Blue Eyes

by Jerome Charyn

  “God bless you, uncle Sheb.”

  “Who taught you that? Your mother? She was careful about a sneeze. Your father took a holiday, Manfred. He went to sleep in his vest. They made me comb their hair.”

  Coen held Shebby’s knuckle.

  “Manfred, only two heads could fit at one time.”

  “Uncle, I know. You don’t have to tell.”

  Coen wobbled near the bed. He had to grab his own knee or fall into the pillows with uncle Sheb. He didn’t want to hear the dimensions of his father’s stove. But Sheb wouldn’t let him free.

  “My brother, my lovely brother, he wanted me to go into the coop with his wife. So he could turn the knobs and poke us with his thumb and see how we cooked. Then he would take us out careful, careful, and make room for himself. But Jessica said no. She wouldn’t share the coop with me. She wanted to swallow gas holding Albert’s hand.”

  Sheb took Coen by the calf and brought him into bed. They sat hunched over, with a slipper, a washcloth, and a pillbox between them.

  “Your father Albert had chicken soup in his blood. He left me to turn the knobs.”

  Coen fit his hand into Shebby’s slipper: all the Coens had little feet.

  “Shebby, was it Albert who gave you the smock to wear, the smock from the store?”

  “Smock?” Shebby said. He couldn’t think without swishing his tongue and working spit through his teeth. “It wasn’t Albert It was Jessica. She didn’t want me dirtying my shirt. I was supposed to change when I fished them out of the coop. Piss on them. I wasn’t going in after Albert. I had nobody to hold my hand.”

  He dug his fingers into Coen’s arms and shook him. “Call that a brother? He planned and planned, and I ended up the oven boy, hugging knobs for them.”

  “Uncle, where were the Guzmanns? Who put their fat toes in the egg store? How much did Albert borrow from Papa?”

  “I talk my heart away and he tells me about the Guzmanns. Did I count Papa’s dimes? Manfred, you have your mother’s temperament. She couldn’t look at you without slanting her mouth. Jerónimo brings me dollars. Who remembers the reason?”

  “Did they pay you to forget my address in Germany? Did they want me out of the country long enough to clean smoke off the oven?”

  “Two dollars for all that? I must have a rotten sense of money. Why shouldn’t they keep paying me? It’s only Albert’s twelfth anniversary. Can you find another brother in thirteen years? Manfred, you’re wet. They paid me before the Coens took gas. I’m nobody’s pauper. Papa opened a savings account for me and Jorge. But I lost the book. Manfred, I didn’t need your mother’s charity. I could have ironed my own three shirts.”

  Sheb sat with his thumb in his nose, his eyes off Coen, focused on the pillbox, his feet nibbling at the slipper. Coen called for Shebby’s dormitory mates. His uncle, who had to have his bananas mashed at home before he would take a bite, who wore discards and never learned to part his hair, was the headman of Manhattan Rest’s north wing. Coen had minimized Sheb. Out of the Bronx, away from Albert’s jumbos and Jessica’s hand, the uncle thrived. He had educated himself on the dials of a stove. Coen, the homicide man, had seen DOAs (dead-on-arrivals) with their tongues in their necks, fire-scarred babies, a Chelsea whore with a curtain rod in her crotch, a rabbi from Brooklyn with lice where his eyes should have been, a drowned pusher with tadpoles in his pubic hair; he had been on official business at the morgues of four boroughs, he had touched skin thicker than bark, he had watched medical examiners saw into the tops of skulls, but he hadn’t lit the oven for his father.

  What did he know about Albert and Jessica? How deep could you sniff into a bowl of vegetable soup before your face burned? Other boys found prophylactics in their father’s drawer. Why not Manfred Coen? How come Jessica only took off her brassiere, fat cups with a full inch of stitching between them, after Albert went to the store? Did they kiss with their mouths open? What was the point of living along the same wall if you couldn’t hear your father’s comes? At least he had caught Sheb with his prick in his hand. Nothing more. The Coens weren’t a licentious race. He had to wonder now if his father owned a prick. Where did his mother’s bosoms go with Albert scratching chickenshit off his jumbos? Could he name another father who sold nothing but eggs?

