What does he know? Kagan wondered.
“Is there something you didn’t do yesterday that you should have?” the little man asked.
“Yes,” confessed Kagan, “I should have called an old friend, Katzi, to wish him a good decree.”
“That’s all?”
“From yesterday,” said Kagan with evasive honesty.
“And today, Yom Kippur?” the little man demanded.
“Yom Kippur has been a very hard day,” Kagan said, shaking his head.
The old man put his hand on Kagan’s arm.
“Yom Kippur,” he said softly, “is a blessing, very hard — and very beautiful.”
“It is?”
“You’ll see,” said the mikveh man.
“I will?” Kagan asked with fearful naiveté.
“You did the right thing.” In gentle reassurance, he squeezed Kagan’s arm. “You don’t have to say it. You did the right thing by not asking. I’ll tell you this. No bathhouse can wash off the numbers. Some things no water can wash off. But a mikveh is different. A mikveh is purity. In a mikveh those numbers don’t exist. That’s why I came here.”
“Yes,” Kagan nodded. “That makes sense.”
They stood looking at each other in the night.
“Listen,” Kagan said, “this is crazy. The cops found me poking around your place like a sneak thief. They did the right thing in arresting me. I have no business asking and you would be right not to tell me, but I’m worried about all that money. I hope you got it to a bank before the holiday. If you didn’t, and as crazy as this sounds, I’ll help you guard it.”
The little man leaned closer and Kagan bent over to pick up his whisper.
“I don’t believe in banks. I believe in mikvehs.”
“You mean?”
The small, tightly shrunk bald head reflected the light as it nodded.
“I put it where they wouldn’t think to look. That’s the best place.”
“Doesn’t it get soggy?” Kagan asked.
“No,” he said proudly. “I wrap it in those little white plastic sandvich begs my wife uses. They’re wonderful. I put a few rubber bands around them to be sure. You can’t see a thing.”
“Oh, good,” Kagan said.
“Don’t worry,” the little man added. “You did the right thing.”
“I did?” Kagan asked, wondering what the old man was referring to now.
The little man nodded.
The superfecta, Kagan thought. That’s what he’s talking about.
“Say,” Kagan said with all of his former verve, “are you psychic?”
“I don’t know,” the little man said factually. “My English isn’t too good.”
“Oh,” Kagan said.
“It’s Yom Kippur and we got a busy day ahead of us. We’d better get some rest.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“Gut yontiff,” the little man said.
“Gut yontiff,” Kagan said. “Thank you. Thank you very much!”
“Don’t mention.”
They separated. Kagan turned back toward Broadway. After he had gone a few steps, he heard a voice calling him.
“Say, listen,” the little man said. He was standing in the half-open door.
Kagan turned around.
“Tomorrow,” the mikveh man said.
“Huh?”
“Tomorrow, Kagan, you’ll see him tomorrow. The man in the green suit.”
The little man stepped into the building and closed the door.
Kagan stared after him in a stupor of belief. He didn’t have enough energy to be amazed. He accepted the small refugee’s word. Why not? Kagan implicitly trusted some people. How could someone who runs through the streets of Manhattan at midnight on Yom Kippur dressed in a kittel tell a lie to a suffering soul? Kagan, betting man that he was during secular moments, wasn’t about to bet against anything happening on this Yom Kippur. Things had been happening all day that had no right to happen. Why shouldn’t he see the man in the rumpled green suit? The mikveh man said he would. You got to know the kvoda, Kagan thought.
Kagan walked home slowly. He didn’t notice anything on Broadway, lively with its weekend revelries. His steps were slow and his head was quiet, like a horse after a long race.
7
ALTHOUGH he felt physically tired when he opened his apartment door, Kagan realized wearily that he couldn’t sleep. He sat on the couch and stared toward the dark bedroom. Sleepily, the cat walked delicately across the couch and curled up in his lap. She snuggled, inviting affection. Kagan petted her little head gently.
“Forgive me,” he said to the cat, “for I have sinned with my lips. I have slandered you, Yvette.”
The cat purred and Kagan stroked her gently.
“I hope you have a good healthy mouse-filled year,” he said seriously. “And please try not to piss on the couch, if you can.”
Enervated, Kagan just sat with the cat and with himself in silence. Finally, he said to himself, it wasn’t a lie. I did want to call Katzi. I should have called him.
