The Hoods

by Grey, Harry

  When I arrived in New York, I sent my bags to the hotel, and took a cab directly to the Eden Garden. Shmulie was at the bar.

  I asked, “Where's Max?”

  He was surprised.

  “Didn't you know, Noodles? Maxie sold the joint to me.”

  I said, “No, I was in Miami.”

  “Yeh, you look all tanned up,” he said.

  We had a few drinks, and I took a cab to Fat Moe's.

  I dismissed the cab at Delancey and the Bowery. I still wasn't decided what to do. I walked quickly east on Delancey Street, brooding and arguing with myself. I had just come from a land of peace, sunshine and cleanliness where everything smelled good and fresh, with a companion who was sweet, understanding and beautiful, with whom I was completely relaxed.

  Now I was back on Delancey Street. Instinctively I tensed. I fingered the button of the shiv in my pocket. I glanced sharply at all passers-by. I was alert and taut. The brim of my hat was pulled low over my forehead. My coat collar was turned up. I assumed my habitual scowl and swagger. Yeh, I was Noodles the Shiv of Delancey Street.

  It was no use. This was me, Noodles. It was my life, and there was nothing I could do about it. I was like a beast of prey who suddenly has the urge to be a lamb and gambol on the green grass in the sunshine.

  I laughed to myself. What a shmuck I was. Yeh, a shmuck with ear-laps. To think I could live a life in which one day was the same as the next. This was my life. Why kid myself? This was the East Side; this was Delancey Street of swarming life and stenches. Not for me the golden warm sunshine, the lingering on the white clean sand, and tenderness. Here's where I belong.

  And even if I could, would people accept me? Never. I'm tainted. We're all tainted. Look at these people as I pass by. They shy to one side. They give me a wide berth. They're afraid. They distrust me. They whisper behind my back.

  He was a bad kid; he is bad; he will always be bad; bad, bad, bad. He's Noodles the Shiv of Delancey Street. Look out for him. He's immoral. He's a thief. He's a murderer.

  Yeh, what's the good? The hell with it. This is for me. A shiv in my pocket, a gun under my armpit, and a contempt for everybody, everything legit.

  I walked into Fat Moe's. They were playing cards. Max barely raised his head.

  He grunted, “So you had your vacation.”

  His tone was sarcastic. I didn't answer him. Cockeye gave me a brief nod.

  Patsy said, “Hello,” and smiled.

  I sat down and poured myself a double hooker. I took the carbon stone out of the drawer, and sat sharpening my shiv. Nobody spoke to me.

  I looked at Max. Jesus, did he look lousy! I never saw him look that bad. His hands were unsteady as he dealt the cards. His face was sallow. There were pouches under his eyes. And his eyes, Jesus, how bloodshot! What a change in a guy in three weeks! Boy, does he look dissipated and shot to hell.

  Max finally broke up the game by throwing his cards across the room in a fit of temper.

  “Friggin cards,” he exclaimed.

  He poured himself two double hookers one after another.

  “There's been plenty of trouble,” he muttered to me. “Where the hell you been?”

  “Yeh?” I continued, sharpening my shiv. We had one goddamn contract after another.” What kind?” I asked.

  “Hi-jacking; there's an epidemic. We're going out on another as soon as we get the dope from the driver.”

  I nodded.

  Max continued. “The Combine is losing plenty of boats, too.”

  “Hi-jacking?” I asked.

  “Hi-jacking and customs,” Max grunted.

  “Well, let the Brooklyn Navy worry about that,” I said.

  “That Anastasia has got his hands full,” Patsy said.

  He motioned to me. I followed Pat with my eyes. He stood up and started walloping the punching bag. I sauntered over.

  “That Maxie,” Patsy whispered between wallops.

  “Yeh?” I said.

  “He's with that Betty bitch, that masochist wife of John, the Finger, every night.”

  “Yeh, he looks it,” I said.

  “She knocks hell out of him,” Patsy said.

  “That bitch can wear out ten men a week,” I said.

  “It drains the brains,” Patsy said.

  “Yeh, it drains everything out of a man,” I said.

  Moe stuck his head in at the door. He saw me.

  He said, “Hello, Noodles.”

