Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in Armada by William Collins Sons & Co Ltd in 1976

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books in 2011

Text copyright © Alan Parker 1976

Why You’ll Love This Book copyright © Lauren Child 2011

Alan Parker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780007441228

Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2012 ISBN: 9780007514830

Version: 2016-11-24

For Lucy, Alexander, Jake and Nathan, who heard it first.

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Why You’ll Love This Book by Lauren Child

1. Roxy

2. Blousey

3. Fat Sam

4. Bugsy (At Last)

5. The Splurge Thickens

6. A Sparkle in his Eye

7. Fizzy

8. No Comment

9. Eight Banana Boozles

10. Smolsky and O’Dreary

11. Dandy Dan

12. Next!

13. Dumb Bums We Ain’t

14. Al Is Is Git. Or Not So Git

15. You’re Aces, Bugsy

16. Looney (Off His Trolley) Bergonzi

17. The Salami

18. The Chase

19. No Rough Stuff

20. Ketchup Without

21. Leroy Smith

22. Goodbye Knuckles

23. Sluggers Gym

24. Poysanally

25. Mr Big

26. Trapped

27. Escape

28. Splurge Inc.

29. We Know You’re In There

30. The Pay Off

Author’s Note

About the Author

By Way of Explanation

About the Publisher

Someone once said that if you can open with a really good first line then you are halfway to writing a really great book. The opening sentence to Bugsy Malone is one of my all-time favourites.

Someone once said that if it was raining brains, Roxy Robinson wouldn’t even get wet.

This is a perfect first line. You know right away that there’s going to be some snappy dialogue and some hardboiled characters. It also has a sort of ‘back in the olden days’ feel to it, and the name Roxy Robinson somehow suggests gangsters and old-time New York. But above all, what this one line tells you is that this is going to be a funny book.

I saw the film of Bugsy Malone when I was about ten. We were in Norfolk for my cousin’s wedding, the weather was dismal and we had a free afternoon with nothing to do so we all went to the cinema. My whole family went, including my cousins, my aunt, uncle, great-aunt, great-uncle and grandmother. We all loved it. Those of us who are still alive still talk about it. We still quote lines from it.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Brown.”

“Sounds like a loaf of bread.”

“Blousey Brown.”

“Sounds like a stale loaf of bread.”

Of course Bugsy Malone is a great film, but it’s also a great book. It reads beautifully. The characters – and there are a great many of them – are all described in such a way that in just a few lines you feel you could almost draw them: she had the kind of face that needed a personality behind it. She was built like a Mack truck and her shoulders would have done credit to an all-in wrestler.

The names are pretty descriptive too; Pop, Fizzy, Jelly, Bangles, Tallulah. I meet quite a few Tallulahs these days – goldfish and children – which isn’t surprising because, as characters go, Tallulah isn’t a bad one to be named after. She is sassy and bewitching and snaps out great one-liners: “I’ll go manicure my gloves.”

That’s the thing about this book, the female characters are given good roles too, they aren’t just there to wander in and out of scenes without too much personality. As a child I was always rather fond of Blousey Brown. She might be the romantic interest but she’s no sap, that’s for sure.

Bugsy: Can I give you a lift?

Blousey: You got a car?

Bugsy: Er… no.

Blousey: So how you gonna give me a lift, buster? Stand me on a box?

We don’t get to meet Bugsy until chapter four, it’s a nice way of building him up; we know we’re going to meet him because his name is, after all, the book’s title – somehow not meeting him right away makes him all the more charismatic.

Bugsy Malone is that perfect hero, antihero. He has edge but we know he’s a decent guy. He is just the right side of honest, but every now and then push comes to shove and he has to step over the line. He’s a nice-looking fellow but he’s not vain. He’s got style but it doesn’t have to do with what he is wearing – his suit isn’t great – money is certainly on the tight side but he gets by. One of the things that make Bugsy such an appealing character is that he is aware of his shortcomings but he doesn’t let them hold him back.

