The Cuban Club

by Barry Gifford

  “When you roll out of the sack in the morning,” Pat Touhy instructed, “get down on the floor and do a hundred sit-ups and as many fingertip push-ups as you can, then go take a piss and brush your teeth. Don’t touch a weight or your muscles will tighten up. I want you long and loose and fast. Weight work cuts quickness. And you run—run to school, to the gym, to work. Walkin’s a waste of motion.”

  Roy knocked again and this time a woman opened the door but she was a brunette and she looked a lot older than twenty-something. Roy heard a man’s voice from inside ask, “Who’s there, Phyllis?”

  “I made a mistake, lady,” said Roy. “I got the wrong house.”

  He walked away but before he’d gone fifteen steps someone came up behind him and said, “Did Al send you?”

  Roy turned around and saw a blonde woman with a bad complexion who looked even older than the brunette who had opened the door. The blonde’s face was vaguely familiar.

  “What are you holding?” she asked.

  Roy wasn’t sure what to do. He looked back at the house; the front door was open and the dark-haired woman was standing on the sidewalk watching him and the other woman.

  “Is that for me?” said the blonde, pointing at the menu in Roy’s left hand.

  “Al Martin sent you, didn’t he?”

  “How old are you?” asked Roy.

  The woman hesitated a moment before saying, “What do you care?”

  A man came out of the house, brushed past the brunette and walked toward Roy and the blonde. Roy did not recognize him. The man was mostly bald and was wearing an unbuttoned white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was holding a gun in his right hand against his right leg. Roy turned and ran. After he’d gone four blocks he stopped and looked back. Nobody was chasing him.

  Jewish Joe and Al Martin were still at their table in Meschina’s when Roy came in. He put the menu down in front of Al.

  “Nobody home?” Al said.

  “A brunette answered the door, then a bleached blonde about forty years old came out and wanted what I had that you’d given me.”

  “Yeah, then what?”

  “A bald guy came out of the house carrying a gun, so I took off.”

  “A bald guy,” said Joe. “Kind of heavy?”

  “I guess so. Maybe. I saw the piece, I ran.”

  “Sorry about that,” said Al.

  He reached a hand inside his suit jacket, took out a billfold, opened it, removed two fives and handed them to Roy.

  “Why the extra fin?” Roy asked.

  “The unexpected.”

  “I got scared when I saw the guy had a gun.”

  “Sure you did,” said Jewish Joe.

  “Okay, kid, go home,” said Al Martin. “See you next Friday.”

  Roy looked in both directions on the street in front of Meschina’s. The temperature had dropped and sweat dried cold under his shirt. The blonde used to do the weather report on channel two. She looked better on TV.

  THE WAY OF ALL FLESH

  “You boys know about Oriental girls? Their slits go sideways, so you have to prop ’em up perpendicular to yourself goin’ in or you’ll have a bent pecker comin’ out.”

  Roy and Eddie Hay were standing under the awning outside Myron and Jerry’s Steakhouse on South Mohawk getting the goods from Sonny Lightfoot. Sonny worked for Jib Bufera, who ate lunch every afternoon except Sunday at three o’clock at Myron and Jerry’s. Sonny’s real last name was Veronesi, but he earned his nickname when he weighed forty pounds less and burglarized houses while the residents were sleeping. He became famous for his ability to tread so softly that nobody woke up while he pilfered jewelry and other valuables. These days he drove for Jib Bufera.

  “Jib’s got me on call twenty out of twenty-four, so I snooze in the Lincoln while he’s havin’ meetings.”

  “You like workin’ for Jib?” asked Eddie Hay, who the other boys called Hey Eddie, which he hated.

  “Can’t complain. Less stressful than breakin’ and enterin’. Jib’s generous. He and his goombahs speak Sicilian most of the time, which is okay by me because then I don’t know nothin’ when the wrong guys ask me what I know.”

  A steady, warm rain had put an early end to the boys’ ballgame but Roy did not mind since he was fighting a summer cold.

