by Grey, Harry
He smilingly answered, “I work for the hotel.”
“House detective?” I guessed.
“Yes, I suppose so,” he grinned good-naturedly.
He looked like a nice guy who knew the score.
Max said curtly, “So I repeat, what's on your mind, pally?”
“No offense, gentlemen. Just a few questions, and I will run along.”
He gave us an apologetic smile.
Max said impatiently, “Okay, okay. What's on your mind?”
“First,” he said with the same apologetic smile, “the desk clerk overlooked the hotel rule: no baggage, payment in advance.”
Maxie took his roll of bills out with a chiding, “Tsk, tsk,” and started counting. “A thousand, five thousand? How much do we owe you?”
The house detective looked in astonishment at the money in Maxie's hand. To him it probably appeared a tremendous amount. He said, visibly impressed, “I see that can be taken care of easily enough. Any time it's convenient for you gentlemen, pay the desk clerk downstairs.”
Maxie laughed. He said, “Okay. What else is on your mind?”
The house dick seemed to be lingering.
“Our next problem, so to speak, is that bathing suit episode down at the beach, or should I say no bathing suits?”
Max said, “Okay. That won't happen again. It was just a social error.”
“I thought so. I could see you boys aren't that type.”
Cockeye put his hands on his hips and said, “Whoops, my dear.”
We all laughed in a friendly way. The house detective said, “You asked the girl to send up the barber. It really isn't customary to send one up unless you're sick or something, but in your case,” he grinned, “I'll get him up here. Now, your request for a couple of bellhops—”
Max said, “We wanted them to do some shopping for us, some fresh underwear, some soup and fish...” Underwear can be bought.”
He was tapping and rubbing his nose in thought, “But for a bellhop to go out and try to buy four suits of evening clothes at this hour...” He walked around the room still rubbing his nose and smiling to himself. “Really, it can't be done.” He hesitated, puckered his lips in concentration. “I tell you boys what. There's a Mr. Schwartz, a tailor, a few blocks down the street who rents out evening clothes. Would that be all right, rented suits?”
Max said, “Okay, what's the difference? We rent them. You take care of it. Get this Schwartz up here to take our measurements.”
Maxie took a hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and said, “This is for your trouble. Buy yourself some charlotte russes.”
The man looked at the bill in disbelief. He smiled and shook his head. “Really, really, it isn't at all necessary,” in the same manner as a girl saying, “Please, please don't,” but meaning, Do it some more, I like it. Force me.
“Put it in your pocket. Forget it,” Max said gruffly.
“Thank you. Thanks very much. Anything else I can do for you boys? Just say the word.”
A hundred bucks seemed a lot of money to the guy.
Max, shaking his fist in the air, as if rattling dice, asked, “Where can we play an interesting little game of indoor golf?”
The house detective hesitated.
There's only one place, on the outskirts of town—”
He mentioned the name of the casino Frank had given us. He continued, “The place is wide open. Anybody in evening clothes is permitted.”
It seemed when he was lost in thought he had a habit of rubbing his nose. That's what he was doing now. “On second thought, better keep out of there. This I only tell my friends. The place is crooked. You'll never get a fair shake of the dice in that place.”
“What the hell. So we drop a few bucks,” Max said. “What's the address?”
The house detective wrote it down on a piece of paper. “I hate to send you guys there.” He looked at us with a friendly smile. “You guys are okay with me. You see, it's a pleasure to steer the high and mighty society bastards to get clipped, but you guys,” he repeated, “are okay with me.”
He shook his head. He didn't like it.
Maxie said, “Don't worry, pal. We'll take care of ourselves.”
He said, “Well, it's your money. All right, then, I'll have the barber and the tailor come up right away. Thanks, boys. So long,” he said.
We said, “So long.” He left the room grinning.
Max said, “Nice guy.”
I echoed, “Yeh. Nice guy.”
Max turned to Cockeye. “Go down to the garage and get our hardware from under the car.”
Cockeye said, “Okay” and left.
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was the barber. He apologized for the delay saying he had a customer. He would be up in half an hour.
