“It all goes to show you that people don’t know how to run things,” said Monty. “Yes sir. People are like grass. To keep them nice and good-looking, you’ve got to keep them clipped. Yes sir. What’s a bunch of stuffed shirts in Washington know about things? If they’d just let us do it our way, there wouldn’t be any goddam Japs. Just shoot all the slant-eyes you see. Why, look at what we’re doing right here in this country. Treating the Japs like guests in a hotel.”
What a fine thing it would be, Keeley thought, if he got drunk and didn’t need Helen after all. That would be irony for you. And that’s what the world needed these days. A little irony.
“My idea is to let the generals run the country. Then everything would be shipshape. No trouble with unions. No trouble with traitors. No trouble of any kind.”
But how many other men were there? So what if she is warm-natured? I got along without another woman? Why did she have to have another man? What good are all the promises people make if they can’t be kept when you’re away? How can I trust her again? How can I trust anybody?
“And another thing. No worry about looking for a job again. Just think of it. Everybody working for the generals. They know how to handle things. And those of us who are in on the ground floor will get the best setup. Boy, would I like to get my hands on some of those soft smart guys! Yeah. Especially some of those lawyers, those rotten shysters.”
It would be exceedingly pleasant, Keeley mused, to confront Helen when thoroughly drunk and tell her that he couldn’t see her that night because another girl was waiting for him. Maybe then she wouldn’t be so sure of herself.
“All you can eat, a place to sleep, money twice a month, and a future. In fifteen years another war and plenty of adventure. Then you’re fifty and you retire. Where can you beat that?”
Maybe I ought to get divorced. But she would still be there. And I’d still be thinking about her with other men. Men like Red. Maybe worse. I wish she were dead. I wish she would get run over and killed. Maybe just die. Then I’d be happy. Then I wouldn’t have to think about her any more. I’d just remember all the nice things.
“You two want to go to the smoker? It’s getting late?”
Keeley drained the beer remaining in the glass. Its coldness cooled only the roof of his mouth but made him warmer than before. He began to sweat. He didn’t like to drink beer because it was bulky. He looked toward Jeff.
Jeff was sweating, too, but not from the beer. He was sweating from the heat of the conflict within him.
“Yes,” said Jeff. “Let’s go see the fights.”
They rose from the table and each paid for his own beer. None of them left a tip. Enlisted men usually did not leave tips. There was a good reason. The waitresses never expected it, and anyhow tipping had lost its purpose because all soldiers looked alike to them. They wouldn’t remember who it was that left the tip. Besides, the price of a tip would buy another beer.
“Remember what happened to Barney Ross?” said Monty. “He got smart so they shipped him out.”
Jeff was suddenly excited by the thought of the boxing matches. He wanted to see somebody get hit. Maybe the other men were right all along. Maybe life was really nothing more than dirty pictures, filth, fornication, getting drunk, and worrying about nothing except hating.
“Who else is fighting tonight?” Keeley asked.
“I don’t remember,” Monty said, as they walked out onto the street. “But that Maxie Brock is. I hope the little sheeny gets murdered. That’ll teach him a lesson. Him and his kike father. You know his father owns all those big stores. Twice he’s been married. Both times to Christian girls. The sheeny sonofabitch. If he don’t lay down soon’s he’s hit, it’ll be a pleasure.”
CHAPTER IV
So I surprised you, eh, Son? Well, I’m a little surprised, too. I drive down here with your step-mother … Evelyn, you know … and expect to find my boy busy studying how to be an officer, and what do I find? I find that Max Brock is boxing tonight at 147 pounds. Who is this Whitey you’re boxing? Never mind that. First of all, what do they mean by calling you Max? Your name is Maximilian. He was an important king, you know.
