The Giant Swing Read online

  W.R. BURNETT

  THE GIANT SWING

  Copyright © 1932 by W.R. Burnett

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Giant Swing

  Table of Contents

  Part One: 1922-1923

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  Part Two: 1932

  1

  2

  3

  4

  About W.R. Burnett

  Bibliography

  To ALLEN MARPLE

  1922-1923

  1

  There was a slight wind and the rain fell slantwise, striking the windows of the All Night softly, then running slowly down, like tears. Inside it was warm, too warm, and the big range in the kitchen was going full blast, steaming the windows and sending an odor of hamburgers and gas through the restaurant. The big Greek, known as Indianapolis, was standing with his elbows on the counter, staring out into the rainy street. From time to time the door was pushed open by a patron, who brought in with him from the damp night a moist, smoky gust. Each time the door was opened Indianapolis shrugged and pulled the short collar of his serving-coat a little higher; he was afraid of pneumonia. The Greek was a huge man, over six feet, and weighing about two hundred and thirty pounds; he practiced wrestling in his spare moments and dreamed of the time when he would step onto the mat with George Kotsonaros, the city idol. At midnight two taxi-drivers, night-hawks from the "Black and White" across the street, stepped in and came up to the counter. Red, a big beefy man with a florid, scarred face and bulky shoulders, sometimes trained with the Greek and they were good friends. The other night-hawk was small and dark, slightly hunched and lame; his old cap was battered and stained and there was a long L-shaped tear in the knee of his trousers. He was called Limpy and at one time had had a lot of money, which he had gambled away.

  "Hello, you fellows!" called the Greek.

  Limpy took out a cigarette and lit it without answering.

  "Hello, Indian!" said Red, glancing up at the clock. "About time for the Kid, ain’t it?"

  "Yeah. Hamburger you want?"

  "Naw. I’m flush. I want a clubhouse and some Java. How about you, Limpy? Don’t be bashful; I’m paying."

  Limpy grinned and blew dense clouds of smoke from his mouth and nose, like a dragon.

  "Easy come, easy go. Did that frail hand you a big one? I’ll take the same. But no Java. Milk."

  The Greek shouted into the wicket, "I got two clubs; wan Java and wan suds."

  Red put his cap on the side of his head and squinted at Limpy.

  "Did she hand me a big one? Listen. I knew that kid before she married the wop fruit-dealer. She didn’t have a dime. Now she wears a rock; listen, like Gibraltar. She’s cheating with a guy up at the dance-hall. You know, Spanish, the manager. And I’m wise and haul her around. She gimme a fin tonight."

  "Lucky." Limpy turned away; he had had a bad night so far.

  "It ain’t all luck," said Red, complacently.

  They stood waiting for their order. Two men came in and the door fanned, bringing in dampness and smoke. The Greek clutched his collar. Red saw him and laughed.

  "What’s the matter, Indian—afraid of a little weather?"

  The Greek shrugged.

  "I don’t know. Ever since Steve kicked off like that I been thinking…”

  Limpy spat in disgust.

  "Look at him, a big guy like him. And me with a lung gone; don’t even wear an overcoat."

  "Sure," said the Greek, "but you don’t give a damn. I do."

  Red laughed, then turned to the two men who had just come in.

  "Been over to The Park, boys?"

  "Yeah, And what a crowd; even on a night like this."

  "Yeah. Beatty’s got a swell band. And that little piano-player he’s got is the nuts."

  "The Kid?" said Red. "I’ll say he is. Why, that boy’ll be on the big time; you hear me? He’ll be in here after while. Comes in every night."

  "Yeah," said the Greek; "plays that piano over there in the corner every night. People come in just to hear him. Makes business good. One night I say to him: 'Joe, you bring me business. I give you free food.' 'No,' he says. 'I do it for fun.' Nutty, I guess."

  Red scowled.

  "Nutty, eh? That’s the kind of guy he is. Give you the shirt off his back. A Greek wouldn’t understand that."

  "Listen. Me, I’m a good American."

  "With a pan like that!"

