“The luksh sold over four hundred,” he grumbled.
“Don’t complain,” his wife said. “I remember five years ago we were lucky to sell twenty or thirty. Who knew about turkeys in those days? Chickens or capons we knew, but turkeys were for goyim.”
He wiped his sour rye bread in the gravy on his plate. “It’s good, Mama,” he said, tasting it.
“You’re lucky you’re in the business,” she said. “Or, maybe you’d be eating turkey instead of brust flanken with the way meat stamps are given out. And with capon and chicken so high and hard to get, that’s why our people are buying turkeys.”
“I’d starve first,” Phil said. “Turkey meat is dry with no shmaltz and without no shmaltz there’s no flavor.”
“Stop complaining,” Marta said. “You make more money with turkeys than anything else.”
“You’re such a k’nocker,” he said. “Why don’t you go into the market like you used to? You have nothing to do all day in the house.”
“Al’s wife doesn’t come to the market,” she said.
“She never did,” Phil said. “She never had the time, she was too busy having another baby every year.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she retorted. “How would it look if I stayed in the market and she didn’t? Everybody would think that you were not doing as well as he did.”
“It’s nobody’s business what I do,” he said. He cut another slice of meat on his plate. “Jews get in trouble if people think they are doing too well. How do you think those Nazis started on them? Because they were too jealous of us.”
“This is America, not Europe,” she said.
“Don’t be stupid,” he retorted. “We have plenty of Nazis right here, so we should be smart and quiet. Don’t give any of them a reason to be envious of us.”
“Maybe Uncle Phil is right,” Motty said suddenly.
“What do you mean?” Marta asked, looking at her.
“A big wedding at the Twin Cantors might not be the right thing to do just now. There is a war on and everyone knows how expensive the Twin Cantors are.”
“You mean you don’t want a wedding at the Twin Cantors?” Marta asked in surprise. “Every girl in the world should be so lucky to get married at the Twin Cantors.”
“Wait a minute,” Phil said. “The girl might be right. Not only because of the money, but remember that we have two sons and none of them are in the service. There would be many people that won’t like that.”
“Stevie is a doctor and everyone knows that married doctors don’t have to go into the service,” Marta said.
“Sure they know, but everyone will think that’s why he’s getting married,” he said. “And there are those who think that Joe is a draft dodger. Why give them a chance to prove it?”
Marta was silent for a moment, then turned to Motty. “Then what kind of a wedding would you have?”
Motty looked at her aunt. “Just us, the family. At Borough Hall where no one would know us.”
“Without a rabbi?” Marta was shocked.
“They don’t have rabbis at Borough Hall,” Motty said. “But it’s just as legal.”
“Maybe just us here at home with a rabbi?” Marta asked. “Somehow without a rabbi and a chupa it doesn’t seem like you’re married.”
Motty nodded. “We could do it here, but remember then that Joe couldn’t come. We can’t take the chance that someone would see him and ask questions. At Borough Hall nobody would know who he is.”
Phil looked at his wife. “The girl has saichel. Smart and quiet. That’s the way to do it.”
Marta’s eyes began to fill with tears. “All I want for my children is naches, not problems.”
Motty went quickly to her aunt’s side and put her arms around her. “Please, Tante Marta,” she said softly, her own eyes beginning to tear. “Please.”
“Why, God?” Marta cried, “did it have to happen at a time like this?”
“Don’t blame God,” he said rising from the table. “Fuck Adolf Hitler!”
Marta’s tears turned to anger. “Then I don’t give a damn. No rabbi, no wedding. I will not allow my children to live in sin!”
The telephone rang and Phil picked it up. “Hello.” He listened for a moment, then called to them over his shoulder, “It’s Joe.” Then back into the receiver, “Yes, Joe?”
Joe’s excited voice crackled through the phone. “I sold another story to Collier’s and Universal Pictures wants to buy my first story for a movie in Hollywood. They want to pay me seventy-five hundred dollars!”
“Seven thousand five hundred dollars?” Phil asked incredulously. “What’s the catch?”
“No catch, Papa,” Joe answered. “It’s on the up and up. They want me to go to Hollywood to write the screenplay.”
“When?” Phil asked.
“Right away, probably next week.”
“So soon?”
“It doesn’t matter, Papa,” Joe said. “This is an opportunity of a lifetime!”
Phil turned from the telephone to his wife. “Marta,” he said proudly, “our Yussele is a real writer. He’s going to Hollywood to make a movie. I guess that means you can have a wedding with a rabbi after all.”
