The Hoods

by Grey, Harry

  We all laughed at my recollections.

  I continued. “We are the opposite of fairies. We, too, are funny in a sense. We are the other extreme. Maybe we developed an overabundance of male hormones. That's why we're tough and hard-boiled. Like I said before, it is believed the causes of homosexuality are mostly environmental. In some cases a congenital element may be present.”

  “Say that in English,” Cockeye grumbled.

  Maxie laughingly volunteered the interpretation. “It means some of them were born that way in their mother's belly.”

  “Hey, Noodles,” Cockeye called, “how come you know all the answers? Was you born that way?”

  “Well, as long as you asked me, I'll tell you, Cockeye boy,” I began facetiously. “I wasn't born a big brain. I developed it by reading this and that. I'll let you in on a little secret. Due to my reading a book now and then, you consider me a smart feller, right?”

  “Fart smeller,” he corrected.

  “Okay, okay, don't interrupt, so, compared to you, who don't read anything, I know all the answers, right?”

  “So?” he said.

  “But,” I continued, “compared to people who really read and have an education I am an illiterate, the same as youse guys. Everything is relative.”

  “Relative like Einstein's theory?” Patsy jibed.

  “Yeh,” I said, “like Einstein's theory of relativity.”

  “So you admit you're not the smartest guy in the world? Einstein is?” Cockeye asked.

  “Yes,” I modestly admitted, “I'm the second smartest guy in the world after Einstein.”

  “Okay, enough of that,” Maxie said drowsily.

  We sat for awhile longer, and then went to the next room where we were washed by an attendant.

  Afterward Maxie went into Lutkee's office for about ten minutes. When he came out, he nodded. “Everything is arranged okay.”

  We adjourned to our separate rooms down the hall. I took an uneasy catnap.

  At seven-thirty a.m. Maxie tapped gently on my door and whispered, “Okay, Noodles. Time to get up.”

  I got up with a start. I had a mixed-up dream. I guess I was still under the effects of the pipe. Funny, just a little while ago up in the hot room my head felt pretty clear. Now I felt a little high again.

  We dressed quickly and tiptoed out to the street, using the back way. No one saw us leave.

  We walked towards Yoine Schimmel's on Houston Street for a light breakfast.

  The morning sun was already well over the East River. Busy housewives were at work airing bedclothes from their windows. A woman was shrieking from a top floor. “Iceman. Iceman. Yoo-hoo, Iceman.”

  The iceman stopped his horse and shouted, “Yes, lady?”

  “Send me up for ten cents a big piece ice, please, yes?”

  He answered, “Okay, lady.”

  The garbage men were already dumping stinking refuse into their trucks and throwing the empty garbage cans noisily back to the pavement.

  A tenement door crashed open, and a young boy shot out. He clattered down the stoop. A woman flung open a window, her big breasts hanging loose and exposed.

  She shouted after the fleeing boy. “Jake, Jake darling. Don't forget and be a good boy in school today.”

  The kid didn't slacken speed as he shouted over his shoulder, “I'll be good—in dred.”

  Beaten, middle-aged men, old-looking before their time, trudged off to their sweatshops. An empty sardine can came sailing out of a window narrowly missing a retreating husband off to work. His virago wife at the window shouted after him, “Lieg in dred, Yankel. A broch zu dir.”

  He shouted just one word back at her, “Yenta.”

  Like beautiful flowers that grow in beds of dank earth, smartly dressed girls came trooping incongruously out of the dark, damp, stinking tenements, fresh and daintily groomed for the new day's work.

  Yeh, I was thinking as we walked along, these people are part of the docile element of the slums. Look at them. What a life, living cooped up together in these stinking pigsties. Now they're off to their jobs. Then back again to their ghetto. What a life. I felt sorry for them.

  Look at us. We were spawned here, too, Big Max, Patsy, Cockeye and I. We're part of the East Side, too, and we're starting a new day. Heh, heh, I was laughing to myself. But how different. We're not the docile kind. We're a small hoodlum mob, a unit in a powerful combine of mobs. Yeh, a mob of rebels.

