“We’ve got two tough raps,” said Georgie. “In the first place a hypo ain’t supposed to be found within a block of police headquarters, an’ we’re grabbed right alongside of the building. In the second place, a hypo ain’t allowed to leave Chinatown. Of course the cops know we sneak out. That ain’t so bad. Our racket is peddling kindling wood to the Chinks an’ we’ve got to go out of Chinatown to get it. Last night we ducks out and down Jackson Street to the commission houses and gather up a couple of fine bindles of wood. They are pretty heavy and we’re on short rations of gow and don’t feel any too strong, so we decide to dash up Washington Street, the shortest route into Chinatown. We’re bang up against the city prison when a big, flat-footed, harness bull steps out an’ yaffles us—an’ here we are.”
Their case looked so tough that I could think of no solution. “I wouldn’t plead guilty to anything if I were you,” I advised him.
“Me, neither,” said his partner. “If I get six months they’ll have to hang them on me. I ain’t going to reach out an’ grab them.”
They fell into a fresh argument and their words became so personal and threatening that I feared they would do each other some great violence. I took a chance in the rôle of peacemaker and suggested that they take another shot and talk it over peaceably and quietly. They quit their wrangling instantly and in a minute they were on their knees in the corner of the cell with their heads together, amicably preparing another shot. Somewhere down the corridor I heard a clatter, and a singsong voice droned, “Get ready for the broom. Get ready for the broom.”
I was going out. I went over to my friends in the corner with the fifty-cent piece I had left. “Here,” I said, “take this.” One of them, still on his knees waiting for his shot, held out his hand; his fingers closed on the half dollar. He neither looked up nor spoke to me—his eyes were on the little tin can where the morphine was dissolving in the boiling water.
The door was opened and my name called.
I stood by the door till a trusty prisoner opened it and let me out. My partner from the wine dump was also taken out and we joined four or five others in the corridor. A trusty came with an armful of brooms and gave each of us one. A husky young fellow, half awake, reached for one of the newest brooms. “No, you don’t,” said the trusty, “the last time you were here I gave you a good new broom and you beat it up to Chinktown and peddled it for a dime. An old broom for you.”
We were detailed in pairs to sweep the sidewalks clean all around the block the prison stood on. My space was from the prison door down to Montgomery Street. An old man had the sidewalk across the street from me. Two or three assistant trusties nosed around like bird dogs to see that we swept clean and didn’t run away with the brooms. When my task was done I helped the old man finish his, and he carried my broom back to the prison. The trusty dismissed me with a wave of his arm and I went up Montgomery Street in search of a restaurant where I could get some coffee with a dime I had saved from the rapacious and cunning hypos in the prison. I decided to keep away from the wine dumps in future, and out of the hands of the police vag detail that rounded up the riffraff when they got too numerous and pesty.
In a few days Sanc was back, quite satisfied with his trip to Salt Chunk Mary’s. The money was split and put in our box in separate parcels. We had more than $1,000 each now, but he had no notion of taking a rest or vacation. He wanted to know right away what I had done in his absence. I reported everything, including my night in jail. He asked me what I told the police at the station. I told him. “Not bad,” he said, “but be careful.”
I gave him the hotel room keys I had made, and he complimented me on my work and put them away for future use.