I followed him into his car. I felt pretty good when we stopped in front of Keough’s and I got out with the big shot. He had asked me how I was doing and I told him. He thought it was fine.
Once in Keough’s, I gave Jimmy the slips and the money. Then I got out my shine box and gave Mr. Fennelli a shine.
“The kid’s all right,” said Fennelli to Jimmy.
“Smart boy!” said Jimmy, looking proud as if he were my old man.
When Fennelli wanted to pay me for the shine, I didn’t want to take the money. It was half a buck.
“Go ahead, kid, take it,” he said.
I saw he was going to insist. “Toss you for it,” I said to him. “Double or nothing.”
“O.K.,” he said, tossing the coin into the air, “you cry.”
I watched it spin end over end. When it almost hit the ground I called: “Tails.”
Tails it was. He picked up the half and gave me a dollar, which I put in my pocket. “You’ll get along, Frankie.” He smiled.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Thank you.”
Keough laughed. “Get us a couple bottles of beer, Frankie.”
I brought two cold ones up from the cellar and opened them. They drank quickly. When they were finished, Fennelli said to Jimmy: “Ready to square up for last week?”
“Sure thing, Silk!” Keough said. “You know me—always pay up on time.” He took out a roll of bills, counted out six hundred dollars, and handed it over to Fennelli. Fennelli stuck it in his pocket without counting it.
I left them and got out the mop and pail and began to wash the tile floor in front of the store near the counter. It was hot, so I took off my shirt and threw it in a corner. The sweat ran down my face and I wiped it off on my arm. When Fennelli passed me on his way out he waved to me. I waved back to him, giving him a half salute, just like I did for Father Quinn.
12
The summer wore on. It was just like any other summer in New York: hot, muggy, tiring; people returning from work with tiredness painted over their faces like masks; kids shouting in the streets; crowded parks and beaches; paper headlines shouting the weather; no school; noise coming in through the open windows.
Just another summer in New York. But not for me. I liked it. For the first time in my life I felt free and not beholden to anyone. It was late in August. I had seven hundred dollars in the bank. I had a girl. I had two new suits. I ate in restaurants. I had money in my pockets. I could go where I wanted and do what I wanted. People and the kids looked up to me. I was somebody. I was living high. I began to think about having to go back to school. I didn’t want to go. I was making too much money. Yet I knew I couldn’t get out of it. I wasn’t old enough to quit. I tried to plan how I would continue to make book while in school. I would ask for the morning session up at high school and then I would be out in time to get the bets. Things were looking up. I thought patronizingly of the other kids in the orphanage and in the neighborhood. I was really going places.
It was late afternoon, Saturday, August 22nd. I had just squared up with Keough for the week and had another eighty-four dollars in my pocket. The poolroom was crowded with fellows, cursing, swearing and shouting. In a few minutes most of them would start drifting home to spruce up for their Saturday-night dates and parties and dances. We were out of beer and cold drinks. Keough looked over the counter at me and said: “I’m tired. I think we’ll close early tonight and I’ll catch a train and go up to see the wife.”
“Should I pass the word?” I asked him.
He nodded.
I walked around the table calling out: “Closing time. Closing time.”
In a few minutes the place was empty. Keough counted up the cash and stuck it in his pocket. “Let’s go!” he said.
While Keough was locking the door, Fennelli’s car drove up and stopped in front of the place. Silk got out and walked up to us. “Closing early, Jimmy?” he smiled.
“Yeah,” answered Keough. “Goin’ up to see my wife.”
“That’s good,” said Fennelli. “Got anything for me?”
“Sure thing, Silk,” said Keough. “You know me—always ready!” He stuck his hand in his pocket and came out with his roll. There was a big, thick rubber band around it. They stood in the doorway of the place, and I stepped out to make room for them, my back to the street.
I heard the whirr of a motor in the street behind me. Suddenly Silk and Keough looked up. They seemed to be staring at something behind me. I felt nothing unusual. Keough got white and his money fell from his hands to the stoop.
I bent down to pick it up saying: “You shouldn’t be so careless with your…” I heard the sharp reports of a gun. I looked up suddenly. Keough had his hands on his belly and was sliding down against the door. I stared at Fennelli. His hands were against his chest. He began to slump forward, his hands slowly coming away from his coat. Blood started to spatter against me. It was then I began to move. I didn’t think. I just ran, first scrambling on all fours and then running like hell. I didn’t look back. I dodged down one block, then up another until I didn’t know where I was going. I only knew that I was running.
Instinctively I stopped in front of Marty’s apartment house. I ducked inside the door and ran up the stairs to his apartment. I went to the back door where I knew that Julie would answer, and rang the bell. It was then I began to realize how frightened I was. Before that I just had been running by reaction. My heart was pounding and I could hardly breathe.
Julie opened the door. I brushed past her and slammed it shut.
“Why, Frankie!” she said. Then seeing my shirt covered with blood: “What’s the matter? What happened?”
I didn’t answer. I walked into her little room just off the kitchen and threw myself across the bed, where I lay, my breath rasping through my throat.
