Corky's Brother (22 page)

We met him the next afternoon—there were about ten of us, including Kenny Murphy and Corky Williams, who didn't go to Hebrew school—and we chipped in for a ticket for Elijah, plus a nickel a man for getting the rest of us in. Then we stood around the big fire-exit door on Church Avenue, flipping picture cards and playing boxball, trying to act nonchalant. In about ten minutes the door cracked open, the hinges squeaking. “C'mon,” Elijah whispered, and we raced inside the theater while he held the door open for us, handing each of us a ticket stub as we flew by. Izzie and I stayed together, jumping into two seats up front, and when the manager came down our aisle with the matron, accusing us of having sneaked in, we showed him the stubs Elijah had picked up from the floor, saying we'd paid the same as anybody else. He grumbled and went away.

In those days the Flatbush Theater was the last place in Brooklyn where they still had vaudeville shows—my folks would go with Louie's parents sometimes on a Saturday night—and we used to have a good time on Saturday afternoons, wise-cracking and throwing popcorn at the people on stage. It was the noisiest theater I've ever been in, and besides the stage show, they used to show three movies. The afternoon we went they had two Westerns and a Bowery Boys picture. We loved the Bowery Boys, and Izzie was pretty good at imitating Leo Gorcey and the way he'd use fancy words in cockeyed ways—I remember what a great feeling it was after the movie, walking down Flatbush Avenue with all the guys, getting Izzie and Corky to rank each other out, making believe they were Mugs and Glimpy. The best part, though, was repeating to each other what a great idea it was to have Elijah get us in and give us ticket stubs. I think we all felt that he was a genuine part of our gang now, like Sammy in the Bowery Boys movies. I guess most of us had always secretly hoped we could have one Negro in our gang, the way the Bowery Boys did—but until Elijah, we never had. We had lots of Negro kids in our class at school, but they all lived in a rundown section about three blocks on the other side of the school—six or seven blocks away from us—so that even though we were friendly with them during school hours, we hardly ever saw them afterwards. They had their own gangs and teams, and where we grew up you hung around pretty much with the guys from your own block.

After Elijah had left us that afternoon and we were ready to break up and go home for supper, Louie reminded us about Field Day. Having Elijah for a friend was great, he said, but it wasn't going to help us come in first.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Izzie said, narrowing his eyes the way he had a few days before when I'd seen the idea begin to stir in his head. We pressed him, but all he would say was, “I got a plan. You leave it to me.”

When Izzie explained his plan to me on Monday, I told him he was nuts, that Elijah would never go along with it, and that even if he did, Mr. Gleicher and the rabbi would have fits. But Izzie said he had it all figured out, and that afternoon he went into action. For the rest of that week, Elijah went for two private walks every afternoon—one with Mr. Gleicher and one with Izzie. The guys bothered Izzie and Elijah a lot, trying to get them to tell us the plan, but Izzie and Elijah just smiled. “We got a secret,” Elijah said. “Sure gonna surprise you Jewboys—”

Mr. Gleicher noticed that the two of them were palling around a lot, but this only made him praise Izzie to the rest of us, telling us that we should follow his example. Mr. Gleicher was a changed man by then, and we were beginning to believe that he probably was the world's greatest coach. He knew more about running than anyone I'd met, and he kept after us day after day—teaching us how to breathe correctly, to run on our toes, to lean forward and pump our arms the right way. It was as if the things he taught us were secrets that he'd been saving all along for the most strategic moment. By Wednesday afternoon, Louie informed us that we had clipped another four seconds from our relay time—and we were slowly becoming convinced that we might get the Bar Kochba trophy after all.

By this time something else had happened also. We'd run out of money, and Elijah was talking about leaving us and finding new territory. “There's lots of Jewboys in Brooklyn got money to spend,” he said. We pleaded with him, pointing out how much we'd already bought from him and telling him that in a week or so we'd have saved up again from our allowances. He told us it wasn't personal, that he liked us real well—we were his good friends—but business was business. “He's right,” Izzie said, and he and Elijah went off together for one of their mysterious sessions.

