A Cool Breeze on the Underground (8 page)

“Jesus! I can’t see! I can’t see!” Marco screamed as Johnny grabbed Neal and Neal’s mother grabbed the syringe. Marco pulled himself up on the arm of the couch, felt for the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket, and wiped the blood from his eyes. His legs trembled as he made his way over to Neal and backhanded him once and then twice across the mouth.

“You think you’re a man, little shit?”

Neal’s mother watched from inside a fluffy cloud as the men stripped her son and held him down on the couch. Marco had gone at him with the belt for what seemed like a long time when she heard the boy’s first cry and thought she should go to him. But he was so far away.

Ed levine got quiet when he got angry. Graham was straining to hear him.

“Is this dink connected?”

“By a thread. An uncle in numbers. Nobody heavy.”

Graham had forced the story out of Neal, who had finally showed up for work two days late and barely able to walk. He had gently cleaned the boy off, medicating the cuts that threatened to become infected. He had seen some beatings as a kid, but he had never seen anything like this. Neal’s back and legs were a red and purple contour of welts and bruises where the pimp had lashed him with the buckle end of the belt.

“Nobody beats on one of my people,” Levine said.

“Phone call to Mulberry Street takes care of him. They owe us a couple.”

“No. This is personal. I want him for myself. Set it up.”

“C’mon, Ed—”

Levine’s glare ended the discussion.

Joe graham didn’t like it.

Levine had told him to set the guy up and he had set the guy up, but he wasn’t happy about it. Standing in a dark alley with a vicious dope-pushing pimp and his gigantic thug, Graham just hoped that Ed Levine knew what he was doing. Ed Levine was a big guy, but this ox with Marco was a whole lot bigger.

“Where’s your friend?” Marco asked him. The pimp, still decked out in his trademark white suit, was nervous.

“He’s coming.”

“He better be. I don’t like standin’ around when I’m holdin’.”

“I don’t like standing around, period.”

“I hear that.”

Come on, Ed, thought Graham. I hope you’re not slopping down that Chinese food somewhere and forgot about our little appointment.

Marco said, “You don’t mind my friend pats you down. Not that I don’t trust you …”

“Hey, it’s business, right?” answered Graham.

Graham lifted his arms as Johnny carefully and gently checked him for weapons. The guy is a pro, thought Graham, feeling a little more scared and wishing more than ever that Levine had just let the old Italian guys on Mulberry take care of this.

“He’s okay,” Johnny reported, smiling pleasantly at Graham.

“What happened to your arm?” Marco asked.

“I stuck it someplace it didn’t belong.”

“Hope she was worth it!” Marco laughed.

Graham chuckled politely and made a note to add this to Marco’s tab.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Graham turned with relief at the sound of Ed’s voice and then regretted it. Levine was dressed in a three-piece gray pinstriped suit. What, Ed, are you going to rumble or sell them term life?

“How ya doin’?” asked Marco, sizing him up. This did not look like a guy who would want to buy dope.

“I’m doing fine,” Levine answered. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“You got no worries about me, my friend. I’m legit.”

“Your health, I mean. I’m worried about your health.”

There it was. In the air where everyone could feel it. Somebody was going to get hurt.

“Who are you?” asked Marco. He wanted to get right to it.

“I’m the guy who’s going to bust you up bad,” Ed answered in a conversational tone.

Before Graham could move or shout a warning, Johnny came at Levine from the blind left side with a swooping right hook designed to cave in Ed’s jaw. Graham watched amazed as Levine leaned away from the fist and grabbed the wrist with his own left hand, switched his weight to his right foot, and kicked low and hard with his left.

The sole of his foot caught Johnny hard on the side of his planted left knee, and the sickening sound of bone and cartilage giving way as the giant crumpled to the ground with a scream made Graham want to lose his dinner.

Marco began to sweat but forced a smile. “You’re in big trouble, sport. My Uncle Sal—”

“Thinks you’re a sniveling little scumbucket. At least that’s what he said to me at the social club. He doesn’t like guys who beat up little boys, either.”

Graham should have known the punk had a gun. Didn’t they all? He cursed himself for not having checked him in the endless second it took for the pimp to reach inside his jacket to his shoulder holster.

