The Hoods (16 page)

“Oncet there was a bum named Benny,

Scruples he did not have much of any,

One beautiful fourth of July weekend,

We decided justice we would him rend.

In the car, we took him for an airing,

Through the land of borscht and herring.

'Stop. This is the spot.' 'What for?' asked Benny.

'To pick flowers,' we answered, 'for here, there are many.'

We did what we did, then homeward bound.

We looked and looked; Benny the bum was nowheres around.

'Does anybody know the fate that befell my poor Benny?'

Asked his happy and laughing widow, Fenny.”

I don't know why but the recollection of the song and the whole macabre episode started me off into spasms of giggling. I stopped writing and went to bed. I was tired but not sleepy.

I tossed around in bed trying to forget the book. I began to think of John's wife. Thoughts of her kept me awake, aroused my excitement. What the hell is the matter with me? To keep thinking of that flat-chested piece? Boy, am I getting hot just thinking of her. Lately I get excited at the slightest stimulus. What the hell? Am I going to lie here and do six times six?

I picked up the phone, and told the hotel operator I wanted to talk to Sweeny.

“Yell, Sweeny, the house dick,” I repeated.

He got on the wire.

I said, “I am in the mood, Sweeny. You got something nice sitting around the lobby, something softie, not flat-chested?”

He chuckled. “Yeh, plenty floating around. How many you want? Blonde or brunette?”

I laughed. “I'll leave it to you. Anything that's clean and pretty suits me.

Two minutes later she came in. I lay in bed watching her get undressed.

She was a pretty little thing. Her undergarments were fresh and clean. She crept under the covers.

She wriggled close to me and whispered in my ear, “I need my room rent.” She had a nice apologetic smile when she said it.

“You a chorus girl out of work?” I asked.

“Yes, how did you know, have you seen me in a show?” she asked.

“No, but somehow I guessed it by your general appearance.”

She smiled and sighed, “Gee, you're a smart man. It's tough to get a job these days.”

I said, “Relax, honey, you'll get more than a month's rent. Besides being a smart feller I am the patron saint of all pretty, unemployed chorus girls.”

“You're a cute one,” she said with a grin.

“For that remark you get an extra five,” I said.

She wriggled closer and whispered, “I love you, you great, big, handsome, cute, smart, wonderful patron saint of unemployed chorus girls.”

We both laughed hilariously. We were like old friends. I put the light out. She was round, soft, full chested and hot.

Next day there didn't seem to be anything on the agenda, so we started right in on our Greek rummy. We played for two hours.

Moe came in and said, “Moishe the contractor is outside. Wants to see you guys. He seems to be in trouble. Boy, it looks like he got some going over.”

“Moishe?” Max asked doubtfully. “Is he the guy that has a small shop on Thirtieth Street?”

“Yeh, that's the guy,” I answered. I remembered him because he lived next house to ours on Delancey Street.

Moishe came in. He certainly looked like he had gotten bounced around all right. He had a bandage around his head and a purple mouse hung on his right eye. His lips were so puffed, he could hardly talk.

Patsy asked maliciously, “What's the matter, Moishe? Wife lump you up?”

I shoved a chair towards him and said, “Sit down, Moishe. Have a drink and tell us your troubles.”

He bowed gratefully with the drink in his hand. He said, “Ah,” in appreciation after he drank up. Then he sat down with a groan and mumbled through his swollen lips, “Wife trouble? No,” shaking his head to Patsy.

Cockeye asked laughingly, “So who decorated you so fancy, your mother-in-law?”

Moishe turned and looked at Cockeye. He shook his head sadly. “Veh is mir,” he said. “My mother-in-law I can handle. It's business troubles. I got into an imglick.” He rocked back and forth in woe. “It's awful. I borrowed five hundred dollars from Nutchy to meet a payroll. I am so mixed up with interest. I already gave back to Nutchy eight hundred dollars, and he still says I owe him six hundred more. All I complained to him was, 'Enough is enough, Nutch,' and this is what he answered me.” He tapped his head and his eye. “Six hundred more, he said, or he would break both my hands and feet. What can I do?”

