KooKooLand (18 page)

A woman with a French Canadian accent shrieked at Jimmy to call an ambulance, call a policeman, call
somebody
for God's sake. She said a neck injury could paralyze me for life.

Jimmy barked at the woman to quit scaring his kid. He told her to shut her big Frog trap or he'd shove his fist in it.

The Frog beat it.

Jimmy asked if anyone knew a doctor. A lobster-red man said he did, and Shirley followed him to his house to call since we didn't have a phone.

The other people, seeing the situation was under control, wandered back to their blankets.

Jimmy took a swig of his highball, puffed on a Lucky Strike, and stared at me through the smoke.

“Nice going, Quasimodo,” he said. “It was a beautiful day and you had to go and spoil our fun.”

“I didn't mean to,” I told him. “I didn't mean to spoil everybody's fun.”

“She didn't spoil my fun,” Virginia piped up, looking miserable.

“Don't stick up for her, Florence Nightingale,” he said, and turned back to me.

“Just wait. The next thing you know, that Frog buttinsky's gonna flag down a copper and the copper'll show up at our place and maybe he'll see something that's none of his goddamn beeswax. Then he'll drag your old man off to the slammer and it‘ll be all your goddamn fault.”

I felt my face get hot. I couldn't believe he was worried about getting pinched when I might be paralyzed for life.

I hope God locks you up in sing sing for life and throws away the frickin' key!

The second I had the thought, shame washed over me.

What kind of a dirty rat of a daughter was I?

How would I feel if Jimmy really got fingered and it was all my stupid fault? All because I had squealed to God and God had granted my wish 'cause now I was a churchy person that he actually paid attention to.

I asked God to forget what I'd just said. Forget about sending Jimmy away for life. I begged him to just fix my Quasimodo neck instead.

Finally, Shirley returned, clutching a piece of paper with a doctor's address. She and Virginia gathered up all our stuff. Jimmy grabbed the
Racing Form
.

On the way to the car Virginia nervously asked Jimmy if I could really be paralyzed for life.

“Don't be a dummkopf,” he said. “She's walking, ain't she?”

Virginia glanced at my hobbling gait and seemed to have her doubts.

“If Papou was here, he'd just chuck her back in the ocean. Or if Dr. C was around, he'd straighten her out, bingo bango.”

Lucky for me, Papou was many miles away. And Dr. C, our Greek family doctor, wasn't officially practicing medicine at the moment. Not since his license had been suspended for performing a secret operation on a teenage girl while half-lit. An operation that didn't go so well.

Jimmy was half-lit himself as he drove us to the doctor. He ran a couple of red lights and got us there in no time flat.

After a few minutes in the waiting room a nurse came to get me.

“Dr. Skillings will see you now,” she chirped.

“Wooo,” said Jimmy in his Boris Karloff voice. “Dr.
Killings
is coming for you, little girl.”

“There's nothing to be afraid of,” the nurse assured me, glaring at Jimmy.

Shirley clasped my hand and led me into the back room.

Dr. Skillings looked delighted to see a little girl with a pretzel neck.

“This is going to be a piece of cake,” he said. “A big piece of chocolate cake. How does that sound?”

“Good,” I croaked.

He laid me down on his examining table and crossed my arms over my chest.

“Hug yourself tight, honey,” he said.

“Don't hurt me,” I begged.

He smiled and threw the whole weight of his chest down on me.

I heard a crack like thunder. I saw stars like Wile E. Coyote when the Road Runner dropped an anvil on him.

“I'm paralyzed for life,” I wailed.

“No, you're good as new,” the doctor said brightly.

He uncrossed my arms and helped me back up.

He was right. I was a little sore, but I was standing up straight.

Shirley kissed me like I was back from the dead.

Dr. Skillings walked us out to the waiting room.

Virginia ran up and hugged me so hard she nearly smothered me.

Jimmy said, “Looks like you're gonna live after all.” Then he asked the doctor, “So what was it, Doc, her C-5, right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Skillings said, looking stunned. “Are you in the medical field?”

“Nah, I just read a lot,” Jimmy said. “Anatomy, physiology. Mostly for
hosses. But people are a lot like hosses. They both got seven cervical vertebrae.”

