Come at the King

by Sherilyn Decter

  “And he hit you?” Maggie covers her mouth with her hand, a shocked look on her face.

  “Yup. Got me good. Good thing Henry was there. I was out cold for a while.”

  Maggie shakes her head, horrified. “Oh, Edith, that’s terrible. What are you going to do? Are you going to divorce him?”

  “No. After that incident with Tony a while back, I’ve learned my lesson. Wives of gangsters don’t get divorced. I told you that before. We know too much, and there’s too much in my name. No way Mickey would go to court to get an agreement on a settlement. But the house is in my name, and I’m staying put. He can live at the Ritz. I don’t care. He’s not coming home. As long as he’s not taking his drops, he’s dangerous.”

  “He’s stopped taking his drops?” I knew there was something off with him that day in my office, and out at Bandit’s Cemetery. He’s been off them for a while.

  “Yeah. He says he doesn’t like the way they make him feel. Look at me with this shiner. You think I like the way it feels when he’s not taking the damn drops?” Edith drains her martini and waves to the waiter for another.

  “Maybe you should slow down a bit?”

  “Why? Nobody cares. Mickey gets to run around outta control. How come I’ve gotta behave? Maybe I’d like to cut loose sometimes, you know? I’ve been sitting at home playing nursemaid to the louse for months now. Well, he’s gone. Time to celebrate.” She raises her now full glass and toasts Maggie. “Here’s to foot loose and fancy free.”

  “So you’re on your own now. I imagine all your plans have changed. Don’t worry, Sadie is fine to stay with us until after the baby’s born.”

  Edith looks quizzical.

  “If you and Mickey aren’t together, you won’t be adopting the baby.” Maggie pauses. Edith’s blank stare confuses her. “Unless you’re still planning on adopting the baby?”

  “The baby? Sadie’s baby? Oh doll, that’s rich. You thought that Mickey might be the father? Or that we were making some kind of deal on the side?” Edith sighs, her eyes downcast. “I’d love a baby, regardless if Mickey and I are together. But not Sadie’s baby. No, Henry Mercer is the father of Sadie’s baby.”

  “Henry Mercer? He’s Jewish?”

  Edith chuckles. “You dope. No, Henry’s not Jewish. I’m not sure what he is, but definitely not Jewish. That’s the problem, you see. Sadie won’t marry him. As far as her family are concerned, she carries the double shame of being an unwed mother to a baby who doesn’t have a Jewish father. They preferred to kick her out on the street than force a shotgun marriage to someone outside the faith.”

  “Poor Sadie.”

  “And poor Henry. He’d marry her in an instant if she’d have him.”

  The gals pick at salads, lost in thoughts of family troubles.

  “How’s your fella? Ron?” Edith asks, pushing half a salad away and reaching for her martini.

  “Everything’s good. He’s being very patient. Now that Sadie is living with us, I’m going to ask him to have the birds and bees talk with Tommy.”

  “I’d love to sit in on that. The blind leading the blind,” says Edith.

  “Oh, I don’t think he’s so blind. Short-sighted maybe, but definitely not blind,” Maggie says, her eyebrows bouncing up and down in a fairly decent Groucho Marx impersonation.

  Edith chokes on her martini. “Maggie, you scamp you. Do tell.”

  “I don’t kiss and tell. And that’s all I’ll say on the matter.”

  “And Tommy? What’s he up to?”

  “Tommy’s a treasure. He’s spending all his time at the library these days. He’s becoming quite the little scholar.” Maggie loves the new approach Tommy is taking with his studies.

  “He’s a good kid. Always has been. You’re lucky. With Ron, too. Although, Maggie, make sure you get everything in writing if you guys decide to get hitched.”

  “I trust Ron.”

  “I’m sure you do. But be careful who you trust. Remember, even the devil was once an angel.”

  Chapter 47

  M ickey crows with victory, laying his cards face up on the table. He and the men are gathered around the big table in the center of the warehouse.

