I turned and looked into the poolroom. The clock on the back wall said three fifteen. I was early. I didn’t have to be there until four, and I didn’t feel much like working right then. I looked for Jimmy. He was talking to some geezer and didn’t see me; so I ducked and scooted up the block and sat down in the sun on the steps of an old tenement, waiting until it was four o’clock before going back to Keough’s. I thought about going to the country with Jerry.
I lit a cigarette and was waiting for the time to pass when I heard some yelling going on over the other side of the street. A couple of kids I knew had cornered a Jewish boy and were giving him the works. I looked on with idle interest. I felt too lazy to go over and join in the fun. They stood around him in a half circle and tormented him.
“How does it feel to be a half-man?”
“Christ killer!”
“Muff diver!”
The boy stood there tensely, his face white but calm. His eyes proudly flashed hate at them. They edged toward him threateningly. He dropped the book he was carrying and pressed his back closer to the wall. He started to raise his fists. He seemed to be a little shorter than I. He was blond, blue-eyed and thin-featured. Finally he spoke.
“I can lick any one of you in a fair fight.” His voice betrayed no fear.
They gave him the horselaugh and moved closer toward him. “You can’t lick our boots!” one of them said.
I got to my feet and walked across the street. This was going to be good.
“Hi, Frankie,” one of the boys said.
“Hello, Willie,” I replied.
“Let’s get the little Jew son-of-a-bitch!” cried one of the gang.
“Nix,” I said. “You heard him. He said he can lick any one of us. You’re not going to let him get away with that. One of us is goin’ to fight him.”
The crowd looked at me doubtfully.
“Well,” I said, “who’s goin’ to do it?”
There was no answer.
“O.K.,” I said, “I’ll do it.”
The circle broke and I walked through. The boy looked at me. I knew he was sizing me up.
I put up my fists. He stepped forward and swung at me wildly. I dodged it easily and stepped back. He didn’t know anything about fighting. He followed me and threw several punches that I blocked easily.
The crowd began to holler.
“Sock him, Frankie!”
“Kick him in the nuts!”
I fell back till I was near the edge of the curb when I realized I still had the cigarette in my mouth. I kept it there to show them that I knew I could handle him. He swung again and missed. He was beginning to breathe heavily. “Golly!” I thought, “he knows I can lick him. Why in hell don’t he run for it?” I pretended to slip on the curbstone, and the cigarette fell from my mouth. When I looked up he was still there waiting for me. I stepped toward him, hit him a ripper in the guts, and followed it with a right cross to the jaw. Down he went on his back. The boys began to jump up and down. “Kick him!” they kept hollering. The boy tried to get up but couldn’t quite make it. Finally he just lay there watching me with his eyes. I put my hands down. Willie yelled: “Let’s roll him in the gutter.” The boys started to move on him. I stepped across him and stood in front of him.
“I licked him,” I said. “Leave him alone.”
They looked at me a moment and saw I meant it. They didn’t know what to do; they looked at one another.
“O.K.,” I said, “you’ve had your fun. Now beat it.”
They began to walk off. I watched them go around the corner. When they had gone from sight I sat down on the curbstone next to where the boy was lying. I took a package of cigarettes from my pocket and offered him one. He shook his head in refusal. I took one myself and lit it. We were silent for a few seconds. Then he sat up slowly.
“Thanks,” he said.
“For a sock in the kisser?” I said and laughed.
“For letting me off easy,” he said. “That gang—”
“Aw, they’re all right,” I said. “They just wanted to have a little fun. They didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Some fun!” he said dryly and got up and picked up his book. He looked a little shaky.
I looked up at him from the curbstone. “You ought to learn how to fight if you’re goin’ to hang out in this neighborhood.”
He didn’t say anything to that, but if the set of his mouth meant anything I could see he was going to learn.
Just then Father Quinn came down the street and I jumped to my feet.
“Hello, Francis,” he said to me.
“Hello, Father,” I said, touching my hand to my forehead in a half salute.
“You haven’t been fighting with this boy have you, Francis?” he asked quizzically.
Before I could answer, the boy spoke up. “Oh, no, sir, we weren’t fighting. Francis was giving me a boxing lesson.”
Father Quinn looked at him. “Well,” he said to the boy, “don’t let him get too enthusiastic over the lessons. He sometimes forgets himself.” Then in another tone of voice, the kind he used when you don’t show up for Mass, he asked, “What’s your name, son? I don’t remember seeing you in church.”
“I’m Jewish,” the boy said quietly. “My name’s Martin Cabell.”
“Oh,” said Father Quinn, “you must be Joe Cabell’s boy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I know your father. He’s a good man. Will you give him my regards?”
“I will, sir.”
“Well, boys, I must be going now. Remember what I said: no fighting.” He turned to walk off and then stopped. “Francis,” he called back to me, “you’d better take that cigarette out of your pocket before you burn a hole in your trousers,” and walked on.
I took the cigarette out of my pocket. I didn’t think he saw me stash it when he came up. Martin and I looked at each other and laughed.
