“Put it on Longy’s tab, handsome.” At the mention of Zwillman’s name, Milt’s facial muscles tightened as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.
“Get the fuck out. I don’t want you within a mile of me or this shop.”
“No worries. Sort of lost our way. Thought this might be a shortcut to the Riviera Hotel,” the big-titted blonde said. “Guess we were wrong.”
“God damn right you are!”
“Damn if you ain’t cute when you’re mad, little man,” the redhead teased. “There ain’t no business here for us anyway. Horny kids don’t pay the rent.”
Milt’s glare followed them to the door. The blond turned and wiggled her fingers, “Bye, handsome.”
The two whores were still giggling as they watched Richie cross the street, then they turned toward High Street and barely missed running into Father Nolan.
“Whoa there, ladies,” the smiling priest said holding up both hands while backing off to take them in. “You took me by surprise. Have to admit I never saw anyone quite like you coming out of Milt’s.”
“Just asking directions, Father,” the redhead said as she gave him a professional top-to-bottom sizing up. “Did I get it right, you are a priest ain’t you?”
“My collar must have been the tip-off,” he said. “Yeah, I’m a priest. Father Nolan, but you can call me Terry.”
“Well Father Terry, it’s been nice meeting you,” the blond said, “but it’s got to be short and sweet. We have to get going.”
“So it’s hello and goodbye, such a shame, you’ve really changed the scenery around here,” he quipped as blondie and the redhead brushed past him.
Milt had witnessed the exchange from his shop’s door, surprised at the easy way the priest had handled the two bimbos. “Never saw them before Father, and you can be sure you won’t be seeing them again.”
“Really dressed things up around here, wouldn’t you say.”
“I run a family soda shop, Father, and can’t have broads like them around.”
“I understand.” Father Nolan took a stool at the counter, and took a sip of the coffee Milt had poured. He studied the troubled expression on Milt’s face, smiled and quipped, “We in the church call them Occasions of Sin.”
After leaving Milt’s, Richie took a deep breath and tried his best to be nonchalant as he crossed Morton toward a smiling Marvin who sprawled leisurely on his front porch. He was thinking of wheat fields. He had heard Terry McDivit say that always worked for him. The flowing fields of grain began to have their effect: slowly, but surely his hard on receded.
“Those two beauties a little too much for you,” Marvin joked.
“Shove it, just shove it.” Richie planted himself next to Marvin on the front step. The two of them sat silently as they watched the two whores disappear around the corner onto High.
“Quite somethin’ ain’t they,” Marvin said. “But you know that, dontcha. Game to go back? Looks like the whole gang’s arrived. Come on, the Spur’s on me.”
They were challenged by Bob and Stan Wysnoski as soon as they walked in the door. It was prime stoop ball weather and the twins were looking for some exercise.
“Hey, you two, how about some stoop ball?” Stan said. “We got the balls, you got the money?”
It was the first of many challenges that would soon be going out, house to house, one side of the street to another and from block to block. You didn’t need much, just two guys on a team, a good stoop, preferably a solid stone one, and enough balls to get through the game. That was the rub. The challenging team supplied the balls. Pink, high bouncers were the favorite. If you were any good, you could zing them off the point of a step so they were only blurs as they rocketed past the opposing infielder’s ear. If you were really good, you could put English on the ball, making it dip to the left or right, or with over spin soar over the outfielder’s head to the other side of the street—a home run.
Then there were the cuties. Didn’t use the high bouncers, only nice, fluffy tennis balls. Mainly, it was because they didn’t have much for arms. They’d cozy the ball over the edge of the gutter, just out of reach of the infielder—a single. With their little tricks—reverse spin, over spin, and all—they’d single you to death. You didn’t dare pull in the outfielder to cut down on the singles, because they’d lob one over your head for a double and two runs. The cuties were more a pain in the ass than a threat. Once you got onto their rhythm, it was all over.
But take a team that knew all the tricks, had power, and could catch the point of the step with a good shot about three out of five times, then you had a sure winner.
