July 1957 by 4 Masters of Noir

Author:4 Masters of Noir [Noir, 4 Masters of]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-01-19T07:00:00+00:00

NICE BUNCH OF GUYS

by MICHAEL FESSIER

All the taxi drivers and the fellows who hung around the pool hall would tell you that Marty was a laugh; you should’ve seen him when the boys got him burnt up about something. He was more fun than a circus, was Marty. Not exactly crazy enough to be put in the nut house or anything like that, just goofy enough to be really pretty darn funny.

He sold papers at the station. They were Posts and Marty yelled something that sounded like “Whoa”, so all the fellows got a great kick out of yelling “Giddiap! Whoa!” at him and making him mad. He got screwy when they did that. He’d come across the street with his dirty checkered cap pulled down over one side of his face and his twisted mouth all squeezed up into a snarl.

“You old bootleggers,” he’d say. “You old bootleggers!” The fellows got a special kick out of Marty calling ‘em bootleggers and they’d laugh like anything. “I’m gonna get you,” Marty would say. “Just you wait and see. You’d better not make fun of me.”

“Aw, gosh! Don’t scare us like that,” one of the fellows would say, and everybody’d laugh again. Everyone would gather around. There was always a laugh when you had Marty going. He’d lay his papers on the sidewalk and double up his fists. “Wanna fight?” he’d ask. Then everybody’d act afraid and beg Marty not to hit ‘em. Of course they weren’t afraid. Marty was just a little fellow and any of the fellows could have licked him easy with one hand. They were just kidding him for a laugh. Even Old Ironsides—that’s what they called the corner cop—would come by and grin at Marty standing with his fists doubled up and acting like he was a tough guy.

They’d keep on kidding Marty and he’d start squealing like a stuck pig, he’d get so mad. You couldn’t understand what he was saying when he got mad like that. Just a lot of cuss words that didn’t make sense. And his mouth would froth like he was a mad dog or something.

Then somebody’d act like he really was going to fight Marty. He’d double up his fist and prance around and wiggle his arms and say, “All right, Marty, look out!” and he’d make a couple passes at Marty. “Come on, put ‘em up,” the fellow would say, “I’m gonna knock your can off.” Then Marty’d start whimpering like a little kid. He’d rub his eyes and back away and say, “You’d better not. You’d better not. I’ll tell the cops, that’s what I’ll do.” Then he’d grab his papers and run like hell back across the street. Gee, it was funny!

It wouldn’t be no time before he’d forget all about it and he’d be walking up and down the station platform yelling “Whoa, Whoa,” or something that sounded like that. He sold a lot of papers because people felt sorry for him, I guess. He kept all his money in one pocket and when there wasn’t anybody around he’d take it out and count it.

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