Funny Boys (23 page)

“C’mere,” she said, leading him by his arm to an alcove in a deserted corner of the lobby. He stole a glance at his watch. Mutzie would be getting ready to leave his room. In the alcove, she nuzzled close to him.

“Gorlick is no problem. Abie will take care of it. No problem.”

“Really, Mrs. Reles …”

“Helen,” she whispered poking her breasts into his chest. “Believe me, boychick. I can help.”

“I … I’ve already lined up another job.”

“So what. You belong here. It’s me that made the trouble.”

“It never happened.”

“Okay, so I was wrong.” She patted his face. “But who could blame me, such a cutie pie.” She bent her head and whispered in his ear. “Don’t be a putz. I can fix it.” She paused and watched him. “All I have to do is tell my Abie and all you have to do is be nice to little me sometimes. Believe me. You’d be in the clear. I swear it. Abie won’t think nothing, cause Abie won’t know nothing. I know how to handle that. I’ll tell him that Heshy gets a kick out of you.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

“Everybody needs a little help now and then. Even me. Now and then.”

Mickey nodded, then realized what his nod might mean.

She reached down and squeezed his crotch. He jumped back stunned by her gesture.

“Oy, can I make a lollypop outa you bubbala,” she whispered.

“Please, Helen,” Mickey whispered.

She pressed closer to him. “I promise you.” She took his hand and moved it to her crotch and kept it there with the pressure of her arm. “I can send you to the moon. Come on. We gotta deal?”

He was saved from answering by someone coming in their direction. She released his hand and moved away.

“And don’t worry about nothin. We’ll work it out. Right?”

He felt trapped. By now Mutzie had to be proceeding to where he was supposed to be meeting her with the car.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mickey said. It was true, of course.

“Say mazel tov,” Helen said. She patted the hand.

One of the guests passed by the alcove glancing at them briefly. When he had gone, Helen moved quickly toward him and kissed him on the lips, prying them open and inserting her tongue. He felt nauseous, but he let it happen.

“Now go,” she ordered pointing to his suitcase. “Bring this upstairs. You ain’t going nowhere.” He hesitated and she said sharply. “Go before I go crazy.”

He moved back to the lobby. She followed him and, guiding him silently with an upward motion of her chin, watched him, until he moved up the help-forbidden front staircase. Then she moved forward, ascended the first flight, watched him hesitate,
egged him on again with her chin until he had no choice but to ascend the stairs to the top floor that housed his old room.

There was a window on the landing. Peering out, he could see Mutzie making her way along the path by the lakeside that would take her on the roundabout route toward the place where he was supposed to be waiting with the car. He started toward the help stairs, planning to descend, then realized that if Helen Reles saw him with his suitcase she would logically assume that he had double-crossed her. He quickly put the suitcase in one of the maid’s closets.

Then he looked out the window again and his heart lurched. Mutzie was still moving across the path, trying her best to look unconcerned and casual in her oversized costume. True to his instructions she did not waver, looking forward only. But following behind her, stalking her like a predator, crouching, hiding behind trees and shrubs, was Irish.

He started to run down the corridor in the direction of the main staircase, which would be closer to the lobby entrance than the backstairs. There was no time for niceties of concealment. Mutzie was clearly in danger. Another ominous surprise greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. Pep was ascending rapidly, accelerating his pace when he saw Mickey. He was certain that Irish had alerted Pep to what was happening.

Mickey saw his face, the killer mask firmly in place, the eyes burning with hatred. Turning, he dashed backwards down the corridor to the back stairs, hearing Pep’s pounding steps behind him. With the banister for balance he moved quickly down the first flight.

“Where’s the fire?”

He saw Marsha moving toward him, standing in the center of the narrow stairway, her face frozen in an attitude of surprise.
As he passed her, he nodded and smiled thinly, perhaps hoping to disguise his terror. He saw her head turn upward, surely seeing the menacing Pep descending on him.

