Funny Boys (30 page)

T
HEY SAT ON A BENCH OF THE
A
LBANY BUS STATION WAITING
for the bus to New York City. From there they would take a train to California. For the past hour they had concentrated only on practical considerations. The envelope with the cash was in Mickey’s back pocket.

Mutzie had called her mother in Brownsville and Mickey had called his parents. Such periodic calls were a ritualized condition of Jewish family life. The obligatory call home, no matter what, no matter where, no matter when. She had called her mother every week since leaving home. The conversation was inevitably pro forma and only marginally accurate.

“I don’t want you to worry, Ma,” Mutzie said. “But I left Gorlick’s.”

“You left a good job?”

“I got a better one,” she lied. No point in explaining. The absolute truth, her relationship with Pep, her life at Gorlick’s, her flight with Mickey would not be within her mother’s comprehension.

“In the Catskills?” her mother asked.

“Not far,” she told her.

“In the mountains it gets cold. You should dress up warm.”

“Of course, Mom.”

“And watch out for the shmendricks. They all want to take advantage.”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I can handle myself.”

“Of course, I trust you. But these shmendricks, they’re a tricky bunch. They tell a nice Jewish girl lies.”

“I can see right through them, Mama.”

“Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll meet a nice fella.”

“I think I have, Mama.”

From where she stood at the pay phone, she could see Mickey. He was sitting down, his head pitched slightly over his neck. He was dozing.

“Jewish?”

“Of course, Mama.”

“A professional man?”

“Very,” Mutzie said.

“Mazel tov,” her mother said. “Can I stop worrying now?”

“Yes, Mama, you can stop worrying.”

She pictured her family living their lives in their narrow world. Still, family was family and she felt a certain sense of obligation and guilt for betraying their values.

“Seymour okay?”

“Seymour is Seymour.”

“How’s Papa?”

“Papa is Papa. His hobby is the pushcart. His job is complaining.” Mutzie could sense that her mother was getting wound up in her own perpetual complaint.

“Mama, this is long distance.”

Thankfully the operator came on and asked for more change.

“So you be a good girl. When will you call again?”

“Soon, Mama. Soon.”

She came back to where Mickey was sitting. He was still dozing and it gave her the opportunity to study him. Last night when she had observed him sleeping, he looked like a little boy—a good, gentle, sweet, innocent Jewish boy. Again she berated herself about her earlier feelings for Pep. How could she? What madness had possessed her? The images of those moments with Pep filled her with revulsion, self-guilt and, above all, shame. Perhaps time would blur them.

At that moment, she was certain that her destiny lay with Mickey. She had felt both comfort and pleasure in his arms. Perhaps, too, in a perverse way, her experience with Pep had made her better for Mickey, more giving, more expert in other ways. Life, she was discovering, was a learning process. Living required practice honed by experience. Goodness and loyalty and devotion were essential between a man and a woman. In Mickey’s presence she felt comfortable and, despite the current situation, secure. Mickey would never betray her. Never. And, she vowed, she would never betray him. Never.

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. He stirred, blinked and smiled, immediately awake to her presence near him.

“You call your Mama?” he asked.

“No matter how much we fight, when you call you know they love you. And you love them.” Mutzie sighed. “If she knew what had happened to me she would have had a conniption.”

My parents would plotz, Mickey thought, if they knew my present circumstances. He had called earlier reassuring them that everything was good and he was happy with his job. “That’s no job,” his father had said.

She looked at the big clock above the ticket booth. The bus
to New York City was scheduled to arrive in a half hour. They still had only the clothes on their backs. They planned to buy a wardrobe when they got to California.

“Do you know anybody in California?” Mutzie asked.

“Not a soul.”

“Be starting over,” Mutzie said.

“Sounds great to me,” Mickey said, taking her hand and holding it up to his lips to kiss them. They sat for a while, then heard the call for their bus over the loudspeaker. Getting up, they started for the announced gate.

“Sos its da great white way fa da two loveboids,” a voice said behind them. Irish. Unmistakably Irish. Turning, they saw his grinning, ugly, freckled face, his green eyes burning with victory.

“Gotcha,” he rasped. “And I got dis.”

He looked downward and they followed his gaze. He showed them a gun that he had withdrawn halfway from his side pocket.

“Big deal,” Mickey said, but she could tell by the unsteadiness in his voice that he was taking the threat seriously.

