue gasps with disbelief.
“Schpielt zich mit der Philharmonic,” mutters in his own tongue, that being Polish.
“How about Rosemary Schultz?” Bienstock asks, knowing they needed to keep going through the list.
Poliakoff leans a bit forward as if what he’s going to say is a secret, “Did you hear? She slashed her wrists when Valentino died!
Sue groans as if in pain, “We might as well all slash our wrists if we don't round up two dames by this evening.” She picks up her handbag. Bienstock rises, takes his glasses off, puts them in his pocket.
“Look, Sig, you know the kind of girls we need. We don't care where you find them just get them on that train by eight o'clock.,” Bienstock tells Poliakoff.
Poliakoff gives a huge fake smile, “Be nonchalant. Trust Poliakoff. The moment anything turns up, I'll give you a little tingle.”
“Bye, Sig,” Sue mutters, sounding exhausted. “I wonder if I have room for another ulcer?” she asks herself as she holds her stomach. Bienstock opens the door, and follows Sue into the outer office. John and Ford, who have been biding their time outside, slip in and shut the door after them.
John knows he’s got to talk fast if he’s going to convince Sig to give him and Ford the job, for they were not the most popular musicians around, but they were pretty good, even if they both taught themselves how to play. “Hey, Sig can we talk to you?”
Poliakoff picks up the phone, “Nellie, get me long distance.” Then he looks up at John and Ford, “What is it?”
“It’s about the Florida job?” Ford speaks up, really excited about getting out of Chicago.
“The Florida job?” Poliakoff asks, confused as to why these guy would be asking him about it.
“Yeah, Nellie told us about it,” John tells him.
“We’re not too late are we?” Ford asks, praying it wasn’t too late.
Poliakoff is not amused at the guys and glares at them, “What are you - a couple of comedians? Get out of here!” Then he’s speaking into the phone, “Long distance? Get me the WilliamMorrisAgency in New York.”
Now its John’s turn to be confused, “You need a bass and a sax, don't you?”
“The instruments are right, but you are not.” Poliakoff tells them, and then speaks into the phone again. “I want to speak to Mr. Morris.”
Ford doesn’t get it either as he exchanges a look with John, “What's wrong with us?”
“You're the wrong shape. Goodbye.” Poliakoff snaps with exasperation.
John doesn’t get it, but knows one never gets anywhere unless they push, so he does. “The wrong shape? You looking for hunchbacks or something?”
Poliakoff taps his desk while he’s waiting for the person he asked for on the phone to pick up. “It's not the backs that worry me.”
John’s getting fed up with this game, as he doesn’t understand why Sig is giving them such a hard time. “What kind of band is this, anyway?”
Poliakoff leans back in his chair, still on hold and looks John and Ford in the eye. “You’ve got to be under twenty-five…”
“We could pass for that,” Ford states with enthusiasm.
Poliakoff is suddenly finding this amusing, “…you got to be blonde…”
“We could dye our hair,” Ford adds, not seeing this as a big deal.
“…and you got to be girls,” Poliakoff smirks knowingly.
Ford, on a roll, “We could…”
“No, we couldn’t!” John interrupts, finally understanding the situation and the joke played on them by Nellie.
Poliakoff is now ignoring them as he goes back to the phone, “William Morris!”
Ford looks confused as he turns to John for explanation. “You mean it’s a girl’s band?”
John now knows he’s been played and isn’t pleased. He knows its part of the game, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Yeah, that's what he means. Good old Nellie!” John starts for the door, his anger at being played suddenly getting the better of him. “I ought to wring her neck!”
“Yes, I’m holding on,” Poliakoff shouts into the phone.
“Wait a minute, John. Lets talk this over.” Ford says quickly, not wanting this opportunity to slip by so quickly. He turns to Poliakoff, “Why couldn't we do it? Last year, when we played in that gypsy tearoom, we wore gold earrings. And you remember when you booked us with that Hawaiian band?” Ford pantomimes doing a hula dance “Grass skirts!”
“What’s with him he drinks?” Poliakoff asks John.
John smacks Ford upside the head, “No. And he ain't been eating so good, either. He's got an empty stomach and it's gone to his head.”
“But, John three weeks in Florida! We could borrow some clothes from the girls in the chorus…”
John looks at Ford as if he’s lost his mind. “You've flipped your wig!”
Ford snaps his fingers with glee, “Now you're talking! We pick up a couple of second-hand wigs a little padding here and there call ourselves Johanna and Aida…”
“Johanna and Aida!” John looks disgustedly at Ford, “Come on!” He drags Ford toward the door, but Poliakoff stops them.
“Look, if you boys want to pick up a little money tonight...” John and Ford stop and turn with some hope. “At the University of Illinois they are having, you should excuse the expression, a St. Valentine's dance.”