As he ran, some anxious reflex made him turn. It was only for a miillisecond, but it captured the moment with all its harrowing portent. “Don’t,” he cried out, or thought he did, although he heard nothing. He saw Marsha stick her leg in Pep’s path and heard Pep’s angry curse as he tumbled forward.

Mickey did not look back as he ran out of the building.

S
HE FELT LIKE A CHARACTER IN A MASQUERADE, SUDDENLY
free from the burden of herself. It was liberating to be someone else. Not that she was totally free from anxiety, but walking along the lake in the shadow of the serene lush mountains, she was finding it difficult to maintain the idea that she was truly in danger.

Mickey had said to walk nonchalantly, casually, intent on the scenery, as someone who might be taking on a normal walk in the country. Viewing the lovely landscape made everything that she had experienced in the past few months unreal, like a.… She checked herself. She was afraid to think in movie terms. Believing in movies and the life they depicted had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place.

And yet hadn’t she been rescued by the handsome prince? Handsome, she decided, was a word she would never use again. Pep was handsome, a pretty wrapper for the ugliness and cruelty that lay beneath it. She couldn’t understand what had drawn her to him. Had she been hypnotized? It would certainly relieve her of responsibility if this were so.

No, she decided, getting involved with Pep was her own
fault, her own wicked stupidity and delusion. Pep was a cruel, selfish man, capable of anything no matter how terrible. She had denied this to herself, hadn’t she? She had been used, abused, treated like garbage. The memory of her conduct disgusted her. Only a blind woman could not see the truth about these men. Pittsburgh Phil Strauss, Kid Twist, Bugsy Goldstein. She mocked these nicknames. They were stupid names, perverse names.

It was, of course, utter madness for Mickey and her to attempt to strike back at these people. All right, they both had their reasons. But they didn’t have a chance. Besides, it was another fairy tale to believe that goodness could triumph against corruption. She had certainly learned that lesson the hard way. No, she would have to talk him out of it. Once they were out of this environment, he would be able to think straight.

She moved along the trail that led to the road down the hill from the hotel. She had gone over it in her mind a number of times. By now, he must have found the car and was waiting for her. With each step away from the hotel, she felt better.

Reaching the road, she followed the treeline that shielded the hotel from view and walked to the indentation that Mickey had shown her from his window. Freedom, she trilled inside of herself, as she skipped forward for a few paces, certain that just around the bend in the road he would be waiting.

But when she reached the spot, it was deserted. A mistake, she decided, walking upward over a rise to get a view of the hotel and what she imagined was his window.

“Expecting someone, boychick?”

She turned quickly. It was Irish, arms folded, smirking with arrogance. Swallowing hard, she felt her body begin to tremble. His eyes wandered over her clothes.

“Ten will get ya five there’s no shlong in dose pants,” Irish said, howling with laughter.

Few cars passed on the highway. She felt trapped and alone. Where was Mickey? Still, she would not say anything. She felt the strong desire to run, to escape, but she remained immobile, too shocked to act.

“Pep knows now I wuz right. Jes like I told ’em. Them two was cookin up sumpin.”

He moved up the rise to where she was standing and reached out for her arm. She wrenched it away.

“Hey, Cooz,” Irish said through his tight smile. “Ya ain’t gawn nowhere no more. An I doubt yaw buddy’s comin. Pep’s prolly seein ta dat.”

Her heart sank. There seemed no point in resisting. With her pants hanging over her snearkers, he could easily outrun her and he was undoubtedly stronger.

“You’re lying,” she said, her voice hoarse with agitation, searching his face for some sign of wavering. Yet her disbelieving mind continued to be alert elsewhere, her ears searching for sounds of rescue, of Mickey emerging with the car to save her.

“Fug I yam,” he said, reaching out again. This time he was prepared and she was unable to shake his hand loose from her arm.

“Leave me alone,” she cried.

