Bugsy Malone. Alan Parker

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      Roxy collided with a trash can as he started running again. It clattered loudly on to the sidewalk, disturbing the slumber of a ginger cat, which scooted across his path. Roxy reached the wall in seconds, desperately clawing at the bricks to get a handhold at the top. But it was too high and Roxy was no jumper. He turned to face his pursuers.

      They advanced together, their violin cases dangling at their sides, like a sinister chorus line. Ten yards from him they stopped. The cases opened. Click. Click. Click. Click. Roxy blinked, in unison, and a bead of sweat found its way out from under his hat brim and dribbled down his forehead. From their cases, the hoods took out four immaculate, shiny, new guns. Roxy stared at them in disbelief.

      Suddenly, one of them spoke.

      “Your name Robinson?”

      Roxy nodded. His own name was one of the few things he had learned in school.

      “Roxy Robinson?” The hood’s voice spat out once more. “You work for Fat Sam?”

      Roxy’s adam’s apple bobbed around frantically in his throat as if it was trying to find a way out. He managed to force his neck muscles to shake his head into a passable nod.

      It was all the hoods needed. Almost immediately, the wall was peppered with what can only be described as custard pies. Roxy briefly eyed the sight, not quite believing his good fortune. His optimism was short-lived as a large quantity of slimy, foamy liquid enveloped his sharp, weasel-like features. His ears protruded like toby hug handles from the creamy mess.

      The hoods clicked their violin cases shut, turned, and with a confident strut walked back up the alley. The splurge fun had claimed its first victim – and whatever game it was that everyone was playing, sure as eggs is eggs, Roxy the Weasel had been scrambled.

      BLOUSEY BROWN HAD always wanted to be famous. She got the bug very early – at the age of three she gave an impromptu recital for her family at Thanksgiving. She would tap dance a little and sing some, and what her rather squeaky voice lacked in volume she made up for with enthusiasm. Her audience was always especially encouraging. But what family doesn’t have a talented child? In fact, there had been vaudeville acts in Blousey’s family since way back. They hadn’t gathered a great deal of fame amongst them – the yellowed notices in the cuttings book weren’t too plentiful – but they were remembered with great affection. At Thanksgiving, when Blousey put on her shiny red tap shoes with the pink bows and did her annual turn, someone would say, “She’s got it all right. You can tell she’s gonna be famous. There’s a kind of sparkle in her eye. Bravo, Blousey. Bravo.”

      It was the last “Bravo” that did it. Since that moment, Blousey had been hooked on show business.

      Life wasn’t easy – sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. Like now.

      She clicked open her compact and quickly repaired her make-up. She fixed her lipstick and pinched the wave in her hair. One dollar eighty that wave had cost and already it was straightening out. The guy in the beauty parlour had said she looked terrific, and she hadn’t been about to argue. What girl didn’t like looking pretty? She had parted with her dollar eighty gladly. She checked the crumpled piece of paper in her hand once more. Scribbled in pencil were the words: Fat Sam’s Grand Slam Speakeasy. Audition 10 o’clock.

      The note had been given to her by a friend who had been in the chorus at Sam’s and had got Blousey the audition. The friend hadn’t written down the address, of course. Speakeasies were against the law and the Grand Slam’s location behind Pop Becker’s bookstore was a secret. As it happens, it was probably the worst kept secret in town, because half of New York went to Sam’s place for their late night entertainment.

      Blousey had pushed her way across the floor of the crowded, smoky speakeasy, following her friend’s instructions: up the stairs to the backstage corridor that led to the girls’ changing room and the boss’s office. A screen of frosted glass with neat geometric shapes etched on the panes formed the wall between the office and the corridor. On the door, printed in rather aggressive gold letters, was ‘S. Stacetto. Private.’

      Blousey sat on a wicker-back bentwood double seater, to which she had been shown by a nasty-looking character who had cracked his knuckles as he said, “Sit there, lady. The boss will sees yuh in a minute.” Some minute. The minute had stretched itself to an hour and a half and she was still waiting.

      Blousey ferreted nervously in her battered leather bag. She had brought too many clothes with her as usual, but she reassured herself that one never knew which number they’d ask for. Her bag was also extra heavy because of her books and baseball bat. The books were very precious to Blousey. They were old, with stiff-backed covers, and Blousey had read them and re-read them till she knew every page. Ever since she had been out of work she’d feared she might come back to her apartment one day to find that her landlady had taken them by way of rent. So she took no chances. Where she went, they went. The baseball bat was for protection. From what, she was never sure. She wasn’t even sure if she could lift it – let alone swing it – but, like the books, it went with her everywhere.

      All around her in the corridor, the chorus girls trotted back and forth in their stage outfits, a flurry of sequins, organza, and orange feathers. Blousey blushed a little at the sly and giggly glances they threw in her direction. She breathed a heavy sigh. She had decided to sit it out, no matter what. Fat Sam’s black janitor whistled a bluesy melody as he swept up around her. Blousey politely lifted her feet for him to sweep under. She was beginning to feel fed up and just a little tired. She rested her head against the wall and listened to the speakeasy band as the lively music found its way backstage.

      Suddenly, the music was mixed with the muffled sound of agitated voices coming from Fat Sam’s office, behind the frosted glass partition.

      FAT SAM’S PODGY hand wrestled with the selector knob on the shiny mahogany, fretwork-fronted radio. As he found the right station, the high-pitched frequency whistle gave way to the drone of a news announcer, who blurted out his message.

      “We interrupt this programme of music to bring you an important news flash... reports are coming in of a gangland incident on the Lower East Side, involving a certain Robert Robins, known to the police as “Roxy the Weasel”, and believed to be a member of the gang of alleged mobster king, Fat Sam Stacetto. Robinson was the victim of a sensational attack, and we go over to our reporter on the spot for a...”

      Before the news announcer could finish, Fat Sam snatched at the on/off knob on the radio. Fat Sam was not pleased. Like most hoodlums, he had clawed his way up from the streets to get a little recognition. A little notoriety. But whenever he made the papers or the newscasts it made him mad. Very mad.

      “Alleged mobster king of the Lower East Side,” was it? There was no ‘alleged’ about it. Sam was king of these parts. There wasn’t a racket or a shady deal in which he didn’t have his fat podgy finger. No, there was no doubt. At least, not in Fat Sam’s mind. But he was to find out that others thought differently before the night was out.

      He paced up and down on the red turkey carpet that fronted the desk СКАЧАТЬ