Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double

by Harold Robbins

  While I was working, Jerry and Ray came down the street. They stopped to watch me.

  “Jeeze!” said Ray, “you’re as good as a regular window washer.”

  “It’s a trick,” I said proudly. “Ya gotta know how to work the squeegee, see?” With a final wipe and flourish I finished. I picked up the pail and brush and walked into the store. “Come on in,” I said to them. “Keough’s out.”

  They came into the store. It was the first time any of them had been in the place. Kids weren’t allowed.

  “How’s about lettin’ us shoot some pool, Frankie?” Ray asked.

  “Can’t. Ya gotta be an adult. Minors can’t play. See the sign?” I pointed to a sign over the cash register that read, ‘Minors not permitted.’ “We can get closed up if you play.”

  “How about comin’ swimmin’ with us this afternoon?” Jerry asked.

  “I’d like to,” I said. “Maybe if you’ll drop by this afternoon and we’re not busy, Jimmy’ll let me off.”

  “O.K.,” said Jerry. “We’ll stop by on the way to the docks.”

  The afternoon was hot and Keough had come back from the station in a good mood and whistling: “My Wife’s Gone to the Country, Hooray, Hooray!” We weren’t busy and he let me off for a couple hours.

  The three of us walked down the street toward the Fifty-fourth Street dock. I saw Marty on the other side of the street. I called: “Hey, Marty!”

  He came over to us, and I introduced him all around and asked him to come swimming with us.

  “I’d like to,” he said. “That is if the other fellows don’t mind.”

  “Hell, no!” I said. “The more the merrier.”

  The dock was crowded when we got there. I saw some fellows I knew. Peter Sanpero was there with his gang, but he didn’t say anything to me so I didn’t pay any attention to him. We swung ourselves under the dock and got out of our clothes. Then we jumped into the water. It was warm and dirty near the dock because a sewer emptied there, but when you swam out a little ways it was nice and fresh. We splashed around a little and then I said to the others: “I wish we could fly back to the docks from here so we wouldn’t have to get that slime over us when we go back.”

  Jerry called back to me: “If you’d come up to the country like I asked you, you could swim in a real lake.”

  An airplane roared overhead. We all turned and yelled. Then Ray said: “I wonder if that was Rickenbacker.”

  “Hell!” I said, “if it was, it was an angel. Rickenbacker’s dead.”

  “No he isn’t,” Marty yelled. “He’s alive. He shot down the ace of the German flying circus, von Richthofen.”

  “Anyway America has the best goddamn airplanes in the world. And American fliers are best,” Ray said.

  We floated on our back awhile and watched the ferries and the Hudson River boats go by. Then we got out of the water and stretched out on the docks in the sun. We were stark naked and too far from the streets for anyone to see us. We lay there quietly awhile. The sun was hot and I covered my face with my shirt.

  A shadow fell over me and I heard a voice say: “Who let this goddamn Jew down here on our dock?”

  I thought it was someone talking about Martin so I lay there quietly waiting to see what would come of it.

  “Hey, fellers,” the voice cried. “Come over here and look at what makes a Jew.”

  I heard a couple of feet come over and stop not far from me. “Jeeze!” one of them said, “funny lookin’, ain’t it?” They all laughed.

  “Come on, Jew,” said the original voice. “Let’s see what the rest of you looks like.” There was a minute’s silence. Then a foot prodded me roughly and the voice said: “I mean you. Don’t you know when you’re spoken to?”

  I took the shirt from my face slowly and sat up. Jerry, Ray, and Marty were sitting near me, looking at me. I saw Marty had put his trousers on so they must have meant me. I had been circumcised when I was a kid. I got to my feet and faced my tormentor. He was a guy I didn’t know. “The name’s Kane,” I said slowly. “Francis Kane. And I’m not a Jew. Want to make anything of it?”

  “That’s right,” one of the boys called. “He’s from St. Therese.”

