Operation Bamboozle by Derek Robinson

voice; and the Sten got raised. “Bet you made that scrap iron in the basement,” Frankie said. But he knew the box magazine held 32 rounds of 9-millimeter and this zombie could spray the lot in three seconds. “Tell Eugene that Maurice the Florist called,” he said, and went. Eddie Lutz, for Chrissake. Guys like him shouldn’t be allowed to vote and make change. Just from the way Lutz held the Sten, Frankie knew he was a cowboy. Lutz the putz.
    Slug Murphy called Fitzroy at the Bristol. “He just left,” he said.
    â€œGive you a number? An address?”
    Murphy thought about it. “Maurice the Florist.”
    â€œNo such place. Not in this town.”
    Murphy thought about that. “Could have been maybe Horace. Horace the Florist.”
    â€œYeah, sure. Or Boris. Doris, even. Remember Doris Olivier? Big English actor, got the Oscar. Lock up, Slug. Go home.”
    Tony Feet had been listening. “That name, Slug Murphy. It’s got no class. In Chicago, Sam likes everyone in the family to have some class. So you can shoot straight and still do the crossword. That was always Frankie Blanco’s problem. No class.”
    â€œYou can tell him that,” Fitzroy said. “Real soon.”

    In the kitchen at Cliff Boulevard they were arguing about art, honesty and money, but mostly money.
    â€œPrincess’s art is unique,” Julie said. “We’re not going to give it away just so some dealer three stops down the line can make a killing from it.”
    â€œEvery journey starts with a single step,” Luis said. “What’s the most we can get
now?”
    â€œEach picture’s worth a thousand dollars.”
    â€œYou got me cheap, then,” Princess said. She was grilling steaks. “Eight hundred bucks for seven lousy pictures, you paid.” She shook a bottle of Worcester sauce. “Empty.”
    â€œForget what it’s worth. What will it fetch?” Luis asked.
    â€œThat stuff cost four bucks a bottle.” Julie said. “It’s a rip-off. I’m not buying any more.”
    â€œWe should go back to Ma Chandler,” Princess said. “Her man can catch a ten-pound salmon an’ play America The Beautiful on his harmonica, both at the same time, I’ll do it for 250 bucks includin’ tax. How d’you want your steak?”
    â€œI’d sooner take in washing than betray great American art,” Julie said.
    â€œYou’ve gone very noble all of a sudden,” Luis said. “Six months ago you were broke and slinging burgers in an Irish bar on 86th Street.”
    â€œSix months ago
you
were a lot broker than
me.”
    Princess said. “Six months ago I was too poor to be a genius, an’ the way things are goin’ I was probably right. This genius shit ain’t foolin’ nobody.”
    â€œWe can’t let the Ma Chandlers of this world buy us out,” Julie said. “If they could they’d give the Mona Lisa a big fat shit-eating grin. They’d give Hamlet a snappy ending, for Christ’s sake.”
    â€œGrub up,” Princess said.
    â€œShakespeare was a gloomy bugger,” Luis said. “Give me Cole Porter every time. You seen
Anything Goes?
Hot stuff.”
    â€œI wanted rare,” Julie told Princess.
    â€œShould of spoke up earlier. Everythin’s medium.”
    â€œWe took a poll,” Luis said. “Medium is the majority taste. Mrs. Chandler agrees entirely.”
    â€œWe can’t go on like this” Julie said. “It’s a clash of cultures.” She stopped. Someone was pounding on the front door.
    â€œSee what happens when you mention culture in Texas?” Luis said. “They send men with clubs.”
    He went to the door and came back with Stevie Fantoni. She was wearing sneakers and a tracksuit that had
Ace Waste
stenciled on it, and carrying a canvas shopping bag, not full, not clean. “I could murder a