We were at the door of the poolroom. I stopped. I looked into the poolroom. It was dim inside and I could hardly see into it. I thought of spending the summer in there with the smell of needled beer and urine from the toilet. I thought of spending the summer in the country with Jerry. He probably had a swell joint with servants and everything. There’d probably be fishing and swimming and all kinds of stuff. A picture of me diving into a lake flashed in my mind. I had never swum in a lake. It must be swell. Some fellows told me it was. I had gone to Coney a couple of times but mostly did my swimming off die dock at Fifty-fourth Street. Golly, a summer in the country would be swell. I turned to Jerry, “Naah, Jerry,” I said. “Thanks anyway. They—I mean—I got a job here. I gotta work this summer. I can’t be broke. I gotta make a little dough. And, hell, I hate the country anyway! I always got the heebies there.”
Jerry looked at me and then laughed. Jerry was no dunce. He knew what was on my mind. Jerry was a strange friend. He wasn’t an easy one to make friends with; neither was he stuck-up. He was just—particular. I don’t know why he liked me, but if I could see far enough ahead, if I could only have known what Jerry and I—but well get to it when we get to it. It’s bad enough we can look back and remember; it would be a lot worse if we knew what was coming.
“O.K.,” he said, “if that’s what you want. But come over to my house for dinner one
evening anyway.” I noticed he said “dinner” not “supper” the way I did.
“I will.” I stood awkwardly on one foot. I didn’t know whether to thank him again or not. Then I thought: “To hell with it! I thanked him before.” Aloud I said: “I gotta go in to work.” I stood there watching him walk down the street and turn the corner.
I turned and looked into the poolroom. The clock on the back wall said three fifteen. I was early. I didn’t have to be there until four, and I didn’t feel much like working right then. I looked for Jimmy. He was talking to some geezer and didn’t see me; so I ducked and scooted up the block and sat down in the sun on the steps of an old tenement, waiting until it was four o’clock before going back to Keough’s. I thought about going to the country with Jerry.
I lit a cigarette and was waiting for die time to pass when I heard some yelling going on over the other side of the street. A couple of kids I knew had cornered a Jewboy and were giving him the works. I looked on with idle interest. I felt too lazy to go over and join in the fun. They stood around him in a half circle and tormented him.
“How does it feel to be a half-man?” “Christ killer!”
“Muff diver!”
The boy stood there tensely, his face white but calm. His eyes proudly flashed hate at them. They edged towards him threateningly. He dropped the book he was carrying and pressed his back closer to the wall. He started to raise his fists. He seemed to be a little shorter than I. He was blond, blue-eyed, and thin-featured. Finally he spoke.
“I can lick any one of you in a fair fight.” His voice betrayed no fear.
They gave him the horse-laugh and moved closer towards him. “You can’t lick our boots!” one of them said.
I got to my feet and walked across the street. This was going to be good. “Hi, Frankie,” one of the boys said.
“Hello, Willie,” I replied.
“Let’s get the little Jew son-of-a-bitch!” cried one of the gang.
“Nix,” I said. “You heard him. He said he can lick any one of us. You’re not going to let him get away with that. One of us is goin’ to fight him.”
The crowd looked at me doubtfully. “Well,” I said, “who’s goin’ to do it?” There was no answer.
“O.K.,” I said, “I’ll do it.”
The circle broke and I walked through. The Jewboy looked at me. I knew he was sizing me up.
I put up my fists. He stepped forward and swung at me wildly. I dodged it easily and stepped back. He didn’t know anything about fighting. He followed me and threw several punches that I blocked easily.
The crowd began to holler. “Sock him, Frankie!”
“Kick him!”
I fell back till I was near the edge of the kerb when I realized I still had the cigarette in
my mouth. I kept it there to show them that I knew I could handle him. He swung again and missed. He was beginning to breathe heavily. “Golly!” I thought, “he knows I can lick him. Why in hell don’t he run for it?” I pretended to slip on the kerbstone, and the cigarette fell from my mouth. When I looked up he was still there waiting for me. I stepped towards him, hit him a ripper in the guts, and followed it with a right cross to the jaw. Down he went on his back. The boys began to jump up and down. “Kick him!” they kept hollering. The Jewboy tried to get up but couldn’t quite make it. Finally, he just lay there watching me with his eyes. I put my hands down.
