Free Jack Carter and the Mafia Pigeon by Ted Lewis Page A

and in Lincolnshire there’s an airfield called Scampton which you’ll never have heard of, the reason being that many of your B-29 flying heroes could never keep their guts inside their flying jackets after they’d flown their first mission from there; which of course is why you’d never have heard of it.”
    D’Antoni says: “No, and I suppose you never heard of a place called Dunkirk, either, did you?”
    I’m all ready to connect but the sound of my luggage being dropped on the floor stops me from moving.
    “Now look here,” Wally says, “you’re nothing but a fucking mouthy yank and you know fuck all about anything like that. It’s about time one or two of you was set straight. My Uncle Henry was in on that Dunkirk business and I’d just like you to know if there’d have been any yanks there they wouldn’t only have surrendered, they’d have been manning the guns for the other mob, I can tell you.”
    D’Antoni and I both stare at Wally, who is nothing but aggro, all directed towards D’Antoni. Then Wally’s heat begins to evaporate and with each drop down the temperature gauge Wally’s regret at the ferocity of his bravery begins to show in the lines on his face.
    “Well, well,” I say. “The Bulldog Breed is alive and well and living on a mountain in Majorca.”
    “Well,” Wally says. “I mean to say.”
    “Shit,” D’Antoni says.
    After that there’s another silence. D’Antoni breaks it.
    “You know why you’re here,” he says to me.
    “Sunshine,” I tell him. “All I can do is guess. But I don’t want to guess. All I want to do is to crawl into my pit.”
    “They must have told you.”
    “There is no must about Gerald and Les. If you’re a friend of theirs you should know that.”
    “They fixed it. It’s been fixed for months.”
    “Maybe. But I haven’t. Thank you and goodnight.”
    I turn away, and walk over to Wally and my luggage and it’s time to forget Wally so I just pick up my stuff and begin to make for the upstairs part. D’Antoni comes after me but I keep on going. I reach the stairs that lead to the gallery.
    “Listen, you bastard,” D’Antoni screeches. “You’re my protection. You’re here to protect me.”
    I whirl round on the stairs.
    “Just one question,” I say to him. “From what?”
    D’Antoni looks at me and he’s quieter when he answers.
    “Nothing, maybe,” he says. “Probably nothing at all. Just in case, is all.”
    “In case of what?”
    D’Antoni shrugs.
    “Nothing. Maybe it’ll be a quiet two weeks.”
    I put my bags down on the steps.
    “Jesus Christ,” I say. “What you think I am, thick or something? You’re twitching like a stripper’s jock-strap and it’s just because of probables? You think I’m going to hang about on the side of a fucking mountain for two weeks and finish up my holidays getting it in the neck just because it’s probable? I mean, I can’t imagine anybody bothering to go to all that trouble just on account of you, but stranger things have happened, and if it does, I’m not going to be here.”
    I pick up my luggage and turn round and start climbing the steps again.
    “You’re paid to do what you’re told,” D’Antoni says, following me up the steps.
    “That’s right,” I say, “but the thing is you don’t pay me and I haven’t been told by those that do.”
    I reach the gallery and stop.
    “Wally!” I shout.
    Wally appears from the lounge, peering round the corner as though he’s expecting to be shot at.
    “Which room’s mine, Wally?”
    D’Antoni is half way up the steps, deep in thought.
    “They must have had a reason,” D’Antoni says.
    “The opposite side, Mr. Carter,” Wally says. “Second door along.”
    I start making for the opposite side, second door along.
    “I mean,” D’Antoni says, “they must have had a reason.”
    “ ’Course they had a fucking reason,” I tell him. “If they’d told me, the eggs, they knew there was no chance I’d even have come