Coney (36 page)

Soldier, fully dressed, slept, eyes wide open. Woody puckered his lips under Soldier's nose to confirm a warm tickle of life.

Soldier dribbled nonsense. He heard
nurse
just before Soldier jumped up and ran into a wall.

Woody stood on the bed and pulled the unraveling string attached to the light bulb. Twenty-five watts outlined, as if in an underexposed, grainy photograph, Soldier flattened against a wall.

“Soldier,” he said.

Soldier did not turn.

“Damn, is that you, Woody?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn, are you a dream?”

“No, Soldier. I'm here.”

“Damn, did you touch me?”

“Yeah, I wanted to get you up.”

“Damn, no one ever touches me when I sleep. I was sure it was a dream.”

Soldier walked to the bed and sat down.

“Damn, is it time to go, Woody?” he asked. His eyes were unfocused.

Can I kill Soldier?
Woody had been trying to escape the question in sleep, only to have it unhinge sleep. His first response had been rote:
Why should I give a fuck about anyone? Did any one ever give a fuck about me?
But there had been a nagging coda:
Soldier does
. It exasperated him. He had spoken aloud to himself as if to an idiot:
it's only because he's as crazy as a bedbug, which makes him better off dead.

It hadn't worked. It was in Soldier's eyes only that he did not see himself reflected as a deformed person. Soldier truly treated him as just another human being, another guy.

But if Soldier did not die in the fire, Menter would have Soldier and him killed to silence them.

“About time to go, Soldier.”

“Damn, ever been caught in a big fire, Woody?”

How had he found out? He's smarter than he lets on. Even he's a phony, Woody thought, glad for the excuse to pass a death sentence.

“No, Soldier. Why you askin'?”

“Damn, I was. In France. The hospital I was in burned down. Lucky I could walk. Damn, a lot of guys who couldn't, they died. I carried some out. It was like carryin' a baby. Damn, they was so scared and holdin' on.”

“Fuck it!” Woody shouted.

“Damn, I'm sorry you didn't like the story.”

Woody drummed his fingers on Soldier's forehead, hearing
the hoofbeats of his staple fantasy of becoming a jockey. Soldier's flesh was cold and slightly moist, like a dog's nose.

“No, no, Soldier, your story is OK. Now listen to me: you ain't gonna start no fires. There's been a change in plans.”

“Damn, some other day?”

“No, never.”

“Damn, we gotta tell everyone else.”

“No.”

“Damn, how come, Woody?”

“Don't ask questions. I give you an order. That's it.”

“Damn, they gonna get hurt?”

“Nobody gets hurt.”

“Damn, I smelled what's in the can. It's dangerous.”

“You think ya start a fire with soda pop?”

“Damn, OK, Woody, I believe you.”

“Now you stay right here,” he said, pounding the bed. “You don't move. Even if you hear fire engines, you don't move. Right here. Understand?”

“Damn, I understand, Woody.”

Soldier stretched out. Back in his own room, Woody opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and felt under the entwined tangle of shirts, socks and underwear. He lifted out a .32 caliber pistol, held it upright by its mother-of-pearl handle, eyeing it suspiciously. The seller, a house robber who specialized in deserialized guns, had guaranteed its lethal accuracy to six feet. He had his doubts. However, it did not matter. The gun would be pressed against flesh. He pressured lightly the gun barrel against his chest and squeezed the trigger. A small click sounded. There were no bullets in the chambers. Now he had the feel.

4:25 AM:
Soldier, prone on the floor, arms fully extended to grasp an imaginary rifle, wiggled toward the door as he had snaked along the earth and barbed wire of Château-Thierry. Outside, he crashed into a public phone booth, dropped a nickel in the slot and dialed.

4:27 AM:
Moshe Catzker, walking past the phone to the bathroom, decided to let Heshele sleep.

“Hello,” Catzker said.

“Damn, don't—” a voice shouted.

“What?”

The caller had hung up.

My readers are deranged, Catzker thought. My profession is becoming dangerous.

4:27 AM:
Woody snatched the phone from Soldier and slammed it into its cradle.

“Who'd you call?” he demanded.

“Damn, I called but didn't talk to nobody.”

He held up the nickel with which he had intended to call the freaks' house.

