The Hoods

by Grey, Harry

  Max whispered, “What the hell?” in my ear.

  I shrugged, “I don't know.”

  The old man waved toward the finished books.

  “You can have these. These are finished.”

  I whispered, “Let's humor the guy.”

  Max said, “Okay.”

  We started down the stairway. The old man glanced once at us, then went back to his writing. I looked over his shoulder to see what the hell he was doing. He was copying names. I looked closer. Then it dawned on me what he was doing: he was forging names in the county election registration books.

  He asked me proudly, “How's it look, son?”

  “Perfect,” I answered, “perfect.” I didn't want to let the cat out of the bag by asking questions.

  “I'm up to the last page, last book,” he said working swiftly. We stood around watching him with admiration.

  Cockeye whispered, “That old guy's an f.w.”

  The old man put his pen away with a sigh. “I'm glad I got this job only once a year. It's a pain in the ass.”

  He smiled, “Where's John?” I was thinking he probably meant the guy Max hit.

  With his usual presence of mind Max said, “He's taking a crap.”

  The old man nodded. “All right, let's start moving the stuff.”

  We started carting the books upstairs. Max said to Cockeye, “Pull the car up to the door.”

  We piled the books in the car. The old man was naive. He didn't ask any questions. He sat down in the back seat. Max and I sat on both sides of him. Cockeye stepped on the starter. We went rolling out to the highway.

  Maxie said, “Hotel, Cockeye, boy.”

  The old man looked at Max curiously.

  At the hotel, Max, Patsy and Cockeye went to the rooms to change. I remained in the car with the old man. I had my hand on the shiv. When they came down it was my turn to change. I paid the clerk for a week in advance, and told him to send the suits to Schwartz. We drove away.

  I could see that the old guy was beginning to feel that everything wasn't kosher. He looked at us suspiciously.

  “Where are you men going? Aren't you driving to the storeroom of the courthouse?”

  We didn't answer him. We sat deadpan. He looked frightened.

  Tremulously he inquired, “Who are you?”

  Maxie smiled and patted him on the back.

  “You be a good boy, Pop. Everything's going to be all right. Just take it easy.” He turned to Cockeye. “Fat Moe's,” he said.

  During the ride, the old man seemed to relax, especially after he saw we treated him with respect and consideration. By the time we were halfway to New York he was our friend. Max had picked up a quart in a “speak” in a small town. It helped lubricate his tongue and make him friendly. He told us all about the politician who ran the county. He described him as a “fat-bellied, greedy, crooked sonofabitch.” Very powerful politically. He ran everything in the county. He was even head of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.

  “He's a bad guy to tangle with,” the old man warned. “All the men working in the casino are members of the Klan. And this politician is a sure-thing wise guy. He never left anything to chance. He stacks everything in his favor, from the equipment in his casino to the county elections.”

  The old man asked, “You boys from the opposition political party?” I shook my head. He took another guess. “From the state D. A.'s office?”

  Max was frank. He told him. “No. We're from an organization whose only interest is the casino.”

  I was curious. I asked him about his background. “How come you're so expert at copying names? How did you get mixed up with this guy?”

  The old man explained. “I'm doing my second hitch for forgery. This fat-bellied politician borrows me before every election to doctor up the books.”

  “Columbia the gem of the ocean, the home of the free and the brave,” I sang and laughed to myself. Typical, typical, typical, goddamn how typical, in this home of the free. The nebishes and the schlemihls certainly get an all-around friggin.

  At the most, we “hoods,” through Frank, endorse a candidate here and there. We back him up with some dough. Maybe we send a few repeaters around to vote a few times more than the law permits. Maybe we do a little genteel intimidating of voters. But this guy! He cops the cake. He's no hood. He's supposed to be a legit guy. But he could teach us how to steal an election. In spades. Yeh, how typical.

  Hoods are amateurs in every respect compared to these so-called legit guys in high places.

  I asked, “So you're really supposed to be in jail right now?”

