The Key

The Key

“Did you see that?” said Squeaky Sid
“I did not,” says I being somewhat distracted.
“Dogface did you see that?”
“I did not,” says I, for I am the unfortunately named Dogface. I have always been Dogface Dave owing to the facts of large jowls, baggy eyes and a long nose, somewhat, some say, reminiscent of a bloodhound. Considered by myself to be incorrect and unfortunate, it has stuck particularly with the cops.
My friend Squeaky Sid is admiring the lightening flashes that cut through the storm outside. Squeaky is known as such on account of his propensity for cleanliness in all matters especially with regards to fingerprints. We sit on a couple of chairs in the middle of the old packing shed, Pier 1, New York Harbour. It is a wild, humid July night.
Whilst being good pals we are currently uncomfortably close. My right lower leg and his lower left leg are encased in concrete in the only available bucket. The bucket previously reserved for Stiletto Pete. We are handcuffed to each other and tied to the chairs. This is unpleasant enough in itself and just to rub salt into our chafing wounds, laughing manically and dancing in front of us waving the handcuffs key is Stiletto Pete.
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Earlier this evening the situation had been somewhat different. At The Humming Bird Club, an establishment just off Broadway we chose to frequent on account of the dolls, the food and the bands, though not always in that order, Squeaky and I had been ruminating on life’s prospects.
I had been feeling pretty good but worried. My suit, an elegant navy blue pinstripe was new, freshly made by Marty Scheklenburg who doubled as company tailor and specialist repairer of unlooked for holes in a guy. The hand painted tie was a doozy, bougainvillea and parrots, a special commission from 5th Avenue.
We were sitting at a good table, big steaks, smooth hooch, and Gina and Cleone just left for the Ladies room.
“Listen,” said Sid “recent events have made it clear if we continue in our present line of employment we are dead chumps”.
“Sid, you are right,” said I, “The Smiler was clearly slowing up but still a guy of sound disposition and principles, to end up in the mincer was a most uncalled for and alarming end. If that’s his fate I don’t hold out much for guys like us.”
“It’s not as though we don’t come through for Big Jimmy” says Sid.
“That is correct, but we are not the type of vicious individual that is flavour of the month. We have the stigma of last year’s men and I’m beginning to question my personal hygiene on account of the wide berth most folks give us.”
Through mouthfuls of ribeye and an uncouth jabbing fork Sid lets me in on his cousin Enrique’s operation in Florida, a small fishing organisation that catches rich Cubans and their narcotic cargoes.
“It’s a cinch, safe, and according to Enrique, who is not prone to laying it on thick, there is plenty of sun, real fishing and time to indulge in other avenues of employment that might be of interest to a couple of guys like us.”

At this juncture before we could elaborate on our future potential Stiletto Pete was abruptly brought to our attention, by being thrown to the floor, handcuffed, in front of our table. His arrival was swiftly followed by Big Jimmy and a number of weeping and wailing dolls including Greta, Big Jimmy’s current squeeze.
I did not much care for Stiletto Pete him being somewhat of an unpredictable violent character and hence not to be relied on. However Stiletto’s resemblance to Clark Gable made him quite a dish in the eyes of most dolls. Big Jimmy in a forceful manner puts it to us that Stiletto is to be given a ride on the company boat followed by a late night swim with concrete boots. This is on account of some canoodlings between Stiletto and Greta to which Jimmy has been given the lowdown.
This is not activity we would normally look for but in the current circumstances we let Big Jimmy know that such a task would be safe in our hands. Now Squeaky and I know Stiletto is a snake oil salesman with a nasty sting. Squeaky gags him and careful as can be I unlock the handcuffs and relock them behind his back and remove the shiv from his jacket pocket. We ask Stiletto to kindly step outside into the trunk of my car and encourage him with a few cuffs. We are then surrounding by wailing dolls bleating about how fine and upstanding Pete is and surely he should not be leaving us in the prime of life etc etc. Greta is particularly insistent first throwing herself at me, pleading for me to interject with Big Jimmy, and then when I toss her aside clinging to Pete in a most dramatic and unseemly fashion. Big Jimmy is forced to get physical and put unnecessary creases in his suit as we hustle a snivelling Pete to the car.

