Bugsy Malone

  For Lucy, Alexander, Jake and Nathan, who heard it first.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Why You’ll Love This Book by Lauren Child

  1. Roxy

  2. Blousey

  3. Fat Sam

  4. Bugsy (At Last)

  5. The Splurge Thickens

  6. A Sparkle in his Eye

  7. Fizzy

  8. No Comment

  9. Eight Banana Boozles

  10. Smolsky and O’Dreary

  11. Dandy Dan

  12. Next!

  13. Dumb Bums We Ain’t

  14. Al Is Is Git. Or Not So Git

  15. You’re Aces, Bugsy

  16. Looney (Off His Trolley) Bergonzi

  17. The Salami

  18. The Chase

  19. No Rough Stuff

  20. Ketchup Without

  21. Leroy Smith

  22. Goodbye Knuckles

  23. Sluggers Gym

  24. Poysanally

  25. Mr Big

  26. Trapped

  27. Escape

  28. Splurge Inc.

  29. We Know You’re In There

  30. The Pay Off

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Way of Explanation

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Someone once said that if you can open with a really good first line then you are halfway to writing a really great book. The opening sentence to Bugsy Malone is one of my all-time favourites.

  Someone once said that if it was raining brains, Roxy Robinson wouldn’t even get wet.

  This is a perfect first line. You know right away that there’s going to be some snappy dialogue and some hardboiled characters. It also has a sort of ‘back in the olden days’ feel to it, and the name Roxy Robinson somehow suggests gangsters and old-time New York. But above all, what this one line tells you is that this is going to be a funny book.

  I saw the film of Bugsy Malone when I was about ten. We were in Norfolk for my cousin’s wedding, the weather was dismal and we had a free afternoon with nothing to do so we all went to the cinema. My whole family went, including my cousins, my aunt, uncle, great-aunt, great-uncle and grandmother. We all loved it. Those of us who are still alive still talk about it. We still quote lines from it.

  “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Brown.”

  “Sounds like a loaf of bread.”

  “Blousey Brown.”

  “Sounds like a stale loaf of bread.”

  Of course Bugsy Malone is a great film, but it’s also a great book. It reads beautifully. The characters – and there are a great many of them – are all described in such a way that in just a few lines you feel you could almost draw them: she had the kind of face that needed a personality behind it. She was built like a Mack truck and her shoulders would have done credit to an all-in wrestler.

  The names are pretty descriptive too; Pop, Fizzy, Jelly, Bangles, Tallulah. I meet quite a few Tallulahs these days – goldfish and children – which isn’t surprising because, as characters go, Tallulah isn’t a bad one to be named after. She is sassy and bewitching and snaps out great one-liners: “I’ll go manicure my gloves.”

  That’s the thing about this book, the female characters are given good roles too, they aren’t just there to wander in and out of scenes without too much personality. As a child I was always rather fond of Blousey Brown. She might be the romantic interest but she’s no sap, that’s for sure.

  Bugsy: Can I give you a lift?

  Blousey: You got a car?

  Bugsy: Er… no.

  Blousey: So how you gonna give me a lift, buster? Stand me on a box?

  We don’t get to meet Bugsy until chapter four, it’s a nice way of building him up; we know we’re going to meet him because his name is, after all, the book’s title – somehow not meeting him right away makes him all the more charismatic.

  Bugsy Malone is that perfect hero, antihero. He has edge but we know he’s a decent guy. He is just the right side of honest, but every now and then push comes to shove and he has to step over the line. He’s a nice-looking fellow but he’s not vain. He’s got style but it doesn’t have to do with what he is wearing – his suit isn’t great – money is certainly on the tight side but he gets by. One of the things that make Bugsy such an appealing character is that he is aware of his shortcomings but he doesn’t let them hold him back.

  The barman fingered the lapels on Bugsy’s crumpled jacket. “I don’t think much of your suit,” he said at last.

  “I’ll tell my tailor,” Bugsy answered.

  “You’ve got too much mouth.”

  “So I’ll tell my dentist.”

  Oh, and he’s funny too.

  His cool has to do with his confidence. This is not a man who spends too much time thinking about tomorrow. He orders what he wants and hopes he can come up with a way of paying the diner bill by the time he has taken his last slug on his Banana Boozle.

