The Hoods (14 page)

All this time none of us spoke a word. We shot down to the rear entrance of Lutkee's Baths, walked stealthily into our rooms and undressed. Then we walked into the baths proper. It was nine-thirty a.m. At that hour, the baths are deserted. The attendants had finished their morning chores and had made the place ready for the evening trade. They had gone to their rooms where they retire, for they are on call any time of day.

Only Lutkee was there, waiting for us. He whispered, “Okay, Max, everything is set.”

He pointed to the big wall clock. It read twenty minutes after eight.

Lutkee asked, “How is it, Max, all right? I set it back an hour and twenty minutes.”

Max nodded. “How about the clock in the barber shop?”

Lutkee said, “It's fixed the same way.”

Max said, “Fine, fine. Okay. Wake up a couple of attendants and the barber. Tell them we're just getting up. Wait a minute.”

Max put his arm on Lutkee's shoulder.

“Have these guys got watches, pocket watches, maybe?”

Lutkee smiled.

“Yes, but I have them locked up in my safe with the rest of their belongings. They have to depend on me and the wall clock for the correct time. Everything is all right, I assure you, Max.”

The drowsy attendants and the barber came out of their rooms grumbling. When they recognized us, they perked up, anticipating large tips. We all had alcohol rubdowns and shaves. Every so often one of us asked the attendants or the barber for the correct time to fix it in their minds. As Maxie planned it, if we were picked up as suspects, we would have plenty of reputable witnesses to the fact that we were miles away from Forty-fourth Street between the hours of eight-twenty and nine-twenty.

When we finished our toilet, each of us threw the attendants and the barber a sawbuck apiece. They were profuse in their thanks. They went back to their rooms.

“Fat Moe's, Max?” Cockeye asked as we piled into the Caddy.

Big Max nodded.

Max unlocked the rear door of our speakeasy. We walked in. With sighs of relief we sat around the table.

Fat Moe came in with a tray of double hookers. He beamed over us. He set our drinks down at our elbows.

“I heard you guys come in,” he said.

Max picked up his drink, swallowed his four ounces of rye in one gulp, sighed with contentment and asked, “Any messages, Moe? Anybody been around?”

Moe looked us over with an understanding eye. He shook his head. “Not a one,” and went back to his trade at the front bar.

Max took a handful of Coronas out of the box in the drawer of the table. He tossed us each one. We lit up. We sipped our doubles slowly and smoked our cigars.

We felt in an expansive mood. We had just pulled off a profitable piece of business with just enough excitement in it to leave us quietly elated.

Since Cockeye had not been upstairs during the heist, he was curious about it. Maxie gave him a brief review.

Patsy grinned at me across the table.

“Why don't you tell Cockeye about the tomato you were rassling with? That excited filly had some pair of shafts, hey, Noodles?”

I smiled sheepishly.

Pat continued. “Cockeye, you should have seen the guy's face after Maxie got through with it. Even his wife couldn't look at it except maybe on payday.”

With each drink Moe brought in the tension slowly flowed out of us. Each remark seemed clever and hilariously funny.

Yes, we felt exhilarated, like any group of ordinary men after completing a business venture successfully.

“And what a nose on the guy,” Maxie said laughing. “It was so long, if it was full of nickels, he could retire.” After the laughter subsided, he continued. “You know, this heist was done with real craftsmanship. The Professor would have been proud of us.

“Remember his four points to a successful heist?”

Max enumerated them. “First, the Finger must be reliable. Second, the transportation must be fast and safe. Third, and most important, the action must be quick, hard and brutal. You know,” Max reached for another drink, “I almost forgot the fourth point. You must plan in advance a perfect alibi.”

He looked around with a satisfied smile. He was looking for approbation.

I winked and said, “Yeh, the Professor taught us a lot. How about chow? Ain't nobody hungry?”

Max said, “Yep, it's a good idea. I forgot all about food.”

