Table Money

by Jimmy Breslin

  As they left, Navy patted his pockets. “I better get myself another pack of cigarettes. I got a long haul.”

  He went back into the diner and Owney now saw Navy’s car across the street. The back of a head was up against the window in the back seat. The window was lowered halfway. Remembering his own ride in the car, Owney decided to go over and give some encouragement to the guy. As he walked up to the car, the head moved. Owney put a hand on the half-open window and now the head stirred and rose and here came Kellerman, eyes rolling, with his hands tied behind him, growling like a dog, and he got his mouth up to the window and sank his teeth into Owney’s hand.

  “Pinkerton!” Kellerman screamed.

  In the morning, two weeks later, Danny Murphy, the numbers runner, walked through the mud, smiling as Owney came in to work.

  “How do you want it?”

  “Want what?”

  “One eighty-seven. It hit. It took exactly forty-five days. There you are.”

  “That’s the hand of the Lord,” Owney said.

  “Not at all. The Devil’s hand.”

  “At least Blaney gets something.”

  “It’s a shame the man isn’t here to enjoy it,” Murphy said. “But if he’s here, the number doesn’t turn up. This is a death number.”

  “Send it to the family.”

  “Where? The man lived alone in a room on Gun Hill Road.”

  “To his family in Ireland.”

  “Who knows where he lived?”

  “Look it up in the office.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then send the money.”

  Danny Murphy took out a roll of bills and examined them. “I don’t near have it here. You get five thousand. I’ll have to see you this afternoon.”

  “I have to go downtown again.”

  “Why don’t you let me bring it down to you?”

  “Because it’s Blaney’s money. It’s not my money.”

  “Suppose I send it to somebody in Ireland doesn’t know who the hell I am or how I make my living?”

  “Oh, fuck it. I gotta go to work. Give it to me tomorrow.”

  At one, Owney went to get dressed for the meeting downtown. As he was leaving, Delaney said to him, “You’d think you’d do something for us.”

  “I’m not keeping the money.”

  “I don’t care who keeps it. All I know is that you won.”

  When he got off the lift, Owney walked down to Katonah Avenue, where the idea of a drink waved from every window. He went into a liquor store and bought a bottle of VO. Next door in the delicatessen, he bought two cases of beer and asked for a dozen steak sandwiches. The counterman said it would take a few minutes. Owney went outside and stood against the plate glass window in the sun. Next door was Brendan’s, where an old man was sweeping at the doorway. Behind was the dimness of a place with bricked-up windows. A loud squeak came from inside the place. Owney flattened the palms of his hands against the front of the delicatessen and waited. Finally, he heard the counterman call and he went in, paid, and carried the bags to the cage.

  On the phone in the shack, he told Delaney, “Twelve steak sandwiches and plenty to drink coming right down.”

  “Twelve? Who are the others for?” Delaney said.

  “I got you twelve.”

  “We’re nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “That’s right. Nine guys working.”

  “We’re supposed to have twelve.”

  “Well, we’re nine today. Didn’t you look while you were down here?”

  “Are we back to that again?”

  “Don’t bring that up to me. See somebody else.”

  Owney didn’t answer. He walked slowly over to the hog house and leaned against the wall and remained there until he saw he was late for the meeting at the Central Labor Trades Council and had time only to put on a shirt and pants, wash his hands and face, and drive downtown with dirt-caked body and workboots.

  The meeting began with Kellerman’s absence pointedly unmentioned. There were, however, no blacks there, which made the meeting unnecessary, because nobody ever was going to block a white Vietnam vet from a job, but the blacks had to be discussed at length because of their natural inability to perform tasks, the most important of which was to turn themselves into whites.

  When a phone call came for Allingham, and he never returned, the number in the room began to dwindle. The receptionist looked in and said that Owney had a call.

  “He’s here for the second time and now he takes calls,” Callahan said. The laughter of the three men around him had a resigned quality: young guy on the rise who probably passes them.

  At the phone on the receptionist’s desk, Owney heard Danny Murphy screaming over the street sounds.