“Katzi,” Kagan said aloud, “have a good year, a safe year, and try to make a few deliveries on time.”
The cat had fallen asleep. Kagan didn’t want to disturb her and thinking of Katzi relaxed him. Katzi, there was a cohen. Katzi, the religious bookie. Kagan smiled. One Purim Kagan had to wait until Katzi finished reading his mother the Megillah before he could place a bet. It’s a good thing the Knicks were on the Coast or I never would have gotten it down on time. Not that Katzi would have known the difference. Poor Katzi, Kagan reflected affectionately, he never knew the starting time and lost a fortune. Sports didn’t interest him except for figuring the odds. At that he was a genius, a true scholar, but it wasn’t enough. Guys would bet the game when it was in the seventh inning and the Giants were ahead five to two.
Katzi became a laundry driver; he kept all the tickets in his head. Kagan smiled; he loved human talents — a genius at accounts. Still, Katzi had a problem. Shirts for Tuesday might arrive on Thursday, Friday, or even the following Monday, but never on Shabbes. No sense of time except for Shabbes. Most bettors were wildly superstitious, but not Katzi. Katzi was religious. He didn’t believe in jinxes. “Unless, Kagan, the athlete himself does. Then it must be taken into account. As the Talmud says, ‘Fate often leads a man in the direction he chooses to go.’”
Katzi, sensitive, scholarly, religious, was so unlike most bookies that Kagan felt compelled to ask him why he was one. When it came to himself as a gambler, Kagan had no illusions: superstitious, impulsive, a rabid fan — that’s me, folks. But Katzi should have been a judge, a professor, or even a rabbi. He could have been something great. Perhaps making book gave Katzi time to study the Talmud.
“Kagan, I won’t lie to you and tell you that making book leaves me sufficient time to study the Talmud, although it does.”
“Why then, Katzi?”
“The same reason you do, Kagan.”
“No, Katzi, you’re different.”
Katzi shook his head sadly. “Kagan, you’re a cohen. I’m a cohen. It’s in the blood.”
Kagan was astonished to hear this. “You really think so?”
Katzi nodded. “Yes, it goes way, way back.”
Recalling their conversation, Kagan no longer felt so relaxed. He looked carefully at his hand to see if he could discern any special characteristics of the blood pulsating inside.
It goes way, way back, thought Kagan. Past the old neighborhood into Russia and out the other end into Israel. Kagan decided not to trace it any further; he was very weak on the geography of the Holy Land. Instead, he considered the more immediate family for evidence of Katzi’s statement. Everybody enjoyed gin rummy but that didn’t seem terribly significant. Everybody outside the family enjoyed gin rummy, too. They even liked gin rummy in Connecticut. Nobody gambled that much at gin rummy. They just played it endlessly. And Kagan himself played it mindlessly. He never did enjoy card games. They seemed pointle
ss and boring. When he kibbitzed them in the candy store, he found the players more interesting than the game. In fact, he found the kibbitzers more interesting than either the players or the game. It’s true, Kagan thought, that Pa went broke several times as a furrier, but what furrier didn’t? And he was trying to make a living. He just wasn’t very good at it. That doesn’t seem to count. Still, he never wanted to work for the post office.
Hmm, Kagan reflected curiously, I gamble like crazy and work for the Board of Education. I wonder if the post office is loaded with gamblers — paycheck poker with zip codes. Why not, a player will play anything. Betting sure as hell seems to be in my blood, and the crazier the bet the better I like it. Nobody ever accused me of being a student of the ponies like Katzi. Compared to Katzi, I bet below grade level, a remedial gambler — there must be a routine there someplace.
Katzi will give odds on anything. Two weeks on the truck, and he set odds on which buttons were most likely to be missing on a given shirt. Kagan took him on for double or nothing and wound up double, of course. Who could beat Katzi if he took the bets on time? How could Katzi be late opening a package of shirts? Kagan smiled to himself; it took them over an hour to rewrap the shirts they had been betting. It’s a good thing the laundry gave Katzi some extra glued bands for emergencies or they never would have finished. While they were betting, Kagan had gotten excited as usual and started tearing them open. Katzi, not a terribly humorous guy, came up with a good line. “Take it easy, Kagan, these aren’t the Academy Awards!” Hmm, Kagan wondered, I never bet the Academy Awards. I wonder who handles that action? If he put his mind to it, Katzi could do it.
