Bugsy Malone. Alan Parker

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СКАЧАТЬ she was pretending.

      OUT IN THE street, the sidewalk still glistened from the rain. The sign in the lighted window said ‘Pop Becker’s Book Emporium. Books, Books and more Books. From 5 cents.’ And another read ‘A book is cheaper than a steak. Read one, learn a little, and maybe you’ll eat better.’ The window of Pop’s store was crammed with books of every description.

      Bugsy Malone looked at his reflection in the glass. He straightened his tie and tilted his hat to a smart, acceptable angle. He pulled at the bottom of his jacket and, for a moment, the creases vanished – but promptly sprang back again. Bugsy wasn’t the smartest guy in town, but he had an air about him that was difficult to describe. A sort of inner dignity that didn’t rely on crisp white cuffs and a diamond stick pin. He was no hood. He’d been around them, sure. He’d had his scrapes. And he generally came out on top. But he got a funny kind of pleasure just from being in the middle of things. Always there, but never involved. He’d been quite a useful boxer in his day, too. Except for one slight handicap. He had a jaw that had more glass in it than Macy’s front window. But he still kept in trim. Made a few bucks – from “this and that”, he liked to say. In the main they were honest bucks – looking for promising fighters and steering them in the direction of Cagey Joe at Sluggers Gym. Cagey Joe would teach them all he knew. And he knew a lot. If they made out, Bugsy made a few bucks. To date, he hadn’t found a Jack Johnson, but he’d made enough to pay his rent and treat himself to the occasional turkey dinner. And this was at a time when a bowl of soup and a crust of bread was Sunday lunch for most people.

      Bugsy pushed open the door of the bookstore. A brass bell rang. Behind the counter, Pop Becker looked up from his dinner. He peered at Bugsy over the top of his glasses and underneath his green eye shield.

      “Hi, Bugsy.”

      “Hi, Pop.”

      Without another word, Pop swivelled in his chair and passed over a small, red, leather-bound book. It wasn’t asked for but it was received without question.

      “Thanks, Pop.”

      Pop waved, not looking up from his racing paper or his dinner of salt beef and pickled cucumber, which he munched with as little enthusiasm as he had shown to his customer. Bugsy opened the book and placed a dollar bill inside. He moved to the side of the store. The whole wall was a mass of heavy books on creaking shelves. He tapped on one of them and a row of six books disappeared to reveal a small peep-hole. The tubby face of Jelly filled the hole.

      “Hi, Bugsy.”

      “Hi, Jelly.”

      Bugsy passed the book to Jelly, who took out the dollar bill. He reached down and pulled back the whole wall of books, which moved as one. Revealed was the smoky, noisy hubbub of Fat Sam’s speakeasy.

      Bugsy walked through and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs that led down to the speakeasy floor. Jelly pulled the door closed behind him. On stage, the Fat Sam Grand Slam Speakeasy show had begun. Razamataz, the leader of the band, pounded away at his piano, belting out the music that couldn’t be found anywhere else in town. At least, that’s what Fat Sam used to say. And, for the most part, his regular customers would agree with him.

      Centre stage was Tallulah. She was the star of the show and everyone knew it. Her hair was a work of art, patiently created at Madame Monzani’s Hair Parlour. She peeped out from behind her curls with eyes that were wide open – but could narrow to a cool stare that cut guys in half. And often did. Tallulah was as cool as they come, and she pouted her red cupid-bow lips as she sang her songs in that ever-so-slinky way that drew besotted stares from the guys and envious looks from the girls. She was also Sam’s girl, which made life a little easier for her and a little tougher for the rest of the girls. Not that Tallulah was without talent herself. She put over a number like no one else.

      Backing her were Loretta and Bangles. They dutifully filled in the musical scraps that Tallulah threw them. The other girls took care of the dancing. They were the slickest line-up in town, and their clicking, tap dancing feet would rattle away on that wooden stage with such speed and agility that they never failed to bring a gasp from the speakeasy first timers.

      Bugsy walked down the stairs. He looked a little out of place in the crowd, his clothes not quite up to the standard of the other, snazzier-dressed customers. But Bugsy had a confident air that made up for his wardrobe. He stopped to talk briefly to the hat-check girl. She seemed pleased to see him and he returned her smile by kissing his finger and touching her on the nose. She liked that.

      All around him, waiters and waitresses weaved their way in and out of the tables. The customers chatted amongst themselves, or sat sipping their drinks riveted by the spectacular floor show. Bugsy made his way over to the bar and leaned against the wooden counter. The sour-faced barman ignored him. He wiped and polished the glass in his hand until it sparkled. Bugsy waved to get his attention. “Excuse me. Er... excuse, me, fellah.”

      The barman walked up to him slowly. He scowled at Bugsy all the way.

      “A double. On the 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.

      “You 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.

      “I’ll tell my tailor,” Bugsy answered.

      “You’ve got too much mouth.”

      “So 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.”

      “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” Blousey apologised.

      Bugsy brushed at his jacket and rubbed his sore shins.

      “What have you got in there – an ice-hockey stick?”

      “No, a baseball bat.”

      “You’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.”

      “You’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.

      “And 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.”

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