“Do you want to buy the Pontiac I got at the party? I already have the Roadster Mickey gave me. I don’t need two cars.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Edith. I was thinking of something used. I couldn’t afford a new car.”
“How about I let you borrow it? Just until you find something of your own. In fact, you can drop me at home after lunch and then take it.”
Maggie, even used to Edith’s grand gestures, is stunned. “I don’t know how to drive. No, I couldn’t.” She’s shaking her head, but laughing.
“I’ll teach you on the way home. It’s not hard. You just have to get a feel for the clutch.”
“I’m overwhelmed, Edith. What can I say?”
“Say yes, you goose. It didn’t cost me anything and you really need a car.”
“Okay, but just as a loan. And I’ll be careful. Only drive Tommy to school.”
“Deal?” Edith extends her hand.
“Deal.” Maggie gives Edith’s hand a firm shake, a silly grin on her face.
On the way to pick up the Pontiac, they pass a couple of newsboys on the corner.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it.
Higher-ups named in graft. Exposed by English Tommy”
“Who’s English Tommy?” Maggie asks.
“Some gambler. Apparently, he ratted out the mayor and a bunch of city council. The chief of police, too, for all I know. They’re all gambling buddies. In Philly, you gotta be careful who you’re friends with. You never know who’s going to stab you in the back.”
* * * *
“You gave your car away?” Mickey is raging. He’s in their living room, pacing back and forth in front of Edith, shouting.
“No, I loaned it to her. Maggie needed a car and I have two.”
“Well, aren’t you lady bountiful?” He sneers. “It’s easy to give stuff away when you didn’t do nuthin to earn it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Fed up with the inquisition, Edith fires back, fists on her hips.
“You don’t know what it takes to earn the dough, Edith. Cars cost money, and it takes a lot of sweat to make enough to buy one.” He’s right in her face.
“I gave her the Pontiac that I got at the party,” Edith says, backing up a little. She didn’t like the look in Mickey’s eyes.
He advances again. “A party you were invited to because of me,” he shouts.
“You’re nuts. You don’t know what you’re saying.” Edith turns her back on him.
“I am not nuts,” he roars. Mickey spins her around to face him. “You are selfish, Edith. You loll around this big house that I gave you…”
“I hate this house. And I don’t loll. I work hard, just as hard as you.
“You have no idea how hard I work, ty kurwo.”
Edith steps up and slaps him. “Don’t you dare use that language with me, Mickey Duffy.”
“I call you whatever I want, kurwo.” He slaps her back.
Edith gasps, clutching her face. She turns and runs upstairs, slamming and locking her door.
“Yeah, that’s it. Run away. Everybody runs away.” Mickey stalks over to the bar cart and pours himself a stiff drink. He downs it. Screaming ‘kurwo’, he throws the glass against the wall. The sound reminds him of the warehouse. “Flying Rot Gut. Toad Whiskey. I love it.” He laughs and laughs.
Chapter 28
J immy and Tommy are walking along Market, carried along by the press of people on the sidewalk. Trolleys rumble past, trains rattle above, people on the sidewalks dash to and fro. Attracted to all this activity are the newsboys hawking their papers. Tommy glances uneasily at the boy on the corner. He’s not one of the ones that jumped him the other day, but Tommy knows that they’re all connected to Dutch.
“Extra! Extra! Read all about it!
Mayor stripped of authority by own surrender. City Hall heads tottering under dismissal axe.”
Jimmy slings an arm around Tommy. “Come on, pal. You’re with me now. All for one, right?”
Tommy smiles, remembering the day they vanquished the schoolyard bully, Georgie-Porgie, and the chants of ‘all for one’ that followed.
“Where are we going? What do runners do anyway?”
“Most people don’t have phones to call in a bet, and Mickey and Chalkie like to have something in writing. They could have all kinds of lowlifes showing up after a race claiming to be a winner. So I have a route that I run every day: a couple of speaks, a couple of fire halls, a few businesses, and some houses. If there’s somebody that wants to lay a bet, I fill in a slip and put it in the bag.”
“How does Chalkie know that the bet was made before the race? Maybe you were at the track and then placed your bet.”
“That’s easy. I got two stop watches. See here how the bag is locked? I put the betting slips in the bag before the race. When the bag gets full, I start one of the stop watches and the bag gets locked. That way Chalkie knows what time the bag was locked and has the only key to get into the bag.”
“Is that why you’re called a runner? ‘Cause you have to run back to Chalkies?”
“Ha. The only running I do is when I’m chased by somebody who wants to rip off my bag. Folks think there’s money in there. But there ain’t. Just betting slips. All my customers have a line of credit at Chalkie’s”
“How fast does your bag fill up?”
“On a busy day, maybe a Friday night or a Saturday, I can fill it two or three times. Once I earned enough for a new bike all in one day. That was a good one. I get a piece of the action. Chalkie calls it getting paid on commission. The more bets I bring in, the bigger the bets, the more money I make.”
“Enough for a bike in one day? It sounds like you got the best job, Jimmy.”
“Yeah, just don’t get on Chalkie’s bad side. He’s got a real nasty back-hand with the runners. I was late once and got slapped real good.”
