Billy Phelan's Greatest Game (20 page)

Billy snorted. “Me?”

“People talk.”

“Don’t pay attention if you hear that,” Bindy said. “We know you’re clean. We wanted you and Berman in the same boat. He don’t know why you’re on the
list, but now you and him got that in common.”

“You think that’ll make him talk to me?”

“It could. What’d he say tonight?”

“We played cards and he kicked the holdup guy a little. He said he talked to Mr. Rosen here, and he said he didn’t get along with his old man. We talked about a drink that we had one
time.”

“Who did he talk about?” Bindy asked. “Who?”

“Tabby Bender. George Kindlon, who tended bar for Tabby.”

“Who else?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Edward Curry is on the list. Did he mention him?”

“I mentioned Curry, that his name was spelled wrong. And I told a story about him.”

“What story?”

“About the whore in Boston called him honey and he asked her, How come you know my name. You think Curry’s mixed up in this?”

“What did Berman say when you told the story?” Bindy asked.

“He laughed.”

“You didn’t talk about nobody else? Nobody? Think.”

“I talked about a lot of things but not to Berman.”

“Did he say anything about Hubert Maloy?”

“No.”

Bindy leaned back in his chair and looked at Patsy. Billy looked at the brothers, from one to the other, and wondered how he would get out of the Maloy lie. He wondered why he’d even
bothered to lie. It meant nothing. He saw the faces of strangers he’d known all his life staring him down. In between them, the face of the McCall ancestor was no longer scowling down from
the wall but was only stern and knowing, a face flowing with power and knowledge in every line. There was a world of behavior in this room Billy did not grasp with the clarity he had in pool and
poker, or at the crap table. Billy knew jazz and betting and booking horses and baseball. He knew how to stay at arm’s length from the family and how to make out. He resisted knowing more
than these things. If you knew what the McCalls knew, you’d be a politician. If you knew what George Quinn knew, you’d be a family man. They had their rewards but Billy did not covet
them. Tie you up in knots, pin you down, put you in the box. He could learn anything, study it. He could have been in politics years ago. Who couldn’t on Colonie Street? But he chose other
ways of staying alive. There never was a politician Billy could really talk to, and never a hustler he couldn’t.

“All right, Billy,” Bindy said, standing up. “I think we’ve made our point. Call us any time.” He wrote two phone numbers on the pad and handed the sheet to
Billy.

“You come up with anything that means something to Charlie,” Patsy said, “you got one hell of a future in this town.”

“What if I don’t run into Berman again?”

“You don’t run into him, then you find him and stay with him,” Patsy said. “If you need money for that, call us.”

“Berman’s a big boy. He goes where he wants.”

“You’re a big boy, too,” Patsy said.

“What Patsy says about your future,” Bindy said, “that goes triple for me. For a starter we clear up your debt with Martin Daugherty. And you never worry about anything again.
Your family the same.”

“What if Berman catches on? He’s too smart to pump.”

“If you’re sure he’s on to it, drop it.”

“We’ll get word to you.”

When Billy stood up, Max Rosen put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything, Mr. Phelan. Do what you can. It’s an unusual situation.”

“Yeah, all of that,” Billy said.

Bindy shook hands and Patsy gave him a nod, and then Billy was in the hallway looking at the bannister, pretty much like the one he used to slide down in the shithouse across the street until
his Aunt Sate caught him and pulled his ear and sent him home. He went out the door and closed it behind him. He stood on the McCall stoop, looking up the street at the Dolan house, remembering the
Dolan kid who was kidnapped off this street when Billy was little. An uncle did it. They found the kid in the Pine Bush, safe, and brought him home and put him in the window so everybody could see
that he was all right. The kid was only four. Everybody wanted to hang the uncle, but he only went to jail.

Billy walked toward Pearl Street, heading back downtown. He remembered Georgie Fox, marked lousy for what he did to Daddy Big. All anybody on Broadway needed to hear was that Billy was finking
on Morrie, and they’d put him in the same box with Georgie. Who’d trust him after that? Who’d tell him a secret? Who’d lend him a quarter? He wouldn’t have a friend on
the whole fucking street. It’d be the dead end of Billy’s world, all he ever lived for, and the McCalls were asking him to risk that. Asking hell, telling him. Call us any time.

