Bugsy Malone. Alan Parker

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СКАЧАТЬ Fat Sam was obviously preoccupied. He gave Fizzy as much time as he did the wooden hat-rack by the exit door. He didn’t mean to be nasty. It was just that he had a lot on his mind right now, and tap dancing janitors were as important to him as yesterday’s papers.

      Knuckles helped Sam into his overcoat and faithfully brushed him down with a brush he kept in his inside pocket. His task completed, he promptly cracked the knuckles of his left hand – like a full stop at the end of a sentence.

      This habit irritated Fat Sam no end. He would shout at Knuckles to stop it. And the more Fat Sam shouted, the more nervous Knuckles would get. And the more nervous he got, the more he’d crack his knuckles – and consequently Fat Sam shouted at him even more. It was a strange cycle, a confused roundabout that poor old Knuckles had no way of jumping off.

      He pressed his fist into his hand and the bones wiggled together to let out that unmistakable sound like a nut yielding to a nut-cracker.

      “Don’t do that, Knuckles.”

      “But it’s how I got my name, Boss.”

      “Well, knock it off, else change your name.”

      Knuckles bowed his head and nervously put his arms behind his back out of harm’s way. Fat Sam was growing impatient. He stalked up and down flexing his fingers and shooting out his arms to expose the neat starched shirt cuffs. He did it without thinking. Just as Knuckles clicked at his hands. Fat Sam shouted impatiently in the direction of the dressing room, “Tallulah, are you ready? How much longer you want us to wait?”

      Tallulah wasn’t about to be hurried. She was the star of the Fat Sam Show and nobody hurried her. She’d hurried and bustled for too long and now she was taking things a little easier. Her tired lazy voice drifted down the stairs.

      “Coming, honey. You don’t want me looking a mess, do you?”

      Fat Sam threw his hands into the air, and paced the floor, his shoes echoing on the shiny wooden floor boards. He was uneasy. Knuckles watched his boss carefully, knowing that something was up but not daring to interfere. Without thinking, he cracked his knuckles in sympathy with what Fat Sam was thinking. Sam scowled at him with such venom that no words were necessary. Knockles put his hands in his pockets.

      “Sorry, Boss. It kind of... slipped out.”

      Meanwhile, Fizzy had plucked up enough courage to speak.

      “Er... Mr Stacetto, about the audition...”

      Fat Sam looked at him for the first time. He wasn’t unkind. He liked Fizzy and if there was ever enough time – which there wasn’t – he would have given him a chance. He put his friendly, podgy hand on Fizzy’s shoulder.

      “Later, Fizzy. I’m busy right now... keep practising, son. Keep practising.” Tallulah appeared at the top of the stairs. She didn’t look any better for all her make-up repair, but she felt better. She always felt better when she kept Fat Sam waiting. She was probably the only person living who could get away with it, and she knew it.

      “You spend more time prettying yourself up than there is time in the day,” grumbled Sam.

      Tallulah’s reply was quick.

      “Listen, honey, if I didn’t look this good you wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

      Sam didn’t like getting the worst of this verbal sword fence.

      “I’ll see you in the car,” he muttered, heading for the door.

      Tallulah paused to drop a soft goodnight kiss on the top of Fizzy’s head as she followed Sam out.

      “’Night, Fizzy.”

      Fizzy sighed, and picked up his broom again. As he swept, his broom seemed to make the rhythmic sound of a drummer’s brush on the side drum. Softly, all alone in the empty, dimly lit speakeasy, Fizzy began to sing. It wasn’t a happy song. Not the song you sing when you’re in the bath. It was a sad, gritty song about not being given a chance, about being passed over, about being taken for granted like the tables and chairs around him. Fizzy turned as he sang and opened a small broom cupboard under the stairs. He reached inside and took out a parcel wrapped in a blue chequered duster. Slowly he unwrapped a pair of spanking new tap shoes. The boots he was wearing were worn out and shabby – but not these shoes. They were made of the finest, crispest, brown and cream leather, with hand stitching and neat bows. They had cost Fizzy ten weeks’ wages but they were worth every cent. The leather soles had never been trodden on. The shiny metal plates had never seen a scratch. Fizzy was the greatest tap dancer on earth, he always said. But it wasn’t really on earth, because on earth he couldn’t dance a step. It was in his imagination. Somewhere up there in a cloudy, never-never land where dreamers live.

      As he sang his lonely song, he heard a noise in the upstairs corridor. His expression changed to a sheepish grin as he saw Velma, the black girl dancer, coming down the stairs. Velma took the situation in at once. She said nothing, but she dropped her coat on the ground and began to dance for Fizzy. As they say in show business, Velma could dance a bit – which was an understatement, because Velma could dance a lot. She glided amongst the tables, her feet scarcely making contact with the floor. If Sam had ever seen Fizzy and Velma’s secret double act he’d have made them the Grand Slam’s star attraction. But it was an act that no one ever saw, except the tables and chairs who silently partnered them on the speakeasy floor.

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