The Lost Angel by Adam C. Mitchell Page B

as I crossed the traffic rich street into the dim alley. I couldn’t go through the main doors, not with those ogres lording it over everyone. But the alley had a side door where the band did their comings and goings. It was also my way in.
    Inside, the heady cocktail of music from the ‘Sensational Kimmie Saint Claire’ and the smoky light and vibe of the chatter filled my senses. I made my way to the bar like a moth to a flame and sat down. I looked around the packed club, taking in the small tables. Finding one in a corner, I sat down.
    I asked a cocktail waitress if she had seen my old friend, Rudy. She pointed to a guy in a low lit corner booth. He was twenty-something, with greasy hair and skin and a day-old shadow around his cigarette clad mouth.
    Old before his time, this city could do that if you let it. I ordered two whiskeys, went over and placed a murky glass in front of him. Rudy looked up.
    "You wouldn't be Rudy, would ya? What’s kicking?”
    Rudy drank the whisky in one without a word or a thank you. An evil devilish smile crossed his spotted, pocked face.
    He motioned for me to take a seat. My right hand stayed inside my old overcoat pocket, on my colt. Just in case the deal went sour.
    “So, what can I do for you, buddy?”
    I placed my battered fedora on the table. “Your partner bought the farm. His bragging got him in hot water if you catch my drift. I saw the package and took it, better me than the goons chasing after him.’ I leaned forward. ‘I saw the wad of presidents and the plans.”
        “So, Tony’s a cold lump of meat. I hear you, but what’s that got to do with me?”
    “Listen, Rudy, unless you want me to rat you to the thirty-fourth and get you a reservation at Sin Sing, I want in. Not the measly ten per cent you offered Tony though, I want it cut down the middle.”
    Rudy looked dumbfounded. His eyes glazed open and his cigarette fell from his slack-jawed mouth, I could see the beads of panic running down his forehead. Like a weasel trying to bolt he looked at me, around the club, then back at me, a worried look on his face. After an age, he said, “How do I know you’re not a cop or a hitter?”
    I couldn’t help but let out a sarcastic laugh. “Coz if I were, you’d be dead alongside your pal or in the birdcage by now.”
    The greasy weasel let out an uneasy but relieved sigh. “True.”
        “Let’s say I’m interested. How do I know you won’t do a George C. Parker and con me out of the loot? Or worse. How do I know I can trust you? Or that you’re on the level?”
    Ruddy grabbed a drink from a passing waitress. I tossed the wad of bills to Rudy, hoping to sweeten the pot. I could tell this slick wily was biting. “The way I see it, pal. You need a second. A bagman. So, unless you’re Harry Houdini, you need me to pull this off. Now, you’ve got those presidents to help you think, so I’m going to grab a scotch and wait for you.”
    In the time it took me to walk to the bar, order and return, I could see he’d come around.
    “Okay. Say I’m interested. Tony drank too much anyway. What d’you want to know?”             
    After ordering him another drink, I answered, “Well, buddy, the drop-off and cargo would be a start, and how the hell are we meant to get out of this town? This is Victor’s place. If we steal from him were looking at a trip down the Burbank River in our near future. You get me?”
    Rudy rubbed his chin. “The time’s midnight Saturday. The cargo is green. Cold hard cash. Eighty grand to be exact, and we get out fast, as fast as we can. I know whose joint this is, and frankly, for that payout, I’m ready to take a swim. Besides, we’ll be in the city’s dust before our pal Victor wakes up.”
    Eighty grand . I had always been a small-time crook. This was big for me. Rudy explained the money was dirty and would be well guarded on the night. I whistled at the thought of what the money could do for me.
    Rudy led me