The Hoods (56 page)

Maxie gave me a reproachful look. I was surprised. I raised my eyebrows and shrugged my indifference.

Max turned to John. “Haven't seen you for years,” he said. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

John told him about his friend who passed away, making Betty the beneficiary, their sojourn to Europe and their final stay in Florida.

“The money is practically gone.” He smiled ruefully. “But I'm back in the office, and—” He leaned over to whisper, “I have something real big, tremendous, all planned for you boys.”

I tried to catch Maxie's eyes, but couldn't. Betty obstructed his vision. She was whispering to him. She practically had her tongue in his ear.

John continued. “We were looking for you all week.”

“We're much too busy for any commitments,” I said. “In fact, we're planning a little vacation down in Florida for a month or so.”

“Business before pleasure, Noodles,” Max snapped.

I was surprised at his tone and mechanical smile. This bitch Betty was affecting him.

John began whispering details about the job. A weekly two hundred thousand dollar shipyard payroll that his office insured or knew all about in some way.

I thought of Eve and how this thing would interfere with our vacation together. This heist sounded like a good thing. It was pretty large, but what the hell did we need it for? Money for money's sake did not mean too much to us. I was annoyed that Max was even listening.

These two, this couple, weren't mentally stable. They couldn't be relied on to stand up under any kind of pressure. They were a couple of queers in every sense. Yeh, we made dough with these two Judases years ago, but now? The hell with them.

Max was all attention. He was listening and nodding his head. What the hell is the matter with his good judgment? I was getting annoyed.

I blurted out, “Look, John, no use discussing it. We're not interested. We won't have anything to do with it. We're too busy. Besides, we're going on a vacation.”

Maxie's face turned crimson.

“When the hell are you giving final orders around here? Since when?”

He leaned across Betty, his face thrust toward me glaring pugnaciously.

I was dumbfounded at the unexpectedness of his answer and behavior.

“You're getting a little too big for your britches, Noodles. Just because you got a good idea once in awhile and I listen to it doesn't mean what you say goes around here.”

Betty gave Maxie a pat on the thigh. Her laugh was what did it. Right in my face, the bitch.

I stood up. I leaned across the table with a more pugnacious manner than Maxie's and snarled, “Okay, you're the boss. You go through with it. But not with me.” I repeated it in his face. “Alone, with the other two morons,” meaning Patsy and Cockeye, “but not with me.”

We faced each other like two fighting roosters.

John broke the tension. “It's a big piece of business to cut up. Enough for everybody.”

I turned on him. I hissed in his face, “Look, you lousy, miserable, friggin bastard, I wanted to cut your throat years ago. One more friggin word out of your mouth, and I'll do it. You and your goddamn friggin whoring wife, the both of you.”

I had the presence of mind to realize in another minute I would be in too wild a state to act sensibly or to speak coherently. I turned around and walked out of the joint.

The same night I packed two bags and barely made the last plane for Miami. I called Eve in North Carolina. She took a plane the following day. I spent the happiest weeks of my life there, two weeks of bathing, sunshine, bliss and a quiet contentment. On the way back North I dropped Eve at her home. I gave her five thousand dollars and instructions to wait until she heard from me. I was in a state of indecision. I didn't know what to do: make a break and quit, or what.

When I arrived in New York, I sent my bags to the hotel, and took a cab directly to the Eden Garden. Shmulie was at the bar.

I asked, “Where's Max?”

He was surprised.

“Didn't you know, Noodles? Maxie sold the joint to me.”

I said, “No, I was in Miami.”

“Yeh, you look all tanned up,” he said.

We had a few drinks, and I took a cab to Fat Moe's.

I dismissed the cab at Delancey and the Bowery. I still wasn't decided what to do. I walked quickly east on Delancey Street, brooding and arguing with myself. I had just come from a land of peace, sunshine and cleanliness where everything smelled good and fresh, with a companion who was sweet, understanding and beautiful, with whom I was completely relaxed.

Now I was back on Delancey Street. Instinctively I tensed. I fingered the button of the shiv in my pocket. I glanced sharply at all passers-by. I was alert and taut. The brim of my hat was pulled low over my forehead. My coat collar was turned up. I assumed my habitual scowl and swagger. Yeh, I was Noodles the Shiv of Delancey Street.

It was no use. This was me, Noodles. It was my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was like a beast of prey who suddenly has the urge to be a lamb and gambol on the green grass in the sunshine.

I laughed to myself. What a shmuck I was. Yeh, a shmuck with ear-laps. To think I could live a life in which one day was the same as the next. This was my life. Why kid myself? This was the East Side; this was Delancey Street of swarming life and stenches. Not for me the golden warm sunshine, the lingering on the white clean sand, and tenderness. Here's where I belong.

And even if I could, would people accept me? Never. I'm tainted. We're all tainted. Look at these people as I pass by. They shy to one side. They give me a wide berth. They're afraid. They distrust me. They whisper behind my back.

He was a bad kid; he is bad; he will always be bad; bad, bad, bad. He's Noodles the Shiv of Delancey Street. Look out for him. He's immoral. He's a thief. He's a murderer.

Yeh, what's the good? The hell with it. This is for me. A shiv in my pocket, a gun under my armpit, and a contempt for everybody, everything legit.

I walked into Fat Moe's. They were playing cards. Max barely raised his head.

He grunted, “So you had your vacation.”

His tone was sarcastic. I didn't answer him. Cockeye gave me a brief nod.

Patsy said, “Hello,” and smiled.

I sat down and poured myself a double hooker. I took the carbon stone out of the drawer, and sat sharpening my shiv. Nobody spoke to me.