You had to hand it to Izzie. When the stakes were down, he always came through in style. The next afternoon—in his own living room this time—he rounded up a bunch of guys from Hebrew school who hadn't been with us the first time, and he got Elijah to speak in tongue for them. And on Friday Izzie even talked a half dozen girls into coming to watch, getting them to pay fifteen cents apiece, instead of a dime. Elijah went to town for the girls, and by the time he finished and lay stretched out on the floor, they were terrified. A couple of them went hysterical—screaming and crying and shivering—and I was a little worried the neighbors would hear. It took a good three or four full minutes till Elijah sat up this time, and when he did, even he was in a daze.

“Man, that's more like it,” he said, shaking his head. “I know I done good when I don't know exactly what happened.” He smiled at the girls. “That's speaking in tongue,” he said to them. “How you like it?”

We got in an extra practice session at the Parade Grounds the next morning, and in the afternoon we went to the movies, the way we had the Saturday before. Elijah was glad to see us.

“Sure need that money, guys,” he said. “The old man's putting the pressure on—I got this brother, a year younger, he been bringing in almost as much as me, trying to push me out.” He turned to Izzie. “Our deal still on about tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Izzie said.

“Okay,” Elijah said. “You guys wait by the door. Let's have your money.”

We had a good time again at the movies, but it was hard to relax completely with the track meet one day away—and afterwards, when Louie and Izzie and I got together at my house, we spent most of the time figuring out the points for the different races, and where we would have to place to have a chance for the trophy. It was pretty discouraging. The way Louie had it figured, giving us the benefit of the doubt on all the individual races—which meant having guys like me and Izzie placing in the top three in dashes and broad jumps—we still didn't stand a chance unless we won the relay.

My father came into my room once or twice and I guess he noticed how sad-faced we were. When he teased Louie the way he always did, this time by claiming that Phil Rizzuto was a better all-around shortstop than Pee Wee Reese, Louie just shrugged. My father left our room to speak to my mother, and then he came back and asked Louie and Izzie if they'd like to stay for supper. They said okay—Louie went upstairs and got permission and Izzie telephoned home—but sitting around the table eating we only got more depressed.

After supper, for a special treat, my folks took us to Garfield's cafeteria for dessert, but we weren't too hungry. I had some rice pudding with raisins, I remember. I looked at my parents now and then, and I felt a little bad for them because they were trying so hard to cheer us up. I wished I could get some conversation going, for their sakes, but I couldn't think of anything to talk about.

Then Izzie nudged me under the table and motioned with his eyes to a corner of the room. There was Elijah, going from table to table with a stack of newspapers under his arm. The minute he saw us, he smiled and came straight for our table. I wasn't exactly sure how to act with my parents there, but Elijah shook his head sideways before he got to us—he could see Izzie was going to say his name, I guess—and we played along with him.

“You wanna buy a newspaper, mister?” he said to my father.

“No, thanks,” my father said, without looking at Elijah.

“You sure?” Elijah said. “I got the early morning edition already.”

My mother sighed and my father looked at Elijah. “I don't read the
Daily News,”
he said.

“What paper you read?” Elijah asked. “I get it for you. You just name it.”

Maybe if my father had known more about Elijah—and about what had been happening with him and our group of guys—he would have acted differently, but I think he was already pretty annoyed and tired from work all week, and he began to get a little angry, raising his voice to tell Elijah that he had already told him he didn't want a newspaper.

“Maybe you want to get one for your sons here—so they can read the comics—”

“Please go away,” my father said, and his tone of voice made me scared and I tried to get Elijah's attention. My father was a quiet man, but if he got annoyed he had a mean temper.

“Ah, c'mon, mister, only fifteen cents,” Elijah said. “And I need the money real bad. No kidding. I got to have money—”

“If you don't stop bothering us, I'll call the manager and have you thrown out,” my father said. The angrier my father got, the more Elijah persisted. He even put the newspapers down on a chair and took out some pearl necklaces, asking my father if he wanted to buy one for my mother. Izzie, Louie, and I fidgeted in our seats, not knowing what to do. I wanted so much for my father to buy something from Elijah—I remember closing my eyes and trying to concentrate hard and
think
the idea into my father's head—but it didn't help. He wouldn't buy anything, and Elijah wouldn't go away.

