“You might as well head over to Marsucci’s,” Richie said to Joey. “I’ll walk home. See you around after school tomorrow.”
Inside, just as he had when Richie came on board, Vinnie Scarlatti pushed open the door of the policy parlor, strode over to the center chair and got comfortable.
“I see you’re still laying on that Father Divine bullshit. I feel like a fucking babysitter,” he said. “I hate to admit it, but the young punk sounded pretty god damn good, should fit in. I ain’t gonna give these two kids that much time,” Scarlatti said. “If they don’t work out, you’ll be putting your niggers back out there. How long before they butt heads with McDuffie’s punks?”
“Should be soon,” Righteous said. “Already got Richie picking up from Thelma Boyd, one of our big policy writers. She’s a floater. One of her drops is the newsstand at the Riviera.”
“Sticking your nose right in there, I like that,” Scarlatti said. “But let’s make one thing fucking clear, this is gonna be low key, no turf war. The boss is just feeling things out, wants to see if Longy gives a shit anymore about the Third Ward. If not, we move in.”
Joey pushed his Schwinn through the front door of Marsucci’s office, lowered its kickstand, and put his hands on his hips.
“Here I am, Mr. Marsucci, at long last!”
Marsucci saw that he would have to put this cocky little son of a bitch in his place right away. He didn’t care if the kid was connected to the three nigger barbers. He got up, walked to the front of his desk, and pointed to the bike.
“Not so fast, you have a route when I say so,” Marsucci said. “First you got to learn how things are done around here. None of my kids ever bring their bikes in here, they chain them up outside. You better get that straight.”
“What am I going to use, my shoelaces?”
“Watch your mouth, I don’t need another wise-ass kid around here. You’ll be riding with me this weekend, and you’ve got a lot to learn. I don’t want any lip. You got that straight?”
“As an arrow,” Joey said. “What time Saturday?”
“Five sharp, you got that, five sharp!”
“See you then.”
Joey turned, released the kickstand on his bike and was about to leave when Marsucci pulled him up short.
“Hold it, I ain’t finished with you yet.” Marsucci walked back behind the desk, sat down and pulled open the bottom right drawer. “What floor you live on?”
“Third. What’s it to you?”
“One of those railroad tenements, I take it.”
“You don’t need to know nothing about where I live. Don’t worry, I’ll show up on time.”
“Gets old pretty damn fast lugging a bike up and down three flights of stairs. Don’t want you to burn out before you get started.” Marsucci pulled a three-foot length of steel chain, padlock and two keys from the drawer and dropped them on top of his desk. “Take ‘em, they’re yours.”
“Thanks, Mr. Marsucci, I’ll pay you back. Take a while, but I will.”
“Bet your ass you will.” Marsucci knew his reputation and couldn’t afford to have this kid think he had a soft side.
Ten minutes later Joey chained and locked his bike to the first floor banister, took the stairs two at a time, and burst into the Bancik apartment with, “I got it! Mom, Dad, I got it, a Beacon route! And a bike to boot!”
Josef and Catherine Bancik found it impossible to digest all that Joey blurted out with machine gun rapidity. The route, how much it pays. The bike, and how the greedy Jew Simon wasn’t so greedy after all, letting him pay it off a little at a time. How much he would get for each new subscription he signed up. That beginning Saturday, he’d start every morning at five, and that the circulation manager, Frank Marsucci, gave him a chain, lock and keys to keep his new bike from being stolen.
“It won’t be much, but at least I’ll be bringing in a little every week to help out,” Joey said.
“Don’t matter how much, every penny counts,” Joey’s smiling mother said as she placed a plate with stuffed cabbage and potatoes in front of him. “It’s just a start, then who knows how far our Joey will go.”
“Mom, it’s just a paper route.” Any further attempt to minimize his job was cut short by his mother’s contagious smile. “I waited a long time to get it. Now I got it, and nobody’s gonna take it away. You’ll all be proud.”
