Free Jack Carter and the Mafia Pigeon by Ted Lewis

some more.
    “The bags, Wally,” I say.
    Wally stays where he is. So I walk over to Wally and grasp him by the back of his scrawny neck and walk him over to where the bags are parked.
    “The bags,” I tell him again, exerting the pressure on the back of his neck so that he has to bend forward, his arms dangling like Tarzan’s best friend. I let go and it’s almost a reflex action when he picks up my stuff. It certainlyisn’t a conscious decision on his part, seeing as how he doesn’t want to provoke a hiding by a mere thought process. He straightens up and his legs manage to start moving and he begins to walk towards the broad steps that lead down into the room from the hall.
    “Hold it,” D’Antoni says.
    Wally snaps up as if he’s on a parade ground.
    “You,” he says to me. “You’re right. You’re not expendable. The same does not go for him, or for his kneecaps.”
    “Jack—” Wally says.
    “Wally,” I say to him, “just keep walking, will you? Nothing’s going to happen.”
    “That’s right,” D’Antoni says. “If he keeps walking, nothing’s ever going to happen to him ever again.”
    I turn to face D’Antoni and start walking in his direction and while I’m walking towards him I say:
    “Have you ever been tired? I mean, really tired? So tired that you don’t give a fuck about anything, so that anything can happen to you, just so long as you get your head down?”
    D’Antoni fixes me with his look but I don’t stop walking and although I can’t see him I know Wally is standing in exactly the same position. D’Antoni’s gun is just as rigid as Wally’s pose, but I don’t give a fuck about that. I’m pissed off to the gills with the whole fucking situation. I keep going and D’Antoni starts backing off but still holding the shooter level with my chest.
    “Back off,” D’Antoni says.
    “I’ll leave that to you,” I tell him.
    “You got a job to do.”
    I shake my head.
    “You came here to protect me,” he says.
    “From what? The midges?”
    “The midges? Who are the midges?”
    “The fucking mosquitoes, you cunt.”
    D’Antoni now stands his ground but his gun hand isn’t as steady as it was before.
    “No, come on,” he says. “These midges. Who are they?”
    There’s nothing for it; I have to laugh. I sink down in a nearby chair so I can do it in comfort. It’s a weak, soundless laugh, the vocal equivalent of the after-effects being worked over by a good masseur. In my amusement I forget about Wally but I’m reminded of his presence by the unison sound of a snort and a fart; I look towards him and he’s still facing the same way, still holding my luggage, still holding the same pose, but in spite of his macaroni state the humour of the situation has got through to him and the snort and the fart are as a result of him trying to prevent himself from laughing, like a hysterically frightened kid at his first Grammar School Assembly. But even after he’s cleared his throat he doesn’t alter his stance, doesn’t even put the luggage down. “I’d suggest you open the window to let the warm air out, Wally,” I say to him. “But on the other hand Mr. D’Antoni might be afraid that you’d let the midges in.”
    Wally convulses again but this time all his pipes stay silent.
    “Listen,” D’Antoni says, “I had enough. I was guaranteed. Instead I get the Smothers Brothers. I may as well take you two out right now for all the use you’ll be.”
    “Oh, yes?” I say to him. “And how much ravioli and chips does it take to get as hard as you?”
    “Listen, you cockney craphouse, we saved your asses in the last war and we’ll do it next time around, you bet we will.”
    Whether to slap his teeth out for his allusion to the last war or for his calling me a cockney, that is the question. I begin to rise while I’m deciding which motive will give me most satisfaction and while I’m getting up I say to him:
    “I was born in Lincolnshire, friend, not London,