Coney (27 page)

W
ALKING HOME,
H
ARRY WONDERED AT
W
OODY'S SUGGESTION.
E
VERYONE
swore that the dwarf always had an ulterior motive, but what could Woody gain by sending him cross-country? Perhaps to visit the friends he had mentioned, who were fellow bookmakers or worse. Would it be a dangerous mission that defied even the
FBI
? The idea appealed to him, but he needed to be wary of being set up as a fall guy. He must outfox Woody, the fox.

Entering his house, he was surprised to see his father, mother and Aba. Usually by early Saturday evening they were on Second Avenue, having a drink before seeing a play or sitting with friends in a cafe.

“Ah, Heshele,” his father said, “I'm glad we caught you. Put on your best clothes, you are coming with us to witness history.”

“Ils ne passeront pas!”
Aba shouted, raising a fist over his head.

Something French, Harry thought, maybe Fifi should know.

“Lafayette, we are here,” he said, fitting in.

Aba and his father laughed.

“Not Lafayette, Heshele,” his father said, “Asch.”

“What is Asch?”

“Indeed, what is it?” Aba answered. “It is an apostate, with the talent of a flea, who has chosen to lick the boots of the goyim for profit.”

“Huh?”

His father beckoned Harry onto the couch beside him.

“There is a Yiddish writer named Sholem Asch, who has written a book called
The Nazarene
, in which he paints a glowing portrait of one Jesus Christ. The book is a best-seller. He is making a fortune.”

“Blood money, Jewish blood,” Aba interrupted.

“Yes,” his father continued. “Tonight, as is Sholem's habit, he will dine at the Cafe Royal. But tonight he will not dine, because when he tries to enter, the Yiddish writers and actors will stand in front of the Royal, hands joined, barring the apostate from their presence. And you will see it. No, better, you will lock hands between Aba and me.”

“That is just right,” his mother said, “a child for child's play. A big moral statement, hah! You're all jealous of the money.”

During the subway ride, his parents became embroiled in a squabble over whether his father should take a second job as a teacher of Yiddish. Harry and Aba moved away to allow them vitriolic privacy.

“
Nu
, American boy,” Aba said, waving an imaginary flag, what have you been up to?.”

“Aba, am I too young to write?”

“Of course not. Rimbaud had written much excellent poetry at your age. What did you have in mind?”

“I'm not sure. I have an idea for a story about a boy, maybe about my age, who is asked to become involved with bad people, maybe even gangsters, like Lucky Luciano.”

Aba's green eyes widened.

“Interesting. What does the boy decide?”

“I'm not sure. See, he doesn't know exactly what they want him to do. He wonders whether he even may be asked to kill people.”

“And could he kill?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then he must say no to these people.”

“But he doesn't know if he will be asked to kill. He doesn't know what he must do until he does it.”

“And how does the story end?”

“I don't know, Aba. The job would let the boy travel all over the country, and he would like that, but …”

Aba's palm rested on Harry's knee.

“Things are difficult to write, if you have not lived them. And since I am certain that all this is foreign to you, why don't you choose another subject. But do write, Heshele, do write.”

In the Cafe Royal a low cloud bank of tobacco smoke lay over tables at which women sat silent while men shouted, gyrated their arms and leapt up to deliver important words directly into a recipient's ear. The language was Yiddish, compressed into a mighty singsong noise; a bastard echo off the crumbling Walls of Jericho.

“Hello Milton,” his father greeted a waiter wearing a tuxedo dotted with a menu of stains. “What do you recommend tonight for the first dish?” Milton, who studied and imitated the expansiveness of the actor patrons, put the tips of his fingers to his lips and kissed them loudly.

“The sweet herring swam in the Garden of Eden. It is my personal favorite. But if you prefer something more substantial, than take the chopped liver with fried onions and
schmaltz
. It is also a personal favorite, but forbidden to me by my stomach.”

“I'll take the chopped liver,” his mother said.

Aba and his father ordered the same.

