Chapter IV (2)

    Bacon was a short, stocky Irishman in his mid forties. He had an impudent boyish face on which he had superimposed an expression of pugnacious cynicism. He seemed to regret that he had not been a bad boy and spent his life making up for it. There is an ancient and honorable association of Fire-Buffs, amateurs who are fascinated by firemen and run after fires. Bacon was a Thief-Buff. He spent his nights on 3rd Avenue running after crooks, cops and crime.
    His crime show had been an outstanding leader in radio for fifteen years, and only the advent of television which was strangling all night-time radio was now bringing it to an end. In the old days "The People Against—" had owned the network on Mondays. It was their prized show. Its studio was sacred and officiously guarded. Inside, the orchestra minded its manners, a rare thing for musicians, and the cast worked in terror of Bacon who swaggered through rehearsals with his hat cocked over one eye.
    Now, all was changed. The studio doors were unprotected. No actors stood before them waiting for a chance to smile at Bacon. Inside, the full orchestra was reduced to an organ and two instruments. The studio itself was crammed with stored television sets, leaving just enough working space around a couple of microphones before the control booth. Half of Bacon's cast was in makeup and costume. They had obviously sandwiched "The People Against" in and were earnestly memorizing lines for TV shows. But Bacon still swaggered with his hat cocked over one eye.
    Lennox sat down quietly in a corner and waited. Bacon was directing an actor in the style that had made him famous.
    "You don't understand it," Bacon spoke confidentially. "You don't feel it like a gimpster. Let's have the line again."
    "I want my vigorish, doll!" the actor snarled.
    Bacon shook his head and sidled up to the actor like a pick-pocket. "Vigorish," he explained, "is thief talk for percentage. See? You're filing a beef about your cut in the caper. But it has to mean something more. Make like you're pimping for the broad when you say that. You've got your hands up her skirt. You're naked but you're not catching any colds. Think about her naked and warm up. Then we'll try it again."
    He swaggered over to Lennox. "So Mason blew it last night," he said.
    Lennox nodded. Bacon eyed him pugnaciously. "It's time we separated the men from the boys."
    "Oh?"
    "Sachs has got to go."
    "Are you going to start that again?"
    "Jake, that varsity cheer-leader is turning everything into a clam-bake. He's so busy playing the genius routine he's tuned in on dead air. Next Sunday's his last show. I'm taking over after the first of the year."
    "Directing?"
    Bacon nodded. "I'm from radio," he said bitterly. "I'm not supposed to know anything about the theater. TV's one of the Mysteries, and I don't know the pass-words. That's the line these Johnny-Come-Lately fags in TV are handing out. If you haven't got talent, turn the business into a secret fraternity so real talent can't get in. Well, the old man from radio is coming out of his cave."
    "Does Blinky know?"
    "He'll be notified. I got the agency on the horn this morning. Avery Borden's with me. How about you?"
    "What have I got to do with it?"
    "Between us we own half the show. If it comes to a Mexican stand-off with Blinky, we can swing the vote with Avery in our corner."
    "I'm not ready to hassle about that yet, Ned. I've got something more important to worry about."
    "This is important."
    "Mine's worse."
    "I thought we were partners," Bacon said angrily. "Are you welshing on me?"
    "No. I'm trying to keep our show from falling apart."
    "So am I. Either you're with me or agin' me. Make up your mind."
    "Damn it, Ned. This is no time for Civil War. We're sitting on a blast right now."
    "You gutless Summer Soldier!"
    "Will you listen! The show's in a jam. We're all in a jam. We're being threatened. It's going to hit the fan next Sunday. I came here to get the name of that detective friend of yours over at the Precinct Station."
    Bacon's face lost its rage and kindled. "Oh? Threats? What kind? Extortion? Blackmail? Is it one of the Heavies or a Con? I know all the rackets, Jake. That's my business. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"
    "I'm telling you now."
    "What rumbled? Who blew the gaff?"
    "We can't discuss it here. I'll see you later and let you have everything. What's the name of the detective?"
    "Fink. Sergeant Robert Fink. Tell him Ned Bacon sent you. Ned Bacon from...." He paused for a soundless fanfare. "'The People Against—.'"
    "Right."
    Bacon escorted him to the studio door. "Tell Bob to take you out on the case. Meet the people, Jake, People are your business. Get a load of life. Break out of that Ivory Tower. Rub elbows with the marketplace."
    Lennox looked at him contemptuously. "You love this, don't you, Ned? Threats.... Rackets.... Crooks.... The spittoon life."
    "It's people, Jake. It's life. It's my business."
    "I like my life just the way it is," Lennox said. "That's why I'm going to see your detective ... for salvation, not masturbation."
    Bacon flushed angrily. "You're never the genial type, Jake, but there's times when you fill me with death wishes."
    "Be seeing you, Scarface." Lennox exchanged a level glance of loathing with his partner and left the studio.
    "Salvation!" he repeated emphatically. "Yes, by God! Now we know where we're going."