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.”

Oh, and he’s funny too.

His cool has to do with his confidence. This is not a man who spends too much time thinking about tomorrow. He orders what he wants and hopes he can come up with a way of paying the diner bill by the time he has taken his last slug on his Banana Boozle.

Bugsy is the central character, the lynchpin, everyone’s go-to guy, the only one who can possibly outwit Dandy Dan, the smooth, calculating gangster villain who wages war on Fat Sam and attempts to bring down his little empire. Fat Sam himself is a loveable klutz, not the sharpest knife in the drawer but smart enough to run the slickest joint in town, and bright enough to recognise when he needs to call in the help of someone far brighter than he.

The plot has edge and moves along with great pace but never neglects the detail, far from it; it indulges in the detail, describing scenes with such perfect ease and comic accuracy that you feel you know this world, these people. Descriptive character-building scenes are so often skipped over in action plots and I always think it’s a shame; to me these are the best bits. Funny interactions, flirtatious conversations – the pauses between – are what provide the suspense and make you engage with the characters. But what I like best of all about this book is the dialogue which Alan Parker has a genius for. It’s got such personality; charming, funny, snappy and totally believable.

Why should you read this book? Because if you don’t I might just keep quoting great lines at you until I have told the whole story. I am a big fan of Bugsy Malone and if anyone had ever told my ten-year-old self that one day I would be writing the introduction to this book I would have probably fallen off my cinema seat.

Lauren Child

Multi-million copy bestseller Lauren Child is best known for creating the hugely popular Charlie and Lola and the Clarice Bean series. She has won numerous awards including the prestigious Kate Greenaway Medal and the Smarties Gold Award. Her books have been published in many languages, with runaway success.

SOMEONE ONCE SAID that if it was raining brains, Roxy Robinson wouldn’t even get wet. In all of New York they didn’t come much dumber than Roxy the Weasel. In short, Roxy was a dope – and he fulfilled people’s expectations of him by taking the blind alley down the side of Perito’s Bakery, on the corner of East 6th Street.

Overhead, the rusty, broken gutter turned the rainwater into a nasty brown liquid that gushed out on to the sidewalk below. It had been raining all night, and a sizeable pool had formed. Roxy’s frantic feet disturbed the neon reflections. He felt the icy water seep through his spats and bite into his ankles. He’d been running for a dozen blocks, and although his legs felt strong, his lungs were giving out on him.

He skidded to a halt as he noticed the wall at the end of the blind alley. Anyone else would have seen it a hundred yards back, but not Roxy. Whatever passed for a brain between his ears whirled into action as he considered his options. He ducked into a doorway. At the end of the alley, the red neon light glowed and dimmed in time with Roxy’s heartbeats, and the big reflected letters of ‘Perito’s Bakery’ spread across the wet road. Roxy’s heartbeats moved into second gear as four black shadows appeared and gobbled up the red neon.

Roxy had spent his whole life making two and two into five, but he could smell trouble like other people can smell gas. The four shadows became sharper as they gave way to four neatly pressed suits. They looked as snazzy as a Fifth Avenue store window – only these guys were no dummies.

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 in his office. The rest of his gang stood around in silence. They had learned from bitter experience not to talk at times like these.

Fat Sam stopped pacing, and snatched a wooden pool cue from the rack. He stepped forward to the pool table. One of his men moved forward with the box. No one ever mentioned the box, but unless Fat Sam stood on it there was no way he could possibly reach the pool table. Sam stabbed at the first ball. To everyone’s relief it thudded down into the corner pocket. With the box preceding him, Fat Sam stalked around the table and, as he potted the balls one by one, he shouted, “So tell me how you allow this to happen? Roxy was one of my best. What have you got to say for yourselves, you bunch of dummies? Knuckles? Louis? Ritzy? Angelo? Snake-Eyes?” Fat Sam’s gang looked at each other uneasily. They always agreed with everything Fat Sam said. They weren’t stupid.