  We walked casually through these dirty, busy streets on our way for coffee and knishes. Just as deliberate and almost as casual will be the grand larceny we are about to commit. I was arguing with myself and wondering, are we the consequence of these surroundings? Mobs don't hatch in the well-to-do sections of the city. Who the hell ever heard of a Fifth Avenue mob or a Park Avenue mob? Yeh, come to think of it, they had mobs, too, but they operated differently.

  I laughed to myself. They were smarter than we were. They operated legally; they clipped people just as we did, but without guns, down on Wall Street. And they operated in mobs, financial mobs. They used money the way we used guns, as a weapon to rule the world. Maybe in a roundabout sort of way—and their ethics are the same as ours, the bastards—maybe we are more ethical and decent than they are. They are illegit just as we are. Yeh, everybody is illegit, the bastards.

  What the hell, the world is a jungle, dog eat dog. The lucky and the fit come out on top and all that crap. We are fit. All right, our gall and excessive energies could be sublimated into different channels, but who the hell has the patience? We want to reach the top the quick way. We had our bellyfull of this poverty crap.

  We don't beg God or Allah or Buddha, or what have you, “Please give us this day our daily bread.” No, the hell with that. We took what we wanted. Like Napoleon said, “Fate is a whore.” Yeh, I was thinking, the fortunate ones are loaded to overflowing from the world's bountiful stock of goods. For the unfit and the unfortunate? Filthy crumbs and stale broken loaves thrown into the world's garbage cans. Yeh, but not for us; by guile, by nerve and by force, we tear our share from the grasp of that treacherous bitch, Fate. I must have read that someplace.

  I chuckled to myself. “Here I go again on the merry-go-round, getting my mind all set for this diamond heist by rationalizing. I guess no matter how wrong an act one does, the doer thinks himself justified.”

  I laughed aloud, thinking of my mixed-up philosophy on things. Boy, I really must be getting hard-boiled. I remembered that years ago, when we first started going on a heist, I used to literally shit in my pants on the way.

  Maxie looked at me curiously and asked, “Something funny, Noodles? Or still a little high from the pipe?”

  “I guess a little of both,” I giggled happily.

  Max said, “What you need is some black coffee to straighten you out.”

  CHAPTER 11

  In Jonah Schimmel's over coffee and cheese knishes, Max gave us the full lowdown.

  “I got this tip direct from one of the top guys in the insurance company. There is supposedly a hundred grand worth of rocks in the safe according to the records of the insurance company. This is the sketch of the entire building.

  Maxie unfolded a paper and spread it out on the table.

  Pointing with his fork, Maxie continued: “It runs from Forty-fifth Street, that's the front entrance, through to Forty-fourth Street, that's the freight entrance. The front lobby on the Forty-fifth Street side is lousy with bulls because this building is loaded. There are about fifty wholesale jewelers in the building. The biggest wholesaler is on the twelfth floor.”

  Max pointed it out on the sketch with his fork. “The boss of this firm is a little, fat guy, with a very large nose. He's our oyster. Now then, the gimmick in this layout is the freight entrance on the Forty-fourth Street side.”

  He looked at his wrist watch.

  “Now it is exactly eight a.m. At eight-thirty they finish removing the rubbish from the building, using the freight elevator. That's when we take over. My in
formation is that nobody will miss the elevator or the freight operator from eight-thirty until the freight starts coming in after nine a.m. As I said, we go into action at eight-thirty. We take over the freight elevator, go up to the twelfth floor, and wait for Big Nose. The Finger guarantees Big Nose arrives promptly at nine a.m.

  and then we go into action. Okay? You guys got it straight?”

  Max looked us over grimly. We kept munching our knishes. I nodded.

  Maxie continued: “John, the Finger, doesn't want anybody hurt. His wife works in the place, and besides, Big Nose is a personal friend of his, so no fireworks. If it can't be helped, well....”

  Here Big Max smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “I'll give you guys the sign, then you, Noodles, may have to do a little quiet cutting up.”

  I nodded. Patsy patted his Roscoe.

  Maxie went on: “This is a full-dress affair. We wear gloves. No fingerprints left around. Here are plenty of new handkerchiefs with no laundrymarks. You know what these are for.”

