Watch Your Back

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Hi Jimmy. Looks like you’ve got at least one more run to do before quitting time. Mind if I take Tom here for a bit until you get back?”

  “Uh, sure, Mr. Duffy. See you later, To-o-om.” Jimmy waves as he dashes out the door.

  “There. That worked out nicely. Come on, Eddie. Let’s take Tom for a drive.”

  Soon, they’re on a gravel road outside of Philly. Tommy, clutching the wheel of the Duesenberg, is staring intently at his feet beneath the dash. Mickey is in the front seat beside him. Eddie has been relegated to the back seat, much to Mickey’s amusement. “No backseat driving, now, Eddie.”

  Mickey turns to Tommy, who stares back at him with total concentration. “Every car is different. I’m not too familiar with Pontiacs, but it probably has a choke. It’s that knob there. You want to pull it all the way out to start the car,” Mickey says, while pointing out the various knobs and buttons. “Next, you want to put the car in neutral. The gear shift is on the floor. Where is it in your ma’s Pontiac?”

  “It’s on the floor in Mother’s car, too.”

  “Good. Sometimes you’ll get ‘three on the tree’ where the gear shift is part of the steering column.”

  Tommy nods and clutches the gear shift, strangling it. His hold is so tight that his knuckles turn white.

  “Hey, kid, ease up a bit. It’s not gonna escape,” says Mickey. “Use your right foot to work both the brake and the gas pedal. Otherwise, you’ll wind up with a foot on the brake and the gas at the same time. Use your left foot to work the clutch. You want smooth. So pull on the choke, push down on the clutch, and start the car.”

  Tommy pushes the start button and the car rumbles to life. His heart is pounding.

  “Now ease up on the clutch at the same time you put the car into gear, nice and smooth. Good. Just a bit of gas now. Slow.”

  Tommy’s feet work the pedals as he sits hunched over the wheel. The car rolls forward, crunching over the gravel.

  “Okay, a bit more gas and push down the clutch and put the car into second gear.”

  Tommy gets his feet mixed up and the car shudders to a stop. From the back seat, Eddie snorts, causing Mickey to frown at him.

  “That’s okay. Not to worry. You just stalled it. Happens all the time when you’re learning. Start it up again.”

  Mickey is a paragon of patience as he coaxes Tommy though the driving lesson.

  “Okay, let’s try shifting into second now. Don’t look at your feet. Eyes on the road. You want to feel when to shift.”

  Tommy gets the car into second gear. They go, then slow and stop, and start again. Over and over. Mickey calm, coaching, letting Tommy get the feel of the car. There’s the occasional guffaw from Eddie in the back seat. Eventually, they are cruising along the gravel road, Tommy comfortable at the wheel.

  “Great, Tom. You’re doing great. You’re a natural. I think that’s enough for today. We’ll learn how to go backwards next time. How about you let Eddie drive now and we’ll head back into town. There’s a pool table waiting with our name on it.”

  The clack of pool balls as Mickey breaks is music to Tommy’s ears. In a pool hall with Mickey Duffy. Tommy has never played pool before. Looked in the window, sure. Now he’s standing, clutching his pool cue, trying to appear relaxed. Like he plays it every day. Sitting on the edge of the pool table is a beer, for him. Jimmy should see me now.

  Men come over and chat with Mickey. Always some back slapping and joking around. Cigarettes are burning on the edge of the table, drinks are poured. A couple of dames sidle over to check on the action. Mickey sends them on their way with a pat on the derrière. What a perfect day. Best day, ever.

  “You know, Tom. I was thinking that I might have a spot for you on the crew. Are you interested?”

  Tommy gulps. Mickey watches him, waiting for an answer.

  Tommy fiddles with his pool cue. He’d be making money like Jimmy does. His Mother won’t be happy. In fact, his mother would not be happy about this at all.

