Snow in August (40 page)

“They’re in there,” Michael said, standing beside the abandoned box office under the marquee of the Venus. “We’ll have to
go and get them.”

The Golem placed his hands on Michael’s head. His brow furrowed. The driving snow halted, then skirled and danced, before
resuming with even greater fury. Michael glanced at the dirty glass of the shuttered box office, where he had once admired
the look of his suit on an Easter morning. He could not see himself. He could not see the Golem.

Jesus Christ, he thought. We’re
invisible!

He stepped out into the street, the Golem behind him, and marched through the storm, directly to the front door of the poolroom.
The stray dog came over, big, black, muscled, sniffing around them but not seeing them, growling in a baritone voice. “Sticky?”
Michael whispered, and the dog barked an answer. Oh, Dad. Oh, Daddy: Thank you.

Michael gently opened the poolroom door, and he and the Golem stepped inside. The dog waited in the snow, as if for a command.
About fifteen of the Falcons were bunched together in front of the six pool tables with green baize tops. All turned to the
door. The wind howled. Snow scattered across the floor. But they could not see Michael and the Golem.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said. “Close that fucking door!”

Michael saw Frankie McCarthy coming from a room at the rear of the pool hall, buttoning his fly. He was dressed like a movie
gangster, in pinstriped dark suit, thick-soled shoes, a white tie on a white shirt. Tippy Hudnut slammed the door shut, and
turned to Frankie.

“You find out anything yet?” he asked.

“I’m on the phone ten minutes, calling up newspapers, radio stations, everything,” Frankie said. “Nothing. Nobody ever heard
of it, snowing in fucking August. They treat me like I’m a fucking nut.”

The Golem opened the door again, and he and Michael stood to the side. The dog continued to wait.

“Hey, what the fuck
is
it with that door?” Frankie said.

“You seen me close it, Frankie,” Tippy said, closing it again. “Maybe it’s that dog out there.”

“Then give the mutt a swift kick and
lock
the motherfucker.”

“We lock it, how will the broads get in?” the Russian said, as Tippy shooed the dog and closed the door.

“They knock,” Frankie said, glancing at his watch. “Where
are
the broads, anyway?”

Michael saw that they were all there. Not only Tippy, but the Russian and Skids and Ferret. Along with the other idiots who
followed them around and laughed at their jokes. And Frankie McCarthy. Playing boss. Acting like a big shot. Snarling, giving
orders. To the right, a table was laid out with cold cuts and cheese, baskets of rolls and bowls of potato salad, quarts of
whiskey and gin, and a tub full of beer bottles. On a table in the rear, a phonograph was playing “Sleepy Lagoon.” Frankie
went to the windows, his eyes glittery, his lips curled, and stared at the driving snow.

“What the fuck
is
this?” he hissed. “I gotta fuckin’ party to throw.”

He slammed a fist against the doorframe. The door swung open.

“All right, which one of you fucking jokers is doing this?” He laughed in a weird way. “You got some kind of a fucking button
or something?”

Michael thought: Now. We’re going to do it now. No more waiting. We’re going to wipe that smile off his face.

The Golem seemed to understand. Skids came over to close the door, taking a key from his pocket to lock it. The Golem placed
his hands on Michael’s head. The lights above the pool tables dimmed, then came back to full strength. Michael and the Golem
stood there, visible to all.

“What the fuck?” Frankie McCarthy said, backing up, his face twitching. The others inched to the side, looking at the huge
black man and the kid they had tried to terrify out of the parish. “Hey, what—hey, Devlin, who is this guy?”

The Golem stared at him, then turned to Michael. A smile flickered on his face.

“That’s Frankie McCarthy,” Michael said, as if making a formal introduction. He took the key out of the locked door and slipped
it into his pocket. “He’s the one I told you about.”

Frankie backed up, his hand darting inside his jacket but not finding what he was looking for. He’s scared, Michael thought.
Scared out of his goddamned wits. Without taking his eyes off the Golem, Frankie reached in a fumbling way for a pool cue,
finally gripping it by the narrow shaft. The other Falcons began spreading out. Their hands went into their pockets. They
picked up pool cues. Their eyes were wide and uncertain, as if calculating odds. Glancing at the other Falcons, Frankie McCarthy
was suddenly a little braver.

