Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde (10 page)

Joe’d yawn into the mirror, his yellow hair wet from the tap, patting Spotty, who immediately after eating sprang. into bed next to Bill as if he were taking Joe’s place. Joe smiled, gathering up the wet newspapers spread every night as a temporary dog’s toilet.

He walked rapidly down Leroy to Greenwich, and then uptown to Christopher. The morning air was like fresh apples. Through this underground district with the El ties prisoning out the sky he’d be thinking of Cathy Gebhardt and how pretty she was. Bill hadn’t kidded him any about her looks. He liked thinking of her early in the morning on the street of machinery and chemicals and moving trucks. There were dozens of hauling firms trafficking with all the distant cities. Almost every other office hired out trucks or ran busses or had a daily business with the towns of America. Mahopac, Paterson, Kerhonksen, St. Louis, Memphis, Toledo. Boards and charts tabulated the places visited. It was swell. The names were swell. What a life to be holed up on Leroy when all the world was moving! Joe exhaled the sharp air. His eyes weren’t sleepy. Near Christopher El station, going north on Greenwich, the street slanted from east to west, the gothic archway of St. Veronica’s Church always hitting his eye with the sudden beauty of a tree, a church, of something not absolutely necessary to business. It was Cathy’s church.

He drank his man’s coffee and ate his ham and eggs in a large cafeteria full of workers. Everything gleamed white, tile and walls and tables, and everybody, with the exception of the counterman punching holes in meal tickets or roaring into the kitchen, alert, sleepless, was dressed in dark working clothes, the tall blueshirted longshoremen, Irish, Swedish, Polack, the German and Bohemian butchers in the wholesale meat markets, a host of workers in all the trades that compelled him to think of the far-away. The workers of the far-away. Ships on the river, railroad terminals, truckers, shippers, meat workers handling the huge naked corpses of cows and pigs slaughtered in Chicago. After breakfast he rode uptown to Forty-second, standing outside on the toy platform between the El cars. Everytime the El stopped, the conductor squeezed into zero, opening the gates, hollering in a voice of whisky and cold weather. But the El never traveled to the far-away places, or he didn’t at any rate, always getting off at the same station, sometimes thinking of the rails penetrating to Columbus Circle, the Eighties, the Bronx. He’d go to the Bronx with Cathy one of these days, to the end of the line. The Bronx must be some place. Running downstairs, he’d report for work.

Metz started the same way. At seven sharp, little Napoleon would pop in, take off his felt, get into white apron and straw hat, the special livery he kept in the rear, glaring at the three clerks like a general at his army, preoccupied, figuring profits. “O.K.,” he commanded. They’d fill a bucket of water and clean the window, the water trickling on their hands. Ninth Avenue was beyond life, a plateau of beautiful loneliness. Nothing could be as lonely as a city when the sun shines and nobody is stirring. The oyster-wagons, the fruit peddlers, had not showed up yet. Washing the window was working in a city everyone had left. After this they swept out the store, Metz dropping the fresh sawdust with his own hands as if it were manna from the skies. Then spick and span in their white aprons, the clerks and their boss waited for business. Soon the first Polish woman came in for milk and rolls. They cut butter, sold eggs, passing down this and that, wrapping up, smiling at the Irish, Greek, Italian housewives.

The Irish were never tired of ribbing the boss, asking questions about that good-looker. Oh, he was a dandy. Joe’d grin; the two Jewish clerks’d grin; Metz smiling in his strange bashful way, pleased the customers were pleased. The morning went up like a house afire, the three of them slicing the salt butter, weighing the cheeses, making dough for Metz. Every now and then, Joe’d be picked to go downtown with Metz in a dark rattling truck. There in the market, in the outside vigor of air and sun and the things of the earth eaten by men, Metz’d purchase tubs of butter, boxes of cheese from the wholesalers. Joe would help other workers load up the truck. In the beginning his muscles ached, but among those Slavs and squareheads, sinewed, uncomplaining, the doing men of the earth, he soon rejoiced in the heroic betrayal of youth, using his body wantonly. It was impossible for him to tire. They’d drive back, and Joe and one of the clerks’d unload. They called him Der Starker because he was taller than they, and his chest and shoulders were more spectacular, but he noticed they worked as well as himself, the thin Jews.

The afternoon was another morning except that the things sold weren’t as barnyard simple as eggs and milk and butter. Under the steady control of Metz, the clerks, who appeared to be attached by countless wires to the canned goods crowding the shelves, moved like puppets serving the customers. Around noon when things slackened, they’d snatch a roll, cut off a hunk of butter and cheese, drink a bottle of milk, and then work arduously all the day. Metz didn’t permit smoking in the store. At intervals they’d rush out into the yard, choking on furious puffs, returning all smiles as if they’d never left.