Sitting by the water cooler was Knuckles, Fat Sam’s number one man. He cracked his knuckles often, which is how he got his name. It always looked a little threatening as he idly clicked at the bones in his hands, but to tell the truth it was more nerves than bravado – though Knuckles never let on. He had a name to live up to and he was determined to do it.

Louis was called Louis because he resembled Shakedown Louis, a hero in these parts. No one ever knew Shakedown Louis, or what he did, but he had a name and it was enough for anyone that Louis resembled him. And anyway, whoever heard of a hoodlum called Joshuah Spleendecker. Mrs Spleendecker preferred Louis. And most of all Louis preferred Louis.

Snake-Eyes got his name because of those two little ivory cubes that clicked and clicked away in his palm. He had been the king of any street corner crap game ever since he learned that a dice has six faces and a hood only needs two.

Ritzy was the quietest of the bunch. He was a dapper dresser, with knife-edged creases down his trousers that could cut your throat. Ritzy was one of those people who always look like they’ve come straight from the laundry. He had starched eyelids, ears neatly pressed and steamed, and even his smile seemed to crease his face like it had been freshly applied by the best laundry in Chinatown.

Angelo was called Angelo because his mother thought it was a cute name. It was also his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name, which meant that the chances of his being called Clarence or Albin were pretty slim.

“Call yourselves hoodlums?” Fat Sam was saying. “You’re a disgrace to your profession, do you hear me? A disgrace. And most of all you’re a disgrace to Fat Sam.”

Fat Sam poked his chest proudly with his thumb. He mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief. Still the gang remained motionless. Fat Sam walked to the drinks cupboard. He yanked at the handle and pulled down the veneered front flap. He took out a crystal decanter of orange juice, and toyed with it as he spoke.

“We all know who’s behind this, don’t we?”

The gang replied in mechanical unison. “Sure do, Boss.”

“You don’t need a head full of brains to know that, do you?”

“Sure don’t, Boss.”

“We all know who’s been monkeying us around, don’t we?”

“Oh yeah, Boss. We sure know.”

“So who it is, you dummies? Tell me who?”

The gang looked at one another for a moment. They weren’t sure if they should risk mentioning that dreaded name in Fat Sam’s office. They decided together. They were all wrong.

“Dandy Dan, Boss.”

Fat Sam was so incensed he fell off his box. His face bloated out to become a passable imitation of a Christmas balloon. He screamed, “Don’t mention that man’s name in this office.”

The gang redeemed themselves by picking him up and brushing him down. Fat Sam seethed away and steam seemed to squirt from his ears. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, and the gang stiffened visibly. Ritzy looked even starchier, Snake-Eyes clicked at his dice, Knuckles cracked his knuckles. Louis pulled back his shoulders, shot out his cuffs and did his impersonation of Shakedown Louis. Fat Sam kept his dignity. After all, he was Fat Sam.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened, and a curly blonde head popped nervously around it. It was Blousey. She had finally tired of waiting and had plucked up the courage to come in. The gang looked at her incredulously.

“Er... Mr Stacetto, I’m Miss Blousey Brown. I’ve come about the job. I’m a dancer.”

Fat Sam couldn’t believe his ears. He bellowed, “A dancer! A dancer! Believe me, honey, right now I don’t need a dancer. Come back tomorrow.”

Blousey retreated in despair, but before she could close the door, the little janitor, who had been waiting behind her for his chance, also made his plea for showbiz stardom.

“Er... Mr Stacetto, I wondered if I could have my audition... last week you said...”

Before he could finish Fat Sam had jumped in feet first and trampled on his sentence. “Am I going mad? Fizzy, will you get out of here.”

Fizzy had anticipated the answer. It wasn’t new to him, and he ducked out of the room as Sam’s words hit the door. In his speedy exit, he forgot that he’d left his bucket outside and put his foot in it, toppling headlong over Blousey as he retreated.