And in a nutshell, that’s what you ran into when you took on the Wysnoskis. Each was a junior-size Bronko Nagurski. Eighth-graders, they were tabbed for sure-fire starters on the Prep’s junior varsity football team in the fall.
It was sort of a gentleman’s agreement that once you reached high school, stoop ball became a thing of the past. Once you left kids’ games behind, that’s it. So until the lots and parks dried out enough for baseball, the Wysnoskis would be the scourge of the Martin-Baldwin stoop ball circuit for one more spring.
They were the reigning bullies at St. Mark’s. They feared only one person, Sister Regina, who was bigger, stronger, and, they were convinced, even meaner than they were. Before pushing around other kids, they made sure she was nowhere in sight.
The Wysnoskis, by making the challenge, supplied the balls. The losers replaced any that were split during the game. The brothers could be counted on to demolish about four balls a game. They once ran their total to seven. At eighteen cents a crack, it meant real money.
Richie and Marvin slipped past the twins and joined Billy Spratlin and Joey Bancik in their booth. Bob and Stan walked over to confront them, “What do you say? Any of you have the guts to take us on?”
“I got chores.” said Joey.
“Shove it, chicken. Yer just yellow,” Stan said.
“Bullshit, yellow. Fact is, I got to help my old lady.”
“Momma’s boy.”
“Go fuck yerselves,” said Joey and pushed past them.
“I’m out,” Billy piped up, “I don’t wanna pay for any balls today.”
“You mean you don’t have the balls,” Stan said. His brother cracked up.
“You Polak bastard!” Billy said and stood up. Richie held him back.
Richie fingered the coins in his pocket, forty-five cents. And he had a plan, but he needed a partner. He turned to Marvin.
“Got any money?”
“Thirty-five cents.”
“I got forty-five. Should be enough.”
“Okay, Wysnoski,” Richie said, “you got a game.”
“You and who else?”
“Me,” Marvin answered.
“The darkie, huh? Okay with us. Don’t forget, this might cost ya,” Stan said, laughing.
“Let’s play over at the Exeter,” said Richie, ignoring the taunt. The Wysnoskis shrugged with the confidence of bullies who knew they had easy marks.
Richie explained his plan to Marvin on the way. It was simple. He knew the nutty old janitor at the Exeter would be catching the matinee at the Empire Burlesque, so no trouble about using the apartment stoop. Directly across from the Exeter, sandwiched between two tenements, was an open lot. The ground was still a little soft, but free of junk.
Without a building for Bob and Stan to bounce their long shots off, an outfielder could play deep enough to flag down anything hit into the lot. There would be no cheap homers. The infielder could play a little deeper, to cut off the doubles and triples. Give them the singles, but take away the long ball. With a little luck, the Wysnoskis could be whipped.
“Sounds like it’ll work,” Marvin said.
“Want infield or out?” asked Richie.
“Infield. I’m probably faster than you.”
This was the shit that Richie hated. The few times he’d gone out of his way to smooth things, friendly like, between him and Marvin,
he got this attitude shit instead. It pissed him off.
The teams stood in front of the Exeter. Stan flipped a coin to see who would be home team. The brothers won, electing to take last bats.
Right off, Richie nubbed a soft shot past Bob for a double, the ball glancing off his fingers as he jumped to his left in an unsuccessful attempt to make a grab. Before the top half of the inning was over, Marvin contributed two singles. One run.
It took only one out in their half of the inning for the brothers to realize that this game would be different. Stan sent a long, soaring shot about thirty feet into the lot. Richie had no trouble getting under it for the catch.
“Wise asses,” sneered Stan, glaring at his opponents.
But when Bob sent a screamer, no more than three feet off the ground, Richie hardly saw it. The ball carried into the lot, a home run and tie score at the end of the first inning.
The pattern was set. Richie and Marvin kept pecking away, hardly ever scoring more than one run in an inning. The Wysnoskis refused to alter their power game, and there was no way you could keep them from scoring.
And the brothers were exacting a price.