“We’ll take it!” John replies without a single thought, as they’re that desperate.
“You got it. It's six dollars a man. Be on the campus in Urbana at eight o'clock,” Poliakoff tells them and goes back to his phone call.
“All the way to Urbana for a one night stand?” Ford whines, for he knows how far a distance that is.
“It's twelve bucks. We can get one of the overcoats out of hock,” John informs Ford, as he’s feeling bad he’s let his friend down like this.
“Hello, Mr. Morris? This is Poliakoff, in Chicago. Say, you wouldn't have a couple of girl musicians available? A sax player and a base?” Poliakoff asks over the phone.
Ford stops John at the door, “Look, if William Morris doesn't come through…”
John may feel guilty, but he’s not feeling that guilty. “Come on, Aida!” He pulls him into the outer office where they see Nellie and the other woman chuckling.
“It's a hundred miles, John…it's snowing how are we going to get there?” Ford whispers to John just outside Sig’s door.
John is wondering the same thing. “I'll think of something.” Then seeing Nellie, “Don't crowd me,” he says as he moves father into the office, having come up with an idea.
“How did it go, girls?” Nellie asks, sharing a laugh with her co-worker.
Ford is furious, “We ought to wring your neck.”
John is pleased that Ford is with the program even if he doesn’t know it. “Ford, that's no way to talk,” he says warmly, then turns up the charm full blast as he turns back to Nellie. “Nellie baby, what are you doing tonight?”
“Why?” Nellie asks suspiciously.
John turns up the smile, “Because I got some plans…” he purrs at her, running a finger up her arm.
Nellie feeling the heat, thinks she can give John another chance. “I'm not doing anything. I just thought I'd go home and have some cold pizza…”
Ford has moved to the office door, not understanding how John can do what he does, much less what it had to do with getting them hundred miles in the snow.
“And you'll be in all evening?” Now leaning in and turning up the wattage of his hazel eyes, licking his lips just a little bit.
Nellie has bought into the seduction hook line and sinker, “Yes, John.”
John suddenly sits up straight and grins like a Cheshire cat, “Good! Then you won't need your car.”
“My car? Why, you…” Nellie has finally realized she got played, but John silences her protest with a kiss.
Ford shakes his head with mock admiration. “Isn't he a bit of terrific?” Ford asked no one in particular, amazed once again how John just gets the women to melt at his feet. He can’t wait to see the tables turned or the woman that could snare John Sheppard…hell, he’d pay to see that!
*********************
CHARLIE'S GARAGE
John and Ford, carrying their instruments, are coming along the snow-covered sidewalk toward a garage entrance, above which is a sign reading: Charlie’s Garage. Their shoulders are hunched up against the cold, as they go to get Nellie’s car, as John knows she keeps it here and the attendant would have the keys.
Ford shivers, pulling up the collar of his tuxedo even higher. “We could've had three weeks in Florida all expenses paid. Lying around in the sun -palm trees, frying fish...” he states, his voice drifting off a bit as if day dreaming as they walk.
John looks cold and he’s more annoyed at being played on a level that he can’t admit. He’s aware that the ‘play you pay’ philosophy, but that doesn’t keep it from irking him to no end. “Knock it off, will you?” he snaps at Ford.
The guys step over the chain blocking the entrance, start into the garage. They see rows of parked cars, a lube rack and a gas pump. Against the wall under a naked electric light bulb hanging from a cord, five men are playing stud poker. A couple of mechanics, in grease-stained coveralls, are watching the game. The dealer dressed in a suite like the other players, has a toothpick in his mouth as he grins cheerfully while he deals the next set of cards.
“King high-pair of bullets-possible straight - possible nothing-pair of eights,” he says keeping his eyes on the cards and the hands touching them, to be sure no one is cheating…besides him.
One of the mechanics notices John and Ford entering the garage and nudges Toothpick Charlie. Charlie looks up, and seeing the instrument cases, leaps to his feet, drawing a gun from his shoulder holster. The other four players also jump up, and pulling their guns, level them at boys.
“All right, you two drop ‘em,” Charlie orders, using his gun to gesture to the instrument cases.
Ford is startled and confused, “Drop what?”
John is also scared, but he remains calm, and still. “We came to pick up a car,” he tells the men with the guns pointing at them.
“Oh, yeah?” Toothpick Charlie asks, but it sounds more like he doesn’t believe them. He nods to one of the mechanics, who steps up to John and Ford and opens their instrument cases.
“Nellie Weinmeyer's car,” John tells the man, as he watches the mechanic show the others that all that was inside was actually instruments.
“Musicians,” the man snorts, finding the situation funny.
“Wise guys!” Charlie snarls at the boys, then mops his brow with the back of his sleeve, then puts his gun back in the holster, and picks up the deck of cards again. “Let’s go. Pair of aces bets,” he states, more than willing to get back into the game.
