The Hoods (63 page)

I felt terribly empty, lost, forlorn. We cried and we cried. Sobbing openly, I staggered out to the front bar and told all the patrons to please go home. I locked the door after they had left.

Moe and I each took a bottle off the shelf and began drinking. We took our shoes off and sat on the floor.

I said, “You and I, Moe, are going to sit shiva for my mother, Maxie, Patsy and Cockeye, right here, all week on the floor, in the orthodox Hebrew fashion.”

Then I realized I had missed my mother's funeral. I wailed the louder and vowed to sit shiva all week right here.

Drunkenly Moe murmured, “Yeh, Noodles, me and you will fast and pray and sit shiva here on the floor all week.”

We sat there on the floor in the back room, crying and rocking back and forth in the age-old fashion, beating our breasts and giving full sway to our emotions, pouring out our deep grief in loud wails of anguish. When the two quart bottles were empty, we fell into a fitful slumber.

It must have been hours later, I sat up. Day was breaking. Moe was lying on his back snoring loudly. I was numb all over. I was in a confused state. My head was pounding away. Gigantic generator wheels were whirling inside and screeching the monotonous refrain, “Money, money, money, where's the money? Money, money, money, a million dollars, cash money. Four trunks of money. Where's all that money?”

I staggered to my feet. That burning, driving itch in the pit of my stomach renewed itself, and spread fiercely through every part of me. Every nerve in my body shouted, “Money, money, money, a million dollars' worth of money,” until the refrain poured out of my lips, and I started shouting that sing-song chorus, “Money, money, money. A million dollars' worth of money. I got to look for my money. My million dollars' worth of money, my four trunks full of money.”

Like a madman I dashed out into Delancey Street again. An astonished milkman and his startled horse both stared at me as I stood in the middle of the gutter shouting, “Money, money, money. Where's my four trunks full of money?”

Abruptly I came to. I realized I was acting crazy. I said to myself, What the hell am I doing? I got to get hold of myself. Nobody knows about the money, about them trunks, only I. I got to go looking for them, sensibly and systematically. If I keep acting crazy, everybody will go looking for my money.

I kept repeating to myself, keep calm, Noodles, take it easy, old boy, as if I were two persons. I did a silly thing. I walked over to the milk wagon; the alarmed driver backed away. I took a quart bottle of milk out of the wagon and poured half of it down my burning throat. The milkman kept staring at me. It irritated me. I flung the bottle at him. It missed him by inches. With a frightened yell he ran down the street. The horse neighed, and trotted after him. They disappeared down the street.

I felt a little better. I walked down deserted Delancey Street. I walked, not caring or knowing where. The morning air cleared my head a bit. I went into a small coffee pot and drank three cups of steaming black coffee. I took a cab and went to my hotel. I had a cold shower and changed into fresh clothes and went out on my search.

First I canvassed every truckman and moving man in the East Side. I asked the same questions over and over again. “Did you haul four large trunks recently? Did you know of anybody that did?”

I offered a thousand-dollar reward for any information. I wanted to make the reward larger, but then I thought it would arouse too much talk and interest.

Then systematically I took a small area at a time and ferreted out the local storagehouses. To no avail. For a week I trudged on foot. Then I hired a cab by the day, and went frantically from one part of the city to the other, following every meager clew. I lost valuable days by that method of search.

Then the shocking thought came to me. I had not attended my mother's funeral, or Maxie's, Patsy's or Cockeye's. Were they already buried? I made inquiries. I was too late. I cursed myself for my heartlessness and neglect. I almost got myself arrested by trying to claim Maxie's clothing and personal belongings. I thought I might find a clue among his remains.

I continued my anxious search. I scoured the back room of Fat Moe's from top to bottom, seeking keys or receipts with unavailing thoroughness.

Fat Moe warned me to stay away. Tough-looking strangers had asked for me.

“To hell with them,” I said.

In my despair, I hit on what I thought was a good idea. I went to a small Broadway detective agency. They asked me too many pertinent questions. Many too many. What did they contain and so forth.

