“I sweep and clean and run the errands,” I replied.
“Oh, ye sweep and clean, do ye? I’ll gi’e ye enough sweepin’ and cleanin’ tae keep ye,” he said.
“You may go back to class now, Francis,” the Sister Superior said.
“Come along, Francis,” said Sister Anne. Silently I followed her out into the hall. On the stairway down to the classroom she stopped and turned toward me and took my hand. She was two steps below me and her face was even with mine.
“Don’t feel blue, Francis,” she said, her eyes looking into mine. “Everything will be all right.”
Before I knew what I was doing I kissed her hand. “I love you,” I said. “You’re the only one that’s fair, that understands. I love you.”
She held my hand tightly and leaned toward me, her eyes swimming in tears. “You poor kid,” she said and kissed my lips. In that second she knew I wasn’t a child—that I had left my childhood far behind me. She straightened up with a gasp. Our eyes locked just for a moment, and then she turned away, head bowed, and silently we continued back to the classroom.
3
The problem of avoiding Brother Bernhard was a simple one and after the first day or two worked like a charm. I would simply report to him in the dorm and then skin out the window and down the pole and be on my way. In the evening I would return in the same manner I left, and no one was the wiser.
It was on one of those days I met Silk Fennelli.
Silk Fennelli was a big man in our neighborhood. He ran everything: booze, gambling and the pay-off rackets. He was the most respected and feared man in that section. I used to see him once in a while when he stopped by at Keough’s on business. He always had his boys with him. He was tough, hard and smart. He wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody. He was my hero.
Sometimes when I was through at Keough’s early, I would take my shine box and go out for a while and pick up some extra change. This afternoon I walked into the Speak at the corner of Broadway and Sixty-fifth. The best dough was in the Speaks.
I went from one customer at the bar to the other. “Shine, mister?” I would ask. “Shine?”
The fat barkeep, beads of sweat showing on his baldhead, swore at me. “G’wan! Get to hell out of here! How many times do I have to tell you kids not to bother the customers in her? Now get out before I kick you in the can!”
I didn’t answer but turned and started back toward the door. As I walked toward it some wise guy at the bar stuck his foot out and I fell over it. Down I went on my hands and knees, the shine box falling from my shoulder. The bottles of liquid paste smashed on the tile floor and ran over it in an odd mixture of black and brown. I was bewildered for a minute and sat there, haunches on knees, as the paste ran in all directions over the clean tile.
Suddenly I was yanked to my feet by a fat ham-like hand that grabbed me by the neck. It was the barkeep. He was raging. “Come on. You’re on your way out before I…” He was so mad he stuttered as he dragged me toward the door.
Almost at the door I snapped out of my daze. I tore myself loose from his grasp. “Gimme my shine box,” I shouted, “I want my shine box.”
“Go on! Get out! It’ll teach you not to come in here anymore. Beat it!”
“I won’t go wit’out my shine box,” I shouted. I dodged around him, ran back into the saloon, and started stuffing the brushes, rags, and cans back into the box.
The barkeep caught me just as I started to get up. He slapped me on the side of the head. My ears rang. “I’ll teach you little bastards to stay out of here,” he snarled. He hit me again and grabbed me by the neck so I couldn’t move. I squirmed trying to escape his grip but he held too tight. I tried to kick him but he had too good a grip on me.
“Let him go, Tony, I want a shine,” said a quiet, well-modulated voice from one of the booths against the sidewall.
The barkeep and I both turned around. The barkeep still held one hand in the air as if it were stuck there, and the other hand still held onto me. I don’t know which of us was the more surprised. I saw a slim good-looking man of about thirty-five or forty sitting in one of the booths with one hand lying half clenched on the table, the other toying with a pocketknife attached to a chain running through his vest. He wore a dark-gray suit, a well-shaped black hat, and shiny black shoes. His gray eyes were half closed and a thick mustache showed over his well-shaped lips. White, gleaming teeth shining out of darkly aquiline features completed the picture. It was Silk Fennelli. He watched us steadily.