  Bugsy is the central character, the lynchpin, everyone’s go-to guy, the only one who can possibly outwit Dandy Dan, the smooth, calculating gangster villain who wages war on Fat Sam and attempts to bring down his little empire. Fat Sam himself is a loveable klutz, not the sharpest knife in the drawer but smart enough to run the slickest joint in town, and bright enough to recognise when he needs to call in the help of someone far brighter than he.

  The plot has edge and moves along with great pace but never neglects the detail, far from it; it indulges in the detail, describing scenes with such perfect ease and comic accuracy that you feel you know this world, these people. Descriptive character-building scenes are so often skipped over in action plots and I always think it’s a shame; to me these are the best bits. Funny interactions, flirtatious conversations – the pauses between – are what provide the suspense and make you engage with the characters. But what I like best of all about this book is the dialogue which Alan Parker has a genius for. It’s got such personality; charming, funny, snappy and totally believable.

  Why should you read this book? Because if you don’t I might just keep quoting great lines at you until I have told the whole story. I am a big fan of Bugsy Malone and if anyone had ever told my ten-year-old self that one day I would be writing the introduction to this book I would have probably fallen off my cinema seat.

  Lauren Child

  Multi-million copy bestseller Lauren Child is best known for creating the hugely popular Charlie and Lola and the Clarice Bean series. She has won numerous awards including the prestigious Kate Greenaway Medal and the Smarties Gold Award. Her books have been published in many languages, with runaway success.

  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 a
cross 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.

  BLOUSEY BROWN HAD always wanted to be famous. She got the bug very early – at the age of three she gave an impromptu recital for her family at Thanksgiving. She would tap dance a little and sing some, and what her rather squeaky voice lacked in volume she made up for with enthusiasm. Her audience was always especially encouraging. But what family doesn’t have a talented child? In fact, there had been vaudeville acts in Blousey’s family since way back. They hadn’t gathered a great deal of fame amongst them – the yellowed notices in the cuttings book weren’t too plentiful – but they were remembered with great affection. At Thanksgiving, when Blousey put on her shiny red tap shoes with the pink bows and did her annual turn, someone would say, “She’s got it all right. You can tell she’s gonna be famous. There’s a kind of sparkle in her eye. Bravo, Blousey. Bravo.”

  It was the last “Bravo” that did it. Since that moment, Blousey had been hooked on show business.

  Life wasn’t easy – sometimes she wondered if it was all worth it. Like now.

  She clicked open her compact and quickly repaired her make-up. She fixed her lipstick and pinched the wave in her hair. One dollar eighty that wave had cost and already it was straightening out. The guy in the beauty parlour had said she looked terrific, and she hadn’t been about to argue. What girl didn’t like looking pretty? She had parted with her dollar eighty gladly. She checked the crumpled piece of paper in her hand once more. Scribbled in pencil were the words: Fat Sam’s Grand Slam Speakeasy. Audition 10 o’clock.

  The note had been given to her by a friend who had been in the chorus at Sam’s and had got Blousey the audition. The friend hadn’t written down the address, of course. Speakeasies were against the law and the Grand Slam’s location behind Pop Becker’s bookstore was a secret. As it happens, it was probably the worst kept secret in town, because half of New York went to Sam’s place for their late night entertainment.

  Blousey had pushed her way across the floor of the crowded, smoky speakeasy, following her friend’s instructions: up the stairs to the backstage corridor that led to the girls’ changing room and the boss’s office. A screen of frosted glass with neat geometric shapes etched on the panes formed the wall between the office and the corridor. On the door, printed in rather aggressive gold letters, was ‘S. Stacetto. Private.’

  Blousey sat on a wicker-back bentwood double seater, to which she had been shown by a nasty-looking character who had cracked his knuckles as he said, “Sit there, lady. The boss will sees yuh in a minute.” Some minute. The minute had stretched itself to an hour and a half and she was still waiting.

  Blousey ferreted nervously in her battered leather bag. She had brought too many clothes with her as usual, but she reassured herself that one never knew which number they’d ask for. Her bag was also extra heavy because of her books and baseball bat. The books were very precious to Blousey. They were old, with stiff-backed covers, and Blousey had read them and re-read them till she knew every page. Ever since she had been out of work she’d feared she might come back to her apartment one day to find that her landlady had taken them by way of rent. So she took no chances. Where she went, they went. The baseball bat was for protection. From what, she was never sure. She wasn’t even sure if she could lift it – let alone swing it – but, like the books, it went with her everywhere.

