Murder Me for Nickels by Peter Rabe Read Free Book Online Page B

principles?”
    “And in this brawling around,” I said, trying to ignore the rest he had been saying, “there’s one guy gets caught in the middle, which is the operator, the guy who’s using our machine.”
    “In the cosmetics business, maybe, the customer doesn’t get caught in the middle?”
    “Gimme another drink,” I said.
    He gave me another drink and felt so good about his argument he decided to humor me.
    “All right, I grant you. I run a little joint with a jukebox in it and there’s labor trouble in front of the door, with fisticuffs and so on. That’s no good, I grant you.”
    “Fisticuffs,” I said and took a swallow. “I like that, fisticuffs.”
    “All right. You know what I mean. What you don’t know, what you don’t think of, I mean, is that all this is going to last maybe two, three days. Like I said in the beginning. Now here’s how. You….”
    “Just a minute.”
    First of all, I thought that his whole plan stunk and secondly, I didn’t like it. It stunk because it was just a move on the surface. I didn’t like it—I was hoping that part wouldn’t come up, between Lippit and me.
    “You got a goon’s point of view,” I said to Lippit. “A guy leans on you and you lean back.”
    “Harder.”
    “Yuh. Goon’s point of view. What I think about all this I’ve explained to you. That I’m sure Benotti’s got money behind him, that he’s well-connected. He’s no independent He’s been sent in to take over where the syndicate missed a trick.”
    “All right, there’s money. And if he’s so well connected, how come they sent a jerk like Benotti?”
    “Because they think you’re a jerk.”
    “What?”
    “They must. You been running this racket pretty nice and friendly.”
    “I know,” he said. “I know. Like a jerk.”
    “And now more so. Any muscle you’ll show, Benotti will show.”
    Lippit just laughed. It had been the wrong argument and Lippit just laughed and wouldn’t even discuss it I waited till he was done and then I tried to make a little more sense.
    “You got this slap-dash plan now, Walter, and I grant you that it’s pretty hefty slap-dash and proves how mad you are and what you can do about it. But aside from the way you feel about Benotti and his mosquito tactics….”
    “Mosquito? You mean to just brush….”
    “Yes, mosquito. You said yourself you’re going to take care of it in maybe two, three days. So how big is it?”
    “Listen, St. Louis….”
    “Let me finish, Walter. I’m now talking long range.”
    “To hell with that long-winded talk.”
    “I’m talking to save you grief.”
    “Any kind of grief they care to throw….”
    “I’m talking money.”
    “All right,” he said. “Talk.”
    “You got this set-up. You rent out and service machines. I grant you, it’s pretty well sewed up and with your mosquito….”
    “Stop using that word, Jack.”
    “And with your bomber tactics you’ll even get that set-up down pat for a long time.”
    “What else?”
    “Walter. Take a drink and let me finish, will you?”
    He took a drink and I tried again.
    “So you got a franchise on putting all the little wires back in order when a music box stops making music, and meanwhile you collect all the quarters and dimes—which comes to a heap—as long as your servicing includes putting the discs in the machines, taking out the old ones, putting the new hits in, and so on and so on.”
    “As long as? What’s this about as long as?”
    “The records go this way: manufacturer, jobber, jukebox operator. You got the operators sewed up. They use your machines and they buy your service. You get the discs from the jobber, and the jobber gets his from the factory.”
    “And you got this sly proposition,” he said, “I should buy the manufacturer and skip the jobber, huh?” He leaned over the table and said, “Go to sleep, Jack. It’s your bedtime, Jack.”
    “I will.” I got up, for the effect of it, and then I said, “But I’m not so