by Damon Runyon
Doc Brackett had one of the biggest funerals ever seen in Our Town. Everybody went to pay their last respects when he was laid out in Gruber’s undertaking parlors. He was buried in Riverview Cemetery.
There was talk of raising money to put a nice tombstone on Doc Brackett’s grave as a memorial. The talk got as far as arguing about what should be carved on the stone about him. Some thought poetry would be very nice.
Doc Brackett hated poetry.
The matter dragged along and nothing whatever was done.
Then one day George Gruber, the undertaker, said that Doc Brackett’s memorial was already over his grave, with an epitaph and all. George Gruber said the Mexican parents of the child Doc Brackett saved years ago had worried about him having no tombstone.
They had no money themselves, so they took the sign from the foot of the stairs at Doc Brackett’s office and stuck it over his grave. It read: DR. BRACKETT, OFFICE UPSTAIRS.
JEREMIAH ZORE
Jeremiah Zore was a mean man. He was one of the six meanest men in Our Town.
He stood third on the list.
Jeremiah Zore had a thin body, thin hair, thin lips, and a thin soul.
He got rich through lending money on property, and squeezing every nickel he got hold of. He loved foreclosing mortgages and throwing people out of their homes on Christmas Eve.
He was mean to everybody, and especially to his wife, Mame Zore. She was married to Jeremiah for twenty-nine years, and never laughed once after the first two months of their marriage.
She had one new dress in six years, and she made it herself.
They had one child, a son named Jonathan, and Jeremiah Zore was kind to him on four different occasions in sixteen years. They were the only occasions that Jeremiah was kind to anybody or anything.
Jeremiah Zore was secretly proud of Jonathan, and tried to make friends with him, but he was so mean to Mame Zore that Jonathan hated him, and on his seventeenth birthday he ran away from home.
Some said Jeremiah Zore brooded over Jonathan running away and kept hoping he would return, but Jeremiah never let on to anybody. Meantime, he was getting meaner, and meaner, and richer and richer.
He knew that everybody in Our Town hated him, and one day he said he was going to build a monument to himself that would make Our Town remember him, anyway.
So he built a twenty-four-story building on Commercial Avenue, with a tall tower on top of it.
It was the tallest building in our section of the state, and everybody in Our Town was quite proud of it until it was completed and Jeremiah Zore put his rents so low he almost ruined all the owners of the other downtown office buildings.
He admitted that this was his idea in the first place.
It was a beautiful building by day and would have been beautiful by night if Jeremiah had permitted the tower to be lighted up, but he was too stingy for that.
It shows you what a mean man he was.
Then one day Jeremiah lay dying, and he told Mame Zore his only wish was to see his son once more. He said he had never for a moment ceased thinking of Jonathan, who was a famous aviator, back East.
So Mame sent word to Jonathan and asked him to come as a favor to her and Jonathan sent word back he was flying his own plane to Our Town, and Jeremiah Zore cheered up and became so strong that there was great fear he would recover.
It was a black night, and storming heavily when Jonathan Zore arrived over Our Town in his plane, and flying very low looking for the landing field, he crashed into the tower on the Zore Building and was instantly killed.
He did not know the building had been erected and there was no light on the tower, so Jeremiah Zore died without seeing his son, Jonathan, after all.
POEMS
A HANDY GUY LIKE SANDE
Say, have they turned back the pages
Back to the past once more?
Back to the racin’ ages
An’ a Derby out of the yore?
Say, don’t tell me I’m daffy,
Ain’t that the same ol’ grin?
Why it’s that handy
Guy named Sande,
Bootin’ a winner in!
Say, don’t tell me I’m batty!
Say, don’t tell me I’m blind!
Look at that seat so natty!
Look how he drives from behind!
Gone is the white of the Ranco,
An’ the white band under his chin—
Still’s he’s that handy
Guy named Sande,
Bootin’ a winner in!
Maybe he ain’t no chicken,
Maybe he’s gettin’ along,
But the ol’ heart’s still a-tickin’,
An’ the ol’ bean’s goin’ strong.
Roll back the years! Yea, roll ’em!
Say, but I’m young agin’,
Watchin’ that handy
Guy named Sande,
Bootin’ a winner in!
(1930)
Sloan, they tell me, could ride ’em,
Maher, too, was a bird;
Bullman was a guy to guide ’em—
Never worse than third.
Them was the old-time jockeys;
Now when I want to win
Gimme a handy
Guy like Sande
Ridin’ them hosses in.
Fuller he was a pippin,
Loftus one of the best—
Many a time come rippin’
Down there ahead of the rest.
Shaw was a bear of a rider,
There with plenty of dome—
But gimme a dandy
Guy like Sande
Drivin’ them hosses home!
Spencer was sure a wonder,
And Miller was worth his hire.
Seldom he made a blunder
As he rode ’em down to the wire.
Them was the old-time jockeys;
Now when I want to win
Gimme a handy
Guy like Sande,
Bootin’ them hosses in!
