The boy just lost his father,” Gunny said softly, forcing himself to sound calm, even though he could feel his heart thudding against his ribs.
How did he keep winding up with guns pointing straight at him?
The room was silent as Gunny and Chubby stared at each other.
“Grief does crazy things to people,” Gunny said.
Now Chubby’s eyes narrowed and Gunny could tell the club owner was weighing his options. Then he held up one hand to signal his men not to move and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with the other. Slowly he wiped his face.
“He gets a pass,” Chubby said, his voice low and serious. “Once.”
“Understood,” Gunny said.
The gangsters put away their guns, and Gunny’s shoulders dropped back down to where they belonged, instead of hunched up by his ears.
Chubby threw up his thick arms in exasperation. “What I don’t understand,” he demanded loudly, “is why everyone seems to think I had anything to do with this mess.” He looked around the room. Gunny noted that no one would meet Chubby’s gaze.
“I don’t have to worry about Marvin Halliday and his sorry club. No one can compete with my Paradise,” Chubby huffed. “Why should I care if some drum player wants to set out on his own?” He seemed genuinely perplexed. Hurt, even.
There were shuffling feet, averted eyes, and a few murmurs around the room, but no one spoke.
Chubby’s hurt look was replaced by flashing anger. “I don’t have to take this.” He yanked a fistful of dollar bills out of the “bail bowl.” “And I’m not giving a dime to Jed’s defense. In fact,” Chubby continued, lumbering back and forth in front of the door, “because of this insult, I’m going to fire Jumpin’ Jed’s JiveMasters!”
Someone in the room gasped, but no one dared to say anything. Gunny knew everyone was afraid of making the situation worse.
“Yeah, yeah.” Chubby nodded, as if he were warming to the notion. “I think I’ll go ahead with that championship boxing idea I had.” He rubbed his palms together and tipped his head toward his goons. “Don’t need a band for that, do you?”
“No, boss,” a thug said. “No band. Just a loud bell!”
Chubby let out a hooting laugh and clapped a beefy hand on the goon’s broad shoulder. “You got that right!”
Chubby snapped his fingers, and he and his two bodyguards spun on their heels in unison, and the three men walked out. The room instantly felt bigger.
The moment they left, the room burst into loud chatter. Gunny stared at the door that had just shut behind Chubby. Chubby’s genuine bewilderment and hurt had made a real impact. Gunny felt in his gut that Chubby wasn’t behind the hit. But if everyone, including the police, thought the culprit was either Chubby or Jumpin’ Jed, how would Gunny convince anyone to investigate somebody else?
By getting the evidence himself.
One day after the bail party, Gunny walked down the basement corridor of the Manhattan Tower Hotel toward his room. After seeing Jed in jail, Gunny had so much on his mind he felt as if his head would explode. He passed the hotel laundry, the vault, and the baggage room, and arrived at the door to his apartment. He was looking forward to stretching out on his bed, if only for a catnap.
He stopped.
The door was slightly ajar. He rarely locked his door, but he certainly hadn’t left it open, that much he knew.
He held his breath and listened at the door.
He heard a tiny scraping sound, as if someone had pushed a chair away from a table.
No doubt about it. Someone was inside.