“And the young Mr. Catzker?”

Harry was pleased that Milton recognized him. In the last two years he had no longer been occasionally invited to accompany his parents to the Royal. His height and general appearance set people to reevaluating his mother's version of her age. She was in a battle with Stella Adler for reigning beauty of Second Avenue. Harry and motherhood were hardly the attributes she wished to project.

As an infant he had been brought often and allowed to crawl on the floor, sheltering under tables.

“Heshele,” Aba had told him, “one day you can boast that you saw the most famous Yiddish feet in America.”

“Milton,” Harry answered. impersonating Edward G. Robinson, a man who knew what was what, “I will also have the chopped liver.”

Milton placed on the table a plate with four round scoops of chopped liver. Each smeared some on a slice of black pumpernickel bread and chewed while Milton hovered, eager for the verdict.

“Excellent.” his father assured. “Such chopped liver my enemies should never taste.”

“Thank you, Moishe.”

“Nu
, Milton, what for a main dish?” Aba asked.

“Everything is wonderful. The goulash, the schnitzel à la Holstein”—he kissed his fingers again—“but for gentlemen and a lady of your taste it must be the roast goose and a good bottle of Magyar wine.”

“Done!” Aba said.

The others nodded. Milton retreated.

“Heshele,” Aba said, “you see all these people here? They write plays and poems. You think that's just noise you hear. No. It's plays and poems. Maybe we could write one, hah?”

He winked, called Milton and, pointing to a distant table, asked: “Isn't that Feibush Steinberg, the impresario?”

“Yes.”

“Please ask him to join us. Tell him I have a theatrical proposition that could prove mutually beneficial.”

Milton spoke to a man considerably older than the three other men who shared the table. The man looked toward Aba, shrugged to his companions and approached.

Steinberg wore a tan cashmere suit, black shirt and red ascot. His large face lay under a domed, shining, bald pate. His features were aggressive: hyperthyroid, black, bloodshot eyes, a wise nose, which sprouted hair from the nostrils, and a gray Vandyke beard that pointed almost straight out, as if to jab.

“Feibush Steinberg,” he said, waving three fingers at the table.

“Won't you join us in a glass of wine?” Aba asked.

“Thank you.”

He sat down.

“Milton said you had a proposition you wished to lay before me. I know you as a poet, Stolz. Have you turned playwright? In any case, I ask, as Diaghilev was wont to:
Amaze me!
”

“Most apt. You see I have this idea for a play …”

“My dear Stolz, I do not wish to be rude, but you must be aware of how many ideas for plays are brought to me each day. I need plays, not ideas.”

“Of course, Steinberg. But as you have noted, I am new at this. A little background will help. I am to be married to the daughter of Druckman, the rich ex-bootlegger. Some call him a gangster, but I think they go too far. My father-in-law-to-be has confessed to me that it has always been his ambition to be involved in the theater. He added that if I would set myself to writing a play, it would be his pleasure to ensure that it was produced.”

“Your father-in-law …”

“To-be …”

“Wishes to invest?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Tell me your idea.”

Aba looked first at Harry and then directly into Steinberg's half-closed eyes.

“I thought it should be a subject that interested Druckman. So I conceived of a young Jew hired by Italian gangsters to do their killing for them. Perhaps it even touches Druckman's own history. The youth travels the country and becomes a sort of traveling salesman of death. A catchy title:
Traveling Salesmen of Death
, don't you think?”

Steinberg stroked his beard

“Jews hired by Italians to do killing is an interesting twist, reminiscent of Babel and even Bialik. But why should Italian gangsters have need of anyone to do such deeds for them?”

“A good question. The answer is relationship. If one Italian gangster is killed, all Italian gangsters in the immediate vicinity are suspected.
Here, the killer does not know his victim, and besides, he is a Jew, and as such is known as a member of a law-abiding people. No connection. No suspicion. The perfect crime!”