  The old forger said, “I'm a two-time loser. John, the man we left behind, is my guard. He's head of the county detectives. He was supposed to take me back to the hoosegow.” The old man frowned. “What did you guys do with him? He's the politician's ace strong-arm guy.”

  I said, “We put him to sleep.”

  The old man was alarmed. “What do you mean? You killed him?”

  “No,” Max replied. “We just put him away temporarily.”

  “Oh,” he smiled in relief.

  “Is there a regular night watchman in the casino?” I asked.

  “Not that I know of,” the old man said. “I understand they take all the money out of the joint when they lock it up.”

  We reached New York City. Maxie said to the old man, “What do you want to do, Pop?”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  Maxie repeated, “What do you want to do? You want to go back to jail or fly the coop and stay here in New York?”

  “I'd like to stay here in New York if I can find something to do, and if they won't find me,” he added.

  I said, “Don't worry, they won't.”

  “Okay, Pop, we'll get something for you to do. No penmanship. Something else to keep you out of mischief.” Maxie smiled at the old man's eager look. “How are you fixed? Got any dough?”

  The old man shook his head. Max took out fifty bucks. He handed it to the old man.

  He mumbled, “Thanks very much.” The look of deep appreciation the old man gave Maxie had much more feeling than the words he uttered.

  We arrived at Fat Moe's. We carried the books in through the back. We stacked them in the closet. When Moe heard us walking around, he came in with a tray.

  Max turned to the old man, “Okay, Pop, have your choice. What kind of job do you want? A job handling cold stiffs in a funeral parlor, or drunken stiffs in a speakeasy?”

  “I'd enjoy working right here,” the old man said hopefully.

  “Moe,” Maxie called out, “give the old man an apron. You got yourself another assistant.”

  “Please call me Philip,” the old man suggested quietly.

  Maxie smiled. “Okay, Philip. Moe will show you the ropes and get you a room.”

  Moe stood nodding and smiling his approval. “Okay, Phil, you're all set.”

  Max turned to Cockeye. “Next stop is Jake's place.”

  We got into the car and drove to Broome Street. Pipy was tending bar. He greeted us cheerfully as he set up a round of doubles.

  “How's business? Everything O.K.?” Max said.

  Pipy remarked joyfully, “Everything's all right.”

  “Where's Jake and Goo-Goo?” I asked.

  “Resting up. They were on the late shift. We had a busy night.”

  Pipy had a satisfied air.

  “I need the services of you, Jake, and Goo-Goo for a couple of days. A little out of town business. Get somebody to take care of the joint.”

  Max's manner was curt and authoritative.

  Pipy said, “Sure thing, Max. When do we start?”

  Max said, “The three of you be ready sometime this evening. Well pick you up here.”

  “We'll be on the ball okay. I'll get in touch with Jake and Goo-Goo right away.”

  When we got outside Patsy asked, “How about a little chow?”

  “I second the motion,” Cockeye said.

  We dro
ve over to Sussman Volk's delicatessen on Delancey Street. Each of us had double orders of hot corned beef with French fries and bottles of celery tonic.

  “You remember the address on Fourth Avenue?” Max put the question to me.

  “What address?” I helped myself to some of Maxie's French fries.

  “You know, the address of the guy that handles dice.”

  “Oh, you mean the guy that handles crooked gambling paraphernalia? The place the Professor sent us years ago to get some stuff for him?”

  “Yep, that's the guy; you remember the address?”

  I thought a moment as I put a dab of mustard on a juicy slice of corned beef.

  “No, I don't, but I would recognize the building. Yeh, it's somewhere on Fourth Avenue. On the east side of the street. Why?”

  Max thoughtfully chewed on a toothpick.

  “I want to pick up a couple of things there,” he said. “I got an idea.”

  “To give them a taste of their own medicine?” I asked.

  “Yep, something like that.”

  “If we take a slow cruise on Fourth Avenue, we'll find it,” I suggested.

  We drove slowly along Fourth Avenue. I recognized the building; Cockeye pulled over to the curb. Max and I walked up one flight and sauntered over to the counter.

