I started to doze off. The door opened. Mrs. Mander came in. She was all dressed up—nice—like any other old lady. I was completely awake. I sat up.
“Come on, Frankie,” she said. “We’re going shopping.”
I got out of bed and put on my jacket. “O.K.,” I said, “I’m ready.”
We went out. The first store we stopped at was a butcher shop—then a grocery store. She paid cash for her stuff and they delivered it. Then we went into a small tailor shop.
A little Jewish man came up to us. “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“You got some good secondhand suits?” Mrs. Mander asked.
“I got some secondhand suits, she asks me?” he cried, throwing up his hands dramatically. He pointed at some racks of clothing. “I got the best. Like new they are—hardly used.”
“I want a suit for my grandson here,” she said.
We fished around for a while until she saw something she liked. “Try that one on,” she said to me.
“But, lady,” the man protested, “of all the suits I got in my store, she picks the best. I was thinking of keeping that one for myself.” Meanwhile, he was taking the suit from the rack and smoothing it. It was a gray cheviot with small stripes. I put on the jacket. It was a little loose around the shoulders and hips. The sleeves were all right.
“It fits him like a glove,” he said, patting me on the shoulders. “A little maybe I’ll take in around the shoulders. But otherwise—perfect.”
“How much?” she asked.
“Twelve fifty,” he said. “But only for you.”
He settled for nine dollars.
“All right then,” he said, “I didn’t want to sell the suit, but you bought it. I’ll fix it now. The shoulders I should take in, just a little.”
“No,” she said. “Put some padding in them. I like it large.”
“O.K., lady,” he said. “It’s your suit.”
We waited for it. In about fifteen minutes it was ready.
“Put it on, Frank,” said Mrs. Mander.
“O.K., Grandma,” I said. I put it on and stood in front of a mirror. The old dame was right. The shoulders were broad and I looked older. I tried not to look pleased.
The tailor wrapped up the other suit and we went back to the house. It was nearly six o’clock. I wondered what the rest of the bunch in the house were like. Mary opened the door. I went in.
“We eat at six thirty,” Mrs. Mander told me. “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t,” I said starting up the steps to my room—“Grandma.”
30
A little while later I heard a bell ring. That must be dinner call, I thought. I went downstairs to the kitchen. I could hear the sound of many voices coming from the closed door. Above them all I could hear the shrill, rasping tones of Mrs. Mander. I straightened my tie in the darkness just before the kitchen door, opened it, and stepped in.
The chatter stopped and all faces turned toward me. There were many expressions showing, predominately, curiosity. I thought they had been talking about me before I came in. I stood there quietly a moment looking around the table. There was a seat vacant at the foot of the table opposite Mrs. Mander. I walked over to it and sat down.
“That’s right, Frank,” said Mrs. Mander. “Just help yourself to the food.”
I didn’t answer, just reached out and began putting some pieces of meat from the bowl in the center of the table on my plate.
Mrs. Mander turned to the girls. “This is Frank Kane,” she said. “He’s going to work here—keep things in order.” She reached under the table and picked up a bottle of gin from the floor, poured herself a tumblerful, and drank half the glass as if it were water. She turned back to me. “The girl sitting next to you, Frank, is Mary; next is Belle.” She reeled off their names nodded to each one. They seemed to vary in age from about twenty-five to nearly forty, all sizes and shapes, from big Mary who sat next to me and was somewhere in her thirties to Jenny who sat next to Mrs. Mander and was small and almost demure-looking in appearance. They were dressed in a varied assortment of housecoats and kimonos. Some had their faces all made up with vivid splotches of paint, elaborately mascaraed eyelashes. A few wearing no makeup at all looked tired as if they had just awakened. There was one thing they all had in common: their eyes, bright, beady and sharp, and the corners of their mouths, turned down slightly, even while smiling, petulantly selfish.
Mary seemed to be the leader among the girls. She was a big, hefty woman, dressed in a dirty grayish wrapper—massive-breasted, thick-armed, double-chinned, peroxide blonde. She looked me over carefully. I kept on eating as if I weren’t aware of her scrutiny. Finally she spoke to Mrs. Mander. “What’s the idea bringing a kid like him into this place for a bouncer? We need someone who can handle himself—a man.” She looked at me over her plate to see what I would say. I said nothing, kept on eating.
Mrs. Mander cackled and slugged down another shot of gin. She didn’t say anything either.
Mary stood up. I could see she felt more sure of herself since we had said nothing in reply. “He’s a punk kid,” she said. “Get him to hell out before he busts out crying! Look at him! He’s going to cry.”
I put down my knife and fork and looked up at her. She must have weighed about a hundred and seventy pounds, almost five feet nine. I didn’t speak. I could see the girls watching us. I knew they would act, following her lead, if she were left to say what she wanted. I stared at Mary.
She looked down at me and sat down again in her seat. She leaned forward across the corner of the table and pinched my cheek hard between her fingers. “Look at him, just a baby!” When she stopped and withdrew her hand, I could feel the spot on my face hurt where she had pinched it.