One hard shot spun Marvin completely around as he reached off-balance with his right hand to catch it. The ball fell to the street for a double. Stan sent a ball off Marvin’s right leg, raising a welt. Marvin’s hands had become so swollen, he couldn’t close his fingers. Richie tripped on a rock in the lot, falling hard on his right hand. A small stick punctured the heel of his thumb about a quarter inch. Later, a nail in a utility pole sliced the leg of his trousers as he ran for a foul ball. He’d catch hell from his mom.
The game drew attention of the whole neighborhood including Eight-Ten.
Eight-Ten—no one knew his real name—was a big, stooped retard who’d lived in the Ward his whole life. He was between twenty-five and forty-five. He had no family or home. He slept in an empty coal bin at the Armstrong Arms, elite apartments with underground parking and two elevators, one in the lobby and one for freight and deliveries.
For years, the freight elevator had been a good friend to Eight-Ten and Clarion paperboy, Gino Sharkey. Delivering the paper provided great cover for Gino’s real task, picking up six to eight number slips and wagers to be dropped off at McDuffie’s office each day.
Every Sunday morning was the same. Eight-Ten would be waiting for Gino to pull his wagon full of the heavy Sunday Clarion up to the freight elevator at the rear of the Armstrong. While the carrier stood back, lit a cigarette and watched, Eight-Ten off-loaded fifteen bulky copies into the elevator, then held the door for Gino to join him. Starting at the top floor of the seven-story building, their routine rarely changed. The big dullard, smiling to be part of an operation he barely understood, held the freight door open while he watched Gino make his rounds. At some stops, Gino simply dropped the paper in front of the apartment door. At others, he rang the bell, waited for the door to open, handed over the Clarion and was given a slip of paper and some money in return. A rare policy payoff provided the only break in the routine.
“Okay big guy, so what’s it gonna be?” Gino couldn’t understand why he had taken a liking toward the big oaf. During the more than two years they had been sharing the freight elevator, they had exchanged no more than a couple hundred words except, of course, for that idiotic cackle. “Feel lucky? Or do you want the dime?”
“Aheh, Aheh. I feel lucky, aheh, aheh.”
“You want me to mix ‘em, or you want to?”
The imbecile’s numbers combo played off his name. The eight was a constant. The ten was divided into two numbers to fill out the three number combination needed to play “the bug.”
“My turn, my turn,” Eight-Ten giggled. “I want three, eight, seven. Aheh, aheh.”
Gino tore the top page from a small pad, scribbled a five-point star in the upper left, and two XXs on the bottom right, his runner’s code, then scrawled 3-8-7. He made sure Eight-Ten had eyeballed the paper before stuffing it into an envelope with his other numbers, then fished a dime out of his pocket for inspection.
“Your lucky dime,” the carrier said, then added “You know you have a better chance if you don’t use an eight every time. Why the fuck do you always need an eight?”
“My first name, it’s what they call me. Aheh, aheh. Always need my first name.”
Gino shrugged, reached for the handle of the wagon, and turned up the alley to the street.
The Armstrong was the only home Eight-Ten had. He earned his keep by doing all the unpleasant, backbreaking janitorial work the super didn’t want to do. He used the water spigot in the basement to bathe and wash the hand-me-down clothes the janitor’s wife gave him.
The dullard got help from another source, Profanity Pump. About a month earlier, on a scorching hot day, she spotted Eight-Ten shuffling down the street on a pair of shoes barely more than tattered uppers and shoelaces. The sidewalk was hot enough to raise blisters if you touched it long enough. Without letting anybody know, she had walked him over to Oscar’s Shoe Repair shop on Prince Street to pick out a couple of pairs of shoes left unclaimed by their owners.
“You’re all set now,” Pump said, handing over a brown paper bag containing the shoes.
“Why do you help me?” Eight-Ten took the package and studied Pump’s face. “You’re not my friend. You make fun of me at Milt’s and everybody laughs.”
“Just take the shoes and head on home. Go on now, get lost. And keep your god damn trap closed about this. Getit?”
Pump stood outside the shoe repair shop and watched the big, clumsy oaf shuffle across the street with his booty. She had just gone through two months’ of her allowance, and another three bucks lifted from her mom’s purse and dad’s wallet.