Levine waited until he saw the muscles in Marco’s wrist tense as he grabbed the handle of the revolver. He waited for the exact moment when the forearm lay flat and tight against the chest. Then he stepped back on his left foot, brought his right foot up level with his own chest and then straightened his leg with a lightning kick that hit Marco’s wrist like a hammer on an anvil. Marco’s wrist snapped like a dead branch.

Marco stood, shocked and stupid, his right arm graciously numb and his hand caught inside his lapel. At least he understood now what was going on, although he couldn’t believe this guy was so pissed off about some stupid hooker’s little kid. Credibility came quickly with a sharp kick that cracked two ribs and doubled him over in pain. He was trying to hit the deck when three fists banged into his face with jackhammer speed, breaking his nose and left cheekbone. He felt only relief when his knees crashed onto the concrete. The alley in front of him spun in fiery red and sickly yellow as he heard the little one-armed guy ask, “
Where did you learn that stuff?”

Levine was just reaching his stride, his breathing even and the slightest sheen of sweat beginning on his forehead. Chiding himself for getting out of shape, he did a reverse spinning dropkick that hit Marco flush in the side of the head and sent him flying into an unconscious heap.

“Is he dead?” Graham asked.

“I don’t think so,” Levine answered. He squatted down beside Marco and grabbed him by the broken wrist, squeezing hard. The sharp pain woke the pimp up. “Are you listening to me, asshole? Your career in New York is
over.
You got that?”

Marco listened numbly. An end to physical pain was the height of his worldly ambitions.

Graham had walked out into the street to fetch a cop who had been guarding the alley for them. He was a young patrolman, two years on the force and eager for a good arrest.

“He’s yours and he’s holding,” Graham told him. “Easy felony. Do us a favor, though, and just drop the big guy off in an E Room and lose him, okay? You take care of that other thing?”

“The kid’s mother. Yeah, we sent her out on a bus couple hours ago—one-way ticket.”

“The kid?”

“Wasn’t around.”

“Okay, good job. Go pick up your prize.”

They went into the alley, where the cop surveyed the scene. One mob-type gorilla lay whimpering against the wall, and a very duded-up wise guy, with a face that now looked like pie from the Automat, was kneeling and clutching a hand that was pointed uptown.

“Jesus Christ,” the cop said, all kinds of alarms going off in his head, “are you sure this guy isn’t connected?”

“He got disconnected,” Levine said.

The patrolman none too gently hauled Marco out of the alley.

Graham stopped them on the way out. “Hey,” he said to the pimp, “what happened to your arm?” Then he went over to Johnny, leaned down, and whispered in his ear, “We’re turning you out for one reason. You spread the word. Nobody, but nobody, lays a hand on Neal Carey. Ever.”

“Not while I’m around, mister.”

“Good. Because he’s a friend of the family.”

7

One afternoon when Neal was thirteen, Graham arrived at his place with two packs of football cards, a roll of medical tape, and a pair of small scissors.

He set all this on the kitchen counter and then stood on his toes and inspected the top of the refrigerator.

“You have to clean up here,” he said.

“You’re the only one who ever looks.”

“I brought you presents.”

Neal checked out the items on the counter and said, “I’d rather have
Playboy?

Graham unwrapped the football cards and set aside the two rectangles of flat, powdered bubble gum. He dealt five of the cards out, facedown, like a poker hand, and then handed the five to Neal.

“Look at them,” he said.

“I’m too old for football cards, Graham.”

“You too old to get paid?”

Neal examined the cards.

“Now hand them back.”

Neal shrugged and gave him the cards. Graham merged them back into the rest of the pack, played with them for a minute, dealt out five cards, and handed them to Neal.

Neal looked at them and asked, “So?”

Graham opened the refrigerator. “You got no milk in here, no eggs, no orange juice. So, one of the cards was in the first
and
the second bunch. Which? Don’t look.”

“I’m gonna go shopping this afternoon. I think maybe Roosevelt Grier.”

“You ‘think maybe Roosevelt Grier’?”

“It was Roosevelt Grier.”

“Roosevelt Grier is correct. Let’s play again.”

“Why?”

Graham didn’t answer, but he shuffled the cards, selected five, and handed them to Neal. Neal had looked at them for maybe five seconds before Graham snatched them out of his hand, regrouped the cards, and handed them back.

