“How’d you do?” I asked. Mango didn’t play if money wasn’t on the table.
“I buried him. What do you think? You think I get in a game I don’t win?” He held out his palms and smiled broadly, wiseguy style.
“What’d you take him for?” I asked.
“Twenty. Why? You want it?”
Mango was about 5′5″, 5′7″ at best, fit, spindly; a grinder with a nasty streak. In B-ball, I’d beat him 21-2, 21-3, but I’d be bruised up and down my legs for a week. And he’d tell everybody he took it to me. As if I gave a shit.
He knew I could take him in a straight game. “Horse?” he suggested.
In Horse, you had to duplicate the shot your opponent made, no matter how ridiculous. A guy like Mango had trick shots coming out of his ass.
I countered, “Round the World.” Six shots from predetermined spots on the court.
“You lay five-to-one,” he said.
“On the twenty? Fine.”
“And Gabby plays, even money.”
That meant if I won but Mango came out ahead of Bella, he’d break even. The problem with short-end guys like Mango is they always figure the opponent doesn’t know the odds as well as they do.
“Game,” I said.
I pointed to the lane stripe, near the basket. I said to Bella, “You got to make it from there, sweetheart.”
“‘Sweetheart,’” Mango repeated. “You lose your killer instinct, Four-four?”
“Let’s play, Jimmy,” I said. “Go ahead, Bella.”
I made six shots without a miss, but Mango beat Bella, who, to her own amazement, hit the foul shot but couldn’t reach the basket from the top of the key. It was a good experience for her: I could see she liked the competition and she was frustrated when she tanked the first chippie. She punched at the ball and, for some reason, discarded one of the rubber bands on her wrist.
I’d brought a towel and a big Badoit bottle full of tap water. I poured the lukewarm liquid over my head, Bella drank a third, as did Mango.
“Don’t like to lose, huh?” I asked her.
Her face was red and damp, and I ran the old towel over her cheeks and eyebrows before sliding it around her neck. She replied, “I could do better than that.”
I ran my hand through my wet hair, pushing it back off my forehead. “You did all right for the first time out.”
She said thanks, but waved off the compliment.
As we went toward the gate, Bella dribbled the ball, using her fingertips.
Mango caught up to us. “So, a push, Four-four. You did good. You still got it.” Smirking, he added, “Some of it.”
“You beat a twelve-year-old, Mango. Don’t be cocky.”
“Hey, I was shooting left-handed.”
Bella started to protest, but I interrupted. “Don’t listen to him,” I said. “He’s a lefty.”
Mango smiled. He was just short of a worm, crazy like a hyena, but I didn’t mind him. He never bothered me. If he liked you, he might watch your back.
We were on Sixth and I started north, toward the courts on West Fourth. I wanted Bella to see the schoolyard game, and the best one downtown went on all day long at the Cage, a short walk from where we were.
“Terry, let me buy you and Gabby some steak and eggs.” He jabbed the air as he spoke, then he pointed to the All-American Diner, where Rosenzweig stationed himself.
I said no.
“You going to try to get in a game? Huh? Terry?”
“No.”
The sidewalk was cracked and raised above the roots of an old tree. Bella lost the dribble for a moment, but she retrieved the ball before it rolled under the mailbox.
“Terry, we can turn this twenty into serious money,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Gabby, did your father ever tell you how we used to clean up here?”
“No,” Bella replied.
“Gabby, your father made me a couple hundred dollars one time. Shit, Terry, why don’t people think you can play? Gabby, your father starts popping threes, then they come out on him, they think he ain’t quick, so he goes down the lane and boom! In their face.”
“Really, Dad?” She’d stopped dribbling and was carrying the ball.
“Then they start to bang him and you know your old man: He’s like a firecracker. An M-80. Next thing you know somebody’s on their ass and they’re pulling your father off the court.”
“That’s enough, Jimmy,” I said. We waited for the light at West Third.
“Terry, I don’t say you play dirty. Gabby, I never seen your father start a fight. But,” he chuckled, “I seen him end a few.” Mango inched closer to me. “Does she know about the thing at the Garden?” he whispered.