“Man,” Elijah said finally, picking up his stack of newspapers. “You Jews sure are cheap.”

This got my father. He raised his hand as if he were going to hit Elijah. “C'mon, bigshot,” Elijah said. “Hit me. Get your sons to beat me up too. Why don't you pick on somebody your own size? Yeah. I like to see you mess with my old man. He lay you out flat—bam!”

“If you don't leave this instant,” my father said, “I'll call the police.”

Elijah turned and walked away. I guess you couldn't really blame my father—him not knowing about Elijah and Elijah saying the things he did—but I felt terrible anyway. My father and mother talked for a while about the incident, with my mother trying to calm my father down—and Izzie and Louie and I whispered about Elijah, wondering if he would still keep his deal. My father caught some of our conversation and asked us if we knew Elijah. We said we didn't, but I guess we denied it too hard, because he was very suspicious, and my mother chipped in with some choice comments on young men being known by the kind of friends they kept.

Izzie and Louie thanked my parents for supper and for treating them to dessert, and they left.

“Go on,” my father said a minute later. “Go catch up to them—but be home within an hour.”

I thanked him and ran out of Garfield's, past the Flatbush Theater, and down Church Avenue, making a left on Bedford—that was the way we usually went. At Martense Street I could see the two of them, walking together up by Linden Boulevard. I was about to call to them to wait, when Elijah came running up beside me.

“Hey, Howie,” he said. “Hold on. I got to talk to you—”

It was the first time, I think, that he'd ever called me by my name. “Hi, Elijah,” I said. He still had a stack of newspapers under one arm.

“That your old man in the restaurant?” he asked.

“Yeah—”

“He call the police?”

“No,” I said. “He didn't mean anything, anyway. He's just got a bad temper.”

“You sure he ain't called the police?”

“Sure,” I said. We crossed over Linden Boulevard, and Elijah stayed next to me. “I'm real sorry he said what he did to you. He's not usually like that. Honest—”

“You tell him my name?”

“No.”

Elijah grabbed my arm and pushed me against a hedge. “Tell the truth, man—you tell him about me?”

“Quit shoving,” I said, and pushed his hand away. “I told you the truth—he didn't call the police and we didn't tell him who you were. We made out like you were a stranger—”

Elijah looked both ways. “Your old man following us—?”

“No—”

He brushed my arm with his hand. It was wet. “I'm sorry I shove you,” he said. “You want a paper? I give you one for nothing—”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Man, the police get me, I be in trouble. My father, they don't like him much, either.” It was dark along Bedford Avenue, and I couldn't see much of his face. Just his eyes. “The police, they real mean.” He tugged at my arm. “Listen, Howie, you make sure your old man don't call the police on me, I get you lots of things, you don't got to pay. Okay?” I told him again that my father wasn't going to call the police, but it didn't seem to matter. “I be your best friend, Howie, okay? You give me any orders you want. Just don't want them making blood out of me. The police, they get paid by the Jews, my old man told me. And the Jews, they run everything in this city, lots of kids disappear when you have Moses' holiday—”

“You mean Passover?”

“That's the one,” he said, shaking his head up and down. “They get little kids, there's blood, man. I heard stories.—Please, Howie, you tell your old man I didn't mean nothing back there, so long as he don't report me.” He stopped. “I even go through with my deal for tomorrow. I don't charge you nothing, either. You tell Shorty and Louie I said so.” He straightened up and grabbed my arm. “Only you call the cops on me, there gonna be blood.” He giggled. “My old man find out what I do, there be blood anyway.” He laughed some more. “I like to see his face, he find out what I gonna do. Oh man, it burn his ass—” He stopped suddenly, and the smile left his face. We walked about a half block toward Rogers Avenue without saying anything. I could see Izzie and Louie standing around the stoop in front of my building. Elijah pulled me over under a tree. “Listen, I got your promise, don't I?”