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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN#/ ISBN# issue/book “Night in the City” cc&d, v311 (the July 2021 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book:

Order this writing in the book What If the cc&d May-August 2021 magazine issues collection book		get the 426 page May-August 2021 cc&d magazine 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Night in the City

Alan Catlin

Smash and Grab is what they called
their act when they performed on
stage. The name was only partially
facetious. When they concluded their
act, the front man said, “I’m Smash
and he’s Grab. Men watch your wallets
on the way out and ladies, stay close
to your man.” It got a laugh every time
though it shouldn’t have.

In between gigs at rat hole, left-over-
from-the 60’s cafes, cellar tea houses,
wine and cheese bars that smelled as if
something had been left to rot in the cellar,
of the street cats that made their home there,
getting fat and lazy feasting on rodents
and other lower forms of life, they performed,
up close and personal, in back alleys,
inside cheap, by-the-night, no-tell hotels.

Answered to a man named Louie,
who they owed large. A guy not to be
trifled with who was, on one hand a
walking mob boss cliché and, on the other,
the one who pulled all the strings in town despite
working out of a swap shop on Utica Avenue
in a place that was always one fire code violation
away from demolition, not that anyone dared
to issue the summons. The last guy who tried
was treated to a, no-expenses-paid vacation,
on a trauma ward with his jaw wired shut
and both arms broken so bad he might never
write again.

Smash and Grab might have been a decent
duo, might have been confused with Simon
and Garfunkel, if one of them could sing
and the other one could write. Grab, the taller
of the two had a Bill Medley haircut and semi-
soulful eyes, though any comparison between
the two ended there. Smash, was short and compact,
but not in a muscular way, more like a feral way,
that served him well, after nights at whatever club

they were playing to an audience of tweakers
and nodding hop heads, when they shook down
one of Louie’s delinquent clients and the occasional
wet work. The ones who lived, bore the mark of
the man: his signature back of the hand burn
mark, administered with the hot end of
a Cuban cigar. A distinctive scar on two
hands meant you were a two time loser.
The third, on the forehead, meant you were dead.

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