  All around her in the corridor, the chorus girls trotted back and forth in their stage outfits, a flurry of sequins, organza, and orange feathers. Blousey blushed a little at the sly and giggly glances they threw in her direction. She breathed a heavy sigh. She had decided to sit it out, no matter what. Fat Sam’s black janitor whistled a bluesy melody as he swept up around her. Blousey politely lifted her feet for him to sweep under. She was beginning to feel fed up and just a little tired. She rested her head against the wall and listened to the speakeasy band as the lively music found its way backstage.

  Suddenly, the music was mixed with the muffled sound of agitated voices coming from Fat Sam’s office, behind the frosted glass partition.

  FAT SAM’S PODGY hand wrestled with the selector knob on the shiny mahogany, fretwork-fronted radio. As he found the right station, the high-pitched frequency whistle gave way to the drone of a news announcer, who blurted out his message.

  “We interrupt this programme of music to bring you an important news flash... reports are coming in of a gangland incident on the Lower East Side, involving a certain Robert Robins, known to the police as “Roxy the Weasel”, and believed to be a member of the gang of alleged mobster king, Fat Sam Stacetto. Robinson was the victim of a sensational attack, and we go over to our reporter on the spot for a...”

  Before the news announcer could finish, Fat Sam snatched at the on/off knob on the radio. Fat Sam was not pleased. Like most hoodlums, he had clawed his way up from the streets to get a little recognition. A little notoriety. But whenever he made the papers or the newscasts it made him mad. Very mad.

  “Alleged mobster king of the Lower East Side,” was it? There was no ‘alleged’ about it. Sam was king of these parts. There wasn’t a racket or a shady deal in which he didn’t have his fat podgy finger. No, there was no doubt. At least, not in Fat Sam’s mind. But he was to find out that others thought differently before the night was out.

  He paced up and down on the red turkey carpet that fronted the desk in his office. The rest of his gang stood around in silence. They had learned from bitter experience not to talk at times like these.

  Fat Sam stopped pacing, and snatched a wooden pool cue from the rack. He stepped forward to the pool table. One of his men moved forward with the box. No one ever mentioned the box, but unless Fat Sam stood on it there was no way he could possibly reach the pool table. Sam stabbed at the first ball. To everyone’s relief it thudded down into the corner pocket. With the box preceding him, Fat Sam stalked around the table and, as he potted the balls one by one, he shouted
, “So tell me how you allow this to happen? Roxy was one of my best. What have you got to say for yourselves, you bunch of dummies? Knuckles? Louis? Ritzy? Angelo? Snake-Eyes?” Fat Sam’s gang looked at each other uneasily. They always agreed with everything Fat Sam said. They weren’t stupid.

  Sitting by the water cooler was Knuckles, Fat Sam’s number one man. He cracked his knuckles often, which is how he got his name. It always looked a little threatening as he idly clicked at the bones in his hands, but to tell the truth it was more nerves than bravado – though Knuckles never let on. He had a name to live up to and he was determined to do it.

  Louis was called Louis because he resembled Shakedown Louis, a hero in these parts. No one ever knew Shakedown Louis, or what he did, but he had a name and it was enough for anyone that Louis resembled him. And anyway, whoever heard of a hoodlum called Joshuah Spleendecker. Mrs Spleendecker preferred Louis. And most of all Louis preferred Louis.

  Snake-Eyes got his name because of those two little ivory cubes that clicked and clicked away in his palm. He had been the king of any street corner crap game ever since he learned that a dice has six faces and a hood only needs two.

  Ritzy was the quietest of the bunch. He was a dapper dresser, with knife-edged creases down his trousers that could cut your throat. Ritzy was one of those people who always look like they’ve come straight from the laundry. He had starched eyelids, ears neatly pressed and steamed, and even his smile seemed to crease his face like it had been freshly applied by the best laundry in Chinatown.

  Angelo was called Angelo because his mother thought it was a cute name. It was also his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name, which meant that the chances of his being called Clarence or Albin were pretty slim.

  “Call yourselves hoodlums?” Fat Sam was saying. “You’re a disgrace to your profession, do you hear me? A disgrace. And most of all you’re a disgrace to Fat Sam.”

  Fat Sam poked his chest proudly with his thumb. He mopped at his forehead with his handkerchief. Still the gang remained motionless. Fat Sam walked to the drinks cupboard. He yanked at the handle and pulled down the veneered front flap. He took out a crystal decanter of orange juice, and toyed with it as he spoke.