  “Hello, there, how have you been?” the proprietor greeted us.

  I couldn't believe he had recognized us. “You guys certainly have grown,” he said.

  “You remember us?” I said in wonder.

  “Sure,” he laughed. “How could I forget? It seemed as if it was just a short time ago. Two tough kids came in talking through the sides of their mouths, like this: The Perfessor sent us.'“ We laughed at his mimicry.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, all business. Max described the luminous reader deck we wanted.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “These I keep only for my real discreet clientele.”

  From underneath the counter he produced several decks with accompanying isinglass eye shades. He showed us how to read the backs. It was fairly simple to understand once we had memorized the code.

  He explained, “Every deck of cards has its individual code. No two decks operate the same.”

  We bought a dozen pair of loaded dice, and left.

  “Down to Rubin's, the guy who makes glasses, on Canal Street,” Max instructed.

  “Make these into eye glasses?” Rubin was dubious. He fingered the isinglass shades. “There's no logic to it. What's the sense?”

  “Let us worry about the logic, Rubin. You make up two pair.”

  Max threw a ten-dollar bill on the show case. “Will this cover it?”

  “All right, all right.” Rubin pocketed the ten. “I'll have them ready in an hour.”

  We walked out. We stood outside undecided how to kill the hour.

  There was a small movie house next door, showing two thrilling cowboy pictures, “Destry Rides Again” and “A Bloody Trail.” This was Cockeye's meat because he had never altogether outgrown his secret yen to be a gun-fighting cowboy—perhaps none of us had. The others decided to go, but I wanted to visit my mother.

  “O.K. go ahead. Meet us at Jake's place in an hour.”

  I walked out and grabbed a cab. I walked up the rickety stairs and along the smelly dirty hall. An uncomfortable apprehensive feeling came over me. I knocked softly on the door.

  A curt voice answered, “The door is open. Come in.”

  It was my brother's voice. I opened the door. He was sitting at the kitchen table, reading and smoking a cigarette.

  “Oh, it's you,” he said.

  He gave me a cold look.

  I walked in. “How come you're home so early? Where's Mama?” I asked.

  “A neighbor phoned me at the office, mama is sick. She's sick; she's in there.” He gestured to the back bedroom.

  “What's the matter?” I asked. With an uneasy feeling I hurriedly walked to the bedroom.

  “Don't disturb her, she's asleep. The doctor just left. He gave her a pill,” he barked at me.

  I turned back. “What's wrong?”

  “Are you really interested?” he sneered. “You make me laugh with your show-off devotion. Why don't you come around more often, big shot?”

  “That's why I don't come around, on account of your lousy sarcasm. Besides, this dump gives me the creeps. Why the hell don't you move uptown to a decent place? Maybe I'd come around more often. Maybe I d move in. I'd pay all the expenses, like I told you many times before.”

  “In the first place Mama won't move. She's used to the neighborhood, and she has all her friends here.”

  “Yentes and kurshineerkehs,” I grunted. “Besides, it stinks around here.”

  I realized too late my frankness would only make him more nasty. That I had tried to avoid.

  “Yentas, kurshineerkehs, and it stinks,” he said bitterly. “The people in this neighborhood are beneath you, my big, brave, hoodlum brother. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  The corner of his lip curled in a sneer.

  “I didn't mean it that way,” I said apologetically.

  He didn't hear me. He was too engrossed in needling me.

  “Tell me, do they still call you Noodles the Shiv? So Noodles the Shiv is too good to live around here? What do you think you're made of? Different stuff from the decent people in this neighborhood? A hood like you who carries a knife and gun like most decent peaceable people carry a pen and pencil? Who uses whiskey and drugs to bolster his courage?”

  “I don't use drugs,” I mumbled. “Occasionally we kick the gong around and that isn't habit forming,” I argued weakly.