  “I think that I should stay in school, Mr. Duffy. Mickey. My ma wants me to go to this fancy school in a couple of years. And I guess I gotta go.”

  “Absolutely, kid. School’s important. You gotta hit those books if you’re going anywhere in life. No, the job I had in mind is Saturdays only. A runner like Jimmy. We’re so busy on Saturdays. Chalkie’s been after me to hire another runner. Interested?”

  Tommy’s heart sings. One of the guys. Hanging out with Mickey. Cash in my pocket. Mother will be steaming mad. But she doesn’t need to know. I just gotta make sure I get homework done. That creep Schmidt’s on Jimmy’s route. How many of those guys can there be? Naw, it’ll be good.

  “Sure. I could do that.”

  “Terrific. How about you start next Saturday. I’ll let Chalkie know that you’ll be at the barbershop at one o’clock. He’ll fill you in on what you need to do. Here, let’s shake on it.”

  Pool cue in one hand, Mickey’s big paw in the other. A goofy grin on Tommy’s face.

  Mickey raises his whiskey glass and toasts Tommy. “Welcome aboard, Tom. I think you’re going to be a real asset.”

  Tommy raises his own glass of beer. He feels like hooting in excitement, but plays it cool. Maybe I’ll buy me a pair of long pants with all the dough I’ll be making.

  * * * *

  They drop Tommy off at the corner of his street and head back to the Ritz.

  “So, what’s with you and this kid? You got a thing going with his ma, or what?”

  “Maggie Barnes? No, she’d eat me for breakfast if she found out what I’ve been up to. Maggie and I go way back; she’s always up in my face about something. I dunno. Tom’s a great kid. And doin’ all this on the sly is kinda amusing. I get a kick outta it.”

  Chapter 37

  T oday is going to be a good day. Henry can feel it in his bones. He’d done quite a bit of research and toured a few assembly plants. Last week they had decided on installing a small assembly line at the warehouse—nothing fancy but, after seeing Max Hassel’s set up, Henry had decided that they should modernize a bit.

  Earlier in the week, men had come and installed the metal rolling line. Cases of empty bottles would slide along it easily. There was a hose and tap system that they could use to pour liquor into the bottles at higher speed. Labels would still be done by hand, but this new set-up should be faster and more efficient.

  It’s the end of the 1920s, and it’s important for businesses to move with the times. Today, they were going to run their first order through it.

  Henry prowls around the contraption, tweaking this and adjusting that. Gus and Fingers are rolling barrels into place, and Porter and a couple of guys are setting up the empty bottles at one end and labels at the other. What used to take them all day should now only take a couple of hours. And once the novelty has passed, and everybody has tried it out, the new assembly line should only take a couple of guys to run it. Ah, these modern innovations.

  Henry had mentioned to Mickey that they were starting up the new system this morning, so was keeping an eye out for him.

  “This looks like quite the contraption,” Gus says, eyeing the hose, the triple-headed nozzle, and lever. “Think it will work?”

  “Went smooth as silk yesterday when we tested it out. No hiccups at all. Here’s hoping.”

  The door to the warehouse bangs open and Mickey and Eddie enter, a bit worse for wear.

  “Late night, Boss?” Fingers asks, chortling. Rumours of Mickey’s latest escapades are getting around the crew. Mickey gives a sheepish grin. “Nah, tucked into bed early. Slept like a baby.” There is a pause, and then he roars with laughter, slapping Eddie so hard on the back the man staggers. Eddie, in on the joke, laughs back.

  Some of the guys laugh, too. Henry shakes his head.

  He explains the process to Mickey, showing how things are connected and what he expects will happen. Porter lifts a case of empty bottles, sliding them easily along the metal rollers. “Eventually, this
could be mechanized, but for now we’ll do it manually.”

  Fingers inserts the hose into the first barrel of whiskey, primes the syphon, and they’re good to go. “Okay, boys, let’s take this thing for a test drive.”

