Narrows Gate

by Jim Fusilli

  “I’m not much to look at,” Bebe sang, his voice a soft and steady baritone, “nothing to see…”

  Klein listened intently.

  “I got a woman crazy for me…”

  Bebe felt it. Sixteen bars in and the room eased into the palm of his hand.

  Even as he and Terrasini stepped up to the tricky bridge, no problem. “Though she’d love to work and slave for me…” Bebe sailed straight through.

  Enna turned to Kirby, a curious expression on his face. The pianist told him Marsala was a mediocre vocalist who made it work with antics. Kirby shook his head, his jaw slack in disbelief. He wouldn’t have bet the kid, or any singer, could improve so much in, what? Three weeks? The final verse was flawless.

  The redhead behind the bar stared at the singer.

  “Nino Terrasini,” Bebe said, introducing his accompanist.

  At the table, Enna started to stand, the deal done.

  “Wait,” Klein whispered. “Let’s see what he picks next. Ask him to let it swing.”

  Terrasini played a walking bass line to kick off “All of Me,” with Bebe snapping his fingers to the breezy tempo.

  Three minutes later, Enna was even more convinced. But he asked Klein for an opinion.

  “The voice is good enough,” Klein said. “He knows how to present himself.”

  Hennie said, “He’s smart. My son adapts.”

  “Frankie?” Enna said.

  “Call me when he fucks up,” Fortune replied as he stood.

  From the piano bench, Terrasini watched, fearful Bebe had failed the audition as Fortune walked across the dance floor without looking at the singer. Enna and Klein were whispering, their hands covering their mouths, Hennie desperate to eavesdrop. Mimmo wore a big smile that told them nothing. That redhead glowed, but even on a bad night, Bebe could win a girl with a song.

  “Bebe,” Terrasini whispered.

  “I’m in,” Marsala replied.

  Sal Benno pulled up on his bicycle, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. The kerchief tied around his neck was as saturated as his white sleeveless undershirt. A few weeks ago, as he pedaled along Church Square Park, some Irish kid called the shirt a “guinea T,” and now the dentist was making a cap for his front tooth. Benno always said a fistfight would be the last hurdle in his recovery from his surgery. Seeing as it lasted but one punch, it wasn’t too much of a test.

  As far as Polk Street was concerned, the glass eye looked so real nobody knew which was which, the doctors and nurses taking care of everything perfect.

  Bell stood under a storefront awning. He liked the way Benno jumped off the bike while it was still moving, bringing over one stumpy leg while the other one stayed rigid on the pedal. You couldn’t say Benno was graceful; puberty decided he’d be broad and stocky while she let Bell grow like a crane, but he came off the bike happy, a kid doing what he wants, roaming, hustling, even on a 102-degree Saturday in July.

  “What’s this?” Benno said as he approached.

  Bell wore a dark blue blazer over a white shirt and one of his father’s neckties. His shoes were buffed. “I’m going for a job.”

  “Where? The Rapanelli Brothers’?” It was the funeral parlor for the downtown Italians.

  “The A&P.”

  “The A&P?” he said as he stepped up to Bell. “Why the fuckin’ A&P?”

  Bell grimaced. “Whoa, back up. No offense, Sally, but you stink like old sweat.”

  “Why the A&P?”

  “They got jobs.” He was growing moist under the damned jacket. The A&P was way up on 13th Street. By the time he arrived, he’d be as soaked as his friend.

  “And there’s no jobs down here?”

  Bell shrugged.

  “Did you ask?”

  “Who? Mimmo? No thanks.”

  “Maybe you should go see if they got jobs in Ireland.”

  Bell began his retreat. “I’ll come by later,” he said. He was going to ask Vito to put in a good word for him if the A&P manager called, but he’d try after Sal cooled down.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Two things Bebe had to do to make the thing take off and both needed to be done at the same time. As they sat around the kitchen table, Hennie said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Still in an up mood, a kite flitting around the sky, Bebe said, “Hey, Ma, I hate to tell you, but the one—”

  “Not that one. The other one,” Hennie replied, laughing.