  The chef stuck his head through the wicket. His face was red and sweat was pouring down from under his tall, dirty white chef’s cap.

  "Hey, you, you want this order to get cold? Hello, fellows! Where’s the Kid?"

  "He ain’t showed yet."

  Mumbling to himself, his feelings hurt, the Greek got the night-hawks’ order and shoved it across the counter to them. They ate standing, stuffing big pieces of sandwich into their mouths and chewing loudly. The Greek leaned on the counter and stared with melancholy eyes at the rain running down the windows. There was a long silence. From the railroad yards a square or two away came the discordant blast of a train whistle, blurred by the damp air; cars were being shunted and the sound of it carried, shock after shock of iron couplers.

  Finally the Greek raised his head.

  "Red, listen; I already took out my papers. I’m a good American."

  "Sure, sure," Red soothed him. "I was only kidding, Indian."

  Limpy glanced up at the clock.

  "Kid ain’t coming, I guess."

  "He’ll be here," said Red.

  The door fanned and three men came in— three tough-looking customers, railroad men. They were pretty drunk and a reek of bad alcohol filtered slowly through the restaurant. They came up to the counter and ordered; one of them shouldering Red, who moved off a little and looked mildly at them. The railroad men, strangers, were pretty obnoxious, and one of them kept saying, "Now look here, Greek," or, "Listen, bohunk," to Indianapolis, who shrugged and pretended to pay no attention.

  Their order finally came and they sat down to eat. One of them pulled a bottle from his pocket and poured the contents into his coffee, then threw the bottle on the floor. They talked loudly and laughed, saying what a lousy town this was and that there wasn’t a lousy place open except a lousy Greek restaurant.

  Red winked at Limpy, who rubbed his chin and returned the wink. The Greek leaned on the counter and stared indifferently at the rain.

  "What a dead place, what a joint, what a tank town!" said one of the railroad men. "Hey, you with the rusty hair, what do you do in this joint for excitement?"

  Red took a sip of coffee.

  "We had a nice marble tournament last month."

  The railroad men stared, then roared with laughter.

  "Smart, eh?" said one.

  "No. Dumb. I used to work on a railroad."

  "Listen to that guy."

  "Never mind, Marty. You asked for it."

  "Asked for it! Why, that meter-rat… Listen, big stuff, I bet you’re a pretty tough boy in this crippled burg."

  "Naw. I’m about like you. I just talk tough."

  "Why, you…”

  "Cut it out, Marty. You asked for it."

  The Greek’s face brightened. He lifted his arm and pointed.

  "Here he comes. Here comes the Kid.
"

  One of the railroad men stood up to stare. Marty said:

  "Well, something’s happening, anyway. Hurray! Put a nickel in the piano."

  One of the men put a coin in the wall-slot, the machinery in the piano stirred and it began to play "Silver Threads Among the Gold." The railroad men howled with laughter.

  The door fanned and Joe Nearing came in. He was young, not over twenty-four, of average height, slim and boyish-looking; his face was olive, with soft contours, and his eyes and hair were dark. He was dressed with cheap smartness: a gray Kollege Kut overcoat, a Greek-blue suit with pleated trousers and round-cut vest, and a gray hat perfectly creased and set at an angle.

  "Wow!" shouted Marty. "Look what the wind blew in… 'Shine upon my brow to-da-ay'... Oh, mother!"

  Joe looked at the railroad men out of the corner of his eye; there was a perceptible shrinking, then the softness left his face, it hardened, and he shot a sharp look at them.

  "Tourists," said Red, jerking a thumb at them. "From Indiana, I guess. They act like it."

  "Hey, you…"

  "Pipe down, Marty."

  "Pipe down, why… Hey, the music’s stopping! Got to have music. Put a nickel in the piano."

  One of the men put in another coin and the piano began to play: "Love, Here Is My Heart." The railroad men howled.

  "Late, ain’t you, Kid?" said Red.

  "Yeah. Had a big crowd. We get a little bonus on capacity crowds. We stayed and figured up. Beatty says Spanish is a crook, we better watch him."

  "Beatty’s right. What’ll you have. Kid? One of Spanish’s frails give me a big tip tonight. It’s burning my pocket."