I felt I could not trust my questioner. I told him to forget the matter. He said, “Glad to.” I guess he took me for some kind of a crackpot. In fact, I went to so many places and asked so many silly questions I began to feel like a crackpot. I found myself haunting the same warehouses over and over again, making a nuisance of myself. I went into one big warehouse flashing a New York police detective badge and demanded to inspect the books and premises. The manager refused me, insisting on a court order. I was getting desperate. I went into a place one night, and hit the watchman over the head and searched the warehouse.

Weeks and weeks went by. Finally I felt beaten. I went into Fat Moe's and stayed there all day. I drank heavily to overcome my miserable hopelessness. The ghosts and familiar objects about the place drove me crazy. I chased all the customers out and locked the door. I paced up and down. I began to rave and think again, “A million bucks lying around somewhere, goddamn it, but where? Where could Maxie have shipped those trunks? There are hundreds and hundreds of warehouses in the five boroughs. To an out-of-town warehouse maybe? Maybe in a flat or a basement of an apartment building? God almighty, where could they be? Is this going to be my punishment? To spend the rest of my life wearily looking for those trunks? That bastard Maxie, to do this to me. May his soul bum in hell and be tortured the way I am being tortured. I cursed Maxie with every foul epithet I could think of.

A loud banging on the door interrupted me.

I said to Moe, “Who the hell is that? Chase the bastards. It bothers me.”

“Somebody has been knocking on that door for some time,” Moe grumbled. “I told them we're closed. They won't stop.”

“I'll chase the bastard quick,” I growled.

I staggered to the door.

I opened it and shouted into the darkness. “You guys don't get the hell away, I'll—”

That was as far as I got with my threat. From behind a pair of arms grabbed me like a vise. I knew who it was. Only one person had that herculean strength. I was helpless; my chest and arms were about to crack in that awful grip. I forced myself to gasp out, “Muscles, for Christ sake—Muscles, let up.”

Muscles laughed out. “You recognized my strong grip, hey, Noodles?”

“Your strong breath, you stinking bastard,” I panted.

He tightened his grip. I couldn't say another word. I was paralyzed from head to foot. I cried out in pain. I felt as if I was being broken in half. Hands went through my pockets and took my knife and gun away. Muscles picked me up as if I were without weight and carried me to the back room. He dumped me on the floor.

The lights were switched on. For a moment I was blinded by the brightness. Then, from my prone position on the floor, I looked up. My heart sank into my belly. In a complete circle, surrounding me, were Muscles, Trigger Mike, and Mendy, leering down at me. I knew I was doomed. This was it. This was the ace Combination killer squad that operated all over the country. The super police force for the upper echelon in the Combination. I knew what they wanted with me. I was sick with fear. This was the end, but I vowed I would never show it.

I got to my feet, looked around at them defiantly. I snarled at Muscles, “Some day I'll cut your goddamn arms off.” He lunged at me.

Mendy barked, “Lay off, Muscles.” Muscles muttered, “I'll break him in half, the rat.”

“I'll cut your tongue out for that, you friggin bastard.” I spit on him; my venom seemed to impress him. He backed away.

“All right, Noodles, cut that out, we know you're a 'man,' and we'll treat you like one, if you'll come along quietly,” Trigger said.

“What's up?” I bluffed.

“Oh, the regular 'business,'“ Mendy smiled benignly at me.

My feet almost collapsed under me.

“Why am I to get 'the business?”

I tried to sound angry.

“We hate to say it, Noodles,” Mendy said, “but they got the proof you're the guy that blew the whistle on Maxie and the rest of your friends.”

My heart stopped. I said weakly, “Who said so, Mendy?”

“Well, the board discussed it pro and con; they figured it was queer you wasn't with Max—”

“Why explain it to the rat?” Muscles cut in.

“Look, Muscles, if I want to explain it to Noodles, I'm not asking you. Okay?” Mendy growled surlily.

“Go ahead and waste time. I got a date with a broad.”