  Vincenzo watched them, their conversation incomprehensible, like they were talking in code. These two, he thought, either they go skipping hand in hand through the daisies or they glare at each other, knives in their fists. Maybe he would like to interject a thought, but he never knew whether they’d throw him a death stare or reach out to stroke him like a pet.

  Bebe clapped his hands. “Now’s as good a time as any.”

  Hennie told her husband she’d be back in time for a double celebration at the Grotto.

  I’m invited? Vincenzo thought as the two walked off on clouds.

  Hennie Rosiglino took a bench by the gazebo in Church Square Park, the sun high above the Jersey City Heights, its rays careening off St. Matty’s slate belfry. She shaded her eyes, looked around, checked her watch, lit another cigarette.

  Finally, here comes Nino Terrasini, his hands deep in the pockets of his slacks.

  “What’d you think?” she asked.

  “Of what?”

  “Today. The whole thing. Enna, Klein.”

  “Klein’s a pro and he knows music,” he replied. “He’ll help Bebe.”

  “And what about Enna?” She had a pile of butts at her feet.

  “He’s Frankie’s guy.”

  “He’s not in the crew.”

  “I’m not saying he’s in the crew. I’m saying he’s running the Lakeside for Frankie.”

  Hennie said, “And what about this Chu Kirby? He plays good piano?”

  Terrasini knew what was next.

  “Mel Keenan thinks so.” No point in making it easy for her. Or Bebe.

  “What do you think?”

  “I haven’t heard an orchestra yet that needs two piano players.”

  “Bebe should put up a fight for you. Is that your thinking?”

  Terrasini didn’t reply.

  The bells in the church tower began to peal. Hennie took out another cigarette. Maybe it would prevent the acid from rising any higher in her chest.

  “You had a good run,” she said as the last bell rang seven o’clock.

  “You’re firing me, Hennie?”

  “Enna will fire you. Or Frankie Fortune will fire you. Me, I’m getting you a new job.”

  “What? Another night at the Blue Onyx?”

  “Don’t be wise, Nino. Bebe likes you so nobody’s letting them put you on the street. From now on, you stick with Bebe. That’s the job. Make sure he keeps his head out of his ass.”

  “You want me to be Bebe’s babysitter?” he said, recoiling. “Why would I want to babysit Bebe?”

  “I’ll make sure you get a cut on his take. And maybe you work it so you can do some arranging. This Kirby and the bandleader Keenan can teach you a few things.”

  Terrasini sat next to her. “Go on.”

  “Plus you double up at the Blue Onyx when Bebe’s not working. You could build up a nice nest egg for you and Miss Weehawken.”

  “Why you, Hennie? Why isn’t Bebe telling me this?”

  “For one, he can’t know you’re babysitting him. Two, he’s up in Bayonne asking Rosa to marry him.”

  “Really?”

  “If you’re done pouting, go grab your girl and join us in the Grotto. But don’t say nothing if Mimmo comes in. I want to tell Frankie myself that Bebe is making the thing run smooth.”

  Why not? Terrasini thought. Then he said, “Damn. I lent Bebe my car.”

  Hennie reached for her handbag to throw him a dollar for a cab. She held out the bill, then snatched it back. “You’ll tell Bebe you’re stepping aside?”

&
nbsp; “You’re buying me off for a dollar, Hennie?”

  “Nino, everything goes the way it should and it’ll be more than a dollar ends up in your pocket.”

  Bebe found a nice park overlooking the harbor, the Statue of Liberty glorious in the setting sun. Of course, everything was glorious today. Plump leaves, the sweet smell of grass neat and trim, geese floating by, their heads held high. It was a perfect evening, one for the books—the ideal ending to the best day ever.

  Bebe and Rosa walked arm in arm, light as air, the happiest couple in the world. The world? The solar system, baby!

  Easy and in love, they followed a curve in the path and found a bench surrounded by bushes. He told her every triumphant detail of his performance at the Lakeside.

  She wore a yellow cotton dress, thin brown belt and brown loafers, her hair held back with a simple brown barrette. Even without makeup, her face shone with happiness for him. As they sat, she tucked her skirt and said, “Tell me more, Bill.” She had a little white sweater on her shoulders.

  “Oh, I’ve said enough. You get the picture.”

  “I wish I had been there.”

  “You were, doll. Those songs, I was singing to you.”