  I said, “Hello, Moe.”

  “Nice vacation?”

  “Very nice vacation.”

  “The driver, Hogan, is out here,” Moe said. “Let him in?”

  Max growled. “What the hell you think the office sent him for? Sure, let him in.”

  Moe looked at Max for a moment. He shrugged.

  He called, “Okay, Hogan, in here.”

  Hogan walked in. He was a squat, broken-nosed, bald-headed Irishman.

  Maxie questioned him hurriedly. “You think you could recognize the two punks who hi-jacked you?”

  “Yeh, Max, I think I know the two guys who heisted the truck from me. I saw them around somewhere, but where, I don't remember.

  Max puffed on his cigar, looking sharply at Hogan. “What were they, Italian, Jewish or what?”

  “No, they were Irish, I'm pretty sure. They looked like half-ass heist guys from Hell's Kitchen. A couple of them wild Hudson Duster kids,” he added.

  “Did these punks realize they were hi-jacking a valuable load of booze belonging to the Combination?”

  “I don't know,” Hogan said. “Them goddamn Irish kids from Hell's Kitchen don't respect the Combination or anybody else.”

  There was a faint tinge of pride in Hogan's voice.

  “How come the warehouse manager let you ride without a guard?” Maxie asked.

  Hogan screwed up his face in a puzzled expression.

  “You got me there.”

  He lit a cigarette nervously.

  “All I know is I got the drop-off address and the okay sign. I shot down West Street on the button. I didn't get far. A car cut me off; two guys jumped out with rods in their hands and took the load away, leaving me standing there like a mope in the middle of the street with my banana in my hands.”

  “Who is the manager of the warehouse now?” I asked.

  “They still got the same guy, Herring, Mr. Herring,” Hogan said.

  “Yeh, I remember him,” I said. “He's a little nervous guy, always coughing and spitting.”

  “Yeh, he coughs and spits,” Hogan said.

  Nobody had anything else to say. We just sat around quietly.

  Hogan looked at our expressionless faces and asked plaintively: “I hope you fellows don't think I was in on this deal? Honest, fellas, that's all I know about it.”

  I reassured him, “Not at all, Hogan. We don't accuse you or blame you for anything. All we want is for you to tell us what you know, where we can grab those two punk kids and teach them respect, and get that load back. We don't blame anybody.”

  “I know I saw them two guys somewhere,” Hogan said.

  He scratched his unshaven jaw. He shrugged his shoulders in a self-disparaging manner.

  “God am I a shmuck!” he said. “I can't place them, but it must of been in some 'speak' over on the West Side.”

  I asked, “How many 'speaks' have you been to the last few months?”

  Hogan kept scratching his blue-black heavy jaw. “Five... six or seven... I guess,” he said.

  Maxie stood up impatiently. “Okay, no use talking. Let's get going. We'll mope around here all day and get nowhere. That load was too valuable to lose.”

  Patsy added, “And if we catch them, we'll put those boonyets six feet under.”

  We piled into the Caddy and shot up to the West Side.

  In two hours Hogan led us in and out of fifteen different “speaks.”

  The Caddy was humming down darkened Hudson Street, when Hogan pointed excitedly out of the window.

&nbs
p; “Yeh, that looks familiar,” he exclaimed. “Pull over! I think that's the joint I seen them in—Fitzgerald's place. That's where some of the Hudson Dusters hang out.”

  Cockeye Hymie kicked the car out of gear and shot for the curb like Ty Cobb swooping for home plate.

  With Hogan leading, we walked into the speak.

  Fitzgerald's was a typical Hell's Kitchen speakeasy. It was a large place, furnished with just the bare necessities: a long bar and a few tables and chairs scattered about in the rear. It had a tough-looking waterfront atmosphere. The clientele consisted of about twenty assorted longshoremen, truck drivers and minor hoodlums, predominantly Irish. They looked us over with insolent casualness as we made for a vacant table in the rear. Hogan looked around.

  He said, “Nope they're not here, but this might be the place I seen them in.”

  We ordered double hookers.

  Hogan commented confidently as he sipped his: “Yep, this is the joint I seen them in. I'm pretty sure now.”

