Bugsy Malone Read Online Free

rocks,” Bugsy said.
    The barman took the glass he had been polishing and placed it on the bar-top. He filled it with a scoop of ice and then topped it up with Coke. He didn’t take his eyes off Bugsy, who tried to soften the scowl with a joke.
    â€œYou look like you put your face on backwards this morning.”
    The barman fingered the lapels on Bugsy’s crumpled jacket. “I don’t think much of your suit,” he said at last.
    â€œI’ll tell my tailor,” Bugsy answered.
    â€œYou’ve got too much mouth.”
    â€œSo I’ll tell my dentist.”
    Bugsy felt he had got a points decision on the encounter and moved away into the crowd. As he did so, he collided with Blousey, who was on her way to the exit. Her heavy bag crunched into his shins and the drink he was holding spilled down his suit. Bugsy let out a yell. “Ouch! Look where you’re going, will you, lady.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” Blousey apologised.
    Bugsy brushed at his jacket and rubbed his sore shins.
    â€œWhat have you got in there – an ice-hockey stick?”
    â€œNo, a baseball bat.”
    â€œYou’re a baseball player. Right?”
    Blousey propped herself on a stool whilst she straightened herself out. “No, I’m a dancer. My mother made me pack it.”
    â€œYou’re a sports nut. Right?”
    Blousey started moving through the crowd. Bugsy followed her. “It’s for my protection, in case I get robbed,” she said.
    â€œAnd you take it everywhere with you. Right?”
    Blousey manoeuvred herself through the crowd. She stopped for a moment, her path blocked by a waiter who was trying to unload a precarious-looking tray of drinks. Blousey was not really in the mood to talk to Bugsy and explained reluctantly, “I’m here about a job.”
    The way she said it you would never have believed her disappointment. She wasn’t about to let on to this guy, whom she didn’t know from Adam, that she’d not even got past Fat Sam’s office door.
    Bugsy persevered. “Did you get it?”
    â€œThey said come back tomorrow.”
    She tried to lose him by taking a different direction through the crowd but Bugsy caught up with her. He made one more attempt at being friendly. “What’s your name, anyway?”
    â€œBrown,” Blousey replied.
    â€œSounds like a loaf of bread,” Bugsy joked.
    â€œBlousey Brown.”
    â€œSounds like a stale loaf of bread.”
    Blousey’s smile was one of those big phoney types that disappear the moment they are formed. Bugsy laughed at his own joke, and was about to follow it up with something a little more polite, when suddenly the music in the speakeasy was interrupted by a loud scream.
    Suddenly there was pandemonium. People scrambled over themselves in an effort to get under the tables. Chairs and glasses toppled over. At the top of the stairs, four sinister-looking hoods stood in line. In their hands each one carried a splurge gun.
    The hood on the left made a small, almost unnoticeable nod. It was all the signal they needed. Suddenly, with a strange slurping sound, the guns burst into life. Along the mirrored barback splattered a great white line of splurge. The barman ducked down out of sight. Fat Sam, alarmed at the sudden outburst of screaming, crashed out of his office. As he appeared at the top of his stairs, the hoods trained their guns on him. He dived for the floor. Knuckles, always a little slow, caught a splurge salvo on the arm. Then, having made their point, the hoods vanished as quickly as they had appeared, brushing Pop Becker out of the way as they did so.
    Under their table, Bugsy and Blousey struggled to get out her baseball bat. They both clung to it – not really sure what to do with it. Fat Sam regained his posture and started to straighten up the overturned chairs. Nervously, he tried to reassure his customers. He fooled