“First of all, I don’t want to make you nervous. I’m not making you nervous am I? That’s good. Because Whitey sounds like he could be a dangerous fighter. But after the fight I want to talk to you about a few things. I don’t like to see you like a cheap, common prize fighter, Son. First of all, I didn’t know you had it in you. Certainly you didn’t get it from me. I never had a fight in my life. Oh, plenty of fights in a business way, but not with the fists. And besides you’re a student. A mere child. Just three years college, and what do you know about boxing? I thought you told me in your letters that you were so busy you didn’t have time to even breathe. And that reminds me why I really came down. Naturally, I wanted to see my boy. I would’ve brought your very own mother, but since the divorce she’s a busy woman, and besides Evelyn wanted to come down. She’s right outside watching the other fights. She’s very excited. Evelyn is a very excitable person. But she doesn’t want you to get hurt. She has a motherly feeling toward you already. All the way down she was saying how surprised you would be and how nice it would be to take you out for a drive. She’s been reading the letters you sent home.… What’s that? What do you mean betraying a confidence? Evelyn loves you.
“First of all, don’t excite yourself. Sit down and relax. In a few minutes you’ll have to go out and fight that Whitey and if you’re excited he’s liable to hurt you. Fighters get hurt, you know. A broken nose is nothing in the fighting business absolutely nothing. In a twinkle of the eye it happens, and then the rest of your life you go around looking like some criminal.
“What’s that? Oh, about the letters. Yes. Well, first of all, Son, I was disturbed when I read those letters. I asked myself where you got such ideas. Tell me where did you get those ideas? What did you do? Read a book someplace?
“Look, son, I don’t want you to get excited. Surely a father can talk over such things with his own flesh and blood. You don’t have to be ashamed of me. I know you didn’t say you were ashamed of me, but you’d be surprised how many sons are ashamed of their fathers. I’m a modern man. Ask anybody. I’m in a respectable business. Manny Brock, with the slogan that’s worth a million dollars—‘Brock’s Bras for Women of Tomorrow. The Bra That Gives You a Lift.’ I’m building a solid future for you. Of course it’s for you. You’re my own flesh and blood. You never showed much interest, but we’ve got stores in New York, Miami, Boston, Chicago, Cleveland, and Los Angeles. We’re opening up a new store in San Francisco. I can’t understand where you get your ideas. Nobody thinks of Manny Brock as a Jew.
“Listen, my boy, take your father’s word for it. I’ve been through a lot. I know a few things. Some people may not think so much of your father, but don’t you believe them. I know a few things. And one thing I know without any argument. There isn’t any anti-Semitism. There are Jews and Jews. It’s only natural that people should hate some Jews. But that doesn’t mean there is anti-Semitism. That’s only a boogie-man dreamed up by a lot of rabbis and extra-sensitive people.
“It’s a funny thing but did you ever think that a successful Jew never complains about anti-Semitism? It’s always the poor yokel who hasn’t got the ability to get rich, so he blames it on the first thing that comes into his head. People hate him because he’s a Jew. Actually, he’s a fake. An absolute fake.
“Who? Ben Hecht? He’s a radical.
“Please, Son, there is no excuse to get excited. I can’t understand what’s come over you. You used to be such a quiet boy. Always you were logical. Now you make speeches. All right. So my information is not so good. Frankly, I don’t know this Mr. Ben Hecht. Maybe he isn’t a radical. But you know, my boy, there are a lot of professional troublemakers who get a lot of pleasure out of starting pogroms. It’s men like that who make people conscious there are Jews in the world.
“First of all you have got to understand t
hat this is the United States of America. Here there is no anti-Semitism.
“What? There never was a United States Senator who was a Jew? That is perfectly ridiculous. How about the Senator from New York?… He’s not? Are you sure? Well, maybe you’ve got me there. But how about Sol Bloom? Got you that time, eh?… A Representative, eh? Well, it’s a silly game in the first place and it has nothing to do with this anti-Semitism. I’m sure you’re wrong. But even if you’re right, what if there never was a Jew in the Senate? So what of it? What does it prove? It just proves that no Jew was ever elected to the Senate. And that’s all it does prove. There never was a Catholic president of the United States but that doesn’t mean this country is anti-Catholic, does it?
“My God, Maximilian, where on earth do you get those ideas?
“Blind? I’m blind? Me? Your father? Manny Brock is blind? What are you talking about?
“You want to know something? And remember I told you this. Anti-Semitism is only what you make it. Does anybody ever bother me with such nonsense? I’m broad-minded. Evelyn says I’m a cosmopolitan. I could fit in any place in the world. Absolutely any place. She says it’s the way I carry myself. I’m one Jew, Evelyn says, who doesn’t carry his Jewishness around on his shoulders for everybody to see. I’m a citizen of the world, that’s what I am.