  “You don’t have to say that.”

  “I was. Every word. You know I’m no good without you.”

  She smiled and looked out at the harbor and the towers of the New York skyline.

  “You know it’s true, baby. There’s nobody for me but you.” He jutted out a leg and dug into a pocket of his chinos, then went to one knee.

  “Bill?”

  “Let me sing those songs to you forever, Rosa.” He opened his hand. There in his palm was a diamond ring. “I’m asking you to be my wife. You and me, always.”

  “Oh my goodness, Bill.” She clasped her hands in front of her face.

  “Baby?”

  “Yes, Bill. Yes, of course.”

  He stood and dusted the grass from his knee. She leaped into his arms. They kissed long and happily. He spun her and they kissed again.

  “Bill, I’ve never been so…God, I’m overjoyed.”

  “Me too, doll. This is the beginning of one fabulous, fabulous ride. Me and you like nobody’s ever done it before.”

  She kissed him, running her hand along the back of his neck.

  A hell of a topper to the day, he thought. Let’s see somebody try to take this feeling away from me.

  Benno pedaled all the way uptown to the A&P, which had more vegetables and fruit on display than Pooch the Grocer carried in a month, enough canned goods to line Polk Street, three cashiers, kids who bagged, and a butcher in the back. Even with his face against the window, he could see they had chickens and roasts all over the place. No sausages, though, which was some good news. And where was the cheese and the ceci and the baccala and the rest of the stuff that made the world go round?

  He couldn’t figure out why the supermarket was still open. It was after seven, everybody ate already, by now his Uncle Vito was stocking the icebox in the back—and then he remembered he didn’t know nothing about what they did uptown. Maybe the Irish on the 4-to-12 shift at the shipyard and the piers had supper after midnight, the kids staying up, though if the men had a Gemma sandwich during their break, they wouldn’t be hungry until tomorrow.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Benno turned, the voice coming from his blind side.

  There was Leo wearing a red apron, a little A&P logo on the chest, and a white short-sleeved shirt.

  “What do you think I’m doing here? I’m looking for you.”

  “Well, you found me.” The little black bow tie bobbed when Bell spoke.

  “They hired you already?”

  “A guy in produce quit this morning.”

  Benno’s eyes went wide. “Produce? Like you go to the Washington Market?”

  Benno considered the daily pre-dawn trip through the Holland Tunnel to the market on the Lower West Side the job of a lifetime, the chance to elbow through the shouting buyers and vendors, sort through goods to come up with the best, the stars shining in the sky, freedom. Then over to the Fulton Fish Market, same thing only from the ocean instead of the ground and trees, Benno all excited as he told Bell how they throw the fish and another guy catches it in wax paper. In the morning, everybody wakes up and there’s the food. A miracle. Christmas every Monday through Saturday. Now people drove to Benno’s from Jersey City and Weehawken, maybe even a few people from north of Church Square Park, too. Quality draws the crowds.

  “Right now I’m washing lettuce,” Bell said. “They taught me how to stack the apples so the bruises don’t show.”

  “The customers are too stupid to notice?”

  “I don’t know, Sally. I just got here.”

  “Listen, I got news for you.”

  Bell looked over his shoulder. “I ought to go back inside.”

  “Bebe’s getting married. He got the radio job at the Lakeside. Terrasini’s out.”

  “Hey,” said Bell, “that’s news, all right.”

  Benno went for his bike, lying on the ground by the cars parked nose in. “Meet me at the Grotto. They’re having a party. I want to hear.”

  Bell had to walk all the way to the other end of town to get to the Grotto, but what the hell. He had something to celebrate, too. The little plan he’d devised during the dull moments at school was taking shape. A new job meant money in his pocket, which meant he was free to go. He loved walking New York City, but if he couldn’t afford more than a subway token and a cup of coffee, it wasn’t going to keep him engaged much longer. Maybe Narrows Gate would see him standing there waxing cucumbers at the A&P, but he knew he was entering a new world, one step at a time, and learning how to make a life of his choosing.