“You and your dates,” Mendy snapped sarcastically. “What tomato is going to be seen with you? Besides, we got a job to do, and if a guy wants to ask a few questions before he gets 'the business,' especially a guy like Noodles, I'm going to answer him.”

“Okay, okay, go ahead and waste time,” Muscles grumbled.

“Thanks, Mendy,” I said. I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Just because I wasn't there doesn't prove anything. Why didn't they call me for the hearing? I could prove I had to go to the hospital, my mother was dying.”

“Too bad,” Mendy said sadly. He shrugged.

“I guess they figured there was no use of your appearing; they had the goods on you.”

“Yeh, Noodles, they had you dead to rights,” Trigger Mike added. “You know with their connections all over, they found out you called the Feds on the phone.”

“And you gave them your name. You told them who you were, Noodles,” Trigger said with wonder in his voice. “You must have been nuts to do a thing like that.”

“It could have been somebody else who called and used my name.” I sounded unconvincing.

“Yeh, it could have been somebody who had a hard on for you,” Mendy agreed. He shrugged. “What the hell, I guess they don't want to take a chance. They're pretty sure you blew the whistle. Well, anyway we take orders. We got the contract to give you the business.” He faced me. He threw up his hands in a resigned gesture. “You know, Noodles, orders is orders. Let's get moving.”

He started to walk out.

I had one more hope. I could appeal to the highest authority.

I blurted out eagerly, “I want to see Frank. I want to tell him my story.”

Mendy shook his head negatively.

“Why?” I asked anxiously. “I rate a hearing before him? I'm entitled, ain't I? He listens to both sides of a story.”

“Yeh, you're entitled, but that man is out of the country.”

I felt as if I didn't have a bone to hold my body upright. I was like a mass of weak, spineless, quivering flesh. I don't know how I kept myself from sinking to the ground.

Through the fog of shock and the ringing in my ears I heard Trigger say, “Yeh, Frank went on a visit to his hometown. With a gift. A big clock for the town square with his name on it.”

Mendy echoed, “Yeh, a big clock with his name on it.”

With Muscles holding my arm in a bone-crushing grip, and the other two, one in front and the other behind me, we walked outside and into a shiny black, straight-eight Packard. I was being taken for a ride—a one-way ride. Then I thought: no it couldn't be. They wouldn't give it to me like that. No, the one-way ride is taboo with the Combination. No, they won't stand for it that way any more, to plug a guy in the head and dump the body out into the street. Dead bodies lying around in the gutter make too much noise, too much publicity in the newspapers. That was the old way. No, I'm not going to get it like that. How are they going to give it to me? God, ain't there a way out? I began to tremble. I couldn't breathe. I felt faint. I was going to pass out. Me, Noodles, I can't, I can't. I grabbed hold of myself.

But it all seemed so unreal. I couldn't believe it was happening to me. Me, Noodles, was going to get it. I was out to get the business. Instead of me being at the giving end, for the first time I was at the receiving end. Was it real? Or was this one of my pipe dreams? No, Muscles' stinking breath in my face was too real. I sank into a funk. I cringed back into my seat. I shivered, thinking again how were they going to go about giving me the business? Would Mendy allow Muscles to twist my neck like a chicken until I was dead? Or let him strangle me? No, not Mendy. He's a guy with a heart, not like Muscles. Terror-stricken at the thought, I rubbed my neck. I winced when I recognized the place we stopped. We were on West Street outside of the Combination warehouse. Yeh, here's where I'm going to get the business.

How could anybody do such a thing? Such an awful thing for one human being to kill another. I was horrified. It shouldn't be. Suddenly I laughed. I was brave when I did it to others. Now, look at me— chickenhearted. How was I going to react before I died? Paralyzed with fear? Like the others? Pleading and shrieking in a frenzy of terror? No, not me. I better get hold of myself. I'm Noodles, the East Side tough chick. I better shake out of it. Into a mood. Yeh, a tough angry mood. So when these bastards talk about me later, they'll say, “Yeh that Noodles was a man with plenty of balls.” Yeh, they'll speak with respect. They'll say, “Yeh that Noodles, he had plenty of balls.”