Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde (12 page)

I
T WAS
the slow hour of afternoon when the cards stick and solitaire doesn’t kill time but seems to perpetuate it, spreading it thin and miserable. Paddy continued playing, although he had a visitor.

“We ain’t splittin’ with nobody. We made up our mind,” said McMann. “The pork guy netted us most a hundred each.”

“What beats me is why a guy like you is traveling around with that green bastard?” His flabby jowls were gray-white with powder. His hair was slick. He looked sick.

“Because it’s a hundred a man. Then we give Schneck ten smacks — ”

“I heard you. Duffy’ll be givin’ you ten gooses.”

“I’ll be goosin’ him.”

“You and the green guy.”

“Yeh. He forgot to leave the door open when we took the pork guy, but he was smooth as silk when we took the wop grocer. That wop was spaghetti, that wop was. Bill’s oke for the rough work. An’ he’s a brain guy. He’s wise to all them storekeepers.”

“A brain guy’s hot. He’ll be havin’ you in oil with Duffy; then this brain guy’ll have you easin’ into a joint. If you guys live, you’ll be big shots. If you croak, what the hell?” He placed a card down.

“We ain’t pullin’ rough stuff.”

“What’s Duffy?”

“He’s diff’rent. His kids is gonna be mine. They belong to anybody can grab ‘em. String along, Paddy. Take a chance. I give you a tenner from the pork guy and ten from the wop, though that wop netted us less’n one-fifty. I’m keepin’ in with you. You keep in with me. I ain’t gonna be a wild dog, but the breaks’re comin’ my way. I know it. Bill’s got ideas’n beginner’s luck. An’ what’s the use phenaglin’ in the scum for pennies when the big dough’s waitin’.”

“What about Duffy?”

“Nothin’. His kids are all for me. A nervy guy can chew off plenty with a coupla breaks.” His voice slipped out the hard r-sounding syllables, his yellowish-red eyebrows lifting over his eyes, staring Paddy so strongly in the face that Paddy forgot his solitaire, gripping the card in his hand loosely.

“Who’s speaking? You or him?”

“Both of us. He’s greener’n hell, but he’s got some brains. All I need’s a guy like him for the first push. He needs me. What the hell? I been six years scummin’ since I got outa reform. I can puke. I ain’t much better off than the kids shootin’ pool. Schneck and Ray and them dopes is almos’ good as me. They knock off a lil jack, and I ain’t much better. So I made double what they makes, and riskin’ a stretch, with them corner kids riskin’ nothin’. A guy like me’s dumb not to make a play for the big dough.”

“Is it you or him speaking?”

“It’s me. That kid Bill’s given me opportunity. Can you beat it?”

“Gwan lose your belly. Don’t listen to me.”

“I’m listenin’, but a guy’s gotta gamble, Paddy. The west side’s nobody’s. Three or four big fellows got all the rackets — ”

“You’ll be the fifth big guy.”

“I’m nothin’. I want a break. There’s dough in Bill. He ain’t smart as he thinks. He thinks I dunno where he lives, but one day I got Ray to foller him home. Lives on Leroy Street. Some joint. He don’ fool me, but he’s got ideas’n luck.”

“Ray belongs to Duffy.”

“He’ll belong to me.”

Paddy shuffled the cards. “I seen wise-guys galore get wiped out.”

“Yeah, what about those that don’t? A guy gotta gamble.”

“That brain guy’ll get you killt. You see.”

“His idea’s me and him don’ hafta hold up stores. He says we figure the details, and then the Duffy kids can do the job, me and him takin’ the big cut. You never get killt doin’ that.”

Paddy cursed, chucking down the cards fan-wise. “Don’t you see it, you sap? He thinks it a business. Like bonds or real estate or somethin’. Work hard and you’re bound to get ahead. Like hell.”

“Chiselers got no place.”

“Chiselers don’t get wiped out.” He filled two glasses, tapping the bottle with his ring, smiling. “Believe me. Jeez, he’s got nerve. Always had, the sonufabitch, shaking me down.”

When Madge came in, McMann, as if he’d been hanging around for her all the time, crossed the room, grabbing her tight about the waist, squeezing her against his body with a persistent power. “Howya, kid? I been workin’ that Bill to hand you some dough. A gal gotta live, I says, give her some dough. He says naw, she makes more’n me.”

“Push off, willya?” said Madge.

He pressed her tighter, bending her backwards with a steady mechanical application of pressure. “You don’ mean it?”

Paddy’s face was sardonic. “You red bastard, that’s why you shelled out the wop’s dough, so you can get it for nothin’.”