  The Rosiglino party took over the Grotto’s main room—red checkerboard tablecloths, candle wax dripping onto the straw-covered Chianti bottles, a full seafood menu. The booze was flowing; there was lots of shouting and good cheer. Hennie had Bebe on one side of her, Rosa on the other; and over there was Mimmo with his brother and sister-in-law plus Rosa’s sisters chatting with Vincenzo, happy father of the groom; plus Bebe’s aunts and uncles, Dee already tipsy. Hearing there were free drinks, the old downtown crowd, bronzed and grizzled, waddled over from Polk Street to congratulate Vincenzo, who looked a little dazed, to tell you the truth. And who should walk in but Phil Klein, Bebe’s new manager, who kissed Hennie polite and shook Vincenzo’s hand. Bebe made him kiss Rosa on the cheek. Klein was overwhelmed by Sicilians. “Hey, Phil,” Hennie yelled, “the next round’s on you!” Everybody howled when Klein turned his pockets inside out. Everybody but Mimmo.

  Nursing a cup of free clam broth, Benno sat by himself, stared at Bebe and Rosa, and played out Mimmo’s situation in his head. Mimmo was thinking he was Bebe’s main guy, the marriage making him the real connection. Mimmo called Frankie Fortune and said, “Frankie, come to the Grotto and celebrate.” Instead, Fortune worked it so Klein showed up and now Bebe’s walking him around saying, “This is the man who’s putting me on top.” Little round Phil Klein, not Mimmo.

  Weaving through the crowd, Leo Bell arrived, his red apron rolled up and tucked under his arm. “What did you find out?” he asked as he sat.

  “The ring she’s wearing,” Benno said, pointing with his chin. “It belongs to Hennie.”

  “That’s Rosa? She looks dazed,” Bell observed.

  “She won’t get a chance to talk until 1940.”

  “And Terrasini? I thought he’s dumped.”

  “Ah, Nino’s a good guy,” Benno said. “He won’t ruin somebody’s good time.”

  “And what’s with Mimmo? He looks like his horse broke a leg.”

  Benno explained his theory, which included the phrase “a regular New York Jew” to describe Klein. The poor guy, he don’t know what he’s getting into.

  Bell let it pass.

  People were yelling at Bebe. “Sing, Bebe.” “Hey, Bebe, give us a song.” “Come on and si
ng one for the bride.” Bebe shrugged like maybe he’d say no, make them beg a little harder and wait for the room to call out all at once. He had it in his mind to pay tribute to Nino when they made music together one last time.

  “I guess everybody’s invited to the Lakeside Inn,” Bell said.

  “Not the Ear.”

  Nor Freddie Pop, thought Bell, remembering the dreamer who never came back from stealing the Buick, and nobody knew what happened to his girl Lucy, that little thing with her stick legs and big eyes.

  Old Man Sfuzzi backed up, and his fat ass made the table rock.

  “Let’s get out here before we get crushed,” Benno said as he stood.

  They swam against the crowd. Finally, out on First Street, the fresh air felt good. The night sky was dappled with magenta clouds.

  Benno’s bike was parked against the Grotto’s bay window. The noise from the party crawled through the glass. Benno said, “Jesus, I hate that fuckin’ Bebe. I’m telling you. I can’t bear the guy.”

  “What’s to hate?” Bell asked as they started toward Observer Road, the bicycle rolling on Benno’s blind side. “He’s the same snot nose he was when we were kids.”

  “I told you. He can’t wait to tell people he never heard of Narrows Gate.”

  “So who gives a shit?”

  “Me. I don’t think nobody should be ashamed of where he’s from.”

  “Sally, you can’t begrudge the guy a shot to get out,” Bell said.

  “Who wants to get out?” Benno stopped. “That’s the point. He makes it like what we got it’s…it’s a place you escape, for Christ’s sake.”

  Bell shrugged. From the train yard came the sound of a hand-car rattling along the tracks.

  “Plus this whole thing at the Lakeside,” Benno continued. “The Ear, Corini’s guy to run the place, this guy Klein becoming Bebe’s manager—Farcolini’s behind it.”

  “Farcolini gives a shit whether Bebe gets on the radio?”

  Benno shook his head. “He wants somebody on the radio. Who else? Me? I’m telling you this is big. It says Farcolini goes along with Corini’s plan to push the entertainment. If I’m Bruno Gigenti, I ain’t too happy right now.”