Corky's Brother (8 page)

“So?”

“You only gave me twenty-eight so far.”

We were all quiet. George wasn't looking straight at Louie. He had a magazine out, with a picture of Sal Maglie on the cover, and he made believe he was thumbing through it.

“Maybe you didn't give me sixteen books,” George said.

“I did. It's right here in writing.”

“Hell, anybody can phony up figures.”

“I didn't phony them up.” Louie's voice was loud. “You still owe twelve dollars.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? It's down here in black and white.”

“Oh yeah? My word's as good as yours.”

“It's not!”

“Are you callin' me a liar?” George stood up now and walked toward Louie.

“I'm just saying you owe twelve dollars. You better pay up, or—”

“Or what, smarty?”

“Or—” Louie stopped. “—Or you can't play tomorrow.”

George laughed. But his laugh was forced. “Who needs to play with you guys, anyway? You can't win without me and you know it.”

“You pay up or you don't play. I mean it, George. You won't get your uniform and you won't get to play in front of Jimmy O'Brien either…”

“I don't give a damn,” George said. He walked up to Louie and pushed his fist at Louie's face. Louie didn't move. This surprised George. “I never should of given you the twenty-eight dollars either. And you know what you can do with your raffle—”

George didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he picked up the clock radio, raised it over his head, and then flung it to the floor, splattering its parts all over the room. Louie leapt at George, screaming curse words, but with an easy push George shoved him to the floor. Then he kicked him a few times and Louie started crying. He got up and went for George again, and this time I was ready. I grabbed George's right arm.

“C'mon, you guys, help me hold him.” Izzie jumped on George's back and got him in a stranglehold. George tried to throw him off, but by this time Kenny and Corky and Stan and the other guys were all holding George. He fought and it took all our strength to hold him, but it was fifteen to one and these odds were too much, even for him.

“C'mon, Louie,” I said. “Give it to him now.”

“Yeah, c'mon,” the guys yelled. “Let him have it…right in the gut… he deserves it…give it to him good…”

Louie was still crying, but he came at George. “You're—you're nothing but a
bum!”
he screamed.

George spit at him.

“C'mon,” Kenny said. “We can't hold him all day. Just give it to him—”

“Yeah, c'mon, ya little sawed-off runt—I hear they're get-tin' up a girls' team at school for you to play on.”

“You're just a big bum,” Louie said, whimpering. He was breathing heavily. “I wouldn't waste my knuckles on you. Just get out of my house. Get out. We—we don't need crooks on The Zodiacs. Get out. Get out…” Then Louie started crying again. We all pushed and pulled George to the door and somehow we managed to slam it with him on the other side.

We ran off the raffle anyway. Louie said the money that was going to go for bats and balls would be enough to get another radio—and a few hours later we left Louie's apartment. I was glad I lived in his building.

The next morning there were over two hundred people gathered around the backstop and baselines at the Parade Grounds. Izzie warmed up and he looked good. I think the new uniforms made us all play a little over our heads that day. The pitcher on the Raiders was very fast, and our only chance, we knew, was if his control was off.

When Louie cranked up his victrola before the game, most of the onlookers started laughing. We ignored them. In fact, I think hearing the National Anthem, the way we had in all our other games, made us play even harder, because in the first inning Izzie held the other team and, in our half, Kenny Murphy doubled and then I hit a single which drove him in. That was the last time we had the lead, though. The Raiders tied it up in the third inning and went ahead in the fourth, by 4–1. The final score was 7–2.

When we were picking up our gloves and stuff, and changing out of our spikes, nobody said anything. And nobody looked at Louie. We waited for each other and were walking away from the diamond when Stan spotted George.

“Uh-oh,” he said, pointing. “He's got his gang with him.”

We all looked and we saw about ten of them—all in motorcycle jackets and pegged pants.

“Hey,” George shouted, coming nearer. “Ain't those guys got pretty uniforms.”

“Yeah,” said one of his guys. “And look at those jackets. They look like my mommy's underwear—”

This seemed to strike George's gang as a pretty good joke.

“Hey, you bunch of fags,” George said. “Who won the game?”

