Return of a Favor

Prompt #144



Return of a Favor


July 2, 1946. The war had ended the year before and the feeling of optimism had crept into every nook and cranny of the nation, even here in Kansas City where the mob had its meat hooks in the city’s commerce, government and police force.
Sure, there were pockets of resistance that held out against the mafia, places too small to be noticed by the crime bosses, but the Last Chance Saloon wasn’t one of them. Though upfront it appeared legit, the club paid its dues to the mob and the city, and turned a tidy profit by selling booze and running games of chance to the greenhorns fool enough to go inside.
I made a run to the bar, a couple of converted shops stretched across the State line between Kansas and Missouri, not for the booze or gambling, but for a small time hood name Mickey ‘the mouse’ Matosso. Being a small man with big ears, you’d think he got his moniker because of the way he looked or for his name, but people called him the mouse because he’d squeal for the right bit of cheese—fives, tens, twenties or a little muscle.
So I walked into the bar and gave the joint the once over. The place had a good crowd with a near equal number of men and women on hand. They were all happy, celebrating on food, beer, bourbon and wine. Moving further inside, I eyed Mickey at a roulette table, recognized him from a photo Detective Jacks of the KCPD gave me earlier in the day. I could have gone after him like a bull in a China cabinet, but decided to bide my time until he left for the night. The pigeon played the table with two dames near him and a thug, Larry Cardinal, who had never been fingered for some small jewel heists around town.
Planning to wait Mickey out at the bar, I ordered the usual bourbon, but stopped the bartender for a bottle of cheap wine and ten glasses.
“Fill them up and leave the bottle,” I told the bartender.
“What about the glasses?” he asked.
“Pass the glasses down the bar to anyone who wants a drink,” I said, then pushed a filled glass to the gal next to me. She thanked me, the bartender took the glasses away, left the bottle and I tapped on the shoulder of the guy to the left of me. He was a big man with a square jaw, blue eyes, black army cut hair and a deep, staccato voice like a German mg34 machine gun.
“You want something?”
“No,” I answered, all polite. “I just wanted to be sure you were who I thought you were.”
“Yeah, who’s that?”
“Bill Darling of the 109th Combat Engineers,” I told him.
“Yeah, that’s me. What of it?”
“Well, you don’t remember me?”
The lug gives me the once over, furrows his face like he’s thinking real hard then speaks. “Why should I?”
“Because we met in Italy, at a little café outside Paris in ’44,” I answered, grinned to put him at ease.
“Who are you?”
“Steel,” I said. “Art Steel, and I’m happy to have found you.”
“Why? Do you owe me some money?”
“Not exactly,” I told him. “You see, back in that little café, you started a fight and ended up walloping me over the head with a wine bottle.”
“What of it, Mac. That was years ago.”
“That’s just it, Pal. I’m here to return the favor.” Before Bill reacted, I grabbed the empty wine bottle by the neck and swung it out to crack the guy over the head with it. The tough guy went down like a sack of potatoes, in a rain of shattered glass.
“Hold tight, boys,” I ordered his friends, held the broken wine bottle their way. “There’s no reason to be heroes tonight.”
“Hey! What’s going on?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two Mafia ‘toughs’ walk over. They were good looking, big Sicilian ‘choir’ boys who both had criminal records a mile long and the connections to keep them out of prison. Tony ‘little boy’ Gravanichio was the bigger than Sal ‘the rat’ Rizzo, and maybe a little smarter, but for what they both lacked in brains was more than made up with muscle.
“Steel?” said Rizzo. “I should’ve known you’d be behind this.”
“This is a clean place,” Tony said. “We don’t allow fighting, it’s bad for business.”
“We weren’t fighting. I was just returning a favor for what he did to me in Italy.” I smiled. “You understand?”
“Sure, we understand,” Rizzo pointed towards the exit. “Now, you can take it outside.”
“Get going, Steel,” Tony ordered. “You’re done here for the night.”
“Sure,” I said, placed the broken wine bottle on the bar. “Oh, and don’t bother to show me out. I know the way to the door.”
Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a five-note, gave it to the bartender and told him to keep the change. Then, tipping my hat at Tony and Rizzo, I left the saloon, went to my car and lit up a cig to wait for Mickey to leave the bar. I had nowhere else to go and as people say, every mouse has to come out of their hole eventually.

901 words.