He looked helplessly at us as he continued rocking back and forth in misery. “I ask you for protection. I don't want to go to the police. I'm afraid to go.”

“How did you happen to come to us?” I questioned.

“I told my troubles to the leader from the Tammany Club, he said maybe you boys would help me.”

He looked at our faces trying to read sympathy in them. He tried a pathetic pleading and flattery.

“Everybody says you're such fine fellows, maybe you boys can help me? Please? Talk to Mr. Nutchy to stop hitting me, maybe?”

Cockeye doubled up with laughter.

“Good old Nutch. That's Nutchy, the Shylock from Thirty-First Street, all right. He has no heart.”

The old man stared at Cockeye. He was confused and hurt at his laughter.

Maxie reassured him. “You did right by coming to us, Moishe. Never go to the police. Nutchy buys them off with a charlotte russe. They won't help you.”

Patsy said, “I thought Frank sent word around town for them Shy-locks to pipe down.”

I said, “Yeh, so I heard. But this Nutch is greedy. He don't take orders, it seems.”

“They stink on ice,” Patsy said, “all them Shylocks.”

“Yep, it's a lousy racket,” Max agreed. “It gives every other racket a bad name. Why the hell don't they cut it out?”

“For the big dough that's in it,” I said.

“Yep, I guess so,” Max said. “What do them bastards charge for a loan, about a thousand percent interest, ain't it?”

“Yeh, even more than that. How they compute their interest, nobody knows,” I said. “They charge interest on top of interest. At the end of a year it could total ten thousand percent.”

“Them bums want more than their pound of flesh,” Patsy said. “They're worse than that guy, the original Shylock from Venice.”

I looked at Patsy. I was surprised at the way he put it. I wondered what he implied. I said, “Just for the record, Patsy old lad, this Nutch is an Italian.”

Patsy laughed at me, “I knew he was a wop. I'm surprised at you, Noodles. A bastard is a bastard no matter what he is.”

Maxie said, “Yep, we're all bastards. You're getting too sensitive, Noodles.”

“Yeh, I guess so,” I said.

I smiled over at Patsy. He gave me a wink.

“How come you businessmen up in the garment center borrow from Shylocks?” Max asked. “Aren't there enough banks to borrow from?”

The old man looked at Maxie in embarrassment. He seemed ashamed of the reasons that led to his present predicament.

“No collateral, hey, Moishe?” I asked.

“Yes, I got no rating, no nothing,” he mumbled.

“What kind of business are you in?” I asked.

“I'm a zipper contractor; you know, an assembler.”

“Any dough in it?” Max asked.

The old man shrugged his shoulders. “How can I make money, fighting for business against a feller with fifty million dollars like Mr. Talon? He has better machines. He makes a better product. He buys cheaper. He sells cheaper. He gives thirty and sixty days credit to his customers. My customers want the same credit, so I sell the bills receivable to factors. They take away the little profit I make. Then I'm desperate. I need money. I mortgage the little machinery I have to another factor. I'm all right for a week. Then I'm desperate again. The telephone company is going to stop my telephone. The landlord wants his rent. I need goods to work on. I got to pay Ruby and Itzik, my workers. And I got to bring home a piece of bread to my wife and children, too, no? Oy, ziz bitter, bitter.”

He swayed back and forth, holding his head. “Now it's this imglick with Nutch. What can I do? Jump off the roof?”

“The age-old plight of the small businessman,” I murmured. “Equal opportunities for the Moishes and Talons of the world.”

Max whispered to me, “This Nutch don't take orders. Then maybe we got to give him a working over? That way it's not too good either, if we can avoid it.”

