The Hoods (35 page)

“Oh, it's you,” he said.

He gave me a cold look.

I walked in. “How come you're home so early? Where's Mama?” I asked.

“A neighbor phoned me at the office, mama is sick. She's sick; she's in there.” He gestured to the back bedroom.

“What's the matter?” I asked. With an uneasy feeling I hurriedly walked to the bedroom.

“Don't disturb her, she's asleep. The doctor just left. He gave her a pill,” he barked at me.

I turned back. “What's wrong?”

“Are you really interested?” he sneered. “You make me laugh with your show-off devotion. Why don't you come around more often, big shot?”

“That's why I don't come around, on account of your lousy sarcasm. Besides, this dump gives me the creeps. Why the hell don't you move uptown to a decent place? Maybe I'd come around more often. Maybe I d move in. I'd pay all the expenses, like I told you many times before.”

“In the first place Mama won't move. She's used to the neighborhood, and she has all her friends here.”

“Yentes and kurshineerkehs,” I grunted. “Besides, it stinks around here.”

I realized too late my frankness would only make him more nasty. That I had tried to avoid.

“Yentas, kurshineerkehs, and it stinks,” he said bitterly. “The people in this neighborhood are beneath you, my big, brave, hoodlum brother. Who the hell do you think you are?”

The corner of his lip curled in a sneer.

“I didn't mean it that way,” I said apologetically.

He didn't hear me. He was too engrossed in needling me.

“Tell me, do they still call you Noodles the Shiv? So Noodles the Shiv is too good to live around here? What do you think you're made of? Different stuff from the decent people in this neighborhood? A hood like you who carries a knife and gun like most decent peaceable people carry a pen and pencil? Who uses whiskey and drugs to bolster his courage?”

“I don't use drugs,” I mumbled. “Occasionally we kick the gong around and that isn't habit forming,” I argued weakly.

“Smoking opium isn't a drug? Isn't habit forming?” he sneered. “Also you think bulldozing people requires courage? Also you think the only way to get money is by stealing and conniving? You've got no respect for religion, God or people? You and your hoodlum friends think you're above law and decency, don't you? With your guns and knives and brass knuckles? You guys rationalize that everything that's phony and illegal is okay, and anybody that's legitimate is a sucker. You visualize yourself as a romantic figure, don't you? As some sort of modern Robin Hood. Don't tell me. I know your way of thinking.”

“Look,” I snarled. “Don't start that crap again every time I come around. Let's cut the Cain and Abel act. I didn't come here to continue the same ridiculous discussion. I came to see Mama.”

“You came to see Mama,” he mimicked. “Another thing I want to discuss with you, who the hell gave you permission to move our father's body to a different plot and put an elaborate stone on his grave? For a guy who never gave him respect when he was alive or even said Kaddish, Yiskor or any prayer at all, for his father's soul, this sudden filial devotion stinks. You don't ask anybody. You take things into your own hands as usual. Why the hell don't you do things like a normal, decent man?”

“Look,” I snapped. “Don't crowd me too far. I'm liable to forget you're my brother. Don't ride me all the time about decent people. Decent people. What the hell do you think—you're such a bargain? You and your kind? You newspaper guys? So, you got yourself a byline. That makes you an authority on life and everything. Don't shit me about ideals and clean living. Who was implicated in the ambulance chasing scandal some time back? Wasn't it the newspaper friends you pal around with? How does the Combine get the winning number before it's printed, so they can lay off bets, if not from some newspaper guy like yourself? Who writes crapped-up stories to mislead the public? A publicity agent can buy you guys to flavor a story or give a guy a mention for a buck and a charlotte russe. Your bosses, the publishers, are decent and ethical? Big business buys them off with advertising. Don't the big money guys dictate their policy? Don't you guys use violence in your business? You never heard of legitimate publishers using force to sell their papers? To put them on newsstands? Who have they got in their circulation departments? Hoods, that's who they have. Don't legitimate, so-called decent publishers hire goons to break drivers' strikes? Weren't we approached time and time again by so-called decent church-going legitimate newspaper men to commit acts that even we would not have the heart to do? Don't the so-called decent merchants in time of war, when certain commodities are scarce, profiteer and steal from the public all they can without pity or consideration? Yeh, don't hand me that bullshit. Nobody's decent. The whole world is corrupt one way or another. Most people aren't honest. They make believe and kid themselves that they are. Yeh, so we—we're elementary about it; we flaunt it; we carry guns. So, what the hell do you expect to gain by baiting me every time you see me? You sound like a nagging old woman.”