“Germany? What has that got to do with Germany? You don’t make sense any more. What do you mean Germany? Are you trying to say I like the Nazis? Of course the Nazis wouldn’t like me. Oho, I see what you mean. I think maybe I should have sent you to a law school. That’s very clever. I’ll tell it to Evelyn. How did you say it? When an anti-Semite goes Jew hunting he doesn’t look on a man’s shoulders because he couldn’t see them … he’s blind with hate? Say, that’s not bad. Evelyn will like it. She’s clever. She reads and reads. All day she reads. You can hardly say something that she don’t know what it is or where you read it. She reads the Reader’s Digest and saves them up. Book of the Month, too.
“It’s getting time soon, eh? What happened to that fellow? The one who just went through? Knocked out, eh? It’s a bad business, this boxing. I wish you didn’t have to do it, Son. I still can’t understand why you did it in the first place. Did they ask you?
“They what? Just a minute. Let me get this straight. You mean they said because you were a Jew you wouldn’t fight? Who said that? Tell me who said it, Son. I’ll talk to the Congressman. I’ve got connections. I’ll have that scamp out of here so fast his head will turn.
“All right. All right. Just don’t get excited. Who says that? First of all, what has boxing got to do with winning the war? Answer me that. Protecting Jewish money? What kind of nonsense is that? Do I have any money invested in Europe? What kind of crazy talk is that?
“I’m an American. Manny Brock, ‘The Bra That Gives You a Lift.’ Does that sound European? Why, I’m a staunch Republican. Our whole family was.… What’s the difference about our family? I’m a Republican and you’ll be a Republican. We’ll start a whole brand new line of Republicans.
“Did you know we have ads in the New York Times and the Daily News and the Herald Tribune? Did you know that? And in the Chicago Tribune? And in the Los Angeles Times? Think it over sometime, Son. Nobody can ever say we’re a lot of Jewish radicals. What do you mean what’s the difference if we’re Jewish conservatives? I don’t understand you any more.… What, what? Say that again. The point is that we’re Jewish in their minds no matter what we are? Now, that’s a new one on me. In whose minds? Who’ve you been associating with anyhow?
“Look, there isn’t much time right now. We’ll discuss that later. I want to know something else. Pretty soon you’ll be wearing a gold bar, eh? And then a silver one, eh? Then maybe two bars, who knows? Ambition, my boy. That’s the ticket. Nobody can stop a man with determination. Free enterprise. That’s the keynote of everything.
“I didn’t get you that time. What did you say? You’re not going into the Manny Brock business? Why not? Wait a minute. Is it law? I always said that if.… Medicine maybe? Your mother always wanted.… Farmer? What the hell do you know about farming? Mining? Coal mining? I’m losing my patience, Son. You just don’t make the first bit of Goddamned sense. Jews are businessmen, lawyers, doctors, dentists politicians? And what’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with trying to get out of the mob? With trying to better yourself? Do you think you’ll be a better Jew because you’re a coal miner? Of course I didn’t think I’d be a better Jew by giving money to Father Coughlin. I just wanted to show him there are good Jews. That we’re not all Zionists or something.
“Look, Son, why are we arguing? I love you. You’re my own flesh and blood. It hurts me to think that you’ve been away from home for a whole six months. But it could be worse, too. Some poor boys have to go in the Pacific and who-knows-what-kind-of-places.
“Max!
“For God’s sake Max you don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just a boy. You’re only twenty years old. I won’t let them send you to the Pacific Ocean. They can keep their commission.
“Max, wait a minute. Never mind the fight. Let me talk to you. First of all, who knows how your health is? Have you had a physical checkup lately?
“Max … be careful, Son. Don’t let him hurt you, boy. I’m on your side. You know that, eh? Don’t be too afraid, Son.”
Hmmm. It’s a funny thing, mused Max’s father. Here all the time am I, Manny Brock, with citizen papers and everything and I’m a first-class American. And here all the time is my boy, a real American, born and bred in the U.S.A., and he’s a Jew.
