The Hoods (32 page)

He was an interesting, garrulous old bird. He seemed smart and alert, as if he had been through the mill. Somewhere there was an immediate feeling of mutual liking and trust between us. I guess the old man felt there was a common bond in our faith. Whatever the reason, we felt he was an old friend, and he acted very much at home with us.

Nevertheless, I cautioned him.

I said, “Mr. Schwartz, we are here for some fun. We came here for a little vacation. So, whatever you see or hear—you know what I mean? Do us a favor, a big favor, keep it to yourself, yeh?”

The old man snorted. “What do you think I am, a child or a stoolie?”

I gave him an apologetic smile.

He continued his light chatter as we sat around cleaning our guns. He showed a keen interest as Maxie practiced his sleeve gimmick. Finally he couldn't contain himself any longer. He asked us what he thought was a simple question.

In a casual way he said, “How many people did you boys kill?”

We looked at him aghast. I said, “I think, Mr. Schwartz, you see too many moving pictures.”

The old man said, “Yes, I see movies. I read papers and books, too. I know all about fellers like you. I know what's going on in this world.”

“What kind of books do you read?” I asked the old man to take his mind off his questions.

“I read Hemingway's story, 'The Killers,'“ the old man replied proudly.

I was interested. I said, “I read it. How did you like it, Mr. Schwartz?”

“Fine, fine, very exciting.”

“So?”

I was amused. “Do we look and act like any of the characters in the book—those killers?”

The old man deliberated, slowly sizing us up. He looked at me intently, then at Cockeye and Patsy in turn. He gave Maxie a long scrutinizing look. He shook his head.

“No, not like Hemingway or them moving picture holdupnick killer characters. Not at all.”

We all laughed heartily.

I asked, “Why, Mr. Schwartz? How are we different?”

“Well, I tell you. You boys look nice, not so—sin—”

“Sinister?” I helped him.

“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “Not so sinister. You are more intelligent,” he added smiling, pleased at the opinion he gave of us.

Maxie said, “Thanks for the compliment, Pop.” Maxie hurriedly corrected himself, “I mean, Mr. Schwartz.”

“So, Mr. Schwartz,” I said, “seeing that we are not at all like the killers Hemingway had in the book, and we're not like these moving picture holdupnicks, then you come to the conclusion that we are make-believe phoneys, and not gangsters, right?”

The old man smiled. He said, “No, my friend. My conclusion is moving picture holdupnicks are the phonies and the Hemingway killers were just coffee-pot hangout bums who kill only with conversation. You boys are the real merchandise.”

We laughed.

I said, “Yeh, when I read that Hemingway story I thought the characters were phoney as hell.”

There was a knock on the door.

Max called, “Just a minute.”

He motioned to us to put the hardware in the closet. We jumped to hide the stuff. Patsy opened the door. It was the barber. He burst into the room exuding smiles, hair tonic, and good cheer. He looked like the barber on the label of Pinaud's hair tonic.

I said, “We're having a literary symposium. The class is discussing the resemblance of Hemingway's story 'The Killers' to real gangster killers. What's your opinion?”

“Ernest Hemingway, the writer?” the barber asked. “Ah, he certainly knows his characters. Yes, I read all his works. In his story 'The Killers,' he was perfect, pure genius. By his description I would recognize a gangster-killer on sight. Where do you lads attend school? Princeton?”

I almost choked.

Maxie imitated the speech and manner of one of the killers.

“You're a bright boy, aren't you, bright boy? All we want from you, bright boy, is haircuts and shaves. To hell wit dis guy Hemingway, see, bright boy?”

The charming smile was wiped off the barber's face. In its place came a bewildered expression. He looked from one impassive face to the other. Nobody said a word. Max sat down and gestured the barber to start.

The only sound in the room was the clipping of the barber's shears as he started on Maxie's hair. Even the old man sat quietly smoking a cigarette. I smiled over to him. He smiled back. A nice old guy, this Schwartz, I thought.

He reminded me of my old man a little bit. Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah will be around soon. Before the holidays, I thought, I must pay my respects to my old man's grave. Boy, will Mama and the kid brother be pleased at the large new stone I put on it.

There was another knock on the door.

Cockeye said, “What the hell. It's getting busy by cloaks.” He went over to open the door.

It was a haberdashery clerk. I gave the clerk our order for shorts and stuff.

Max said, “Be sure it's Reis Union-Made underwear.”

The clerk smiled and said, “Righto, old chap.”

I made a mental note of the word “righto.” Everybody, including ourselves, used that goddamned expression, okay, to death. Righto sounded like a limey expression.

Curious, I said to the clerk, “British?”

He shook his head. “No, I was born right here in Joisey.”

He smiled.

“The reason for the accent and the jolly old what, old chap, is the store atmosphere I work in. The name of the joint is Ye Olde London Shoppe, old bean, old sock.”

We both laughed. He left, saying he would be back with the stuff.

“Cheerio,” he called.

After the barber finished all of us, Cockeye stood before the mirror, one hand on his hip, the other patting down his curly locks. He lisped, “Aren't we all thweet and pwitty looking?”

We all mimicked his effeminate mannerism.

Max gave the barber a double sawbuck. He left, completely bewildered. The old man guffawed in delight.

Patsy said, “How about the feed bag? Ain't we entitled?”

Max said, “Okay, we're entitled. As soon as we dress for dinner.”

Cockeye said, “Did you say dreck for dinner?” We ignored Cockeye's vulgar question.

A few minutes later, the Jersey British clerk came in with the stuff we had ordered. Max paid him. He wouldn't accept a tip. That we couldn't understand.