Ten minutes later there was a knock on the door. I opened it.
An elderly, distinguished looking man walked in.
“You gentlemen want to be fitted for evening clothes?” he asked.
“You Schwartz?” Max asked briefly.
The man replied, “I am Mr. Schwartz, the tailor.”
He took a tape measure, a pencil, and a notebook out of his pockets.
“Four suits?” He looked around the room seeing only three of us.
I said, “One guy will be right in.”
“How about shirts, ties, shoes, cuff links? I have everything else you may need for rent,” he smiled. “I can fix you boys up complete. Soup to nuts. Ten dollars a day for everything. Even socks. Fifty dollars deposit on each outfit. Is that all right?”
Max said, “Okay, Pop.”
The old man mumbled to himself resentfully in Yiddish, “Pop? Lusz dir poppin in kopf.”
I said, 'That ain't nice, Pop. We understand Jewish.”
The old man smiled benignly. “Landsman? Jewish boys? You don't look like it. I really didn't mean to swear at you, my boy. I don't like when people call me Pop. I'm not so old, am I?”
The old man looked well over eighty. I said, “You don't look a day over fifty, Mr. Schwartz.”
“Well,” he said, looking wistfully over his specks, “a little older, maybe.”
He smiled at us. We all smiled together. He was a nice old guy. He went busily to work, measuring us up. He jotted the figures in his notebook while humming a little “lideleh” to himself.
Cockeye came barging through the door. He didn't see the old man on his knees in the corner taking Patsy's trouser measurements. He dumped the contents of the canvas bag all over the bed. Four big .45 calibre revolvers, Maxie's .32 with the thin spring attached, four leather sling holsters, a few extra boxes of bullets, my six-inch switch knife lay scattered on the bed, staring the old man in the face.
He got off his knees. He gazed somberly at the collection. Then gravely at us. Sadly he said, “Gangsters?” He shook his head in sorrow. “Jewish gangsters, it's disgraceful.” Disappointed, he went back to measuring Patsy's pants.
He looked like a smart old codger. He interested me. I led him on in conversation. Jestingly I said, “Mr. Schwartz, we're not all Jewish gangsters. He's an Italian gangster.”
I nodded my head at Patsy.
Patsy smiled and said to me in Jewish, “Lieg in dred, momser.”
The old man smiled at Patsy's correct Yiddish intonation.
After he had taken all our measurements, he said, “I'll call my shop from here. It's faster that way. I'll give the sizes to my boys who are working for me.”
“Your sons?” I asked.
“No, they are two smart colored boys.”
He got his shop on the wire. He read them all the data from his notebook.
We waited around for the stuff to arrive. The old man said it would take at least a half-hour for his boys to pick everything out of his large stock. He sat down on a chair. He seemed exhausted.
“I'll smoke a cigarette and rest here. All right with you boys? I'm not in the way?”
Maxie said, “It's okay, Pop. Go right ahead.”
The old man scowled. “Pop? Soil dir poppin in kopf.”
We all laughed at his comical irascibility.
The old man continued: “All right, so I'm Pop. If I'm a Pop, so I'll take an old man's privileges. I like to talk. I'm entitled, yes?”
“Go ahead,” I said, “you're entitled.”
He was an interesting, garrulous old bird. He seemed smart and alert, as if he had been through the mill. Somewhere there was an immediate feeling of mutual liking and trust between us. I guess the old man felt there was a common bond in our faith. Whatever the reason, we felt he was an old friend, and he acted very much at home with us.
Nevertheless, I cautioned him.
I said, “Mr. Schwartz, we are here for some fun. We came here for a little vacation. So, whatever you see or hear—you know what I mean? Do us a favor, a big favor, keep it to yourself, yeh?”
The old man snorted. “What do you think I am, a child or a stoolie?”
I gave him an apologetic smile.
He continued his light chatter as we sat around cleaning our guns. He showed a keen interest as Maxie practiced his sleeve gimmick. Finally he couldn't contain himself any longer. He asked us what he thought was a simple question.