Nobody answered. George and his gang had almost reached us now.

“Aw, c'mon—you don't mean you let those other fruit-boots beat you, do you? How could anybody beat a team that's got a manager like Louie? He's real smart, ain't he?”

George was in front of us now, about fifteen feet from Louie, his hands on his hips. Louie stopped.

“C'mon, smart boy. Cross my path, I dare you—”

“Don't do it, Louie!” I shouted. I looked around, hoping a policeman was nearby. Louie put down his victrola.

“I don't want any trouble,” he said.

“Hey, listen to this, guys. He says he don't want no trouble. Ain't that nice. I don't want none either, see. Only I say you called me a liar and a crook and I don't take that from nobody.”

“I—I didn't mean to call you that,” Louie said. “Why don't we just forget the whole thing.”

“I don't forget easy.”

I was holding one of the bats and I gripped the handle firmly. The other guys had already let their gloves and equipment drop onto the grass. I spotted a cop about a half block away. He was moving toward us. I tried to stall.

“What's the gripe, George?” I asked. “You mad 'cause you didn't get to pitch today?”

“You keep your trap shut, Howie. Can't Louie fight his own battles—?”

“We just don't want any trouble, that's all.”

The guys in George's gang began to move toward us and then George shoved Louie. I ran at him, the bat raised over my head. “We got bats, George. One of you is gonna get a bloody head.”

“You don't scare us with your toothpicks!”

Somebody grabbed my arm and then the fight was on. It didn't last long—probably less than a minute—but by the time the cop got there and started bopping guys on the head with his nightstick most of us, myself included, were glad it was over. I had managed to get a leg-scissors on George and even though he was blasting me in the gut I held on long enough so he couldn't get at Louie. More cops were on the scene by then and when we were separated they asked the usual questions about who had started the fight. When they saw that nobody was going to give them any answers, they told us to beat it.

“Okay, all of you—get on home. You, kid,” the cop said, pointing to Kenny. “You better get some ice on that eye in a hurry.”

George's gang started to move away, and then George turned and called to us. “We'll get you guys at school—”

One of the cops ran after George and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. “Okay, tough boy,” he said. “If I find out that one hair on the head of any of these kids was touched, I'll throw you and every one of your cronies in jail. You hear that?”

George nodded.

“Hey,” the cop said suddenly. “I know you. You're George Santini, ain't you? Vinnie Santini's brother—”

“So what?” George tried to squirm out of the cop's grip.

“It figures,” the cop laughed. “You know who Vinnie Santini is?” he said to one of the other cops. “He's that punk we had down at the station last week. I never seen a guy turn yellow so quick.”

“It's a lie!”
George shouted. He almost broke away. “You shut your damned mouth!”

George kicked at the cop and the cop whacked him across the arm with his club. Another cop held George while the first cop put his nose right up to George's face and continued. “I never seen a guy turn yellow so quick,” he said. “We didn't have the light on him more than ten minutes when he started ratting on every petty thief this side of Bensonhurst. And you're probably the same.”

George didn't say anything. He just sort of hung there, held up by the cop. “Get goin', punk,” said the cop, shoving George. “And I better not hear that you touched these kids.”

George and his gang walked away. We all picked up our stuff, Kenny and Marty carrying Louie's victrola, and then suddenly Louie started running after George. “Hey, wait a minute! Wait—”

George turned and waited till Louie caught up to him. “Yeah?” George said.

Louie stopped, as if he'd forgotten why he had told George to wait. Then he spoke, in that slow, hesitant way of his. “I was going over the records last night,” he said. “And I discovered that I made a mistake yesterday. You really only owed eight dollars. I was thinking that if you gave me the eight dollars, then—then you could pitch for us against the Raiders. We play them a return game next week.”

“Who'd wanna play on your sissy team?” said one of the guys in George's gang.

George looked at Louie, then at the guys in the gang, then back at Louie. “I'll let you know,” he said, and walked off.

The next day he gave Louie the eight dollars. On the following Saturday, with George pitching and wearing his new uniform, we beat the Raiders, 4-0. We were the happiest group of guys in Brooklyn, George included. We won about a dozen more games that month. At the end of June, though, lots of the guys, myself included, went away to camp or to the country and the team had to break up. The next year when George was a freshman at Erasmus Hall High School he didn't play for us.

