Roy had to leave his house before finding out what happens to Tondelayo after the planters discover she’s been poisoning her spouse. She would try to get to Lagos, Roy guessed, carrying with her as many of her jewels and precious silks as she could, and lose herself in the big city. Roy imagined Lagos was an African version of Chicago, a place where a devastating beauty such as Tondelayo would have no difficulty enticing, destroying and dispensing of countless men.
At the ward office, Roy and Elmo and several other boys stacked and unstacked boxes of ballots until two thirty in the morning, then loaded them onto a truck for delivery to election headquarters downtown. On the way home, Roy told Elmo about Tondelayo. As the boys walked through the quiet streets, snow began to fall.
“So she was good-lookin’, huh?” said Elmo.
“Really good-lookin’,” said Roy. “But she didn’t look black, just kind of dusty, like she’d been down in a coal mine. It’s hard to tell when the picture’s not in color.”
“Was she as pretty as your mother?”
“Yeah, I guess,” said Roy. “Maybe even prettier.”
“How many times has your mother been married?”
“Four.”
“How many times was Tondelayo married?” Elmo asked.
“I don’t know,” said Roy. “Probably more than four.”
Just as Elmo turned off Ojibway and cut down the alley between Mohican and Darrow to get to his house, he said, “When we wake up we’ll find out who won the election.”
Roy felt a little guilty that he didn’t care so much any more about the election. His mind was on Tondelayo. He was surprised when he got home that his grandfather was still up, sitting in the living room reading a book.
“Hey, Pops,” said Roy, “how come you’re awake?”
“When you get old,” Pops said, “you don’t need so much sleep. How did it go?”
“Okay. Mostly we moved around a lot of boxes. They don’t know who won yet.”
“Neither of these fellows is a genius or a madman, I don’t think,” said Pops, “so things won’t change much, no matter who wins.”
“I thought this election was going to change the direction of the country.”
Pops put down his book and looked at his grandson.
“I hate to sound cynical, Roy,” he said, “but unless the Russians drop an atomic bomb on New York, or we drop one on Moscow, nothing is going to change. Not even the reprobate Quaker being elected president, God forbid, will derail the economy. The United States won the war, so we own both the groceries and the grocery. You understand?”
Roy nodded, then asked, “What do you know about Hedy Lamarr?”
“Her first husband was an Austrian Jew,” said Pops, “who was Hitler’s armaments manufacturer, an honorary Nazi. He married Hedy when she was fifteen or sixteen and kept her locked up in a castle, but she escaped and went to Czechoslovakia where she appeared naked in a movie. Her husband attempted to suppress it by buying up all of the prints, but the film got released anyway and created a scandal. After that she got on an ocean liner and sailed to New York. On the boat she met Otto Preminger, another Viennese Jew, the movie producer and director, who set her up in Hollywood. Hedy Lamarr was choice. For a while she was considered to be the most beautiful woman in the world. Why do you ask?”
“I just watched her in a movie called White Cargo.”
“Isn’t that the one where she’s a native girl who says, ‘I am Tondelayo’?”
“Yeah, she says it to a white guy who comes to Africa to run a rubber plantation. He marries her and then she poisons him.”
“He was a fool to marry her,” Pops said, “but some men are fools when it comes to women.”
“Aren’t women sometimes fools when it comes to men?”
“If you’re thinking of your mother, Roy, you’ve got to remember that, depending on the circumstances, anybody can make a bad decision.”
“Who did you vote for?” Roy asked.
“The Catholic fellow,” said Pops.
“I thought so,” said Roy.
Bad Girls
Jimmy Boyle asked Roy to go with him to Uptown to see a girl Jimmy had met the Saturday before at the Riviera theater.
“Why don’t you just go by yourself?” asked Roy.
“She said she was gonna be with a girlfriend,” said Jimmy. “I need you to help me out and talk to her friend.”
“Are they hillbilly chicks?”
“I guess so. Babylonia told me her family moved here from West Virginia.”