It was always a surprise to Joe when Metz, dark and gnomish, never changing in appearance, never showing fatigue or the progress of time, would shout to him: “Hey, Joey, you’n Sam can go home. Tomorrow you’ll stay a little later.” He’d scramble for the rear stockroom where the shelves were a thousand shining tins, the cases and boxes piled against the walls. He’d houdini out of his apron, hurrying onto the street. On the alternate days when he stayed later it’d be almost nine; he’d be happy and a little sad for the livelong day that had vanished hellward so swiftly. The incredible long day, begun at six, was gone. How nice it was early in the morning getting his breakfast, fresh and crisp in the bustle of life, the trucks shooting towards far-away destinations! The fourteen-hour day was over. Man, that was going some.

“All gone,” said Joe to himself.

Now this Ninth Avenue, so empty when they washed Metz’s window, was crowded with folk who’d already eaten their last supper meal. Families gazed into the gleaming winter windows, young couples were hotfooting it for the movies. Everybody had eaten and was full-bellied. He hadn’t. When he awoke, the world slept. When he ate, the world was sated. Bill’s life was more fun. Bill had a good time. Bill slept as late as he wanted. What good did he get out of it all? His job wasn’t worth a lousy twelve bucks. Boy, was he tired? It was getting on to nine, but it was twelve midnight, as far as he went. After he washed and got something to eat, it’d be time for bed if he was to rise at six.

Dark lonely Greenwich sounded his footsteps. The businesses were shut down and lights were scattered. The river smelled of the night. The tugs sirened. He cut up into Leroy, into a city of the dead, the warehouse and printery lonely pyramids. The row of houses glimmered with lights remote as camp fires.

“Hello, Spotty,” he said in the empty flat. Was that kiyoodle wild to see him! He sat down on the rug, the pup biting his hair. A fellow’s only friend, and that was no dumb crack either. Bill was out busy with his bookkeeping or whatever it really was. He’d be in bed when Bill came home. The only time he could see him would be at six, and sometimes Bill wasn’t even in then, sleeping out with the ledgers. Or he’d have the pleasure of his company on Sunday. He should’ve stayed in Easton.

He washed up and knocked at Mrs. Gebhardt’s, entering into the snug warmth of the place as if into a brother’s heart. Hulky Mr. Gebhardt was reading a German newspaper, the kids doing their homework, Mrs. Gebhardt already glancing nervously at the gilt clock on the mantel. The dishes were dried, the red clean cloth spread on the table, the family sitting in the parlor like an illustration of domesticity, their cheeks shining, their eyes bright with industry, patience, and religion. They smiled at him with the patriotism of other workers, Gebhardt lifting his paper with bony red fingers, smiling with eyes small as a pig’s, blue with a stamina for the year-in year-out grind with only a few turnverein picnics and beer parties. “How’s vork today, Joe?” He understood the boy.

“I made a million.”

“In the market?” He continued with the sympathy of one banker quizzing another about a bond issue concerning them both.

“We brought back enough cheese to feed every rat in the world.”

“Hawhahhaw, you hear dot, mamma?” The kids laughed with him like dutiful white mice.

“Metz does a whale of a business — ”

“Where you go? You eat here. You ain’t here a long time. Mamma give him zu fressen. Dot means to eat.”

“I was going out. Honest.”

“A home meal harms nobody,” said Mrs. Gebhardt, rushing to the gas range. The three younger kids, Frederick, baby Carl, Gertrude, smiled at him, yellow-haired, almost formidable with their collective honesty. Joe winked at the three child faces, at the do re mi of kindergarten Carl, eight-year-old Freddie, twelve-year-old Gertrude, so young and yet so patient for the working lives waiting for them. He could shiver at their courage, the unconscious strength of children who will and must follow their parents’ way. Sleepy, listening to the comfortable newspaper rustling (he didn’t mind Gebhardt’s absorption, understood he must hit the hay soon and this was his only chance to read the world news), watching the wakeful kids peeking at him from the table, their yellow heads inexpressibly beautiful, their industry predicting that some day society would follow the road of knowledge. They were omens of the new life, even if their bodies would be coerced to the slavery of their sires. Mrs. Gebhardt brought back a steaming plate of goulash and browned potatoes simmering in hot heavy gravy. In a separate bowl she poured out a cabbage soup. She was glad he was hungry and had such good things to eat.