  “It’s like old times, having you around, Mickey.” Gus, who had folded several hands ago, is enjoying the evening, regardless.

  “Yeah, although I notice my luck hasn’t changed much,” mutters Stan, a dwindling pile of cash in front of him. “Doesn’t matter who’s sitting at the head of the table, I just can’t get a break.”

  “Maybe ‘cause you’re so lousy at cards, Stan? Have you ever thought of taking up a different pastime? Like golf maybe?” Fingers says, laughing.

  “Oh, yuck, yuck. Lucky for you bozos that I keep playing, otherwise whose money would you take?” Stan grumbles and gets up to fix himself another drink. “Anyone want anything?”

  Orders are shouted and drinks are poured.

  “Too bad Henry isn’t here. He was always good for a game,” Gus says, studying the cards in his hand and those lying face up on the table.

  The table goes silent, looking anywhere but at Mickey.

  “He made his bed. I’m sure his new pals at Hassel’s brewery play cards,” Mickey says, sneering.

  Everyone eventually folds, leaving Fingers with the last hand. He lays his cards down. “A hand full of nuthin’.” He pulls the pot toward him. “If you can’t beat ‘em boys, bluff ‘em,” he says, laughing.

  Mickey starts to deal the next hand. “Everybody in?” he asks.

  Most of the players nod agreement.

  “Not me, unless one of you fellas can spot me some clams. That last hand wiped me out,” Eddie says, a sheepish shrug to his shoulders. The other guys at the table enjoy his discomfort. Like most boastful winners, Eddie goes quiet when the shoe’s on the other foot.

  “Anybody?” Eddie asks, glancing around the table.

  “Nah, not tonight, Eddie,” says Stan. “My pots a bit light as it is.”

  “Ha, not a chance,” says Gus. “I’m waiting for you to pay me back from the last time.”

  “Aw, come on, Gus. Whaddaya say to double or nothing?” Eddie says, trying to wheedle a stake.

  “Ha, I already got the nothing from ya, and I’m pretty sure the double carries as much weight. Nope, you’re on your own tonight.”

  “Well, I’m not ready to call it a night yet. I’m sure I can spot you some dough, Eddie,” Mickey says. “But it’ll cost ya. If you win, you get the pot, and I’ll throw in my watch. But, if you lose, you gotta waddle like a duck around the table.” Mickey gives Eddie and the rest of the table a sly grin.

  “A duck?”

  “That’s my price if you want me to stake you another hand.” Mickey takes off his watch and puts it in the middle of the table. “See, to show my good faith.”

  Eddie’s eyes dart back and forth, looking at the other men’s faces, at the watch, at Mickey. There’s a calculating look to him as his eyes shift back and forth.

  Mickey reaches for the watch, dangling it in front of Eddie. “You know you want it. Rolex Oyster. Top of the line. Water-proof. You can wear it in the bathtub it you want to.”

  Eddie licks his lips, quickly glancing down and then away at the watch he is currently wearing.

  “Come on. You’re usually a winner. Maybe this will turn your luck around,” Mickey says. “You in or not?”

  “I’m in,” Eddie says.

  The old-timers around the table murmur in anticipation. Mickey is a legendary card shark and no one except Eddie is in doubt about how the game will end up.

  Gus leans close to Fingers and whispers, “You know why you never play cards with the fastest cat in the world?”

  Fingers looks at him and shrugs.

  “ ‘cause he’s a cheetah.” Gus throws his head back and laughs.

  “Shh, you’ll give it away,” Fingers says.

  “Okay, losers, quit goofing around and ante up,” Mickey says, throwing some money into the center of the ta
ble.

  The first few hands have a normal rhythm.

  “Fold,” says Gus, throwing down his cards. “Still a whole lot of nuthin.”

