Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde Read Online Free Page A

decent.”
    “I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more. The janitor’s a Mrs. Gebhardt. Have her phone me for instructions.” He smiled, admiring Bill. “You’re a conniver working me up to a free apartment. But I don’t regret it. Not in the least. I owe something to the sons of my best friend.” He paused as if about to add: Remember me to the folks. “You and Joe drop around for lunch any time. No need to go hungry. Come up for dinner, any time at all.”
    “Good-by and thanks.”
    “Good-by.” He fumbled with a letter, a dodge he always resorted to to end an interview.
    Bill shut the door, smiling at the outer office. He had the sack. What a skunk he was to rake up his father’s bones for charity! But a fellow had to live. None of the other collectors were around. They were all out hounding tenants, shaking down joints. The three stenographers, with the wisdom of those whose jobs are still solid, guessed he’d got it between the eyes. Their faces were three pennies.
    Hell, if he wore a brassiere and rouged up like a fast number or a dame ready to be convinced, he’d be set too. Stinky Stanger and the damn stenos. He was sorry for them. “So long, kids. Best of luck. I’m out in the snow and got to find a dame to keep me.”
    Miss Tassio laughed. The lean redhead who always looked hungry stared straight at him. Miss Kornitz, who lived over on Avenue A, hung her head, ashamed. He patted her shoulder. “Don’t mind me, kid. It’s a lousy world, and no one can help what they’ve got to do. People got to eat.”
    The dust roared up the street. The New Year was just entering people’s consciousness. Although Christmas hadn’t tinseled into sight, he seemed to feel the New Year. Ring the bells. It’s coming. Hoorah! The stenos were watching him through the plateglass window. Then they began to work. Typewriters clicked. He laughed. Time must go on, and Progress. What grand sayings! He studied his reflection in the glass, the camel coat and snapbrim felt. That was a good build he saw, handsome face. It was himself and it wasn’t. This reflection was a ghost bidding him good-by from the office. The Bill walking away was his new self, mysterious, strange to him. He’d been newborn. The old was dead. His new life was undetermined, unlived. Maybe Paddy’d get a job for him. Easy dough wasn’t bad. A fellow had to live. Life must go on. You bet. He thought about his brother, Joe. What a lie! Joe wasn’t due in New York until after New Year. Joe and the pup. By New Year he might be in the dough. You never could tell. One thing, he was going to get his hands on dough, he didn’t give a damn how.
    He had forgotten completely about the murder at Paddy’s. And really there was no reason to remember it. It was just another one of those things that never make the papers and leave no impress on the minds of the performers. The star of the show is got rid of, and that’s all. When he thought of it, it was simply an unimportant accident that had caused the loss of his job. It was a banana peel and he had slipped.

CHAPTER THREE
    T HE November sunshine was so bright on his eyes they felt shot to hell. He acted as if he had nothing to worry about. Yet he had the God-damned gate, and what was he moping for? He was aware of the granite city, and all things, masses, lights, people, were scratched on the surface of his eyeballs. He entered a Horn & Hardart. The money changer slid out two nickels towards him. He took them with a feeling that his cash was going, that he was flinging his money into air with drunken fists. More than ever he needed dough. The tiled eating-place was haunted by the presence of the bus-girls cleaning up the tables, treading silently. Here was a place to hug his misery. The food displayed behind glass was a museum exhibit bought by men who neither smiled nor frowned. He bit into his doughnut with a lonely intensity. He was right at home. He wasn’t the only one in the boat. He sipped his coffee