Spinning Dixie (6 page)

“Who are you calling there?” Mickey asked me the next morning.

“I'm calling Swig at the stables,” I said. I was shaking.

“Just watch what you say. Don't say where we are,” Mickey admonished.

I called Swig on the line he had in his little apartment next to the center ring at the stables.

“Hey, Swig. Did you see the paper?”

“Yeah, I did. Nice picture with the mouth open and all the blood.”

“I can't talk about it now.”

“So, is Miss Canned Heat gonna buy?”

I went cold with his crude summary of Claudine. This justified my swindle, didn't it?

“Yes, I sold her,” I said.

“What do you mean, you sold her?”

“I sold the horse.”

“You can't sell the horse!”

“Well, I did.”

“For how much?”

“Thirty-two hundred,” I mumbled.

Silence.

“I was gonna ask five thousand!” Swig said. “I was gonna throw in some training for the horse to impress these people. Now you gotta call and tell her that it's five thous—”

“No!”

“Look, I don't care who your grandfather is, you don't rook the race track out of nearly two grand!”

“I know. I won't. I'll make it up to you.”

“You'll cover the eighteen hundred and deliver the horse?”

“Right.”

“To Tennessee, I mean.”

“Yeah.”

“I don't believe you. I'm gonna tell your grandfather straight out. This is crazy. You call that girl and tell her you lied—”

“No!”

“Then I'm selling her out from under you.”

“No! I'll get the thirty-two hundred from her and cover the rest somehow.”

“Did you lose your mind?”

“Yes. I mean, no. No.”

“Since when are we horse couriers, Jonah? We're not paying for delivery.”

“I'll figure something out.”

“You better, Jonah. What are you thinkin' with, pal?”

Fury at Swig. There are few things more deeply resented than an accurate analysis of one's failings.

“I'll call Claudine and coordinate something.”

 

“So,” Deedee said, placing scrambled eggs and toast down on the cabin's dining room table. “
What,
may I ask, is with this Clarabelle? Your grandfather said something about a horse farm, and I hear you on the phone talking like you had a lobotomy.”

“You mean Claudine, not Clarabell. You make her sound like a cow.”

“She's no cow. I'll say that much. You like the thoroughbreds.”

“That's code.”

“Code? Who am I, Ethel Rosenberg? It's just a fact. At your age, you want the ones that get away. There are
Yiddishe
thoroughbreds, too, you know, but you won't be sweet on them.” Deedee placed a little box of salt on the table. “
Boxes
of salt. This is how we live now. Enough already!”

“How do you know that about Jewish girls?”

“They're too familiar,” Deedee said. “You're on to them and they're on to you. You don't want each other. The times are different. This Southern one—
hoo-hah
—it's another world with Tennessee. It's an impossibility. That's what you love now.” Deedee produced a napkin out of thin air and dabbed at the corner of her eye and sat down across from me. “I just hate to see you go through it.”

I stood and walked around to Deedee's side of the table. I knelt by her.

“I'm not going through anything, Deedee. This situation last night—”

“You mean the girl.”

“She had an effect on me,” I said.

“
Insanity,
that's the effect,” she prodded me back to my side of the table. “They should make a pill for it. Like your grandfather with his insanity.
Die kalah es tu schein,
” Deedee admonished in Yiddish.

“What does that mean?”

“‘The bride is too beautiful.' It means what it means. And what are you all shaky about?”

I confessed to Deedee about what I had done with the horse. She slapped my head with her palm. “Those Ivy League schools don't test for idiocy, do they? Oh, Jonah. Don't tell your grandfather. Think! Think!”

 

There were three knocks against the front door of the cabin. Mickey instinctively glanced at the shotgun on the counter. It was standing upright next to a plastic tub of kosher cream cheese.

Deedee peered behind the curtain.

“It's just Irv,” she said. “Do you want me to shoot him for you?”

