The Almost Perfect Crime And Other Award Winning Stories Of New York. by Bob Natiello

Author:Bob Natiello [Natiello, Bob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781467044288
Publisher: AuthorHouse
Published: 2012-01-13T00:00:00+00:00

THE END

When Life Was A Crapshoot

Big Marty and I, bound for the Philadelphia train on our Sunday off, were being pushed along by a fishy October breeze blowing off the boardwalk. Within a block of the Atlantic City railroad station, two cops surprised us from behind.

“Hey, you’re squeezing my arm,” I said, turning to look at the blue-coated, brass-buttoned, six-footer who clamped my bicep tighter than a blood pressure cuff.

“That’s why we call it a pinch,” he boomed.

His tough-cop tone told me I’d better keep my mouth shut. I gave Big Marty a look that said don’t even think about resisting, and in no time we were sardined into a squad car destined for jail, a dozen blocks from the ocean. The desk sergeant booked us on charges of working at a gambling establishment and held us overnight.

Ten o’clock next morning, silver-haired Wingy Rubin, our bosses’ lawyer, walked in with twenty-five hundred dollars bail—a lot of money to spring a couple of back-room crap dealers in depression-choked America.

With our coat collars up and our wide-brim fedoras protecting us from the cold Monday drizzle, the three of us descended the police station steps. Wingy handed me an envelope showing a return address from my Philadelphia draft board. Without opening it, I knew Uncle Sam was ordering me to come in for a physical.

“I have to be practical,” I grumbled. “With men out of work and lining up at soup kitchens for a decent meal, you never know when—or if—Roosevelt will get us out of this.” Wingy and Big Marty nodded agreement. Finding any job—legal or illegal—was nearly impossible considering the condition the country was in.

“Hey, army life might be a lot better than life as a crap dealer,” Big Marty bellowed in a voice that matched his size. “More predictable, anyway.”

Wingy ignored Big Marty. “Your hearing comes up two weeks from today,” he said. “If I tell the judge you might be drafted before then, he may drop the gambling charge.” Holding his hat by the brim to keep it from blowing away, he chin-pointed at the envelope. “What’s the date for your physical?”

I took Wingy’s question as a sign he was looking after me. Ever since Pop died, Wingy seemed more like a father than a lawyer. He dropped into my life when I ran the main table at Pop’s Wilmington place. The very first thing I noticed about him—the very first thing everybody noticed about him—was his withered left arm. That’s how he got his nickname. When the dice were running his way, shooters crowded around the table shouting, “Wingy, you’re all right. You’re all-ll right.”

Tall and distinguished in a tailor made suit, Wingy always appeared to take the ribbing good-naturedly. “I only need the right wing to shoot crap,” he’d laugh. But while his laugh rang loud, his eyes remained dull. I took his mixed reaction as a sign he was sensitive about that left arm. As for his right, when he wasn’t using it to roll the dice, he had a good-looking babe hanging onto it.

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