  "Coffee’s all I want, Indian. I been drinking a lot of pop tonight. It was hot in the joint. What a mob!"

  "They all come to hear you, Kid."

  Joe looked at himself in the mirror behind the counter and adjusted his tie. Joe wanted to answer humbly, wanted to say that Beatty had a swell band and Spanish a swell dance-floor, but that wasn’t the way it was done. Spanish said, toot your own horn.

  "I guess you’re right."

  The music stopped again and Marty started to put a coin in the piano, but Red called to him:

  "Hey, big time, if you’ll wait a minute, you guys’ll hear some real music. This is Joey Nearing, here. Plays over at The Park. Eh, Joe?"

  Joe shot a glance at the railroad men, a hostile, contemptuous glance.

  "I’m tired, but I’ll play."

  "Oh, don’t do us any favors."

  "Shut up, Marty."

  "Aw, put a nickel in the piano."

  "Listen, Rusty, can your boy-friend dance, too? I’d like to see him dance in them pretty pants."

  Red turned and slipped on a pair of knuckles. The railroad men saw the gleam of the brass. Limpy took a big penknife out of his pocket and began to pick his teeth with the blade. The Greek reached below the counter and put his hand on Mary-Ann, a piece of garden hose packed with sand.

  "You see, Marty? These guys ain’t sweet. I told you to pipe down."

  "Aw, put a nickel in the piano. I ain’t scared of this tank-town outfit."

  "Don’t touch that slot," said Red, sharply.

  "You guys better make tracks for the yards, where you belong. Eh, Indian?"

  "As long as they behave themselves, O.K."

  Joe stood in the middle of the restaurant, staring at Marty, a short, dark, hairy little man with a low brow and a heavy jaw. If the fighting started, Joe made up his mind he’d take three steps forward suddenly and hit Marty as he got up; one good smack usually took a lot of fight out of a man. Joe hated fighting, shrank from violence, detested the swaggering and bragging and ill-nature he was always running into. But you had to be tough; that’s what Spanish said.

  The railroad men hesitated; even Marty, the most belligerent of the three, seemed undecided. Red waited warily, his cap on the side of his head. Limpy began to whistle. Indian kept wetting his lips. One of the patrons went out hastily, fanning in some rain and train smoke. The chef thrust his head through the wicket.

  "Hey, what’s the matter?"

  But a big bulky form was silhouetted against the glass of the front door, then Mike Keogh, the cop, stepped in and spoiled the show. Mike was huge, big in the shoulders, big in the belly, big in the feet; he always puffed as if from great effort and his fat, heavy face was always an apoplectic red. He shook the water from his rain cape like a dog. Then he ran his eyes over the crowd.

  "Trouble, eh? Cut it out, you guys, or I’ll knock your heads together."

  Keogh’s voice was a coarse bass; it filled the room, and tumblers on the shelves vibrated; his whisper could be heard across the street.

  Marty sank back. Mike put his hand on Red’s arm.

  "What did I tell you about them knucks, bricktop? Gimme!"

  Red handed them over, grinning. Mike slipped them into his pocket, then he said:

  "What’s up?"

  "They been razzing the Kid, them red-lighters."

  "Yeah?" Mike turned his big head slowly and stared at the railroad men. "Sons," he said, finally, "we got enough trouble around here without anybody importing it, get me?"

  "We're tame. Eh, Marty?"

  "I’m tame."

  "Coffee for me," said Mike. "Gonna play me a little tune, Joe, kid?"

  "I’m tired, but I will."

  "Tired? Don’t do nothing all day but sit on your can. Ever hear what the Eskimo said about the guy riding the bicycle? Says, 'Man so damn lazy he sits down to walk.' That’s you."

