Funny Boys (20 page)

Suddenly, he remembered all the jokes he had told about love.

“Is it better to have loved and lost? Much better.”

And the one that usually got the most laughs: “I’ve been in love with the same woman for thirty years. If my wife found out she would kill me.”

Kill? It made him tremble. It’s for love, he agreed finally. For love, you took risks.

“You’re a bigger putz than I thought,” he told his image in the mirror.

Mutzie had stayed behind in the boathouse until he had gone into the main building. He had given her the key to his room and detailed instructions on getting to it by using the back stairs, the “help” stairs. Then he had posted himself at an obscure area of the porch, watching her proceed.

He observed her as she moved quickly up the rise of the lawn. The overcast had darkened, deepening the green of the lawn, and it had begun to rain. Mutzie accelerated her pace as the rain quickened, running up the porch stairs to the safety of the overhang, then through the French doors. When he had ducked inside to the lobby, she had disappeared.

“I got news, tumler.”

Gorlick’s voice startled him. He had been looking in the mirror but only at himself. Now he saw Gorlick’s image clearly. He forced himself into tumler high gear. To be fired today would call attention to himself. For the moment he needed this job. And then? He pushed any thought of the future out of his mind.

“I’m keeping you hired, tumler. Albert says you’re the funniest he ever saw. When Albert talks, I listen.”

“He’s God.”

“Bigger,” Gorlick said. “On top, I’m giving you a five-dollar raise.”

“How lucky can you get, Mr. Gorlick? You make me feel like Samson.”

“I know. I know. You’ll bring down the house.”

Mickey forced a laugh. “Stepping on my lines again, Mr. Gorlick.”

“I’m entitled. I just gave you raise,” Gorlick said, looking out the window. “Oy the rain. You’ll really have to tumel them today. It rains on a Sunday, those that go back say the weather stank all weekend. Those that come up are worried they paid for lousy weather.” He turned toward Mickey and pointed a stubby finger at his nose. “For you, tumler, this is the, how you say, the truth moment.”

“Moment of truth,” Mickey corrected.

“Whatever,” Gorlick said. “So go tumel.”

Mickey knew what rain meant. He would have to organize indoor games and shows to keep people from thinking about the weather. He had hoped good weather might have spared him that on this of all days.

He went into the dining room. Most of the tables were still empty, but stragglers were coming into the room at a slow trickle. He looked toward what he had dubbed in his own mind “the gangster’s table.” Mrs. Reles was there with her bratty son. Also Mrs. Buchalter.

“Top a the mornin, ladies,” he said with a slight Irish brogue.

“Now he’s a mick,” Helen said. It did not seem to him to be a lighthearted remark.

“I thought you were very funny last night,” Mrs. Buchalter said. “Very amusing.” She was a chubby woman, overdressed for the morning with large diamond rings on her fingers, a diamond bracelet and a huge string of pearls over an ample bosom.

He could feel Helen Reles studying him with some hostility. He pretended not to notice. Some women, he knew, could not deal with rejection. He wondered if he had been wrong to refuse her invitation. But then, wouldn’t that have set off a whole other set of dangerous circumstances? Like possessiveness, jealousy, spite. Not to mention the wrath of Kid Twist. He watched her pat her son’s ear.

“Let me kiss the booboo,” Mrs. Reles said, putting her lips against his cheek.

“Little guy get a clop on the ear?” he asked.

“Your girlfriend, tumler,” Mrs. Reles said, turning to look at him. “She swatted my kid.”

“Who?” he asked, hoping that he had hidden his sudden anxiety.

“Right here,” the Reles kid said showing his red ear.

“I don’t understand,” Mickey said.

“That Mutzie,” Mrs. Reles harrumphed, her nostrils inflating with contempt and anger.

“You mean Mr. Strauss’s friend?” he corrected forcing an air of naïve innocence.

“Yeah,” she snickered. “Pep’s so-called …” She whispered the word “coorva.”

“The one with me in the show?” he persisted, deliberately avoiding confrontation, determined to appear good humored, although he was burning inside.

“He’s dumb like a fox,” Mrs. Reles said.

With effort, Mickey maintained what he hoped was an
expression of vague confusion. It seemed to soften Mrs. Reles’s blatant hostility.

“Not that this one didn’t deserve it, probably,” she said, pinching her son’s upper arm while looking at Mrs. Buchhalter. “Anyway, Abie went lookin faw huh. Pep said she went out.” She shot Mickey a sharp glance. “Ya seen her?”