“Babylonia? Her name’s Babylonia?”
“Yeah, but she says everyone calls her Babs.”
“Most of the people who move here from the Appalachian Mountains live in Uptown,” said Roy.
“Babs said she lived in some little town that didn’t even have a stoplight until she was ten, then they moved to Wheeling and stayed there until a year ago. They came to Chicago the day after her thirteenth birthday.”
“What does she look like?”
Jimmy shrugged. “I don’t know. Light brown hair, blue eyes, kind of skinny. But her skin is white like on a statue. Whiter than milk.”
“Where are you supposed to meet her?”
“On Kenmore, behind Graceland Cemetery, at one o’clock. She’s tellin’ her folks she and her girlfriend are goin’ to the movies.”
“Why the cemetery?”
“I guess she lives near there.”
It was mid-November but not too cold. The sky was entirely gray without birds of any kind, a condition that made Roy feel as if he were among the last survivors on a dying planet. He and Jimmy Boyle walked down Ravenswood to Montrose, turned left and headed toward Kenmore Avenue. The streets were as empty as the sky.
“What if they don’t come?” Jimmy said.
“Then we’ll go hang around the Loop, maybe meet some girls there.”
Nobody was on the corner of Kenmore and Montrose, so the boys turned south and walked along the east side of the cemetery.
“Know anybody who’s buried in there?” asked Jimmy.
“No. My dad’s buried in Rosedale.”
“There they are,” Jimmy said. “I told you she’d be here.”
Standing halfway down the block were two girls, both wearing black scarves around their heads, navy blue pea coats, short black skirts with black tights and black fruit boots. One of them was smoking a cigarette.
“Bad girls,” said Roy.
“I hope so,” said Jimmy Boyle.
When the boys got closer, Roy could see that the girl who was smoking was also chewing gum. She had dark hair and dark eyes. The other one was Jimmy’s.
“Hi, Babs,” Jimmy Boyle said. “This is Roy.”
“Hi, Jimmy,” Babs said. “Hi, Roy. This is Sunny.”
“Is that Sunny with a u or an o?” said Roy.
Sunny cradled her right elbow in her left hand. She held her cigarette in her right hand and did not smile. She cracked her gum.
“She spells it with a u,” said Babs.
“Roy like in Roy Rogers,” said Sunny.
“Roy Rogers is cute,” Babs said. “My mother says he’s part Indian.”
Sunny was wearing makeup to conceal some pimples on her chin and cheeks, but Roy thought she was good-looking, maybe even beautiful like Gene Tierney. He’d heard his friend Frankie’s mother, who read a lot of Hollywood fan magazines, say that Gene Tierney was crazy and had to be put in a nuthouse on a regular basis. In any case, Sunny was a lot cuter than Babs, though what Jimmy had said about Babs’s skin was true.
“We gonna go somewhere?” asked Babs.
“Where do you want to go?” said Jimmy.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “Let’s go to Billy the Greek’s on Irving Park. We can cut through the cemetery.”
Jimmy
and Babs walked off first and Roy and Sunny followed. After a minute, Sunny said to Roy, “I’m Greek. My folks come from Piraeus. They had me here, though, so I’m Greek-American.”
“I’m first-generation American, too,” said Roy. “My father was from Vienna, Austria.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Austria.”
Sunny tossed away her cigarette. She was about the same height as Roy.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Fourteen, same as Babs. What about you?”
“I’m fourteen and a half.”
They walked for another minute without talking, then Sunny said, “Do you like cemeteries?”
“Not since my dad died,” said Roy.
Sunny stopped and put her right hand on Roy’s left forearm. He stopped, too.
“Oh, Roy, I’m sorry I asked you that.”
Roy looked into her eyes. They were dark brown with a tinge of red in them.
“It’s okay,” he said. “He died a couple of years ago.”
Sunny curled her right arm through Roy’s left and they began walking again. She took the chewing gum out of her mouth with her left hand and threw it on the ground.