He glowered at me as I went into the back bedroom. Mama was sleeping soundly. I kissed her cheek and tucked five hundred bucks under her pillow.

I tiptoed back to the kitchen. My brother was smoking a cigarette and reading his paper. “What was it—her heart?” I questioned. He nodded without lifting his eyes off the paper.

“How bad was it?” I questioned.

“A mild attack.” He mumbled, “She'll be all right.”

I was still hot under the collar. I wanted to needle him. I said, “I read some of the crap you got syndicated in the Sunday papers.”

“So you don't like it?” He glared. “At least it's an honest and decent way to make a living. It's decent money.”

“Decent money,” I sneered. “It's the same kind of money a prostitute receives.”

He turned white with anger. “You sonofabitch,” he snarled at me.

“Yeh,” I continued. “It's the same kind of dough. You're paid off. You're bought off to write a load of reactionary crap. Where are your liberal ideas? Weren't you the guy who admired his hero, Heywood Broun? Remember? Yeh, where is your love for the underdog? You're bought off. You sold out your liberal point of view. You sold out for a charlotte russe. Why? Because you're afraid to write what you want for fear of being branded. You got shit in your blood, like the rest of your friends in your profession. 'The pen is mightier than the sword,' you used to say. But your bosses give you guys a tap on the wrist, and your pens fall out of your hands, and you murder each other to get on the reactionary wagon.”

“You can't get a job if you write liberal stuff today,” he mumbled.

“Yeh, that's what I mean. You're the guy who used to quote Lincoln and Tom Paine. You're the guy who gave me that quote 'God give me strength to face a fact and express it, though it slay me.' You remember? That's what I mean. You sold yourself like a whore.”

“You and your goddamn long-winded discussions,” he mumbled. “Always picking a goddamn argument.”

“I pick the arguments?” I asked.

“Yes, you always picked the arguments and made the long-winded discussions around here.”

“Well, I'll be goddamned.” I looked at him in disgust. I said, “Oh well, what the hell's the use. Give my love to Mama.”

He didn't answer. I gave him a warning look.

He said, “All right.”

I added, “Next time I come around if you start that crap, I'll throw you out the window.”

He didn't answer me. He just glared his defiance.

I went out. At Jake's place a stranger was tending bar. I had a few drinks to cool off. The place was crowded. Evidently the bartender knew who I was. He motioned to the back room. Max, Pat and Cockeye sat opposite Jake, Pipy and Goo-Goo. They were engrossed in a poker game. We exchanged greetings. I watched the game for a few hands. Max and Patsy wore the luminous glasses for practice. They looked like ordinary sunglasses.

I supposed Maxie had already thought out his strategy for the casino job. Of course that was one of the reasons he had invited Jake, Pipy and Goo-Goo to accompany us on this second visit to the casino.

Finally, with a laugh, Maxie said, “Okay, break it up. Let's get started.”

Maxie asked Jake, Pip and Goo-Goo, “You guys got your hardware?” The three nodded.

With questioning glances at Maxie, they laid their rods on the table. Take produced two pieces: a Luger and a Police Special. Pipy took a .38 out of his back pocket. Goo-Goo had his .38 stuck into the front of his pants.

“How about these?”

Jake and Pipy each produced his collection of keys.

“No use looking for trouble,” Max said. “Throw them in the pile. That goes for us, too.”

We took our holsters off. I took out my knife and Maxie unhooked his sleeve gimmick. It made a sizeable pile on the table.

