Coney (3 page)

“It is and it ain't. So
I
is and you ain't,” Menter answered, smiling at his own wit. “
I
don't know who we're going to meet.
I
know one, but there might be others. Don't sweat it. Nobody expects you to dress up. When you do, you look like a circus act. Tom Thumb or something.”

The car turned onto Surf Avenue and moved past rows of tar-shingled bungalows that lay like Kafka's village under the heaven-seeking rides of the amusement area. Grime-specked yellow windowshades seemed dreary symbols of common purpose, perhaps a luckless fraternal order. The streets were abandoned to the Atlantic's sadistic wind, save for the outdoor counters of Nathan's Famous, a frigid oasis where a few men, turned turtle inside upturned collars, wolfed down hot dogs in two bites and bolted.

“What a shithouse,” Menter said. “Ain't nothing here worth a shit, except maybe Dr. Couney's premature baby hospital. And I ain't sure they ain't some kind of freak show neither.”

His voice, tinged with a hint of a brogue, was high-pitched, as though yet uncracked by adolescence.

Woody nodded, saying:

“I was there once. You pay a quarter and they lift up those preemies behind a glass to show you. Christ, they don't weigh more'n a pound. Look like cigars with hair. You can't believe they're alive. Nobody can tell me they won't grow up to be freaks. Some chance.”

Menter shook his head vigorously.

“Couldn't agree more. Don't know why you'd want to fuck with something that nature said should be dead. It's unnatural. Fact is, they'd be better off dead than growing up to be freaks.”

The car glided past the borders of Coney and Brighton Beach and onto Ocean Parkway, a wide boulevard lined with tall trees, six-story apartment houses and neat two-family wooden and red-brick homes that ended at Prospect Park. Following the park's serpentine road, they exited at the Grand Army Plaza's replica of the Arc de Triomphe. From there, the red, green and white lights of the shops and movie palaces of Flatbush Avenue Extension marked a wide runway to the Manhattan Bridge.

Halfway across the lower deck of the bridge, the car skidded slightly on the snow-slick metal grating.

“Wheee,” Menter laughed, “take us on the Bumper Car, Vince.”

The chauffeur squared his back.

“Sorry, Mr. Menter,” he said.

“It's OK Vince, I like it. Might even be fun to have a little accident so we could kick some kike's ass.”

Woody put his hand on the chauffeur's shoulder, saying, “The right still dynamite?”

Vince lifted his right hand from the wheel and bent his arm
back, flexing his biceps. The dwarf hopped off the seat and stretched to feel the muscle.

“Wow. It's as hard as Papa Dionne's cock.”

They all laughed.

“Papa Dionne's cock,” Menter said, “that's pretty good. Where'd you hear it?”

“Made it up myself.”

“Bullshit.”

“I swear I did!”

“Woody, don't get too big for your short-ass britches. Nobody likes a smart-ass.”

They drove on in silence through the gray-smudged late afternoon and parked in front of the Flatiron Building on Fifth Avenue and 23rd Street. The chauffeur unlocked the trunk and lifted out a wheelchair. Setting it beside the car, he opened the rear door, cradled Menter in his arms, eased him into the chair, and pushed him through the lobby to an elevator. Woody trotted to keep pace.

“Fourth floor,” Menter said to the acne-ridden operator.

They stepped into a long, narrow corridor lined with identical wooden doors, halved by opaque glass. Wide black characters identified room numbers and sometimes the enterprise. The cracks of the narrow-slatted pine floor guarded years of miscellaneous dirt. Splattered ink stains suggested sooty snowflakes. The stagnant air smelled like a room which, opened after years of disuse, releases a hoarded mix of rancid odors.

Menter said: “four-oh-eight.”

The chauffeur knocked on the door of
Acme Inc
.

“It's open,” said a voice within.

The chauffeur and Woody pushed Menter into a dimly lit room containing a large mahogany desk and five scattered folding chairs. A tall man whose muscular body threatened to burst the seams of a double-breasted midnight blue suit stood in front of the desk. His flattened nose invoked the ring. His eyes, the color of a
green traffic light, encouraged the ease of familiarity. Yet he displaced much air, leaving little for others.