He sent Cockeye out to Katz's. At the door Cockeye turned and asked, “What kind?”

Patsy called out, “Four hot pastramis for me.”

Maxie smiled.

“I'm not very hungry; just two hot pastramis and two hot corned beefs for me.”

Cockeye said, “Me for a half dozen hot dogs. How about you, Noodles?”

My mouth watered as I replied, “Two tongues and two hot corned beefs for me.”

Waiting for Cockeye to come back with the sandwiches we lapsed into a satisfied silence, smoking and drinking. My thoughts drifted back to the Finger's wife. Maybe I should have dated her? Nah, she's too much for any man, even me. The hell with her kind. I laughed inwardly. Three or four different normal women a week is enough for me. I have plenty of excitement. I stretched out in my chair, satisfied with myself and everything around me. I began daydreaming. I tried to eradicate John's wife from my mind; to make myself relish the thought of the profit on the diamond heist instead. It was no use. My mind snapped back to her passionate antics and her obscene promises. It started me off into a short spasm of quiet giggling.

My companions looked at me curiously.

Maxie said, “What, again? Looks like Noodles is going off his noodle.”

It was a good thing Cockeye came back from Katz's with the sandwiches just then. I felt a real laughing jag coming on. We made a grab for the sandwiches with the same air of anxious, happy excitement as when we were kids. The only difference was that nowadays we had enough do-re-mi to buy all the hot meat sandwiches we could eat. It was a comfortable feeling.

We kept Fat Moe busy bringing in tray after tray of cold beer to wash down the sandwiches. Cockeye wolfed his six hot dogs, took his harmonica out of his pocket, tilted his chair against the wall, tapped the harmonica vigorously as usual, and in a slow tempo softly played “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby.”

Maxie gulped his last bite hurriedly, took a swig of beer and caught Cockeye on the second stanza. His mediocre baritone harmonized perfectly with Cockeye's playing. Everything Cockeye did, he did well. He was a virtuoso with the harmonica. To us, it sounded like a symphony orchestra. Cockeye and Maxie swung into “The Sheik of Araby,” then “Dardanella.” They stopped singing after awhile. Cockeye continued playing one old ballad after another, bringing on a feeling of nostalgia, for the old days when we were penniless kids, harmonizing together in the Jackson Street park.

Our chairs were tilted comfortably against the wall. Our cigars smelled sweet and aromatic. Our beer tasted just fine. Our bellies were full. Our world was secure and right. Over Big Maxie's face came such a look of contentment and satisfaction as I have seen before on only one face: on the face of a young, passionate widow, whose late elderly husband had been effete for many years, after I had been the first to completely satisfy her.

There was a general air of solid peace and tranquility in the back room of Fat Moe's. One by one we dozed off. The only sound in the room was Cockeye's wheezy snoring. Then like a keen axe in the hands of a lumberjack, the sharp ringing of the phone cut into our peace and left us coldly businesslike and alert.

Max picked up the receiver and snapped, “Yep—yep—yep.”

For about two minutes he listened, then he continued with his “Yep —yep.” A final “yep” and he hung up.

We looked at him, curious. Max took his time, lit his cigar, blew out a mouthful of heavy smoke, threw the match on the floor and commented casually. “That goddamn kid, Vincent Coll from the Dutchman's mob up in the Bronx, the kid they call the Mad Mick, is on the rampage.”

I said sarcastically. “So was that so important? Who the hell is he?”

Maxie said, “That isn't all. The office told me the kid persuaded thirty of the Dutchman's mob into joining him.”

Maxie took a puff on his cigar and continued: “The kid swore he would knock off the Dutchman and anyone of the Combination men who got in the way. The Dutchman offered fifty grand to knock the kid off.”

I whistled.

Patsy said, “Jesus Christ.”

Cockeye jumped up, excited. “Shall I get the Caddy, Max? Do we go into action?” he demanded.

Maxie shook his head.

