“Start yakking, Mack. Who are you and what were you doing in that tree?” This came from thug number one.
Moe brushed off the bark from his hands and straightened his jacket.
Thug number two chimed in. “Maybe he’s a pussy, Al. Pussies like to climb trees.”
Thug number one, Al, was middle-aged, thin-faced, and wore a permanently tired expression. He wasn’t a big man, but the tommy gun extending from his paws gave the illusion that he was. He wore the same brown suit as Thug number two, who must be Gus, like they’d graduated from the fashion school together. Gus was younger, broader, and by all accounts, dumber. But the firearm in his hand didn’t look any less threatening.
“I asked you a question, boy. When you don’t answer, I gotta figure you’re itching to wear lead buttons on your vest.”
Moe searched for an answer. Nothing but sarcasm came to mind. “I’m an arborist.”
“An arborist? What the fuck’s an arborist?” Gus looked at Moe, and then over to his buddy. “What’s an arborist, Al?”
Al kept his eyes and his heater pointed at Moe. “Apparently, an arborist is the same thing as a bull-shitter.” He glared at Moe through slanted eyes as he spoke. It was the kind of look that said this gorilla meant business. So Moe answered.
“I heard there was a party tonight. I lost my invitation.”
Al had the muzzle of his gun jammed into Moe’s chest before Moe could flinch. “What do you know about it?”
Moe lifted his hands in surrender. “Whoa. Hold on. No reason to blow a gasket.”
Al rammed the cold metal harder into Moe’s sternum. “I got a twitchy trigger finger, Mack. Better not test it.”
“I heard about the party from a good-looking blonde.” Moe slowly lowered his hands and eased them into his trouser pockets. “She said she was supposed to be here tonight, but she wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“I think he’s talking about Danja, Al.”
“Shut up, Gus. And you…” Al tapped the gun up against Moe’s chin like he was tapping the ashes off a cigarette. “Get those hands out of your pockets.”
Moe eased his hands out of his trouser pockets and held them back up. Al had the look of a caged tiger, itching to pounce but willing to bide his time. He wouldn’t ace an Ivy League exam, but the thug was smart with instinct. Moe considered his words carefully. "Yeah, you could say Danja sent me," he hedged.
“The boss is gonna want to see him, Al.” Gus said. Al was the brains of this duo. Gus, on the other hand, couldn’t pass an eye test. The man’s head was filled with rocks, but he was still dangerous. Tommy guns gave a man an edge when on a level playing field he’d be outclassed. As if to prove Moe right, Gus let his gun hang loose in his grip, forgetting to point it at Moe.
“I said shut-the-fuck up, Gus. And get that gun up, you fuckin’ moron!”
Gus jerked the gun back into position, aimed straight at Moe. His finger twiddled the trigger like a kid gaming for a turn. Moe wasn’t sure Gus had enough smarts to know how the trigger on a tommy gun worked. Moe decided to distract the overgrown baby Hughie.
“Maybe Gus has a point, Al. Maybe I should see the boss.”
Al used the tip of his gun again against Moe’s chest, tapping out each syllable. “Listen, Mack, I’ll say when and if you see the boss. You got that?” Al took a step back but kept his firearm pointed at Moe's heart. His finger caressed the trigger like a long lost lover. "Shake him down, Gus."
Gus slung his gun over his back like a knapsack and patted Moe from shoulder to ankle. He discovered Moe’s gun and pen knife. “He’s packing, Al, but it ain’t much. A measly Boy Scout knife and a Roscoe.” Gus crammed both weapons into his suit pockets.
“Hand me his wallet, Gus. Let’s see who this clown is.”
Gus worked his kielbasa-like fingers into Moe’s back pocket, pulled out his wallet, and tossed it to Al.
“Keep your gun on him.” Al said.
Gus, playing private to Al’s sergeant, grabbed his weapon and yanked it forward, aiming it toward Moe.
“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got fat fingers, Gus?” asked Moe.
“Only the ladies.” Gus guffawed at his own joke.
“Well, would you look what we got here.” Al had the wallet open and was fingering Moe’s tin. “We’ve got ourselves a private dick.”
Gus whistled. “A private dick, you say?”
Al drew out the few bucks Moe was carrying. "Looks like the snooping business ain't paying too well these days." He squinted in the darkness, trying to read the name on the license. "Gafferson." Al stuffed the couple of sawbucks into his inside suit pocket and then smirked at Moe. "They looked a little lonely. I got some friends they can join."
Luckily, Moe had stashed most of the payoff from Dutch at home. It was dwindling on its own. If he'd been carrying it, chances are Al would have made it extinct. "You're all heart, Gus.”
The sound of an engine turning over interrupted their get-to-know-you bash. Another engine quickly followed, and then another. Three pair of headlights flashed on, one right after another, like an Edison parade lighting up the front of the Victorian mansion, three pair of headlights flashed on, one right after another..
“Ah, what a shame, looks like you missed the party,” Al said.
Moe kept quiet. It was no skin off his back if the goons believed they’d caught Moe coming and not going.
The sound of traffic had Gus even antsier than he’d been. He shifted on his feet and kept glancing out to the road. “The boss man will be pissed if we don’t bring this sucker to him, Al.”
“Hold your horses, Gus.” Al tossed the empty wallet back to Moe and straightened his suit coat. “We’re not in any hurry. Let the party-goers leave.”
“Oh yeah, good thinking, Al. We’re not in any hurry. Let them party goers leave.” Gus was the kind of ape who made teachers feel like underachievers. His brain wasn't made for learning. The only thing the guy had was his muscle, but there was plenty of that. Mr. America should be so lucky.
But Moe never did like bullies, and the dumb ones like Gus made it easy to take a jab. Before he could think, the words were out of his mouth "Got a cracker for your parrot, Al?"
Moe was on the ground in an instant, seeing stars and rubbing his chin where Al's tommy gun had upper cut him.
“You best just shut your trap, Gafferson, before I forget my manners.”
Moe shook his head to loosen the daisies that were popping in his brain. At least his teeth weren’t rattling. He should have known Al would defend his gangster buddy. It was practically protocol.
Gus pushed up his sleeves and balled his fists. “Let’s rough him up a little, Al.”
“Nah, just keep the gun on him while I light up a smoke.”
A couple of blinks later and Moe was able to focus again. Gus's attention was already drifting and Moe thought he might be able to take him. But Al was a different story. The smaller man took his job serious, and men like Al – wiry and instinctual - had fast reflexes. And even a puppet like Gus could get off a lucky shot. Moe wasn’t looking to add any lead poisoning to his belly. So he waited.