  Inserting the triple-headed nozzle into the necks of the first three bottles, Fingers squeezes the lever, filling three bottles at a time almost instantly. “Whoa, that’s swell. Look how fast it is.” He fills the remaining bottles in the case, almost giggling at the speed.

  Porter slides the full bottles to the end of the line where a couple of men stand ready with labels and glue brushes. While they’re busy with that, someone else is loading the next crate onto the rollers.

  “Here, gimme that. I want to try.” Mickey shoves Fingers aside. Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “This is so slick, Henry. You’re brilliant.”

  Eddie grabs the nozzle. “Give me a shot,” he says, grabbing the nozzle from Mickey. The two of them grapple for it, tugging back and forth.

  Mickey wrestles it from Eddie. “No, it’s mine,” Mickey says, a look in his eye.

  The rest of the crew back away. It’s crazy time

  Eddie grabs it back and aims the triple-headed nozzle at Mickey, squirting him with whiskey.

  “Look, fellas, quit your horsing around. This is premium whiskey you’re wasting.” Henry is frowning.

  Mickey grins, wiping at his face and licking his hand. “It is indeed. Good stuff.”

  “Look, how about you give the hose back to Fingers and I’ll pour you some whiskey in a glass. We can watch from the table over there.”

  Mickey and Eddie saunter away, settling some distance from the production. The guys return to their stations, looking askance at the boss and Eddie. The process restarts.

  Henry grabs one of the filled bottles and a couple of glasses, clearing a spot at the table. He’d been working on month-end invoices the night before, and papers are still arranged in piles, cluttering the surface.

  “What’s all this?” Mickey asks, holding up an invoice to the Cadix.

  Henry, distracted by the bottling assembly line running behind him, fails to pick up on the warning tone in Mickey’s question.

  “Stan, grab another table and put a couple more guys on labelling. They’re falling behind.” Henry turns and faces Mickey. “What was that, Mickey?”

  “What is this?” He’s waving the paper around, his eyes narrow slits, as he glares at Henry.

  Henry’s confused. “Just invoices for our shipments last month. Remember, we invoice our own places rather than pay in cash. It’s easier for everybody.”

  Mickey roars in anger and starts ripping up the invoices, throwing the scraps in the air. “No more paper. No more paper.” More ripping and throwing. “Don’t put anything in writing. They’ll find it.” Mickey is raging, throwing piles of paper onto the dirt floor. He stomps on the scraps. “No more paper.”

  Henry looks at Eddie, who smirks and shrugs.

  “Come on, Mickey. Let’s go back to the hotel. I’m starved and could use some lunch. Hungry?” Eddie says.

  Mickey slows down and looks at Eddie, who repeats the question. “Yeah, I’m hungry. Let’s go,” Mickey says, and walks over to Henry. “Great job here, Henry. This bottling contraption is going to save us a ton of time.” He slaps him on the shoulder and shouts over to the men working the line. “Keep up the good work fellas. See ya around.”

  Henry stands amidst the torn papers—the destruction caused by an out-of-control Mickey. He watches them leave. Bewildered, he stares blankly at the scattered scraps, absently rubbing the scar on his temple. A memento from a lifetime ago: a knife fight in the joint, protecting Mickey’s back.

  Gus comes up behind him. “Heck of a mess, eh?”

  “It sure is. Leave it. Let’s see how things are going back there,” Henry says, walking back to the assembly line. Progress.

  With all the barrels drained and the bottles filled, the whole process has only taken a couple of hours. They are done and ready to deliver by lunchtime. With perfect timing, Reuben, from the deli down the street, bangs open the warehouse door, his arms full of boxes of sandwiches, coleslaw, and potato salad.

  “I hear we got a celebration here,” he shouts to the men who are standing around full crates of bottled whiskey.

  “Reuben, your timing couldn’t be better. Come on, boys. Lunch is on me. Stan, grab a couple of bottles and let’s eat.” Henry puts his arm around Gus and they head over to the table.