“He seems like a regular guy,” Martin said.
“He’s O.K.,” I answered.
We walked down the street together.
“Live around here?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “my father owns the drugstore down at Fifty-ninth and Broadway. We live on Central Park West.”
We reached the corner of Ninth Avenue. I looked in a jeweler’s window and saw it was after four.
“I gotta beat it,” I said, “I gotta go to work.”
“When you’re through come over to my father’s store and have a soda on me,” Martin said.
“I will,” I said. “See ya around.” And left him. A few feet later I broke into a run. I didn’t want to be too late or Keough would be sore.
5
Keough’s was empty when I got there. It looked like business was dead that afternoon. I quickly cleaned up the joint and grabbed his books and made up his figures as the results came in.
About five thirty a few customers came in to square up, and I was sent downstairs after some cold bottles of beer. When I came up, Silk Fennelli was there talking to Keough. He glanced at me and then said slowly: “Hello, Frankie.”
“Hello, Mr. Fennelli,” I answered, proud to be noticed by the big shot.
He went on talking to Keough and when he was through he came over to me. “How about one of those special shines, boy?” he asked.
“Right away, sir,” I said and ran to the closet and got out the shine box.
I gave him a really good shine. I rubbed till I could almost see my face in the leather.
He was pleased. I could see that. He gave me a half a buck and asked me if I had been thrown out of any saloons lately.
I laughed my reply. Keough came over and Fennelli told him what had happened. They both laughed.
I put the shine box away and started in again on the figures. Keough and Fennelli came and looked over my shoulder.
“Does he do your figuring?” Fennelli asked Keough.
“Yeah,” said Jimmy, “and damn good too. He knows his stuff.”
Fennelli smiled
at me. “Keep up the good work, boy. You’ll be a big man in the business someday.”
He waved good-bye and went out. I saw him step into his car and ride off.
“Big man in the business some day!” I thought, his words ringing in my ears. “That’s right, the biggest gambler in town—that’s what I’ll be. Only I won’t be gambling. I’ll run the business like Silk Fennelli does. The flunkies will do the dirty work and I’ll rake in the gravy. And I’ll have a bigger car than Fennelli’s—”
And so with my dreams the afternoon passed and before I knew it was time to go home.
It had started to rain when I got outside. I didn’t feel like reporting back for supper; so I walked over toward Broadway. When I got to Cabell’s Drugstore I was pretty wet. I went in. Martin came up to me.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “How about that soda?” he led me over to the fountain.
I had chocolate. When we were finished we sat there talking. He was a year younger than me but in the same class at public school. After we had been talking a few minutes a girl came over and spoke to him.
“We’d better hurry, Marty, or we’ll be late for supper.” I thought she must be his sister and I was right.
He introduced us: “Frankie, this is my sister, Ruth.”
“Hello,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Glad to meet you,” she said. She was about fifteen and really lovely—blond hair combed in a semi-boyish crinkly cut and blue eyes like Martin’s. And like Martin she had a way of looking straight at you when she spoke. She had a neat, trim figure and was in the sixth term high. I was about half a head taller than she, and when Marty asked me how old I was, I told him I was almost sixteen, hoping to make an impression on her.
Martin told her what had happened that afternoon, and she looked at me rather strangely and then walked away. I wondered what was eating her but said nothing to Martin.
Marty looked at me and said: “Women are funny. About what you said this afternoon about fighting—I got a pair of boxing gloves home; how about your coming over and giving me a lesson?”
“Tonight?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, “after supper. Why don’t you go home to eat and then come over to my house and we can box?”
“I don’t think I can,” I said. “I live in the orphanage. If I go over for supper I don’t think I’ll be able to get out.”
“Oh,” he said. He frowned for a minute and then brightened up. “I got an idea. Wait here a minute.” He ran into the back of the store. I could see him talking to his father through the glass partition. He pointed toward me. Then his father said something, and he came out and back to me.
“I fixed it,” he said. “You’re going to come home to supper with us. Then we can have our lesson.”
At first I didn’t want to go but I gave in.
His father and mother had gone out that night. The three of us, Marty, Ruth and me, were given supper by the maid, a young woman of about twenty-two named Julie. She was a French-Canadian and spoke with a funny little accent. She sat down to eat with us. The meal was a simple one and we were through quickly. Afterward we went into the parlor. They had a new radio and we were able to get some music on it. It was the third time I had ever heard a radio and it was very interesting. An hour after supper Martin suggested we go to the den and box.
It was O.K. with me. Ruth stayed in the parlor. She said she was going to read.
The den was a nice room with books lining the walls and a couch and some chairs scattered around. We pushed the chairs to one side and laced on the gloves.
“Put your dukes up,” I said. “Lead with your left. Keep your right back here near your chin—like this.” I fell into the fighting pose. He copied me. I stepped back and looked at him. I moved his left out a little and his right elbow down a little closer to his side. “O.K.,” I said, “now all you’ve got to do is hit me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you won’t.”
He dropped his left and swung with his right. I blocked it and stepped in close.