We put everything in the canvas bag Cockeye opened up.

“All right to put it under the chassis?” Cockeye asked.

“Not yet. Go over to the garage, get the Tommy, and then put the whole works under the chassis. We'll wait here for you.”

Cockeye picked up the bag and left.

We went to the bar and had a few rounds. Cockeye came back in twenty minutes.

“Did you attach the Tommy okay?”

“Don't worry, Max,” Cockeye replied. “The lead sprayer is on good.”

The seven of us piled into the big Caddy, which wasn't too uncomfortable. In a pinch we could accommodate nine.

Cockeye said, “This will give us plenty of weight for a smooth ride.”

That's what it was—a smooth, uneventful ride back to the resort.

We checked in at the hotel at about eleven p.m. Jake, Pip, and Goo-Goo were assigned a large room on our floor. We were all tired.

Max said, “Let's hit the hay. We get up at four a.m.”

We took showers and went to bed.

I quickly fell asleep. It seemed as if I had been asleep for many hours. I felt refreshed as I looked at my watch. It was four-ten a.m. I looked over at Maxie. He was lying perfectly relaxed, snoring as usual, with a peaceful expression on his face. I called to him. He sat up rubbing his head.

“How do you feel? Okay?” he asked.

“Yeh,” I said.

We had a whispered discussion. I suggested a plan of action. Maxie agreed to it. He started dressing. Then he went into the next room and slapped Patsy and Cockeye on the buttocks. He walked down the hall in his stockinged feet and woke Jake, Pip, and Goo-Goo.

It was four-thirty a.m. when we left the room one by one to meet in the garage. Cockeye crept underneath the car and took out the canvas bag, including the Tommy gun. Maxie distributed our equipment. He examined with interest Jake's and Pipy's keys.

“You want to learn the second-story trade, Max?”

Max smiled, “No thanks, Jake. Everybody to his own racket.”

We stopped at a diner for coffee and flapjacks. Maxie ordered a dozen hamburgers to go.

“Yeh, it's a good idea,” I said. “We'll be pretty hungry before the day is over.”

“Yep, you and me both,” he said significantly.

It was five a.m. when we stopped a block away from the casino. It was still brightly lit up. There were plenty of cars in the parking area. We waited. About five-thirty, cars began pulling out of the lot in bunches. Lights were being extinguished in the building one by one.

At five-forty-five, there wasn't a car on the lot. The building was in complete darkness. We left the car and walked quietly to the building. Max whispered, “Take your rods out. Jake, you take your shoes off and follow me.”

Max motioned for the rest of us to stay where we were. He and Jake crawled to the casino door. Five Roscoes were covering them. Jake went to work quietly with his master keys. It took him five minutes to unlock the door. Big Max motioned to us to come along. We walked noiselessly into the building, our Roscoes ready for action. We went over the entire building, up the attic and down the cellar. The building was deserted. We adjourned to the bar. Maxie served Mt. Vernon.

Jake went outside for his and Maxie's shoes. We stood around as Maxie began his curt instructions.

“Me and Noodles will be parked up in the attic. You guys go back to the hotel and rest up. Call Schwartz, the tailor, and get fitted out. Come back to this casino at eleven p.m. sharp. When you get here, Patsy, you concentrate your play on the roulette wheel. Start betting light. Then towards the end, make it heavy. Eleven-thirty on the dot, put all your money on one number.”

Patsy looked uncertain.

Maxie said, “On any number at all. You, Pip, get into the dice game. Cockeye will give you phony dice to operate with. Eleven-thirty you shoot for all. Here's five grand to play with.”

Pipy took the money and nodded confidently.

“You, Jake, and Goo-Goo, get into the poker game, do the best you can in there. Cockeye will supply the dough, and will explain how to use the glasses and the deck. Eleven-thirty, quit the game, win or lose. That goes for all of you. You, Cockeye, at eleven-forty have the Caddy at the door, just in case.”

Max gave Cockeye a look. Cockeye nodded.