12
JAMAICA SAT DOWN and put his long legs up on the table. He looked at Joe, who was staring down at his typewriter. “You don’ look happy?” he asked.
“I’m fucked,” Joe said morosely.
“I don’t get you,” Jamaica said.
“I have this job to write a movie in Hollywood,” Joe said.
“That sounds good.” Jamaica smiled. “For good money?”
“Yeah,” Joe said. “But there’s a problem. They want me in Hollywood next week and Mr. B. wanted me for three months. I still have six weeks to go.”
“Tell Mr. B.,” Jamaica said. “He’s not an unreasonable man.”
Joe looked skeptically at Jamaica. According to the newspapers, Mr. B. was accused of at least half the murders in Brooklyn and was head of all the rackets. He remained silent.
Jamaica read his mind. “You kin talk to him. He’s not as bad as all that.”
“Could you talk to him for me?” Joe asked.
Jamaica shook his head. “I didn’t make this deal, an’ something I learned about is not to butt into somebody else’s business. That’s how you get hurt.”
“You can tell him that I’m really no good at this job,” Joe said.
“Even though that’s the truth,” Jamaica said, “he the boss. I don’t say nuthin’.”
Joe met his eyes. “You’re afraid of him?” he accused.
“You betcha’ yo’ white ass,” Jamaica answered honestly. “I’m jes’ a little nigger baby tryin’ to make out in a cruel cold world.” Then he laughed. “But you have nuthin’ to worry about. Only thing he kin say to you is that you have to stay on the job. An’ then, he might say okay. But if you don’t ask, you don’t get.”
Joe stared at him for a moment—then his ego began to bother him. “Am I really as bad as that on this job?”
Jamaica smiled. “The worst,” he said, without rancor. “But that’s not your first love. You a writer, not a pimp. A good pimp has to be born, not taught.”
“Writers have to be born, too,” Joe said defensively.
“I don’t know about writers,” Jamaica said. “But the fac’ is that business here has gone down more’n twenty percent since you come in. The girls have been layin’ on their ass on the job, not trickin’. Not once even have you beaten up on one of them. An’ remember I tol’ you about that. That’s how you get respect.”
“I also said I didn’t think I could handle it,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” Jamaica said easily. “That’s why I’m not complainin’.” He paused for a moment, then got to his feet. “I really like you, kid,” he said. “That’s why I hope Mr. B. lets you out. That way everybody’ll be happy. You’ll get what you want an’ we’ll get back to makin’ real money.”
Joe look
ed up at the black man. “Jamaica, you’re something else,” he said, respect in his voice. “Thank you.”
Jamaica nodded. “Then you’re goin’ to ask him?”
“Yes,” Joe said. “I’ll have to see my father before I meet with Mr. B. It was my father who made the introduction.”
* * *
IT WAS SLIGHTLY less than an hour since Joe had taken the subway from the station at Ninety-sixth street and Broadway to the end of the New Lots line and walked across Pitkin Avenue to the market. The lights were bright at the stores on the avenue but the market lights were dark.
Only one lamp was shining through the locked door on the street. Joe walked to open the gate to the pens. His father’s car was still there. It was a little after seven-thirty, but he knew that his father stayed after the market closed at seven o’clock to check the day’s receipts. He turned the knob on the rear door. It, too, was locked.
He was about to knock at the door when a woman’s scream sounded from inside. Automatically he slammed his shoulder against the door and the flimsy lock tore from the rotted wooden doorjamb.
He was just inside the door when he heard the second scream. It came from his father’s small office. It was unlocked, and it opened at his touch. Then he froze in the doorway, his eyes blinking in surprise.
Josie’s eyes were staring in fear as she turned to him. “Your father!” she cried. “Your father—”
Phil was lying lengthwise across her on the small couch, his pants down to his knees, his hips still embraced by Josie’s fat legs, her dress high above her breasts. Phil’s eyes were almost shut in pain as he gasped for breath. Slowly he began sliding to the floor.
Joe grabbed his father’s coat from the chair behind the desk and pulled out the bottle of pills that were always in the breast pocket. He knelt on the floor and raised his father’s head against his knees. “Get some water!” he shouted at Josie.
Shaking, she grabbed the glass of water that was always on the desk. Quickly Joe forced the pills into his father’s mouth, and involuntarily his father’s throat shuddered and he swallowed the pills. He looked up at Josie, who was still shaking. “Call Dr. Gitlin. Tell him it’s an emergency! Ask him to call an ambulance!”