Willie yelled: “Let’s roll him in the gutter.” The boys started to move on him. I stepped across him and stood in front of him.
“I licked him,” I said. “Leave him alone.”
They looked at me a moment and saw I meant it. They didn’t know what to do; they looked at one another.
“O.K.,” I said, “you’ve had your fun. Now beat it.”
They began to walk off. I watched them go around the corner. When they had gone from sight I sat down on the kerbstone next to where the Jewboy was lying. I took a package of cigarettes from my pocket and offered him one. He shook his head in refusal. I took one myself and lit it. We were silent for a few seconds. Then he sat up slowly.
“Thanks,” he said.
“For a sock in the kisser?” I said and laughed.
“For letting me off easy,” he said. “That gang——”
“Aw, they’re all right, I said. “They just wanted to have a little fun. They didn’t mean nothin’.”
“Some fun!” he said dryly and got up and picked up his book. He looked a little shaky.
I looked up at him from the kerbstone. “You ought to learn how to fight if you’re goin’ to hang out in this neighbourhood, Jewboy.”
He didn’t say nothing to that, but if the set of his mouth meant anything I could see he was going to learn.
Just then Father Quinn came down the street and I jumped to my feet. “Hello, Francis,” he said to me.
“Hello, Father,” I said, touching my hand to my forehead in a half salute.
“You haven’t been fighting with this boy, have you, Francis?” he asked quizzically, looking at the Jewboy.
Before I could answer, the Jewboy spoke up. “Oh, no, sir, we weren’t fighting. Francis was giving me a boxing lesson.”
Father Quinn looked at him. “Well,” he said to the boy, “don’t let him get too enthusiastic over the lessons. He sometimes forgets himself.” Then, in another tone of voice, the kind he used when you don’t show up for Mass, he asked: “What’s your name, son? I don’t remember seeing you in church.”
“I’m Jewish,” the boy said quietly. “My name’s Martin Cabell.” “Oh,” said Father Quinn, “you must be Joe Cabell’s boy.” “Yes, sir.”
“I know your father. He’s a good man. Will you give him my regards?”
“I will, sir.”
“Well, boys, I must be going now. Remember what I said: no fighting.” He turned to walk off and then stopped. “Francis,” he called to me, “you’d better take that cigarette out of your pocket before you burn a hole in your trousers,” and walked on.
I took the cigarette out of my pocket. I didn’t think he saw me stash it when he came up. The Jewboy and I looked at each other and laughed.
“He seems like a regular guy,” Martin said. “He’s O.K.,” I answered.
We walked down the street together. “Live around here?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, “my father owns the drugstore down at Fifty-ninth and Broadway.
We live on Central Park West.”
We reached the corner of Ninth Avenue. I looked in a jeweller’s window and saw it was after four.
“I gotta beat it,” I said, “I gotta go to work.”
“When you’re through come over to my father’s store and have a soda on me,” Martin said.
“I will,” I said. “See ya around.” And I left him. A few feet later I broke into a run. I didn’t want to be too late or Keough would be sore.
K
EOUGH
’
S
was empty when I got there. It looked like business was dead that afternoon. I quickly cleaned up the joint and grabbed his books and made up his figures as the results came in.
About five-thirty a few customers came in to square up, and I was sent downstairs after some cold bottles of beer. When I came up, Silk Fennelli was there talking to Keough. He glanced at me and then said slowly: “Hello, Frankie.”
“Hello, Mr. Fennelli,” I answered, proud to be noticed by the big shot.
He went on talking to Keough and when he was through he came over to me. “How about one of those special shines, boy?” he asked.
I gave him a really good shine. I rubbed till I could almost see my face in the leather.
He was pleased. I could see that. He gave me half a buck and asked me if I had been thrown out of any saloons lately.
I laughed my reply. Keough came over and Fennelli told him what had happened. They both laughed.
I put the shine box away and started in again on the figures. Keough and Fennelli came and looked over my shoulder.