She followed me into the room and shut the door behind her. “What happened, Frankie? Are you hurt?” Her eyes were large with fear.
I sat up. “No,” I answered. “They just shot my boss and Fennelli.”
“They?” she asked. “Who?”
“I dunno. I just ran.” I stood up. Suddenly I realized I held something in my hand. It was Keough’s roll. I must have grabbed it instinctively. I stuck it in my pocket and went over to the window and looked out. “I wonder if they followed me here?” I asked almost of myself.
Julie stood beside me. “You poor kid!” she said. “You’re frightened to death.” She drew me close to her.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied. I buried my head against her breasts. It seemed so warm, so safe there. I didn’t want to move. A tremor shook me: first one, then another. I tried to fight them but couldn’t. In a few seconds I was shivering and my shirt was covered with sweat. I just stood in the circle of her arms, shivering, my teeth chattering like a baby…
A little while later I was sitting in the small armchair in the corner of her room. I began to think. “No one saw me come here. I guess they were after Fennelli. They didn’t want me. They had to get Keough ’cause he saw them. I didn’t see them. They didn’t want me. The cops may want me for questions. But I didn’t see nothing. I’m safe as long as I keep my mouth shut. I won’t be bothered.” Julie went into the other room to get me a drink. “What’ll I do with the dough?” I took it out and counted it. There was 653 bucks there. I put it back in my pocket. Julie came back with a cup of coffee.
“Here, drink this,” she said, “you’ll feel better.”
I smiled at her. “I feel better already,” I said, drinking the coffee gratefully, “but I can’t leave here with this shirt on. It’s covered with blood.” I took it off and gave it to her. “Here, throw this down the incinerator and give me one of Marty’s.”
She didn’t answer. She took the shirt and left the room. I heard the door of the kitchen open, then the slam of the incinerator. Then she came back into the apartment and went to Marty’s room. A few seconds later she came into the room with one of his shirts over her arm.
I put
it on. It was a little tight fitting but not bad. “I better get out of here,” I thought.
“Thanks, Julie,” I said. “I’d better get out of here before the family comes in.”
“You don’t have to rush,” said Julie. “They all went to the country for the weekend except Mr. Cabell. And he won’t be home until one o’clock in the morning when the store closes.”
I had supper there and left about nine o’clock and went to the orphanage. I sneaked in the delivery door and up to the dorm. The kids were all asleep. I undressed and tumbled into bed gratefully. I was tired. I fell asleep almost at once.
In the morning I ran downstairs before anyone else and grabbed a look at the papers. The Daily News had given it the front-page spread. A big headline shouted: “Fennelli Shot,” and the story was on page two. I turned the page. There was a picture of Silk Fennelli in the right hand corner. Underneath was the story:
Gang War Again Breaks Out In New York
Silk Fennelli, famous gambler and racketeer, was shot and seriously wounded, and James (Jimmy) Keough was shot and killed today, by an unknown gangster. Keough was shot twice through the heart, and Fennelli was shot once in the chest and once in the groin, yesterday afternoon in front of a pool parlor that was run by Keough. Police are looking for a boy known to work at Keough’s who may possibly be a witness to the crime. Fennelli true to the code of gangland would not make a statement. “I don’t know who would want to shoot me as I’m a guy who minds my own business,” he said. The police are working on the case and expect new developments to arise shortly.
I put the paper down. I thought I could recognize a warning to me from Fennelli in the paper—a warning for me to mind my own business. I went on into the dining room for breakfast and then went over to the church to serve altar. I didn’t have a thing to worry about.
13
After a week had gone by and I hadn’t been troubled by anyone, I began again to feel safe. Again I could walk on the streets without being afraid. I had seen in the papers that Fennelli was getting better and would be discharged from the hospital in about three weeks. Keough’s was closed and my job was gone, but somehow that didn’t bother me. I put the money into another account, and as far as money went I didn’t worry about it. I had seen Julie a few times during the week and we said nothing about what had happened.
One morning Brother Bernhard stuck his head in the dormitory door and said to me: “Francis, will ye step into my office and see me after breakfast?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
Later when I went down to his office I saw several people there: the Sister Superior who had charge of the lower grades of the school, Father Quinn and a stranger. He looked like a cop.
I was worried but tried not to show it. I walked over to Brother Bernhard and said to him: “You wanted me, sir?”
“Yes, Francis,” he said. “This is Investigator Buchalter of the child welfare commission.” To Mr. Buchalter he said: “This is the boy we were talking about.”
I waited for them to speak. For a few moments there was a strained silence in the room.
Finally the Sister Superior said: “Francis, you’ve been a good boy in school. I’ve known you and watched you since you were a baby. And now I have something to tell you. Something I don’t like to tell you but I must. Francis, have you ever thought of being anything else besides a good Catholic boy?”
“No, ma’am,” I answered cautiously.
Father Quinn smiled. “See?” he burst out, “just what I told you.” He fell silent again.
The Sister Superior continued slowly: “If someone were to come and tell you that you were of another faith, how would you feel, Francis?”