Harry stared at Aba. Now, he thought, I really know how amazing is a poet's mind. His father was having a difficult time suppressing laughter, while his mother absented herself by vamping any eye that wandered her way.

Steinberg pulled strongly at his Vandyke as if to test its reality.

“But the fact that this killer is Jewish, is that the only Jewish component? This is the Yiddish stage.”

“Of course, Steinberg, but I thought you would see the analogy with the Maccabees and the Romans. Perhaps not a perfect match, but I will work on it.”

Steinberg's bulging eyes seemed in danger of tipping out of their sockets.

“Yes, well, hmnn … your father-in-law …”

“To-be …”

“I would like to meet him. Here is my card. If he would call me.”

“And I can tell him you are interested in my idea.”

“Yes.”

They watched Steinberg return to his three disciples.

His father, Aba and even his mother, who obviously could flirt and listen, burst into laughter.

“Where,” his father, now thrown into hiccups, gasped, “did you get that marvelous
bubbe-mayse
?”

Aba looked around furtively.

“I had a collaborator, who shall remain nameless.”

“In what lunatic asylum does he reside?”

“In what lunatic asylum do we reside?” Aba replied.

Harry saw Aba's eyes meet his father's. Something passed between them which dampened joviality. Both sighed.

“He is coming! He is coming!” Mishkin, the ex-Berlin soccer player, who had been assigned to spot Asch and race to sound the
alarm, shouted if the Nazarene himself were at hand.

Harry, between Aba and his father, turned left and right, scanning the line which began at the Royal and stretched far beyond. It was a picture that would be in history books! Even his mother, after vowing to remain aloof, had joined, saying:

“How many times does one get to see Yiddish writers agree on anything?”

Excited whispers flew from ear to ear:

“There he is … I see him … Does he see us …?”

It reminded Harry of the movie in which the FBI waited outside the theater for Dillinger.

Across Second Avenue a small figure, huddled in an overcoat, waited through the changing of two red traffic lights, trying to make sense of what he saw. Finally, he crossed the street.

“Apostate!” a voice shouted

He nodded his head, shrugged and turned to recross the street. Feet shuffled. It had been too quick. The culprit had denied them mortified flesh. Then a female voice began to sing the
Hatikvah.
Immediately, everyone joined at the top of their lungs. Locked hands swung back and forth. His father interrupted his monotone screaming to shout to Harry:

“Make a joyous noise!”

Pedestrians stopped. A crowd formed. The choir freed their hands to point at the small, bent overcoat taking tiny steps away. The crowd, ready to play, pointed also. Some sang. One shouted:

“There he is:
M
!”

The song over, everyone filed back into the Royal, congratulating each other. At the table, Aba said:

“We showed discipline under fire. No one broke ranks.”

His father laughed.

“Suppose he comes back tomorrow or the next day,” Harry asked, “how will you know? How will you keep him out?”

“We will not keep him out,” his father said. “We have told him what we think of what he has done. It is sufficient.”

“I thought you hated him.”

“Perhaps we do,” Aba said, “but blood is thicker than walking on water.”

“Harry,” his mother said, her hand designating Aba, her husband and then sweeping the room, “with them, nothing is ever serious. Just jokes.''

T
HE SWEATING MAN'S SKEPTICAL EYE'S NARROWED TO A SQUINT, HONING
his gaze to pierce Harry's forehead and read the truth. He removed a white triangular cloth hat, revealing a bald head sprinkled with brown age spots and laid it next to a stack of sugar cones. Cocking his head left, he said:

“You sure you're not one of them rich kids from Sea Gate, just here for the summer? I've had too many of you pulled outta here by the ears. And their parents cursing at me.”

Harry spoke rapidly: “
I
live on 35th street.
I
go to Lincoln High.
I
know Schnozz and the big talker who runs the kiddie rides, and …”

The man smiled and held up a believing palm.

“
OK, OK
, the pay is fifteen cents an hour. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday you work from six at night to midnight. On weekends you start at noon and maybe go a little later. It depends on the weather. Any problems?”