Inside, Fat Sam continued to bellow at his gang.

“Dancers! Dancers! I’m surrounded by mamby-pamby dancers, singers, piano players, banjo players, in-whistle players – at a time when I need brains, you hear me, brains. Brains and muscles.”

The last words sizzled the gang’s eardrums and rattled the pictures on the wall. Knuckles took it upon himself to speak for the rest. He offered meekly, “You’ve got us, Boss!”

Knuckles took the soda siphon from the shelf and attempted to top up Fat Sam’s glass of orange juice. The soda water went many places but Fat Sam’s glass wasn’t one of them. Sam looked down at his drenched suit.

“You! You great hunk of lard. Your trouble is you’ve got muscle where you ought to have brains. My canary’s got more brains than you, you dumb salami!”

Fat Sam pulled Knuckles’ hat over his head, snatched the siphon and squirted it at him. As the soda water dripped from his face, Ritzy, Louis, and Snake-Eyes giggled nervously. That was a mistake.

Sam turned to them, siphon poised. “So what’s funny? Something make you laugh?”

The remainder of the gang felt the full force of the soda as it bounced from hood to hood, leaving their sharp, smiling faces damp and droopy.

Outside in the corridor, Fizzy the janitor helped Blousey with her things. She picked up her heavy case and straightened her hat. Fizzy offered her a little consolation.

“Don’t worry, honey, I’ve been trying to see him for months and months.”

“You have? What do you do?”

“I’m only the greatest tap dancer on earth.”

“You are?”

“Of course I are. Cross my heart.” Fizzy’s heart must have been in a funny place, because he crossed his face. “But all he ever says is come back tomorrow. I ask you, how many times can I come back tomorrow?”

Blousey smiled. For a moment she looked like she couldn’t care less about the cancelled interview. But 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.”

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?”

“They 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?”

“Brown,” Blousey replied.

“Sounds like a loaf of bread,” Bugsy joked.

“Blousey Brown.”

“Sounds 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 nobody. “OK, everybody, it’s OK. Nothing to worry about now. Back to your tables. The fun’s over. No one can say Fat Sam’s ain’t the liveliest joint in town. Razamataz! Music! I wanna see everybody enjoying themselves.”

Razamataz hesitantly began playing his piano. The rest of the band joined in. The sound was a little ragged at first, but gradually it got back to normal as everybody once more began to talk, and returned to their places at the tables. Fat Sam moved to the bar. The rest of his gang, more than a little confused, followed him. Knuckles propped himself up at the bar and Sam examined his splurged arm. He touched the gooey mess of splurge and quietly looked at the end of his fingers. He looked very thoughtful, if not a little worried. He spoke softly to himself. He wouldn’t have liked anyone else to know his concern.

“Dis means trouble,” he said.

ON EAST 6th Street, by Perito’s Bakery, the broken gutter still turned the rainwater into a nasty brown liquid that dripped on to the sidewalk. The rain had held off for a while and the pool of water had resumed its earlier puddle proportions. The bricks glistened as they caught the light from the neon signs. The ginger alley cat that had made its home in the trash cans spat as he looked upwards to the black metal fire escape. This was his alley and he hated intruders. Up there, hidden away from the flashing neon light, was a dark figure who moved slowly and secretively from shadow to shadow. The ginger cat scurried for cover, his courage deserting him, as the dark feet begin to move down the iron stairs. At the bottom of the fire escape the figure stopped, and remained silent.

Shoulders had always been a little more secretive than was necessary. He liked being shady, it made him feel important. Around the corner of the alleyway a car approached. Shoulders jumped back against the wall as its lights lit up the wet street. The alley cat dashed for cover once more and took refuge in a pile of garbage. It was obvious to him that he wasn’t going to get any sleep that night. A white sedan pulled to a halt. Shoulders moved out of the shadows and walked up to it. It was driven by a grey-uniformed chauffeur who never looked anywhere but ahead. He was well trained. The windows in the rear of the sedan were covered by blinds. Shoulders moved closer to one of the back windows. The white, fringed blind snapped upwards.