His father was gasping and spitting with difficulty. When he turned his father’s face to the side, the spittle dripped from his mouth. Then he turned his head and vomited.
Josie called from the telephone. “Dr. Gitlin said he’ll be here in a few minutes.”
“Get me a wet towel to wipe Papa’s face!” Joe said. She handed it to him. He began mopping the perspiration from his father’s forehead.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” Josie said, crying. “It’s not my fault. I always told him to be careful. ‘Screwing’s too much for you, Phil,’ I used to say. ‘Frenchin’ is easier and better for you.’ But he’s an old-fashioned man and he likes only the old-fashioned way.”
“It’s not your fault, Josie,” Joe said. He looked down at his father’s face. The strain was disappearing and his color began returning to normal as his breathing came more easily. “Get another towel to wipe his cock,” he said. “Then help me pull up his pants. We don’t want anyone to see him here like this.”
She was still crying as she did everything he asked. “I’m sorry, Joe, I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’ll never let him do it again.”
“Okay. Don’t worry. He’s going to be all right,” he said. “Now, you get out of here and go home. And say nothing about it to anyone. Just come in to work tomorrow like nothing ever happened.”
“Thanks, Joe,” she said gratefully as she ran to the door. “Thanks.”
His father’s head moved. Then he opened his eyes and saw Joe bending over him. “What—what happened?” he asked weakly.
“Nothing, Papa. You’re okay. Rest.”
“But what happened?” Phil insisted hoarsely.
“You almost fucked your brains out!” he said, his fear turning into anger. “Now lie down and rest. Dr. Gitlin will be here in a minute.”
Phil took a deep breath. “And Josie?”
“She’s a good girl, Papa,” he said. “She was never here.”
Phil looked into his son’s face. “I feel ashamed,” he said, staring into his eyes. “I was pretty stupid. Milton warned me, but I didn’t listen to him.”
“You’re not stupid, Papa,” he said. “You’re human.”
“But I love your mama, I shouldn’t have done it.”
“It’s over now, so forget it.” He heard an automobile in front. A moment later, Dr. Milton Gitlin came in, his small doctor’s satchel in his hand.
He looked down at them. “What happened?”
“I came in here,” Joe said, “and saw my father gasping on the floor. I shoved two of those pills you gave him into his throat.”
Dr. Gitlin wasn’t stupid. He saw the disarray of Phil’s clothing but said nothing. He opened his satchel, took out a stethoscope and listened for a moment while he took Phil’s pulse. Quickly he checked the blood pressure, and peered with a tiny light into the pupils of Phil’s eyes. He nodded slightly, fixed a quick hypo of adrenaline and shot it into Phil’s arm. “You’ll be okay,” he said. “The ambulance will have a tank of oxygen for you on the way to the hospital.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Phil said stubbornly.
“You’re going to the hospital,” Dr. Gitlin said firmly. “You have had a big strain on your heart, and don’t think an angina won’t put you away. If everything’s okay in the morning I’ll let you out.”
* * *
MARTA WAS ANGRY when she came into the waiting room at the hospital as Joe rose to meet her. He saw Motty just behind her. He kissed his mother on the cheek. “Hello, Mama.”
She glared at him. “Why did they call you and not me? I’m his wife, ain’t I? It’s only right that I should be the one they call first.”
“That’s right, Mama,” he said. “But I was right there in the market when it happened. I gave him his pills and called Dr. Gitlin.”
“I still don’t know what happened,” she said. “The operators at the hospital tell you nothing.”
“He strained his heart.”
“How could he do a thing like that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Lifting twenty crates of chickens would kill a bull,” Joe lied, thinking quickly.
“Stupid,” she snapped. “He knew he wasn’t to do things like that. But your father always thought he was Samson.”
“How is he now?” Motty asked.
Joe kissed her cheek. “Better, much better.”
“Let’s go up to his room,” his mother said.
“Wait a minute, Mama,” Joe said. “Dr. Gitlin said he’ll let us in when they have finished all the tests.”
“Your father is a shmuck,” Marta said. “Sometimes I feel I could kill him, he’s so stupid.”
Joe looked at her reprovingly. “He almost saved you the trouble,” he said sarcastically.
Marta stared wide-eyed at him, then suddenly began to cry. “My Phil, my Phil!”
Joe put his arms around her. “He’ll be okay. