The Hoods (47 page)

“Don't be bashful.” Patsy pushed him in.

The burly guy put his right hand under his left armpit. It froze there. I had the six-inch switch blade cutting through his jacket. The point was already pricking his belly button.

“Put your hand down or I'll cut your liver out, you bastard,” I said.

Patsy extracted a .45 from the guy's holster.

Maxie opened the closet door. Blond Luke, securely tied and gagged, was sitting up and staring at us.

Max asked the big guy, “You join Blondie here willingly? Or you want us to knock your brains out first?”

The guy was alarmed and perplexed. “Who are you? What's up?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” I said.

Maxie said, “Take your shirt off.” The guy hesitated. He looked at our grim faces. He took his tie, jacket and shirt off. Maxie tied his hands with the tie.

As I ripped the shirt to make a gag, the guy whined, “Hey, that's a good shirt.”

“What's a shirt between friends?” I answered pleasantly.

I gagged the guy and set him down beside Blondie and closed the closet door.

About ten minutes later, Cockeye walked in. “I got a couple of shmucks outside. They want to know what building they got to report to.”

Maxie handed Cockeye a bottle of Mt. Vernon and two glasses. “Here. Invite them to have a couple of drinks. Tell them your wife gave birth to a son. You're making a briss or something.”

“They look like two Irishmen,” Cockeye said. “They wouldn't know a briss from a hole in the ground.”

“Hey, Cockeye,” I called after him. “Don't you drink that stuff; don't forget it's spiked.”

“I know better than that. Don't worry. I'll tell them I got ulcers.”

Through the closed door, we heard voices saying, “Mazl-tov.” Then, a minute later, we heard “Mazl-tov” again and then silence.

Cockeye came in grinning.

“Boy, oh, boy! That's sure powerful stuff. The two donkeys are fast asleep already.”

We heard the outer door open. Cockeye ran out into the waiting room. We heard voices in conversation. Cockeye came in. “There are four more outside. What now?”

“Send them in here,” I said.

Maxie leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Yes, send them in. Let's see what a private detective looks like.”

Four men walked in. Maxie in a businesslike tone said, “Names, please.” They were a down-at-the-heel group, not too bright looking.

They gave their names. One of them said, “Where's Luke and Walter? You're a new man, aren't you?”

Maxie ignored the question.

Instead he asked, “Where were you fellows working yesterday?”

They gave the addresses of two large buildings on lower Broadway.

Max picked up a pen and jotted down the information.

One of them eyed the bottles. He said, “You fellows celebrating?”

“Yep,” Maxie smiled. “You fellows have a drink?”

“Yeh, we don't mind if we do.”

Maxie filled up four glasses. I said apologetically, “Excuse us for not drinking with you. We just finished a couple.”

“Sure, it's okay. Here's to a long strike.”

Four glasses were lifted and emptied to the smacking of lips.

One of them said, “That Mt. Vernon is sure good stuff.”

“It's the McCoy. It's right off the boat.” Maxie held the bottle invitingly over their empty glasses. “You fellows have another?”

Maxie filled their glasses without waiting for their reply.

“Here's luck.”

They drank up. They stood around for a minute with foolish grins.

They were beginning to look a little shaky already.

I took two of them under the arm. Uncomplaining, they walked into the adjoining office. Patsy escorted the other two in. We sat the four of them on the floor.

We heard more voices in the waiting room. I said, “I'll go out there and give Cockeye a hand. I'll be the assistant reception clerk.”

I walked out into the waiting room. I was amazed. Cockeye was doing all right. Besides the original two, there were four more asleep on chairs, and he was pouring drinks for two more men as he stood by his desk explaining that the sleeping men had been out working all night and were catching a little rest before going to different jobs.

I stood watching Cockeye. I was surprised that so far the men weren't skeptical or suspicious of us. Evidently, these men did not know how this small detective agency operated. It seemed they were extras hired only for the duration of the strike. I discovered by questioning these two that licenses or permits to practice their profession were not necessary.

I was curious about this business, particularly because I remembered my first job as a helper on a laundry truck and the part a detective agency played in the strike. I still had a vivid recollection of the beating I had taken from four men from that agency. Of course, it was a million to one shot. The incident occurred so many years ago, but I tried. I began to question these two men on what strikes they had been working, and for what agency. It would be sweet, I thought to myself, if, by chance, I caught up with them. Boy, would it give me pleasure to put those bastards in a hospital, if I ever found them. But, damn the luck, they fell asleep on me.

I told Cockeye not to hand out any more liquor, to send any other applicants in to me. Anyway, I thought, this whiskey acts too swiftly. Moe put too powerful a soporific in the booze.

I went into the inner office.

I said to Max, “We ought to cut the whiskey. It works too quick. Moe put in too many knockout drops.

“What difference does it make, Noodles?”

“Well, for one thing, in a little while you'll have guys sleeping all over the place. Somebody is bound to get suspicious. It would be better if we cut the stuff down, gave these guys a couple of drinks and they slept it off on the outside.”

“Okay, okay,” Max said. “Hey, Cockeye,” he called. “Run over to Gerhaty's and get four bottles of Mt. Vernon.”

Cockeye went out. Patsy took his place at the front desk.

Three calls came in for Thespus. Max answered all of them. They would not state their business. Max told them he did not know what time Thespus would be in.

After a while Patsy stuck his head in and whispered, “There's two guys outside. They want Thespus and nobody else.”

“Send them in,” I said.

Two big, hard-looking men swaggered in. They were cleanly dressed but unshaven. They had their felt hats slouched down well over their foreheads. Their eyes gleamed tough and direct from under their brims. I noticed a slight bulge under their left armpits: long ones, like .45's in the sling holsters under their jackets.