“Nah. Every mob in town will be competing for that jackpot. That stupid kid has as much chance bucking the Combination as a cow has stopping a forty-car freight train.” Maxie chuckled. “And that ain't all.”

Patsy asked, “What else? What's the joke, Max?”

“The kid's got a sense of humor. He snatched Big Frenchie and clipped one ear off and sent it down with a note asking eighty grand.”

Maxie laughed and continued: “And tomorrow he promised, if he didn't get the dough, he'd send Frenchie's pecker down in a hot dog roll.”

I asked, “With or without mustard?”

Max ignored my crack.

He continued: “The office told me just to be on the alert. I guess we sit this one out, unless we get other instructions.”

Moe came in with a tray of double hookers. We played Greek rummy with two decks of cards. Cockeye was ahead five hundred bucks after a couple of hours.

I began feeling tired. I pushed my chair back and said, “I'm pooped. Guess I'll hit the hay.”

“That's a good idea. Let's all of us pack in and pound the pillow early for a change,” Max nodded approvingly.

“Noodles is going home early to pound a blonde,” Cockeye said waggishly.

“No, not tonight,” I assured Cockeye as I walked to the door.

“Hey, Noodles,” Cockeye called after me.

“Yes?”

“I don't like to get personal, and pry into your private sex life—but —is that true what they say about you?”

I looked at Cockeye, and wasn't sure whether I should feel offended or not. But I was curious to know what they were saying about me. I walked back to the table and sat down.

“Well, Cockeye,” I began casually, as I lit a cigar, “you are getting personal, but let's hear it. What do you want to know about my private sex life?”

He acted embarrassed.

“Well they say—” he faltered.

“Go ahead, since when did you become bashful?” I said.

I smiled patronizingly at him.

He started off again. “They say you get yourself a different broad in your place every night in the week.”

“A different one every night in the week?” I questioned. “It's gross exaggeration; no, I'm not that good.”

I smiled reflectively.

“Maybe a different one every other night might be true.”

“Yeh, Noodles, they say you're quite a Casanova,” Maxie arched his eyebrows roguishly, “a Broadway Casanova.”

“So, what do they call me now? Noodles the Shiv and Broadway Casanova?” I said drily, “That's an awkward title, ain't it?”

We all laughed.

Patsy said, “Even a different broad every other night is pretty good.”

He thought awhile.

“Three a week for ten years is—” He looked up at the ceiling to do his mental arithmetic.

He whistled.

“Jesus, it adds up to about 1500 different women.”

Maxie commented with a droll inflection. “Noodles is a better man than Solomon was.”

“Yeh, I got a bigger flock to pick from,” I said drily. There's a million women loose around Broadway every night.”

The silly conversation began to pall on me. I got up to go. “But tonight the only thing I will pick up and take to bed with me will be a good book.”

“With what book?” Cockeye chaffed, “Horatio Alger's
From Rags to Riches
or
Diamond Dick?'

I smiled. “That's for you, Cockeye. The Professor graduated me out of that class years ago.”

I took a cab to my rooms at the Fortune Hotel. On the way I stopped at a newsstand and picked up all the late papers. I looked through them to see if there was anything in about the heist. There was nothing. Not even a line. I was disappointed. Vaguely I wondered about it. There should have been a story about it.

I was tired. I took a shower and lay in bed thinking about John's wife. An unbelievable character if there ever was one. I wondered what made her that way? Why was she so abnormal sexually? Particularly under such circumstances. Boy oh boy, Peggy was a nymphomaniac, but this one—Jesus—she makes Peggy look like a cloistered nun. I wonder if it's something mental or something physical? Evidently, she gets into that state only when she sees somebody getting beaten, or when she herself gets smacked around. The normal person's reaction to an incident like that would be fear or pain. She registers a terrific sex desire. Yeh, I'll bet it's a short circuit, wires crossed somewhere in her nerve reaction set-up.