She leaned forward again toward me. “Why don’t you run along home, little boy?” she asked. I could see the cow-like brutishness showing on her face. Her voice was nasty and insulting.
I raised my hands and put them back on the table.
“Lost your tongue?” she asked.
Without getting up from my seat I hit her across the face with the back of my hand and wrist. I put all the power of my hundred and fifty-four pounds into it. She went tumbling over onto the floor, chair and all. Blood seeped from the corner of her mouth and trickled down from her nose. She lay there spread out on the floor, one hand raised to her face, looking up at me stupidly. The other girls looked up at me and then down at Mary.
I looked down at her. “You talk too much,” I said, and went back to eating. I could see her get up, staring at me. She put one hand on her chair to steady herself, her wrapper was open, one breast exposed like an over-ripe melon, big and heavy. One hand she used to wipe the blood from her face on her wrapper. She seemed to hesitate a little as if she didn’t know whether to sit down again. I could sense she was afraid of me.
“Sit down and finish eating,” I said to her. “Then get the hell upstairs and clean up your face! You’ve got work to do.” I kept my voice flat and expressionless, like I had heard Fennelli do many times. It sounded hard and cruel, even to me.
She pulled her wrapper closed and sat down.
“I told you, I told you!” Mrs. Mander cackled, “I said to leave him alone.” She cackled again.
One by one they finished eating and drifted off. They didn’t talk much after that happened. Finally, only Mrs. Mander and I were left at the table. The old lady was half drunk. “She must have the capacity of a camel,” I thought, “or else she’s pouring it into a wooden leg.”
“Frankie, my boy,” she cackled, “I always thought we needed a man’s touch around here to make it homelike.”
About seven thirty the girls came down from their rooms and went into the parlor. They were dressed in shiny, black satin dresses, and made up carefully. I could see there was nothing on underneath their dresses. I could tell from the way their breasts would jiggle when they walked, from the way the dress would cling to their hips and their behinds, from the
way they walked. In the dimly lit parlor they took seats in small groups, talking, waiting for the night’s business to come and ring the doorbell. Big Mary, as she was called, came down too, nodded quietly to me as we passed in the hall as if nothing had happened. She was called Big Mary to differentiate between her and Mary the colored servant. A few minutes later Mary the servant came down. She was dressed in a loud colored print which contrasted violently with her dark skin and the dresses of the other girls. She sat down at the piano and began to play softly and sing in a low plaintive voice. That was her job for the evening.
From somewhere in the bowels of the house came Mrs. Mander. She was cold sober. I don’t know how she did it. When we left the supper table she was so drunk she could hardly walk. And now she was cold sober! She was dressed soberly, almost primly, her hair carefully combed, face powdered lightly, glasses perched high on her nose. Whistler’s mother in a whorehouse, I thought, remembering the painting I had seen in the art class back in high school.
She said to me: “Remember, collect in advance, five dollars from a customer—twenty-five if he’s going to spend the night. Make sure you get the dough before you let him upstairs. Stay out in the hall here. I’ll take care of them inside. In case any of them look good for more, I’ll tip you off as to how much.” She went inside.
I could see her open up the liquor cabinet and take out some bottles. She lined them up on the piano and placed some empty glasses next to them. She came out in the hall again. “Don’t let any drunks in,” she warned me. “They only make trouble.” The doorbell rang. “Answer it,” she said, going back into the parlor. I could see the girls primping up a little, straightening up in their seats, a certain competitive look coming into their faces. The race was on.
I peeped out the hole in the door. A small man stood outside. He looked like a bank clerk or a small shopkeeper. “Mrs. Mander?” he asked. I opened the door and let him in. He was an old hand. He went right into the parlor, I could hear him saying hello to some of them. A few minutes later he came back into the hall with Big Mary. She wore a triumphant kind of look on her face—she got the first customer that evening. He took out some money and gave it to me. It was three dollars. I looked through the door at Mrs. Mander and held up three fingers. She nodded her head.
“O.K.!” I growled—a steady customer.
The doorbell rang again—another customer. I let him in. He went right to the parlor. More customers came in. I could hear the clink of glasses and laughter and soft music coming from the parlor. Some girls went up with their customers. Mary came down with the little man. She helped him on with his coat.
“See you next week,” she said to him.
“You bet!” he said. I let him out.
Mary went back into the parlor.
The night wore on without any untoward event happening. It was punctuated with funny sounds: glasses clinking, blue piano, St. Louis Blues piano, the flush of toilets, the creak of the door, Mrs. Mander’s raspy voice, footsteps on the stairs, coming, going, hello, good-bye, clothes rustling, beds creaking, night sounds, dirty sounds. The night wore on.
About three o’clock Mrs. Mander came out. “Any small timers up there?” she asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Close up then,” she said. I locked the door. We went back into the kitchen. There was a small safe there, built into the wall next to the icebox. “You should have $315,” she told me, taking out a piece of paper on which she had writing. I looked at it. The girls’ names were written down, a mark for each customer they had and what he had been charged. I counted out my money. She was right—exactly. I put the thought of larceny away from my mind—temporarily.