By the time we had finished our showers, one of Mr. Schwartz's boys came in. He was laden with boxes. He barely made our door. Maxie tossed the boy a sawbuck tip. He embarrassed us with his profuse thanks. Mr. Schwartz remained to do the unpacking.

He said, “I can knot a beautiful bow tie for you boys.” As he helped us he rambled on with small talk. He beamed at us like a proud parent. When we had finished dressing, he insisted on inspecting us.

His judgment was, “Now you boys look like nice gentlemen.”

We all went downstairs together. He asked wistfully, “May I visit with you boys sometime again?”

I said, “As long as we're around here, Mr. Schwartz, you're welcome. Would you care to join us at dinner?”

“No, thank you. Enjoy yourselves.” The old man waved and walked down the lobby.

After dinner we walked to the hotel garage and got the Caddy. After driving awhile, we located the casino. Cockeye drove around it a few times to get the lay of the land: it was a low, sturdily constructed wooden building, isolated, surrounded by spacious and luxurious lawns. In the rear was the parking space crowded to capacity with expensive, chauffeured automobiles singing out “dough-re-mi.”

Cockeye rolled into the driveway. A uniformed man opened the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. He handed Cockeye a parking check. Another man in uniform drove the Caddy into a space. We counted ten uniformed men loitering around the building.

Maxie's terse comment was, “Guards.”

We entered the building. The foyer was small. A girl took our hats. Two tall men in evening clothes were carefully sizing us up. We ignored them. One of them came over.

Politely he asked, “Strangers?”

Maxie said drily, “That's why we came—to get acquainted.”

The man led us to the cashier's cage. Maxie took out his money. In a pseudo meek tone he said, “Just to make a few small bets. Purely for amusement. Ten thousand dollars worth of hundred dollar chips.”

Nonchalantly, he peeled ten thousand dollars off his roll and tossed it on the counter.

The cashier was a cool sonofabitch. He wasn't impressed. He only raised his eyebrows slightly. With unconcern he pushed out the stacks of chips. We put them in our pockets.

We entered a large room, the length and breadth of the building. Patsy said, “Class.” That described the furnishings and the people. We hesitated at the entrance, taking a fast count.

I said, “Approximately four hundred and fifty people.”

Patsy said, “It looks like four hundred and fifty suckers to me.”

The men and women without exception were in evening clothes. Maxie looked over the crowd. “About twenty-five are shills,” he said.

I added, “The rest are pure, unadulterated suckers.”

“Plenty of chumps with plenty of kupper,” Cockeye said.

“Just for the hell of it I would like to find the gimmick in their equipment,” Max said as we followed him into the room.

There were about ten card tables along the walls. In the front center of the room was the roulette layout; in the rear center, a nice new dice table. The bar was way off in a corner.

We mingled with the crowd playing the roulette wheel. Patsy stood alongside the croupier. Cockeye took a position behind what our practiced eyes concluded was a shill. I took a station opposite Patsy. The crowd was giving the wheel a good play.

Maxie put two chips each on three even numbers. All bets were laid. The wheel spun round. Maxie lost. He put three chips each on three odd numbers. I did not understand what Max was doing, but from his appearance of concentration, I supposed he was giving the wheel some sort of test.

All bets were placed. The wheel revolved. I looked at Patsy. He was watching the croupier closely. Patsy put on an act as if he were excited at the play. He pushed the croupier to one side. Deftly he slid his hand under the table feeling for buttons and switches. Smilingly he apologized for his clumsy excitement.

On the next play I didn't notice where Max played his chips. My eves were focused on Pat who was moving alongside the shill Cockeye was covering. He gave the same treatment to the shill as he had to the croupier. He appeared excited as he pushed him aside and felt under the table.

On the next play, Maxie didn't place any bets. Instead, making it appear accidental, he dropped all his chips on the floor. Nonchalantly, smiling, with apologies to everybody, he crawled around the table picking up his chips. In reality he was feeling to see if there were any hidden controls under the rug. I saw he was disappointed. He found nothing. Maxie continued playing, testing with all sorts of play combinations, to no avail. He continued a consistent loser.

I was watching the people who were winning with regularity. They were definitely shills. But how they managed it, I couldn't understand.

Maxie quit the game and walked to the washroom. To avoid being conspicuous, we followed him in one by one.

Max said, “The wheel is crooked, all right. But I'll be goddamned if I can see how they do it. You guys found out anything?”

Patsy said, “The croupier isn't controlling the wheel, that's for sure.”

“Yeh,” I said, “it looks like somebody else is.”

Cockeye said, “I saw nothin' with nothin'.”

“How could anybody else control the wheel?” Maxie asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe by remote control somewhere.”

Maxie said, “I dropped more than three grand, the crooked bastards. Let's give the dice table the elzoo.”

On the way we stopped at the bar and had a round of drinks.

The dice table was regulation: green covered felt with a board on the far end for the dice to bounce off. We stood around the table and watched. There were no chips in this game. Straight money was bet and faded. When it came Maxie's turn to shoot, he laid five hundred bucks.

The gimmick in this setup was simple to understand. The slow fading of Maxie's five hundred bucks was the dead give-away: it was a sign he was going to be allowed to win; the shills weren't betting against Max on this roll.

Sure enough, he shot eleven. Max doubled. He laid a grand. He was quickly covered by the shills. We knew Max would lose. They didn't even give a sucker a run for his money. They took no chances. The croupier's assistant threw Maxie the dice. It was a switcheroo. Max rattled. Then he threw the dice. His point showed up. It was a four.

The shills bet with onlookers against. They laid their odds. The assistant returned the dice. Max smiled and whispered to me as he rattled them together, “Bust-outs,” meaning that nine out of ten times a seven would show up. He threw the phoney dice against the board. Seven showed up.