Mickey ignored her and opened the door. Standing impeccably in a poplin suit was Irv the Curve, Mickey's top lieutenant. He had the front page of
The Philadelphia Inquirer
plastered across his chest, as if he had been kidnapped by the Red Brigades like Aldo Moro.

“Well, Irv,” Mickey said, “We've got ourselves another pogrom.”

“We don't know that yet, Mick,” Irv the Curve said, not stepping inside. “This thing with Ange is a young man's move. Hi, there, Jonah. Sorry to pull you away from the chickie.”

Everybody knew.

“You look tan, Uncle Irv.”

“I found a new moisturizer,” Irv the Curve said.

“No kidding,” said Mickey. “Does it keep the tan in?”

“Like you wouldn't believe. Doris at Ventnor Pharmacy recommended it. I'll pick up some for you,” Irv the Curve promised.

“Smith, Wesson, and a little moisturizer,” Deedee droned from the kitchen.

“Look at Ange,” Irv said, shaking the newspaper. Deedee and I moved toward Irv to inspect the paper.

It was the most ghastly photo I had ever seen, just as Deedee had described it. Mr. Bruno sat in the passenger seat of a car, his mouth wide open and filled with blood so fresh that the light from the flash-bulbs made it shimmer. His right eye was closed; his left eye was slightly open for a final peek at springtime in South Philly. Blood flowed from his ear and nostrils and down on his striped shirt and tightly knotted tie.

“Rattle & Snap,” a male, teenage voice answered the telephone. The pronunciation came out
Raddlinsnap
. I felt butterflies orbiting several vital organs.

“Yes,” I said, trying very hard to sound routine. “I'm trying to reach Claudine Polk.”

“May I tell her who's calling, please?”

“Yes. Yes, you may.” A little formal, Jonah. “My name is Jonah Eastman. I met her, I mean, I work at the Atlantic City Racetrack.”

“Oh, yeah.”

This was good. She had discussed me with this person, perhaps her brother. Or maybe it wasn't so good. Maybe the phone answerer was simply aware that Claudine had bought a horse in Atlantic City. I may have been little more than an errand boy.

There was a muffled handoff and then her springtime voice floated through the telephone wires and vacuumed my brains out through my ears.

“I forgot your last name was Eastman.” I thought I smelled azaleas. What did azaleas smell like anyway?

“What's wrong with Eastman?”

“Nothing's wrong, your last name hadn't occurred to me lately.”

“Wasn't President Polk from Tennessee?”

“Indeed he was.”

“Are you related to him?”

“Cousin Jimmy. Are you related to the guy from Eastman Kodak?”

“I'm not even related to Monk Eastman.”

“Who's Monk Eastman?”

“He was an old-time New York gangster.”

“Like that Ange friend of yours?”

I was silent. Claudine advanced: “I read about that murder in the newspaper.”

“Do you still want Spilled Kiss?”

“Of course. Who do I make the check out to?”

“Atlantic City Race Track. We can work out delivery later.”

“When do you think you can get her down to the plantation?”

Plantation?

“After Memorial Day. Will that be okay?”

“I guess. You're going to miss Spilled Kiss, I bet.”

“Will you let me visit her?”

“Of course.”
A-course.

I could hear Claudine cover up the telephone and tell someone to get lost. This was a good sign.

“Anyway,” she said, “I'm going to our school play now with some friends.”

“What's the play?”

“This year we're doing
Fiddler on the Roof
. It's about traditions.”

I had to catch my breath, Mickey and Deedee played the sound track perpetually, our very own middle-class department store Muzak.

“It's a good play. I think you'll like it.”

“Wow, you know a lot about plays, huh?”

“Plays, yes.” Oy. “How was your stay at the Golden Prospect?”

“They treated me like a princess. But I was worried about you, so I didn't sleep too well.” With distance came tenderness.

“What about me did you think about when you tried to sleep?”

“Jonah!”

“Sorry.”

“Call soon. And one more thing: Stay away from those dangerous men.”

Her ostensible disapproval masked curiosity.

“I'm not the one that lives on a plantation. The slaves may rise up.”