In a casual way he said, “How many people did you boys kill?”
We looked at him aghast. I said, “I think, Mr. Schwartz, you see too many moving pictures.”
The old man said, “Yes, I see movies. I read papers and books, too. I know all about fellers like you. I know what's going on in this world.”
“What kind of books do you read?” I asked the old man to take his mind off his questions.
“I read Hemingway's story, 'The Killers,'“ the old man replied proudly.
I was interested. I said, “I read it. How did you like it, Mr. Schwartz?”
“Fine, fine, very exciting.”
“So?”
I was amused. “Do we look and act like any of the characters in the book—those killers?”
The old man deliberated, slowly sizing us up. He looked at me intently, then at Cockeye and Patsy in turn. He gave Maxie a long scrutinizing look. He shook his head.
“No, not like Hemingway or them moving picture holdupnick killer characters. Not at all.”
We all laughed heartily.
I asked, “Why, Mr. Schwartz? How are we different?”
“Well, I tell you. You boys look nice, not so—sin—”
“Sinister?” I helped him.
“Yes, yes,” he said eagerly. “Not so sinister. You are more intelligent,” he added smiling, pleased at the opinion he gave of us.
Maxie said, “Thanks for the compliment, Pop.” Maxie hurriedly corrected himself, “I mean, Mr. Schwartz.”
“So, Mr. Schwartz,” I said, “seeing that we are not at all like the killers Hemingway had in the book, and we're not like these moving picture holdupnicks, then you come to the conclusion that we are make-believe phoneys, and not gangsters, right?”
The old man smiled. He said, “No, my friend. My conclusion is moving picture holdupnicks are the phonies and the Hemingway killers were just coffee-pot hangout bums who kill only with conversation. You boys are the real merchandise.”
We laughed.
I said, “Yeh, when I read that Hemingway story I thought the characters were phoney as hell.”
There was a knock on the door.
Max called, “Just a minute.”
He motioned to us to put the hardware in the closet. We jumped to hide the stuff. Patsy opened the door. It was the barber. He burst into the room exuding smiles, hair tonic, and good cheer. He looked like the barber on the label of Pinaud's hair tonic.
I said, “We're having a literary symposium. The class is discussing the resemblance of Hemingway's story 'The Killers' to real gangster killers. What's your opinion?”
“Ernest Hemingway, the writer?” the barber asked. “Ah, he certainly knows his characters. Yes, I read all his works. In his story 'The Killers,' he was perfect, pure genius. By his description I would recognize a gangster-killer on sight. Where do you lads attend school? Princeton?”
I almost choked.
Maxie imitated the speech and manner of one of the killers.
“You're a bright boy, aren't you, bright boy? All we want from you, bright boy, is haircuts and shaves. To hell wit dis guy Hemingway, see, bright boy?”
The charming smile was wiped off the barber's face. In its place came a bewildered expression. He looked from one impassive face to the other. Nobody said a word. Max sat down and gestured the barber to start.
The only sound in the room was the clipping of the barber's shears as he started on Maxie's hair. Even the old man sat quietly smoking a cigarette. I smiled over to him. He smiled back. A nice old guy, this Schwartz, I thought.
He reminded me of my old man a little bit. Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah will be around soon. Before the holidays, I thought, I must pay my respects to my old man's grave. Boy, will Mama and the kid brother be pleased at the large new stone I put on it.
There was another knock on the door.
Cockeye said, “What the hell. It's getting busy by cloaks.” He went over to open the door.
It was a haberdashery clerk. I gave the clerk our order for shorts and stuff.
Max said, “Be sure it's Reis Union-Made underwear.”
The clerk smiled and said, “Righto, old chap.”
I made a mental note of the word “righto.” Everybody, including ourselves, used that goddamned expression, okay, to death. Righto sounded like a limey expression.
Curious, I said to the clerk, “British?”
He shook his head. “No, I was born right here in Joisey.”
He smiled.
“The reason for the accent and the jolly old what, old chap, is the store atmosphere I work in. The name of the joint is Ye Olde London Shoppe, old bean, old sock.”