“Enough, Jimmy,” I said through gritted teeth. One punch and my scholarship was gone. Who’s going to tell their kid about that?
The light changed. We waited for the last cab to run it, then proceeded.
There was a game under way at the Cage, and already there were about two dozen men waiting to play the winners. A small crowd milled near the fence; in an hour or so, it’d be three deep and men and young women would be craning their necks to see every deek and move.
“Terry, look,” Mango said, “Automatic Slim. No chance for a run today.”
On the court, a shirtless, razor-thin black sprinter was outplaying the taller man who was fumbling to guard him. Sun glistened on his lean back and shoulders.
“Bella, watch the guy with the pearl earring.”
She handed me the ball and leaned against the chain-link fence.
Slim brought the ball over the yellow half-court line, paused to size up the situation, then stopped his dribble, held the ball over his head and passed it off. He clapped his hands and the ball came back; in one fluid motion, he caught it, sprang up and shot from just right of the key. The net barely rippled as the ball passed through. Several spectators nodded knowingly.
“Shit, Mills, stay wit’ him,” one player shouted, frowning, scowling. Sweat beaded his angry mahogany face.
“Watch your own game, Scoop,” barked Mills, as he breathed hard.
I whispered, “Bella, keep an eye on Slim.”
Scoop, the scowling guy who’d shouted at his teammate, handed the ball off to a third player, who looked to be in his late teens, about 15 years younger than the rest of the men in the game. The sinewy kid inbounded the ball to Scoop. When Scoop turned to dribble upcourt, Slim swept around Mills, swiped at the ball, knocked it loose, picked it up and kissed it off the backboard for an easy basket.
Scoop slammed the ball on the ground and started to yell at the kid, who had done nothing wrong.
“How’d you know that was going to happen?” Bella asked.
I pointed through the fence. “That guy Scoop was too busy thinking about himself. You have to be thinking about what’s around you when you’re playing.”
“Slim ain’t going to lose the court all day,” Mango added. “These guys got him on a throne. They’re afraid of him.”
A burly black man on the other side of the fence turned and glared at Mango. He was about 6’9” and weighed about 280.
“Who the fuck you lookin’ at?” Mango snapped.
The big man thought about it, then turned back to the game.
“Bella, watch how hard they play defense.”
“They’re hitting each other.”
“Technically, it’s called hand-checking,” I said softly, “but watch them work.”
Mango said, “Terry, that young kid’s got a game. File that away. We come back here one day and get him on our side.” Pointedly, he added, “I’ll put you up against some big stooge with his gut hanging over his shorts. You’ll piss on him.”
Behind the fence, the big man stiffened, then chose to ignore the little irritant.
I decided to relieve us of Mango and take Bella home via Seventh Avenue South and Varick. We could bounce the ball as we walked and talk about the game. We could go west when we pass
ed Canal and stroll along the river, near its foam, amidst its salty scent. I wanted to tell her about Slim, whom I’d played against as a freshman in high school, who made all-city, who was on the cover of the New York Times magazine and in USA Today, who had earned a scholarship to Michigan, who worked harder than anyone on his game, who did seven years in Green Haven for armed robbery, who, remarkably, kicked his heroin habit while in jail. Who pushed a broom at the Bronx County Courthouse to support three sisters not much older than Bella was; who wound up in the Times magazine again, this time the subject of a “What Ever Happened to…” feature.
Now Slim pushed to the top of the key, ran Mills into a pick. Scoop switched off to take on Slim: Finally, the challenge Scoop wanted; he crouched and spread his arms like Spiderman. But Automatic Slim wouldn’t bite. He simply passed the ball to the man Scoop had been covering. Layup; another easy basket. Slim tried to conceal a smirk.
Furious, Scoop kicked the ball. It flew over the top of the fence, over the adjacent playground, bounced on West Third and rolled under a Con Ed truck up on the curb in front of McDonald’s.
“Go get the fuckin’ ball,” Scoop screamed at Mills. “Dumb motherfucker.”