  I took a step toward the other fellow. “All right,” he said, “I’m sorry. But I don’t like Jews. I’d like to see one here. I’d kick him off the dock.”

  Before I could answer, Marty stepped up in front of me. “I’m a Jew,” he said quietly. “Let’s see you kick me off the dock.”

  The boy was a little taller than Marty. Marty’s back was toward the water. Suddenly the fellow made a rush toward him, intending to push Marty into the water. Nimbly Marty sidestepped and the fellow, not being able to stop his rush, plunged over the side of the dock into the water with a big splash. I burst out laughing and the others followed.

  I leaned over the edge of the dock and yelled to the guy splashing in the water: “The Jew was too smart for ya, huh?”

  He cursed back at us and tried to clamber back; but he was so mad he missed and fell back into the water. We laughed again. Just then a yell went up: “A dame’s comin’ down the dock!” All of us who didn’t have any clothes on jumped into the water.

  Later when the woman had gone we clambered back on the dock and got dressed. “I gotta get back to work,” I said, and we walked back to Tenth Avenue in silence.

  At the door of the poolroom Jerry said: “Don’t forget: after church tomorrow you’re coming over to my house to meet my father.”

  I went into the store and Keough was there, hot and perspiring and busy. When he saw me he hollered: “Bring up some beer from the cellar. It’s a hot day and the boys are all thirsty.”

  7

  Keough was closed on Sunday. I had to stay at church through all the Masses because I was an altar boy. After the last Mass, near twelve o’clock, I would generally go back to the orphanage, have dinner, and then go out for the rest of the day. Sometimes I would go to a movie or up to the Polo Grounds and sneak into the ballgame. This Sunday I had promised Jerry I would go home with him to see his father.

  Jerry’s father was the mayor of New York—the great democrat, the people’s man, a regular, friendly man with a big hello and a glad handshake and baby-kissing lips. I didn’t like him. It dated from a long way back—long before I knew Jerry Cowan. It was when Mr. Cowan was alderman from our district and he made a speech at the orphanage’s Thanksgiving dinner. He made a nice speech that none of the kids could understand, but then we didn’t care. We were too full of turkey. I was about nine at the time. He sent me into the superintendent’s office to fetch some cigars from his overcoat. When I gave them to him he held out a big shiny quarter to me and said: “This is for being a good boy.”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, taking the quarter. Then I remembered what the teacher had taught us and I went over and put the money in the church box.

  Mr. Cowan saw it. “That’s a real fine young man,” he said and called me over. “What’s your name, young feller?” he asked.

  “Francis Kane, sir,” I said.

  “Well, Francis, here’s five dollars more for the church, but before you put it in the box tell me, what do you want more than anything else for Christmas?”

  “An electric train, sir,” I said.

  “An electric train you shall have, my boy. I have a son just about your age at home and that’s what he wants too. You both shall have it.” He smiled at me as I put the five-dollar bill in the church box.

  I counted the days till Christmas. Christmas morning, when I went down to the big tree in the dining room, I expected to find the electric train, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it didn’t come yet. I couldn’t imagine he would forget. The day passed and no electric train came.

  I didn’t really give up hope until I had gone to bed. Then quietly I began to cry into my pillow.

  Brother Bernhard, who had been walking in the hall, heard me and came into the dormitory. “What is the matter, Francis?” he asked in that warm, fr
iendly voice of his. Sobbing, I sat up in bed and told him about the electric train.

  He listened quietly and then said: “Francis, do not weep for a small thing like that. ’Tis better you cry for the love of your friends and for us who cannot give thee half the love thee needs. And besides”—Brother Bernhard was a practical as well as a sentimental man—“Alderman Cowan has been in Florida for the past month, and no doubt he was too busy wi’e his other affairs to think of ye.”

  He stood up at the side of my bed. “Now go to sleep, lad. Ye’ll be needing ye’re strength for tomorrow. I’m after taking ye to Central Park for sleigh riding. For ’tis snowing, which ye can see if ye’d but put your head to the window.”