  “Where do I meet you?”

  “I told you tomorrow.”

  “I can’t do that. Suppose something happens? I’m responsible. An amount this big.”

  “Leave it with my father,” Owney said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “I …” Owney’s voice became uncertain.

  “I’m at the train. I’m getting a three-fifty. I’ll be sitting in Grand Central at four-ten. Sitting right there.”

  “Where.”

  “Bar.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. I been there twice in my life. Big bar. Big drink in a big bar.”

  When Owney went back to the room, Callahan said to him, “We’re getting nothing done here. I feel terrible making you come all the way down here. I won’t forget this, though. What we got to do, we got to sit down and have a talk and see where we’re going. Why don’t you get the wife and bring her up some night and we’ll have dinner and talk about things?”

  “You’re on.” Owney poked a finger into Callahan’s chest to press the point. Standing here in this room he saw his life coming together. “I’ll come up with my wife.”

  “One thing, can you stand working on top or are you sucked in with that life you got down there?”

  “Whatever made you think I wouldn’t work on top?”

  “Talking to Donnelly. He’s our young guy and he told us—”

  “Donnelly’s full of shit.”

  “Well.”

  “About everything. You saw him here last time.”

  Callahan sighed. “I have to tell you, I wasn’t the only one saw that.”

  He looked at Owney’s eyes closely and Owney said, “If you’re looking for whiskey, you’re going to be looking for a long time.” He slapped Callahan on the shoulder and walked out, body swinging, confident, his chin up, and he knew the ones in the room, again, were following him out.

  “How do you want it?” Danny Murphy said.

  “In money.”

  Danny had claimed an area for himself at the end of the long, splendidly polished bar, which was in the saloon part of a place called the Oyster Bar, a large old room with high ceilings, filled with reedy businessmen in severe three-piece business suits who carried slim attaché cases. The businessmen tripped down a staircase coming from the main level of the station and had to brush past Danny to move into the bar and dining area. Danny did not like them brushing him. Arranged on the bar in front of him were Danny’s cigarettes, old metal lighter atop them, his wet bar money, and his drink, a shot and a beer, and on his right flank, the ashtray with cigarette. He had a foot on one stool, which he indicated was for Owney, and on another stool he had an Alexander’s shopping bag, which he clutched in one hand, much as government agents must do when flying with attaché cases containing national defense plans to bomb Russia. The place smelled of horseradish and cocktail sauce. Tables of people eating cold seafood appetizers with their drinks before leaving for Connecticut and Westchester spread so far out that they seemed to disappear under the curved ceilings. Danny, who clearly felt he was drinking in a great arena, rose to the occasion. He sat with his back to a tall man with short gray hair and a mouthline that was firm to indicate command. Danny drank his shot a
nd beer and reluctantly ordered a tomato juice for Owney and, at the same time, listened to the gray-haired man, who on his second drink was searching for conversation, say to another man, “My father took me here the first time for oysters. It was a real thrill for him.”

  “Oh, I’ll bet it was,” the other man said.

  “Yes, to bring his son in here. The young don’t like oysters that much.”

  Danny muttered. “Guy eats an oyster.”

  “I want a martini,” Danny Murphy said to the barman. “I don’t know if I ever had a martini.” Then he cautioned the barman, “I don’t want no ice in the drink.”

  The man behind him, in an attempted pleasantry, said, “You mean straight up.” Right away, Owney knew that the voice was all wrong. And without turning to look at the man behind him, Danny Murphy said, “I don’t care what the glass looks like. Straight glass or a goblet. Just don’t put ice cubes in the glass. I never saw a martini with ice cubes.”

  “That’s what you call straight up,” the man said.

  “And you’re what I call a real ball breaker,” Danny said.

  The man pursed his lips as if to say, Well, and Owney, who had a tomato juice he didn’t want, and certainly didn’t think he should participate in a fight while drinking such swill, said to Danny, “Let’s just give me the money and we get out of here.”

  “Good enough.” Danny went into his shopping bag and pulled out a handful of money. It was in fifties and hundreds.