A guy like Katzi should have made a fortune if he only could tell time. At Katzi’s door, a line winds halfway around the block. The Giants are ahead five to two in the seventh and Katzi’s still taking bets on the original odds, seven to five, Dodgers. Who could call it gambling? It was murder. Katzi lost a fortune. So did I, mourned Kagan. How could I cheat Katzi? If I didn’t bet before the game started, I didn’t bet. When Katzi became a laundry driver, I was the only guy who owed him money. Everybody else ran after the truck to collect. Katzi knocked down his losses pretty good with the button game. The smartest bookmaker in town is an easy touch and I can’t take advantage of him.
“You can’t help it, Kagan. Basic decency, it’s in your blood,” Katzi said.
“I’ve got some lousy blood, Katzi. It’s costing me my life.”
“I know, Kagan. I’m a cohen, too.”
“And broke,” Kagan added.
“It’s in the blood, Kagan. Don’t fight it.”
Fight it? It’s killing me, Katzi. Well, I guess Katzi isn’t doing so great either. A great head like that on a laundry truck, Kagan grieved. Maybe it is in the blood. But how can you not fight it when it’s killing you? Who knows?
“At any rate, Katzi,” Kagan said aloud, “I wish you a good decree. I never had a bookie I respected more. And as long as you’re on the truck, drive safely, and be well. And, Katzi, try to get a few shirts back on time. It may be in your blood, but some guy might need it on his back to get a job or see a girl.”
Kagan felt the cat stirring.
“Sorry,” Kagan said to the little creature.
The cat rubbed affectionately against Kagan.
“I know,” Kagan said to her, “it’s in the blood.”
The little creature walked off his lap and curled up on the couch. Kagan looked at his watch.
“Already three o’clock.” As he looked at the second hand ticking over the unattractive but familiar watch face, Kagan unexpectedly said, “Only three o’clock” and quickly added, “I wonder why I said that?”
Too tired to wonder, Kagan undressed in the living room and went into the bedroom. He was asleep before he had time to consider anything.
“WHA-A-A-T?” Kagan groaned as Fran tried to rouse him.
“Moe, it’s already eight o’clock,” Fran insisted.
“Eight?” he managed to repeat.
“Yes, I’m going to services and you’d better get up, too, if you want to pray today.”
“Yeah,” Kagan agreed. “I’ll get up.”
“Gut yontiff,” Fran said as she left.
Kagan didn’t hear the apartment door close. He had fallen back asleep.
IN Kagan’s dream, a pitcher appeared inside a bright, airy, sun-filled baseball park. The limitless blue sky above was matched in brilliance by the vast expanse of green grass below. In the center of the verdant diamond rose the naval of the infield, elevated upon a deep brown earthen dome, upon which a stylish lefthander smoothly oscillated continuously and simultaneously through the motions of sign, windup, stretch, and pitch. Although the gossamer figure was impossible to identify, Kagan knew it to be himself. Who else could it be? (In response to Pakooz, Kagan had once answered indignantly, “Why should I star Tom Seaver? It’s my dream, isn’t it?”) Kagan slept peacefully as he pitched with constancy and beauty. The golden sun, a privileged spectator, gleamed off his white flannels. (It was a home game.) The heavenly arc of the fly balls drifted toward the outfield and rushed back down to meet the green grass of life. The brilliant white skimming ground balls. The infielders, gliding, scooping, throwing the small delicate spheres. All the while Kagan the pitcher continued in his rotational rhythms, the center of the universe of light. The dugouts dipped below the horizon. The outfield walls stood distant and serene.
Kagan rested, relishing the dream until slowly, subtly, almost imperceptibly, the image began to change. The outfield walls moved in toward the infield, looming larger, darker, more perilous. The azure blue heaven darkened and became dull; the color paled. The walls advanced. The sun itself dimmed. The grass withered into dark, lifeless shreds that fell on top of one another before the enclosing walls, towering dark and uncertain. The concrete dugouts rose from the earth that had received them and began to expand and multiply along the encompassing walls. The walls arched above, creating darkness as the sun degenerated into a few diffuse, colorless rays. The once green carpet of life hardened into wooden death.
