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It’s a tough world, all right, and I have striven assiduously to stay out of the line of fire all my life—a freelance writer, working at home since the day I left college, never having to worry about some disgruntled fellow employee going berserk in the office or a bunch of toughs showing up at the shop to demand protection money. Not everyone can be as lucky as I was, though, as this coolly cynical story demonstrates.
I wrote it in January, 1961 and called it “Protection.” Scottie gave it a better title, which I use here, when he published it in the August, 1961 issue of Trapped.
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IT’S A TOUGH WORLD
Mr. Bergstrom knew at last how hard this world can be.
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It was the grand opening, so to speak, of Mr. Bergstrom’s grocery store. At least, the ribbons and streamers out front announced that it was a Grand Opening. But there was nothing really very grand about it. Mr. Bergstrom had been through it all before. You opened a grocery store and put up the ribbons and streamers, and the women in the neighborhood came around to see if you were selling eggs and milk cheaper than at the supermarket. If you were underselling the supermarket, the women bought from you all the time, and you went broke. If you didn’t undersell the supermarket, the women shopped there, and you went broke. Either way, you couldn’t beat the profit squeeze.
But he kept trying. About all he knew how to do was sell groceries, and he stubbornly insisted on running his own store instead of working as a clerk in somebody’s big food chain. This was his fourth store in the last ten years.
Always, he hoped, the next neighborhood would be the right one. Down here, the rents were pretty low, so he could cut his overhead. And the nearest supermarket was nine blocks away. With luck, he could squeeze out enough of a margin of profit to survive.
With luck.
So now it was the first day, a little past noon. There had been customers. Not many, but some. Mr. Bergstrom had priced everything down almost to cost. The idea was to build up some steady customers at the beginning, and then gradually to raise the prices, a penny here and a penny there, till you started breaking even.
The people in the neighborhood looked pretty shabby. Well, that figured. Low rent for the store, low income for the customers. You couldn’t win.
Mr. Bergstrom stood behind the counter and kept a smile on his face and his eyes on a couple of the shabbier-looking customers. He didn’t need shoplifters on top of his other troubles.
Two cops came into the store.
Mr. Bergstrom’s smile widened. “Good morning, gentlemen. Nice to see you in here. Welcome.”
“Your name Bergstrom?” the shorter of the two cops asked in a low voice.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Maher and this is Officer Shields. We cover this district. Could we have a little talk with you in the back room, Mr. Bergstrom?”
“Why can’t we talk out here?”
“We’d like it to be private.”
Mr. Bergstrom frowned. He turned toward his wife, who was arranging some cans of fruit salad on the other side of the store, and called, “Ruthie, I’m going to talk to these gentlemen. You watch the store.”
He looked at the cops.
“Come this way, gentlemen. This way.”
–
He led them into the cramped little back room and looked at them expectantly. It was important to have friendly cops on your street, especially in a run-down neighborhood like this. He was all smiles.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
Officer Maher—short, lean-faced, with cold little eyes—said in a quiet tone, “You know you opened up shop in a pretty rough neighborhood.”
“Pretty goddam rough,” chimed in Shields.
“Well, it isn’t Park Avenue,” the grocer admitted. “But the people I’ve seen this morning have been all right.”
“Some of them are, some of them aren’t,” Maher said. “We got some rough boys living around here.
Mr. Bergstrom smiled. “Well in that case I’m glad to have two such competent-looking police officers around to see that there’s no trouble.”
“That’s just it,” Shields said.
“We’ll see you have no trouble,” said Maher. “Only it’ll cost you fifteen bucks a week.”
Mr. Bergstrom’s eyebrows climbed his balding skull. “What? Hey, look, police service is paid for outa my taxes. You got no right—”
“This is a dangerous neighborhood, Mr. Bergstrom. Shields and I, we both got wives and kids to think about. And police pay ain’t so good. We could get killed any day of the week out here. So we’re tryin’ to build up a little fund for our families just in case something happens in the line of duty, y’know?”
“There’s a police pension fund—”
“Not enough,” Maher snapped. “We got to have more. Look, we can’t stay here all day. Every shopkeeper in the area kicks in. We ain’t gonna force you, understand. But we ain’t gonna give you such very good police service if you hold out on us.”
Mr. Bergstrom stared at them incredulously. “It’s the protection racket,” he said after a moment. “Only instead of hoodlums running it, it’s the cops! Can you beat that! You mean to say if I don’t pay up, you’ll stand by and let them do what they want to my store?”
“That’s right,” Shields said. “Just about.”
“But—but—how can I afford—fifteen a week? I don’t even know if the store is going to make money.” He shook his head. “I ought to take this to the police commissioner, that’s what! To the Mayor!”