“You stay,” he said, pointing to Menter. “They wait in the hall.”

“The dwarf stays. He's my muscle.” Menter replied, motioning Vince out.

“I heard about you and your dwarf.”

The man spoke carefully, like a stammerer ever wary of his affliction's spiteful maliciousness. He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth.

“You think you're some kind of ancient potentate with a royal jester. Does he do tricks?”

Menter feigned sleep. The pose accentuated his mongoloid features. Only at the last moment had fate veered away from inflicting Down's syndrome. Nature's arsenal of errant genes was evident in the ruddy face, egg-shaped head, and half-open, pig-pink eyes. Above these, mundane heredity had triumphed, shaping a canopy of fine, blond curly hair.

“I'm Victor Joseph Menter. And he is Mr. Woodrow Winston. And you must be Tom Noonan. You want to talk or can I nap some more?”

Noonan pursed his lips and said:

“Don't push too hard.”

“It's your nickel.”

“As you say. The subject is Coney Island. But first I'll show you something.”

He lifted from the desk a poster-sized scroll and unfurled it against his chest. It showed two sketches of Orchard Beach in the Bronx. The left was captioned
Orchard Beach then
, the right
Orchard Beach now. Then
put Orchard Beach in its geographical context, a dot on Long Island Sound, alongside Rodman's Neck and Hunter's Island. The
now
portion enlarged it as the focal point of the area. A boardwalk, parking facility, play and game areas and a picnic grove were identified in large letters. Noonan's index finger traced the facilities.

“Commissioner Robert Moses did that. He created clean, white beaches, ample bathhouses where families change in comfort and then swim. He gave kids room to play, wholesome places where families picnic under beautiful trees. I had the privilege of working with him.”

“Hooray for him and you,” Menter interrupted.

Noonan ignored him.

“Recently Commissioner Moses has turned his attention to Coney Island. He wishes to create a park there. I believe this is only the beginning and that eventually he will want to do for Coney Island what he did for Orchard Beach. When he does, my principals wish to own the real estate that the city will be obliged to purchase.”

“Sounds good to me. Where do I come in?”

“You are President of the Coney Island Chamber of Commerce and Coney Island Businessmen's Association. An outside buyer would arouse too much attention. Prices would rise. Therefore you will be the buyer. Everyone will get a fair price for selling. You will receive a fifteen percent commission for each sale.”

“And if they don't want to sell?”

Noonan lifted the back of his hand to his lips and kissed a clear diamond set in a wide gold band.

“You are here because I have been told that you have great powers of persuasion. Use them. If persuasion doesn't work, there are other options. I don't care what condition the property is in when we get it. It'll be razed anyway.”

Menter nodded and winked. Noonan continued.

“The bank I represent will handle all the financial arrangements. Besides commission there will be bonuses. The less money we spend, the more for you. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“It is my estimation that Commissioner Moses will want to move soon. I want the property by September.”

“By September it is.”

In the hallway, Menter rubbed his hands in glee.

“Some sweet deal!”

He crossed himself and, with a continuing flourish, goosed the air.

In the car, Menter screwed a cigarette into a silver holder and lit up. He clamped the holder between his teeth, elevating it to the jaunty angle favored by President Franklin Roosevelt

“Remind you of someone, Woody?”

“Sure Vic, like I always say, FDR.”

“I wonder where he got his infantile paralysis. For sure, not like me, from swimmin' in the Gowanus Canal. And he didn't have no kike doctor who stopped coming round when he sniffed no more dough.”

“How old were you?”

“Seventeen. You shouldda' seen me before. I was the best shortstop in Brooklyn.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah, now I'm like you, lookin' at the world through assholes.”

“Livin' in fart air.”

“Smell much pussy?”

“All the time.”

Menter smiled.

“Woody, you think FDR screws his old lady?”

“They got a shitload a' kids.”

“Jesus Christ, you're a dummy,” Menter said, patting Woody's head lightly, then increasing the force until he drew sound, “they had those kids before he got the paralysis.”

“Oh.”

Menter cupped his hand under his genitals and said:

“I don't know about FDR, but this can still do plenty damage.”

Woody knew different. The whores at Rosie's (owned by Menter) had told him that Menter would have them up to his apartment, sometimes two and three at a time, working for hours on his limp piece of meat.