The somnolent Kagan, anxious at the loss of his once bright world, summoned the meager controls of the realm of dreams and tried to focus on the disappearing world of openness and light. In fright Kagan concentrated enough energy to hold onto a bubble, a remembered spherical image of what the world had been. The bubble floated in the cavernous darkness of the present, and suddenly, that spherical image began to spin, rotating toward Kagan. It became dark brown and flew menacingly towards him. In reflex, Kagan raised his hands to catch it. Instantly, the dream pulled back to reveal a forty-three-year-old, graying, flabby Kagan. The real and terribly mortal Kagan of the bathroom mirror, in old gym shorts, a ragged, faded dark blue T-shirt, and his ancient black high-cut doesn’t-anybody-here-remember-Bob-Cousy sneakers. Standing on the basketball floor of the old Madison Square Garden, he held a large, pebbly basketball in his hands at midcourt.
In the heavy, smoke-filled air, Kagan heard — even felt — the reverberations of the frenzied crowd. The Garden was jammed to the rafters. Amid the jumping, screaming throng, Kagan could make out Katzi. The normally reserved Katzi was screaming, “Shoot, Kagan, shoot! It’s in the blood!” He saw Pakooz circulating through the aisles huckstering ice cream, soda pop, and wide, colorful ties, all from a large black sample case. “Shoot, Kagan, shoot!” Pakooz shouted. “It’s not your fault. It’s the system!”
High in the balcony, Fran sat crying. Higher in the balcony, in the highest tier, several fans wearing kittels sat quietly. Kagan couldn’t identify them. He squinted, but it didn’t help. There was too much smoke, not enough light, and they were too high.
As the crowd roared, Kagan looked up at the scoreboard clock. The pickle-green cube announced the score: Celtics — 100, Kagan — 99, with ten seconds remaining in the game. The Celtics, yet, he thought; I get all the breaks. He looked across midcourt to see the champions in their green suits and high-cut black sneakers. Guardin
g Kagan was Bob Cousy himself. Beyond Cousy was Sharman and clumped around the basket stood Heinsohn, Luscotoff, and the greatest of all time, Bill Russell.
“Time out!” Kagan screamed and the entire Garden froze silent and motionless. Kagan tucked the ball under his arm and looked around. There seemed to be no one else on Kagan’s team. And people wonder why I’m crazy, he thought. He wandered down toward the Celtics’ end of the court. In spite of his predicament, he couldn’t help admiring Bill Russell, the great Celtic center. (Kagan loved human talent.) Maybe after the game he’ll give me his autograph, he thought. Then his attention turned to the situation at hand. Ten seconds remain, I’d better play for the last shot; if I hit it, I win the game since they won’t have enough time to score. I’ll have to dribble around and run down the clock, then I have to get off a shot. Who knows? Maybe it will work.
As Kagan walked back to midcourt to resume the game, he felt a surge of satisfaction and well-being. Win or lose, I’m in Madison Square Garden. Not bad for a kid from the old neighborhood.
At midcourt Kagan prepared to resume the game. Although he concentrated on dribbling around Cousy, a thought shot through his graying head — thank God I don’t have any money on this. But losing is action, thought Kagan. Isn’t action better than no action? Kagan was troubled by the thought. This isn’t action, Kagan realized. This is murder. Kagan searched around one final desperate time for teammates. No one. He looked up at the pickle-green clock above the Garden floor. “Well,” shrugged Kagan, “I guess it all depends on me.
The stony silence was broken by the applause of the kittle-clad congregants high in the darkness.
I wonder what got into them, Kagan thought. Before he could think about it, Kagan found himself screaming, “Time in!”
The frozen world returned to its seething frenzy. Kagan found himself dribbling like crazy to stay away from the hardwood magician Bob Cousy, who advanced on him, one hand held high and one low. Good God, I’ll never get near the basket. Kagan reversed his field and dribbled away, but Cousy pursued. Kagan pivoted and drove toward the center of the court. He strained his forty-three-year-old body and accelerated with the quickness and terror of a frightened prey. He managed to gain a step on Cousy only to be picked up by Sharman, but still accelerating, he kept on going and managed to get by him also. Kagan dribbled toward Luscatoff, then veered sharply away. Kagan was now streaming toward the left corner. Heinsohn was on the other side of the court; Russell was under the basket. Kagan heard the entire Garden scream SHOOT!
Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories Page 10