He felt his mind turning over at double time.

“I think at Simon Sez,” he said. “Yeah. At Simon Sez. But if I do see her again, I’ll tell her that your husband is looking for her.”

“Better say nothing until Abie cools off.”

“That serious?” Mickey asked, sorry immediately for showing his concern.

“Nobody likes nobody to swat their kid, right, Ruthie?”

“Labele would go through the roof,” Mrs. Buchalter said. Or worse, Mickey thought.

“I’m sure everything will turn out hunky-dory,” Mickey said patting the boys red ear. At that moment, he saw Pep and Reles come into the dining room. He knew he should have left the table, but he stayed out of curiosity. And panic.

“You find huh?” Mrs. Reles asked.

“Looked eveyweah, even in da ladies’ can,” Reles said.

“Ah, she’ll be aroun, Abie,” Pep said, but without much conviction, as if the subject were simply annoying and unimportant.

“No big deal,” Abie said. “Alls I want is to tell huh to watch huh hands.”

“Somtimes da brat desoives a belt, Abie,” Pep said.

“Believe me, Pep, we do ouwa shaih. Don we, Hesh?”

Heshy made a face.

“Alls I did was call her a coorva,” the boy said.

“He had it right,” Helen said.

“Me, I wudda twisted his shmekel faw dat,” Pep said.

“And I’d drop ya in Canarsie,” Reles said.

It was more bantering than argument, Mickey thought. They often kidded around like that.

“Maybe ya should get married Pep, seddle down. Get a brat a ya own. Ony wid no coorvas,” Mrs. Reles shot Mickey a surreptitious wink.

“Can’t she keep huh trap shut, Abie?” Pep said. He was obviously working himself into a sour mood.

Throughout this conversation, Mickey stood rooted to the floor, unable to find the will to move, hoping they would continue to ignore him. No such luck. Pep’s eyes suddenly drilled into him.

“Ya seen Mutzie, tumler?” he asked.

“She.…” He coughed to mask his panic. “I think I saw her at Simon Sez.”

“And aftah?”

“I didn’t see her. Maybe she went back to the room.” He struggled to find something funny to say. “Unless she likes singin in the rain.” He trilled the words from the song. It went over like a lead balloon.

“Yeah. Well maybe she went back up. I’ll go see,” Pep said. He turned to Abie. “I’ll tawk ta huh about da kid. Only ya keep hands awf.”

Abie smiled thinly, looked at his wife and shrugged while they all watched Pep walk purposefully out of the dining room. But it left Mickey worried. Was she safe? Thankfully, Gorlick was too cheap to have the help’s rooms cleaned by chambermaids. Mickey smiled and gently squeezed Heshy’s shoulder.

“He’s a good boychick,” Mickey said.

“When he sleeps,” Reles said. Mickey forced a laugh and went to his table.

As he drank his coffee, Mickey watched the gangster’s table. Pep came back, looking angrier than ever. Albert Anastasia joined them at the table, then Frank Costello and Lepke. One big happy family, Mickey thought bitterly. He also kept an eye out for Irish, who seemed to be perpetually watching him with sinister intent, hoping he would falter in some way.

Then he saw him. Irish smiled wryly and winked malevolently as he passed Mickey’s table. Did these gestures augur anything imminent? Mickey wondered, remembering again that Irish would be the driver, the “wheelman” in the killing of Gagie that night. We’ll see you in hell, too, Irish, Mickey vowed silently to himself.

When Irish went back to the kitchen and the people at the gangster table concentrated on their breakfast, Mickey filled his pockets with bagels and wrapped some lox and cream cheese in a napkin, which he hid under his shirt. Then he stood up and started to move through the dining room. Peripherally, he saw Pep watching him. His pores opened and perspiration ran down his back. He could not tell if Irish had seen him leave.

In the lobby, he walked quickly toward the back stairs, which he ran up two steps at a time. In his room, he found Mutzie sitting on the bed. His sudden entrance frightened her. Quickly, he emptied his pockets, put the food on the bed and opened the napkin.

“It’s the best I can do, Mutzie,” he said breathlessly, his heart pounding. “Now I gotta get back.”

“Have you heard anything?” she whispered.

“Pep’s looking for you. Reles, too. You smack their kid?”

“I twisted his ear. I wanted to do worse.”

“I gotta go,” Mickey said.

“Mickey …” she called to him as he reached the door.

“Lower,” he pleaded, putting a finger on his lips.