I let an inaudible sigh of relief escape my lips. This wasn’t about the shooting. “I wouldn’t believe it, ma’am,” I answered.
There were smiles all around the room then—proud smiles, smiles saying better than words, “This is a good Catholic boy.”
She continued, more at ease than before: “Francis, don’t you remember anything about your parents at all?”
It seemed like a foolish question to me. She knew as well as I that I had been here ever since I could remember. I answered politely: “No, ma’am.”
“Well,” she said, “Mr. Buchalter investigates the parents of all the children here. From time to time he reviews their history in an effort to learn more about them and help them. And he has something to tell you.” She looked at him.
He looked very uncomfortable. “You see, Francis, it all started a little while ago. Your case came up for review again when you graduated from St. Therese.” His tone of voice was almost apologetic. “When a child enters high school, we again go over the child’s history—in this case, yours—to see if there are any more things we can learn before approval is granted—if any relatives can be found. Well to make a long story short we found a relative of yours still alive: an uncle, your mother’s brother. Some time ago he wrote us telling of his sister who had come to New York at the time you were born. She died at the time we found you. He identified her by a ring that she had worn and we had kept in the case files to give to you when you came of age. It wasn’t a valuable ring, but an unusual one. His description of the design matched with your mother’s ring. And now, legally, he wants you to come and live with him. We have determined that he is a good man and responsible man. He has two children of his own. He will give you a good home and take good care of you.” Mr. Buchalter stopped.
Father Quinn spoke quickly. “But, Francis, he’s different than we are. He does not believe as we do, Francis,” his voice was deadly quiet and serious, “he’s not of the faith.”
I looked at Father Quinn questioningly. “Not of the faith?” I repeated after him, wondering just what that might mean.
“Yes, Francis,” Father Quinn said heavily. “He’s not Catholic.”
I didn’t even know what the hell he was talking about.
“In all probability, Francis,” Brother Bernhard said, “you will go to live with him in a little while after certain details are worked out. But don’t forget all the things you’ve learned here, Francis. Never forget the Church that has sheltered you and brought you up. Always be a good Catholic no matter what people say.”
“Yes, Brother Bernhard,” I said, more bewildered than before.
“Your uncle is outside, Francis. Would you like to meet him?” the Sister Superior asked gently.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answered automatically. My mind was whirling. I had a family. I wasn’t a bastard. I had a family.
Mr. Buchalter went to the door. “Will you come in, Mr. Kane?”
A man stepped into the doorway. He was tall—almost six feet—slightly bald, broad-shouldered and ruddy-faced. He had soft brown eyes and there seemed to be a mist over them. As I looked at him I remembered vaguely hearing somewhere that all non-Catholics went to hell. Somehow I didn’t care. I would never mind going to hell if someone would only look at me like that—someone with love and kindness and worry wrinkles in the corners of his eyes as if he were afraid that I wouldn’t like him. He smiled and the room lit up. He held out his hand to me. I took it. It was warm and friendly and full of secret understandings that seemed to flow between us like live electric currents.
“So you’re Frankie!” he said. His voice was a great deal like him; it was deep and richly warm and trembled just a little.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and my voice was shaking too. And there were tears in my eyes too. And there was love in my heart too. For I knew no matter what else in this world, I was kin to this man. I was of his blood and family. I knew it. I felt it.
And it wasn’t until a while later that I knew he spelled his name “Cain.”
And it wasn’t until a few days later that I knew I was a Jew.
14
I heard somewhere that news has a mysterious ways of traveling. Before I had been back in the dorm for more than a few hours, it was all over the place that I had been adopted. The other kids asked
me questions and I answered them as best I could. In all truth, I didn’t know very much to tell them. I couldn’t wait until the afternoon was over so that I could go and tell Julie the news.
I phoned her first to find if the coast was clear, and then went up.
She opened the kitchen door and let me in. She seemed rather tired, but I didn’t pay any attention to that and launched into the tale of what happened that day. She was sitting in the chair at the foot of her bed and I was sitting on the edge of the bed as we spoke.
When I had finished she said: “I’m very happy that things are working out for you the way they are. You deserve a break.” She spoke without enthusiasm. Her tone of voice was tired and dead sounding.
I looked at her. “You don’t sound happy about it.”
She stood up and walked over to the window. Her back was toward me. For a minute she didn’t speak. When she did speak, her tone of voice was brittle and hard, as I had never heard her voice before. “I’m going home, Frankie.”
“Why?” I asked. And then before she could answer: “You don’t have to do that. I’ll still be around to see you no matter what happens.”
She turned and looked at me. “For a free lay?”
I shook my head, “No, because I like you. You ought to know that; you made me say it often enough.”
“You don’t like me,” she said a little coolly, “any more than you’d like any girl who’d let you do it.” She turned to the window again. “We’ll never see each other again.”
I stared at her back for a minute before I spoke. “I still want to know why, Julie?”
Again she looked at me. “If you want to know, you shall. There’s nothing in it for me laying for a kid like you. You can’t do anything for me. You couldn’t even marry me if I should get knocked up. So what’s in it for me, outside of being your instructor?
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 7