“Won do ya no good, cooz. Ya an dat fuggin tumler are caput. Pep gets a hole a him, he’ll bash his head in. An you.…” He flattened her against him and squeezed her breast. She bent her head and tried to bite his hand, but he managed to evade her thrust by smashing her in the stomach with his elbow, almost knocking the wind out of her.

“Bastard,” she hissed, squirming in his grasp. But he held her fast.

“Youse think ya cun make Irish look like a dummy. Well ya got anudder guess, cooz. Befaw yaw finished you’ll be beggin ole Irish to give him freebies jes ta save yaw ass.”

As she struggled futilely to get free of Irish’s iron grasp, she heard a car slow nearby. She continued to fight him. He started to drag her up the rise, sweating and grunting with the effort, his foul breath nauseating her. Then she heard the car stop somewhere nearby. To keep Irish occupied, she continued to struggle furiously and his blows to contain her grew more and more intense.

Then she heard him grunt suddenly and loosen his grip. Turning, she watched him slowly buckle to the ground and above him, she saw Mickey, rubbing his fist. The skin had split and his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Irish reached the ground where he squatted holding his head in pain, dazed.

“What did your big toe say to your little one?” Mickey said, wringing his fist.

“God, Mickey, I thought it was over for me,” Mutzie said.

“There was a heel following you,” Mickey said without missing a beat.

Irish groaned, his head slumped over his chest.

“You know what I’ve decided, Irish?” Mickey said.

Irish looked up, his palms cupping his sore head. He tried to get his legs to leverage him up, but soon gave up in frustration.

“Jesus, tumler. Ya hit me so hard,” Irish whined.

“I did that because you’re not a very nice person,” Mickey said.

“Coorva’ll getcha into maw trouble, tumler,” Irish groaned as Mickey and Mutzie turned away.

Grabbing her hand, Mickey led Mutzie to the car, a dark
blue Chevy four-door sedan. Mutzie’s sense of terror retreated.

Irish struggled to his feet. He no longer looked like a menacing figure.

“Ya both are in deep shit,” Irish cried, shaking his fist. “I’ll getcha fa dis.” He continued to rub his head.

“Nobody can get in deeper than you, pal,” Mickey said gunning the motor of the Chevy.

Through the rearview mirror, Mutzie watched Irish diminish and disappear in the highway dust.

From the car, Mutzie could get a clear view of the serene meadows with their background of sloping green mountains. The sense of movement in this beautiful setting calmed her. For the moment all sense of danger disappeared. She wanted to keep going forever, far away from these cruel people, and to treat these recent experiences as a bad dream, a nightmare.

Not far from Gorlick’s, Mickey had made a turn onto a narrow secondary road and was speeding over a hard, dirt-packed road that bisected truck and dairy farms.

He gunned the car forward, ignoring the washboard bumps, warning her to hold on as the car rocketed forward, smashing insects on the windshield. Mutzie held fast to the hand strap on the door with one hand and clutched the back of the seat with the other.

Mickey piloted the car through a maze of crossroads, making sharp turns into other back roads, squinting ahead at the unmarked terrain. It was not the moment to question his plan. For her, there were few choices: either escape, or surrender to a dark future. Besides, she had thrown herself on his protection and he had sacrificed everything for her rescue. Above all, she owed him her loyalty. Perhaps her life.

For nearly an hour, Mickey drove and said nothing, then suddenly he turned into another bumpy road to what appeared to be a crumbling deserted old barn. Inside the barn the car ground to a halt and Mickey slumped over the wheel.

“Good a spot as any,” he sighed. “This escaping business can be exhausting.” The smell of old dung hung in the air. Then he turned to Mutzie.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Terrific.”

She searched his face, looking, she supposed, for regrets. No point in asking him, she told herself. It was far too late for that. They were in the same boat now. She reached out and touched his face, which was wet with perspiration, moist and cool to the touch. She felt a deep surge of gratitude for what he had done.