In Dark Corners by Gene O'Neill Read Free Book Online Page A

figured we could work only one more busload, before heading out. The dipped marks would be finding a seat now, getting settled in, then wanting to buy something to eat or make their first bet at the windows—and Bam, no wallet! It'd take them a few more minutes to figure it backwards, working out where they seen their scoots last. So that first mark would be coming back out here to the gate anytime now, maybe even dragging along one of the track cops. Man, we didn't need any of that shit.
    "Hey, Frankie," I shouted, holding up one finger.
    He looked my way, his big, friendly smile clashing sharply with the hostile impression his heavily-scarred eyebrows, flattened nose, and busted-up face made on most passersby—that's why he was the dip, working behind the marks.
    "One more bus," I said, tapping my watch.
    He made a circle sign with his thumb and forefinger. "Gotcha, Smooth," he shouted back, his voice as clear as St. Mary's ringing in the fog.
    So, we worked the next bus, the crowd streaming through the gate, and I sold four tout sheets before we got a good shot at a dip. Then, I dumped the last five sheets in a trashcan on our way outta the gate, hurrying to catch that last bus from the City.
    On the way back across the Bay Bridge, Frankie got all excited reading the green sheet of a Chronicle he found on the seat, 'bout a local fighter out in the Sunset, Pat Lawlor, who was scheduled for a junior middleweight championship shot.
    "Gotta get us a couple passes, Smooth," he said, his voice now as slurred as a wino's after a taste of Wild Irish Rose.
    I nodded absently, wondering about the take from the five dips.
    We got off at our Divisadero stop, right in front of George's B.B.Q ., and who was stepping out the door but Big Henry. He was sporting a western-cut, sky-blue suit, navy-blue shirt with white pearl buttons, navy-blue lizard-skin boots, and a navy-blue Stetson, all this complimented by a modest assortment of gold chains, rings, bracelets, and an ear stud. Oh, he was a sight, even for this stretch of Divisadero on a warm May afternoon; lotsa gays in wild get-ups cruised along here.
    "Hey, Big Henry, wha's goin' on, man?" I asked, offering my palm.
    "'S'up," he answered guardedly, touching my hand while holding open the door to George's.
    Wanda May was coming out to the sound of Huey Lewis's "The Power of Love." She was an old, old friend from my Tenderloin days, but still looking mighty fine, all tricked-out inna tight crimson dress and gold high-heels. Man, that lady could rock 'n roll, if you know what I mean. "'Lo, Wanda May, how you?" I said, smiling like an alley cat with a mouthful of fresh fish.
    She'd always been an independent, but I'd heard she was one of Big Henry's line now, with a taste for smack. That recollection kinda stiffened my grin.
    "I's jus' fine," she purred, reaching out to stroke my fingers. "You lookin' good, man. Real good, you know?" Her hand lingered a moment on my hand.
    "C'mon, bitch," Big Henry snapped peevishly, jerking the woman out to the sidewalk. "Ya'll doan need to be wastin' my time with this here big time promoter and his punchy flunky," he said, chuckling dryly at his own sarcasm.
    I looked at Wanda May's fine booty as Big Henry drug her off, remembering how proud she'd been a few years ago. Then I took a peek at Frankie, seeing how he was handling the insult. He was still smiling, hands feeling around in his pockets, apparently paying no attention to Big Henry's comments. He saw me looking at him and whispered in a heavily slurred voice, "Can we check out the loot, now, Smooth?"
    I shrugged: "Why not?" and we made it up the street to Biltman's Billiards .

    ***

    I hurried into the restroom back by the public phones, a quick nod to the four guys shooting straight pool at table number eight. Inside the men's room, we locked the door and Frankie turned-out his pockets…four wallets and this funny-looking thing made of silvery vinyl. He emptied the wallets, spreading out half