  “Hey Eddie,” he said, “I’m goin’ home. Take it easy, Sonny. And thanks for the anatomy lesson.”

  “Any time, kid. Shake that cold.”

  Roy was twelve years old and didn’t know much about girls. He had his doubts, though, about Sonny Lightfoot being a source of reliable information.

  When he got home, Roy’s grandfather was asleep in an armchair with a book on his lap. Roy looked at the title: Germany Will Try It Again. He went into his room and turned on the little red and white portable TV he kept on a table next to his bed, then took off his shoes and lay down. There was an old movie on about a terminally ill man, a philosophy professor, who decides to do the world a favor and murder a truly evil person before he himself dies. The professor shoots and kills a spider woman who is having an affair with the husband of a colleague of his. The spider woman is a crook who has seduced the husband, an artist, and blackmailed him into creating paintings in the styles of old masters and selling them as lost or stolen masterpieces to private collectors. The professor confesses his crime to the police, goes to trial and is sentenced to die in the electric chair. Before he is executed, however, the professor is horrified to learn that another man, having read in a newspaper about the professor’s reason for committing the murder, has subscribed to the professor’s philosophy and mistakenly killed an innocent person.

  The spider woman, when confronted by the professor, was unmoved by his plea that she relinquish her hold on the husband. Her smug, nonchalant attitude infuriated him but intrigued Roy. If a diabolical but goodlooking dame like this got her hooks into a man, he realized, she could compel him to do almost anything.

  Roy’s grandfather appeared in the doorway.

  “Hello, Roy. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Hi, Pops. You were sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb you.” “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m okay. Pops, do you think there are people who are really evil? Or are they just mentally ill?”

  “I’m sorry to say, Roy, I believe in the existence of evil. Hitler, for example, was an evil man who had the ability to inspire and manipulate people into committing the most gruesome acts of villainy.”

  “I saw the book you’re reading about Germany. Hitler was a German, wasn’t he?”

  “No, he was Austrian, but he became chancellor of Germany.”

  “There had to be a lot of evil people in Germany to do what they did.”

  “That’s what the book is about. The author theorizes that their society is genetically predisposed to waging war, that they possess an imperative biological desire to control others and force them to submit to their will.”

  “A woman can do that to a man.”

  “Yes, and a man can do it to a woman.”

  “How much does sex have to do with it?”

  “Sometimes everything, sometimes nothing. Do you have any more questions before I make myself a sandwich?”

  “Just one, but it can wait.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Oriental girls.”

  SOME PRODUCTS OF THE IMAGINATION

  Roy did not realize he was lost until a woman hanging wash on a line in her backyard asked him what he was doing there. Roy was walking home alone from kindergarten. It had been his second day at school and he had decided to take a shortcut through the alley between Washtenaw and Minnetonka streets and then cut through a yard to get to Minnetonka.

  “Where are you going, little boy?” the woman asked him.

  Sheets and towels on the line were fluttering in the wind and the sun was half-blinding him.

  “Home.”

  “What street do you live on?”

  “I’m n
ot trying to steal anything, lady. I was just cutting through.”

  “You don’t look like a thief. What’s your name?”

  “Roy. I live on Rockwell, with my mother.”

  One of the sheets kept flapping up in Roy’s face so he ducked under it and stood directly in front of the woman, who seemed very big. She was wearing a gray and white checked housecoat, and her long black hair was being blown back and forth across her face.

  “Well, Roy, Rockwell is one block over. Is your house closer to Ojibway or to Minnetonka?”

  “Ojibway.”

  “Then you’ll turn left on Rockwell.”

  “Can I walk through your yard or should I go back to the alley?”

  “Of course you can walk through the yard. How old are you?”

  “Five.”

  “You’re very young to be walking to or from school by yourself. It’s more than half a mile from your house.”

  “I can do it. I just got confused trying to take a shortcut.”

  “My name is Mrs. Miller, Roy. You can cut through my yard whenever you want to.”

