Clothes make the man

A Short Story by Henri Duvernois

“I don’t like it,” Tango complained again. “I won’t feel right walking up and down in that .”

“Shut up and put it on, “ the Boss told him, and so, of course Tango put it on. The Boss was half the size of Tango, but he was smart. If they had given tango a tail, he would have put it between his legs when the Boss spoke.

“Not bad,” Tango had to admit looking at himself in the mirror. He pushed out his might chest and threw back his huge shoulders. Even the Eel, who was the Boss’s working partner and who rarely opened his mouth, was stirred to speech. “Boy, he is handsome!” he said.

No question about it, Tango looked good. The policeman’s uniform might have been made by the best tailor in Paris. His little eyes looked brighter under the cap; they almost looked intelligent.

“Stop staring at yourself and wipe that dumb grin of your face,” the Boss said, “and listen. This is so easy a half-wit could do it, so maybe if you try hard, you can too.  All you do is walk up and down the street. Easy and slow, like a real cop on his beat. Then if anybody hears us w working in the house, they won’t start asking questions. Keep walking until we come out, then hang around a few minutes covering us. That is all there is to it. Now, you understand?”

“Sure,” Tango said, his eyes straying to the mirror. 

“Then get going!” the Boss snapped.

Tango was a little edgy walking to the street the Boss and the EEL had picked out, but nothing happened. The house where the job was to be pulled was in the middle of the block. Tango had rarely seen a street such as this one because he worked in the shabby quarters of Paris—a little purse-snatching, a little shoplifting; he even panhandled.

He strolled down the sidewalk, turned at the corner, and came back. While he was turning at the other corner, he saw the police officer. Such a sight would normally send him off as fast as his feet would move. He stared in fear; his palms were sweating. Then with the officer a few feet from him, he raised his arm and saluted.  The officer calmly returned the salute and passed  by. Tango stood peering after him. He felt strange and thankful. “Say!” he said to himself.
Say, you see that: I salute him, and he salutes right back. I  guess I look good to him,” he told himself. “I guess he don’t see many cops looking so good.”

After a few more trips, he found an old lady pausing on the corner. Tango did not even see the fat purse in her hand. He stopped in front of her, saluted and offered his arm. She looked at him with a sweet smile, “Oh, thank you, officer!”

“Please, madam, “ Tango said, “don’t say word.” He paused. “That’s what we’re here for,” he added and saluted her with pride.

A shabby man then came toward him. As he spotted Tango, he growled. “Rotten ops!” he cried. “Big bag of wind in a uniform! I spit on you!” the drunk declared. And he spit on Tango.  Something popped in tango’s head. He grabbed the drunk with one might hand and dragged him off down the street. When the Boss and the Eel returned for completing the job, Tango was in no mood to stop.

“You fool, what are you doing?” the Boss asked in a angry whisper. “You want to spoil the whole job?” And he struck Tango hard across the cheek.

Feelings that can’t be described swirled in Tang’s head. He remembered the officer answering his salute; her remembered the old lady’s sweet smile. And then he remembered what the drunk had said.

He rose to the full pitch of a might anger. While the Boss and the Eel stared at him in sheer fright, Tango stuffed the shiny police whistle in his mouth and blew loud and long enough to bring all the police in Paris.

“Crooks, robbers” he roared. “I arrest you! I arrest you in the name of the law!”


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