I looked at Max. Jesus, did he look lousy! I never saw him look that bad. His hands were unsteady as he dealt the cards. His face was sallow. There were pouches under his eyes. And his eyes, Jesus, how bloodshot! What a change in a guy in three weeks! Boy, does he look dissipated and shot to hell.

Max finally broke up the game by throwing his cards across the room in a fit of temper.

“Friggin cards,” he exclaimed.

He poured himself two double hookers one after another.

“There's been plenty of trouble,” he muttered to me. “Where the hell you been?”

“Yeh?” I continued, sharpening my shiv. We had one goddamn contract after another.” What kind?” I asked.

“Hi-jacking; there's an epidemic. We're going out on another as soon as we get the dope from the driver.”

I nodded.

Max continued. “The Combine is losing plenty of boats, too.”

“Hi-jacking?” I asked.

“Hi-jacking and customs,” Max grunted.

“Well, let the Brooklyn Navy worry about that,” I said.

“That Anastasia has got his hands full,” Patsy said.

He motioned to me. I followed Pat with my eyes. He stood up and started walloping the punching bag. I sauntered over.

“That Maxie,” Patsy whispered between wallops.

“Yeh?” I said.

“He's with that Betty bitch, that masochist wife of John, the Finger, every night.”

“Yeh, he looks it,” I said.

“She knocks hell out of him,” Patsy said.

“That bitch can wear out ten men a week,” I said.

“It drains the brains,” Patsy said.

“Yeh, it drains everything out of a man,” I said.

Moe stuck his head in at the door. He saw me.

He said, “Hello, Noodles.”

I said, “Hello, Moe.”

“Nice vacation?”

“Very nice vacation.”

“The driver, Hogan, is out here,” Moe said. “Let him in?”

Max growled. “What the hell you think the office sent him for? Sure, let him in.”

Moe looked at Max for a moment. He shrugged.

He called, “Okay, Hogan, in here.”

Hogan walked in. He was a squat, broken-nosed, bald-headed Irishman.

Maxie questioned him hurriedly. “You think you could recognize the two punks who hi-jacked you?”

“Yeh, Max, I think I know the two guys who heisted the truck from me. I saw them around somewhere, but where, I don't remember.

Max puffed on his cigar, looking sharply at Hogan. “What were they, Italian, Jewish or what?”

“No, they were Irish, I'm pretty sure. They looked like half-ass heist guys from Hell's Kitchen. A couple of them wild Hudson Duster kids,” he added.

“Did these punks realize they were hi-jacking a valuable load of booze belonging to the Combination?”

“I don't know,” Hogan said. “Them goddamn Irish kids from Hell's Kitchen don't respect the Combination or anybody else.”

There was a faint tinge of pride in Hogan's voice.

“How come the warehouse manager let you ride without a guard?” Maxie asked.

Hogan screwed up his face in a puzzled expression.

“You got me there.”

He lit a cigarette nervously.

“All I know is I got the drop-off address and the okay sign. I shot down West Street on the button. I didn't get far. A car cut me off; two guys jumped out with rods in their hands and took the load away, leaving me standing there like a mope in the middle of the street with my banana in my hands.”

“Who is the manager of the warehouse now?” I asked.

“They still got the same guy, Herring, Mr. Herring,” Hogan said.

“Yeh, I remember him,” I said. “He's a little nervous guy, always coughing and spitting.”

“Yeh, he coughs and spits,” Hogan said.

Nobody had anything else to say. We just sat around quietly.

Hogan looked at our expressionless faces and asked plaintively: “I hope you fellows don't think I was in on this deal? Honest, fellas, that's all I know about it.”

I reassured him, “Not at all, Hogan. We don't accuse you or blame you for anything. All we want is for you to tell us what you know, where we can grab those two punk kids and teach them respect, and get that load back. We don't blame anybody.”

“I know I saw them two guys somewhere,” Hogan said.

He scratched his unshaven jaw. He shrugged his shoulders in a self-disparaging manner.

“God am I a shmuck!” he said. “I can't place them, but it must of been in some 'speak' over on the West Side.”

I asked, “How many 'speaks' have you been to the last few months?”

Hogan kept scratching his blue-black heavy jaw. “Five... six or seven... I guess,” he said.

Maxie stood up impatiently. “Okay, no use talking. Let's get going. We'll mope around here all day and get nowhere. That load was too valuable to lose.”

Patsy added, “And if we catch them, we'll put those boonyets six feet under.”

We piled into the Caddy and shot up to the West Side.

In two hours Hogan led us in and out of fifteen different “speaks.”

The Caddy was humming down darkened Hudson Street, when Hogan pointed excitedly out of the window.

“Yeh, that looks familiar,” he exclaimed. “Pull over! I think that's the joint I seen them in—Fitzgerald's place. That's where some of the Hudson Dusters hang out.”

Cockeye Hymie kicked the car out of gear and shot for the curb like Ty Cobb swooping for home plate.

With Hogan leading, we walked into the speak.

Fitzgerald's was a typical Hell's Kitchen speakeasy. It was a large place, furnished with just the bare necessities: a long bar and a few tables and chairs scattered about in the rear. It had a tough-looking waterfront atmosphere. The clientele consisted of about twenty assorted longshoremen, truck drivers and minor hoodlums, predominantly Irish. They looked us over with insolent casualness as we made for a vacant table in the rear. Hogan looked around.

He said, “Nope they're not here, but this might be the place I seen them in.”

We ordered double hookers.

Hogan commented confidently as he sipped his: “Yep, this is the joint I seen them in. I'm pretty sure now.”

Wearily Maxie said, “Okay, we hang around awhile. Maybe you know what you're talking about and them two sons of bitches will show up.”

We sat around drinking and making desultory conversation for what seemed hours. Every so often, a few new guests arrived. Our patience was finally rewarded. Two young men, slightly intoxicated, swaggered into the room and up to the bar.