  He remembered scraps, the color of Albert’s change-purse, the slight deformity of Albert’s thumb, the odor of vinegar in the house, the grooves in the handle of the salad chopper, the bonnet Jessica wore to keep flour out of her hair, the hump in Jessica’s neck, the creases in her smile, the mothballs hanging like disintegrated berries at the bottom of the hamper, Albert’s razor, Jessica’s comb, the pattern on their bedspread, their hats, their shoes, but nothing that would allow him to claim them as his mother and father. He might as well have been born a Guzmann than a Coen.

  Sheb was too busy with Morris, Irwin, and Sam to notice that Coen wasn’t there. He had no more pears to give them. He could have finished off the morning cracking knuckles beside them, but with two dollars in his pajamas he was more ambitious. He challenged the richest furrier of the south wing to a game of cutthroat pinochle, Morris and Sam to be witnesses and money handlers. He gave up his two dollars in one deal of the cards, and owed the furrier a dollar more. Promptly at eleven o’clock he had recollections of Manfred’s visit. He asked Irwin to look under the beds because he couldn’t recall sending the nephew home. He was crabby the whole afternoon.

  Odile wanted her revenge. She could have asked Sweeney to break the cop’s back, or crush a few knuckles so he would never play ping-pong again. But she decided not to involve Sweeney in the undoing of Coen. Friends had too much brio; they betrayed your interests with overdevotion. Odile preferred professional work. The cop had humiliated her in front of Vander, accused her of conspiring to get Carrie out of the way in order to expedite a little incest—as if she had the urge to jump in Vander’s lap! She’d rather sleep with the Chinaman, become his mama, for God’s sake, than park on Fifth Avenue with that uncle of hers. All Vander cared about was the shine of her skin under his lamps. She called him from Jane Street.

  “Vander, where can I find a ping-pong pro? A hustler who operates downtown?”

  Vander was curt with her. “Forget it, Odile. Your complexion isn’t suited for a green table. Try a badminton sharp. You’d be exceptional stuck inside a net.”

  “The hustler isn’t for me, uncle. I’d like to shit on Coen.”

  “Why go so far? Coen’s no good. I could make him eat the ball. Hire me.”

  “I can’t. You’re a sentimentalist. You’re liable to cry on Coen’s paddle. I’ll do better with strangers.”

  She could hear Vander go stiff; he was proud of his finesse on the table. He could volley with an elbow, a hand, or the top of his head. But Vander was useless to her.

  “Go to Harley Stone at the health spa on Christopher Street. Ask for the ping-pong room. He’ll be there. Harley took the Canadian Open a few years back. He has the best strokes in New York.”

  “Uncle, you don’t understand. I’m not interested in strokes. The tournament boys are too pretty. I need a money player, a guy who won’t freeze with two hundred dollars sitting under the table. I want Coen to lose his pants.”

  “Then you’ll have to depend on a Spic. Sylvio Neruda. He can make a shot off Coen’s eyeballs. But he’s a tricky son-of-a-bitch. He won’t produce unless you catch him in the right mood.”

  “He’ll produce,” Odile said, and she ran to the health spa, which was open only to men. The beadle let her through when she whistled Vander’s name. She passed the volley ball room, the badminton room, the shuffleboard room, the quoits and horseshoe-pitching room, naked men hissing at her, lurching for a towel or hopping with their genitals in their hands. “Holy shit,” Odile had to mutter. “It’s a fags’ house.” Vander might have told her that Sylvio was the porter of the ping-pong room. He sat hunched on a stool at the end of the room, a mop between his legs, snoring and jerking a shoulder to the clack of
the balls. The room’s five tables were occupied, and Odile marched around the players to get to Sylvio, the ping-pong shark. He had stubble on his cheeks. He looked at her slantily after she woke him with a tug of the mop. “Mama,” he said, “what you doing here? They don’t allow any ladies. You fuck with my job, I burn your ass.”

  “Sylvio, I came for you. With a recommendation from my uncle, Vander Child.”

  Sylvio, who was something of a Christian, believed in epiphanies; he couldn’t reconcile the contours of Odile’s face, the sharp angles in her nose, under fluorescent light. He figured she might be one of the saints from his catechism book, come to bother him.

  “Vander Child don’t play here. Girlie, what’s your name?”

  “Odile. I need your paddle, Sylvio. I’d like to borrow you for an hour. I’ll give you a hundred dollars if you can beat an uptown man.”