  “Thanks. Do you have a dog?”

  “No, no dog.”

  When Roy got home nobody was there. Both his mother and grandmother, who was visiting from Miami, were out. His mother had left a note for him on the kitchen table.

  Roy, I hope you had a good day at school. Nanny and I have gone downtown to buy her a coat. She is not used to the cold weather in Chicago. There is roast beef left over from last night’s dinner in the refrigerator. Make yourself a sandwich if you are hungry. The bread is in the bread box. Drink a glass of milk. Nanny and I will be home soon.

  Mom

  Roy wasn’t hungry, so he went into his room and lay down on the bed. The next thing he knew his mother was sitting on the bed talking to him.

  “Hi, sweetheart. Did you eat something?”

  “No, I guess I was too tired. I dreamed I was lost in a desert and the wind was blowing sand around so I couldn’t see very well and then a beautiful lady appeared out of the sand and held my hand and led me out of the desert.”

  “Did you recognize this beautiful lady, Roy? Was it me?”

  “No, she had black hair.”

  “Did she tell you her name?”

  “Yes, it was Mrs. Miller.”

  Both Roy’s mother and grandmother, who had come into the room, laughed.

  “Maybe Mrs. Miller was a mirage,” said his mother.

  “What’s a mirage?”

  “Something you think you see but it’s not really there. It’s a product of the imagination.”

  “How do you like my new coat, Roy?” his grandmother asked.

  She was wearing a bright pink coat.

  “Anyone can see me in this,” she said, “especially drivers when I’m crossing a busy street.”

  “Tell me if you want to eat something,” said his mother.

  She smoothed his hair back off his forehead, then she stood up and both women left Roy’s room.

  On his way home from school the next afternoon, Roy opened the back gate to Mrs. Miller’s yard, closed it behind him, and was about to walk through when a man came out of the back door of the house and said, “Where do you think you’re going?”

  The man was very big, bigger than Mrs. Miller, and he had a mean look on his face. He walked toward Roy.

  “Mrs. Miller said I could cut through her yard on my way home from school.”

  “If I see you in this yard again, I’ll let my dog out.”

  The man’s head was completely bald and red. His face and eyes were red, too. Roy backed away, opened the gate and stepped into the alley.

  “What happened to Mrs. Miller?” he asked.

  “Something will happen to you and any of your friends if I catch you in here.”

  “She said she didn’t have a dog.”

  The man pulled on the gate and closed it with a loud clang, then he turned around and stomped back to the house.

  Each day for the rest of that week Roy stopped in the alley and looked into the yard but Mrs. Miller was never there. After that, he walked home a different way.

  About a month later, Roy was with his mother on Ojibway Boulevard when he saw Mrs. Miller walking toward them. He was about to say hello but Mrs. Miller passed by without looking at him. Roy stopped and looked back at her. She was holding a big brown dog on a leash.

  Roy remained curious about Mrs. Miller and the man who had kicked him out of the yard. Why did she tell him she didn’t have a dog? Roy decided to go back one more time to ask her. He stood in the alley behind the Miller house and waited for twenty minutes before the back door opened and the brown dog bounded down the steps followed by Mrs. Miller.

  Roy went up to the fence and said, “Mrs. Miller? Can I talk to you?”

  She came over to the fence, as did the dog.

  “Hello, Roy. I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

  “I tried to cut through your yard one day and a man came out and told me I couldn’t. He said if I tried to again he would let his dog out to attack me. I told him you said I could and that you said you didn’t have a dog. After that, I saw you on Ojibway Boulevard walking with this dog.”

  Mrs. Miller smiled and said, “I’m sorry for the confusion, Roy. The man is my brother, Eugene. He was staying here for a few days. He lives in St. Louis. This is his dog, Grisby. Eugene went back to St. Louis and left Grisby with me until he finds a new place to live. I’m afraid Grisby isn’t properly socialized, so it’s probably a good idea while I have him here that you don’t cut through the yard. He might bite you.”