Inside the car sat a figure that was smart, dapper – in fact, entirely immaculate. He was dressed in an astrakhan-collared coat and carried a black cane with a silver top. His hat would have won prizes at a hatter’s convention. He ran his gloved finger along his moustache which was, not surprisingly, also immaculate. There was no doubt that this man was special. There was no doubt this man had arrived on the scene. There was no doubt that, to Fat Sam, this man spelled trouble. He was Dandy Dan.

Out of the window he passed a brown leather case with reinforced corners and brass hinges.

“You know what to do?”

“Sure, Dandy Dan,” Shoulders confirmed.

Dan turned away and tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder with his cane. “Step on it, Jackson.”

This Jackson dutifully did, and the sedan drove off into the night.

Inside the barber shop, the barber snipped away at the back of his customer’s head. Not a lot of hair was cut off, but a great deal of snipping certainly gave the impression that the client was getting his money’s worth. It was an old barber’s trick. The head of hair belonged to Frank Bloomey, Fat Sam’s lawyer. ‘Flash Frankie’ always called here for a haircut on his way uptown. He had a swanky office overlooking Central Park but most of his clients had premises overlooking the East River. On the wall above his desk was a framed certificate from the New York Justice Department, but everyone knew it was the downtown hoodlums who kept him in business. Flash Frankie’s silver tongue could get a guy out of jail quicker than a truckload of dynamite.

He relaxed into a reclining position as the barber placed a hot towel over his face. On top of the hot towel cabinet, an old radio buzzed out a tune.

In the street outside, Shoulders crept towards the barber shop window. Shoulders always crept. He couldn’t walk like ordinary people, it wouldn’t have been secretive enough. Even when he went shopping he would creep from store to store. He stopped, and bent down to open the case that Dandy Dan had given him. He clicked open the brass hinges and lifted the lid. Inside, laid out in neat order, were the shiny metallic components of what looked like a gun. Shoulders clicked the pieces together and the gun took shape. He loaded it up with a number of round white pellets that dropped neatly into the chamber. Then he moved towards the door of the barber’s shop.

It is fair to say that Bloomey was more than a little surprised as his chair was swivelled around and the steaming hot towel pulled from his face. His eyes, like his mouth, were wide open with astonishment – in the brief moment, that is, before his face was submerged in a curious sticky mess. The splurge gun had struck again.

The violinist in Mama Lugini’s Italian restaurant scratched away at the violin which was securely tucked under his chin. In fact, even when he wasn’t playing and the violin was locked away in its case, his chin would clamp on an invisible instrument. Such was the effect of playing all night, every night, that his chin was permanently tucked into his shoulder. This made playing the violin very easy but sipping soup very difficult. He had practised hard at his instrument for more years than he could remember, and never forgave himself that he wasn’t playing on a concert hall platform instead of to the unappreciative ears of the diners at Mama Lugini’s.

A very slim gentleman sat sucking enormous quantities of spaghetti through his rather comic toothbrush moustache. His wife picked at her dinner. She never seemed to eat any – she just toyed a twirled her fork in the pasta. Her face was long and bored, which would normally have been the first thing you’d have noticed about her but for the ridiculous feathered hat she was wearing. The couple rarely spoke to one another except for the occasional, “Irving, would you please pass the salt,” or sometimes, “Irving, would you please pass the pepper.” This was the sum of their conversation. Irving would often make loud slurping sounds with his spaghetti, but very rarely did he speak. The violinist had little effect on either of them. He could scratch away at his Italian love songs until the strings of his violin wore through and snapped – it still wouldn’t have helped the conversation between Irving and his wife.

But tonight the violinist was interrupted. Not by a clumsy waiter bumping into him or by a persistent customer asking for ‘O Sole Mio’ for the twenty-third time. He was interrupted by something far more important. In fact, the entire front window, on which was neatly painted ‘Mama Lugini’s Italian Restaurant’, shattered into a million pieces.