  Reuben, stepping around the mess of paper on the floor, sets down the boxes of food. “You want that I get the wife to come in to tidy up a bit?” he says with a puzzled grin.

  “Thanks, but I’ll look after it. Our celebrations got a bit out of hand.” Henry peels off a couple of bills and gives them to Reuben, along with a bottle of whiskey fresh off the assembly line. “Thanks for bringing this around. It’s a big day here.”

  “A big day for a big macher, Mr. Henry. No problem. Any time.”

  Henry looks back at the men around the table, now chowing down on the food. He looks at the stacks of crates ready to go. It is a good day. The contraption is going to work out just fine.

  Flush with the lunch and the morning’s success, Henry decides they should bottle up a few more barrels. Much as he had anticipated, the novelty of the new system wore off, and the assembly line settled down into something approaching efficiency. There were still a few hiccups, and the labelling couldn’t keep up, but time would smooth out these problems.

  Hours later, sitting at a table in a speakeasy down the street from where he lives, Henry stares into the golden depths of a glass of whiskey. He’s alone with his thoughts. He’s been sitting there for a while, not drinking, just holding the glass.

  When did it get this bad? Mickey’s losing it a lot more often, that’s for sure. I don’t know what to do.

  “Hey, sport. You look like you’ve lost your best friend. Want some company?” The dishy blond in the tight dress leans down, her assets on full display.

  “I’m not good company tonight, doll. Maybe next time.”

  “Suit yourself, sweetheart.” She sashays away.

  Aren’t I the sad sack, sitting here. Somebody said that you can’t know the cost of betrayal without understanding the value of loyalty. I never woulda guessed that me and Mickey would wind up like this. That Regan fella is a real piece of work. Mickey’s always worse when he’s around. I don’t want to be nursemaid to Mickey. Maybe it’s time to settle down? Get me a wife. Maybe a few kids. I miss Mickey. The old days. I need somebody I can come home to. I need a home.

  Chapter 38

  T he children in the schoolyard run every which way: games, secrets, hijinks. It’s lunch time recess and Tommy stands off to one side, surveying the landscape, trying to decide whether it will be marbles or pick-up baseball to pass the time until the bell rings.

  He jumps when he hears a voice behind him. “Hi ya, Tom. I have two tickets to the Phillies. Wanna come?”

  Mickey has the rear window down in the Duesenberg. Eddie’s at the wheel.

  Tommy looks around the school yard. Kids are playing. No teachers in sight.

  “Come on. They’re playing the Brooklyn Robins. It’ll be fun.”

  One more look to make sure the coast is clear; Tommy, grinning, climbs into the back seat of the car.

  “Ever skipped school before?” Mickey asks.

  “Oh, sure. All the time,” Tommy says, the lie easily read on his face.

  Mickey has great seats. Right on the baseline. A bag of peanuts and a couple of beers, it’s a beautiful September afternoon. Klein, Phillies’ centerfielder, gets a homerun and three singles. A magnificent homer in the third inning has the fans on their feet. Two men on base also get to run home. It’s a tight game right up until the Phillies manage to break the tie and score four runs in the seventh inning and three more in the eighth. The final score is 11-6. A rare win for the lagging Phillies who have picked up the unfortunate nickname, the Tail-Enders, a
reference to their season stats.

  After the game, Mickey takes Tommy down to the dressing room to meet some of the players. The owner of the team appears to be good friends with Mickey, and the players all know him by name. While they are in the dressing room, Eddie carries in a couple of cases of cold beer to add to the celebratory atmosphere.

  “Hey Mickey, thanks for the beer. That your kid?” asks one player.

  “Great to see ya brought yer kid to the game, Mickey.” Another player raises a beer.

  Every time it happens, Mickey looks over and smiles at him. Tommy glows under the mistaken identity. He never corrects the mistake.