  “Okay, I won’t.”

  “I’m sorry, Roy. I don’t think he’ll be here too much longer, though I don’t mind having his company.”

  Grisby propped his large front paws on top of the fence and barked at Roy. He had a long, green tongue and sharp teeth.

  “Your brother is scary,” Roy said.

  “He’s had a difficult life, Roy. I’m trying to help him out.”

  “Was he ever in prison?”

  Mrs. Miller stared at Roy for a few moments before answering.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he was. How could you know? Did Eugene tell you?”

  “Was it for murder?”

  “I think you’d better go home now, Roy.”

  Grisby got down from the fence and followed her. Roy noticed that part of the dog’s tail was missing; it looked as if half of it had been chopped off.

  Just as he arrived at his house, Roy’s mother ran out and shouted something Roy could not hear clearly at his grandmother, who was standing in the doorway. He watched his mother get into her car without saying anything to him and drive away.

  “What happened, Nanny?” he asked. “Where’s my mother going?”

  “I couldn’t stop her, Roy. Like most really beautiful women, she’s often overwhelmed by her insecurities.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Come into the house.”

  “Is she in trouble?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Mrs. Miller is really beautiful and I think she’s in trouble.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Miller?”

  “I told you and Mom about her. Her brother Eugene is a murderer. He escaped from prison and killed Mrs. Miller’s husband.”

  THE COMEDIAN

  On the hottest day of the summer Roy and his friend Elmo Rubinsky played Fast Ball at the schoolyard. It was a two man game, one pitching, one batting, exchanging places after three outs in an inning. The pitcher threw to a box marked in chalk on a brick wall; this was the strike zone. Lines were drawn in the gravel on the ground behind the pitcher; a ball hit past him on the fly was a single, past the first line was a double, against the fence was a triple, over the fence a home run. Foul lines were drawn on both sides of the field. The pitcher called balls and strikes; often, if the batter protested a call, it didn’t count and the pitcher had to throw it again.

 
; After their game was over, the boys were exhausted and dehydrated, so they staggered over to the Standard gas station two blocks away to buy bottles of cold Nehi soda pop for a nickel apiece from a machine inside the station waiting room. Elmo had won the game that day largely due to his use of what he called his “back up” pitch, which looked to the batter like a fast ball but appeared to slow down—or back up—after the batter had already begun his swing, causing him to pop up the ball or miss it entirely.

  Elmo drank half a dozen grape sodas and Roy half a dozen orange. The sports section of that morning’s Tribune was on a table in the waiting room where Roy and Elmo sat on wooden folding chairs draining Nehis from the bottles. Roy examined the box scores from the previous day’s major league baseball games and saw that a rookie on the San Francisco Giants named Willie McCovey had made his debut by going four for four, hitting two triples and two singles. This was the first game of what turned out to be McCovey’s hall of fame career.

  Across the street from the gas station was a synagogue and when the boys looked out the window of the waiting room they saw that a crowd was gathering on the sidewalk in front of the steps leading to the entrance. After they had finished the last of their bottles of pop, Roy and Elmo left the station and went across the street to find out what was going on.

  “We’re waitin’ for George Burns to arrive,” said a kid. “The rabbi here died and his funeral is today. George Burns was his brother and he’s supposed to be comin’ in from New York or Hollywood for the burial.”

  George Burns was a famous comedian. He and his wife, Gracie Allen, had acted in many movies and currently had a popular television show. The crowd had gathered not necessarily out of respect for the deceased rabbi but to see if it was true that George Burns was his brother and that he would show up for the funeral. Most of the people waiting around were not Jewish and had never been inside the synagogue nor did they even know the name of George Burns’s brother. Elmo asked a man what the rabbi’s name was and he said, “Birnbaum. George’s real name is Nathan Birnbaum. He changed it to George Burns because he was in show business, because of anti-Semitism. He didn’t want people to know he was a Jew.”