“See.”

Woody slapped at the coin and said:

“You're a nut case. Now let's go. And no fuckin' tricks.”

“Damn, where we goin'?”

“Back to the store.”

“Damn, why?”

“To lock you in your room.”

“Damn, ah, Woody.”

“For your own good, you nut case.”

4:35 AM:
Fifi rocked herself backward, pressing against the pillows of the couch, and spoke to the group standing in a semicircle before her.

“'Allo Otto, my
Hercule
, Jo-Jo,
le beau chien
, Olga,
ma petite
, Jamie, such pretty mouzess,
sacre bleu
, Albert-Alberta,
mon frère, ma soeur.”

Otto looked down at the gallon containers scattered about like chaotic road markers. The strongman punched his chest.

“
Ach
,” he said, “is noding ve do. Jews make fire in Coney all de time.”

Fifi extended her arms toward Otto, who pulled her upright.

“I walk out wiz you. Today, we all togezer. Zen …” She closed her eyes tightly.

She led them into the street and stood, like a one-person
receiving line, kissing each one and waving them on their way. Walking together, brown shopping bags tucked into their sides, they seemed a bizarre group of successful bargain hunters. At the corner they looked back and waved to her. She climbed the steps. The weakness had worsened. She was not sure she could make it.

5:01 AM:
Moshe Catzker looked at his watch, rolled off his side of the double bed, rested his flat feet on the floor and slowly stood up. If he rose too rapidly, he would become dizzy and his varicose veins would ache, which they did anyway. He was startled by his wife's bloodless, white face. Layers of cold cream, he remembered. Her labored, noisy breathing had bloomed into steady radio static. Nothing more unfeminine than snoring, he thought. As unfeminine as a long, uninhibited fart. If she knew her nose's indiscretion, she would cut it off.

He gathered up his clothes, which lay in a chronological bottom-to-top undressing pile—shoes, socks, shirt, pants, underwear—and carried them to the kitchen. He removed canary yellow pajamas—a gift from a color-blind reader—and dressed, while eyeing the gas range and wondering if it could ignite the flammable liquid he had hidden behind the books in the living room. It seemed improbable, but impossible was another story. He decided against a glass of tea.

He removed the books, one of which was
Moll Flanders
. He had not read it in years and hardly remembered it. Was that Defoe's fault or his? He would reread it and let Defoe know.

He put the can in a shopping bag and walked into the dawn. He shivered. Soon it will be hot enough, he told himself, as his eyes floated overhead to observe Catzker schlepping. To fight fear, he composed:

On a warm summer's morning in the town of——, an ardent youth, Moishe——, hurried toward a crime. He carried a can of gasoline with which he intended to burn down the pawnshop of Katya——, who had stolen all the poor youth's family heirlooms.

Being a serious, bright student, he had prepared himself with answers
in the event of being stopped by the police. His would explain that his car had run out of gas and he was on his way to remedy the situation. On the tip of his tongue were words that would set policemen's minds at ease: clutch, brakes, tires, the esoteric gear shift. How he would account for the presence of an automobile in mid-nineteenth century Russia was a more difficult task. But the Lord would provide for the righteous. Hadn't Father Zossima taught him that?

The reader may well ask how a young man named Moishe became associated with Father Zossima. Yes, he may ask. But the writer feels himself under no obligation to answer.

Why always jokes? His wife's constant lament brought his eyes back to earth.

Because
, he answered,
if things are a joke, then I am not.
But things were not a joke. Aba was dead and Heshele was in danger.

So kill me
, he thought.
I am not Proust. Am I even Sholem Asch? Probably not. Does that make me worthless? In my own eyes, yes. The world does not agree. That is because it likes jokes. What is the bromide? Deep, deep, down, he's shallow.

He cut across the Norton's Point trolley barn, thinking. By this afternoon Heshele will be out of danger. Nothing else really matters. So much for morality, ambition and literature. Aba, resurrected, smiling maliciously, jabbed a Yiddish thumb and said:
Moishe, we are failures manqués.

5:11 AM:
The pack had been migratory for almost seven months. After Bear had been killed there had been a series of battles to determine the new leader. Victors fought victors while losers healed their wounds. Only the Weasel King, nursing his bullet-torn leg, did not participate. Three days into the fighting, WK, limping slightly, rushed at two snapping gladiators, gripped each in turn by the neck and threw him aside. The new leader had emerged.