  “Smoking opium isn't a drug? Isn't habit forming?” he sneered. “Also you think bulldozing people requires courage? Also you think the only way to get money is by stealing and conniving? You've got no respect for religion, God or people? You and your hoodlum friends think you're above law and decency, don't you? With your guns and knives and brass knuckles? You guys rationalize that everything that's phony and illegal is okay, and anybody that's legitimate is a sucker. You visualize yourself as a romantic figure, don't you? As some sort of modern Robin Hood. Don't tell me. I know your way of thinking.”

  “Look,” I snarled. “Don't start that crap again every time I come around. Let's cut the Cain and Abel act. I didn't come here to continue the same ridiculous discussion. I came to see Mama.”

  “You came to see Mama,” he mimicked. “Another thing I want to discuss with you, who the hell gave you permission to move our father's body to a different plot and put an elaborate stone on his grave? For a guy who never gave him respect when he was alive or even said Kaddish, Yiskor or any prayer at all, for his father's soul, this sudden filial devotion stinks. You don't ask anybody. You take things into your own hands as usual. Why the hell don't you do things like a normal, decent man?”

  “Look,” I snapped. “Don't crowd me too far. I'm liable to forget you're my brother. Don't ride me all the time about decent people. Decent people. What the hell do you think—you're such a bargain? You and your kind? You newspaper guys? So, you got yourself a byline. That makes you an authority on life and everything. Don't shit me about ideals and clean living. Who was implicated in the ambulance chasing scandal some time back? Wasn't it the newspaper friends you pal around with? How does the Combine get the winning number before it's printed, so they can lay off bets, if not from some newspaper guy like yourself? Who writes crapped-up stories to mislead the public? A publicity agent can buy you guys to flavor a story or give a guy a mention for a buck and a charlotte russe. Your bosses, the publishers, are decent and ethical? Big business buys them off with advertising. Don't the big money guys dictate their policy? Don't you guys use violence in your business? You never heard of legitimate publishers using force to sell their papers? To put them on newsstands? Who have they got in their circulation departments? Hoods, that's who they have. Don't legitimate, so-called decent publishers hire goons to break driver
s' strikes? Weren't we approached time and time again by so-called decent church-going legitimate newspaper men to commit acts that even we would not have the heart to do? Don't the so-called decent merchants in time of war, when certain commodities are scarce, profiteer and steal from the public all they can without pity or consideration? Yeh, don't hand me that bullshit. Nobody's decent. The whole world is corrupt one way or another. Most people aren't honest. They make believe and kid themselves that they are. Yeh, so we—we're elementary about it; we flaunt it; we carry guns. So, what the hell do you expect to gain by baiting me every time you see me? You sound like a nagging old woman.”

  He glowered at me as I went into the back bedroom. Mama was sleeping soundly. I kissed her cheek and tucked five hundred bucks under her pillow.

  I tiptoed back to the kitchen. My brother was smoking a cigarette and reading his paper. “What was it—her heart?” I questioned. He nodded without lifting his eyes off the paper.

  “How bad was it?” I questioned.

  “A mild attack.” He mumbled, “She'll be all right.”

  I was still hot under the collar. I wanted to needle him. I said, “I read some of the crap you got syndicated in the Sunday papers.”

  “So you don't like it?” He glared. “At least it's an honest and decent way to make a living. It's decent money.”

  “Decent money,” I sneered. “It's the same kind of money a prostitute receives.”

  He turned white with anger. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled at me.

  “Yeh,” I continued. “It's the same kind of dough. You're paid off. You're bought off to write a load of reactionary crap. Where are your liberal ideas? Weren't you the guy who admired his hero, Heywood Broun? Remember? Yeh, where is your love for the underdog? You're bought off. You sold out your liberal point of view. You sold out for a charlotte russe. Why? Because you're afraid to write what you want for fear of being branded. You got shit in your blood, like the rest of your friends in your profession. 'The pen is mightier than the sword,' you used to say. But your bosses give you guys a tap on the wrist, and your pens fall out of your hands, and you murder each other to get on the reactionary wagon.”

  “You can't get a job if you write liberal stuff today,” he mumbled.