“Sure thing, Vic,” he said, forming a circle with his thumb and forefinger.

“You understand what Noonan told us, Woody?”

“Sure. Buy the Midway property and then some.”

Menter grimaced.

“Dumb. Dumb. Dumb. You got a dwarf brain. He covered his ass in case anything fucks up, but he told us to burn it, then pick up the ruins for nothing. That way, him and we make the most money and he figures it will give Moses the idea to step in quick, like a prince, to save Coney.”

“Geez.”

“What geez! Ain't you never seen a Coney fire before? The kikes set them all the time to collect insurance.”

“Sure, but the whole Midway …”

The car passed a truck that had been pulled over by a police officer.

“Hey,” Menter said, “wasn't that Jamie, the ambidextrous cop?”

“Yeah,” Woody answered, “still takin' money with both hands. Jamie can figure a shakedown from his grandmother. I wonder how much he'll get from that driver?”

“Pennies compared to the old days,” Menter replied, blowing smoke toward the roof of the car and tilting his head to watch it curl upward.

“Yeah,” he continued, “those were the days when Coney was
the
place. All that wide-open beach and all those speedboats grabbing mother lodes of real booze from mother ships.”

Menter laughed.

“Once Jamie forgot to check out the Coast Guard on a hot weekend. Speedboats so low in the water with hootch that the booze is makin' mixed drinks with the ocean. They're just about to land at Norton's Point when they spot this Coast Guard cutter. They turn ass and head back to open sea, flying right along the beach. The people on the beach think it's some kind of race until the Coast Guard opens fire. Then it begins to dawn what's happening.

“Jamie, who was on the Steeplechase pier, knows exactly what's happening. So quick, he figures a way to cover his ass. He runs to the end of the pier, pulls his gun and fires at the speedboats which are maybe a hundred yards out of his range. He was even yelling:
Halt, police!
By now the crowd is rooting for the runners. A million people screaming. Then the motor of the Coast Guard ship conks out and it drifts while the runners disappear. Later, Jamie tells the Feds he's sure he hit something and they ask to see the Big Bertha he was lugging with him.”

“I heard about that,” Woody said.

“Yeah, that was when Frankie Yale was Mr. Coney Island. Frankie gave me my start. He was related to me on my mother's side. When I got the paralysis he said not to worry. Told me to work with my brain. He was right.”

“I seen his funeral. Wasn't it the biggest ever in Coney?”

“Yeah. People came from all over. Frankie was a travelin' man. Frankie goes to Chicago and Big Jim Colosimo dies. Frankie shakes hands with Dean O'Banion and Dean gets a great funeral. Al Capone used to work as a bartender in one of Frankie's Coney joints. Frankie never trusted him. He was right. Frankie got shot to pieces on Al's orders.”

In Menter's penthouse apartment atop the Half-Moon Hotel, Woody mixed two glasses of rye and Coke.

“Who can we get for torches?” Menter said as much to himself as to Woody. “Good outside pros will cut the profit. Any local talent?”

“There ain't nothing here but dumb working stiffs and horny freaks,” Woody snapped.

“Freaks? In winter?”

“Yeah, Vic, there's a whole house of 'em livin' here now. The ones who work the sideshows in the summer. Fifi, she's French, a Frog fat lady, bought a house on West Eighth and rents out to her freak buddies. Makes a good buck, too.”

“Who lives there?”

“Let's see. There's Olga, the World's Ugliest Woman; Jo-Jo,
the Dog-Faced Boy; Albert-Alberta, the Half-Man Half-Woman; the Blue Man; the boy with two mouths; Otto, the Strongman and, oh yeah, Lohu and Mohu, the Japanese Siamese Twins, and maybe some more.”

“They're the torches,” Menter said, grinning.

“Are you kiddin'? Those geeks couldn't light a cigarette.”

“I can teach 'em.”

“What makes you think they'll do it?”

Menter squared himself against the back of his wheelchair.

“In Coney, they do anything Victor Menter tells 'em to do. They're nothing but a bunch of prick suckers, thieves and fags. And them that ain't, my cops will say they are. Freaks don't talk back to Victor Menter. They do as told.”