“You’re looking for fucking trouble,” he said, “yiz’ll find it here.” His bravado was cut by the crack in his voice. “This
is members only. So leave now. While you can still fucking walk.”

Michael saw Skids slap the butt of his pool cue into his hand. The hand that had mauled his mother’s body. Most of the others
followed Skids’s example. Michael could sense their thinking: Good odds. Fifteen to one. Or fifteen to one-and-a-half. Good
odds, no matter how big the guy is that’s wearing the cape. The Russian put his hand in his back pocket and whipped out a
knife. Ferret eased around to the side, holding an eight ball in his right hand.

“Just so you know, Frankie,” Michael said, taking a step forward, “I never said a word about you to the cops.”

“Don’t horseshit me, you fuckin’ punk.”

“I’m not horseshitting you, Frankie,” Michael said. “I didn’t rat. But you know what I learned? I should have told them everything.
I should have told them right from the start what a goddamned coward you were, beating up poor Mister G.” Michael remembered
what the rabbi had said one night in early spring. “That’s what I learned. I learned, you keep your mouth shut about a crime,
sometimes that’s worse than the crime.”

“A rat is a rat.” Frankie sneered.

“No, Frankie. A cowardly bum is a cowardly bum. And you are a goddamned coward and a goddamned bum.”

Frankie saw that all of them had weapons now. He winked at Skids and moved to the side, turning his back on the Golem.

“How’s your mother, kid?” Skids said, and then made a panting sound. The others made sucking sounds or sounds used to summon
dogs. Some of them laughed.

Michael rushed at Skids, but the Golem wrapped a huge hand around the boy’s chest and shoved him back.

“You prick, Skids!” Michael shouted. “You gutless bum.”

Suddenly Skids came in a rush, swinging the pool cue like a bat. The Golem grabbed it in midair as if it were a twig. He yanked
it away from Skids, used both hands to snap it in half, and dropped the pieces on the floor. Then he grabbed Skids by the
shirt, whirled, and heaved him twenty feet. Skids landed between two pool tables.

Silence, except for groans from Skids.

“That’s just a start,” Michael said. “Now, Frankie, you want my friend here to take care of you too, or do you want to do
what’s right for a change? You know, go down to the precinct, ask for Abbott and Costello, and tell them what you did. To
Mister G, to me, to Rabbi Hirsch. Tell these friends of yours to go and apologize to my mother. Tell
my
friends that I didn’t inform
on anybody and we can live the way we used to. Do something really goddamned brave, Frankie. For a change.”

There was a pause.

“I’m warning you, Frankie. It’s your last chance.”

Frankie said, “Fuck you, kid.”

He looked at the others as if saying, Hey, nothing to worry about. Saying it to them, saying it to himself. There were too
many of them for these two. His mouth curled, then became a slit, but his eyes were glittery.

“We got us a couple of tough guys here, boys,” he snarled. “Whatta ya think of that?”

The Russian didn’t think. He whipped open his switchblade and dove for the Golem. He was hit in midair and fell to the floor,
the knife clattering from his hand. The Golem stomped his neck with his leathery bare heel and then toed him aside as if he
were a stunned rat.

“Get the kid!” Frankie said, backing up, panicky, then turning to run to the small office in the rear. “Get that fucking kid!”

Two of the Falcons charged Michael, but the Golem stepped between them and the boy, and hit each of them with short, savage
punches, knocking them down. Okay, Michael thought. Now it’s too late for mercy. I told Frankie what he had to do, and he
answered with a fuck you. So now he has to be punished. It’s too late for Mister G. Too late for a lot of things. Including
the cops. Again the Golem seemed to read his mind. He looked down at the
I
’
M FOR JACKIE
button, figured out how it worked, unpinned his cape and let it drop to the floor. He stood there, wearing only his breechclout,
and glared at the Falcons. From the side, Tippy Hudnut suddenly threw a cueball, but it bounced off the Golem’s head and succeeded
only in annoying him.

“It’s Frankie we’re after,” Michael said. “The others are small fry.”

The Golem gestured for Michael to go to the door and leave. Michael didn’t move. He thought: I’ve been afraid long enough.
I’m not running.