“So where are we going first?”
“The fire hall.”
“The new one on Race Street?”
“Nah, somebody else has got that on their route. I wish I did. A lot of money comes out of that one. No, we’re going to the one further down on Market. Engine Company 21. I got a couple of regulars there.”
Tommy pets the Dalmatian, Queenie, while watching Jimmy collect his slips. The firemen joke around with him, asking about his girlfriend. As if. Jimmy doesn’t have a girlfriend. Does he? They sure don’t treat him like a kid, anyway. And then it hits him: he’s the only person here in knickers.
Back on the street, Tommy asks, “How’d we do?”
“Not great. There aren’t any home games this week, so aren’t too many sport bets. I got a couple of horse races for tomorrow, and one on a dog race that’s gonna run tonight.”
“This is great. I never saw so much of the city,” says Tommy. “Where to next?”
“We go to Schmidt’s next. I hate going there. The old man has a real problem. Always spending money he doesn’t have. But hey, he’s the one that makes the bet. Nobody forces him. I just carry it. He’s into Chalkie for a load o’ dough. Which is why I have to go see him; Chalkie wants him to keep betting. Chalkie likes the losers better than the winners. Better for business. Schmidt doesn’t work anywhere regular, and his old lady would have a bird if anyone saw him going into the bookie joint. So I go to him.”
The buildings get sadder and sadder further along Spring Garden. Tommy tries not to gawk at the burlesque theaters, the flophouses, or the missions, even though he knows his mother would never be around here. They turn onto a street, so mean and downtrodden it doesn’t even have a name—as far as Tommy can tell. Wooden boarding houses all lean this way and that. Broken panes of glass are covered by pieces of wood or cardboard, and garbage is piled on the street. “Ew, someone’s cooking cabbage.” says Tommy.
Jimmy gives him a nudge. “Fart food.” Both boys snort.
They climb the stairs of a dark, damp building. “Now it smells like pee,” says Tommy. The bannister jiggles when T
ommy grabs for it. He pulls his hand away, wiping it on the back of his pants. The only light comes from a dirty skylight on the top floor; the bulb at the top of the stairwell burned out long ago.
The higher they get, the more radios blare, babies cry, and people argue—all behind closed doors. Who’d want to live here? And they probably shouldn’t be throwing their money away on bets, either. Look at all the garbage in the hallway!
Number 337 rattles each time Jimmy knocks. Footsteps approach, and Tommy steps back, giving Jimmy space to work.
The door creaks open and reveals a dirty, half-dressed boy of about two. His very full diaper is hanging off.
“Ugh,” says Tommy.
“Shuttup,” says Jimmy.
“Who’s there?” A tired woman with gray hair wipes her hands on the front of a dirty apron. “Yeah, whaddya want?”
Tommy stares down at her slippers.
“Is Mr. Schmidt home?” asks Jimmy.
She peers more closely at Jimmy. “Not you again. I told you not to come back here. He’s done with that. Now git.”
“Mavis, who’s there? Is that Chalkie’s boy?”
Mavis swings round and starts yelling. “You said you were done. We don’t got no groceries in the house and no credit at the store. There’s mouths to feed here, Adolf.”
“That’s why I gotta talk to Chalkie’s boy. I got a good feeling about the next race.”
A couple of small girls wind their way around their mother’s legs, gawking at the strangers. One has her finger well into her nose. “Bernice, let go.” Mavis swats at the top of Bernice’s matted hair.
“Mavis,” Adolf roars, coming to the door, pulling up his suspenders around a big belly. He pushes her away. Bernice’s siblings begin wailing.
Mavis slaps Adolph’s arm. “No. Don’t do this.”
Adolph whacks her hard on the back of the head. “Don’t tell me what to do, woman. Come here boy and fill out my slip. Jolly Rodger in the fifth, tomorrow. You got that?”
Jimmy nods, pencil flying over the betting slip.
Tommy, hands jammed in his pockets, looks everywhere but at Mr. Schmidt. Definitely not the Fire Hall. There it was all good fun. This is creepy.
Mavis is crying. Bernice is crying. The little boy is crying. Adolph belches and scratches at his belly. “We good here?” He slams the door as Jimmy nods. Behind the door, they can hear the two adults screaming at each other, then another slap or two.
“Yeah, I hate it here. The guys a loser. He should get a job and feed those kids,” says Jimmy.
They’ve just got to the top of the stairs when the door flies open and Mavis comes running down the hall.
“Hey, kid. Please don’t take that bet. The boy’s sickly and I gotta take him to the doc.” She holds onto his arm. Jimmy tries to shake her off.
Adolph stands in the doorway to their rooms, shouting. “Mavis. Get yourself back here. Right now. Don’t make me come out there.”
Alarmed, Tommy presses hard against the wall, ready to run. Since Dutch, he hasn’t been so good with yelling.
“Please.” With a searching look, she turns, scurrying back into the room. The door slams, and then shakes in its frame as something hard strikes it from the other side. Probably Mavis.