  Everybody laughed. Nobody thought what Mike said was funny; his sense of humor dated back to the '90s; but Mike was so formidable that when he felt playful everybody laughed. Turning, Joe saw that one of the railroad men was smiling ingratiatingly at him; even Marty was grinning and looking human. It was funny how human people could be when they wanted to; Joe had noticed it many times. He was congenitally friendly; easy-going, simple, and honest; he liked an atmosphere of easy friendship, minus jealousy and envy and all the minutiae of ill-nature which complicated the daily round. But he had learned that you couldn’t be too friendly; he had learned that from Spanish. Spanish said every guy was your enemy, friends and all. Every guy. They smiled at you as long as you did something for them, were necessary in some way to their happiness, but if anything happened, well, it was just too bad. That’s what Spanish said, and Spanish knew. Once he had read in a book, "Go armed against the world." That’s what Spanish meant, only he couldn’t say it.

  So Joe did not smile at the railroad man, but looked the other way.

  The rain had stopped. A sharp, chill wind was blowing across the yards and there was a promise of frost in the air. It was nearly three o’clock. Joe, with his collar unfastened and his hair rumpled, was sitting at the piano, playing. Only Indianapolis and Red were left listening. Limpy was on a call; Mike was out somewhere in the windy night on his beat. The patrons had drifted one by one home.

  Joe was playing a slow blue tune, his fingers striking the keys lightly. He looked pale and tired. The tune trailed off and Red said:

  "Better call it a night, Kid."

  Joe, like one roused from sleep, turned and slowly focused his eyes on Red.

  "Getting tired? All right. Red. I felt like it tonight. Nothing like music, eh, Indian?" He got up, tied his tie and put on his overcoat.

  "Give me a shot of Java before I go. It’s damp tonight. Goes right through you."

  Red tilted his cap over his eyes and stretched out his feet.

  "Make it two, Indian. I can’t keep my eyes open."

  The Greek yawned widely as he drew the coffee from the big nickel urn. Joe got the coffee from the counter and handed Red his cup.

  "Much oblige, buddy. I’d think you'd get tired hitting them keys night after night."

  Joe shrugged.

  "I get tired of that tin-pan stuff, all right. Sure. But there’s lots of tunes I never get tired of. Like that one, 'Oh, Me! Oh, My!' That’s got stuff in it. Most of t
hem are just jingles—canned stuff. Dance music. Nobody pays any attention what they’re dancing to as long as its fox-trot time, see? I get pretty sick of that sometimes."

  The Greek leaned on the counter and meditated. The dead hours were beginning; he dreaded the three-thirty-to-six stretch. It wasn’t so bad when Red was around; but Red was out on call a good deal.

  "The Park’s packing ’em in, ain’t it, Joe?" asked Red. "Spanish’s a smart guy, eh?"

  "Smartest ever, you bet." Joe smiled and took a sip from his coffee. "Plenty smart, that boy. He’s going to be a millionaire. That’s what he says."

  "Yeah? I could say it, too, but that wouldn’t make it so. Spanish is smart, all right, but he’s full of hot air."

  "I believe what he says. He’ll do it, you see. That boy gets what he wants. And women! They’re wild over him."

  Red laughed.

  "A swell lot of good it does him, with Al’s wife keeping her eye on him like a hawk."

  Joe said nothing.

  "That’s what I hear," said the Greek, pricking up his ears. "She’s crazy about him, that woman. Oh, how I’d like to have a woman like that, so big and handsome. I’d even marry her."

  Red lifted his cap and glanced up at Joe.

  "What do you think, Joe? Is the wise talk right for once?"

  Joe colored a little and looked away.

  "Don’t ask me."

  "Aw, don’t be that way," said Red; "you’re among friends. You know damn well Al’s wife’s cheating with Spanish." He threw back his head and laughed. "Tony Colonna’s wife’s cheating with the mug, too; but things are getting too hot for old Spanish. He’s getting his dates mixed."

  Joe laughed.

  "He’s some boy. He and The Missus and Al went out to a party together tonight. Everybody got a big laugh out of it."

  "Everybody but Al," said Red, yawning. "But what he don’t know won’t hurt him, I guess."

  "He’s drunk every night."

  "Lucky guy."

  Joe finished his coffee, yawned, stretched, then settled his overcoat properly and put his hat at an angle.

  "Guess I’ll run. Got to get to bed sometime."

  The Greek started out of his profound meditations.