Getting Pete into the trunk calls for some forceful bending and being such a well kept dude Pete covers Squeaky and I in hair oil. The journey is not long and after a few minutes of muffled “guys, guys come on,” from Pete all is quiet. The smell of hair oil is deep in my nostrils and the smell is familiar but I cannot place the brand. As we park the car at the packing shed Squeaky and I pick up where we left off.
“Florida, has much to recommend it,” says I dabbing oil from my jacket and walking around to the trunk “but from what I hear most dolls have more wrinkles than a rhino.”
“Dogface, get used to the competition” says Sid opening the trunk
“Squeaky that is a most uncalled for commen..”
I am cut off by Stiletto emerging from the trunk with surprising speed and not inconsiderable violence. He fells Squeaky with a right hook and clips me round the head with a tyre jack. Squeaky and I come to in our chairs, Stiletto cementing us in.
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“You schmucks Greta lifts the key from you and drops it in my pocket”. You should have seen your faces, pow, pow!” Pete waltzes around us, waving the keys in one hand and his retrieved shiv in the other. He is sweating and as he flicks his hair back he covers us in droplets of, I remember, Parsons Pomade. Not my kind of hair product but one suited to a slippery soul like Pete.
“Look at you two, this is right you know, this is soooo right. You know last week Big Jimmy he says to me, Pete, Pete he says I need to put two old dogs out of their misery. I say sure let me know when and pow!” He makes a throat slitting gesture with the shiv.
I am more than a little mortified when Pete lunges at me and slices my tie. He then proceeds to wave the severed half around. He comes closer waving it under my nose.
“Hey Dogface, how’d you like these onions?” he says, his cigarette breath right in my face.
Squeaky and I not being fresh faced idiots and keen to improve our circumstances waste no time and drop our concrete boot on his foot. This encourages Stiletto, yelling in a highly colourful manner, to drop the handcuffs key in Squeaky’s lap. As he hops around and attempts to retrieve said key Stiletto is humanely knocked out through a forceful connection with Squeaky’s forehead.
“Dogface, that is a shame about the tie, a piece of art and an unnecessarily uncouth action on the part of that slippery mutt,” says Sid kicking the dribbling Pete with a delicate accuracy.
“Sid, it certainly vexes me but it will give me less qualms escorting him off the side of the boat”.
Extricating ourselves from the handcuffs is something best glossed over by guys such as us, suffice to say my teeth were in too close a proximity to Squeaky’s lap for too long. Then with much manly huffing and puffing and flexing of muscles we extricate ourselves from our predicament with the cuffs and ropes but are left with the concrete boot. For that we need a lump hammer one of which is kept on the boat for a variety of tasks, last minute reprieves maybe, but more often not.
We drag a moaning Stilletto over to an old boat engine and handcuff his left hand and foot to it. We then proceeds, in as dignified a manner as two old made guys can, to three-legged hop off down the pier into the storm. All is dark then with a shuddering boom of thunder overhead, the lightning makes the air crackle and everything is lit in stark monochrome shades.
Progress is slow and we have time to chew over Pete’s news and are forced to acknowledge that after dropping off Pete keeping the boat going to Florida may be our best option.
Our strange and undignified progress is halted half way down the pier by the crack of a gun and we are shot in our concrete foot. Being no mugs, on this narrow, slippery, wooden pier, we pivot slowly on the bucket and face up to a mighty narky and wobbly looking Stiletto waving a piece in our direction. Dragging the engine like a tuxedoed Quasimodo, he demands the handcuffs key or he shoots us right now. He fires one off into the raging storm to emphasise the point.
Not being prone to take risks on guys with guns particularly ones who hide them so well, we hadn’t found it when we frisked him, Squeaky tosses the key back. Squeaky’s aim is somewhat awry and the key loops over Pete’s head. Overburdened by the engine Stiletto Pete drops the gun, scrabbles to catch the disappearing key and topples off the edge of the pier, slowly ever so slowly the engine tips over the side after him and with a soft ‘whump’ a little spout of water shoots up and is gone. Squeaky and I hop and shuffle across; we peer over the edge, the lightning illuminates our reflection in the water, apart from our messed up faces there’s a few bubbles and that’s all.
“Dogface, that was not something I’d care to repeat” says Squeaky.
He pats me on the back. Under normal circumstances this would not cause me to overbalance but owing to the fact I am leaning over the pier, I tip over. On account of our concrete attachment Squeaky follows. The bucket catches on the edge of the pier. Upside down over the water we swing suspended by the bucket’s concrete edge.
“The key Squeaky,” says I, “is not to panic.”