“Don't be silly, Jonah. We don't have slaves here anymore.”

“When did you give them their leave?”

“There was this little war in the eighteen sixties. My family played quite a role in this. How about yours?”

“We fight in other wars.”

 

A guy called Tony Bananas drove his Mercedes 450 SEL coupe up the dirt road to Masada. Bananas was the legendary Blue's deputy, a muscle guy to his marrow.

“Here come the Romans,” Irv the Curve alerted no one in particular. “Bananas and his fancy car. Thinks he's Sean Connery.”

My Uncle Blue climbed out of the car. His real name was Arturo Cocco. He was Mr. Bruno's underboss, and had been Mickey's partner since Prohibition. Blue was wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and black slacks. His tie was tightly knotted, the way Mr. Bruno's had always been. Even away from the action, these old guys liked to look right.

Tony Bananas was another story. In his forties, he was a bear of a man. He was dressed all in black, not out of respect for Mr. Bruno, but probably because he thought he looked scary that way.

Mickey emerged from the house and regarded Blue, unsmiling. I followed Mickey out and lingered on the porch. Irv the Curve trailed him. Blue shook his head, with a what's-the-world-comin'-to expression. He stepped toward Mickey, who gestured with his hand toward the gazebo beyond the sand pit. The two men did not shake hands or embrace.

At the time I watched the interaction, I thought Mickey's coldness had been a mistake. Blue, after all, had been his chief source of protection. Only later did I come to understand Mickey's position: An embrace would have been a sign of weakness, an outreach for assurances. While Mickey may indeed have felt weak, he wanted to come across angry. He wanted Blue to feel that their half-century partnership was in jeopardy, and for what?

The power in a relationship belongs to whoever needs the relationship less. By gesturing toward the gazebo, Mickey wanted everything Blue could lose to flash before his eyes. Implicit in Mickey's coldness was the mad stance of a zealot.
So kill me,
his movements said. These men would know everything they needed to know about where each other stood before the meeting started.

The two men muttered something to Tony Bananas and Irv. Both men stayed back while Mickey and Blue proceeded toward the gazebo.

Tony Bananas approached me.

“Jonah. How's school?” he asked.
Joner hazkool?
Tony Bananas gave me a friendly attaboy punch on my shoulder. I hesitated for a moment. He had never shown any interest in me before.

“School's fine,” I said.

“School's a good thing. I shoulda stayed in school. I like readin'. You like readin'?”

Irv the Curve studied our exchange silently.

“Yes,” I answered. “I like reading.”

“Good. Read a little-a this. Read a little-a that. Before you know, you got all kindsa friggin' wisdom. Know what I'm sayin'?”

“Yes.”

Tony Bananas put his meaty hand around the back of my neck and massaged it a little, the way a friendly uncle would. The skin on his hands was dry and raw.

I left Masada every morning and went to school at the Shore under heavy guard by Carvin' Marvin. The subject in Mr. Hicks's English class was poetry. We had been tasked with writing a romantic poem. My serendipitous encounter with Claudine Polk had left me suspended in a gelatin of longing, so I sat alone on a rock in the sandpit at Masada and wrote a few verses:

Mr. Hicks read that verse aloud and shook his head slowly, his mouth lolling open. I could see his fillings. I couldn't determine what he was trying to tell me; after all, I didn't think my verse was very good. The words had bled out of my fingertips onto the paper.

Lisa Connors rested her head on her hand and ran an index finger beneath her eye. She was good-looking, something I hadn't really noticed before. Another girl, Deborah, crossed and uncrossed her legs—she was wearing shorts. She looked sleepy, and I pictured what she might look like with her eyes closed. My heart began to race and I heard a roaring in my ears. I closed my own eyes and felt Claudine tackle me on grass that was more than green.

 

One evening, Deedee prepared a Passover dinner for the boys at Masada. My Uncle Blue's wife, Phyllis, came too. The casual observer would find this to be a good sign. I wasn't so sure.