The customers looked up from their dinners and the violinist almost, but not quite, stopped playing. He looked up from his violin and saw, standing in line on the sidewalk, Dandy Dan’s gang – their splurge guns gleaming in the lamplight. Irving stopped slurping.

A passing waiter was the first to move. He panicked – and dropped an enormous plate of tacky spaghetti into the coloured feathers of Irving’s wife’s hat. Irving himself was less fortunate, because it was he whom Dan’s gang had come for. His puzzled stare demanded an answer. He got it. The splurge guns burst into action. Each one belched out its foamy white contents. Irving received the full blast head on, and immediately dropped into his spaghetti under the weight of the sticky onslaught. His wife, a bedraggled mess of spaghetti strands and loose feathers, started screaming. Her face wobbled up and down. In fact, the scream was some time coming, as her face seemed to tremble for an eternity before a piercing shriek escaped from her larynx. The other diners in the restaurant all ran for cover – so did the violinist. In fairness to him, it is true to say he kept on faithfully playing whilst he made his exit – ducking down behind the cheese counter.

The hoods, their work successfully completed, made their getaway. However, one of their number wasn’t quite up to the slick behaviour of the rest of the gang, as they began to climb back into the sedan outside. It was Doodle.

Doodle had never been the cleverest of hoods and was a little out of place in the immaculate company of the Dandy Dan gang. In fact, he was almost dumb enough for Fat Sam’s gang. He slipped in the doorway and the precious splurge gun he was carrying fell to the floor and slid across the tiles. The terrified diners stared in amazement. Doodle watched their inquisitive eyes move towards the secret gun lying on the floor. The gun he had been told to guard with his life. He was unsure what to do. He floundered in the restaurant while his worried little piggy eyes darted about behind his spectacles. One of the other hoods came back to pull him out.

“Doodle, get out of here.”

“But, Charlie, what about the splurge gun?”

“Ssh.”

“Dandy Dan said take care of the splurge gun.” He bent down to pick up the weapon. The hood grabbed Doodle very roughly and yanked him into the street. “You stupid idiot, Doodle. Watch your mouth, you fool.”

Another hood took Doodle’s free arm and bundled him into the sedan. With a screech, they took off into the night.

The customers in the restaurant crawled out from under the tables, not quite sure what had happened. The violinist returned from the safety of the cheese counter and, as if nothing had happened, went straight into his very best version of ‘O Sole Mio’.

Dobbs, the crooked accountant, was on the same list as Irving, only he didn’t know it. He had been Fat Sam’s accountant for as long as Fat Sam had run the rackets. He wasn’t the fanciest accountant in the business. His office was his briefcase and his credentials were his two-year stretch in the State Pen. He hadn’t thought of going straight ever since he was caught cheating in his accountancy examination finals. His one-room apartment was a mess, with empty packets of tea, his favourite weakness, strewn amongst the sheets of paper on which he’d totted up a million crooked sums. His dishonest living never worried him. He always slept well. Always, that is, unless he was interrupted – like tonight.

He first knew something was up when he heard the heavy feet of Bronx Charlie on the wooden staircase outside his door. He tried to open his eyes. This was difficult. He had been asleep for hours and his eyelids felt as if they were stapled together. He groped in the darkness for the switch on his bedside lamp. As it happened, this wasn’t necessary. Bronx Charlie kicked open his bedroom door and the light from the hallway swept across Dobbs’s bed. He blinked. His hair was a mess and his crumpled, dirty, blue and white striped pyjamas wouldn’t have looked out of place in the garbage can. He blinked only once, or maybe twice, before the splurge gun Bronx Charlie was carrying burst into action and Dobbs was well and truly splurged against the brass railings of his bedhead. Bronx Charlie returned the way he had come, his feet thundering on the wooden stairs as he made his getaway.