“That's right.” Dr. Skillings nodded, impressed.

“The biggest difference between hosses and people is obviously in the brain—people are dumber.”

Dr. Skillings burst out laughing.

He turned to me with a big, toothy smile.

“Your daddy seems pretty smart,” he said. “And I'm sure you're the apple of his eye. So you be careful the next time you go in the ocean, OK? I don't want to see you back here again, little lady.”

I agreed. I didn't want to see his kisser again either.

But, as it turned out, we all ended up right back there the very next day.

An ugly rash had broken out all over Virginia. She had been baking too long in the sun, trying to make tan lines for Tommy and trying to bleach her dirty blond hair till it was no longer dirty, just blond.

“She's got sun poisoning,” Dr. Skillings announced.

“Sun poisoning, my ass,” Jimmy croaked. “The sun's the best medicine there is.”

“Not for this little lady. She's allergic to it. She's got to stay out of it for at least the next two weeks.”

Jimmy was flabbergasted.

“Some vacation.” Virginia pouted.

And that's how Jimmy became, in his words, the first goddamn Greek father of the first goddamn Greek kid in history ever to be allergic to the sun.

T
he big day had finally arrived.

Shirley did her hair in pin curls and Virginia put hers up in OJ cans and I left mine straight and shiny like Victory Bound's mane. Jimmy slicked his back with extra Wildroot and put on his lucky shirt.

Virginia rubbed Sylvester's double paws for luck and I spit on everybody and Shirley spotted two crows, which had always been a sign of good luck ever since she was a girl.

We entered the racetrack through the special back gate. Jimmy flashed his Owner's Pass clipped to his visor even though the guard knew him by now since there were no other cars with a boat named the
Aristotle Onassis
tied to the roof going in and out all the time.

We bumped along the dirt road leading to the barns and Jimmy didn't even complain like he usually did about how that goddamn road was massacring his goddamn shocks.

When we got to the barns Victory Bound was prancing around in his stall like he already knew the race was in the bag. Uncle Bobby had on a clean shirt and Aunt Hazel wasn't complaining about him as much and I barely noticed the horseshit.

Jimmy and Uncle Bobby strapped the saddle on Victory Bound as I patted his mane and rubbed the special white spot above his eyes.

I looked in his eyes and begged him to win. I promised him a gazillion sugar cubes if he did.

The jockey came striding out of the tack room. He was just a little taller than the Munchkins in
The Wizard of Oz
. He was buttoning up the brand-new racing silks that Shirley said had cost an arm and a leg. The silks were black and gold with a big
N
on the back.
N
for Norris.
N
for the whole goddamn Norris family.

That Munchkin was riding for us.

Jimmy and Uncle Bobby huddled with the jockey for a while, telling him
when to take the horse on the inside and when to hold him back and when to just let the sonofabitch go go go. The jockey nodded like they'd told him this a million times before, which they surely had.

Jimmy boosted him up on the horse.

And all of a sudden he didn't look like a Munchkin anymore. He looked like a giant.

And Victory Bound looked like a stallion. His coat was sleek and his muscles were bulging. He held his head up like a champion.

I felt tears rush to my eyes. It was all so beautiful. The horse was beautiful and the jockey on him was beautiful and everything around us was beautiful.

I saw tears in Jimmy's eyes too. He turned and brushed them away.

“If he doesn't win, those poor kids are gonna be heartbroken,” Aunt Hazel said to Shirley.

“Shut up. Don't be a jinx,” said Uncle Bobby.

I spit on Victory Bound to make up for Aunt Hazel's big mouth.

Then we headed to the grandstand. It was packed with down-on-their-luck racetrackers and two-bit gamblers and ding-dong tourists.

“Fifteen minutes till post time. Place your wagers early,” the announcer called out over the sound system.

Uncle Barney was there with a few shopping bags, trying to move some merchandise to the ding-dong tourists. And Bruce was there with his glassy eyes. And Charlie, the gas station owner who'd given us the free tumblers. And some of the guys who bought pancakes. And Jimmy's other friends from the bookie joint and the Greek coffeehouse and even a few alkies from Nick's Ringside Cafe.