And with that, Mills blew. He ran at Scoop, got his hands on his throat, and seven other guys on the court dove in to break it up. The men waiting for the game shook their heads in disappointment, in disgust, and the gathering crowd laughed darkly, mocking the foolishness. Scoop had brought this good thing down fast.
“If Four-four was in the game, we’d be calling the morgue for that Scoop guy,” Mango said.
Ignoring the tussle, Slim came over to the fence.
“Hey, Slim,” I said.
He crooked two fingers through the diamond links. I shifted the ball under my arm, and tapped his fingers with mine. “Dog,” he said.
“You doing OK, Slim?”
He shrugged as if to say “Why not?” His eyes were clear. He looked good, if older than he should have.
“My daughter, Gabriella.”
“Hey, Gabriella. Nice hat.”
“Hello,” she said. “Thank you.”
He looked at me. “You want in? Looks like I got game all day.”
I shook my head. “I’ve got to run.” I tilted my head at Bella. “Things.”
Slim nodded and backed away. He winked at my daughter.
I leaned over. “Now you know somebody as famous as Diddio,” I said.
“How do you know him, Dad? Did you play with him? Against him?”
The ball flew back over the fence. The sinewy kid had gone to retrieve it.
Mango chimed in, “Your father, Gabby, you put him and Slim on the same team, you don’t need the other three guys.”
Bella seemed impressed. “Really?”
I said to her, “We’d better get going. We’ll come back another time. OK?”
I ran my hand across the back of her still-moist neck, and looked up for a newsstand so I could get us a couple of bottles of cold water. Behind me, the game resumed: the squeak of rubber on the asphalt, body banging body, the steady rhythm of the ball; trash talk, mild now since the dust-up. Scoop had been humbled, but not for long: You could tell by looking at him that he’d open his mouth again soon.
I glanced across the avenue, remembering a newsstand near the Waverly that had cold drinks. And there, moving steadily, was Sol Beck, heading for the All-American Diner, for his father.
“Oh, Christ,” I said, louder than I’d wanted to.
“Dad, what?”
I thought quickly, then turned to Mango. “Jimmy, hold on to her.” I said it sharply, and Mango nodded. He put his arm on Bella’s shoulder. I looked at her; I tossed the basketball to her. “Bella—”
“Sol Beck is going into that diner,” she said. “He looks mad, Dad.”
I nodded. “I know. I don’t want him to get hurt,” I said. “You wait with Jimmy.”
“I got her,” Mango said.
And I turned and ran across Sixth, dodging taxis and cars rushing uptown, waiting on a stripe of white paint, inching sideways, heading south to go west; finally making it across the frantically busy street.
The diner was crowded this time, with people in every booth, and almost every sea-green stool at the counter was filled. They were all looking at Beck, who was screaming at his father.
As I came in, I saw that it wasn’t too far gone: Sid, fumbling to remove his bifocals, had jumped in front of Beck. Rosenzweig was still in his seat. He seemed thoroughly unimpressed.
“Let him go, Sid,” Rosenzweig said.
I bumped into a man who had stepped into the aisle to watch. Behind me, I heard flatware hit the floor.
“You coward! You God-damned coward!” Beck shouted. “You tried to ruin my show and then you attacked her. You bastard!”
I reached Beck, who was pointing at his father over Sid’s shoulder. I grabbed the collar of his black jacket and yanked him back toward me.
“Ha!” Rosenzweig shouted. “Your bodyguard is here.”
I tried to spin Beck around, but the aisle was too narrow. Instead, I grabbed his right wrist and held it tight.
“Cool down, Sol,” I whispered.
He tried to shake free but it was no use. He was small and light.
“Don’t hurt him,” Sid said. The old man’s round face was pale from fear, and he trembled from the sudden exertion.
To assure him, I nodded gently.
As they’d scrambled away from Beck, the people near the far end of the counter had formed a knot near the kitchen. A man in a white t-shirt, white slacks and a long apron, the one with the uneven mustache I’d seen days ago slumped at the cash register, emerged from the crowd with, of all things, a bullwhip. And he held it firmly at his side, as if he was going to crack it.