“Nix,” I said, “that’s not it. You left yourself wide open. When you drop your left I can step in and hit you like this, see?” I faked a punch. “Jab with your left. It keeps the other guy away from you.”
“I see,” he said. For a few seconds he remembered and then he forgot. I let him swing a couple times and miss; then I stopped.
“Don’t forget to keep your left up,” I said.
We had begun to box again when the door opened. Automatically I looked over his shoulder. Ruth came in. I watched her and he hit me on the shoulder. Without thinking, I crossed with my right and popped him in the eye. Down he went.
Ruth ran over to him. He sat there on the floor. She looked up at me. “You filthy beast! Why can’t you pick on a guy your size?” she snarled at me.
I was so dumbfounded I couldn’t speak.
“It’s not his fault, Ruth,” Marty said, “I asked him to teach me how to fight.”
“But your eye,” she wailed. “Look at it. It’s turning all colors.”
Sure enough, tomorrow it would be a beautiful shiner. I found my tongue. “Jeeze, Marty, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.” I helped him to his feet.
“It couldn’t be helped,” he said and laughed.
Julie, hearing the noise, came into the room. “You’d better put a cold towel on it,” she said, “or it’ll swell up.”
He shook off his gloves. “O.K.,” he said, “we’ll have another lesson soon.” At the door he turned to me and said: “Wait here, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
They left the room and a few seconds later I heard the water running in the bathroom.
I still had my gloves on. Julie picked up the gloves Marty had dropped on the floor. “Can I try them on?” she asked.
“Go ahead. They’re not mine,” I answered.
She put them on. “They’re very clumsy,” she said.
“You get used to them,” I said.
“My father said I should’ve been a boy,” she said. “I was always a tomboy.”
I didn’t answer.
“Show me how to box, Frankie,” she asked. “Not really—I mean just an idea.”
“O.K.,” I said.
“But don’t hit me,” she said quickly. “I am so afraid of getting hurt—
especially here.” She put her hands under her breasts and pushed them up.
I looked and then gulped out an answer. “All right, just swing at me a few times and then we’ll quit.”
She held her arms out funny-like and took a couple of swings at me. They missed, and then she stepped in close and swung. I blocked them and then stepped in and clinched. She caught my arms under her elbows and locked them against her sides. I could feel her close to me. This fighting with a girl had a bad effect on me. It was too exciting—the wrong way.
“You’re very strong,” she said, pressing herself against me.
I looked up at her. She was a little taller than I—black hair and wide, full mouth. Her eyes looked funny-like. We stood there a second and suddenly became aware that Ruth was in the doorway looking at us. We broke loose immediately.
I flushed. “She wanted me to show her how to box too,” I said lamely. I could feel my ears burning.
“A regular Gene Tunney, aren’t you?” Ruth said bitingly. “Martin wants you.”
I took off the gloves and gave them to Julie, then followed Ruth into Martin’s room. He was stretched out in bed with a cold towel on his eye.
“I’m sorry this happened, Frankie. But meet me over at my father’s store tomorrow and we’ll get together again.”
“O.K., Marty,” I said, “I’m sorry I hurt you. See you tomorrow.” I turned and left.
Ruth followed me to the door. She held it open for me and I stepped out. “Good night, Ruth,” I said.
“Good night,” she said and started to close the door behind me. Halfwa
y she stopped. “Would you like to do me a favor?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Then stay away from my brother. You’re cheap and filthy and rotten, and you’ll only spoil him.” She clipped the words out savagely and shut the door in my face.
I started to walk slowly down the hallway.
“Psst,” I heard someone call out. I looked up. It was Julie standing in another doorway in front of me.
I looked back at the door I had just come out of, and wondered what she was doing in the other doorway.
“Come here,” she whispered fiercely. She motioned with her arm. I followed her through the door. It led into the kitchen of Martin’s apartment and then through the kitchen into a small room on the far side of it away from the rest of the apartment. She closed the door behind us.
“This is my room,” she whispered. “Be quiet.”
She was telling me to be quiet. Hell, I was so excited I couldn’t speak—only look at her. She flicked out the light and walked toward me. She put her arms around me and kissed me. I could feel her tongue flicker in and out against my lips, her hands against my body. I could feel my hands running over her, and she fell back on the small bed.
“You’re so strong,” she said. “You mustn’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.” And after a while she said: “Hurt me, please hurt me….”
It was midnight when I left her. Walking through the streets, wet and muggy, I felt now I was a man. But I was a fool. I was not yet fourteen and big for my age and too big for my breeches.
6
It was Saturday morning and Keough left me in the store all alone. He was taking his wife and kid down to the station to put them on the train for the country where they were going to stay all summer.
I had all the tables set, the beer iced in the cellar, and the place swept clean. I had cleaned out the toilets, polished the glass showcase in which he kept the cigars, and was now washing down the windows. They were half covered with black paint so no one could see in, and just had the words on each window, “Billiards” in small, black letters. I had wet the windows with a brush and then wiped them down with a squeegee on a long mop handle.
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 4