Eight-Ten scratched out a few bucks a week by selling the Evening Clarion in front of the Empire Burlesque. But selling newspapers was only one reason Eight-Ten stationed himself in front of the Empire. Every other Friday, Cy Golden, the red-faced and corpulent stagehand, would slip out the alley door of the burlesque house with an envelope in his hand filled with eight-by-ten publicity glossies of the lovelies ending their run and moving out for that night’s opening show at the Hudson Burlesque in Union City.
The two men never looked at each other. The fat stagehand took his four-star final edition of the Evening Clarion from under a rock that held the papers in place and went back into the theater.
Eight-Ten went back to his crib at the Armstrong and examined the pictures. He stayed there for hours, just gawking at the half-naked women.
He loved his prints, and in return the lovelies gave him his name. He had a whole collection, which he willing shared with boys in the neighborhood for a soda. He was the neighborhood’s Pied Piper, leading a generation of avid boys into an erotic never-never land.
“Yul see. You Polak mother fuckers got it rough and don’t like it. And a nigger too. Aheh, aheh,” Eight-Ten called out.
A few of the Prep hotshots were also watching the game. Terry McDivit, Mike Suchi, and Jackie Conn, an all-city quarterback as a sophomore who, rumor had it, was already being scouted by Fordham.
“Nice play, kid,” said Jackie, when Marvin speared a hard shot from Stan just as the convoy of critics arrived.
“Fast hands,” said Mike.
“Yeah. I hear he plays pretty good round ball too,” said Jackie.
“Conners can use him,” said Terry. “Basketball’s been shit at the Prep since Zubi and Gast graduated.”
“You kiddin’?” mocked Mike. “A nigger at Prep. No way. I’ll bet he ain’t even Catholic.”
“Sorry, wasn’t thinkin’.”
“Pisses me off sometimes,” said Jackie. “Central picks up more good spades that way.”
Neither team could gain an advantage. For the Wysnoskis, there was the added frustration of Eight-Ten. Each good play against Richie and Marvin was greeted by his obscene cheer.
“Lucky Polak fuckers!” droned Eight-Ten, when Stan raced in to c
atch a shot by Marvin.
“Ya god damned retard, if ya don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll ram a ball down yer throat.”
“Hey, take it easy, kid. Not lettin’ ol’ Eight-Ten rattle ya, are ya?” chided Mike Suchi with a wink to his pals.
“Hell no,” replied Stan. “Fuck him.”
At the end of eight innings, the score was tied 9-all.
In the top of the ninth, Marvin managed a single. Richie added a triple, good for one run and a 10-9 lead going into the bottom of the final inning. Everybody was suddenly quiet.
“Wat’cha think?” whispered Richie as he and Marvin walked out to the street.
“Nuthin’.”
“Nuthin’ bullshit. I think we got it. So do you.” Richie and Marvin were smiling as they took their positions.
The Wysnoskis, faced with their first defeat ever, resorted for the first time to the cute tricks they had always mocked others for using. And it looked like they would work. With two outs, the bases loaded, Bob took the ball from his brother. He approached the stoop with confidence that he could bring home at least one run, possibly more.
Then, instead of playing it cute, he spiked the ball off the bottom step with all the force he could muster. The ball hit Marvin and he fell to the ground, one hand clutching his throat, the other moving to his belly.
“Holy shit!” cried Terry McDivit.
“Didn’t even see it,” said Mike.
“They killed the nigger,” intoned Jackie Conn.
“Fuck the coon, where’s the ball?” shouted Stan, as everyone ran toward the fallen youth.
“Ya all right, kid?” Terry asked, leaning over Marvin.
Marvin remained motionless, flat on his back in the middle of the street. He cautiously moved his lips. No sound. An ugly welt was already visible beside his Adam’s apple. He stared straight at the sky and moved his lips again, then smiled. Cradled between his right hand and his stomach was a pink high bouncer.
“Yer out, mother fucker. An’ ya lose. Aheh, aheh.” Eight-Ten yelled. The other kids were shocked.
“If ya don’t shut your mouth, I’ll kill ya,” warned Bob, shaking a fist at the chuckling Eight-Ten.
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