  And I put my head to the window and sure enough the snow was coming down in great big flakes. Dry-eyed, I lay back in bed. I heard Brother Bernhard go back into the hall. He met someone there and I could hear him saying: “I don’t mind the politicians breaking their promises to their voters, but I wish the scoundrels wouldna try to break the hearts of little boys as well.”

  Then the light in the hall flickered and went out, and I began to hate Alderman Cowan with all the fury of a small boy’s soul.

  When I first met Jerry, just before his father was elected mayor, I didn’t quite know what to do about him. He was a likable, friendly boy who never understood that the real reason for taking him out of a private school and transferring him to St. Therese was political. I liked him but I didn’t know whether to carry my grudge against his father to him.

  So I took the shortest way of finding out. I offered to lick him. Halfway through our fight—we weren’t getting anywhere, we were too evenly matched—I put down my hands and said to him: “The hell with it!—I like you.”

  He never knew why I did that—maybe he thought I was a little cracked—but in that nice, friendly manner of his he offered me his hand and said: “I’m glad. I like you too.”

  And we became fast friends. That was the year before. We had chummed together all through the school year just passed, and now he wanted me to meet his old man so’s he could get me to go to the country with him. I had never told him why I didn’t like his father, or, as a matter of fact, that I didn’t like his father. I kind of hoped Jerry would forget about his suggestion, but no dice; right after the last Mass he showed up.

  “Ready, Frankie?” he asked with a smile.

  “Yeah,” I grunted.

  “O.K. then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

  A butler let us into his house. “Hello, Master Jerry,” he said.

  “Robert, where’s Dad?” he asked.

  “In the library. He’s expecting you,” replied the butler.

  I followed Jerry into the library. His mother and father were there. His father still had the same ready smile and crinkly eyes. I was struck by the way Jerry looked like him when he smiled. But Jerry had the quiet, sensitive mouth of his mother, and her gentleness.

  “So there you are, son!” his father exclaimed. “We have been waiting luncheon for you.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Jerry said, and indicating me, “This is my friend Frankie, I have been telling you about.”

  His father and mother turned and looked at me. Suddenly I was very conscious of the patched shirt and trousers I was wearing.

  “Glad to know you, boy,” said his father, coming over and shaking hands with me.

  I don’t remember what I said, but the butler came in and announced luncheon and we all went into the dining room.

  The table was a big, square thing and in the center of it was a big bowl of flowers. If you wanted to say anything, you would have to look up over it, around the side of it, or under it. There were more knives, forks and spoons than I knew what to do with, but I watched Jerry and got along all right. We had ice cream for dessert. Then we went back to the library.

  “Jerry told me he wants you to come to the country with him,” Mr. Cowan said to me.

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’m very thankful to you but I can’t go.”

  “You can’t?” asked Mr. Cowan. “Is it against the rules of the uh—orphanage?”

  “Oh no, sir, but I’ve got a job for the summer and I can’t leave it.”

  “But the country’s much better for you than working in the hot city all summer,” said Mrs. Cowan.

  “Yes, ma’am, I know, ma’am.” I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I liked her. “But I need things. And I’m going to high school in September and some dough—I mean—money would come in handy. You know what I mean. I want to be… a little like the others—not taking charity all the time. I’m sorry ma’am. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  She came over to me and took my hand. “I don’t think you’re rude, Frankie; I think you’re a very fine boy.”

  I didn’t know what to say to her. A few minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Cowan left. They had an appointment somewhere, and we went up to Jerry’s room.

  We idled around a little while. Then Jerry said: “How about coming up to the attic. It’s all fixed up as a playroom. We can have some fun.”

  The first thing I saw when we got into the room was a big electric train set. It was terrific: bridges and tunnels and switches and three locomotives. “Oh, boy!” I said, “that’s somethin’!”

  “Yes,” said Jerry, “Dad bought it for me three years ago before we went to Florida. Want to play with it?”