“My mother died a year ago,” Sunny said, “when I was in Chicago Parental.”
“You were in the reformatory?”
Sunny nodded.
“What for?”
“Chronic truancy.”
“What’s chronic?”
“It means I cut school too much,” said Sunny. “I was upset about my mom bein’ sick and not bein’ able to do anything to help her. Her husband? He’s not my father. My real dad went to Korea in the army and never came back. He probably went back to Greece.”
“What about your stepfather?”
“Oh, yeah. He’s a drunk. Worked loadin’ trucks in South Water Market. He tried to rape my sister on her sixteenth birthday, so now he’s in jail. It was a bad atmosphere at our house, so I mostly just stayed out all the time. I was in Chicago Parental for three months. They let me out after my mother died and her sister, our Aunt Edita, came to live with me and my sister. She’s really nice.”
“Are you going to school again?”
“Oh, sure. I got a B average.”
They walked slowly, letting Jimmy Boyle and Babs get way ahead.
“We’ve got some things in common, Roy. It’s real important, don’t you think? I mean, if we’re going to be friends.”
“Did your stepfather ever try to do anything with you?”
“Uh-uh. Valeria’s prettier than I am, and she’s got big boobs already. So he didn’t pay so much attention to me. He’s Hungarian.”
“Well, I’m glad your aunt is there to take care of you.”
“Her husband, my Uncle Ganos, went bughouse one day and wouldn’t come out from a closet. When the cops tried to pull him out he bit one of ’em on his nose, almost tore it off the cop’s face. My aunt said the poor man had to have it sewn back on. I was eight when that happened.”
“Jesus,” said Roy. “What happened to your uncle?”
“He’s in Dunning, the state mental hospital out on Foster. He’ll probably be in there for the rest of his life.”
When Roy and Sunny got to Irving Park, Babs and Jimmy were not in sight.
“They must already be at Billy the Greek’s,” said Roy.
Sunny and Roy were facing each other.
“Roy,” she said, “would you like to kiss me?”
Sunny leaned forward and pushed her tongue deep into Roy’s mouth, then rolled it around a few times.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Roy asked.
“Valeria taught me,” said Sunny. “She’s a bad girl.”
The Sudden Demise of Sharkface Bensky
The guy who cut Sharkface Bensky’s throat in front of Santa Maria Addolorata that Saturday night got away clean. He ran down the alley next to the church so fast nobody going in or coming out of Carnival Night got a good look at him. Only a deaf kid standing on the steps came forward to say he’d seen it happen, and the description he gave to a hand sign reader the next morning at the police station wasn’t much, just that the cutter used a straight razor with what looked like an ivory bone handle and wore a dark brown overcoat. Sharkface crumpled to the sidewalk like a squeeze box out of air and bled to death before anyone thought to call an ambulance. Two teenage girls stepped right around him, the deaf kid told the reader, kept right on talking and went up the steps into the church. A cop said they probably thought Sharkface Bensky was a drunk who’d passed out and was sleeping it off.
Roy and his friends went by on Sunday to see the bloodstains. It was the first week of December and there hadn’t been any snow yet, though the temperature was below freezing.
“It don’t look like blood, does it?” said the Viper. “It’s so black.”
“Maybe they already washed it with somethin’,” said Jimmy Boyle, “to get the red out.”
“Skull Dorfman says the church makes its living off the blood of others,” Roy said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Jimmy.
“Means the fathers wouldn’t be cryin’ over a little spilt blood,” said the Viper. “Not after what it says in the Bible. It’s good advertisin’, you ask me.”
“The priest is probably talkin’ about it right now,” Roy said. “Comparing Bensky’s blood to the blood of Christ.”
“You coulda fooled me,” said Jimmy Boyle. “I didn’t think Sharkface had any blood in his body. He never let anyone slide.”
“Skull said he was a kneebreaker who needed his knees broke,” said the Viper.
“Think he done it?” asked Roy.
The Viper shrugged. “Who’s to say?”