“Sid,” I shouted. “Get back.”
Sid turned, saw the man with the whip and jumped back into the booth across from Rosenzweig.
With a heavy Greek accent, the man ordered, “Get him the fuck out of here.”
Rosenzweig stood. “It’s all right, Alex.” He put his right hand on the man’s shoulder. “It’s just some kid I used to know.”
“I don’t care, Chick,” the man grunted. “Get him out.”
I had my jaw near Beck’s ear. “I’m going to release you now,” I said, “and I’m going to walk you outside.”
Beck snapped his head away from me in anger.
I continued, “Before I let you go I’m going to tell you something: You are wrong. You hear me? Your father has nothing to do with this, Sol. Nothing.”
And I let go of his wrist, and took my hand from his collar.
He turned and looked at me. He was the saddest man in the world.
I stepped aside and let him pass. As we went down the aisle, I put my hand on his back, leading him past people whose looks of fear had turned to confusion and sympathy.
I led him through the last of the crowd and we went outside. Bella was there with Mango. She didn’t seem frightened, but she was bewildered: She’d just peered through the glass doors to see her father drag Sol Beck, the brittle artist, away from a confrontation with a bullwhip.
I grabbed Beck by the shoulder. When he turned, he would not meet my eyes. “Stay here,” I told him.
He nodded weakly.
I put my hand on his chest and gave him a gentle nudge. “Stay,” I repeated. Then I turned to Bella and Mango.
“Nice going, Jimmy,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Fuck that,” he replied. “I want in. Is that him, the guy they bombed?”
“You OK, Bella?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“Yeah. Sol’s mad at his father.” I put my finger on my temple. “He’s not thinking straight.”
“Stress,” she said, as she looked past me at Beck. “It’s natural.”
“If you give me five minutes, I think I can help him.” I looked up at Mango, at his ridiculous straw hat. “Jimmy, take her back to the court.”
“Am I in? I’m in, right?”
“Later, Jimmy.”
Mango nodded knowingly, as if we had just made some sort of pact.
Bella took Mango’s hand when he offered it. Together, they went to the crosswalk.
I returned to Beck, who had turned his back on me. “Let’s walk,” I said, as I crooked my hand under his arm to turn him around. Behind him, people inside the diner were up and staring out the window.
He started walking, sliding under the Waverly marquee, moving toward his home.
“Lin-Lin tell you I visited her last evening? Sol? Sol, I need you to listen to me.”
He sighed. It had all fallen down around him. He was defeated.
“Sol, you need to ask Lin-Lin what I told her. Sol?”
He muttered, “All right.”
“I told her I know who arranged the bombing.” We passed a pizza parlor and a vitamin shop. A thin man in a gray raincoat walked by with the aid of a cane.
Beck looked at me. “Who?” he asked.
“You’ll have to ask her. She knows.”
“You tell me, Terry,” he said, frowning.
“I can’t. She needs to.”
“I don’t understand.”
We had reached Carmine Street. He took the curb gingerly, as if he feared he’d fall.
“Sol, you’ve got to watch your back. You’ve got to be alert. What happened to Lin-Lin could happen to you.”
“She was mugged.”
I said, “No, Sol. Remember, she wasn’t robbed. They smacked her and ran off.”
He repeated, “I don’t understand.”
We continued south, onto Father Demo Square, passing gangly trees and benches, several of which were occupied by older men and women who fed pigeons, read newspapers, sank into their heavy coats. “Sol, your father isn’t in this thing. Understand that and you’ll be able to focus on what’s going on.” We stopped and I turned him to look at me. “Sol, go home and calm down. Then go to the hospital and tell Lin-Lin we spoke.”
He was nodding, but I wasn’t sure he was hearing.
“You need to talk to your wife. You understand?”
He pursed his lips, and he closed his eyes. Then, he nodded as he opened his eyes. “I’ll talk to her, Terry,” he said.
“All right.”
Closing Time Page 16