  Maxie tossed us each a few. He turned to Cockeye Hymie.

  “You, as usual, handle the wheel. I don't have to explain anything to you.”

  He emphasized the “you.” Hymie gave a bored nod and continued eating his cheese knish.

  Big Maxie is a perfectionist, a born leader. I admired the guy. Always before a special piece of business like this, he kept going over and over every detail, every eventuality. He droned on and on. He left nothing to chance.

  “I'll go over it once more,” he said. “We get in the freight elevator. We go up to the twelfth floor. We wait until this guy, this big-nosed boss comes out of the passenger elevator. The Finger says this guy is very punctual. We need him to escort us through the steel screen door as an excuse for John's wife to click the door open. Besides, he's the only one that knows the combination to the safe. Okay. For us this isn't too tough a job. At the same time let's not get too confident. We got to be fast. We won't have too many people to handle, only three men. The girl in the office is with us, like I told you. She's the wife of the Finger, the insurance guy who gave me the tip on the job. Now don't forget the important thing, we got to paralyze these people with fear immediately. We got to show them we're playing for keeps. It's either them or us. We got to scare the shit out of them. That way we got perfect control over them, and they'll be too scared to remember exactly how we looked. They'll be in a state of frightened stupor. Frightened people make lousy witnesses.”

  Maxie turned to me. “Noodles, you cut the alarm off. Right at this point.”

  Max showed me the diagram of the office.

  “At the same time you cut the phone wires, okay?”

  I nodded.

  “Now don't forget, you guys, once we're in the clear we have to move fast and unnoticed like a fart in a blizzard.”

  I don't know how Maxie's repetitious briefing was affecting the rest. All I know is that it was beginning to make me damn nervous. I tried not to listen anymore. I tried to think of other things.

  I thought back many years to the days when we sat huddled around Maxie just like this, at the exact same table, drinking coffee, whenever we had money, nibbling cheese knishes.

  We were green kids then, fresh out of that old broken-down soup school. Before every escapade we had always adjourned to this table at Jonah Schimmel's for coffee and knishes, to plan our strategy. Big Max always assumed the leadership. He always called the signals and did all the planning—just as he was now doing.

  I remembered there were five of us in those days—we four and Dominick—Dominick, may his soul rest in peace. Good old Dominick. How come I'm thinking of Dominick all of a sudden? I always do. What am I bullshitten myself for? Admit it, I had a secret superstition or belief that I was ashamed even to admit to myself, that Dominick or his spirit was watching over us, that Dommie was something like our Patron Saint.

  We were inseparable then. If he could only see how we had worked our way up into the big time, how we had our fingers in every racket operating around New York, how we were a recognized name mob, an important unit in the Combination. He would have liked this new setup, this combine of every big-time mob in the country.

  Maxie looked at me reproachfully. He knew I wasn't paying attention, and he didn't like it. He knew I was daydreaming. How the hell did I come to think of Dommie and the inner workings of the combination? It must be the pipe dream. Boy, that was a good dream. Every dream is a good one if I have my darling Dolores in my arms. Jesus, it was wonderful, goddamn, it was so real. I tingled when I thought of it.

  Listen to Maxie, still going over the details. What the hell does he think? We're amateurs? Horseshit. Why the hell don't we get going? Yeh, I'm getting too sure of myself, a heist doesn't feaze me any more. Im getting too damn cocky. Maybe it's the opium that's giving me Dutch courage. Yeh, I feel a little high. I laughed aloud.

  “Hey, Noodles, you still high from the pipe?”

  Maxie nudged me. “What are you dreaming and laughing about?”

  I said, “Who's dreaming and laughing?”

  Max looked peeved. “You're mumbling to yourself. It will be a long time before we kick the gong around again if you let it get the best of you like that. Pay attention, will you?”

  Maxie kept looking at me reproachfully as he went on talking.

  “What's the matter, Noodles, you look groggy. This job has to be done fast and unnoticed.”

  I cut him off. “Like a fart in a blizzard,” I said.

  He smiled and patted me on the back. He called the waiter.

  “Two cups of black coffee,” he ordered.

  He insisted I drink them both. I did. It made me feel better, more awake. I lit a cigar and looked at Maxie for the next move.