“Don’t,” Shields said ominously.
“It ain’t smart to rock the boat,” said Mayer. “This is a big thing. It ain’t just two cops running a shakedown. It goes big. You’ll get hurt bad if you try to do any yelling.”
Mr. Bergstrom shook his head weakly. “Fifteen dollars—for what I’m supposed to get free—”
“We got families to think about,” Shields said.
“So do I!” Mr. Bergstrom yelled.
“You ain’t in dangerous work. We are,” Shields said.
Maher shrugged, cutting his partner off. “It’s fifteen bucks, payable every Wednesday, Mr. Bergstrom. That’s the system, and if you don’t like it the clever thing is to get out of the neighborhood now. We’ll be back tomorrow to collect. You think it over. Happy opening day, Mr. Bergstrom. We hope you like it around here.”
–
Mr. Bergstrom thought about it all day and most of the night. He didn’t dare tell his wife about it. He knew what she would do—pick up the phone, call the Mayor, call the newspapers, call anybody. But that wouldn’t be smart. It might expose the racket, but it might also see him get his head beaten in, one dark night. He wasn’t that anxious to be a crusader.
Fifteen bucks!
It was outrageous. Sure, he always took care of the cops in his neighborhood. That was the sensible thing to do. You look out for me, I’ll look out for you. He gave them little presents all year, a stick of butter, a wheel of cheese, and at Christmas time a good present.
But it hadn’t cost him more than sixty bucks a year or so for being good to the cops, and he figured a dollar-plus a week wasn’t bad. But fifteen bucks! That was better than seven hundred dollars a year! And some years his whole profit hadn’t been that big.
He thought about it while he added up the first day’s receipts. Not bad. No fortune, but it covered expenses with a few dollars left over. Business had been heavy. If it kept up this way, he’d do all right. He could pay the fifteen a week and even have a little left. On the other hand, if he didn’t pay, and some teenage toughs came in and smashed up the store, it would set him back months of profit. Insurance was expensive, and they didn’t pay you if some kids came in and knocked over ten bucks’ worth of eggs just for kicks.
By morning, he had made up his mind. It was a lousy situation, but he couldn’t fight it.
When Maher and Shields came by at noon, he took fifteen dollars out of his wallet—not from the cash register, because then his wife would notice—and gave it to them.
“Smart man,” Mayer said.
“We knew you’d get wise,” said Shields.
They walked out.
So now I’m protected, Mr. Bergstrom thought. Big deal. The stinking bastards. Fifteen dollars of my blood and sweat, they just robbed! The cops are the biggest crooks of all!
But he calmed down slowly. No use griping about it. The world was a tough place, that was all there was to it, and you had to accept all the rough edges.
He stood behind the counter and smiled at the people as they came in. Business was better than he expected it would be. Even when, on the third day, he edged the price of eggs and milk up a penny or so, business stayed good. Not spectacular, but at least he was breaking even and then some, and you couldn’t complain about that. The test would come when he raised his prices to the same level as that of all the other grocers in the neighborhood. If he could build up personal loyalty with his customers, they would keep on coming. If not —well things wouldn’t be so good.
Fifteen bucks a week for protection, though! That was a burn. That was a real shafting!
–
It was Tuesday night, now. The store had been open a week and things were going pretty well. Mr. Bergstrom was closing up. Time to clean out the cash register and put the money away for the night. First thing in the morning, his wife would take it over to the bank.
He wondered how much was in the till after the long day. Ninety bucks, a hundred, maybe? Today had been a busy day, all right. First thing was to lock the front door and pull down the shade before counting it, though.
He went to the door.
It was pushed open.
Two kids came in.
“Sorry, we’re closed,” Mr. Bergstrom said. “You got to come back tomorrow morning if you want—”
“Shut up, mister,” one of the kids said.
Mr. Bergstrom found himself looking down at the blade of a long shining knife.
“Okay,” he said nervously. He backed up toward the counter. “What do you want?”
“We just want you to stand still, mister. Right where you are. That’s it. Nice, just like that.”
Mr. Bergstrom watched them. They couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so. They were short, and one was a redhead and one was a blond, and curly, greasy hair. And pimples. And cold, cold eyes.
Mr. Bergstrom stood stock still. The redhead was holding the knife on him while the blond walked around behind the counter.
“Get away from there!” Mr. Bergstrom called.
“Quiet, mister,” said the redhead. I’d hate to have to make a slice in you.”
Mr. Bergstrom shivered. With sad eyes he saw the blond boy punch the NO SALE key on the cash register. The register slid open. He began taking money out.