Paddy shuffled the cards. Madge kicked at her attacker. He tugged and dragged her to the bedroom. The shades were lowered, the light flowing through with the sad shadowing that seems to emanate only from tenement backyards with their long clothes-poles hung with wash-lines, their sheds and garbage cans. The dismal rear end of the house opposite stared its windows blankly at Paddy’s secrecy.

McMann partially shut the door, flinging her down in her coat, her wild slanting eyes glaring. He took her who was fresh from the street, the wind’s red fading from her cheeks. Paddy could’ve witnessed the taking, but he turned towards the table, starting a new game of solitaire, seeming blind, deaf, and dumb, a eunuch except for the smile on his lips, a smile that was an awareness, an appreciation of power.

When McMann was through with her he said: “Keep your coat on. We’re gonna see a coupla friends of mine.”

Paddy hollered. “You red skunk. It’ll cost you dough.”

“Like hell.” Madge powdered her face. “I get five or nothin’ doin’. What the hell you think?”

“You’ll get it.”

“Who’s the friends?” said Paddy. “Duffy’s kids?”

“You’re smart. Ray and Schneck.”

“Holy Jesus, he means it.” Madge and McMann left. Paddy was overwhelmed with admiration. McMann was a peach. If he didn’t croak he’d be sitting pretty.

At police headquarters Hanrahan, the plainclothes man assigned to the Ninth Avenue holdups, had the theory that Wiberg and Soger and the wop grocer had all been hit by the same bunch. There was a unity in all three cases. All three had been robbed when they had an unusual amount of money on hand. Hanrahan was thinking some guy — who the hell could it be? — some guy had wind of this fact. Like all logical lazy men he loved unity. One stickup man was easier to find than three.

S
UNDAY
was like an autumn day. The wind blew swift out of an ice-blue sky. “It might be home,” said Joe, “with the leaves sailing past the lawn.” Bill was tying the laces of his shoes.

“We got river air down here,” he said, tense.

The puppy had grown a great deal, running up and down the flat, barking at the brothers as if they were both at fault.

The great iron gate was shut down like a stubborn lip.

Joe went to the gas range, flipping in the slices of bacon. “Three enough, Bill?”

“Plenty. How’s the grind?”

“It’s no grind.”

“Why didn’t you eat breakfast instead of waiting for me?” He yawned. Despite the shower, fatigue dominated his face, his eyes blurry, his features gross, his lips dry. “How after the grind — Hell, I’m groggy — And you don’t even sleep late on Sundays. What time’s it?”

“Past noon.”

“How do you get up?”

“I was up at eleven.”

“He calls that late. You’re an iron man.”

Joe cracked open the eggs. The coffee smelled black and strong. The dog sat down on his haunches, gazing up at the smell of food, mixing food up with Joe, food was Joe, Joe was food, his sad hound eyes learned and patient, his long white tail dragging. Joe looked fine. Hard work wasn’t harming him any, his cheeks red, strong as a horse, thought Bill. “I used to lick you,” he said regretfully, “when we were kids, but I bet you could lump me with one fist.” Joe sliced the oranges, peering at the halves with their firm glinting orange color. He felt strong as iron, but his loneliness crippled him. He seemed to be leaning on a crutch, he was that lonely, anticipating the moment when Bill’d heel out.

Bill snapped on his felt, wondering what Joe’d say this time. “Sorry.” Damn kid brothers. They acted like girls, like sweethearts. Let ‘em stand on their own feet like men.

“Weren’t we going to a show?”

“I thought we were, but it’s off. I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry.”

“I can’t help it. I’ve got to tend to something important. Take Cathy out. She’s a nice kid. You’ll have a better time. Because I’m busy, don’t you think I don’t notice things.”

“You’re damn smart.”

“Christ’s sake, let’s not fight again.”

“Cathy’s a good kid.”

“Who’s saying she ain’t?”

“I didn’t like the way you spoke of her.”

“I didn’t mean a thing.” Already in thought he was hurrying down Greenwich to Christopher. The busy life. The paint shop on Ninth was due. The gink had dough. Would Duffy loan his kids for the job? Showdown soon. Soon the showdown.

He took out a ten-spot. “Have a good time.” Joe wouldn’t take the money. He put the two fives on the table.

“You make money pretty easy,” said Joe.

“Let’s not go into it again.”

“Sunday’s the only chance. If I ever saw you awake any other day I’d die.”

“Didn’t we cover it all last Sunday? Cut out the whining. I’ve got enough in my mind without you nagging.”

“Enough that shouldn’t be there.”

“You’re pretty clever.”