He pursed his lips in thought for a moment. “Maybe we'll handle him another way. Tell me, Moishe,” Max asked, “has this Nutch got plenty of kupper?”

“Yeah. I think so, Mr. Max. They say he has heavy kupper. He lends out thousands and thousands every day.”

“Okay,” Maxie said. He made a quick decision. “Seein' he don't take orders, I'll give it to the bastard where it hurts him the most—in the pocketbook. How much does he say is coming to him, Moishe?”

“Six hundred dollars,” he answered.

Maxie leaned over, whispered to Cockeye and handed him a key. I wondered what Max was up to. Cockeye looked at Maxie in disapproval and shrugged his shoulders. He took the key and went out.

Max leaned over and whispered to Pat and me. “I'm going to give Nutch a friggin. I'll have Jake and Pipy work a diamond switch on him.”

He looked at me for approval.

I chuckled. “Do you think he'll fall for it?”

Max shrugged. “We'll try, what have we got to lose?”

Pat and I nodded assent.

He turned to our guest. “Have a drink, Moishe. When Cockeye comes back, I'll straighten you out.”

Maxie patted him on the back quietly.

Moishe said, “Thank you, Mr. Max.” He sipped his drink slowly. He looked at us from his troubled eyes. We went back to our game with Moishe sitting nervously by, watching.

Half-hour later Cockeye came back, handed Maxie the key and a small crumpled piece of tissue. Max unwrapped it. A large glittering stone fell on the table. One of our stones from the diamond heist. Maxie handed it to Moishe.

“Here, take this stone, Moishe. It's worth at least two grand. Give it to Nutch. Tell him your good friend Jake gave it to you. Jake has no cash but lots of diamonds. Besides being payment for what you owe him, make Nutch give you at least a few hundred dollars in cash. You understand what I'm saying?”

The old man nodded. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

“You keep the cash he gives you, that's for yourself.”

Moishe looked his gratitude. “Someday I pay it back.”

“Forget about it,” Max said. “I guarantee his eyes will pop out when he sees the stone.”

Maxie smiled at the thought. “Now pay attention, Moishe. This is important. He will ask you where you got it. Now remember the name. You tell him you got it from Jake the Goniff from Broome Street. He probably knows him well. Tell him that Jake's got more to sell. He's looking for a buyer, to sell cheap. Do you understand?”

Poor old Moishe. He sat there nodding his head, trying to hold the tears of gratitude out of his eyes.

He finally blubbered, “How can I thank you, Mr. Max? You're so good to everybody. God bless you.”

Maxie said gruffly, “Never mind the thanks. Just remember to tell Nutch, Jake the Goniff gave you the stone, and he's got plenty more he wants to sell cheap. That's the important thing.”

Moishe nodded his head humbly.

“Yeah. I won't forget. I'll tell him that I got it from Jake the Goniff from Broome Street, Mr. Max.”

Maxie patted him on the back and walked him to the door.

He turned to Cockeye. “Dig up Jake and Pipy and tell them I want to see them right away.”

Cockeye went out on his errand. We continued our card game.

About an hour later, Cockeye walked in followed by Jake the Goniff, Pipy and Goo-Goo. Maxie smiled.

“I see you got your whole mob with you, Jake.”

“Do you mind, Max?” Jake asked.

“Do I mind? Since when did you get so polite? Sit down and have a hooker.”

At the invitation Jake and his friends broke into smiles. They drank up.

Patsy ribbed, “Hey, Jake, you mean to say you come around here without a poem or a riddle?”

Jake broke into a grin. “Yeah, Pat, I was just going to tell one.”

“What kind of poem, from Broome or Delancey Street?” Cockeye asked.

“My own poem. I made it up myself.”

Jake's pride was hurt. “It's a combination poem and riddle.”

“Okay, let's get it over with,” Max said.

Jake did not need any further invitation. He recited with gestures.

“The postman came the first of May.

The fireman came the following day.

Nine months later there was hell to pay.