  Sylvio began to mumble out a few of his saints. “Lucia, Teresa, Agnes.” He was staring hard. “Who is he, your hundred-dollar boy?”

  She told him.

  “I never heard of Coen. Where does he hit? At Morris’ or Reisman’s place?”

  “It’s Schiller’s. On Columbus.” And she showed him the address.

  Sylvio laughed into the handle of his mop. “Mama, the clowns go there. I don’t take money off cockroaches. Reisman’s, all right. Schiller’s is a hole. I’m losing sleep because of you. So long.”

  Odile wouldn’t let him nod off.

  “Coen’s a killer, a killer paid by the City of New York. He belongs to an elite band of detectives. They persecute idiot boys, run them down with cars.”

  Sylvio swiped a leather pouch from under his chair. “A ping-pong cop? Girlie, I’m coming.”

  He pulled her toward the IRT, but Odile wouldn’t go into a tunnel; she had never been on a subway in her life. She got him into a cab, closed the door. He sulked. “Mama, I don’t dig the outdoors.” He gave her his pouch to hold; she could feel the imprint of a bat. He settled into a corner, dropped his chin down. Odile had to poke him when they arrived. He wouldn’t go first, so she took the plunge into the cellar, Sylvio at her heels, falling away from the banister. The shock of foul air, crooked light coming off the walls (Schiller’s was notorious for its spots of shadow), the irregular throw of tables (most of them with at least one hobbled leg), and the SROs leering from the gallery, disturbed Odile, who had gotten used to the quiet life and gentlemen players of the health spa. But the SROs did appeal to Sylvio; he hadn’t expected this many portorriqueños at Schiller’s club. “Friends,” he said, speaking English on purpose, “the lady, she brought me for your star. Coen the cop.”

  The SROs were twittering now, and Sylvio lost his edge with them; he groped for the pouch in Odile’s hand. She was already halfway to Coen. She had seen him sitting in street clothes at the end of the gallery, with Schiller. Coen wouldn’t get off his rump for Odile; Schiller had to move him. “Manfred, I think the girl is talking to you.”

  She stuck a hip out at him, presented the details of her profile, only she was at a disadvantage in the harsh, uneven light.

  “Coen, I’m putting a hundred dollars on my man. I say he can trim you in your own sport. He’s Sylvio Neruda from downtown.”

  Schiller whispered to Coen. “Manfred, don’t play him. He’ll steal your shoelaces. That’s the kind of guy he is. He’s fierce when it comes to money. Otherwise his reputation wouldn’t have spilled uptown.”

  “Schiller, lend me a hundred.”

  Coen undressed in the back room while Schiller counted singles and fives from his money box. He would have groaned louder, but he couldn’t disappoint the cop. He called into the changing room. “Manfred, should I send for Arnold? Arnold brings you good luck.”

  “No.”

  Coen came out in his ping-pong suit, the holster clipped to his shorts. A weirdo, Sylvio figured, but he wouldn’t give Coen the satisfaction of a smile. Sylvio had played with loonies before; he wasn’t delicate about taking their money. Odile put her hundred dollars under the table; following the tradition of ping-pong sharks that Vander had explained to her once, she crumpled the bills. No hustler would perform with money lying flat on the ground; crumpled bills were a lucky omen; also, it was easier to grab the whole pot, if the bulls should decide to invade the premises. Schiller dropped Coen’s hundred in a coffee tin, sliding it deep enough between the legs so it wouldn’t distract Sylvio or Coen. Then he went for the balls.

  “I have a box of Nittaku’s. They’re fresh.”

  But the shark wouldn’t play with a Japanese ball. “Too heavy,” he said. “They have unreliable seams.” He dug into his pockets and brought out two “Double Happiness” balls, which came from China and were hard to find in Manhattan. He blew on the balls, rotating them in his palm. “Okay with you?” he asked Coen.

  “Test them, Manfred,” Schiller said. “They could be warped on one side. They’ll take away your control, and give him extra spin.”

  Coen wouldn’t listen. “Sylvio, where’s your bat?”

  The shark could afford to smile; he unzippered the pouch and removed the fattest paddle Coen had ever seen; it was a Butterfly with a superfast face, five millimeters of rubber and sponge on each side, more than was allowed in tournament play. Coen’s Mark V was a puny weapon compared to that.