“The bulls ain’t gonna knock theirselves out to solve this case, that’s for sure,” said Jimmy. “I wouldn’t be surprised they was behind it even.”
Sharkface Bensky’s real first name was Moses. The moniker Sharkface came from his having had his nose slit open from bridge to tip with a stiletto by Bobby Battipalo, a soldier for Joe Batters, because he welshed on a bet, and Battipalo’s having inserted in the wound a five dollar bill. He did it in such a way that the fin stood up like a shark’s. Bobby Battipalo paraded Bensky around afterwards so that people could see his handiwork. It took thirty-two stitches to close up the cut and left a scar impossible not to notice. When Battipalo left Bensky, still stunned and bleeding, in front of Meschina’s restaurant on Blackhawk Boulevard, he said to the bunch hanging out on the sidewalk, “Looks like a shark out of water now, don’t he?”
Mass let out and the parishioners began leaving Santa Maria Addolorata and coming down the steps. Roy, the Viper and Jimmy Boyle had all stopped going to church a couple of years before, when they were twelve or thirteen, although Jimmy occasionally still accompanied his crippled grandmother to confession when his mother was unable to, to make sure she didn’t fall.
Jerry Murphy walked over to the boys. Everybody called him Goat because he had been trying to grow a goatee ever since the first few hairs appeared on his face when he was fourteen. Goat was now almost eighteen, and he had hardly any more hair on his chin than he’d had four years before. His idol was the trumpet player and famous hipster Dizzy Gillespie, who wore a goatee, and Murphy often wore a beret and glasses, like Gillespie, even though there was nothing wrong with his eyes.
“Hey, cats,” he said, “you come to scope out the murder scene, huh?”
“Hi, Goat,” said the Viper. “Yeah, you know, we Shakespeare scholars are checkin’ out the damn spot.”
“For extra credit in English,” said Roy.
“I bet I know who’s the perp,” Goat said.
The three boys looked up at him. Goat was six two; of the boys, Jimmy Boyle was the tallest at five eight.
“Remember B
ird Man?” said Goat.
“Yeah,” said Roy, “the ex-welterweight from Streator went to see Birdman of Alcatraz twenty times. Used to hang out with the Pugliese brothers at their garage.”
“Right.”
“Bird Man cut Sharkface’s throat?” said Jimmy. “Why?”
Goat fingered the several thin hairs on his chin, then said, “Sharkface was collectin’ for the Puglieses and keepin’ part of the payoffs for himself, tellin’ ’em some cats didn’t pay up when they did. The Puglieses hired Bird Man to take Sharkface out of the count.”
“Who told you?” asked the Viper.
Goat shrugged his shoulders. “Just a guess,” he said. “Gotta split. Stay cool, cats.”
Goat pulled his Dizzy beret out of one of his coat pockets, stretched it over his crewcut scalp and walked away.
As churchgoers continued to file past and around the boys, a squad car drove up and parked in front of Santa Maria Addolorata. Two of Chicago’s Finest got out and hurried up the steps into the church.
“Somethin’s up,” said Jimmy Boyle.
“Yeah,” said the Viper, “let’s wait here.”
Four more squad cars pulled up and blocked off the street in both directions. Eight cops ran up the steps into Santa Maria Addolorata and four more stayed outside and made sure no citizens lingered on the steps or on the sidewalk. One of the cops motioned for the boys to step away from where they were standing. The trio walked ten feet up the street and stopped.
A couple of minutes later, two officers exited the front door of the church clutching a man between them, each holding one of the man’s arms. There was a black hood over their prisoner’s head and his hands were handcuffed in front of him. He was wearing a long brown overcoat. The cops on the steps, the sidewalk and in the street all had their guns drawn and kept looking around. The prisoner was shoved into the back seat of one of the squad cars and wedged between two cops. The rest of them got into the cars and drove off with sirens blaring. Roy saw the head priest from Santa Maria Addolorata, Father Vincenzu, who was from Romania, standing on the top step watching the police cars speed away.
The Roy Stories Page 30