Wally Two-Whiskers

A Mob Boss Chats With His Henchmen

Wally Two Whiskers perched on top of the Chicago phone book placed in the middle of a rickety card table. He sat perfectly still twitching his two long whiskers.  A single light bulb dangled low in the middle of the cramped basement room.

Ten men in dark pin-striped suits and Gucci loafers sat around the table.  All had combed-back hair and five o’clock shadows.  They were big men, tough men with square jaws. Used to no nonsense, they packed uzis and were dressed to kill, both for the dames and the poor slobs who stood in their way. They were the Council–the elite group of men who carried out the orders of Wally Two Whiskers. Today they had failed to do that, and that is why they looked away in shame from their boss and his beady black eyes.

One coughed nervously. Another stared absently at a smudge on the table. Yet another shifted the worn toothpick in his mouth from left to right. Without any hands. He had learned to do this. When Two Whiskers was on the war path, they all knew better than to make any unnecessary movements with their hands. Once in this same room under similar conditions Manny Pirelli had reached under his double breasted to scratch his armpit–his left armpit, where the holster is. Swiftly, he got busted and demoted down, right to the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Sweat streamed down their faces and necks. They had been sitting for ten minutes now, waiting. Finally Wally Two Whiskers spoke.

“You blew it,” he squeaked through clenched incisors. The Council, stony-faced, exchanged glances. Two Whiskers fell into another brooding silence, but shorter this time. “You clumsy thick-headed louts! I give you a simple job, and you blow it! Ai ai ai!” He jumped up and paced on the phone book. “My own Council. What am I going to do? Eh? What–can’t I trust nobodys no more? Do I gotta’ sack the lot of you and bring in some ten-year-olds? They coulda’ done the job. It was dat easy.” He whirled around and faced one of the Council. “Nine Fingers–what do you got to say?” The man named Nine Fingers imperceptibly straightened his slouch.

“Gee, Boss, I–”

“Aw shut up, ya’ dope! You got nothing I want to hear.” Nine Fingers frowned and shut up. “Vinny? Anything you want to say?” Vinny shook his head slowly. He was sure he had nothing the boss would want to hear. “Jansen? You? You were supposed to be Number One on this job.”

“Well, Boss, I think–”

“Can it, ya’ fathead. I heard it all before. Excuses, excuses, excuses.” He lapsed into another spell of unintelligible muttering then sat back on his haunches and with this tiny forepaws rearranged the food in his cheek pouches to make them bulge a little more evenly. He scanned his erring henchmen and took a deep breath. “I know what’s wrong with yous all. It’s women, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Martin?”

“Uh, yeah, Boss. Women.”

“I knew it. Women. Yous all can’t handle your women and let me tell you something. Dames. Dames is what can bring down an organization like this. Every time. If I seen it happen once I seen it a million times. Don’t think we’re invincible just because we’re number one.” A few men nodded; a few others who thought he had said ‘invisible’ chose to let it pass.

“Let me show you something. Gina! Gina, come on out here.” Another hamster scrambled out from a hidden nook. Nine Fingers gingerly picked her up and set her next to Two Whiskers. “This is my wife, Gina. You know her.” They nodded deferentially. “She’s the kind of wife yous all need. Quiet and beautiful.” He stepped back and gazed at his mate, who blushed beneath her fur. “Ain’t she beautiful? You’re beautiful, Gina. You got a good life with me.” She nodded. “When’s our next batch of kids due?”

“Next Wednesday,” she murmured.

“There, you see?” He kissed her on the cheek. “Now go.” Nine Fingers put her back on the floor and she scurried off. “Beautiful, quiet and pregnant. That’s the way you want ’em. I got fifty-six kids. More than all you bozos put together. –Eh? What’s that, O’scanlon? You got something to say? Then say it to us all. No secrets. No mumbling. Out with it!”

“Uh, I was just saying that hamsters gestate every two weeks, don’t they?”

“On that point of physiology you are correct. I am just wondering–are you going to become a small animal vet, Mr. O’scanlon? Why do you bring this up now? Gentlemen, help me—why does he bring up this business of physiology? Am I missing something here?”

O’scanlon jumped in quickly. “See, I don’t think that my missus would go for continuous pregnancy.”

“Exactly my point, O’scanlon. Your woman has an attitude problem. And so do you. And so do all yous bozos. That’s why you blew the job this afternoon. That’s why you’re sitting out there and not here on this phone book.” He paused and collected his thoughts. “I want yous all to go home and spend a quiet evening thinking about your role on the Council.” Another pause. “We got a big job tomorrow. Mallon’s group’s doing the dirty on us. They’re overstepping their bounds–moving in on our territory. We need to deal with them.” He slammed his forepaw down. “You think you can handle this?” They nodded. “Good. Now get out of here. Be back tomorrow morning at nine sharp.”

Chairs creaked as the men pushed themselves away from the table and stood. They silently filed out leaving Wally Two Whiskers alone on the phone book–silent, unmoving, lost in dark thought.