“Leave me a little,” Mr. Bergstrom pleaded. “I got to pay my bills. I got—”
“Shut up, mister.”
Mr. Bergstrom shut up. Where were the cops, he wondered? Where were his protectors who had squeezed fifteen bucks out of him? Why didn’t they come around to help him, to save his money? They knew it was closing time. But they were probably sitting in some bar now, waiting to quit for the night themselves.
“Okay,” the blond said. “I got it all. Almost a century.”
“Sweet, Daddy-o,” the redhead said with a grin. He jabbed the point of the blade lightly against Mr. Bergstrom’s belly. “Take it slow, father. We’ll be seeing you around. Yeah.”
Mr. Bergstrom stood trembling as they left his store with his money. He waited two minutes for the trembling to go away.
Then he went upstairs to his little apartment. His wife saw his pale, frightened face.
“What happened?”
“Two kids robbed me,” he said leadenly. He reached for the phone to call the police.
–
Fifteen minutes later, Maher and Shields were at the store. They looked sympathetic.
“How much they get away with?” Mayer asked.
“Almost a hundred dollars.”
“Gee, that’s a tough break,” Shields said.
Mr. Bergstrom described the two kids as best as he could. But about all he remembered was the color of their hair and the fact that they had pimples.
“It isn’t much to go on,” Maher said. “There must be sixty redheads with pimples in this neighborhood. And a hundred blonds.”
“You find them and arrest them,” Mr. Bergstrom said stubbornly. “What am I paying you for, if you don’t protect me when I need it?”
“We’ll do our best,” Maher promised.
The next day was Wednesday. At noon, Officer Mayer and Officer Shields came into the store. Mr. Bergstrom’s heart leaped. He was positive that the thieves had been caught, that the policemen were bringing his money back to him.
“You found them?” he asked.
“The kids?” Maher shrugged. “Nah, we’re still looking, but it’s a tough job.”
“Yeah,” Shields said. “A lot of kids in this neighborhood with that description.”
Mr. Bergstrom licked his lips. Suddenly he remembered why they had come. It was Wednesday. A new week was starting for the protection payments.
“Well?” Maher said. “Got the fifteen, Mr. Bergstrom?”
“For what?” he demanded. “So I can get robbed every week?”
“Now look, you can’t blame us—”
“You weren’t there!”
“We got a beat to cover,” Shields said. “Don’t make trouble. Just give us the dough.”
Mr. Bergstrom shrugged. “I don’t have it. They cleaned me out. You know I’m not kidding you.”
The policemen exchanged glances.
Mr. Bergstrom said, “Give me two more days. Let me take some money in. I’ll pay you on Friday. Is that all right? It’s the best I can do.”
“Okay. Friday,” Maher agreed.
By Friday, there was enough in the till so that he could make the payment. The robbery had made a serious dent in his finances, though. It had wiped out all the profit of the first week, and he had had to ask for extra credit from the bread man, besides.
Even so, things were encouraging. Business was still good, and his prices were almost as high as the competition’s now. In a few weeks, provided everything kept up, he’d have more than made up the robbery loss. If only those nogoodnik cops kept him from getting held up a second time.
Monday night the kids came again. The same two. They pushed through the door at closing time.
“What again?” Mr. Bergstrom said. “This is going to be a habit with you two?”
“Just be quiet,” the blond told him. “Stand still and don’t shoot your mouth off.”
Mr. Bergstrom watched hopelessly as they robbed him again. At least this time the damage wasn’t as great. After the first robbery, he had started sending his wife to the bank twice a day, so all they got away with was the afternoon receipts this time. Still, it was better than forty dollars. He couldn’t afford that kind of loss. Especially if these two kids made robbing him part of their regular routine.
They took the money and left. Mr. Bergstrom went upstairs, his shoulders sagging in defeat, and phoned the police. Maher and Shields arrived.
“Listen,” Mr. Bergstrom said. “Thirty dollars I’ve given you so far, and a hundred forty to these kids. You think I’m made of money? What kind of police are you? How are you protecting me?”
“It’s just a coincidence,” they assured him. “We’ll watch for the kids, Mr. Bergstrom. They won’t ever bother you again.”
“Well, I’m not paying any more. Not till you catch those kids. I want value for money. I want to see that you’re helping me.”
Maher said, “We’ve been helping you, Bergstrom. If it wasn’t for us the kids in this neighborhood would have heaved a brick through your window already. Just for kicks. They check with us first. We tell them which window’s they’re not allowed to break.”