Deedee emerged from the cabin to our outside setting holding a steaming soup bowl and wearing combat fatigues, an army hat, and an eye patch. And crimson high heels to match her current hair color. Dear Lord.

“Outta my way troops, hot matzoh ball soup on fire coming through!”

“What the hell is this?” Mickey asked.

“We're at
war
in the desert, aren't we?” she said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I'm Moshe Dayan out here. You boys with your guns,” Deedee said.

“Where did you get that outfit?” I asked.

“It's not an outfit, Jonah,” Deedee corrected. “It's a
uniform.
I got it from the theater director at the hotel. Women in Israel are soldiers, you know.”

Mickey gazed skyward for guidance. “What's the point of this nonsense?”

Deedee fiddled with a plate of hard-boiled eggs and put her skinny arms on her hips. “I'm protesting the war. I've had enough of this violence from all of you. I am…
whattayacallit
…an
actifed.
”

“An activist,” I corrected.

“That's right. That's what I am. An activist. A peace activist!”

“With the high heels, you're an activist?” Mickey shouted. “You're an activist like I'm Abbie Hoffman!”

My uncle Blue, who had brought red wine—and seeking to put an end to the spectacle—held up a glass and toasted, “Here's to the sexiest little activist this side of Hanoi Jane Fonda!”

Everyone raised their glasses and toasted, even Deedee, who apparently got what she wanted: male attention. She moved her eye patch to her other eye. When the meal concluded, Blue asked for somebody to tell the story of Passover. “I love that story with the plagues and the locusts. C'mon, Mick.”

“Irv's the story guy, you know that,” Mickey said.

Blue wouldn't have it: “But you're Moses. I want to hear it from the big guy himself.”

“It's a simple story, really,” Mickey sighed. “The Israelites lived in Egypt. They multiplied, got more power. Pharaoh sees Jews living in the new fancy condo complex he was planning—the Pyramids at Red Sea. Pharaoh got worried, cracked down, and made them slaves. The Jewish slaves built his pyramids. Pharaoh liked this. This coincided with another problem. The guy he treats like his son, Moses, finds out he comes from Jewish slaves. Moses decides to act. He wants his people freed. Moses, he's got a heavy friend: God. God arms Moses with plagues. Blood. Cattle sickness. Vermin. Frogs. Darkness. Pharaoh eventually finds these plagues illuminating. The real deal. He lets Moses take the slaves out of Egypt. Pharaoh realizes this isn't such a good answer either. He gives chase. God helps him out. The Jews are freed, but it's not the victory they think it's going to be. They wander in the desert for forty years. They fight each other like a Fort Lauderdale condo association. (There's nothing in the Book of Exodus that you can't see at a Fort Lauderdale condo meeting.) Moses dies before his people get to the Promised Land. His people make it, though, but have to keep fighting to live there. After all, God had once told Moses, ‘Send men that will spy out the land of Canaan, which I give to the children of Israel; of every tribe of their fathers shall you send a man, every one a prince among them.'

“On this holiday, it is said that we are to ask questions. We are to talk about who is wise, who is wicked, who's a moron, and who is unable to ask questions. By the time my Jonah goes off to college, I hope we will know who's who.”

Blue pounded his index finger against the table: “Hey, Moses, what kinda plague are you gonna give Nunzi up in New York? I say you mess with his cattle.”

Mickey swatted Blue away. He and Deedee were the only ones who could rib him like this. Nunzi was a New York City Mafia boss.

They suspected that New York was behind the hit on Mr. Bruno.

“Frogs are good,” I added.

Blue agreed. “Listen to the kid. Can you see Nunzi jumpin' around with frogs in his boxers?”

Everyone clanged wine glasses and drank.

“Now, Jonah, Phyllis, and Moshe Dayan with the red hair,” Mickey said, “The boys are going to talk plagues if you don't mind.
Dayanu,
” Mickey added. Hebrew for “enough.”

I helped Phyllis and Deedee clear the table while Moses and Company determined who would live and who would die.