When he was halfway to Clinton Avenue, Bo Linder pulled up and asked if everything was all right. Billy said it was, and Bo said, “That’s good, Billy, now keep your nose
clean.” And Billy just looked at the son of a bitch and finally nodded, not at all sure he knew how to do that any more.

When Billy got to Becker’s and sat down in the booth beside him (across from Bart Muller), George Quinn was eating a ham sandwich and telling Muller of the old days when
he ran dances in Baumann’s Dancing Academy and hired King Jazz and his orchestra to play, and McEnelly’s Singing Orchestra, and ran dances, too, up in Sacandaga Park and brought in
Zita’s orchestra, and danced himself at all of them, of course. “They put pins in our heels for the prize waltz,” George said. “Anybody bent the pin was out. I won many a
prize up on my toes and I got the loving cups to prove it.”

“No need to prove it,” Muller said.

“We danced on the boat to Kingston sometimes, and the night boat to New York, but mostly we took the ferry from Maiden Lane for a nickel and it went up to Al-Tro Park, Al-Tro Park on the
Hudson; they even wrote a song about that place, and what a wonder of a place it was. Were you ever up there?”

“Many times,” Muller said.

“We’d take the boat back down to Maiden Lane, or sometimes we’d walk back downtown to save the nickel. One night, three fellows on the other side of the street kept up with me
and Giddy O’Laughlin all the way to Clinton Avenue. We didn’t know who they were till they crossed Broadway, and one was Legs Diamond. Somebody was gonna throw Legs off the roof of the
Hendrick Hudson Hotel that night, but he gave ’em the slip.”

“Why are you talking about Legs Diamond?” Billy asked George.

“I’m not talking about Legs Diamond, I’m talking about going to dances. Bart lives in Rensselaer. We both went to dances at the pavilion out at Snyder’s Lake.”

“George,” said Billy, “did you come in here to reminisce or what?”

“We’ve just been cuttin’ it up, me and Bart,” George said, “and the business is on, anyway. I’m interested in Bart’s book. I’m branching out and
Bart knows that. He just took over the night-shift book over at Huyck’s mill, and now he’s looking for somebody to lay off with. Am I right, Bart?”

“That’s right, George.”

“Then you made the deal,” Billy said.

“I guess we did,” said George.

“I’ll give you a buzz on it,” Muller said. “But I got to get home or the wife worries.”

“We’ll talk on the phone, Bart,” George said. “I was glad to meet you.”

“Mutual,” said Muller, and he nodded at Billy and left.

George sat back and finished his tea and wiped his lips with his white linen napkin and folded it carefully.

“I don’t know what the hell that was all about,” Billy said. “Why’d you want me here?”

“Just to break the ice.”

“Break the ice? There was no ice. You never shut up.”

“I didn’t want to push too hard the first time. We’ll iron out the details when he calls.”

“Calls? He’s not gonna call. You made no impression on him. You didn’t talk about money.”

“He didn’t bring it up.”

“He came to see you, didn’t he? Why the hell does he want to talk about Snyder’s Lake, for chrissake? He’s writing a book and he wants a layoff and he wants protection.
You didn’t give him a goddamn thing to make him think you even know what the hell a number is.”

“He knows.”

“He does like hell. How could he? You didn’t talk about having the okay or that you got cash to guarantee his payoffs. You didn’t say how late he could call in a play or tell
him he wouldn’t have to worry getting stuck with a number because you’ll give him the last call and get rid of it for him. You didn’t tell him doodley bejesus. George, what the
hell are you doing in the rackets? You ought to be selling golf clubs.”

“Who died and left you so smart?”

“I’m not smart, George, or I’d be rich. But I hustle. You don’t know how to hustle.”

“I’m not in debt up to my ass.”

“You ain’t rich either. And let me tell you something else. You don’t even have the okay.”

“Says who?”