“John Brodie?”

Graham shook his head.

“Matt Snell.”

“Three more guesses, you might get it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Right answer, but not good enough. It was Doug Atkins.”

Neal grabbed a small spiral pad and pretended to carefully write out a shopping list.

“Okay,” he said, “it was Doug Atkins. What difference does it make? What’s the point?”

“The point is, in our business, you see somebody more than once, you better know it. Point is, in our business, you better develop an eye for detail. Quick and accurate. The point is—”

“In our business—”

“You need a memory.”

Graham resumed his inspection of the kitchen. “I’ll do the shopping. You stay here and memorize these cards.”

“What do you mean, ‘memorize’?”

“Gimme your shopping money.”

Neal went into the bedroom and came out with five dollars.

“Where’s the rest of it?” Graham asked.

“What rest? The cost of living here—”

“Soda, candy bars, magazines … What happened to that budget we made up?”

“It’s
my
money.”

“Give.”

Neal came back with another seven dollars and slapped them into Graham’s hand.

“I’ll be back,” Graham said.

“Yippee.”

Graham set the two large grocery bags down on the counter, put the perishable items in the refrigerator, took the cards from Neal, and sat down. He opened the roll of medical tape, cut ten small strips, and taped them across the names of the players on the front of the cards. Then he held up a card in front of Neal.

“John Brodie.”

Graham held up the next one.

“Alex Sandusky.”

Another one.

“Jon Arnett.”

He got all ten, first try, no mistakes.

“Not bad,” Graham said.

“Not bad?”

“Take another look at them,” Graham said, and he gave Neal a couple of minutes before taking them back. Then he taped over everything but the eyes. He held up a card to Neal

“George Blanda?”

“‘George Blanda?’” Graham mimicked.

“Alex Sandusky?”

“It’s George Blanda.”

“Tricky.”

“Your first guess is usually right.”

They went on this way most of the day. Graham would place the cards in various groups, flash them, and have Neal recite them in order; or show him five different groupings and then ask in which group a particular card had been. On and on, backward, forward, and sideways—until Neal could answer correctly. Every time.

Next saturday. Neal‘s place.

“Jimmy Orr,” said Graham.

Neal closed his eyes. “Five eleven, one eighty-five, eighth year, Georgia.”

“Gino Cappelletti.”

“Six flat, one ninety, sixth year, Minnesota.”

“In the picture on the card, was he wearing home or away?”

“Home.”

“You sure?”

“Home.”

“Home is right.”

“Yeah, I know. Look, Graham, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but football cards are getting boring.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

Next saturday. Graham‘s place.

“Miss April.”

“Thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-seven. Brown hair, green eyes. Likes sunbathing, swimming, and water polo. Wants to be an actress. Turnoffs: tan lines and narrow-minded people.”

“Miss October.”

“Thirty-eight, twenty-five, thirty-eight. Blond, and blue. Five foot five. Hails from Texas. Likes horses, mellow music, and picnics. Wants to be an actress. Turnoffs: pollution, world hunger, and narrow-minded people.”

Graham got the tape out. “Who’s this?”

“Janice Crowley. Miss … some winter month …”

“Which winter month?”

“February.”

“You guessed.”

“But I guessed right.”

“How did you recognize her?”

“Modesty forbids.”

A few saturdays later. Neal’s place.

“I have a new one,” Neal said to Graham as he came through the door.

“A new what?”

“Memory game.” Neal held up the Saturday
New York Times.
“The crossword puzzle.”

Graham looked at it. There was nothing written in the squares.

“So what, you’re going to do the puzzle?”

“I already did.”

“Cute, Neal. Now let’s get to work.”

“It was tough.”

Graham plunked himself down in the decrepit easy chair. “You asked for it, kid. Okay, twelve down.”

“Apse.”

“Where are the answers?”

“Monday’s paper.”

“Thirty-one across.”

“Kipling.”

And so on and so forth, Graham wrote the answers in and checked the papers on Monday. They were all right. Graham told Ed Levine about it, and he told Ethan Kitteredge. Ethan Kitteredge phoned a friend at Princeton, who came up to New York with a bunch of tests. Neal didn’t want to take them until Graham held up three hundred baseball cards and offered the alternative, Neal took the tests and did pretty well.