We both laughed. He left, saying he would be back with the stuff.
“Cheerio,” he called.
After the barber finished all of us, Cockeye stood before the mirror, one hand on his hip, the other patting down his curly locks. He lisped, “Aren't we all thweet and pwitty looking?”
We all mimicked his effeminate mannerism.
Max gave the barber a double sawbuck. He left, completely bewildered. The old man guffawed in delight.
Patsy said, “How about the feed bag? Ain't we entitled?”
Max said, “Okay, we're entitled. As soon as we dress for dinner.”
Cockeye said, “Did you say dreck for dinner?” We ignored Cockeye's vulgar question.
A few minutes later, the Jersey British clerk came in with the stuff we had ordered. Max paid him. He wouldn't accept a tip. That we couldn't understand.
By the time we had finished our showers, one of Mr. Schwartz's boys came in. He was laden with boxes. He barely made our door. Maxie tossed the boy a sawbuck tip. He embarrassed us with his profuse thanks. Mr. Schwartz remained to do the unpacking.
He said, “I can knot a beautiful bow tie for you boys.” As he helped us he rambled on with small talk. He beamed at us like a proud parent. When we had finished dressing, he insisted on inspecting us.
His judgment was, “Now you boys look like nice gentlemen.”
We all went downstairs together. He asked wistfully, “May I visit with you boys sometime again?”
I said, “As long as we're around here, Mr. Schwartz, you're welcome. Would you care to join us at dinner?”
“No, thank you. Enjoy yourselves.” The old man waved and walked down the lobby.
After dinner we walked to the hotel garage and got the Caddy. After driving awhile, we located the casino. Cockeye drove around it a few times to get the lay of the land: it was a low, sturdily constructed wooden building, isolated, surrounded by spacious and luxurious lawns. In the rear was the parking space crowded to capacity with expensive, chauffeured automobiles singing out “dough-re-mi.”
CHAPTER 24
&nbs
p; Cockeye rolled into the driveway. A uniformed man opened the door. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said. He handed Cockeye a parking check. Another man in uniform drove the Caddy into a space. We counted ten uniformed men loitering around the building.
Maxie's terse comment was, “Guards.”
We entered the building. The foyer was small. A girl took our hats. Two tall men in evening clothes were carefully sizing us up. We ignored them. One of them came over.
Politely he asked, “Strangers?”
Maxie said drily, “That's why we came—to get acquainted.”
The man led us to the cashier's cage. Maxie took out his money. In a pseudo meek tone he said, “Just to make a few small bets. Purely for amusement. Ten thousand dollars worth of hundred dollar chips.”
Nonchalantly, he peeled ten thousand dollars off his roll and tossed it on the counter.
The cashier was a cool sonofabitch. He wasn't impressed. He only raised his eyebrows slightly. With unconcern he pushed out the stacks of chips. We put them in our pockets.
We entered a large room, the length and breadth of the building. Patsy said, “Class.” That described the furnishings and the people. We hesitated at the entrance, taking a fast count.
I said, “Approximately four hundred and fifty people.”
Patsy said, “It looks like four hundred and fifty suckers to me.”
The men and women without exception were in evening clothes. Maxie looked over the crowd. “About twenty-five are shills,” he said.
I added, “The rest are pure, unadulterated suckers.”
“Plenty of chumps with plenty of kupper,” Cockeye said.
“Just for the hell of it I would like to find the gimmick in their equipment,” Max said as we followed him into the room.
There were about ten card tables along the walls. In the front center of the room was the roulette layout; in the rear center, a nice new dice table. The bar was way off in a corner.
We mingled with the crowd playing the roulette wheel. Patsy stood alongside the croupier. Cockeye took a position behind what our practiced eyes concluded was a shill. I took a station opposite Patsy. The crowd was giving the wheel a good play.
Maxie put two chips each on three even numbers. All bets were laid. The wheel spun round. Maxie lost. He put three chips each on three odd numbers. I did not understand what Max was doing, but from his appearance of concentration, I supposed he was giving the wheel some sort of test.