  “I’m in,” Stan says, “and I’ll raise ya a five-spot”

  “Oohh, big spender,” Eddie says. “I’ll see it and introduce your Hamilton to my Jackson.”

  Mickey, who’s next up, looks at Eddie carefully. Eddie meets his stare. The table grows quiet.

  “If we’re playing presidents, I’ll throw a Benjamin into the party,” Mickey says, casually dropping a one hundred dollar bill on the pot. The Rolex is now buried under a stack of bills.

  Stan grimaces and adds two fifties to the pot. “I’ll see that bet. I hate these high stakes games. Alicja is gonna’ skin me when I get home.”

  “Two rich for me,” says Fingers, folding.

  All eyes turn to Eddie. They can see Eddie’s tell, a nervous licking of his lips. Mickey sits impassive. Eddie slowly peels off four fifty dollar bills and drops them on the pile. “Two hundred clams, Mickey. You in?” he asks, grinning.

  Gus rubs his hands together. “Now we’re rollin’.”

  Eddie looks to Stan, who shrugs. “Need the cab fare home. I fold.”

  The players at the table shift, looking at Mickey. He smiles, takes a sip of whiskey, and then smacks his lips. He looks at the cards in his hand, the pile of dough on the table, and then at Eddie. He reaches down and fingers his stack of money. All eyes are riveted on Mickey’s cash. From the bottom of his pile of money he pulls out a thousand dollar bill. “One grand.” Mickey leans back, waiting to see what Eddie will do.

  The table murmurs.

  “Call,” croaks Eddie.

  “Watcha got?” Mickey asks. When Eddie hesitates, Mickey bangs the table. “Throw ‘em down, Regan.”

  “Three snowmen and a pair of sixes,” Eddie says. “It’s a monster hand, Mickey. Top that.”

  “Not bad,” Mickey muses, hanging on to his cards.

  “I guess I’ll be taking that mighty fine watch,” Eddie cackles, stretching forward to rake in the pile.

  “No, I don’t think so.” Mickey lays his cards down one at a time: a jack of diamonds, a jack of spades, a jack of hearts, and a jack of clubs. Finally, a queen. “Four of a kind, pal. And a gorgeous gal at the party, too.”

  Everyone at the table cheers. Everyone except Eddie, who slumps and glowers.

  “Pay up, Regan.” The men begin to quack, and Eddie glares at them.

  “Aw, come on, Mickey. That’s crazy. I’ll pay ya what I owe ya tomorrow.”

  “A bet’s a bet. Pay up, or are you going to welch?” Mickey asks, sneering, strapping his watch back on. “I’ll make sure your name is all over Philly as a guy who ain’t worth a dime.”

  The quacking is reaching a crescendo, accompanied by table thumping.

  Eddie casts one last glare at the table and slides off his chair. He bends over, hands to the rear to create a tail, and begins to waddle around the table, quacking.

  Mickey roars with laughter, as do the men. When Eddie passes by Mickey, Mickey sticks his leg out and trips Eddie who sprawls on the dirt floor.

  The poker players are hooting and hollering, banging their glasses or their hands on the table. The tin god has fallen. The king is back. Long live the king.

  Chapter 48

  I t took a bit longer to arrange, and it is Sadie who will be meeting her there, not Tommy, but Maggie finally has made it down to the soup kitchen. With all the talk of hardship and ‘doing ones part’ to bring comfort to those less fortunate, Maggie had decided to do a shift at the Franklin Street Mission. Sadie had volunteered to join her. “It will be a mitzvah, a good deed,” she had said.

  There must be another rally planned. Maggie reads the protest signs propped against the soup kitchen wall as she makes her way past the men already lined up outside the door. “We want to be citizens, not transients”, and “For jobs and for a future” were the most popular slogans. Jack had always said that it was important to keep the pressure on, but I’m not sure what can be done. It’s not like the government can just print money and give it away.

  She catches up with Sadie just outside the front door of the mission, and they go in together. The organizers are happy with the extra hands, and Maggie makes a note to bring potatoes, carrots, and onions the next time they come.