  He looked at his watch and said, “Lutkee should be here with the car any minute.”

  We sat around smoking awhile longer, then we heard the brakes of a car stopping at the door. Cockeye walked to the doorway, came back and nodded.

  He said, “The Caddy's outside.”

  Maxie left a tip on the table, paid the check. We walked out.

  Cockeye drove slowly up to Forty-fourth Street. He stopped a half block away from the freight entrance. The street was crowded with people rushing to work, typically indifferent New Yorkers. A rubbish truck was there. A big Swede was rolling the rubbish cans out on a hand truck. Maxie was sizing him up.

  He murmured, “According to the description, that big guy must be the elevator runner. I'll handle him personally.”

  We waited about fifteen minutes until the truck was loaded and it started pulling away. Maxie gave Cockeye the nod. Cockeye maneuvered the Caddy slowly into the space the truck had left. The big Swede was wheeling the empty cans back into the building. Like professional artists skilled in their act, hovering tensely in the wings, we waited in the car for the right cue.

  Big Maxie got out of the car.

  “Okay, let's go,” he said. He fell in step nonchalantly behind the Swede into the building.

  Pat and I walked in single file behind Max.

  Cockeye remained at the wheel. The Swede was loading his empties into the elevator. Between the rattling of the cans and his being engrossed in his duty, the Swede wasn't aware of our noiseless approach. Maxie walked up quietly behind him into the building. He smacked him with a powerful right hook under his ear. The Swede crumpled to the floor unconscious. Pat and I picked him up and threw him in the elevator among the empty cans.

  We got into the elevator. Patsy tried the controls. Instead of going up, the elevator dropped into the basement.

  Maxie calmly said, “Okay, it doesn't matter. We wait here awhile.”

  We sat on the empty cans silently waiting and smoking. I was getting nervous and tense, but I tried not to show it. After awhile Maxie looked at his watch.

  “Okay, let's go. It's five to nine. Put your gloves on.”

  We did.

  He worked the controls. After a few awkward starts, he ran the elevator to th
e twelfth floor. Nobody spoke. We were all business.

  We looked down the hall. At the other end was the passenger elevator. Everything was correct to a “T.” So far the Finger's diagram was perfect.

  At exactly nine a.m. the door of the passenger elevator opened. With the hunched-up eagerness of cats ready to spring on an unsuspecting mouse, we watched as a short, pompous, big-nosed man came strutting out.

  Maxie whispered, “That's the bum. Okay, cover up.”

  We slipped handkerchiefs over the lower part of our faces. I swished open my knife. The others took out Roscoes. We walked towards Big Nose. He was whistling happily. He didn't pay attention to us. I felt a little sorry for the guy, for the shock he was in for. Then I said to myself, “The hell with the guy. He's got plenty; it's either him or me.”

  Big Max and I slunk ahead along the wall, stalking our prey like killer panthers. Big Nose saw us. He halted. He stopped whistling. Slowly, an expression of fear comes over his face. We pounced on him. I gestured menacingly with the knife across his throat. Maxie dug his Roscoe in Big Nose's belly, and hissed, “Keep quiet, bastard, or we kill you right here.”

  His mouth fell open. His eyes got glassy. He started stuttering and mumbling to himself. Maxie pushed him into the office ahead of us. We concealed our weapons. The girl sat at the front desk. She was a good actress. She smiled and said, “Good morning” when she saw her boss. She pushed the button. The heavy steel screen door opened.

  We all walked in. There was a clerk facing us. He looked at us with shocked interest as we produced our weapons. He stepped toward us. In a foolishly wondering manner he murmured, “See here, what's going on?”

  Maxie smacked him on the head with a gun. He sank slowly to the floor mumbling in pain, “Oh, my head.”

  A tall, thin guy came running out of the inner office, a look of fear and amazement on his face. Patsy banged him over the head with his gun. The guy lay on the floor bleeding and moaning. We tied and gagged both of them. All this time the girl was staring at us with fascinated interest. Both times, when the men were hit, she emitted an odd, drawn-out, “Ooooh, ooooh,” as if it thrilled her. She squirmed, rubbing against the corner of her desk.