Read Online Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories by Bill Pronzini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bill Pronzini
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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God's sake, Thorpe, you can afford fifteen hundred dollars a month!"
"Can I?" I said. "I am now paying two thousand a month to a man whose uncle was taken in the real-estate swindle and who somehow found out I was involved, twelve hundred to a minor accountant who happened to dig up and correctly interpret some old records, and a thousand to the woman who was Arthur Powell's mistress just before he died—all for their continued silence."
I sighed resignedly. "No, Buchanan, I can't afford to pay you fifteen hundred dollars a month. And even if I could, I wouldn't. A man can take only so much pressure and so much guilt before he reaches the limit of his endurance. A fourth blackmailer is my limit, Buchanan; you're the straw that broke this camel's back."
I picked up the receiver with my free hand and dialed the police.
THE SAME OLD GRIND
T here were no customers in the Vienna Delicatessen when Mitchell came in at two on a Thursday afternoon. But that wasn't anything unusual. He'd been going there a couple of times a week since he'd discovered the place two months ago, and he hadn't seen more than a dozen people shopping there in all that time.
It wasn't much of a place. Just a hole-in-the wall deli tucked down at the end of a side street, in an old neighborhood that was sliding downhill. Which was exactly the opposite of what he himself was doing, Mitchell thought. He was heading uphill—out of the slums he'd been raised in and into this section of the city for a few months, until he had enough money and enough connections, and then uptown where you drank champagne instead of cheap bourbon and ate in fancy restaurants instead of dusty old delis.
But he had to admit that he got a boot out of coming to the Vienna Delicatessen. For one thing, the food was good and didn't cost much. And for another the owner, Giftholz, amused him. Giftholz was a frail old bird who talked with an accent and said a lot of humorous things because he didn't understand half of what you rapped to him about. He was from Austria or someplace like that, had been in this country for thirty years, but damned if he didn't talk like he'd just come off the boat.
What Giftholz was doing right now was standing behind the deli counter and staring off into space. Daydreaming about Austria, maybe. Or about the customers he wished he had. He didn't hear Mitchell open the door, but as soon as the little bell overhead started tinkling, he swung around and smiled in a sad hopeful way that always made Mitchell think of an old mutt waiting for somebody to throw him a bone.
"Mr. Mitchell, good afternoon."
Mitchell shut the door and went over to the counter. "How's it going, Giftholz?"
"It goes," Giftholz said sadly. "But not so well."
"The same old grind, huh?"
"Same old grind?"
"Sure. Day in, day out. Rutsville, you dig?"
"Dig?" Giftholz said. He blinked like he was confused and smoothed his hands over the front of his clean white apron. "What will you have today, Mr. Mitchell?"
"The usual. Sausage hero and an order of cole slaw. Might as well lay a brew on me too."
"Lay a brew?"
Mitchell grinned. "Beer, Giftholz. I want a beer."
"Ah. One beer, one sausage hero, one cole slaw. Yes."
Giftholz got busy. He didn't move too fast—hell, he was so frail he'd probably keel over if he tried to move fast—but that was all right. He knew what he was doing and he did it right: lots of meat on the sandwich, lots of slaw. You had to give him that.
Mitchell watched him for a time. Then he said, "Tell me something, Giftholz. How do you hang in like this?"
"Please?"
"Hang in," Mitchell said. "Stay in business. You don't have many customers and your prices are already dirt cheap."
"I charge what is fair."
"Yeah, right. But you can't make any bread that way."
"Bread?" Giftholz said. "No, my bread is purchased from the bakery on Union Avenue."
Mitchell got a laugh out of that. "I mean money, Giftholz. You can't make any money."
"Ah. Yes, it is sometimes
"Can I?" I said. "I am now paying two thousand a month to a man whose uncle was taken in the real-estate swindle and who somehow found out I was involved, twelve hundred to a minor accountant who happened to dig up and correctly interpret some old records, and a thousand to the woman who was Arthur Powell's mistress just before he died—all for their continued silence."
I sighed resignedly. "No, Buchanan, I can't afford to pay you fifteen hundred dollars a month. And even if I could, I wouldn't. A man can take only so much pressure and so much guilt before he reaches the limit of his endurance. A fourth blackmailer is my limit, Buchanan; you're the straw that broke this camel's back."
I picked up the receiver with my free hand and dialed the police.
THE SAME OLD GRIND
T here were no customers in the Vienna Delicatessen when Mitchell came in at two on a Thursday afternoon. But that wasn't anything unusual. He'd been going there a couple of times a week since he'd discovered the place two months ago, and he hadn't seen more than a dozen people shopping there in all that time.
It wasn't much of a place. Just a hole-in-the wall deli tucked down at the end of a side street, in an old neighborhood that was sliding downhill. Which was exactly the opposite of what he himself was doing, Mitchell thought. He was heading uphill—out of the slums he'd been raised in and into this section of the city for a few months, until he had enough money and enough connections, and then uptown where you drank champagne instead of cheap bourbon and ate in fancy restaurants instead of dusty old delis.
But he had to admit that he got a boot out of coming to the Vienna Delicatessen. For one thing, the food was good and didn't cost much. And for another the owner, Giftholz, amused him. Giftholz was a frail old bird who talked with an accent and said a lot of humorous things because he didn't understand half of what you rapped to him about. He was from Austria or someplace like that, had been in this country for thirty years, but damned if he didn't talk like he'd just come off the boat.
What Giftholz was doing right now was standing behind the deli counter and staring off into space. Daydreaming about Austria, maybe. Or about the customers he wished he had. He didn't hear Mitchell open the door, but as soon as the little bell overhead started tinkling, he swung around and smiled in a sad hopeful way that always made Mitchell think of an old mutt waiting for somebody to throw him a bone.
"Mr. Mitchell, good afternoon."
Mitchell shut the door and went over to the counter. "How's it going, Giftholz?"
"It goes," Giftholz said sadly. "But not so well."
"The same old grind, huh?"
"Same old grind?"
"Sure. Day in, day out. Rutsville, you dig?"
"Dig?" Giftholz said. He blinked like he was confused and smoothed his hands over the front of his clean white apron. "What will you have today, Mr. Mitchell?"
"The usual. Sausage hero and an order of cole slaw. Might as well lay a brew on me too."
"Lay a brew?"
Mitchell grinned. "Beer, Giftholz. I want a beer."
"Ah. One beer, one sausage hero, one cole slaw. Yes."
Giftholz got busy. He didn't move too fast—hell, he was so frail he'd probably keel over if he tried to move fast—but that was all right. He knew what he was doing and he did it right: lots of meat on the sandwich, lots of slaw. You had to give him that.
Mitchell watched him for a time. Then he said, "Tell me something, Giftholz. How do you hang in like this?"
"Please?"
"Hang in," Mitchell said. "Stay in business. You don't have many customers and your prices are already dirt cheap."
"I charge what is fair."
"Yeah, right. But you can't make any bread that way."
"Bread?" Giftholz said. "No, my bread is purchased from the bakery on Union Avenue."
Mitchell got a laugh out of that. "I mean money, Giftholz. You can't make any money."
"Ah. Yes, it is sometimes
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