The barkeep cleared his throat. “All right, Mr. Fennelli.” He let me go and went behind the bar.
I wiped my face on my sleeve and walked over to the booth. I dragged the box along with me. There were two other people in the booth with him: a young, well-dressed man and a good-looking dame.
“I can’t give you a shine, mister,” I said.
“Why?” Fennelli asked.
“I spilled the black polish all on the floor,” I replied.
He reached into his pocket. He took out a wallet, removed a five-dollar bill from it, and held it out toward me. “Go get some,” he said.
I looked at it and then at Fennelli and without saying a word started toward the door. A porter had started to mop the floor where the polish had spilled. As I went out I heard the other guy say: “Fifty will get you a hundred he won’t be back, Silk.”
Silk Fennelli laughed. “You’re on.”
“I don’t think he ever saw that much money in his whole life,” the dame said.
“You’re probably right at that,” said Silk. “I didn’t either when I was his age.”
I didn’t hear what they said to that because I was out the door by that time. When I got back they were eating. I placed the change on the table and said: “I didn’t mean to keep ya waiting, but the store man didn’t have change of a fiver and I had to run all over the block to get it.”
I knelt down on the floor and began to shine his shoes.
The other man took out his wallet and peeled off some dough and gave it to Fennelli. Silk put it in his pocket without counting it. “This ought to teach you, you can’t beat the expert.”
I was through with one shoe and I tapped his foot. He put the other foot on the box. “What’s your name, son?” he asked.
“Francis Kane,” I said. “But you call me Frankie. All my friends call me Frankie.”
“Oh, so I’m your friend, am I? Better be careful, son; friendship is not a thing to so lightly bestow. Don’t be careless with it,” he said.
“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” I said, growing confused. “You’re O.K. with me.” I finished the shine and got up.
The other man and woman stood up. “Well, we have to be going, Silk. See you later.”
Silk got to his feet. “So long,” he said to them.
When they had left I asked him: “Did you collect, Mr. Fennelli?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the bet. I heard it. Did he pay off?”
Silk Fennelli laughed. “You heard it.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I’m no sap. I know what the score is.”
Fennelli laughed again. “Sit down,” he said, “and have a sandwich. Where do you come from?”
“St. Therese Orphanage,” I said.
“Okay, so you know the score,” he said to me as if I were an equal. “You look familiar to me. Where’d I see you before? At one of the playshops?”
He referred to the stores he had converted into little playgrounds in our section. Everybody said it was a great thing he was doing for the children of the neighborhood, keeping them off the streets. I heard Keough say it was more than that; it was Fennelli’s way to educate his customers. In them were all kinds of games that kids played for free—games of skill and chance that outside cost from a nickel to a quarter to play. After the kids were a certain age they were not allowed in the playshops and would go elsewhere to play the games and pay for them. Oh yes, Fennelli was a big shot, he even sent his cust
omers to school. But as most people would say, someone has to be in that business and he really deserves the breaks for he’s a regular guy.
“Nope,” I answered. “I work over at Jimmy Keough’s.”
The waiter came up at a signal from Fennelli. I ordered a roast beef sandwich and a glass of beer.
“You’re too young to be drinking beer,” Fennelli said. He changed the order to cream soda.
He watched me eat. I ate quickly and in a few minutes I was through. Then I got up. “Thanks, Mr. Fennelli.”
He smiled at me. “It’s O.K., kid, I shined shoes once, same as you.” He reached in his pocket and came out with a few bills folded over in his hand. “Here,” he said, “take this and beat it.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and when I saw it was five bills, “Thanks again.” These guys liked you to voice your thanks. It made them feel good, it didn’t cost you anything, and I knew this guy was worth the effort of being nice to. So, just for luck I thanked him once more and walked out of the saloon.
