by Len Levinson
Butsko ran out the door and stomped on Jack’s head twice before another Marine jumped on his back. Butsko grabbed his arm, bent down, and threw him over his shoulder, then dived on top of him, punching him in the face.
The crowd in the house poured outside. Dolly led them, grabbing Butsko’s collar, trying to pull him off the Marine. “Stop it!” she yelled. “You’ll kill him!”
The Marine was unconscious and his face a bloody mess. Butsko got to his feet and let Dolly pull him backward. He glanced at Jack lying still on the ground, his face all fucked up, and then, for the first time, he heard the police sirens.
SIX . . .
The room was shabby and filled with smoke, and an electric light inside a green lampshade hung over the round table, where the men played stud poker. There were soldiers, sailors, and Marines, Hawaiians and Chinese, and even a fighter pilot stationed at Hickam Field, watching the dealer flicking the cards off the top of the deck.
“Possible straight forming there,” said the dealer, throwing out the cards. “There’s a pair of queens showing . . . possible flush forming. . . .”
The dealer’s voice droned on, and Frankie La Barbara looked at his cards. He had a pair of sixes showing and one in the hole—not the best hand in the world—and the guy with the pair of queens might have something in the hole, too, otherwise he wouldn’t be betting the way he was. Or was he bluffing? Frankie was willing to pay to find out. He had five hundred dollars in chips stacked in front of him and thought the others ought to have a chance to win some back of the money they’d lost. He’d announced a half hour ago that he was leaving at midnight, and midnight was only a few minutes away. This would be Frankie’s last hand.
The cards kept coming around and the bets increased. Some of the gamblers dropped out, and when it was down and dirty, Frankie was in the game with the guy who had the queens showing and two other guys, the first with a pair of jacks showing and the other with the possible flush. Frankie drew an ace; he already had another ace in the hole, so now he had a full house with three sixes and the two aces.
The white chips were one dollar, the red chips two dollars, and the blue chips five dollars. The guy with the queens showing was a Torpedoman’s Mate Second Class, wearing his white swabby uniform with his white cap on the back of his head; he was the one who’d opened. He picked up one of the blue chips and threw it onto the pot, looking at the guy to his left, the fighter pilot from Hickam Field, who had the possible flush. The pilot was a tall, skinny guy with a big hooked nose, who looked something like a young Jimmy Durante, and he peeked at his cards in the hole, puffing the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. Then he threw a blue chip onto the pile.
“I’m still in,” he said.
Everybody looked at the corporal with the Signal Corps insignia on his collar, who had the pair of jacks showing.
“You in?” asked the sailor.
“Yeah.” He tossed out a blue chip.
Next was Frankie La Barbara, whose cunt cap was high on the back of his head and low over his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned and his tie loosened, and although he’d shaved that morning, he needed to shave again.
“Whataya say, big boy?” asked the sailor.
Frankie was tired and hung over from all the booze he’d been drinking. He’d been sitting in the same spot for four hours and he just wanted to get the hell out of there with his winnings, but he was a gambling man and couldn’t back away from the challenge. I wonder what that motherfucker has got, he said to himself.
“Okay,” Frankie said, digging into his pile of chips, “here’s one to stay in”—he threw a blue chip on the pot—“and I’ll bump you two.” He threw out two more blue chips.
“He’s bluffing,” said somebody standing behind the sailor.
“There’s only one way to find that out,” Frankie replied, taking his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“Shit,” said the corporal with the two jacks. “I’m out.”
Frankie looked at the sailor. “Shit or get off the pot.”
“I’m staying. Two, and here’s four more.”
“Jesus,” said the fighter pilot. “You two guys are really going at it. Well, I’ll stay in. It’s only money.”
He threw his chips onto the pile, and everybody looked at Frankie La Barbara. Under normal circumstances Frankie would have dropped out at that point. Three sixes and two aces weren’t a very strong hand, but it was his last hand and he wanted to let somebody win some money back, so there wouldn’t be any hard feelings. Besides, something told him the sailor was bluffling. The sailor looked like the kind of guy who was full of shit.
“Here’s my four,” Frankie said, “and here’s five more.”
The little back room became silent. Frankie had just raised the betting by $25, exactly half a private’s monthly pay. A corporal only earned $66 per month, and the fighter pilot, the best-paid man at the table, earned $166 per month, but he had to pay for his uniforms and meals out of that.
“Let’s go, girls,” Frankie said, blowing smoke into the air. “I ain’t got all night.”
“I’m in,” said the sailor, counting out five blue chips and tossing them onto the pot.
“I must be crazy,” said the fighter pilot, “but I’ll see what you got.”
He threw the five blue chips onto the pile. The pot was now worth nearly two hundred dollars and was the biggest pot of the night.
Frankie turned up his cards. “Three sixes and two aces,” he said.
“Shit!” said the sailor, pounding his fist on the table. He turned over his cards in the hole: All he had was the pair of queens and a pair of jacks.
“I knew you were bluffing,” Frankie said with a grin.
The sailor gave him a dirty look. Everybody looked at the fighter pilot.
“What you got?” asked Frankie.
“Read ‘em and weep,” said the fighter pilot, turning over his cards.