“Pep’ll getta laugh,” Irish said. “Two loveboids on da lam.” He let out a high-pitched, falsetto giggle. “I knew I would catch up wid youse. Ya people are so stoopid.”

She wondered what he meant. It flashed through her mind suddenly that the governor and Morgan might have betrayed them. Wouldn’t be surprised, she told herself, thinking how little trust and loyalty she had discovered in people during the past few months. Yet reason told her to give the governor and Morgan the benefit of the doubt, which she did reluctantly. She was certain that the same thought was running through Mickey’s mind.

“Maybe you should come with us, Irish,” Mutzie said, remembering his conduct at the murder of Gagie. Mickey gave her a sharp look that quickly telescoped the message: Make no references to what they had witnessed. The knowledge that other people had seen his humiliation might light a violent spark, especially if the humiliated man had a gun in his hand.

“Whafor,” Irish said. “I got it good up heah.”

For a brief moment, she thought she detected the slightest hesitation, a brief flicker of uncertainty.

“I got ma ticket back to Gorlick’s,” Irish said, certain he was being cryptic. She knew exactly what he meant. He was playing the hero now, fulfilling Pep’s assignment.

Again the loudspeaker blared, telling passengers that the bus to New York City was at the gate. It was obviously last call. Mutzie contemplated making a run for it. She glanced toward Mickey, seemed to find consent, then futility as Irish, expecting such a move, put himself in front of them and the gate. He had brought the gun from his side pocket and put it inside his shirt, pointing directly at Mickey’s stomach.

“I putta hole dere no alka seltzer gonna help it, tumler,” Irish said.

“It’s broad daylight,” Mickey said. “People will see. You could be identified.”

“An you can be dead, tumler.”

“You got a point,” Mickey said.

“I awso got a car, “Irish said. “So why doncha walk through the front entrance, loveboids.”

Mutzie looked at Mickey, who shrugged acquiesance. No point in resisting, not yet, his attitude told her. But she knew his mind was turning over, looking for a way out.

“Think this is gonna give you points with the boys?” Mickey asked.

“Betcha ass,” Irish said. “Gonna give you points, too. Sharp ones.”

Mutzie shivered remembering Pep’s reference to a Thanksgiving turkey. Irish pushed Mickey roughly on the back and Mutzie kept pace. As they walked, Mutzie saw the bus pull out of the station and with it her dreams for their new life.

They stopped in front of a massive black Packard, which she recognized as the car they had seen bring Gagie to Swan Lake.

“I see you’re stealing gangster movie cars these days, Irish.”

“Stealin caz is yaw line, tumler,” Irish quipped, enjoying his comeback with a chuckle. He ordered them to turn around and clasp their hands behind them. Mutzie felt her hands being tied together.

“Where did you learn those knots?” Mickey said. Remembering Swan Lake, Mutzie understood the reference.

“Get in,” Irish ordered, pushing them into the back seat. He came in after them carrying more rope. “A coupla knot tricks Pep taught me,” he muttered, as he tied their legs together using a fancy knot that traveled from their calves to their ankles.

“Nice’n cozy, loveboids,” Irish said. Before he backed out of the car, he looked at Mutzie and leered. He was close enough for her to smell his bad breath. She grimaced with disgust.

“You should change your diet, Irish,” Mutzie said.

As if it were a response, he reached out with both hands and squeezed her breasts. “Always wanted to do dat,” he laughed.

“Only way you could was to tie me up,” Mutzie shot back.

“Maybe you wan I should untie yaw legs. Give you a shot of the Irish.”

“How thrilling,” Mutzie said.

“Oh yeah,” Irish said. “Jes ask aroun.”

“We did, Irish,” Mickey said. “The reviews were all bad.”

“Up yaws,” Irish said poking Mickey in the chest.

“As eloquent as ever,” Mickey sighed.

“An no maw lip outa youse,” Irish scolded. He got into the front seat, started up the car and maneuvered it through the streets. Mutzie’s mind continued to race with scenarios, possibilities. Irish wasn’t a brain trust. Surely there was some way to outwit him.