The other players resume their seats. John and Ford follow the mechanic toward the parked cars. John keeps an eye over his shoulder as he walks. “It's a '25 Hupmobile coupe. Green.”
The mechanic leads them up to the car, which is parked near the gas pump. “Need some gas?”
Ford searches his pockets and finds some change, “Yeah, like about forty cents’ worth.”
The mechanic unscrews the cap of the gas tank, inserts the rubber hose from the pump. “Put it on Miss Weinmeyer's bill?”
John gets a devious grin on his face and signals Ford to put his coins away. “Why not?” he said, and then his look gets more wicked, as the idea of getting back at the woman suddenly appeals to him. “And while you’re at it - fill ‘er up.”
From the street outside comes the loud squeal of tires. Ford glances off casually toward the entrance in time to see black Dusenberg bursts the chain hanging across the street entrance and skids into the garage, and comes to a screeching stop some ten feet from the card players. Toothpick Charlie and his cronies leap up and reach for their guns. Too late. Four men have scrambled out of the car, two armed with submachine guns, the other two with sawed-off shotguns. They are Spats Kolya’s henchmen.
“All right, everybody hands up and face the wall,” one of the henchmen order pointing his gun at the poker players. Frightened, the men start to obey.
Ford is watching the scene, open-mouthed. John grabs his shoulder, pulls him down behind the Hupmobile out of sight, just as the second henchman notices the mechanic standing petrified beside the gas pump. “Hey - join us!” he tells the mechanic, waving his gun as if an invitation to join the party. The mechanic raises his hands, moves reluctantly toward the six men lined up against the wall. “Okay, boss.” The second henchmen says over his shoulder, his eyes locked on the men against the wall.
A pair of men’s feet steps down from the limousine. They are encased in immaculate spats. It doesn’t take more than a second for Ford, who is crouching behind the Hupmobile, with John, to recognize who it is. He grabs John’s arm and whispers, “It’s Spats Kolya…” he begins, but John clamps a hand over his mouth.
Spats Kolya joins his armed henchmen, who are covering the seven men facing the all with their hands up. Spats looks very blasé, even sounds it as he addresses the person he’s here to see. “Hello, Charlie. Long time no see.”
Toothpick Charlie glances over his shoulder nervously, “What is it Spats? What do you want here?”
“Just dropped in to pay my respects,” Spats tells the man.
Charlie gives a little chuckle, “You don’t owe me no nothing,” he tells Spats, still sounding very nervous.
Spats give a little chuckle himself, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You were nice enough to recommend my mortuary to some of your friends…” he starts to tell Charlie as he stoles over to the table and picks up the deck of cards, then begins to start to deal out another round to the abandoned poker hands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charlie tries to deny, but sounds too nervous to come across innocent.
“So, now I got all those coffins on my hands and I hate to see them go to waste,” Spats replies as if Charlie didn’t say anything and continues to deal out the cards.
“Honest, Spats. I had nothing to do with it,” Toothpick Charlie tries to tell Spats, who isn’t listening.
Spats has his focus on the cards and deals Toothpick Charlie's fifth card, then turns up the
hole card and shakes his head. “Too bad, Charlie. You would have had three eights.” He grins, and then flips the cards away. “Goodbye, Charlie!”
Knowing what’s coming, Charlie turns and begins to beg, “No, Spats - no, no, no -NO!” he screams.
Spats nods, and the two machine-gunners raise their weapons, and start to fire methodically at their victims. Behind the Hupmobile, Ford screws his eyes shut painfully as the steady chatter of bullets continues. “I think I'm going to be sick,” he mutters under his breath.
The machine guns stop firing. There is a moment's silence. Suddenly, the gas tank of the Hupmobile overflows and the rubber hose from the pump whips out, gushing gasoline over the floor. Spats and his henchmen, hearing the SOUND, whirl around and catch sight of John and Ford squatting behind the car.
“All right - come on out of there,” Spats orders.
John and Ford emerge slowly from behind the Hupmobile, John automatically stepping in front of his friend Ford. They try to raise their hands, but find this rather difficult to manage while holding on to their instruments. Ford darts a horrified glance toward the foot of the wall over John’s shoulder.
“We didn't see anything,” John tells Spats quickly, hoping the man won’t see them as a threat. “Did we?” he asks Ford, hoping for once Ford is with the program.
“No…nothing. Besides, it's none of our business if you guys want to knock each other off…” Ford tells Spats with a small smile, and then winces when John nudges him violently with his elbow, and he breaks off.
Spats takes a moment to study the boys as they seem familiar, “Don't I know you two from somewhere?” he asked them.
Trying to think fast, John speaks up. “ We're just a couple of musicians we come to pick up a car Nellie Weinmeyer's car there's a dance tonight,” he tells Spats, while slowly edging his way, way from the men with guns. “Come on, Ford,” he says when he notices Ford wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing.