(August 12, 1922)
McAtee knows them horses,
Ensor’s a judge of pace;
Johnson kin ride the courses
In any old kind o’ race.
All them guys are good ones,
But, say, when I want to win—
Gimme a handy
Guy like Sande,
Bootin’ a long-shot in!
(August 27, 1922)
Kummer is quite a jockey,
Maybe as good as the best.
Johnson is not so rocky
When you bring him down to the test.
But, say, when they carry my gravy—
Say, when I want to win,
Gimme a handy
Guy like Sande,
Bootin’ them horses in!
(September 22, 1922)
Maybe there’ll be another,
Heady an’ game, an’ true—
Maybe they’ll find his brother
At drivin’ them hosses through.
Maybe—but, say, I doubt it.
Never his like again—
Never a handy
Guy like Sande,
Bootin’ them babies in!
Green an’ white at the quarter—
Say, I can see him now,
Ratin’ them just as he orter,
Workin’ them up—an’ how!
Green an’ white at the home-stretch—
Who do you think’ll win?
Who but a handy
Guy like Sande,
Kickin’ that baby in!
Maybe we’ll have another,
Maybe in ninety years!
Maybe we’ll find his brother
With his brains above his ears.
Maybe—I’ll lay agin it—
A million bucks to a fin—
Never a handy
Guy like Sande,
Bootin’ them babies in!
(1924)
A JEW
There’s
a story in that paper
I just tossed upon the floor
That speaks of prejudice against the Jews.
There’s a photo on the table
That’s a memory of the war,
And a man who never figured in the news.
There’s a cross upon his breast—
That’s the D.S.C.,
The Croix de Guerre, the Militaire,
These, too.
And there’s a heart beneath the medals
That beats loyal, brave and true—
That’s Dreben,
A Jew!
He is short, and fat, and funny,
And the nose upon his face
Is about the size of Bugler Dugan’s horn.
But the grin that plays behind it
Is wide, and soft, and sunny,
And he wore it from the day that he was born.
There’s a cross upon his chest—
That’s the D.S.C.,
The Croix de Guerre, the Militaire,
Mon Dieu!
He’s a He-Man out of Texas,
And he’s All-Man through and through—
That’s Dreben,
A Jew!
Now whenever I read articles
That breathe of racial hate,
Or hear arguments that hold his kind to scorn,
I always see that photo
With the cap upon the pate
And the nose the size of Bugler Dugan’s horn.
I see upon his breast
The D.S.C.,
The Croix de Guerre, the Militaire—
These, too.
And I think, Thank God Almighty
We will always have a few
Like Dreben,
A Jew!
TRIAL REPORTING
ARNOLD ROTHSTEIN’S FINAL PAYOFF
New York City, November 19, 1929
If the ghost of Arnold Rothstein was hanging around the weather-beaten old Criminal Courts Building yesterday—and Arnold always did say he’d come back after he was dead and haunt a lot of people—it took by proxy what would have been a violent shock to the enormous vanity of the dead gambler.
Many citizens, members of the so-called “blue ribbon panel,” appeared before Judge Charles C. Nott, Jr., in the trial of George C. McManus, charged with murdering Rothstein, and said they didn’t know Rothstein in life and didn’t know anybody that did know him.
Arnold would have scarcely believed his ears. He lived in the belief he was widely known. He had spent many years establishing himself as a landmark on old Broadway. It would have hurt his pride like sixty to hear men who lived in the very neighborhood he frequented shake their heads and say they didn’t know him.
A couple said they hadn’t even read about him being plugged in the stomach with a bullet that early evening of November 4 a year ago, in the Park Central Hotel.
Well, such is fame in the Roaring Forties!
They had accepted two men to sit on the jury that is to hear the evidence against McManus, the first man to pass unchallenged by both sides being Mark H. Simons, a stockbroker, of No. 500 West 111th Street, and the second being Eugene A. Riker, of No. 211 West 21st Street, a traveling salesman.
It seemed to be a pretty fair start anyway, but just as Judge Nott was about to adjourn court at four o’clock, Mark H. Simon presented a complication. He is a dark complexioned, neatly dressed chap, in his early thirties, with black hair slicked back on his head. He hadn’t read anything about the case, and seemed to be an ideal juror.
But it appears he is suffering from ulcers of the stomach, and this handicap was presented to Judge Nott late in the day. James D. C. Murray, attorney for McManus, George M. Brothers, assistant prosecuting attorney, in charge of the case for the State, and three other assistants from District Attorney Banton’s office, gathered in front of the bench while Mark H. Simon was put back in the witness chair and examined.
The upshot of the examination was his dismissal from service by Judge Nott, which left Riker, a youngish, slightly bald man, with big horn specs riding his nose, as the only occupant of the jury box. Judge Nott let the lonesome-looking Riker go home for the night after instructing him not to do any gabbing about the case.