  Schiller complained. “Manfred, he’s got a club in his hand. You’ll never make it.”

  “Sylvio, throw up the ball.”

  They volleyed for two minutes, Sylvio using his most languid strokes, testing Coen’s backhand; like most sharks, he wouldn’t reveal his best serves before the game; he didn’t want Coen getting too familiar with the hops off his bat. Sylvio preferred the “penholder” grip, clawing the Butterfly with his palm full on the rubber so that he could play backhand and forehand with one side of the bat. Coen was a “handshake” man; with the handle in his fist and only a finger on the rubber, he was forced to turn the bat when he switched from forehand to backhand, slowing his response to the ball. Sylvio could hug the table, scooping up every shot. Coen had to play further back.

  Returning the ball, Sylvio flitted past Odile, stopping close to her ear. “Mama, you can’t lose. This cop doesn’t have the strokes.”

  He returned to the table. “Coen, we’ll play a set for the hundred, okay?”

  “No sets,” Coen said. “One game.”

  Sylvio winked to Odile. “He’s a joker. He won’t see my serve in one game. It’ll spin past his nose. Coen, I’ll make it fair.” He pointed to Schiller. “Why should I rob this old man? How much of a spot do you want? Six points? I can give you more.”

  “No spot.”

  Sylvio put both hands under the table; Coen had to guess which hand had the ball if he wanted the serve. “Left,” he said.

  Sylvio brought the ball up in his right palm. “Coen, you dropped your luck in Schiller’s room.”

  Schiller wagged his head. Crouching, with his ass near the ground and his bat belt-high so Coen wouldn’t be able to determine the direction of the spin, Sylvio drove five wicked serves, all exactly the same, into Coen’s fist; no wood or rubber touched the ball from Coen’s side; he had nothing better than his knuckles to offer Sylvio. The ball plummeted off the table every time. Sylvio caught him five-zip.

  Using a simple lob serve, Coen got two out of five. Because he took his eye off the ball to peek at Odile, Sylvio faulted once, making four of his next five serves. Coen played with his knuckles again. He couldn’t solve Sylvio’s spin. The score stood twelve to three, Sylvio.

  “How about another hundred, Coen?”

  “Schiller,” Coen said, “get your money box.”

  Sylvio watched the cop. “It’s a joke. I don’t change stakes in the middle of a game.”

  Coen got one lob past Sylvio, then volleyed home two out of four, meeting Sylvio’s slices with little push shots, surprising the shark. Sylvio had expected him to crack by now. He rubbed his lip with the top of the Butterfly.

  “Coen, you�
��ll have to take off the holster and the badge. They’re fucking with my concentration.”

  Schiller began to protest. “Where is it written that the gun has to go? Did you sign a contract with him?”

  “Balls,” Sylvio said. “That man’s trying to ruin my eye. Why else would he wear gold on his chest?”

  Odile was even more adamant than the shark. She couldn’t get a rise out of Coen, whatever the score. She suffered near the table. The shark had revealed something to Odile; there was no way to humiliate Coen with a ping-pong paddle. She wallowed on her platform shoes; a tall girl without the shoes, she was over six feet in her creped heels and soles, which allowed her to fully dwarf the others at the table, Schiller needing to stand on the points of his slippers to remain in communication with her. Coen clipped off the holster and the badge.

  He was a man with nothing to lose. Sylvio could trip him twenty-one points in a row, and Coen would have given up the money in the coffee tin without a peep. He had no mother, no father, to provide for; the First Dep’s office might disclaim him, but they couldn’t swipe his pension so quick. It was Schiller who poked his head outside the range of Odile’s shoulders to have an eye on the door. Coen didn’t flinch. If the Chainaman arrived while Schiller clutched the holster in his lap, Coen could wear his bat like a chest protector or meet the Chinaman frown for frown. He missed the feel of leather on his hip, the slide of the holster when he stretched for the ball, but he couldn’t be hurt by Odile’s shark. He took Sylvio’s cut serves on a higher bounce, with his knuckles out of the ball’s path. He showed more rubber now, and the ball remained on the table. Overcoming the trickiness of the serve, he could deal with the flaws in Sylvio’s style. The penholder grip gave Sylvio less of a stretch than Coen because he clawed the bat and had to swing in a narrower arc, leaving him vulnerable in the corners. So Coen angled his shots, striking deep into the sides of the table.