  I looked at it quietly for a minute, feasting my eyes on it. Almost instinctively I moved toward it. Suddenly something stopped me. A thought flashed through my mind. At least he didn’t forget his own son’s present.

  “No,” I said aloud, my voice trembling foolishly. “It’s too hot here. Let’s go swimming.”

  8

  I was going to start high school the next term. Jerry was going up to George Washington High on the Heights, and I decided to go there too. Marty also planned to go there. I didn’t think very much about what I wanted to take up because I regarded school as a necessary evil. I would leave as soon as I was seventeen and legally permitted. My only ambition was to be a gambler and a bookie—and rich.

  Graduation at St. Therese was a simple, quiet affair. We were all assembled in a great hall with parents and friends and teachers, and were given three speeches and a diploma.

  My name was called. I went up to the platform and took my diploma from the Monsignor who had come especially for the presentation. Then I went back and sat down with the rest of my class. After the ceremony I stood around watching the kids and their parents, laughing and proud.

  I guess I felt kind of funny at being left so alone. I saw Jerry and his folks. There was a crowd around them, and Jerry couldn’t see past them or he would have called me over. After a while I started to ease toward the doorway. It looked as if no one was coming to see me anyway, and I’d feel better outside. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Brother Bernhard. Father Quinn was with him, and both were smiling.

  “Congratulations!” boomed the good brother.

  Father Quinn, still smiling, echoed him.

  I smiled suddenly, just beginning to feel the salt stinging my eyelids. I couldn’t speak for a moment.

  Brother Bernhard looked at me shrewdly; there were times when I thought he could read my mind. “Thought we weren’t coming, eh?”

  He didn’t give me time to answer before he continued: “We wouldn’t be after missing the graduation of one of our boys, would we, Father?”

  “That we wouldn’t,” answered Father Quinn. “We’re very proud of you, Francis.”

  I found my voice at last—not the same voice I usually used, but a voice. “Thank you,” I said, “thank you.”

  Brother Bernhard put his hand on my shoulder as we walked toward the door. I began to feel pretty good again. Once we were outside, Father Quinn shook hands with me and wished me luck again and walked off toward the church while Brother Bernhard and I walked toward the orphanage.

  We entered the courtyard silently. Suddenly he stopped me
. “Francis,” he blurted gruffly, “I’ve a present for ye.” He held out his hand.

  I was so surprised that for a moment I stared stupidly at the package in his hand.

  “It’s for ye,” he said, thrusting it at me. “Take it.”

  I took the package and opened it. It was a wristwatch. I gulped and held it up. The sun shone on it, and it was beautiful. I strapped it on my wrist with trembling fingers.

  “D’ye like it?” he asked.

  “Like it!” I said, my voice suddenly light and gay. “I like it better’n anything in my whole life.”

  He smiled and took my hand, and together we walked into the big gray building.

  9

  That summer was the first I had ever spent so much time with people. I learned how to get along with them—how to joke and laugh, how not to get sore at every insult. I learned lots of things that summer, and Julie taught me most of them.

  The day after I graduated, Marty had invited me to his house for supper again. His parents were out that evening.

  I got there early. He met me at the door and greeted me. “How about a little boxing now,” he said, “and after supper we’ll loaf around?”

  “O.K.,” I replied.

  We had been boxing almost an hour with Julie stuck her head in the door. “Supper’s ready,” she said.

  We took off our gloves. I washed my hands. Marty wanted to take a shower so I went into the kitchen to wait for him.

  “Where’s Marty?” Julie asked.

  “He’s taking a shower,” I replied. “He’ll be right out.”

  She was wearing a smock tied at the side. It was tightly fit and she looked almost like a kid except for the way she would walk. “How are the boxing lessons coming along?” she asked, coming over and taking my hands.

  “All right. He’s O.K.,” I said.

  “How about your other lessons?” she asked with a slow smile.

  “What other lessons?” I asked stupidly.