Springtime for Kelly

"You Kelly?"

"No."

"Whose art paintings is these on the sidewalk and fence?"

"Mine."

"What’s your name?"

"Gashouse Maloney."

"Horse manure. Who’re you trying to kid?"

"Mug wump," said Kelly.

"Well who are ya?"

"Hum . . . ump. Fzz..z."

The elderly man and woman had approached Kelly.

The old man leaned down toward him and said, "Look, don’t bullcrap us, sonny. I"ve heard about you artist fellas. Me and the lady got an offer for you. I have an envelope with twenty dollars in it. It’s yours for our just coming up to you now."

Kelly took the envelope, glanced inside it and stuffed it in his pocket, then went back to his painting.

"I have another twenty dollars for you, Kelly, if’n you’ll listen to our entire popo . . . propo . . . proposition."

Kelly lay prone on the sidewalk in the sunshine touching up a canvas with a brush.

Saturday noon sightseers and buyers passed them on the pavement. The old woman said, "Someone told us Kelly had his art pictures right here. And Malcom Rasky, remember him? He told us exactly what you look like."

The very elderly couple were short, slim, peaked and talked in out dated Texas, or Oklahoma dialects. Kelly had spotted them walking toward him from his side of Washington Square here at the springtime New York City, Greenwich Village Artists Fair.

Kelly motioned to the several partition less stalls next to his. "These painters are out to lunch. I am watching their stuff. You give me your next twenty dollars and you can talk to me here."

The old man said, "No, this is private, confidential. When your friends come back, you join us to eat. We’ll be at the Le Renard Bleu café on Bleecker Street. We have a table reserved for the three of us. We’ll pay for anything you order."

Kelly said, "What kind of a meal is this gonna be? I’m pretty picky where I eat. I’m used to lunching at the Five Acres hot dog stand."

We’d like ya to pull a big holdup with us, a robbery."

Kelly gave no reply. He just stared at them.

A few moments before, he’d entered the café and approached the elderly couple who were at a secluded table in the rear. As soon as he sat down, the waiter came up. Kelly immediately ordered. "Bring me a giant T-bone steak, medium well with sliced tomatoes and garlic on top, fried potatoes smothered with gravy, a large side dish of oyster soufflé well marinated pickles that is, with a mammoth side dish of fish salad a la mode. A large dish of lobster salad with bonus succotash. Five scoops of chocolate ice cream with a half pint of whipped cream."

The waiter left. The old man spat,

"Holy geez. You’re gonna throw up on all that food. And you know how much that’s gonna cost us?"

Kelly said, "Twenty bucks."

The old man pulled out an envelope and Kelly took it.

The elderly man and woman made their pitch about the heist then.

"How’s Rasky?" Kelly asked.

"Ain’t I’m afraid. Hit last month in a shootout with a deputy in New Hampshire. Been in a coma since. Didn’t get much publicity down here. Was helping hisself to some antique furniture in a farm house." Kelly noted the woman’s frail elbows and forearms, their stilted boney appearance: arthritis.

The woman said: "Rasky did rave about you. Said you two was cellmates at Lompoc Federal Prison in California for a year and you’re out on parole . . . Now for something personal. Very personal, Kelly. Very confidential." She hesitated.

"We’re . . . We’re them people . . . people called by the news media the Ma and Pa bandits from a bank job in that town upstate a few weeks ago. You may have ready about us or seen it on television"

Kelly let a moment go by. He asked them to repeat what they’d just said.

They repeated what they’d just said.

"That’s terrific. That makes it look like you’re crazy. If per chance you’re who you say you are, how bright was that? There’s probably a ten thousand dollar or more reward out for you two people. I could run out of here and shout cop."

"Would you really do that?"

"A true artist would stuff his grandmother in a tub of boiling quicksand to get bread to carry on with his painting."

"What?"
A long pause followed.

"Another thing," the man said finally. "Boy, you got us riled up. What kind of person are you? I’m gonna tell ya another thing, young man. So you’ll know . . . know . . .just who you’re dealin with." He said, "Goin way back, we’re . . . " He whispered two names in Kelly’s ear.

Kelly said, "You’re way off."

"We didn’t expect you to believe us about this last right away. But we got proof who we are. We’re famous. There’s an old gent in a hospital near here. Only we just found out he was in the hospital. He’s long retired from the G-Men. He’s been in the hospital the past few weeks. He’ll tell ya. And there’s a old newspaper guy here in New York City. You talk to them. Then you’ll believe us. As for us, we’ve been in South America for many years."

The woman said: Rasky often did carry on about you. Showed us an old copy of ‘Man At War’ magazine with you Kelly on the front cover. And the lead story about how you was the most decorated Green Beret of recent years. After that you was a mercenary in Central America and other places. Well now that you’re half sure who we is, so think ya’d like to pull this job with us?"