“We’re brothers.” They stared at each other, forgetting they were brothers, like two men meeting the first time. Bill put on his camel-hair coat. From under his felt his lean handsome face, thinner now, with the nose and chin jutting out more strongly, confronted the rounder fairer face of his brother. Their eyes were the same blue. This was the one resemblance, the only thing that made them brothers.

“I advise you to mind your business.”

“Don’t make me laugh. You’re in something fishy and I’ll say it all I want.” He grinned at the barking dog, running up and down with the optimism of animals that nothing can be wrong.

“So long, have a good time.”

“See you next Sunday.” He was alone in the flat, prisoned by the slamming door. He patted the dog’s head with an uncertain hand. He looked like a kid brother now. He hadn’t told Bill what was really important. Ninth Avenue was gossiping about the robberies, admiring the guys who pulled off jobs just when there was most in it. Wiberg. Soger. Petrucci. Who was next? Those guys were the nuts, just happening along when the storekeepers were flush. But Bill would have said: What’s that got to do with me? … It had lots to do with him when you were a brother and knew he’d collected rents all over Ninth, when you knew he wasn’t working, what with his funny hours, when you knew he had lots of jack. The other day Metz had told him: “See, no robberies when your brother collects them fellers, and now when he’s gone, one hard luck after another.” Wiberg. Soger. Petrucci. All three had been collected by Bill. That was a coincidence. He’d thought he’d die, but Metz hadn’t meant anything. He took the fives on the table. Bill set a swell example. Maybe he ought to set Bill an example? And return his dough? Maybe not. Money was money. He sweated a week to find that out. He’d show Cathy a good time. He hollered at the pup to shut his damn face. Money was a funny thing. Even dirty money could do good. A good time with Cathy was something.

He made up the room, glancing around with a Sunday hostility in his eyes. His city home. It stunk. He punched the pillows, reversing Bill’s. Bill was using olive oil to stop his falling hair. His pillow was dark and greasy. Staring at the stain. Bill seemed to be lying there in bed, his face haggard. He socked that pillow. Hell, what sort of life was Bill leading? The stain was a reminder. He washed the dishes and went downstairs.

The Gebhardts had returned from St. Veronica’s on Christopher. Every day when he walked to the El, the church’s doorway was a hush of peace. Behind the El structure the doorway was all peace, all green things, all the Gebhardts….

Mr. Gebhardt was rocking himself, stiffish in his Sunday suit, the pants so sternly creased that the peace of the Lord was suddenly comical, a fashion show. Mrs. Gebhardt sailed the white cloth over the table. “Good Sunday, Joe,” they said. The preparations for dinner continued, sanctified in that shadowed room with the shaftway light subdued, filtered quiet from the yellow sun. They all seemed participants in a merrier, more domestic mass. The light was meek as prayer, the adults prim and happy, the kids reading the jokes, their soft blond faces gleaming like choir boys’, in the flat become a cathedral, Gertrude, baby Carl, Fred, all alike somehow, sexless, pure, churchly.

Cathy was in the kitchen part of the dining-room, bending down, the gas-range door open, her manner observant and wifely, her nostrils indrawn from sniffing at the roasting chicken.

“Dinner soon,” said Mrs. Gebhardt, patting down the cloth. “You eat with us. Sauerkraut. Chicken. Noodle soup. Kartofflen. Apple Kuchen.”

“Nein,” said Gebhardt, “him and his brother better eat spaghetti, that ginny food.” The kids laughed.

“I’m meeting Bill for dinner,” Joe said. “Thanks just the same, Mrs. Gebhardt.” He felt lonely without a home, without Bill, without the Gebhardts. He’d beat it now, mope around, and come back later when they’d be through eating. “Say, Cathy, Bill isn’t going to a show with me as we were supposed to like I told you. Want to go?”

Cathy wiped her hands on her apron, glancing at her parents. “Sure, if Pop and Mom say I can.”

“Go right ahead,” commanded Gebhardt, autocratic as the Kaiser. The kids laughed. His wife smiled at Joe, her placid head with the high cheekbones, the dry yellow hair parted in the center, making her seem more than ever like a farm woman instead of the janitor. The bedroom window, looking out on the backyard, was bright, jeweled, stained with sun streaming in upon all of them, the strong man, the woman near her white cloth, the three kids turning the papers, Cathy floating in the space between the range and the table, her hair glinting. He felt the strong Sunday peace enfold him, this sanctity of their lives relaxing on the Lord’s Day so that it was easy to imagine a ghostly presence in their home, the merry presence of Jesus blessing them all in the flat smelling of soap, chicken, sauerkraut. “I’ll be back around two, Cathy. So long.”