  Danny began counting out money and putting it on the bar in front of Owney.

  “That’s three thousand.”

  As he resumed counting, the gray-haired man was elated to see a group of men come bouncing down the steps, swinging attaché cases.

  “What did you do in the board room last night, make a fool of yourself again?” the gray-haired man asked.

  “Yeah, I did it again. Danced all over the table.”

  Now one of them, who was pushed right against Danny Murphy’s back, sniffed.

  Owney knew his own body smelled of stale underground dirt, but Danny Murphy’s odor was worse than that of a sweating cow. Suddenly, the one man, and the others, attention caught first by the odor, now looked wide-eyed as they focused on the piles of money that Danny was making on the bar in front of Owney.

  Each set of eyes then showed amusement at the tableau.

  “They think we’re assholes handing out money like this,” Danny Murphy said.

  “Don’t talk because then you lose count and we’ll be here till tomorrow.”

  “All right. That’s forty-five hundred, right?”

  “Right.”

  Danny now had tens and twenties out.

  “Don’t you have any more big bills?” Owney said.

  “Is the money no good?”

  “We’ll be here all night.”

  “It’s a nice enough place. Forty-six twenty, forty-six forty …” Danny turned to the bar and took a great swallow of his new drink, the martini. “… Forty-seven thirty, forty-seven forty, forty-seven fifty. Done.”

  “You’re two-fifty shy. You owe me five thousand,” Owney said.

  “What about my end?” Murphy said.

  “What end?”

  “Let’s stop jerking each other off. I don’t care if the guy dropped fucking dead right in front of me. I still get my fucking end. The runner gets five percent of the bet, no matter what happens to the winner. You wanted me to send all this to the auld country. Fuck the auld country. Who would have given Danny Murphy his end? I’m hanging on to my five percent right here.”

  “You’re taking blood money,” Owney said.

  He was interrupted as one of the men in the group behind them, younger than the others, with smooth cheekbones and a sort of smile, said: “Do you mind?”

  “Mind what?”

  “If you’re not using the stool.” He indicated the stool with the Alexander’s shopping bag on it.

  “What do you think I’m doing with it?” Danny said.

  “You’re not sitting on it.”

  “It’ll be sitting someplace, all right. It’ll be sitting on your head.”

  “I had imagined that we were all civilized.”

  “Maybe you are, but I’m a fucking animal,” Danny said, still counting.

  “You’re certainly trying to act like one.”

  “Sure am.” Danny turned and swallowed the rest of the drink, which took a lot of swallowing, and he immediately banged the glass down.

  “I really don’t have to take abuse,” the guy said.

  “Yes, you do,” Danny said. He grabbed the young guy’s drink and took it in two swallows. The young guy shrugged, as if to make allowances. Owney also thought the guy was considering retaliation.

  “Danny, you do me a favor,” Owney said. “We’re wasting time on nothing here. Leave them alone.” Now Owney noticed how beet red Murphy was from alcohol. “Where were you all day, anyway?”

  “Getting ready.”

  Danny put his cigarette down carefully. “Getting ready for this quiff.”

  He turned around—pivoted, actually—and hit the guy directly between both smooth cheeks. The smacking sound was loud in the room. A woman in a business suit and maroon attaché case screamed. The bartender was reaching across the bar and now the gray-haired man who had been there from the start put his glass down and didn’t seem to think for a moment about what he was going to do: go straight for Danny Murphy. The man had his hands up. He also had his chin coming forward. The chin rocked right into Danny’s punch in an explosion.

  There was much grumbling in the bar and Owney saw the barman reach for a blue wall telephone and waiters begin to gather for an attack. Danny grabbed the money and Owney grabbed Danny and they went up the flight of stairs, against the stream of people coming down, with Danny first, hugging his shopping bag full of money, and Owney behind him.

  And then Owney heard in the commotion at the foot of the stairs somebody saying, “Let them go. They’re not worth chasing. Scum.”