Joey’s father had been silent throughout the upbeat dinner table exchange. Grandpa Alexander couldn’t care less, never once taking his eyes from the food on his plate. Joey looked across the table as his father put down his knife and fork, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“So you’re now our little breadwinner,” an unsmiling Josef spit the words out. “Ain’t that what you’d be called?”
“Cut it out, dad. I ain’t gonna be that at all,” Joey said. “I thought you’d be happy, like mom.”
“We’re all happy, ain’t that right Josef. Your son is growing up, that’s all it is.”
Josef studied their faces then pushed away from the table, and silently stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him as he headed toward the stairs.
“Give your father time,” Catherine said as she cleared the table. “There’s some coffee left in the pot, want some?”
“Yeah, why not.” Joey, who literally flew up the stairs to their apartment a short time ago, suddenly felt mixed up and sad. “What gives with dad? I just don’t get it.”
“He’s not the same since he lost out on that job at Prudential.” Catherine placed a half-full coffee cup in front of her son. “It’s not that he lost out, but that it’s a nigger who got it. That really hurt. I circle the job ads in the paper, but he hardly looks no more.”
“Why not? There’s got to be something out there for him.”
“I know and he knows, but he don’t want to ever lose out to a black man again, and that could happen.”
The next afternoon Richie and Joey met up in the hallway after their last class at St. Mark’s. Once outside, they loosened their ties and undid the top button of their white shirts before heading over to Milt’s.
“How’d it go?” Richie asked.
“Good and bad I guess,” Joey said. “Good with Marsucci, even gave me a chain, lock and keys for my bike.”
“There’s a price tag, you can bet on that. Marsucci’s not the kind of guy who gives you something for nothing.”
“I figured. At home, my mom talked like I was about to buy the Beacon, not deliver it. But my dad wasn’t too happy.”
“Why not?”
“My mom thinks it’s because he’s been out of work so long, and I’ll be bringing in a little something each week.“
“He should be happy,” Richie slurped the last few drops of soda from his glass. “Hell, my folks think I’m another Henry Ford because I bring in a few bucks each week. I hope you kept your yap shut about the numbers.”
“I ain’t stupid.”
“Probably test you the same as me,” Richie said. “After riding with Marsucci, you’ll have a few days to nail down your drops, and when they’re sure you won’t fuck up, you’ll start your pickups. By then, you and your policy writers will be on a first name basis. Don’t need to tell you how important those slips and bets are, so you better not lose them.”
“There’s no fucking way that’s going to happen.”
Richie waited until Joey finished his soda, studied his accomplice’s’ face and said, “I’m ready to get out of these school duds, how ‘bout you? You got any big plans?”
“Nope. From that crooked smile on that mug of yours, I’d say you’ve got something up your sleeve.”
A bright lightbulb of an idea had popped into Richie’s head during their walk from St. Mark’s. “Are you ready for something a little stronger than soda?”
“Maybe,” Joey said cautiously.
“Ale, Ballantine’s Ale for ‘men with a thirst’ so they tell us. You ready to become a man?”
�
�Lead on, show me the way.”
A half-hour later and out of school uniform, they turned down an alley behind the American Legion. An eight-foot, rotten wood fence enclosed the back of the Marauders’ Post. Richie pushed aside a few loose boards, and they scampered into a small crab apple orchard.
“Okay, here we go,” Richie said. “Keep your head down.” When they reached a terraced lawn leading to the rear of the building, Richie stopped and signaled to sit down.
“How many can you handle?” Richie said.
“Same’s you, I guess.”
“You wait here.”
Richie darted to a latticed enclosure adjacent to the rear door. Above the door, surrounded by a painted montage of American flags, and wind-wrinkled pennants, was the inscription: “Lest We Forget.” He pulled apart the flimsy latticework, and withdrew four bottles of Ballantine Ale, a bottle at a time. Running back with the bottles cradled against his chest, he slipped on the grass and slid on his backside into the orchard.
“Neat, even fallin’ on yer ass, ya looked like a pro,” Joey said.
“Go fuck yerself. Here.” Richie handed him two bottles. “Follow me.”
