Bugsy Malone by Alan Parker Page A

Sam’s white face. It was an eerie sight to see Fat Sam’s mouth open so wide and not have your eardrums popping with the noise of his giant vibrating tonsils. Knuckles plucked up enough courage to break the silence.
    â€œBoss?”
    â€œThe whole gang’s gone, Knuckles. Splurged. That leaves just you and me.”
    Knuckles, without thinking, took off his hat to show his respect. He felt a little embarrassment and a lot of loneliness. He looked around at the empty chairs that had once been filled by the gang. As Shakespeare once said, “When the chips are down, even dumb bums have got a heart.” Knuckles lived up to his name once again and squeezed his fat fingers, letting off a machine gun burst of bone-clicking. Fat Sam threw his note pad at him in disgust.
    â€œDon’t do that, Knuckles. How many times do I have to tell you? It irritates me. We do nothing. We act like nothing’s happened. Carry on as normal. Tutto casa sono buono .”
    The Italian tripped off Sam’s tongue. It always did when he was upset. Knuckles looked puzzled.
    â€œWhat does that mean, Boss?”
    Sam stopped biting his nails for a moment to look up at his henchman. “You don’t speak Italian?”
    â€œNo, Boss, I’m Jewish.”
    Sam translated for him. “We act like...like everything’s hunky dory.”
    Knuckles nodded and mumbled his own Yiddish translation to himself. “Oh, al is is git.”
    But everything wasn’t so git . And they both knew it.

F IZZY POUNDED THE piano keys with great gusto. The music didn’t make sense but he obviously enjoyed it. To outside ears it sounded like a jumble of discords, but in Fizzy’s head it sounded beautiful. Whenever he was alone in the speakeasy he would tinkle away at the ivories. Not that he was entirely alone. Jelly, the fat boy who looked after the speakeasy door, was generally his audience. He was tone deaf as well, and would lean over the top of the stairs, his head on his hands, and watch Fizzy with glazed eyes. Unbelievably, considering all that note-thumping, Jelly seemed to be nodding off to sleep. Then Fizzy’s tune was interrupted, as Jelly woke up to slide open the speakeasy door and let Bugsy in.
    â€œHey, Bugsy,” welcomed Fizzy.
    â€œHey, Fizzy. How you doing?”
    â€œFine, Bugsy. Just fine.”
    â€œStill practising?”
    â€œSure thing, Bugsy. Still practising.”
    At that moment, Tallulah glided through the door of the girls’ room. She leaned over the banister rail and smiled down at Fizzy and Bugsy.
    â€œSuddenly everybody wants to be in show business.”
    â€œOh, hi, Tallulah. I’ve come to see Fat Sam. Is he in?”
    Tallulah was joined by Tillie, Loretta and Dotty, who slouched over the rail and threw nods and red-lipped smiles in Bugsy’s direction. Tallulah didn’t like that much. That was her department.
    â€œHe’s busy, Bugsy. Why don’t you have a drink while you’re waiting?”
    â€œWhy not? I’ll have a special on the rocks.”
    Tallulah tiptoed down the steep stairs with as much elegance as her high-heeled shoes would allow. Tillie, Loretta and Dotty followed suit. But not for long, Tallulah turned at the bottom and coolly put them into reverse.
    â€œOK, girls. Go feed the ducks.”
    â€œOh, Tallulah!” the girls offered as a feeble response, but Tallulah would have none of it.
    The girls turned around and clomped noisily back up the stairs. Tallulah smoothed down her skirt and snapped her fingers at the barman, who knew better than to ignore her. He threw ice into two glasses and poured in the bright green ‘special’ drink that was a favourite among the speakeasy’s regulars. Bugsy took an upturned chair from on top of a table and sat himself down. Tallulah pulled a chair across from another table and edged up close to him. She meant business.
    Bugsy was not sure he knew how to cope. Up