BLOUSEY THOUGHT SHE’D shaken him off. She stood on the kerb outside Pop Becker’s bookstore and pulled on her gloves. But Bugsy was right behind her. Her face dropped. As she moved away, Bugsy quickly followed.

“Can I give you a lift?”

Blousey was determined to ignore him, but the offer of a lift was too tempting.

“You got a car?”

Bugsy couldn’t lie. “Er... no.”

Blousey was not impressed.

“So how you gonna give me a lift, buster? Stand me on a box?”

“I thought we’d share a cab.”

Blousey was even less impressed. “Forget it, I don’t share fares. I’m a lady. Furthermore, I’m broke.”

Blousey quickened her pace, and Bugsy had to run to keep up with her.

“Who said anything about sharing fares?”

“No?” Blousey was curious.

“Certainly, not. I thought you’d pay.”

That was it. Not even if he turned out to be a Vanderbilt or a producer with the Ziegfield Follies would she give him any more of her time.

Bugsy carried on undaunted. “Well, let’s walk, anyway. It’s a nice night.”

Blousey splashed through a puddle and muttered under her breath. She was beginning to feel irritated by him.

“You shouldn’t walk in the streets at night – it’s dangerous.”

“We’ll be all right. We’ve got your baseball bat.”

Blousey stopped dead in her tracks.

“Quit the we, pal. You mean I’ll be all right.”

She started walking once more, this time even faster. Bugsy’s little legs moved back and forth at twice their normal rate to catch up with her. He was beginning to puff as he spoke.

“Which way are you going?”

“Which way are you going?”

Bugsy thought for a moment. He was no brain surgeon but his brain clicked away like two sharp-edged steel cubes. He wasn’t really going anywhere special, but he’d made his mind up to tag along with her. He pointed in the direction that they were already walking. “This way.”

He was wrong. Blousey did an immediate about turn.

“Then I’m going this way.”

Bugsy ran and caught her up. He tugged at the old leather bag, which seemed to be giving her a little trouble. She changed it from hand to hand, trying hard not to show that her arms felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets.

“Here, let me take that.”

“No, it’s all right.”

Bugsy took the bag from her but she quickly snatched it back. Bugsy snatched once more. Maybe it was her aching arms, or maybe she was getting to like him. Either way she let him carry the bag. Bugsy wasn’t overwhelmed by the compliment.

“Mama Mia! What have you got in here?”

“Just a few books.”

“You should start a library.”

“And you should shut your mouth.”

There was no way that Blousey was going to allow herself to lose a battle of words with this stranger. She was feeling pretty depressed after her wasted visit to the speakeasy, and not in the mood for a verbal ping-pong match with yet another New York wise guy. But the bag was heavy and he did have a sort of charm about him. Let’s face it, she thought to herself, with a suit as baggy as he was wearing you’d need charm. It was true he’d certainly never make the best dressed top ten list in the ‘Phoenix Tailor and Cutter Monthly’, but then again, his eyes did sparkle a little – or seemed to whenever the street lamps flickered across his face. Or maybe his eyes were watering because his belt was too tight. No, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, it was a sparkle.

Bugsy took a deep breath as he changed hands on the bag. He thought he was in shape, but, not being prone to heavy work – or even light work – he never had much chance to find out how unfit he was. Bravely, he kept up his dialogue.

“Er... have you eaten?”

“Ever since I was a child.”

“Then how come you’re so skinny, wisie?”

Blousey held in her tummy. “I watch my weight.”

“Yeah, I do that when I’m broke too.”

It seemed to Blousey that Bugsy was getting the edge on her. Maybe she was tired.

“How about eating now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not hungry.”

It was Bugsy’s turn to stop dead in his tracks. Any out of work dancer who had just lost out on the only audition she had that week, and then turned down a free meal ticket, had to be nuts.

“You’re not hungry?”

“No, I’m starving.”