He’d made his flush, and it wasn’t just a plain flush: It was a straight flush. The fighter pilot leaned over and wrapped his arms around the pot, pulling it toward him.
“Never bluff a bluffer,” he said.
Frankie stood up. “I’m leaving,” he said.
“Where you going?” asked the sailor.
“What’s it to you?”
“Hey,” the sailor said, looking at Frankie’s chips, “you oughtta give us a chance to win some of that back.”
“I told you a half hour ago that I was leaving at midnight, and it’s midnight. You had your chance. If you can’t stand to lose, you shouldn’t gamble.”
“I shouldn’t gamble with cheaters,” the sailor said. “That’s what I shouldn’t do.”
Frankie froze, his hand on his pile of chips. “Who’re you calling a cheater?”
“If the shoe fits, wear it.”
“Hey, swab-jockey,” Frankie said, “don’t piss me off.”
The sailor stood up and hitched his fingers in his belt. “You won too many hands, dogface. I smell a fish.”
“You smell your mother’s pussy,” Frankie snarled.
The sailor stitched his eyebrows together. “Say that again.”
“You smell your mother’s pussy, and you look like it too.”
The sailor reached into his pocket and came out with a switchblade. He hit the button and it opened up. “I think somebody needs to teach you a lesson, dogface.”
Frankie raised his knee in a sudden lightning movement and pulled his bayonet out of the scabbard tied to his leg.
The old Chinese guy in a white suit stepped out of the shadows, and he had a big Army-issue .45 in his hands. “Put those knives away,” he said in his high-pitched, reedy voice.
Two other Chinese guys joined him, also with guns in their hands.
“You heard him,” one said.
The fighter pilot stood up, conscious of his responsibilities as an officer and a gentleman. “C’mon guys,” he said, “let’s not start any shit.”
&nbs
p; “He started it,” Frankie said, “and I’m gonna finish it.”
The old Chinese guy shook his head. “Not in here you ain’t. You want to fight, you go outside.”
“ Frankie shrugged. “That’s okay by me.”
“Me too,” said the sailor.
“Oh, no you don’t,” the fighter pilot said. “If you guys fight each other outside, I’m calling the fucking MPs.” He looked at the sailor. “And I’m gonna tell them who the first one was who pulled a knife.”
The sailor turned toward the fighter pilot, pointing his knife at him. “I can take care of you too.”
A blackjack came down behind the sailor and hit him squarely on top of his head. His eyes rolled back and his legs gave out. He crashed toward the floor; behind him was another Chinese guy, with a blackjack in his hand.
The old Chinese guy bent over and picked up the switchblade knife from the floor, folding the blade and dropping in inside his pocket.
“Get rid of him,” he said.
Other Chinese men picked up the sailor and carried him out the back door. Frankie inserted his bayonet into its scabbard and hoped they’d dump the bastard into the bay.
“You,” the old Chinese man said to Frankie, “get out of here and don’t come back.”
“How come?” Frankie asked, his feelings hurt. “I didn’t start it.”
“We don’t like crazy guys with knives in here. Cash in your chips and get out.”
“I been thrown out of better places,” Frankie said, scooping up his chips.
He carried them to the cashier, an elderly Chinese woman who was evidently the old guy’s wife. She gave Frankie the money in twenties and tens, which made a big fat roll. He stuffed it into his pocket and headed for the back door.
“So long, everybody,” he said.
A Chinese man opened the door and Frankie stepped out into the back alley. It was dark and gloomy and he couldn’t see the tough guys who’d carried away the sailor. Whistling a tune, Frankie thrust his hands in his pockets and walked down the alley to the street, which glowed in the light of street lamps and neon. He was tired but happy and thought he’d check into a fancy hotel for a good night of sleep.
He reached the street and turned left, heading for the center of the city, where the fancy hotels were. Drunken servicemen careened all around him, and barkers invited him into the girlie bars. Raucous music assailed him from all directions. He was glad he had his bayonet with him, because you never knew who might be waiting in an alley to beat up a soldier and take his money.
He came to a corner and looked both ways. His eyes fastened on a neon sign that said CURTIS HOTEL.
“Curtis Hotel,” Frankie muttered. “Where have I heard that before?”
Then it hit him. The Curtis Hotel was the classy whorehouse where Butsko had told Bannon to go. Suddenly Frankie didn’t feel so tired anymore. He thought he’d take a walk over there and see what the whores looked like. His pocket held over five hundred dollars and he felt like a millionaire.
Frankie headed for the hotel, straightening his necktie and taking off his cunt cap to smooth down his wavy hair. He put his cunt cap back on and tucked in his shirt so he’d look neat. The women in the Curtis were only whores, but Frankie always liked to look his best for the opposite sex. He approached the door of the hotel, threw the butt of his cigarette into the gutter, and opened the door; he didn’t even pause to think about it. Climbing the stairs, he came to the second floor corridor, with its crystal chandeliers and red wallpaper.
Not bad at all, Frankie thought, strolling to the desk. The old madam sat behind it with two mean-looking Hawaiian guys. “Hi, there,” said Frankie, leaning over the counter. “Where are the girls?”
