Читать книгу Bugsy Malone - Alan Parker - Страница 7

SOMEONE ONCE SAID that if it was raining brains, Roxy Robinson wouldn’t even get wet. In all of New York they didn’t come much dumber than Roxy the Weasel. In short, Roxy was a dope – and he fulfilled people’s expectations of him by taking the blind alley down the side of Perito’s Bakery, on the corner of East 6th Street.

Overhead, the rusty, broken gutter turned the rainwater into a nasty brown liquid that gushed out on to the sidewalk below. It had been raining all night, and a sizeable pool had formed. Roxy’s frantic feet disturbed the neon reflections. He felt the icy water seep through his spats and bite into his ankles. He’d been running for a dozen blocks, and although his legs felt strong, his lungs were giving out on him.

He skidded to a halt as he noticed the wall at the end of the blind alley. Anyone else would have seen it a hundred yards back, but not Roxy. Whatever passed for a brain between his ears whirled into action as he considered his options. He ducked into a doorway. At the end of the alley, the red neon light glowed and dimmed in time with Roxy’s heartbeats, and the big reflected letters of ‘Perito’s Bakery’ spread across the wet road. Roxy’s heartbeats moved into second gear as four black shadows appeared and gobbled up the red neon.

Roxy had spent his whole life making two and two into five, but he could smell trouble like other people can smell gas. The four shadows became sharper as they gave way to four neatly pressed suits. They looked as snazzy as a Fifth Avenue store window – only these guys were no dummies.

Roxy collided with a trash can as he started running again. It clattered loudly on to the sidewalk, disturbing the slumber of a ginger cat, which scooted across his path. Roxy reached the wall in seconds, desperately clawing at the bricks to get a handhold at the top. But it was too high and Roxy was no jumper. He turned to face his pursuers.

They advanced together, their violin cases dangling at their sides, like a sinister chorus line. Ten yards from him they stopped. The cases opened. Click. Click. Click. Click. Roxy blinked, in unison, and a bead of sweat found its way out from under his hat brim and dribbled down his forehead. From their cases, the hoods took out four immaculate, shiny, new guns. Roxy stared at them in disbelief.

Suddenly, one of them spoke.

“Your name Robinson?”

Roxy nodded. His own name was one of the few things he had learned in school.

“Roxy Robinson?” The hood’s voice spat out once more. “You work for Fat Sam?”

Roxy’s adam’s apple bobbed around frantically in his throat as if it was trying to find a way out. He managed to force his neck muscles to shake his head into a passable nod.

It was all the hoods needed. Almost immediately, the wall was peppered with what can only be described as custard pies. Roxy briefly eyed the sight, not quite believing his good fortune. His optimism was short-lived as a large quantity of slimy, foamy liquid enveloped his sharp, weasel-like features. His ears protruded like toby hug handles from the creamy mess.

The hoods clicked their violin cases shut, turned, and with a confident strut walked back up the alley. The splurge fun had claimed its first victim – and whatever game it was that everyone was playing, sure as eggs is eggs, Roxy the Weasel had been scrambled.