Everybody except YaYa and Papou. YaYa had turned down Jimmy's invitation, but Papou woulda been there except he and Jimmy had had a fight. Jimmy had asked to borrow some dough for our vacation, but Papou had told him to get a goddamn job instead. Papou told him he shouldn't be taking a goddamn vacation if he couldn't pay for it.

“Screw you,” Jimmy had said. “You don't want your grandkids to have a vacation? I'll find the money. I'll go to a goddamn loan shark.”

And that's what he had done.

And here we were.

“It's too bad your folks couldn't come,” one of the alkies said to Jimmy.

“Yeah, too bad,” said Jimmy. “Too goddamn bad.”

“I bet Nick put down a big bet with Tarzan, though,” said one of the guys from the coffeehouse.

“Yeah, he bet against me,” cracked Jimmy, and walked away to place his own bet, dragging me with him.

I shot Virginia a reassuring grin as we left. She looked like a nervous wreck with her scaly red rash.

When we got inside the clubhouse, Jimmy pulled me into a corner.

“I'm betting it all on the goddamn nose,” he announced. “No betting to place or show this time, no covering myself for the short money. I'm betting to win.”

He made me stand in front of him like a shield.

“Hold that,” he said, handing me his just-lit Lucky. He wanted two hands to count out all his dough.

By the look of it, he was planning to wager most of the loan shark's money.

“Don't go anywhere or I'll golf you one,” he barked, and took off without the Lucky.

He got in line at a betting window. There was a shorter line next to his, so I knew that must be his lucky window. When he got to the front, I watched him throw the baloney with the guy selling tickets.

I couldn't see how much he put down. I couldn't see the color of his tickets. He slipped them right in his wallet. All except for one. That one he gave to me.

“Bring me some good luck, kiddo,” he said. “Bring us all some good goddamn luck.”

I clutched the two-dollar ticket as tight as I could. I didn't want to lose it. I didn't want to blow the whole shebang.

Some racetrackers moseyed up to us. They'd been tailing us but acted liked running into us was just a happy accident. They were hoping to get a line on how Jimmy was betting. They didn't know whether he was pulling the horse or juicing it or what. Uncle Bobby was known for pulling and juicing, and it turned out he had just had his license suspended for pulling and juicing. Even if Victory Bound won, Uncle Bobby would have to keep his ass out of the winner's circle and let the ringer pretending to be Jimmy's trainer take his place.

Jimmy told the guys everything was on the up-and-up, but, as for winning, he just wasn't sure. The horse hadn't finished all his oats last night. The racetrackers looked concerned about the oats. Jimmy acted concerned too. He didn't want those racetrackers spreading the word that the horse was a sure thing and then killing his odds, cutting into his big payday. I did my part and looked concerned too, even though I knew that Victory Bound had gobbled down all his oats and practically eaten the bucket they were in.

Jimmy was on the move again. I dodged trash cans and weaved around
people to keep up with him. I was still holding his cigarette butt, which was barely an inch by now and nearly burning my fingers. He snatched it back and sucked down the last few puffs without frying his lips.

We stopped again so Jimmy could shoot the baloney with some more racetrackers. I rubbed my two-dollar ticket and repeated to myself: Victory Bound's a winner. Victory Bound's a winner. Victory Bound's a winner. Victory Bound's a winner.

Four times.

I looked over and saw Shirley standing at a window to place her bets. She was hiding behind a crowd of ding-dong tourists, trying to keep Jimmy from spotting her.

Shirley was always trying to hide her betting from Jimmy. Because she mostly won and he mostly lost, Jimmy always wanted her to make him whole. He'd ask her to show him how much she'd made, then proceed to peel off most of it, leaving her a few bucks to buy groceries. To protect her earnings, Shirley had taken to pretending she was going to the ladies' room and hiding most of her winnings in her underwear. Jimmy complained that women were always going to the damn bathroom 'cause their bladders were too damn small, but Shirley blamed it on all the watery racetrack coffee she was drinking between highballs.

Jimmy snapped his fingers at me and we were off again.