  Tying on her apron, Maggie looks out at the long hall full of empty trestle tables and benches and chairs. Behind her is the clatter and clang of a busy kitchen. Through the front window, she can see the line of men snaking down the sidewalk and out of sight.

  Soon, the serving table is full of pots of soup and plates of bread. Stacks of bowls and a basket of spoons signal the beginning of the soup line. At eleven o’clock, the front door is unlocked and a shuffling line of men enter the hall. Some are dirty and unkempt from sleeping rough on the streets or in the park, some are dressed as if for a busy day in the office. All are hungry, and their gratitude makes Maggie squirm. I should be doing more.

  Standing behind the counter, ladling out hundreds of bowls of soup gives her time to think. This is probably how Jack spent his days—I knew he volunteered—now I’m getting a taste of it. Although the situation back then was so different. Then, there were jobs aplenty for the choosing. Men, newly arrived from the ships on the docks, knew that it was only a matter of time before they were living the lives they dreamed of. The soup kitchen was a temporary boon for them, and soon they would find work, learn English if needed, and build a community. The times we’re in now are forcing people to rip roots up, not plant them down. That’s what’s missing now—hope.

  Jack knew the flip side of those boom times, before and during the Great War. These men are caught in a downward spiral. They look confused, not sure how they came to be sitting at a long table with the other men, slurping the soup which may be their only hot meal this day. There will be no work, there will be no community. Those have been ravaged by the hard times.

  Maggie shakes her head and keeps ladling. Dignity and optimism are often the last tethers of the men’s former lives to go, but slowly and surely they are becoming frayed. Eventually, they will break; another generation will be shattered.

  The line files past slowly. Maggie tries to serve a bright smile with each bowl. On the table, empty pots are replaced; an empty pot of chicken soup becomes a full pot of potato soup, which is quickly emptied and replaced with vegetable soup. The variety all depends on the ingredients available in the kitchen.

  “How are you holding up?” Maggie asked Sadie, aware of the growing belly of the young girl beside her.

  Sadie puts both hands on the small of her back and stretches. “Just my back. And my feet. But I can manage.”

  “Make sure to sit if you need to.” Amidst this conversation is endless ladling of soup.

  The rote work gives Maggie’s mind time to wander again. Jack would be familiar with this world. He’d understand what to say to these men to give them hope. I don’t. They make me uneasy, their need and desperation. I’m failing to be the better person I could be.

  One of the senior women from the kitchen brings out two pots of coffee. “Here, doll, go top up the cups. We’re going to have to cut it off soon. We’re running out of soup.”

  Grabbing the coffee pots, Maggie looks at the line of men still coming in. She’s heard there are dozens of soup kitchens around Philadelphia, and the big camp by the river has a large dinner tent as well. Hundreds, no thousands of men are being fed this way. What about their families? Where are the soup lines for mothers and children?

  She moves along the table, pouring hot, black coffee. Some of the men sitting are chatty and glad of a woman’s voice. Others are sunk into such a dark place that not even a temporarily full belly can soothe them. There are some that are bitter; angry at the twist of fate that put them in this hall. Occasionally, a scuffle will break out as frustrated men defend their crust of bread, or take offense at a remark or a look. The soup kitchen has men
to deal with these disturbances. Perhaps the ‘handlers’ are the husbands of the women in the kitchen?

  A ripple passes through the crowd as one of these male volunteers shoulders his way past the men in line to shut and lock the front door. “That’s it for today.” A few men on the street peer in the window, but most accept that tomorrow they’ll need to arrive earlier. They move off to see if other kitchens are still open.

  Slowly, the hall is cleared and tables wiped down. The front of the room is readied for tomorrow. Someone pushes a broom into Maggie’s hands, and she begins to sweep, glancing up to see if she can find Sadie. She must be in the kitchen.