CHAPTER V
Four high-powered lights threw a hot, white glare onto the ring. Atop each of the four ringposts was attached a thousand-watt light. They were so set up as to make it difficult to see the fights regardless of where you were seated. The canvas in the two corners where the boxers would sit at the end of the rounds was wet and slippery. The canvas itself was not stretched tightly enough so it was a bit slow. Around the ring, which was set up in the center of the Post Gymnasium, were seated some two thousand persons, most of them in uniform.
The appetite of the crowd had been whetted by the previous bouts. They were ready now for the main event. Whitey was the matador for whom they had been waiting. Whitey with his heavy eyebrows, which reminded one of Max Schmeling, and his chunky, short-waisted body which brought to mind Mickey Walker. He had the finesse of a seasoned warrior. His matador’s cape was a gold and maroon fighter’s robe. The fighter’s robe was flowing. It had long, wide-cuffed sleeves so that the boxer could shed it without removing the bulky boxing glove. Whitey’s handler removed the robe smoothly and with care. He might have been unveiling a priceless piece of sculpture. After removing the robe, the handler threw it around Whitey’s shoulders casually, the trim line of white towel showing at the neckline. Whitey’s walk was a prance, a dance, a manifestation of readiness. There was power in his short, heavy legs. More power in the barrel chest and arms, well-hung with muscles. The thing to watch in Whitey would be a short punch. He could do damage with that.
The crowd howled out its greeting. This was their champion, their bull killer. He would sate their desires with his opponent’s blood. They loved Whitey though they didn’t know him. They were proud of him because he was one of them and because he was so much better than all of them.
Another shout thickened the air when Max came into the ring. Then came a quick, subdued welter of chatter. They were mentally sizing up Max against Whitey. Max’s skin was too white. It was the kind of skin that would show splotches when struck. It was almost womanish. Two spots of color were high on his cheeks and they made the rest of his face seem too pale. The back of his neck was sunburned and it made his shoulders and hairless chest pasty in comparison. There was lightness in Max’s step but not grace. His stride was too long for good footwork. To have good footwork a boxer must be able to move in small steps quickly, adeptly. Max’s arms were good, but the shoulders only fair. His neck was a trifle too long
and that meant it would be difficult to hide his chin in his shoulders. A large white towel was pulled about Max’s throat. It was his own towel. At one end could be seen his name stenciled in black letters.
For this, the main event, there was a new referee. He went about his business briskly, and his manner seemed to say that he knew all the tricks of the trade, and that the two boxers had better not think they could get away with anything. His white tennis shoes gleamed under his tan trousers. His face was grim and slightly disdainful, as though he were telling the crowd that he could, with a mere flick of his hands, send both boxers to the canvas in a heap; that he was their master in this craft.
“He looks skinny to me,” Jeff said.
“He is skinny,” said Keeley.
“That’s okay. He weighs 147. He isn’t giving away any weight,” Monty cut in. “Look at that sheeny. He’s scared right now. Whitey’ll eat him up.”
Monty nervously lit a cigarette, his eyes remaining fixed on the proceedings in the ring. He was highly excited. His shirt showed dark where the perspiration had stained it. Under the arms there were places where the white residue of the salt in the sweat had remained. His eyes were alive, darting quickly about the ring, drinking in every move, every expression. He knew without question that Max would be destroyed. That was not enough. He wanted to see the destruction begin before the punches landed. He wanted to feel Max’s fear and enjoy the destruction all the more.
“He doesn’t look like much,” Jeff said.
Keeley said nothing. Too often he had seen these boys who “didn’t look like much” amaze and astound a fight mob. He didn’t know about Max. He didn’t believe Max could box, but he thought the boy would fight. He didn’t have to look at Whitey. He knew Whitey’s kind from covering fights for two years at the Garden. He was typical of hundreds who thought they were champions and never rose above the preliminaries in the professional ring. They could absorb a great deal of punishment and could hit fairly hard. But they rarely had the co-ordination that a boxer needs to be a champion. He knew Whitey’s reflexes would be slow. That sort of fighter is mincemeat for someone who knows his business in the ring.
The Brick Foxhole Page 5