They duck-walked over to a crab apple tree where Richie pulled a church key from a lower branch. The two youths slumped to the ground under the tree.
“Man, this bottle is warm,” Joey said.
“Yeah, but the price is right,” Richie said as he used the church key to flip the cap from his first bottle of ale, then handed the opener to Joey.
“Sorry I couldn’t make it to the bar and get some of the cold stuff for ya,” Richie said. “There’s only a few of us in on this. So stop your bitching.”
“Who’s bitching,” Joey said, “not me. Hey warm ale ain’t half bad.”
They lapsed into silence, the only sound the bubbly gulping of the ale as it cleared their Adam’s apples.
Richie and Joey drained their first bottles of ale, leaned back against the gnarled trunk of the crab apple tree, and then, as if on cue, let out a collective burp. They looked at each other and laughed. “Pretty damn good, I’d say,” Richie said.
“A real man’s drink,” Joey said.
Richie and Joey snapped the caps off their second bottle, and Richie carefully replaced the church key in the crook of the tree branch.
“Like my old man says, the first one’s for thirst, the second’s for pleasure.” Richie was beginning to feel the effects of the warm brew.
“I agree with your dad,” Joey slurred.
It suddenly dawned on Richie, that except for serving Mass together at St. Mark’s, this was the first he had ever spent any real time alone with Joey. Now he and Joey were numbers running culprits who should have their heads examined for falling in with three of the shiftiest niggers they would ever meet. Crazier yet, Richie had put in the good word for Joey, a pissed-off kid he had never been able to figure out.
There was a distinct hierarchy among the dwindling number of whites in the Third Ward. Richie, who lived at the Exeter, had always thought it weird the way white tenement people behaved. Everyone knew that Joey had strict orders not to talk to any of the colored people in his building.
“Next thing ya know, they’ll be borrowin’ sugar and bargin’ in and out jes like real neighbors, like decent folks,” Richie had overheard Mrs. Bancik complain to his mother one afternoon in front of Fishbein’s. “They ain’t good fer nothin’.”
It was no secret the Banciks were having it tough, ever since Joey’s father injured his back. Over forty, he couldn’t find work. They poor-mouthed Negroes more than anyone, despite doing all their grocery shopping at Father Divine’s Peace Stores because it was the cheapest.
“That’s what I call talking out of both sides of your fucking mouth,” the Pump had blurted out one day while sharing a booth at Milt’s with Carl and Richie. Carl agreed, but Richie kept his trap shut, still guilty that he pocketed forty cents of his haircut money by getting trimmed at the Peace Barber Shop every two weeks.
Richie reached over and poked Joey in the shoulder. They were quiet for a long time, savoring their warm ale. Finally, Richie broke the silence.
“Hic.”
“Wash dat?”
“I gotha hiccups.”
“No shish. Hic. No shish. Hic.”
“Washya say? Ya got hiccups too. Hic.”
“Hic.”
“A big swig. That’ll fix ’em.”
“Les go.”
They poured down three or four big gulps, the ale drowning their laughter. Richie felt a burning sensation in his head. The ale had gone up his nose and was dripping out his nostrils. A bubble formed on the tip of his nose, then burst in a shower of foamy spray.
Joey, his hiccups gone, was doubled over in laughter. “Sheeit. Bubbles out yer nose. Lookee here, ’nother one.” He reached over and popped the bubble with his finger. By this time they were both in hysterics. They fell back limply against the tree, tears streaming from their eyes.
“Sheeit.”
“Ya kin shay that again.”
“Sheeit.”
They polished off their bottles. Richie took the four empties back to the latticed enclosure, and placed them among the other dead soldiers piled next to the back door. He turned and rejoined Joey under the crab apple tree.
“Time to get serious,” Richie said. He had gone out on a limb for Joey, and he wanted to be sure that everything was sinking in. “Ready to ride with Marsucci?”
“Five on the button at his office. Same on Sunday.” Joey worked hard to push the words past his thick tongue. “Then Monday it’s me and my bike.”