“Wait a minute,” Spats growls. “Where do you think you're going?” he demands.
John turns on his most charming smile, “To Urbana. It's a hundred miles,” he replied as casually as he can.
“You ain’t going no where,” Spats tell them.
“We’re not?” Ford asked, quivering so much, he subconsciously takes a step behind John.
“The only way you'll get to Urbana is feet first,” Spats tell them, and gestures for his men to step forward to keep them from leaving, by pointing their guns at John and Ford ignoring the ‘dead men’ behind them.
During this, one of the bodies huddled grotesquely against the foot of the wall begins to stir. It is Toothpick Charlie. e is covered with blood, but there is still a spark of life in
him and his toothpick is still clutched between his teeth. Painfully, he starts to worm his way across the floor toward a phone on a wooden shelf, for Spats and his gang are facing John and Ford and are not aware of his activities.
“I don't like no witnesses,” Spats tells the boys.
John realizes his charm isn’t working, “honestly, we won’t breathe a word,” he tells Spats.
“You won’t breathe nothing’ not even air,” Spats tells them. He motions lazily to the Second Henchman. The henchman slowly levels his machine gun at John and Ford, who stand frozen. At that very moment, Toothpick Charlie reaches up for the phone. But he is too weak to hold on, and the receiver drops from his limp hand, and clatters to the asphalt floor.
Instantly, Spats and his henchman wheel around. Spats grabs the machine gun from the Second Henchman, and perforate what is left of Charlie with a hail of lead. Toothpick Charlie crumbles in a heap. He is quite dead. Spats' steps forward and disdainfully kicks the toothpick out of Charlie's mouth.
John and Ford have taken advantage of this momentary diversion. Like scalded jackasses, they are sprinting toward the entrance, hanging on to their instruments. Spats and his boys pivot, see the two running. They let go with a salvo of shots, just as John and Ford scoot through the garage door and disappear down the street.
A couple of the henchmen start after John and Ford, but the sound of sirens filled the air, a gesture from Spats stops them. “Come on - let's blow. We'll take care of those guys later.”
They all pile into the black Dussenberg. The driver shifts into reverse and the car shoots backwards out of the garage.
Several blocks away, John and Ford come skidding around the corner and race down the snow-covered alley. The sound of tires squealing and sirens fill the air, and John grabs Ford’s sleeve to make sure he keeps up.
“I think they got me,” Ford yells as they run.
“They got the bull-fiddle,” John tells Ford as he keeps going, barely taking a moment to look over his shoulder.
Ford stops suddenly and starts feeling himself all over. “You don't see any blood?”
John’s annoyed and can’t believe Ford has stopped. “Not yet. But if those guys catch us, there'll be blood all over. Type O!”
Ford realizes they stopped running and that’s a very bad thing, so they start running, this time even faster. “Where are we running, John?” he asks, for he knew it would help if they had a direction or something.
“As far away as possible,” John tells him, not really having a plan yet.
Ford shakes his head, not liking John’s answer. “That's not far enough. You don't know those guys! But they know us. Every hood in Chicago will be looking for us…”
They reach the end of the alley. A couple of motorcycle policemen, their sirens wailing, flash by in the direction of the garage. The word must have spread, because pedestrians are also running in the same direction. John stops, looks around quickly, and seeing a cigar store on the corner drags Ford inside, for he has an idea.
John hurries to a wall telephone near the entrance. Ford follows breathlessly.
“Got a nickel?” John asks Ford. He then sets the saxophone case down, taking a coin from Ford inserts it into the slot to make a phone call.
“You going to call the police?” Ford asks, for he can’t believe John would do that, as they let the cops pass moments ago.
John looks at Ford as if he’s nuts. “The police? We'd never live to testify. Not against Spats Kolya.” He then turns to speak into the phone. “Wabash 1098.”
Ford is panicking and begins to pace in front of the phone booth, where John is sitting waiting for the other party to pick up. “We got to get out of town. Maybe we ought to grow beards,” he suggest.
“We are going out of town. But we're going to shave,” John tells Ford.
Ford stops pacing and stares at John as if he lost it. “Shave? At a time like this? Those guys got machine guns…they're going to blast our heads off,” he told John, mimicking one of the henchmen with the gun shooting the air. “And you want to shave?” he said, throwing up his hands in the air.
“Shave our legs, stupid,” John huffs at him.
Ford doesn’t get it one little bit and stars at John hoping the man will make sense some time soon. He sees John shift, the other party on the line and when John speaks it’s a tremulous soprano, “Hello? Mr. Poliakoff? I understand you’re looking for a couple of girl musicians.”
Now Ford gets it, and grins ear to ear, feeling hope fill the air as they have a shot of getting out of Chicago.
****End of Chapter Two****