Ray Callahan was standing on the corner, his shine box at his feet. I walked up to him. Ray was a nice kid. His old man was a rummy; they were on home relief. Ray used to turn his dough over to the old lady, who would spend it on the bottle as often as the old man.
“Hi, Frankie,” he called.
“Hi,” I replied. “How ya doin’?”
“Not too good,” he muttered. “Only forty cents all afternoon.”
I flashed my five bucks at him. His eyes bugged out. “Jeeze!” he gasped, and then said in a low whisper: “Where’d ya clip it?”
I laughed. “Ya gotta know the right people.” Then I told him the whole thing.
“Boy,” he said, “you’re lucky!”
We walked down the street together. It began to get dark. I could see the occasional window lights flicker on.
“How about comin’ upstairs with me?” he asked. “If you got nothing else to do.”
I knew he wanted me to go along so’s he wouldn’t get hit for not getting many shines. “O.K.”
We heard his father and mother shouting and hollering at each other as soon as we got into the hallway.
“Christ!” he said, turning to me, “they never stop. I guess I’m gonna get it.”
I didn’t answer and we started up the stairs. At the first landing a man came out of a doorway and, brushing past us, hurried down the stairs. He left the door a little open behind him, and a woman’s voice called out through the door: “That you, Ray?”
Ray stopped. “Yeah.” He turned to me, “That’s Mary Cassidy—I run to the store for her.”
She came to the door. “Will you run down to the delicatessen and get me a few bottles of beer?”
“Sure, Mary,” Ray said. He put his shine box on the floor and, taking some change from her outstretched hand and telling me to wait here for him, he ran off downstairs.
Miss Cassidy said to me: “You don’t have to wait in the hall. Bring the boxes in here and wait.”
Silently I picked up the boxes and took them into the room. She shut the door. “You can sit down here till Ray gets back.” She indicated a chair.
I sat. She went into the next room and then came back with a can like an enema can, which she filled with water at the sink and then went back into the other room. A few minutes later she came out.
“He’s not back yet?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” I said. This time I got a good look at her. She didn’t look bad standing there, kinda pretty, her face and mouth painted. She had light blond hair slightly frizzed. I watched her so intently she kinda flushed. There were small beads of sweat gathered on her forehead. She had dark bluish-green eyes and was kinda tall. I wondered if Ray knew she was a whore. “She’d make a good lay,” I thought. I wondered how to ask her if she would—for me. I had never. But I had five bucks in cash in my pocket and that made me feel brave.
“I got a couple of bucks,” I said to her.
“So what!” She eyed me curiously. There seemed to be a faint brogue in her voice.
I didn’t know just what to say then but I looked her straight in the eyes. We stood there a few seconds without a sound. Then she said: “You’re kind of young, ain’t you?”
“I’m fifteen,” I said. It was getting easier to lie all the time. Besides, I almost had convinced myself I was fifteen.
“Did you ever before?” she asked. Her breasts looked awful big and juicy to me.
“Sure,” I said, “lots of times!” I was getting nervous.
“O.K.,” she said, “come on.” She led the way into the bedroom. I followed her. At the edge of the bed she turned around and faced me. “Give me the money.”
I took two dollars out of my pocket and gave it to her. My hand was trembling. She took the money and put it under the pillow. Then she slipped her dress off over her head and lay down on the bed. “Come on,” she said.
I opened my pants and let them down. My knees were shaking. I got into the bed and lay down beside her. I tried but it wouldn’t work—I was too scared, too nervous.
She was getting impatient. “Hurry up. I ain’t got all day. Ray might be back any minute.”
No use—I was too jumpy. It just wouldn’t work. She tried to help me but it wouldn’t work. Finally she got out of bed. I lay there for a minute watching her. When her back was turned I stuck my hands under the pillow and took my two bucks; I wasn’t going to pay for nothing. She didn’t see me. I stuck the money in my shirt pocket.
A few seconds later she came back to the edge of the bed and threw the towel at me without saying a word. She slipped on her dress.