“Says Patsy McCall. I was talking to him, and he says you never got the okay to back numbers. All you got the okay for was to lay off. Twenty percent, no more.”

“Pop O’Rourke knows what I’m doing.”

“Patsy said Pop
didn’t
know.”

“I’ll call Pop in the morning. I’ll straighten it out. How come you talked to Patsy?”

“It was about another thing.”

“Something about your name in the paper?”

“Something about that, yeah.”

“Oh, it’s a secret. You got secrets with Patsy McCall. Excuse me, let me out. Your company is too rich for my blood.”

“Look, George, don’t strain your juice. I don’t keep secrets I don’t have to keep. You know what’s going on with Charlie McCall, and you ought to know by this time
I’m on your side. For chrissake, don’t you know that?”

“Mmmmmm,” said George.

“You don’t
want
to know what I know, George. Believe me.”

“All right, Billy, but you got a nasty tongue.”

“Yeah. Have a drink. I buy.”

“No, I just had tea.”

“Have a drink, for chrissake. Do you good.”

“I don’t want a drink. I’ll take the nickel. What did Patsy say about me? Was he mad?”

“He didn’t sound happy. He mentioned you by name.”

“I don’t want to get in any jackpots with Patsy. I’ll call Pop first thing in the morning. I never had a cross word with the McCalls all my life. I give fifteen dollars to John
Kelleher for Patsy’s first campaign as assessor and Kelleher only asked me for five.”

“You’ll fix it. Probably you just got to pay more dues.”

“I’m not making anything yet. I’m losing money.”

“It’s goin’ around, that problem.”

“But I can’t afford more.”

“You can’t afford to stay in business?”

“Pop understands I’m not in the chips yet.”

“How does he understand that? You expect him to check your books?”

“No, I don’t expect nothing like that.”

“Then how the hell does he know your action? All he knows is you’re moving into heavier stuff. And you got to pay heavier dues for that. George, you been in this racket fifteen
years, and you been in this town all your life. You know how it works.”

“I’ll pay if Patsy said I got to pay. But Patsy understands a guy being down on his luck.”

“Don’t cry the blues to them. Don’t beg for anything. If they say pay, just pay and shut up about it.”

“I don’t beg from anybody.”

“Tell ’em your story straight and don’t weep no tears. I’m telling you be tough, George.”

“I know what I’m doing. I know how it works.”

“All right. You want that drink?”

“I’ll take a rain check.”

George went out onto Broadway, and Billy went to the bar for a tall beer, thinking how George couldn’t get off the dime. A banty rooster and don’t underrate him when he fights. But
he don’t fight easy enough. Been around tough guys and politicians all his life and he don’t know how to blow his nose right. But Billy has to admit George ain’t doing bad for a
fifty-year-old geezer. Got the house and Peg and a great kid in Danny. Billy’s fifty, he’ll be what? Alone? Racking balls like Daddy Big? On the chalk like Lemon Lewis? Nineteen years
to find out.

“Your lady friend Angie called again, Billy,” Red Tom said, as he slid Billy a new, tall, free one. “She says it’s urgent.”

“I know her urgent.”

“And she says it’s not what you think. Important, she says.”

“Important.”

“She sounded like she meant it.”

“I’ll check her out, Tommy. Have one on me.”

“Save your money, Billy. Winter’s coming.”

“Billy knows where the heat is.”

“Up in Angie’s room?”

“Some there, yeah. Definitely some up there.”

I’ll screw you as long as my equipment lasts, Billy once told Angie, but I won’t marry you. She repeated the line for Billy after he rolled off her. He sat up, lit
a cigarette, and then fixed a scotch with tap water. He put on his white boxer shorts, hiding the ragged scar on the left cheek of his behind. He got that when he was ten, sliding into a second
base made from a flattened tin oil can. Almost made him half-assed. But Doc Lennon sewed it up after he poured two bottles of iodine into the slice, which still gives Billy the screaming meemies
when he thinks about it. Then Billy’s mother bathed the wound and fussed at it for weeks, and the teamwork let Billy grow up with a complete tail.