  Wearily Maxie said, “Okay, we hang around awhile. Maybe you know what you're talking about and them two sons of bitches will show up.”

  We sat around drinking and making desultory conversation for what seemed hours. Every so often, a few new guests arrived. Our patience was finally rewarded. Two young men, slightly intoxicated, swaggered into the room and up to the bar.

  Hogan whispered tensely, “That's them—them two young punks coming in.”

  He pointed excitedly.

  Maxie cautioned, “Okay, okay, Hogan, take it easy; don't get your balls in an uproar.”

  We walked to the bar and surrounded the two newcomers. One of them whirled around. He sensed the danger closing around him. He had alarm and a questioning look in his eyes. He recognized Hogan. He knew what we were there for. I watched his hands. His right hand crept stealthily toward his hip pocket. I had my thumb ready on the button of my switch knife. His hand came out halfway, tugging at a gun. I clicked the button. The six-inch blade swished open. I dug it deep into the back of his hand. He screamed once in pain. The gun dropped to the floor.

  Everybody looked dumbly at the guy's bleeding hand, as if they were mesmerized. The room was deathly still. Then we heard two sounds—Maxie's fist rapping the other guy's jaw, and the guy's head banging on the floor.

  “Outside, you two bastards,” Maxie growled.

  The guy with the cut hand hesitated. Max grabbed him by the back of the neck and flung him the entire length of the room towards the door. It reminded me of a bartender sliding a mug of beer to the far end of the bar.

  The other guy lay on the floor, sullenly refusing to get up.

  “Upsy daisy, you lousy mensabunet.”

  Patsy kicked him in the belly. He groaned and struggled up to a standing position, holding his abdomen. Cockeye and Patsy dragged him out.

  We threw them both in the back of the Caddy and piled in after them. For the entire trip down to Fat Moe's they lay motionless under our feet. They were a couple of frightened kids when we got them into the back room.

  The guy with the bleeding hand whimpered, “Give us a break, fellows, we're friends of Owney Madden's.”

  “You know Owney is a member of the Combine and still you show disrespect,” Maxie said. He smacked the kid across the mouth.

  He crouched fearfully on the floor.

  “We were drunk,” he started to snivel.

  “We got a bum steer,” the other guy sobbed. They were both begging, unashamed.

  “Give us a break, fellows. We swear we'll show respect,” one kid pleaded.

  “Okay, kid, then you're ready to give us the lowdown?” I asked.

  The guy nodded eagerly.

  “Yeh, yeh, I'll give you guys the lowdown. Just give me a break.”

  They gave us the name of the guy who had fingered the truck, a Mr. Gordon, and the address of the place where they delivered the load.

  “We'll teach the guy who fingered the job a lesson in manners,” Maxie said drily.

  “You guys didn't tamper with the stuff before you delivered it?” I asked.

  “No, we didn't touch the stuff, honest.”

  The other one cut in, “How could we? We delivered it a half hour after we heisted it from the driver, I swear. May God strike us dead, honest.”

  “Who tipped you guys off?” I asked.

  “We gave you his name, a guy calling himself Gordon. We met him in a speakeasy. He told us it was a pushover. Honest, we didn't know the load belonged to the Combination. If we did, we wouldn't of touched the job with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Yeh, we know it's unhealthy,” the other one added, “to mess around with the Combination.”

  “Was this guy a small skinny guy with a moustache?” I asked. It was a shot in the dark.

  “Yeh, yeh, that's him,” he retorted quickly.

  “He clears his throat before he starts talking?” I asked. “Like he's nervous?”

  “Yeh, that's the guy, and he's always spittin'.”

  With sardonic politeness I said, “Shall we pay our friend Mr. Herring a visit over at the warehouse?”

  Max nodded grimly.

  “Eventually we'll let you two guys go. Will you mind your own business and keep your mouths shut when we do?” I asked.

  “Yeh, honest, we promise.”

  “Honest to God,” the other one nodded vehemently.

  “Okay, scram!” Maxie growled.

  I said, “Just a minute.”

  I leaned over and whispered in Maxie's ear. “Okay, okay,” he said impatiently.

  I turned to the two guys. “Well take about another hour of your time, then we'll let you take a powder. We want you to take a little ride with us.”

