A Pure Double Cross by John Knoerle Page A

myself for the
coup de grace.
    I heard a blast of gunfire, then another. Loud but not close. I felt intense stinging heat in my lower legs.
    I looked up to see the three punks hotfooting it down the alley.
    I looked the other direction. Jimmy Streets slow walked toward me, a pig snout sawed-off swinging at his side, spilling smoke. Wyatt Earp came to mind.
    â€œGot a call you were in trouble,” said Jimmy when he got close.
    I was bent over, digging birdshot out of my calves. He must have fired a carom shot off the sidewalk.
    â€œThanks,” I said. “I think.”
    Jimmy grunted and walked away.

Chapter Seventeen
    I crept into Mrs. Brennan’s rooming house before midnight and tiptoed up the stairs. I had returned to the Theatrical to retrieve my topcoat and see if my Lazarus act drew any stares from interested parties. It did not.
    I went to my room, grabbed a pint of rye and my dop kit and went down the hall to the bathroom. I sat on the can and rolled up my pants legs, what was left of them. My blue socks were now purple. Four, six, eight, ten,
eleven
pieces of birdshot.
    I rummaged in my dop kit. Best I could find was a nail file. I took a good yank, splashed rye on the file and set to work. I offered up the suffering as penance for my sins.
    A drunken tugman in a watch cap stumbled in, hand on his fly. “Piss in the sink,” I said. “I ain’t moving.”
    He looked at me gouging tiny metal pellets from my calves and ankles with a nail file. He struggled to focus and get square on his feet.
“Ouch,”
is what he said.
    I laughed and passed him the pint. He passed it back. “You need it worse’n I do,” he said and stumbled off.
    I tried to puzzle it out for the umpteenth time. I was used to the sense of power that being a spy provided - you knew all about the enemy, they knew nothing about you. This was the reverse. Who were the three punks working for? How did they know who and where I was? How did they show up so quick? Who called Jimmy to say I was in trouble? And why did he care?
    I soaked a towel in whiskey and swabbed my wounds. The cleansing sting felt good. I stood up and chanced a look at myself in the mirror. Purple fist marks on my cheeks andforehead, a yellowed bandage on my ear. I moved closer to the mirror.
    There. That wasn’t so bad. From neck to knees I was good as new.
    -----
    I awoke the next morning to loud knocking. I got up and stood by the door in my boxer shorts. “Yeah?”
    â€œOpen up laddie.”
    Mrs. Brennan. I threw on some pants and did as I was told.
    â€œGot shot last night did ya?”
    â€œHow do you figure?”
    â€œI followed bloody footprints to your door. I don’t know what it is you’re doing, Mr. Schroeder, but it seems to me you’re going about it the wrong way.”
    Well. Who could argue with that?
    â€œI’ll make you a nice breakfast and a cuppa tea,” she said.
    â€œYou’re too kind.”
    â€œThen you’ll get down on your hands and knees and scrub the carpet. Clean.”
    -----
    I was halfway up the stairs with my scrub brush and bucket when I hit upon a plan. Find the mysterious Mr. Big my own damn self. He was the only one who could unclog this drain. I had lined his pockets with the armored car heist, I had engineered the cops’ raid on his rival gang. Mr. Big would welcome me with open arms!
    How to get to him was another matter. I scrubbed and pondered. The Schooler and his boss figured to have some elaborate communication routine involving pay phones, drop points and carrier pigeons. But what about the proceeds? Cash from gambling, extortion and vending machines. What crime boss worth his salt didn’t want to stroke the fluted edges of those rubber-banded stacks of legal tender otherwise known as the weekly take? There had to be a point of transfer. And a delivery boy.
    Jimmy collected the shakedown money, probably delivered it too. He and I had