WK had led the pack away from the summer dangers of Coney on a trek along lonely areas abutting the Belt Parkway. They ate garbage, rats, mice, cats and an occasional squirrel. Humans stood respectfully rigid as the dogs loped past them.

Now, heading back to Coney, the pack was racing across a dirt-caked, litter-covered field. Lindy, his three legs often leaving the ground to keep pace, skidded to a stop to dig at earth of a deeper color and clean of debris, like a disinfected wound. He unearthed a fleshless skull. Disappointed, he butted it away with his snout. It rolled, coming to rest on the jawbone. The sunrise turned it into a jack-o'-lantern.

5:20 AM:
Joe Baker dreamed a bridge, attached on only one side to land, the other endless, disappearing. In that void was sleep. He blinked his eyes, crossing into wakefulness.

He had no home. He slept in disabled trolleys in the Norton's Point repair barn. A trolley just taken out of service usually had coins wedged into the seats, in dust-filled corners, or even under the coin machine. With these finds and the money people gave him for gargling numbers, he maintained his diet of Devil Dog cakes, Baby Ruth candy bars and chocolate milk. His only other need, a whore at Rosie's, was supplied by Menter for doing whatever Menter ordered in front of a lot of people.

He had been making friends with numbers ever since he could remember. Words stuck in his throat, fought with each other and broke into sharp pieces that cut off his breath. When the ladies at the orphanage had asked him to say words, he could not.

Numbers were like sweet, squashed Devil Dogs. But when he would tell the ladies
numbers
they would just stare at him. Once, a lady whose face looked as if it had been pinched by a giant clothespin, had said:
I understand, it is a revelation
, and then read to him from a book she said was
Numbers
. He had spit on the lying book.

He sat in the conductor's seat and steered the trolley. Suddenly a man carrying a brown bag appeared and walked through the barn. His lips were moving. One, Joe thought. He was the
one
person of the day, bringer of another
one
day.

5:25 AM:
Lohu and Mohu sat on the shoulders of two tall Manchurian sailors, swinging their legs freely, playfully kicking the sailors' chests. They looked down at the Pacific Ocean. Behind, no
longer visible, sat San Francisco. Lohu pointed to the horizon.

“There,” he said, “is Japan.”

Mohu thrust his thumb over his right shoulder, saying:

“And there is Coney Island.”

The twins were the only passengers on the freighter
Namura
, bound for Yokohama with a cargo of scrap metal. Determined to escape setting the fire, the twins had told Haya Takamura, their friend at the Japanese consulate, that they must leave America. At first Haya had been angry, reminding them of unfinished work. However, when they had explained the possibility of arrest, he had relented.

Lohu inhaled deeply.

“It is a very great pleasure to remove the stink of the white man from one's nostrils.”

“We should be given a medal for spending so long among them,” Mohu said.

“I am sure we will get a medal. We have done as we were told. That is rewarded.”

Haya had praised their photographs, taken on their many carnival tours, of potential targets which would be of great help if, as the rulers of Japan suspected, the United States attacked Japan.

The twins laughed and struck their palms against the sailors' shoulders like jockeys rating a horse. In apparent response the sailors moved forward until their stomachs pressed against the guardrail. The twins giggled. They seemed to be flying over the ocean.

The sailors bent over the rail, put a large hand on each of the twins' buttocks and flipped them forward. They fell shrieking into the ship's heavy swell, disappearing quickly, as if under a magician's cloak.

5:30 AM:
Commissioner of Parks Robert Moses opened his eyes to the color splash of the russet drapes in his Gracie Terrace apartment, cursing the restlessness that had denied peaceful sleep. He sat up and looked at his wife, Mary, asleep in her bed. How old she has gotten. How coarse. She could be one of those hatchet-faced
reformers or social workers who complained that his parks were not sited in Negro neighborhoods or where poor whites lived. Neglect, they said. Neglect, hell! What would filthy Negroes or dumb Swedes do with parks? Piss in them or fuck on the benches like monkeys or rabbits. If the reformers wanted green for their wards, let them use paint.