“Come on. Jeez, you look like crap. Let’s go. I gotta go to a couple of speakeasies next. They’ll be better.” Jimmy grabs hold of Tommy and they head down the stairs.
“You’re not going to take the bet to Chalkie, are you?” Tommy asks.
Jimmy shrugs. “Sure. Why not. Not my fault. And if not me, then somebody else would come get it. And I get a piece of it, too. Part of my commission.”
Tommy follows his friend out the front door and back into the sunshine. At the corner, Tommy pauses, taking in the bleak hopelessness of the neighborhood, so different than his own. With a shudder, Tommy dashes after Jimmy, who has kept striding down the street. “Hey, wait up. Tell me about this speakeasy we’re going to. Think we’ll see any gangsters?”
Chapter 29
H alf way between Philadelphia and the state capital, Harrisburg, is the city of Reading, in Berks County. Reading, a blue collar community, is a bootlegger’s dream. Even with Prohibition, there are four breweries, five bottling companies and, prior to Prohibition, there were twenty five liquor and wine wholesalers. On the 500 block of Penn Street alone, there are five speakeasies operating with the law looking the other way. It’s a town that likes its booze—Prohibition be damned.
Henry Mercer, who is in charge of Mickey’s operations, is always on the lookout for new suppliers, and he’s worked with Max Hassel in the past. With breweries more reliable than moonshine stills—those things are always blowing up—Henry Mercer knows they need to stay on top of their connections. Today, Mickey, Henry, and Eddie, the new driver/bodyguard, are checking out Hassel’s new brewery.
Following a tour of the brewery, the four relax in Max’s office over a whiskey. “I recall you enjoy the stuff from Canada, Mickey.” Max pours them all a glass of Canadian Club. “Just got this in.”
Henry takes a sip and then sets his aside. He’s been off the sauce for a couple of years and he’s comfortable with the razzing he has to live with as a dry bootlegger. He is a paradox; he’s a lot like Max Hassel, a bootlegger who doesn’t believe in violence, or carry a gun. A couple of strange ducks for these times.
“I’m definitely interested, Max. It’s a nice little set up ya got here. How much beer can you supply on a weekly basis? And under what terms?” The negotiations ensue, but Mickey keeps coming back to the brewery itself. “I can see the appeal of owning your own brewery. Maybe I should get into the brewery business. Whaddaya think, Henry?”
“I don’t know much about making suds, Mickey. You looking for a partner, Max?” Henry is cautious when Mickey starts getting excited about anything. You never know how it will turn out.
“I’ve never had a partner, boys, and don’t aim to start now. I like my little set-up. I’ve got it working the way I want. The cops around here all know me and leave me alone. Nah, I don’t think I need a partner, but thanks.”
“Well, if you change your mind, Max, give me a call. Yup, I could see myself in the brewery business. Speaking of partnerships, I hear Nucky has finally set a date for the big meeting in Atlantic City. You going?”
“Probably. Lansky and the New York boys will be there. I haven’t heard yet about Capone and his crew in Chicago. They got a bit of a turf war going on over there with Bugs Moran. Bugs is being stupid, taking on the mafia, which doesn’t sit well with Capone. He’s not a ‘made man’, but might as well be.
“I thought he was Italian,” says Eddie.
“They run a pretty closed shop. You gotta be Sicilian to be a higher-up in the mafia. Capone’s folks are from Solerno, some city in the south end of the boot. Italian, but not quite good enough. I figure that’s why Nucky is waiting for spring to get everybody together. Let things settle down in Chicago a bit.”
“There’s always something, though, it seems.”
“You have any more thoughts on the idea, Mickey?”
“Can’t see it working, myself. Partners are trouble, present company excluded of course. I’m pretty sure there wouldn’t be anybody around that table that would have my best interests at heart, except for me. In fact, any dealings I’ve had with other bootleggers, beyond cash and carry, have been trouble. And don’t get me started about Boo-Boo Hoff. That skurwysyn bastard tried to kill me. You don’t forget something like that. You don’t put getting shot at aside and pretend it didn’t happen.”
Mickey’s been clenching and unclenching his fists, with Henry looking on anxiously. “Here, how about I pour us another round? Okay by you, Max?” The distraction seems to help.
“Sure, help yourself. But think of the money, Mickey. A syndicate would have all kinds of economic advantages. And business opportunities. I see real potential,” says Max.
“We gotta get out from under this Grand Jury mess before
we can relax and start looking at opportunities. You been called to testify yet?” Mickey asks.
“Yeah, Monaghan brought me in for an interview. Grilling more like. At least they didn’t have to carry me out on a stretcher. Not like Elliot. You heard about that? In a coma, apparently. You got the call yet?” Max says.
“Not yet. I expect to hear any day now. You saw they had Frankie Bailey and Petey Ford in? Boo-Boo Hoff didn’t come out so good on that one. He’s been in front of the Grand Jury a couple of times,” Mickey says.
“Six so far, and counting. He’s their most popular witness. Boo-Boo’s all wrapped up in this ‘cause of his backing McCloon,” Henry says. Mickey’s relaxing, so Henry can relax.
Watch Your Back Page 12