  “Come on, let's go,” Max said sharply. “What the hell you so polite to these bastards?”

  The guy with the cut in his hand cringed.

  I smiled reassuringly. “Don't worry, kid, it ain't a one-way ride.”

  He looked distrustfully at us.

  I continued, “All we want is for you to identify this Gordon guy.”

  Maxie prodded him and said, “You come along like a nice boy anyway, or else...”

  We crowded into the Caddy. When we reached the warehouse I said to Cockeye, “You sit with these guys until we call you.”

  Patsy gave two hard and three soft knocks on the door of the gloomy warehouse on West Street. Maxie took a coin out of his pocket and made a singular scratching noise with it on the side of the building and impatiently said, “Okay, open up, open up.”

  The massive door creaked open inwardly, letting out a mephitic odor. Our eyes could not penetrate the blackness of the warehouse.

  Maxie growled, “Why the hell don't you put on a light?”

  We made out a short, slim form faintly, at the door. He cleared his throat nervously.

  He gasped, “Is that you, Maxie?”

  “Yep, Herring, who did you expect? The Mad Mick's ghost?” Maxie taunted maliciously.

  “We got to be careful. You know, Maxie, we got valuable stuff here,” Herring whined meekly.

  “You got guards here, ain't you?” Maxie snapped at him. “Where the hell are they?”

  “Here we are, Max,” a voice called out behind the closing massive door.

  Herring snapped on his flashlight. He shot the beam in a semicircle, disclosing five figures scattered around the entrance, two of them holding tommy guns.

  “Where the hell were you guys the other night that Hogan had to ride without a guard?” Maxie snapped sarcastically.

  “Ask Herring, Max,” a peevish voice said. “He's in charge. He gives us orders. We were around. We didn't even know the truck was ready to leave.”

  “Okay, okay,” Max said tersely. “Is that you, Chicken Flicker?”

  “Yeh, Max,” the peevish voice answered.

  “Okay, let's go to the office,” Max said.

  With Herring in the lead carrying the flashlight, we made our precarious way around all sorts of obstructions. I
recognized the piled-up commodities as we passed them, all of it the property of the gigantic national Combine: thousands of crated slot machines, keg upon keg and box upon box of domestic and imported beers and liquors. They were stacked as high as the ceiling. There were hundreds of steel drums, each containing fifty gallons of high-proof alcohol which were recently distilled from sugar, at the Combination Jersey bootleg stills.

  We groped our way around huge pyramids of barrels containing molasses which was to be used in distilling a cheap rum.

  There were surplus stocks of all conceivable wares essential to the smooth functioning of the Combination's diversified businesses.

  Behind me, Patsy remarked, “A million bucks' worth of crap lying around. Hey, Noodles?”

  “Closer to two million bucks' worth of crap, Patsy boy,” I replied.

  Herring opened the door and switched on the lights in the office. After the intense darkness of the warehouse, it was like walking from a dark bathhouse at the beach into the glaring sunlight. We blinked and looked at each other for a moment.

  Maxie sat down behind Herring's big desk. With a grandiose wave of his arm and in a gravely judicial tone, he said: “Be seated, gentlemen, and let's have the truth and nothing but the truth,” he added emphatically. “No horseshit.” He glared truculently at Herring and the guards.

  Herring stood up with a hapless expression and timorously cleared his throat as a prelude to saying something. Maxie cut him off.

  In a bitingly polite tone he said: “My dear Mr. Herring, you will have your say, but in due time. Please sit down. First I shall hear the witnesses.”

  Herring stuttered something inaudible. Maxie banged the desk with his big fist. Herring collapsed back into his chair, mumbling weakly, “I'm entitled to a fair trial. It wasn't my fault.”

  “You're entitled, my dear Mr. Herring, and if it wasn't your fault, it wasn't your fault.”

  Maxie smiled maliciously. He acted like a cat playing with a mouse. I did not like it.

  “Okay, Chicken Flicker,” Maxie was addressing the peevish guard holding a tommy gun. “Hand over that lead sprayer to Noodles, and let's hear what you have to say.”

  Chicken Flicker obediently passed the machine gun to me and said, “To tell you the truth, Maxie, we don't know nothin'...”