She studied his eyes in the rearview mirror, waiting for a glimpse of them that might reveal how he could be thwarted. She had seen his most vulnerable side in Bernstein’s Orchard, the cowardice, the fawning, the inability to act out the ultimate cruelty. Did that mean that the man had a soft center? A weakness? Certainly he was a braggart, an exhibitionist and capable of a vast array of petty cruelties. She had also seen him as mean-spirited, as a stooge and flunky. Indeed, she was surprised that she had retained so much information about this terrible non-entity of a man. What was the real key to him, she wondered?

Suddenly Irish fiddled with the rearview miror and locked into Mickey’s stare.

“Whatcha lookin at, tumler?” Irish said.

“I’m waiting for your horns to sprout,” Mickey answered.

“I always tought your jokes was dumb.”

“Dumb. That’s your franchise, asshole. If I gave you a penny for your thoughts, you would have change coming.”

“Dats funny?”

“You’ve got brain damage, Irish. Your head got hit by a napkin.”

“Who’s smarter, putz? Me, or you an her in da backseat tied up?”

“They gonna graduate you from wheelman to killer?” Mickey asked in what was an obvious probe, indicating that an idea was brewing in hi’s mind. She knew exactly what Mickey was searching for.

“Ya got a big tongue, tumler,” Irish said, his eyes darting between them in the rear view mirror. “Good faw some tings, eh, baby. Bad for udders.” He broke out into high-pitched laughter.

“Big joke,” Mickey said.

“Gotta admit, even wid da dumb jokes, ya were one good tumler. Gorlick’s tearin his hair lookin for anudder one.”

“Maybe he’ll hire me back,” Mickey said.

“Not when Pep gets tru wid ya. Unless ya can tell jokes tru yaw tuchas.” Again Irish broke up with laughter.

“That’s the way a proctologist tells them,” Mickey muttered.

“What’s a proctolomecallit do?” Irish asked.

“What I’m doing now,” Mickey said.

“Wassat?”

“Looking at an asshole.”

Irish didn’t laugh, but kept his eyes on the road and was silent for a long time. The car moved out of Albany and slid into the highway going south.

“What did we ever do to you, Irish?” Mickey began.

“It don matter. Like dey say. It’s business.”

“And what do you get for it?” Mutzie asked.

“I make my bones is what,” Irish answered defensively, on the verge of anger. “Shaddup. You give me a pain in da tuchas.”

“She wasn’t inquiring about your mental state,” Mickey said. It was clear that Irish didn’t catch the insult.

They were silent for a long while.

“I guess you think you’re pretty clever, finding us. You think you’ll impress the shit out of them.” Mickey said, obviously searching for a way to engage their captor, find his weak spot.

“Betta believe,” Irish said.

“Come on, Irish,” Mutzie said. “Brag about it.”

“Ya ain’t as smart as ya tink ya are,” Irish said. He opened the window, cleared his throat and spat out a wad of phlegm.

“Youse a schmuck, tumler,” Irish continued. “I tole ya. We got people evywhere. We put da woid out. Cops found da hot car right? We knowed about that. And we got people up here watchin faw us. Youse was spotted even when you got da gas for da hot car. Youse was easy. Why ya come up here is stupid. I tole ya dey own all the politicos, the cops and da judges.”

Mutzie and Mickey stared at each, passing signals by blinking. Apparently the combination had not discovered that they had talked with the governor about the murder at Bernstein’s Orchard.

Except for the politics of Morgan’s explanation, which she didn’t quite understand, Mutzie felt, even under these terrible circumstances, oddly relieved. The governor and Morgan were not in the corruption loop.

“In their eyes, you’re just a punk, Irish,” Mickey said cautiously, suddenly emboldened. “A flunky with no balls.”

“A yellow belly,” Mutzie shot back. Mickey nodded his approval. “Big talk. But no guts.”

“I got guts,” Irish muttered.

“Lily-livered.”

“They’re playing you for a sucker, Irish,” Mickey said.

“You’ve got no future with the combination,” Mutzie said with a cunning glance at Mickey. “They’re looking for real killers, not big talkers.”

“Youse shut yaw traps. I don need this shit,” Irish said, beginning to rankle. Perhaps she had succeeded a bit, Mutzie thought.

“I got a business proposition, Irish,” Mickey said. “You always liked do re mi.”

Mutzie caught his message instantly. The two thousand Morgan had given them.

“An ya ain’t got none.”

“Suppose,” Mickey said, “that I knew where to get my hands on a thousand smackers.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Could we call it square?” Mickey pressed.