“Does he do your figuring?” Fennelli asked Keough.
“Yeah,” said Jimmy, “and damn good too. He knows his stuff.”
Fennelli smiled at me. “Keep up the good work, boy. You’ll be a big man in the business some day.”
He waved good-bye and went out. I saw him step into his car and ride off.
“Big man in the business some day!” I thought, his words ringing in my ears. “That’s right, the biggest gambler in town— that’s what I’ll be. Only I won’t be gambling. I’ll run the business like Silk Fennelli does. The flunkies will do the dirty work and I’ll rake in the gravy. And I’ll have a bigger car than Fennelli’s——”
And so with my dreams the afternoon passed and before I knew it it was time to go home.
It had started to rain when I got outside. I didn’t feel like reporting back for supper; so I walked over towards Broadway. When I got to Cabell’s drugstore I was pretty wet. I went in. Martin came up to me.
“I’m glad you came,” he said. “How about that soda?” He led me over to the fountain.
I had chocolate. When we were finished we sat there talking. He was a year younger than me but in the same class at public school. After we had been talking a few minutes a girl came over and spoke to him.
“We’d better hurry, Marty, or we’ll be late for supper.” I thought she must be his sister and I was right.
He introduced us: “Frankie, this is my sister, Ruth.” “Hello,” I said.
She smiled at me. “Glad to meet you,” she said. She was about fifteen and really
Martin told her what had happened that afternoon, and she looked at me rather strangely and then walked away. I wondered what was eating her but said nothing to Martin.
Marty looked at me and said: “Women are funny. About what you said this afternoon about fighting—I got a pair of boxing gloves home; how about your coming over and giving me a lesson?”
“Tonight?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, “after supper. Why don’t you go home to eat and then come over to my house and we can box?”
“I don’t think I can,” I said. “I live in the orphanage. If I go over for supper I don’t think I’ll be able to get out.”
“Oh,” he said. He frowned for a minute and then brightened up. “I got an idea. Wait here a minute.” He ran into the back of the store. I could see him talking to his father through the glass partition. He pointed towards me. Then his father said something, and he came out and back to me.
“I fixed it,” he said. “You’re going to come home to supper with us. Then we can have our lesson.”
At first I didn’t want to but I gave in.
His father and mother had gone out that night. The three of us, Marty, Ruth, and me, were given supper by the maid, a young woman of about twenty-two named Julie. She was a French-Canadian and spoke with a funny little accent. She sat down to eat with us. The meal was a simple one and we were through quickly. Afterwards we went into the parlour. They had a new radio and we were able to get some music on it. It was the third time I had ever heard a radio and it was very interesting. An hour after supper Martin suggested we go to the den and box.
It was O.K. with me. Ruth stayed in the parlour. She said she was going to read.
The den was a nice room with books lining the walls and a couch and some chairs scattered around. We pushed the chairs to one side and laced on the gloves.
“Put your dukes up,” I said. “Lead with your left. Keep your right back here near your chin—like this.” I fell into the fighting pose. He copied me. I stepped back and looked at him. I moved his left out a little and his right elbow down a little closer to his side. “O.K.,” I said, “now all you’ve got to do is hit me.”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “Don’t worry,” I said, “you won’t.”
He dropped his left and swung with his right. I blocked it and stepped in close.
“Nix,” I said, “that’s not it. You left yourself wide open. When you drop your left I can step in and hit you like this, see?” I faked a punch. “Jab with your left. It keeps the other guy away from you.”
“I see,” he said. For a few seconds he remembered and then he forgot. I let him swing a couple times and miss; then I stopped.
“Don’t forget to keep your left up,” I said.
We had begun to box again when the door opened. Automatically I looked over his shoulder. Without thinking, I crossed with my right and popped him in the eye. Down he went.
Ruth ran over to him. He sat there on the floor. She looked up at me. “You filthy beast! Why can’t you pick on a guy your size?” she snarled at me.
I was so dumbfounded I couldn’t speak.
“It’s not his fault, Ruth,” Marty said, “I asked him to teach me how to fight.” “But your eye,” she wailed. “Look at it. It’s turning all colours.”