Now youse all know I aint the type to sit around and beat my gums, but as I am the only egg that made it outta Louis' gin joint last Saturday night, you won't get the straight dope from anyone else. Now if someone were to liberate a few clams, a jug of hooch would go a long way towards convincin me to spill the rumble.
There now, that's better. Nothin like a little corn to loosen a fella's trap. Ok, so here is the skinny on the fracas at Louis' place:
So like I said, it was Saturday and I was in the joint perusing the local rag for a couple of bangtails to wager my case dough on. It was too early for the hoofers to be cuttin the rug, and the only other plugs in the house were Louis himself and Big Mike at a table in the corner, holdin court with Larry the Lip and a couple of torpedoes from his own mob.
In walks this squirrely looking kid, and he's followed by a dish sportin a set of get away sticks that would make a guy write bad checks. The kid comes off as kind of a daisy, but the twist is a cold fish, with a look like she just done a three spot at San Quentin and came out tops.
Louis asks what they're havin, but they give him the high hat and the kid pipes up that they are looking for attorney Lawrence O'Malley. Now I know that by this they mean Larry the Lip, but The Lip is playin cool, and Big Mike tells them they are tootin the wrong ringer, and that they should blow. The kid aint havin it, and he starts gettin uppity, and he says they know he's been dealin with Myron Stark, who I know to be an uptown swell who is loaded with jack.
One of Mike's button men gets up, with the full intention of playin this kid some chin music, but the dame with the gams steps up, and I do not lie, grabs him by the scruff till his feet don't touch the floor no more. The palooka proceeds to paste her one full in the beezer, but the kitten don't even blink, and heaves him straight back on his can. Now Big Mike draws his roscoe, and goes to ventilate the broad. At this she outs with a gat in each hand and starts burnin powder to beat the band.
With the joint filling up with Chicago lightnin, I deem it's best for my constitution to waltz with the floor for a bit. I didn't come heeled, and I aint hittin on all eight in the gunsel department anyway. When the fireworks stop, I can see that only the kid and his moll are still standin. She goes and gets Larry the Lip's briefcase, and tells the kid that they found what they're lookin for. She says this in a cutesy voice that don't sit right on somebody that hard. Then they walk right out the front door bold as brass.
I get up, and it's a slaughterhouse in there, even Louis has pulled his boomer from under the bar, and it's still in his mitts as he lies on the floor with a hole in his noodle. Now I hear the wailin of the sirens from the streets, it's either the bulls, the meatwagon, or probably both, the time has come for me to lam outta there, and I don't go back to Louis ever again.
I know some of you are gonna say that I am gowed up, or full of baloney, but I tell ya I'm as honest as a horseplayer can be, and I swear on a stack of bibles that's the way it happened.
