Bugsy Malone by Alan Parker Page A

down the stairs and the spotlight picked her out as she wove in and out of the customers, teasing and tantalising them with her slinky singing. She knew how to hold an audience, and the chorus girls, moving in contorted, rhythmic circles on the stage, seemed to give a faint glow that evaporated in the air compared with the lasting, lingering magic that flowed from Tallulah, and engulfed everyone.

T HE BIRDS WERE whistling at eleven a.m. on Monday morning at the junction of Fiveways at Lexburg and Denver. They obviously didn’t know what Fat Sam had on the agenda.
    Bugsy shielded his eyes from the sun with his hand as he scoured the five roads that led to the Fiveways intersection. So far, there was no sign of anyone. Bugsy checked his wristwatch, which said three minutes after eleven. Dan was late.
    Bugsy leaned on the side of Fat Sam’s black sedan and drummed on the roof with his fingers. Inside, sitting in the back seat, were Sam and Looney Bergonzi, who was holding two pies in his hands. Not ordinary pies, but light green fluffy specials that would see off the toughest gangster. Looney had a face that was well named. His glassy staring eyes, wide open, were fixed, unblinking, in their sockets. Sam gave him a pat on the cheek with the back of his hand but Looney offered no response. Sam shrugged his Italian shoulders – there seemed no flickering of human life at all in Looney’s mad gaze.
    Suddenly, Bugsy banged on the roof of the sedan and Sam jumped in alarm.
    â€œThey’re coming!”
    Jackson, Dandy Dan’s chauffeur, was stylishly peddling Dan’s immaculate bike sedan down the avenue of tall pines.
    Fat Sam pushed Looney under the back seat. “OK, Looney. Get out of sight. Keep your head down. You know what to do. Wait until I give you the OK. Right?”
    Looney said nothing. He held the fluffy green pies in the palms of his hands, ready for the act that had made him famous.
    Jackson pulled on the hand brake at the side of his sedan and came to a squeaky halt in the soft mud. Dan opened his door and climbed out at the same time as Sam. The two hoods didn’t take their eyes off one another as they straightened their coats. Sam’s jacket, always too small for him, had crumpled up into a concertina during the journey to Fiveways. Dan, of course, looked like he’d walked straight out of his tailor’s fitting room. He coughed elegantly into his cupped hand and was the first to speak.
    â€œWhat can I do for you, Sam?”
    â€œHow about a small dose of straight talk, Dan?”
    Dan smoothed his moustache with his forefinger. “Suits me.”
    â€œYou’ve been taking liberties, Dan.”
    â€œI’ve been taking what’s mine.”
    â€œTrouble is, it belongs to me.”
    â€œToo bad.”
    Neither of them was going to give an inch. It was obvious to Sam he wasn’t getting anywhere by being tough, so he tried a different tack – being humble. It didn’t come easy.
    â€œNow, I’m sure we can talk things over sensibly, Dan. We’ve been in this game a long time, yous and me. After all, I’m a businessman!”
    â€œYou’re a dime-a-dozen gangster, Sam.”
    This remark hit Fat Sam deep in the gut. He responded in the only way he knew how, and started shouting at the dapper figure.
    â€œNow, you button your lip, mister. Don’t talk dirt to me. I don’t like your mouth. I have to have some respect.”
    â€œYou’d slit your own throat for two bits plus tax.”
    The blood ran up into Sam’s head and his bulbous cheeks puffed out like big red apples. “You keep your wisecracks behind your teeth, mister.”
    â€œKeep talking,” smirked Dan.
    Sam regained his cool with an effort and tugged at the bottom of his jacket. The creases pulled out for a moment but soon bounced back when he let go.
    â€œI have my position to think of,” he said in a pompous tone.
    Dan knew he had