I got out of bed and pulled on my pants while she watched me. Together we walked into the front room.
She laughed at me. “Better come back when you grow up, sonny. I always say: ‘You can’t set a boy to do a man’s work.’”
I looked at her. I could feel the blood run out of my face, leaving it white like when I was mad. I felt like hitting her with my shine box. She must have sensed it because her eyes kinda widened and she took a step back. I could feel something tying my stomach into knots. I glared at her.
“You don’t have to get—” she started to say when the door opened.
It was Ray. He held a bag in his hand. “I got the beer, Mary,” he said.
I looked once more at her. She couldn’t take her eyes off me. I hoisted my shine box and went out into the hall.
I heard Ray ask her something and I heard her laugh. Then they came to the door. At the door she gave Ray a dime for running the errand. She started to close the door. Then, as if she forgot something, she said to Ray: “Here’s a dime for your friend for waiting for you,” and she tossed it at me and shut the door.
I caught the dime and flung it back at the closed door. “Yuh cheap, goddamn whore!” I shouted, and without looking at Ray, ran down the steps and out of the house.
4
Fifteen days more and school would be over. I couldn’t wait for it to come so’s I could go to work for Keough and make some real dough.
I left the school with Jerry that afternoon. He seemed to be surprised when I walked out the gate with him.
“I thought you were confined to school, Frankie,” he said.
“Yesterday was the last day,” I answered.
“Doing anything special this afternoon?” he asked me.
“Why?”
“Nuthin’,” he said, “I was just curious.”
We walked along for a few minutes without saying a word. Then Jerry said: “Frankie, how would you like to come out to the country with me this summer?”
“Quit your kiddin’,” I said.
“I’m not kidding. I mean it.” His blue eyes were earnest. “I asked Papa, and he said to bring you over to the house for dinner some day this week and we’d talk about it.”
“Nuts!” I said, “they probably wouldn’t let me go anyway.”
“They would if my dad asked them to let you go. You know who he is?” Jerry
said.
Yes, I knew his father; everyone did—big Jerry Cowan, New York’s smiling mayor. You saw pictures of him in the papers every day—carnation in his buttonhole, white teeth gleaming, shaking hands with the representative of the latest corngrowers’ association or some other crummy outfit. Yeah, his old man could get almost anything he wanted. He was mayor of New York.
We were at the door of the poolroom. I stopped. I looked into the poolroom. It was dim inside and I could hardly see into it. I thought of spending the summer in there with the smell of needled beer and urine from the toilet. I thought of spending the summer in the country with Jerry. He probably had a swell joint with servants and everything. There’d probably be fishing and swimming and all kinds of stuff. A picture of me diving into a lake flashed in my mind. I had never swum in a lake. It must be swell. Some fellows told me it was. I had gone to Coney a couple times but mostly did my swimming off the dock at Fifty-fourth Street. Golly, a summer in the country would be swell. I turned to Jerry. “Hah, Jerry,” I said. “Thanks anyway. They—I mean—I got a job here. I gotta work this summer. I can’t be broke. I gotta make a little dough. And hell, I hate the country anyway! I always get the heebies there.”
Jerry looked at me and then laughed. Jerry was no dunce. He knew what was on my mind. Jerry was a strange friend. He wasn’t an easy one to make friends with; neither was he stuck-up. He was just—particular. I don’t know why he liked me, but if I could see far enough ahead, if I could only have known what Jerry and I—but we’ll get to it when we get to it. It’s bad enough we can look back and remember; it would be a lot worse if we knew what was coming.
“O.K.,” he said, “if that’s what you want. But come over to my house for dinner one evening anyway.” I noticed he said “dinner” not “supper” the way I did.
“I will.” I stood awkwardly on one foot. I didn’t know whether to thank him again or not. Then I thought: “To hell with it! I thanked him before.” Aloud I said: “I gotta go in to work.” I stood there watching him walk down the street and turn the corner.
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 3