Cathy, who’d been busy in the bedroom, finally showed up. He realized why he’d dropped in without dinner. To see Cathy. She led baby Carl away, slender but almost as motherly as the broad-hipped Mrs. Gebhardt. Baby Carl didn’t complain even if his face was sour, his pale plump cheeks pouting. “How are you, Cathy?” he said. She was all right, and soon as she put little nuisance to bed she’d be with him. “Little nuisance!” exclaimed Mrs. Gebhardt, very much shocked. He ate his goulash, chewing meat and potatoes and drinking the cabbage soup at the same time. They smiled delightedly with the happiness of folk converting a foreigner to their ways. Gebhardt declared he was a Deutsch already. The Mrs. laughed, the kids sneaked another look at him. How was Bill, the Mrs. wanted to know. Joe stated he hardly ever saw Bill. Bill was a busy man. Again they all nodded sadly and sympathetically, workers with regular hours and routines, considering one outside their class. If Joe was tired he shouldn’t ought to go to the movies. “I’m not tired. How about you, Cathy?”

“It’s very late.”

“Stay home,” said Mrs. Gebhardt. “So cold outside.” She thought that if Bill would’ve wanted to take Cathy to the movies she would’ve been frightened, and more frightened to have Bill stay home with them, with his sharp weary face. Ach, mein Gott, Brüder!

“I can’t stay home. I’m restless.” Mrs. Gebhardt looked at Joe. He was Bill’s brother. He could be for good or bad. He was Bill’s brother. She was afraid for her Cathy.

B
ILL
stared out of McMann’s window at the neat block of brown buildings across the way, the shades lowered in the apartments and furnished rooms. Behind one shade, light glowed through and he saw the shadow of desire, a woman’s shape to be lusted for because her face and age and life were unknown. The shade was very old and thin. The street lamp hung its huge white pearl over the sidewalk, and Twenty-third was womanless except for a shadow. McMann was speaking through one corner of his mouth. He wanted to know why they should divvy with anybody. The Wiberg job, there was him, Bill, and the two bastards, and Paddy. Five guys. “I don’t want to get too mixed up.” He glanced at McMann’s face, so pink it seemed chipped out of stone, at the humorous treacherous eyes, so small it was hard to realize cunning could be held in them.

“If it’s us two, that’s less mixed up?”

“Not the way you’re working it. Given a break and you’ll be making a play for the Duffy kids.” The bathroom door was open, the enameled interior visible like a distant perspective. How unreal the scene was! And was McMann growling he had cold feet? Maybe it was because Joe had come to town, hard-working Joe. What a life! He hadn’t been living since Stanger’d kicked him out. He’d been existing, hopped up for a life that contained many deaths every day. Maybe he ought to quit right here and now before real danger’d smack his head off. McMann was unreal as Paddy or Madge, who weren’t in the apartment. “You’re gettin’ yeller,” threatened McMann.

“Holy cow, where’s your whisky? You’re giving me a tin ear.” He drank a shot of rye. “I know I talked big as a house awhile back.”

“That was man talk. You had guts.”

“I’m not busting up now. I’m just wondering if it’s best for us to go ahead and take the long gamble?”

McMann didn’t know. But he’d been making money. Bill grinned. McMann had a sense of humor. Twenty-two bucks. Why divvy, McMann insisted. Take the long gamble. Make or break. Either be in the dough or get wiped. No use lousing around.

The shot of booze wrapped his belly in hot bandage. So Mac thought he had him buffaloed. He knew he’d been gypped at Wiberg’s. Mac’d gyp anybody, ready to cut out Paddy for a nickel. “Soger’s next.”

“Thatta boy.” Like a sentry on duty he had watched time pass, his eyes strained, cautious, curious, peering into the shadows of time. Damn it all. Poor Joe. Never saw him. Let him rot at Metz’s. That cheap Metz. Ought to grab his till. What was he thinking of? He said dully: “I don’t want to get mixed up too much.”

“I’ll go nuts.”

“We’ll get in dutch if we try to steal Duffy’s kids. Duffy’ll wipe us.”

“No guts. And all that big mouthin’ about knockin’ off clip joints and speaks for real dough. What the hell kinda talk? It’s safer just us two’n more dough. I hock a car. You take the wheel. It’s a cinch, kid. I pull off all the business with the gat. We beat it off. Them storekeepers are a cinch.” He walked to the bottle, coatless, his taut belly seeming to be held in a corset, his hips small, his chest arching, his long stone head nodding in a way that made him appear like a horrible bloodless monster.