The old madam smiled. “Upstairs, soldier. What’s your name?”
“What you wanna know my name for?”
The old madam put her hand on the telephone. “So’s I can tell them to expect you upstairs.”
“Just call me Frankie.”
“You’re not carrying any weapons with you, are you, Frankie?”
“Naw,” said Frankie, an innocent smile on his face. “I come here to get laid, not to fight with people.”
“That’s good, because we don’t want any trouble here.”
“Then I musta come to the right place, because I don’t want any trouble either.”
Frankie headed for the staircase and climbed up to the second floor. They seem awfully jumpy at the front desk, he thought. Maybe they had some problems here tonight. Mae stood at the top of the stairs, looking at him suspiciously.
“You Frankie?” she asked.
“Sure am.”
“Right this way.”
She looked him up and down, and Frankie was starting to get spooked. “What’s going on here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Mae.
“Everybody’s looking at me like I’m a cop.”
She smiled and took off his cunt cap, running her fingers through his hair. “I know you’re not a cop,” she said. “You’re just a soldier boy with a hard-on, right?”
“You got it, baby, but why’s everybody so nervous?”
“Well, we had a little trouble here tonight, but it’s all over now.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody got drunk and went crazy.” She opened the door to a room off the corridor, and it was full of girls in cocktail dresses. “Have a seat in there. Can I get you a drink?”
“Whiskey and ginger ale.”
Mae left and Frankie entered the room. One sailor sat in the corner, surrounded by girls, and a GI was in another corner, likewise occupied. Frankie looked around for the prettiest girl he could find and sat down next to her.
“Hey, baby,” he said, “what’s your name?”
“Trixie,” she replied. She was a redhead with green eyes.
“Hey, I bet they call you Trixie because you do funny tricks.”
“You bet your ass I do,” she said with a wink.
“I wouldn’t bet my ass, baby. It’s the only ass I got and I might need it for something someday.”
The girl sitting on the other side of Frankie was Julie, and she looked at the patch on Frankie’s shoulder. “Hey, this guy is in the same outfit as the guy who went nuts tonight!”
“No kidding!” said Trixie.
“Look and see for yourself,” Julie said.
“I didn’t see the other guy, so I don’t know what his patch looked like.”
Frankie stared at Julie, thinking that very few men from the Eighty-first Division could be in Honolulu, since the Eighty-first was stationed on Guadalcanal and furloughs were hard to get, even for officers. “You mean a guy wearing a patch like this went nuts in here tonight?”
“That’s right,” she replied.
“Did you see him?”
“I sure did. I was talking with him just like I’m talking to you.”
“What he look like?”
“You think you might know him?”
“You never know.”
“I hope you’re not like him, because he was really crazy.”
“What he look like?”
“Well,” said Julie, “he was about as tall as you, but he was built slim and he had light-brown hair. He wasn’t bad-looking at all, and he wore one of them combat pins on his shirt, just like you.”
Frankie was jolted by the thought that the description fit Bannon, who had been on his way here earlier. “Did you get his name?”
“I forgot it,” Julie said.
“How about you?” Frankie asked Trixie.
“I don’t know. But Nettie knows.”
“Who’s Nettie?”
“She’s the girl he was with when he went nuts.”
“Where’s she now?”
“Probably with a customer. She’ll be back in a little while.”
“What she look like?”
“She’s real small and kinda cute, if you like runts.”
Frankie grinned and pulled
out his pack of cigarettes. He lit a cigarette and dropped his Zippo into his pant pocket. The door opened and Mae walked in with Frankie’s drink.
“Anybody else want anything?” Mae asked.
The sailor ordered a beer and the GI asked for whiskey. Mae left to get the drinks. The phone rang out in the hall. Trixie turned to Frankie.
“Are you here to drink or are you here to fuck?”
“Both,” Frankie said. “I haven’t been laid in almost a year.”
“You’re probably pretty rusty.”
“I doubt it.”
“You don’t seem in any hurry to get laid.”
“I’m tired,” Frankie said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m just coming out of a four-hour poker game.”
“Win any money?”
“You’d better believe it.”
“How much?”
“Enough to buy your little ass for a couple of weeks.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She winked. “Let’s go to my room.”
“After I finish my drink.”
“You can finish it in my room.”
The door opened and two sailors from Pearl Harbor stumbled in, drunk out of their minds, their white caps askew on their heads. Trixie and Julie looked at the sailors and saw two live ones.
“Listen, honey,” Trixie said to Frankie, “if you’re not ready yet, I’ll see you later.”
“Sure thing, doll.”
Julie was already on her feet, slinking across the floor, placing her arm around the shoulders of one of the sailors, who leaned from side to side and blinked his eyes. Trixie came at the other sailor from the side, bending over and sticking her tongue into his ear, making him roll his eyes and shiver.
Frankie watched with amusement as the two whores vamped the sailors and led them out of the room before the sailors even had a chance to sit down. It reminded him of the whores in a joint one of his uncles owned up in Harlem. Frankie had lost his cherry to one of the whores there when he was only fourteen years old, and he’d spent a lot of time in the place subsequently, because his uncle didn’t make him pay.