Airtight Willie & Me Read Free Page A

office.
    Willie said, “Mr. Gilbranski liked me, and loves you! He was sold on my levelheadedness when I was able to put up the four thousand dollars from the sale of my farm as proof I’m used to big money. He’s satisfied I wouldn’t cause him no scandal. He told me he’d trust you with his life. He said to tell you, he takes care of business inside the office and you take care of me and Aunt Lula . . . I mean Mr. Ellis, outside the office.”
    I left to bring back Willie’s and the mark’s shares. At least, the mark was expecting his. When I got back, I gave Willie a manila envelope, fat with greenbacks rolled around the boodle of play money.
    Willie frowned and said with great annoyance, “Where the hell is Mr. Ellis’s share?”
    I shrugged and said, “Mr. Gilbranski said every tub must sit on its own foundation and make its own strong bond good faith. Aunt Lula . . . I mean Mr. Ellis ain’t showed his good faith in the right way.”
    Willie said huffily, “Since Mr. Ellis’s share ain’t here, take it all back! It ain’t right to have mine, and he don’t have his.”
    I said, “I didn’t say Mr. Ellis couldn’t get his share. All he’s got to do is satisfy the boss he’s a solid citizen like you did.”
    The mark’s eyes were spewing gray fire as he flung back his overcoat to reveal what could only be the handle of a hand ax protruding from his benny’s inside pocket.
    He blurted out, “Mr. Jackson sure spoke the truth. I’ve already decided none of us is getting a share unless I get mine . . . I’ll be back in two minutes, so stay here on the bench!”
    Willie and I looked at each other. At this most delicate juncture, Willie was supposed to go with the mark to get his cash bond.
    As we watched the mark unlock the trunk of a new Buick across the street, I said, “Willie, we oughtta cut this one loose!”
    Willie said, “Shit, I got a feeling he’s gonna be sweet as bee pussy. I’d play for the motherfucking devil today!”
    I feverishly tried to tie the mark to some celebrated ax murder in Ohio long ago. The mark returned and counted out a stack of “C” notes. As I was stuffing the entire three grand score into my overcoat pocket, the mark vised my shoulders and balefully stared into my eyes.
    He said, “Please! Mr. Franklin, don’t take my money to that peckerwood if you ain’t damn sure he’s on the dead level!”
    I said, “He’s famous for shooting straight in business and everywhere.”
    He released me and giggled, “So am I famous . . . for shooting straight!”
    I felt a bowel-gasket about to pop. As I turned away on Jell-O legs, I suddenly remembered all of the mark’s grisly infamy. He’d been a construction worker, who, around twelve years before, had riddled two men at a poker table for cheating.
    For a week, the Cleveland police put his mug shots in all the newspapers and cautions on all radio stations. A hundred police trapped him in a tenement. He critically wounded two detectives before his capture and was committed as hopelessly insane to a state hospital. Now, escaped or released, he would be waiting for me!
    I drank another cup of greasy spoon coffee before I started back to blow him off (get free of him). I stopped and waved two hundred yards away so Willie could point me out to the mark. They looked at me. Willie stabbed his index finger toward his chest. I waggled my head “no.” Willie stabbed his finger toward the mark. I waggled “yes.”
    I was drenched and stinking of fear sweat as the mark’s long legs pumped toward me in great athletic strides. When he was midway, I saw Willie fading away fast behind the mark. Just before I duckedaround the corner, the mark glanced back at Willie. He howled piercingly and streaked toward me with the grace and