“Watch your mouth around Marsucci. Not sure where he fits in, but he’s made it clear he wants a piece of the action.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means right now we’re running numbers for three black bookies, and the Jew fits in somehow. It’ll be three weeks tomorrow for me, and I still don’t know for certain about Marsucci.”
“Any problem with the numbers?” Joey said.
“Nope. Clean as a whistle so far, but I know they’ve been watching.”
“They?”
“McDuffie’s boys. So far, so good, but who knows. This week I began hitting Thelma Boyd’s drop at the Riviera newsstand, and that’s right under their noses.”
“Any kick-your-ass warnings?”
“Warnings? What the hell you talking about? Sweeney, Sharkey and Spencer don’t give warnings, they just kick ass.”
“And our asses are next, that what you’re saying?”
“You got it, we’re guinea pigs, pure and simple.”
Still lightheaded from the ale, they stumbled back to the fence, pushed aside a few loose boards, and headed home. Richie and Joey never had much in common, and now, without a hint of guilt, they were criminal comrades.
“Nervous?” Richie asked as they approached the Bancik tenement. “Sure as shit I was on my first day. I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Thanks for breaking Marsucci in for me. I can handle him okay, no need to worry.”
“Blessed be the numbers,” Richie said. “Shake on it.” They extended their right arms for a tight handshake, pumped four times, and in that moment truly sized each other up.
“Amen to that,” Joey said, then turned and pushed his way past four black kids playing on the stoop.
Alice Maxwell witnessed her son’s handshake and brief exchange with Joey while on her way to drop some letters into the corner mailbox. She caught up with her son midway down the block, and they walked home arm-in-arm.
“I wasn’t aware you were so buddy-buddy with the Bancik boy,” Alice said. “You hardly ever talked about him, and when you did, you weren’t very kind.”
“Things change mom, and even guys like Joey, who can really be a jerk, can come around if you give them a chance.”
Richie took their apartment key from his mother, and trying not to let his tipsiness show, unlocked the door and stepped aside to usher her
in with a flamboyant wave of his hand.
“Your palace awaits you.”
It would be half an hour before Andy Maxwell returned home from work. Richie set the kitchen table for dinner, careful to stay out of his mother’s way as she scurried between the refrigerator, the sink and stove. Although the Maxwells were lapsed Catholics in many ways, eating meat on Fridays wasn’t one of their transgressions. Tonight it would be filet of sole in a mushroom sauce, mashed potatoes, canned green beans, milk for Richie and coffee for his mom and dad. Dessert would be A&P marble pound cake.
“Ready to start mashing?” his mother asked as she removed several large potatoes from a pot of boiling water. “Grab the masher from the top drawer and don’t forget to add the margarine, salt and pepper.”
“Mom, I ain’t no rookie. I’ve been doing this for years.”
“Don’t say ain’t. Now let’s get back to you and Joey Bancik. What’s going on between you two?”
“For one thing, we’re both Beacon carriers now. Joey starts tomorrow, and I was kinda filling him in on what to expect from Marsucci. He’s had his name in longer than me, and I’m glad he finally got a route.”
“So that makes you pals?”
“Not yet, and maybe never. Let’s give it some time, and who knows.”
“So far it’s working for you, let’s hope it works out for Joey.”
A few minutes later, they heard an enthusiastic “I’m home! And I’m hungry!” echo through the apartment. Andy Maxwell’s pre-dinner routine never varied. After a hug and kiss for Alice, he escaped to the parlor with a bottle of Rheingold lager to scan the Clarion’s headlines, and catch John Wingate’s six o’clock radio newscast. There had never been a copy of the Beacon in the Maxwell home until Richie had started delivering it three weeks earlier. He was his son’s first new subscriber, but except for a pretty good sports section, he rated the paper far inferior to the Clarion.
He polished off the Rheingold and joined Richie at the kitchen table. Alice’s routine was even more predictable than her husband’s. She removed her apron, hung it on a hook in the pantry, and closed the door. True to Emily Post’s dictum, a proper wife never wore cooking attire when sitting down to eat.
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