The Golem then upended a pool table, scattering the balls and kicking a hole through the green top. He shoved the other Falcons
aside as if they were dolls. Michael had told him to get Frankie McCarthy; he was going after Frankie McCarthy. Michael saw
that all of them were panicking now, muttering,
Oh shit, oh shit, this guy, oh man, oh fuck, hey let’s
—And then Frankie stepped out of the office. He was holding a gun. His feet were planted, his lip curled, like a gangster
from a hundred movies. Michael felt a tremor of fear; he had never seen a real gun before, except on the hips of cops.

“Don’t fuck with me, Sambo,” Frankie said. “I’ll blow a hole through you, and no jury will ever send me to the hot seat.”

The Golem walked straight at him, the muscles corded and rippling in his back. Michael could see Frankie’s eyes change. Now
wide and jittery. The Golem took another step, and Frankie backed up, his jaw loose, his eyes wild, and then he fired.

Blam!

The bullet hit the Golem and he kept coming.

Blam! Blam!

And the Golem reached Frankie McCarthy. He took the gun away from him, held the grip in one hand, and snapped off the barrel.
He tossed the pieces over his shoulder. Then he grabbed Frankie by the lapels and heaved him ten feet against a wall. Frankie
fell in a shambling pile. But the Golem wasn’t through with him. He took him by one leg and dragged him the length of the
poolroom to the front door.

“Enough!” Michael shouted. “That’s enough for now! We don’t want to kill him.”

The Golem halted, dropped the groaning Frankie by the door, and turned to Michael for instructions.

“Wait,” the boy said.

Michael turned to the other Falcons. They were backed away, far from the door, drawing closer to each other, as if for warmth.
They needed to be taught a lesson too.

“Hey, listen, man, we’re sorry what happened wit’ your mother that time, okay?” said Tippy Hudnut in a pleading voice. “You
see, we was drinkin’ and, you know, sometimes, you got your load on, you don’t know what you’re doing. And, hey, you know.…”

“Take your clothes off,” Michael said. “All of you.”

“What?”

“I said take your clothes off. Everything. Shoes, socks, everything.”

“Hey, man, it’s snowing,” Ferret protested.

On the floor beside the door, Frankie moaned.

“You take them off,” Michael said, turning to the Golem, “or
he
takes them off for you.”

Ferret was the first to unbutton his shirt. Within minutes they were all naked, shivering in the poolroom, a cluster of pale
bodies, tattooed, scarred, muscled. The clothes were piled on pool tables, along with brass knuckles, switchblades, a homemade
zip gun, a length of pipe. The Falcons looked much younger now, stripped of their armor.

“Now what?” Tippy whispered.

“Go home,” Michael said.

“Through the fucking
snow?
”

Michael went to the door and opened it with the key. The
wind howled. The black dog waited at the curb, snow gathering on his pelt.

“Go.” The naked youths started reluctantly toward the door.

But now the Russian was on his feet, his jaw hanging loose. He looked at Frankie, who was facedown beside the open door. He
looked over and saw Skids in a sitting position.

“Hold on, everybody wait,” Michael said, as if addressing prisoners of war. “Russian, you go over there and help Skids get
ready for his outing,” Michael said. “Take his clothes off. Then take off your own. Very fast.”

“You kiddin’, or what?” the Russian said.

“You’re one of the Falcons, right? Look at them.” The Russian looked at the pale shuddering mass of the others. “One for all,
all for one.”

The Golem picked up a pool cue, and casually snapped it in half, as if doing an exercise. The Russian did what he was told.
Skids limped naked toward the door, held under one arm by the naked Russian. I should go over and slap their goddamned faces,
Michael thought. I ought to make them crawl on their hands and knees to beg my mother for mercy. But no. Wait. We’ll save
it for Frankie.

“All right,” Michael said. “Get outta here. Run home to your mothers.”

The naked Falcons began to run now, crowding through the door, past Michael, past the Golem, past the stricken Frankie, out
into the falling snow. The black dog snapped at them, barked, lunged for them. The groggy Russian staggered out last, holding
his jaw, guiding the shivering Skids. Michael closed the door behind them.

Then they were alone: Michael, the Golem, and Frankie McCarthy. We should wreck this place, Michael thought. The way they’ve
wrecked so many places and people. The Golem somehow
heard him. He smashed each of the six pool tables, the phonograph, the wall telephone, the office furniture, the benches.
He tipped over the table loaded with food and drinks, glasses splintering, bottles breaking, beers and ice and potato salad
carpeting the floor.