  Owney turned and came running down the stairs and the guy at the foot of the stairs, whoever he was, thoughtlessly came right up and Owney kicked the guy right there in the V of his slate-gray pants. The guy made a noise and, clutching himself, fell back on his shoulder blades. Owney went back up the stairs, and he and Danny moved quickly through the fields of commuters coming out of passageways that seemed to be everywhere. They were moving toward the huge color picture of kids in a corn field when they decided to veer onto an escalator going up. When they reached the top, people with lips tight in annoyance were pushing around a fat blind man with a dog. Danny Murphy held out a hand and blocked people from walking around one side of the blind man. “Now come on with me, pal,” Danny said to the blind man. “Watch your step. Ha ha. Hear what I said? I said, Watch your step. Ha ha. Look sharp.” The seeing-eye dog waddled to the top of the escalator. Danny Murphy, holding people back, watched the blind man and his dog go down the escalator.

  “You’re some fuck, you don’t even say good-bye to me,” Danny said.

  They now were in a building lobby, where off to the right was a bar. Danny bulled his way in and ordered a double martini. Immediately, the young, splendidly dressed people reacted to the smell of Danny Murphy, who was closest, and then Owney Morrison. As the place was too crowded for Danny anyway, he left, holding his drink.

  Outside they stood in front of the Grand Central building, at the base of Park Avenue, facing straight uptown with its flower plots dividing the avenue that runs between buildings housing the greatest wealth in the history of the earth. Traffic heading downtown runs up to a ramp on one side of the building, which, like some stone whale, seems to suck in the traffic. Then, on the other side, traffic heading uptown comes spitting out of a huge stone mouth and into the splendor of Park Avenue. One cross street, 46th, cuts in front of the building entrance and serves to promote traffic tie-ups.

  It was at this spot that Danny stood with his drink and with Owney Morrison next
to him. Danny switched the shopping bag to his strong arm, the right, so nobody would steal it from him. Danny watched the traffic as it came, on and off the ramps of the Grand Central building. He stood in front of the glass doors and looked straight up Park Avenue.

  “They think they’re important.”

  “They’re not bothering you,” Owney said.

  “Yes, they are.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re all quiffs.”

  Owney chuckled.

  “Look at them. Millions of quiffs.”

  Danny walked into the building and came back out carrying the elevator starter’s straight wood chair. With the timing of a devil, he walked out in front of the stone mouth that sends out uptown traffic at a moment when a red light kept the traffic stuffed back inside the stone whale, and on the cross street, a white van was attempting to turn around the flower plot and go ahead of the waiting traffic onto the uptown lanes. Danny stepped in front of the van just before the van finished the turn. The van stopped so that it was perpendicular to the traffic waiting on the ramp inside the building.

  He placed the chair in the middle of Park Avenue. He sat and slowly lit a cigarette.

  The van driver was too astonished to talk.

  The sound of laughter caused Owney to look up. The sidewalk was two deep with people watching, all of whom anticipated what happened next: the light turned green and the traffic came jumping out of the ramp, like horses out of starting gates, and then the first cars had to squeal to a stop for the van that was being blocked by Danny Murphy in his chair. New York rush-hour traffic. The horns started. Danny Murphy raised his hand gently.

  The van driver yelled in an accent that seemed to be Haitian.

  “Mon, I got to go, mon.”

  “Fuck you, mon,” Danny called back.

  Now a cab appeared from behind the van. There was an Israeli accent. “Meester!”

  “Up your keester!” Danny yelled.

  He was so proud of that that he jumped up and placed the glass on the chair and clasped his hands over it, like a priest saying Mass. Then he turned and faced the traffic and held out his hands and gave his blessing. He whirled for his drink.

  Which Owney held high. Standing in the middle of Park Avenue, in the dusk of rush hour, with his body shaking with laughter and the glass in his hand, right in the middle of Park Avenue, with horns honking for blocks and people laughing uproariously, Owney drank the drink, all of it, while Danny Murphy wailed. Laughing, clouting each other, they left the traffic and went down the street toward Lexington Avenue, where there were good bars, and Owney had this fire in his throat.