The great American pastime of jury picking took up all the time from 10:30 yesterday morning until four o’clock in the afternoon, with an hour off for chow at one o’clock. Thirty “blue ribboners,” well-dressed, solid-looking chaps for the most part, were examined and of this number Murray challenged a total of fourteen. Each side had thirty peremptory challenges. Attorney Brothers knocked off nine and four were excused.
George McManus, the defendant, sat behind his attorney eyeing each talesman with interest but apparently offering no suggestions. McManus was wearing a well-tailored brown suit, and was neatly groomed, as usual. His big, dark-toned face never lost its smile.
Two of his brothers, Jim and Frank, were in the court room. Frank is a big, fine-looking fellow who has a nifty tenor voice that is the boast of the Roaring Forties, though he can be induced to sing only on special occasions.
Only a very few spectators were permitted in the court, because there wasn’t room in the antique hall of justice for spare chairs after the “blue ribboners” were all assembled. A squad of the Hon. Grover Whalen’s best and most neatly uniformed cops are spread all around the premises, inside and out, to preserve decorum.
Edgar Wallace, the English novelist and playwright, who is said to bat out a novel or play immediately after his daily marmalade, was given the special privilege of the chair inside the railing and sat there listening to the examination of the talesmen, and doubtless marveling at the paucity of local knowledge of the citizens about a case that he heard of over in England. Mr. Wallace proved to be a fattish, baldish man, and by no means as young as he used to be.
A reflection of the average big towner’s mental attitude toward gambling and gamblers was found in the answers to Attorney Murray’s inevitable question as to whether the fact the defendant is a gambler and gambled on cards and the horses, would prejudice the talesmen against him. Did they consider a gambler a low character?
Well, not one did. Some admitted playing the races themselves. One mumbled something about there being a lot of gamblers in Wall Street who didn’t excite his prejudice.
Attorney Murray was also concerned in ascertaining if the talesmen had read anything that District Attorney Banton had said about the defendant, and if so, had it made any impression on the talesman? It seemed not. One chap said he had read Ban-ton’s assertions all right, but figured them in the nature of a bluff.
Do you know anybody who knew Rothstein—pronounced “stine” by Mr. Brothers, and “steen” by Mr. Murray—or George McManus? Do you know anybody who knew either of them?
Do you know anybody who knows anybody connected with (a) the District Attorney’s office? (b) the Police Department? Were you interested in the late political campaign? Ever live in the Park Central? Ever dine there? Know anybody connected with the management? Did you ever go to a race track?
Did you ever read anything about the case? (This in a city of over 4,000,000 newspaper readers, me hearties, and every paper carrying column after column of the Rothstein murder for months!) Did you ever hear any discussion of it? Can you? Suppose? Will you? State of mind. Reasonable doubt—
Well, by the time old John Citizen, “blue ribboner” or not, has had about twenty minutes of this he is mighty glad to get out of that place and slink home, wondering if after all it is worthwhile trying to do one’s duty by one’s city, county, and state.
November 20, 1929
A client—or shall we say a patient—of the late Arnold Rothstein popped up on us in the old Criminal Courts Building in the shank o’ the evening yesterday. He came within a couple of aces of being made juror No. 8, in the trial of George C. McManus, charged with the murder of the said Rothstein.
Robert G. McKay, a powerfully built, black-haired broker of No. 244 East 67th Street, a r
ather swanky neighborhood, was answering the do-yous and the can-yous of James D. C. Murray as amiably as you please, and as he had already passed the State’s legal lights apparently in a satisfactory manner, the gents at the press tables were muttering, “Well, we gotta another at last.”
Then suddenly Robert G. McKay, who looks as if he might have been a Yale or Princeton lineman of say, ten years back, and who was sitting with his big legs crossed and hugging one knee, remarked in a mild tone to Murray, “I suppose I might say I knew Arnold Rothstein—though none of you have asked me.”
“Ah,” said Attorney Murray with interest, just as it appeared he was through with his questioning.
“Did you ever have any business transactions with Rothstein?”
“Well, it was business on his part, and folly on mine.”
“Might I have the impertinence to ask if you bet with him?”
McKay grinned wryly, and nodded. Apparently he found no relish in his recollection of the transaction with “the master mind,” who lies a-mouldering in his grave while the State of New York is trying to prove that George McManus is the man who tossed a slug into his stomach in the Park Central Hotel the night of November 4, a year ago.
Attorney Murray now commenced to delve somewhat into McKay’s state of mind concerning the late Rothstein. He wanted to know if it would cause the broker any feeling of embarrassment to sit on a jury that was trying a man for the killing of Rothstein, when Judge Charles C. Nott, Jr., who is presiding in the trial, remarked, “I don’t think it necessary to spend any more time on this man.”
The late Rothstein’s customer hoisted his big frame out of the chair, and departed, a meditative expression on his face, as if he might still be considering whether he would feel any embarrassment under the circumstances.
They wangled out six jurors at the morning session of the McManus trial, which was enlivened to some extent by the appearance of quite a number of witnesses for the State in the hallways of the rusty old red brick Criminal Courts Building.