She counted it after me and put it in the safe. Then she turned and, opening a closet, took out a bottle of gin. “Have a drink?” she said, holding the bottle out toward me.
“No thanks, Grandma,” I said.
She poured herself a drink. She swallowed it. “That’s right,” she said, “don’t touch the stuff. It’s poison.”
I watched her.
“The first tonight,” she cackled, “I never drink while we’re working.”
I watched her take another.
“Go up to sleep now, Frank,” she said, peering at me over the edge of her glasses. “You’ll do all right.”
I turned and went out of the room and up to my bedroom. I undressed in the dark and threw my clothes over the chair and fell into bed.
I lay there on the bed, staring up through the blackness at the ceiling. I tossed and turned. My eyes ached from tiredness and still I could not fall asleep. I lit a cigarette in the dark and inhaled deeply.
Something was wrong inside me—very wrong. This was the first time in my life I couldn’t fall asleep when I wanted to. Suddenly I was afraid: afraid of things I couldn’t understand, afraid to be alone, to be without my folks, without Brother Bernhard, afraid to look ahead because my life before me seemed like a pit of slime. I began to cry softly into my pillow.
I felt dirty, somehow incredibly dirty, deep into my skin, through to my bones—so dirty and soiled I would never be able to wash it out.
Why did I ever run away?
31
I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I watched the dawn come into the room. As it grew light I went over to the window and lit a cigarette. The street was empty except for a milk wagon and an occasional early riser on his way down to work. The street lamps began to flicker out. I went to the washstand, filled it with cold water, splashed it over my head and face. Then I dressed. I put on fresh clothes: new underwear and clean shirt. I threw the underwear I had slept in on the bed. I went down the silent hall softly; there were no sounds from the rooms. I let myself out the front door quietly and walked down the steps and then to the corner. Across the street was a small park. I went into it and sat down on a bench. A water fountain near me was spraying water high into the morning air, the drops glimmering in the morning sun, reflecting its light. A flock of sparrows descended upon it in a group, their chirping clatter mocking the early day.
Across the fountain on the other side of the park a sailor was sleeping on a bench, one arm thrown over his eyes to protect them from the light. His white cap lay on the ground near his bench. A policeman came into the park from the entrance near the sailor and woke him up. He shook him gently by the shoulder. He said something to the sailor I couldn’t hear. The sailor replied, then picked his cap from the ground and got up and left the park. The cop continued his stroll around the park. I thought about leaving, but thought what the hell, if I’m caught, I’m caught—period! Maybe I was half hoping I would be picked up and sent back. I didn’t know I couldn’t go back—not after I had run away. I couldn’t admit I was wrong—not now. But if I were sent back…
“Top o’ the mornin’, me lad,” the cop said to me.
I lit a cigarette. “Good morning,” I replied, wondering if he could detect the tremor in my voice.
“A foine morning it ’tis,” he said, filling his lungs with air and looking around the park. “Ye’re up a bit early, aren’t ye?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I answered honestly.
“’Tis very warm for May,” he answered, smiling. He had reddish hair and blue eyes—a real mick. “D’ye live around here?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said smiling back at him, “I’ve come to live with my grandmother. She’s down the street.” I gestured with my hand in the general direction of the house. “I’m from New York.”
“A foine place!” he said. “Me brother’s there. He’s on the force. Sergeant Flaherty is his name. D’ye know him?”
I shook my head. “It’s a big place.”
“Yes,” he said, “it is. I must be going on me rounds now.” He took a last look at me. “Good-bye.”
“So long,” I said, watching him saunter off, swinging his club. Cops? I thought. I leaned my head back against the rest at the top of the bench and let the sun play on it. It was good. It felt clean. I could feel it
soaking into my skin, warm and penetrating. I drowsed off.
I awoke with a start. A dog, running through the park barking, had startled me. I looked at my watch. It was a little after eight. I felt hungry. I got up and went out the other entrance of the park. I could see some stores a few blocks down. I walked toward them.
I went into a restaurant and had breakfast. About ten o’clock I returned to the house. Mary let me in.
“You up already?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did y’all have breakfast?” she asked.
“At a restaurant down the block after next,” I answered. I went into the parlor. She had a rag tied around her head and had just finished cleaning up the place. The windows were open and a breeze blew through the room. I sat on the couch and began to read the paper I had bought. Through the open doors I could see anyone who came down the stairs. About an hour passed. I could smell bacon frying in the kitchen; so could the others—they began to come down.
Big Mary was the first. She looked in, saw me, and continued on to the kitchen. A few minutes later she came back to the door. “Can I come in?” she asked almost servilely.
“Yes,” I answered still reading the paper.
“You’re not sore about yesterday?” she asked whiningly, sitting down opposite me, her legs spreading so I could look up her thighs.
“No,” I answered. “It was just a misunderstanding.” I turned the page.
“That’s what it was,” she said quickly, seizing upon the word, “a misunderstanding.”
Harold Robbins Organized Crime Double Page 16