When he was a sophomore at Erasmus—I was a freshman that year—he played fullback on the football team and was starting pitcher on the baseball team. In the middle of his junior year, though, he quit school. The next time I heard about him, somebody said he had taken off for Florida with his brother.

Finkel

A
S
THE
TAXI
slowed to a stop in front of the building on West 115th Street, there was suddenly a great commotion on the sidewalk. The boys and girls who had been sitting there drawing with chalk darted and scattered—some of them toward Broadway, some toward the river, some into buildings. “It's Finkel!” a small boy shouted, sounding the alarm. “Finkel! Finkel!” cried the others as they picked up their belongings and hurried to safety. From the cellar of the building, taking two steps at a time, charged Finkel, a German police dog ahead of him. The dog bounded forward, held back only by a silver leash.
“Raus mait euchl!”
Finkel shouted as he reached the street level and looked about for stragglers.
“Raus, Läuse! Raus!”
The dog barked sharply and strained at the leash, the metal cutting into its neck. “I will teach you to mark up the sidewalks!” Finkel yelled, and though he could see nobody to right or left of him, he ran several yards toward the river. “Devils! If I lay my hands on you—” he threatened, shaking a fist at his invisible opponents. Across the street two boys crouched behind a row of garbage cans, terrified. The dog struggled to get away from its master; it snarled, baring its teeth, and with this, the two boys jumped from behind the garbage cans and streaked downhill. Finkel shouted curses after them, his dog barked, but he did not move from in front of the house.

The door of the taxi started to open and Finkel was there at once, holding it, pushing his hand into that of the man who was getting out. “Professor Perlman!” he exclaimed. “I recognize you from your pictures. I am Hyman Finkel, superintendent.” Professor Perlman looked at the dog and hesitated. Finkel laughed and patted its head affectionately. “This is Sasha, named for my oldest brother, he should rest in peace, destroyed on the other side. Do not fear him. At his age, I can assure you, the saying about the bark and the bite is true. Sasha—say hello to Professor Perlman.” At this the dog began wagging its tail furiously, rubbing its heavy body against Professor Perlman's leg. “Sasha is almost fourteen years old,” Finkel said. The professor looked down at the dog, noticing its huge stomach, which sagged toward the gutter. He paid the driver and then, with Finkel's help, carried his luggage inside. The lobby was dark and cool.

“Ah, Sasha,” Finkel said as the dog trotted behind them. “When will you die? When? Already this year you have cost me in the hundreds for doctor's fees. Two tumors removed—like honeydew melons. I'll tell you something, Professor—I am glad you saw Sasha and I in action. Ha! Do you know why we chase the children—?” He laughed again and pushed the professor in front of him into the elevator. As they rose, he explained. “To give them a sense of terror, that is why!” Cramped in the small elevator, the professor held one valise waist-high. Sweat trickled down his back and Finkel's stale breath annoyed him. “Do you understand what I mean?” He pushed his face toward the professor's. “Now I hope you won't take this personally, Professor Perlman, but my clients in this building, so many of them, like yourself, in the academic profession—their children live in a protected world. Insulated. A world of ideas, of theories, books, abstractions. Between them and Harlem are parks, private schools, music lessons, fancy summer camps—and so it goes, if you know what I mean.” The elevator stopped and the door slid open. Finkel led the way down the hall. Sasha and the professor followed him. Finkel turned back, stopping so abruptly that the professor almost knocked into him, and under his stained
Dutch Boy
painter's hat, Finkel's eyes were shining. “So I terrorize them! You see? I create for them a sense of reality, of evil. In my own time I am a legend—Finkel the former SS officer. Ha! Twenty years ago I planted the rumor, but with that one rumor—what stories they have been able to fabricate. If you could hear of the things I have done to countless women and children, Professor, it would make your hair fall out.” He laughed again, to himself this time, and shook his head. “Here we are,” he said. From his overalls he took a ring of keys and flipped through them, finding the right one.