“Are you sorry, Mickey?” she asked. He turned to look at her. She looked helpless, vulnerable. He wanted to hold her in his arms, comfort her.

“So far, no,” he said, wanting to tell her more. They exchanged glances. “Just keep the door locked. I’ll bring lunch later, okay.”

She nodded. He opened the door a crack, then closed it as someone came past in the corridor. He waited and opened the door again. The corridor looked deserted and he ducked out of the room. Walking quickly, he reached the staircase.

He began to perspire as he walked through the lobby again. He felt flushed and out of breath. His heart pounded. He sat down at the table and tried to lift his coffee cup, but his fingers shook. Suddenly Gorlick was bending over him, talking into his ear.

“You seen dat girl?”

“What girl?”

“Don hand me, Fine.”

“You mean Pep’s girl?”

“The one you said you didn’t shtup.”

“You, too. I’m not a meshuganer.”

“Yaw entitled to yaw opinion. Ya seen huh?”

“Yes, at Simon Sez.”

He could smell Gorlick’s foul, stale cigar breath as he hovered above him.

“She musta done something. Dey all been lookin faw huh.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “I heard them talking. She slugged the Reles brat.”

“Dat it?” Gorlick asked.

“That’s what they told me,” Mickey said.

“Only dat. I thought maybe all dis had sumpin to do with dat schmeckel a yaws.”

“I told you, Mr. Gorlick. No way. And I resent your attitude on this.”

“But why would Strauss be so mad, den?” Gorlick asked, obviously puzzled. “Da brat don look any the woise for weah.”

“It’ll blow over,” Mickey muttered.

“Sumpin’s not kosher, tumler. Pep and Reles is stayin ovanight. And Lepke, Costello and Anastasia are coming back Friday night. Sumpin’s happenin. Only I hope whatever is happening doesn’t happen at Gorlick’s.” He had partially risen. Then he bent down and put his mouth closer to Mickey’s ear.

“Anyting to do wid ya, I swear, Fine, yaw balls is gawn. Got that, tumler? Gawn.”

“I don’t like this talk, Mr. Gorlick,” Mickey said, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check.

“What does it count what ya like?” Gorlick said. He straighted up and waddled through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Soon the dining room grew more crowded. Mickey got up to make his usual breakfast announcement and his Sunday goodbyes with the usual jokes. As hard as he tried he could not keep the tremble out of his voice.

“I understand there wasn’t a single roach in your room,” he said, “Only married couples with large families.” There was a trickle of laughter.

“We also have last minute exercises for everyone leaving. You bring down your own valises. Then we do bend overs in the lobby. You bend over the valises, then you open them and give Gorlick back his towels.”

There was some polite laughter among the diners.

Because it was raining, he was expected to do a routine. It was the moment for Marsha to do the lines he had taught her and paid for in lieu of sex. They had done it a few times before. He pointed his finger at her as she passed and she nodded.

“How did you get in here?” he called to her.

“It’s raining outside.”

“How long can a person live without brains?”

“I don’t know. How old are you?”

“Looks who’s talking. She thinks she’s a Lana Turner. Actually she’s a stomach turner.”

“And him,” Marsha retorted. “Everybody thinks he has a good heart because the dogs lick his hand. If he ate with a knife and fork they wouldn’t lick his hand.”

“You notice how she talks slow. Before she could say, ‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’ she was.”

“Last night I dreamed my husband bought me a mink coat.”

“Next time you dream, wear it in good health.”

The audience tittered. She seemed to be waiting for more lines from him, but at that moment he saw Pep rise and move to a corner of the dining room. Irish moved to meet him. Their heads seemed to tip toward each other as they talked. Then their heads rose and they looked toward Mickey. He felt a thump of fear, quickly aborting the routine and announcing that after breakfast there would be games inside. Then he stepped from the raised platform and moved to the kitchen where Marsha had gone. She was starting to ladle oatmeal into bowls.

“You didn’t get your money’s worth, Mickey,” Marsha said. “I was just getting warmed up.” She winked. “I can get warmed up pretty fast.”

“I need a favor, Marsha. And I need it now,” Mickey pressed, his eyes searching for any signs of Irish.

“From little me?” Marsha said coyly.

“I need the key to your room.”

“Finally,” she said. She dipped a hand in her pocket and gave him the key. “I’ll be up right after breakfast. Like I promised. It’ll be on the house.”

He wanted to clarify the request, but it was too late. Through the window of the swinging doors, he saw Irish coming toward the kitchen.