I looked at Maxie. He understood what I understood: to be careful with these guys.

They looked at Max and me in an insolent manner.

“Where's Thespus?” one of them said curtly. The other one lit a cigarette and sat on the desk, eyeing us coldly.

“Not in yet,” I said. “What can we do for you?”

The guy grunted in a surly manner, “Nutin.”

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the other end of the desk.

“We'll wait for Thespus,” he said.

Max raised his eyebrows suggestively. I smiled and shook my head.

“You guys ever work for Thespus?” I asked pleasantly.

“Nope,” one of them grunted.

The other one said, “Don't you know us? How long are you guys in this business?”

“Not long,” I said.

One of them belched disdainfully.

The other one asked, “You ever hear of Lefty and Eddie?”

I tried to look properly impressed.

“Well, I'm Lefty and this is my partner, Eddie.”

He motioned with his head.

Eddie belched in acknowledgment.

I guess these two guys considered themselves ace bully boys in the detective racket. A couple of shmucks with ear laps for my money, I thought to myself. I led them on.

I said, “Yeh, who hasn't heard of you fellows. You men work on laundry strikes years ago, maybe?”

“Laundries?” Eddie said derisively.

“Jesus Christ, what are you doing, insulting us?” Lefty scoffed. “We been working for Red.”

“Red?” I questioned.

“Yeh, Red. The Red Demon,” Eddie said.

I shrugged apologetically.

“Jesus Christ, you guys are new in this racket. Goddamn, they don't even know who the Red Demon is,” Lefty said to Eddie.

Eddie belched in contempt at our ignorance.

“Bergoff—Pearl L. Bergoff is the Red Demon,” Lefty said in polite irony.

“Yeh, I heard of him,” I said dubiously.

They both laughed uproariously at my naivete.

“Jesus Christ,” Lefty said, “wait until I see Red and tell him there's a couple of clerks up in Thespus' office who never heard of him. Jesus Christ, will he be insulted.”

“You men worked on big stuff?” My manner was respectful, like a neophyte addressing a professional.

“Big stuff is right. We broke strikes for all big outfits,” Lefty said with justifiable pride. “We broke plenty of heads.”

“Plenty of heads we broke.” Eddie belched with satisfaction at the recollection.

“The American heads that they brag about?” I said.

“Americans? No Americans. They were mostly Irish, Swedes and Wops or something,” Lefty said.

“Nah, they weren't American,” Eddie belched with certainty.

“Yeh, they couldn't be,” I murmured. “They weren't Indians.”

“They don't hire no Indians.” Lefty sneered at my ignorance.

“Maybe they were Americans,” I suggested. I was getting hot. “Americans fighting to raise the American standard of living, the standard that unions have to tear out of the livers of these giant corporations, the standard that these same corporations take the credit for inaugurating. First they fight to the death and spend millions to keep the standard down, then, when they're forced to raise the standard, they bullshit—see what we pay the American working man?

“If they had a choice, the American standard would be the lowest in the world. Their actions and words prove it.”

I was snarling. My face was getting hot. Lefty and Eddie were startled at my change of manner. I felt righteous; I was making a speech.

“Yeh,” I continued, “didn't J. P. Morgan, the big wheel, testify before a Senatorial committee to the question, “What do you think is a fair day's pay for an American workman?' I'll tell you what he said. He said, 'I pay as little as I can get away with.' Yeh, J. P. Morgan, the billionaire boss, said that. True Americans, that's their policy. Frig the little people. Hurrah for me. That's their kind of Americanism, only they spell it Morganism.”

“What? What did you say?” Lefty asked.

Eddie belched in a bewildered sort of way.

Maxie laughed.

He said, “That was some spiel, but you wasted your time on these bastards, Noodles?”

“Noodles?” Lefty questioned. “You, Noodles from Delancey Street?”

There was respect in his voice. He turned to his partner.

“Hey, Eddie,” he said, “you heard of Noodles the Shiv and Maxie? And the guy out there is Patsy?” He looked at me with a new respect.

I nodded.

“Jesus Christ, what do you know?” Lefty said in wonderment. “Here I thought I was talking to a couple of punks.”

Eddie belched in respect and surprise. “What are you guys doing here?” Lefty asked in a worshipful tone.

“Taking the joint over,” I said.

“The Combo taking the union over?” Lefty asked in awe.

“Yep,” Maxie said.

“Yeh,” I said.

Eddie belched.

“What you guys come up here for?” I asked.

“Jobs,” Lefty said.

“Finks, for eight bucks a day?” I mocked.

“Nah, we're no eight buck a day finks, Noodles. We're nobles,” Lefty said.

“Nobles? What the hell is a nobler I asked.

“Well, nobles get sixteen bucks a day. We're like the bosses over the finks,” Lefty replied lamely.

“You guys are tougher than finks?” Maxie asked.

“Yeh, we do the dirty work,” Lefty admitted.

Maxie looked at me. I nodded. We both thought of the same thing.

“Okay, you guys are hired. Sixteen bucks a day,” Max said.

“Who's going to pay us?” Lefty asked surprised.

Max took out his bundle of money. They watched popeyed as he peeled two one-hundred-dollar bills off his roll and tossed them one apiece.

“Okay?” Max asked.

“Sure, it's okay,” Lefty said.

They both smiled their thanks. “What do we do?” he asked.

Maxie looked at me.

Cockeye walked in with the bottles. He laid them on the desk. He looked at Lefty and Eddie questioningly.

I said, “This is a couple of nobles; they're working for us.”