Blousey laughed for the first time. She wasn’t kidding either. She hadn’t eaten for two days. Well, except for a toasted bagel which she’d eaten very, very slowly and pretended each bite was a different dish. It had worked, too – she hadn’t really felt hungry. Until Bugsy had mentioned food. That had done it. Her tummy gave her away. Lousy stomach, she thought, whose side are you on, anyway?

Bugsy smiled at her. She had dropped the “I’ll outwise you, wise guy” approach, and the new one suited her much better. She was kind of pretty, he thought, although she should never have worn that hat with the feather. She looked a little like Chief Sitting Bull. A few moments ago he would have told her so too. “That hat don’t do you justice, honey, you look like a cross between Chief Crazy Horse and last year’s Thanksgiving turkey dinner.” But he didn’t say it, because now they were friends, and he wasn’t about to put her down while she was smiling at him. He kissed his finger and touched her on the nose. It was his way of passing on a little affection. He had done the very same thing three times tonight already. The hat-check girl, the cigarette girl – in fact, anybody who was kind enough to throw a smile in his direction. Blousey wasn’t to know that. She smiled once more and they both moved in the direction of the drugstore.

Bugsy was pleased to buy her something to eat. After all, she looked like she needed a good meal. He was doing society a favour. There was just one snag. He had no money. Not a nickel. The contents of his pockets were made up exclusively of a ball of string, a jacket button and the used halves of tickets to the ball game. But that was the least of his worries. He was Bugsy Malone. He had a neat line in chat, and a suit he thought was a little smarter than people gave him credit for. And a sparkle in his eye. Like Blousey, he also used to think his eyes were watering because his belt was too tight. But someone had called it a sparkle and he liked it. Yes – a sparkle in his eye and now a girl on his arm. Where he’d get the money to pay for the meal didn’t even enter into his head. After all, he reasoned, even if he worried about it, it wouldn’t have made him any richer.

FIZZY, THE SPEAKEASY’S janitor, picked up a chair and turned it upside down on top of a table. Almost everyone had gone home, and he was cleaning up. On stage Razamataz and the rest of the band folded away their music. Fizzy whistled his bluesy song as he swept under the tables.

He had whistled that song for as long as he could remember. He hadn’t been taught it. He hadn’t heard it on the radio and it wasn’t anything Razamataz had played. It belonged to Fizzy. Whenever anyone asked him, “What’s that song you’re whistling, Fizzy?” he used to shrug his shoulders. People used to think it meant he didn’t know the title. It had no title – except for Fizzy’s Tune. Fizzy wasn’t the type to say “It’s a little number I composed myself” – people probably wouldn’t have believed him. Fizzy was a janitor and was meant to sweep up. That’s how most people thought of him, because most people like to put folk in pigeon holes.

Fizzy had been to see Fat Sam as many times as he’d swept the speakeasy floor. Fat Sam always promised to give him an audition. “If the kid can sing and dance, sure I’ll see him,” he’d say, but somehow he never got around to it.

Out of the door that led to the changing rooms came two chorus girls – Bangles and Tillie. Bangles was a little plumper than the rest of the girls and chewed gum until her face muscles ached. She also talked a lot, which, all this considered, was very unfair on her jaw – and on the ears of whoever was nearby. It’s not untrue to say that the other girls tended to avoid Bangles whenever they could. Tillie had been caught on the way out and was visibly suffering from the non-stop chatter that was dribbling out of Bangles’ mouth.

Fizzy stopped sweeping long enough to say goodnight to the two girls. He brushed his dirty hands down the front of his dungarees and pecked them both on the cheek. “’Bye, Bangles, ’bye Tillie. Take it easy now.”

“’Night, Fizzy.”

The rest of the girls trooped out, saying goodnight to Fizzy and Razamataz as they went. Fizzy picked up a bucket and mop. He hummed his tune and swished the water round and round in time with the bluesy beat. Just then, Fat Sam burst through the door from his office. Fizzy never wasted an opportunity to ask for an audition and this time was as good as any. But 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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