Mr. Bergstrom was shrewd enough to translate that. What Maher was really saying was, If you stop paying us we’ll turn the kids loose on you. We’ll give them a free hand. We’ll tell them they can break your windows and smash your fixtures while we look the other way.
He realized he was stuck. What was happening to him was bad enough now. But if he stopped paying, his troubles would get much worse. These two chiseling cops were protecting him to a certain extent. Trouble was, they let one team of nogoodniks slip by their guard.
So Mr. Bergstrom went on paying his fifteen dollars a week. But he took one other precaution.
He bought himself a gun.
–
Three weeks went by. The gun stayed in the cash register drawer. Business was good. Business was much better than Mr. Bergstrom had ever expected, as a matter of fact. Even after the weekly rake-off to the two cops, there was still some money left. The people in this neighborhood were poor, but they liked to eat, and instead of buying fancy automobiles they bought plenty of bread and eggs and cheese. By the end of his first month, Mr. Bergstrom had paid off the debts that he had incurred as a result of his two robberies, and was actually starting once again to build up a little reserve of funds.
And every night as he closed he watched for the two kids who had held him up. He wanted them to come back. He wanted to take care of them.
Finally they showed up.
It was a Tuesday night, again. Mr. Bergstrom was just about to close. The door opened and they came in, the redhead and the blond, with their collars pulled up and their eyes cold and beady.
“How you been, Daddy-o? You miss us?” the blond asked thinly. “Hope you got a good haul in that cashbox of yours. We could use it tonight.”
“Sure,” Mr. Bergstrom said. He was standing behind the counter. Before they could get to him, he side-stepped over to the cash register and punched NO SALE. He stuck his hand in.
“Hey, Dad, don’t try any—” the redhead started to say.
The little snub-nosed automatic leaped into Mr. Bergstrom’s hand. He hadn’t fired a shot since World War II days, and he had been out of the Army since 1943. But now he was defending his earnings, maybe even his life.
He was shooting to kill.
He squeezed off a shot at the redhead. He was aiming for the chest, but the shot was high and caught the boy right in the adam’s-apple. He toppled like a sack of potatoes that had been shoved. The blond came plunging forward, knife high, but turned and scrambled for the door when he caught sight of the gun. He didn’t get there. Mr. Bergstrom squeezed off a second shot, and the explosion was loud and clear in the little store, and he watched the bullet go right square into the middle of the black leather jacket, right between the shoulder-blades.
The blond boy pitched forward and landed on his face. He squirmed once, and that was all.
Mr. Bergstrom put the gun down. He was shivering. His wife, panicky, called from upstairs, “What’s happening? What’s happening down there?”
“It’s—all right, Ruthie,” Mr. Bergstrom said hoarsely. “I just shot the burglars, that’s all. Call the police. Tell them to come over.”
The police came. Maher and Shields, and an ambulance besides, to pick up the bodies. There was plenty of fuss in the little store for a while, neighbors crowding around, and reporters, and photographers.
Then everything was quiet again. Just two policemen and Mr. Bergstrom, and the smell of powder.
Mr. Bergstrom was still shaky. He looked at the two grafters sourly and said, “You see? If I depended on you two, I’d still be getting robbed all the time. You and your lousy fifteen bucks. What do I get for my fifteen bucks?”
“You get protection,” Maher said.
“What kind of protection? Three times these hoodlums came in here. I had to take the law in my own hands or else they’d be robbing me blind.”
Shields smiled. “They were exceptions, Mr. Bergstrom. You won’t be bothered again. We run this neighborhood pretty tight. We give pretty good value for money.”
“Yeah,” Maher said. “We won’t let anything happen to you any more.”
Mr. Bergstrom scowled. “You say that. But how can I be sure? You couldn’t stop these two kids, could you?” And then there’ll be others—”
Maher shook his head. “We didn’t stop these two because we didn’t want to, Mr. Bergstrom. Business is business. And sometimes we got to sacrifice some clients to the wishes of others. We got to balance everything out.”
“I don’t get you,” Mr. Bergstrom said.
Maher shrugged. “Those two kids were clients of ours,” he said with a thin smile. “They paid us $25 a week and we let them do one holdup a week. See? We let them come to you twice in a row because we wanted to show you how rough the neighborhood was. After that we protected you for three weeks. Then we let them take you again. After all, we were only getting fifteen a week from you, and ten bucks more than that from them.”
“We got to balance our clients’ interests,” Shields said. “They needed protection too. Well, they ain’t our clients . It’s a tough world, huh?”
“See you tomorrow,” Maher said. “Fifteen bucks, like usual. At noon.”
They walked slowly out, stopping at the door to grin and wave to Mr. Bergstrom, who was slowly beginning to understand just how tough the world really was.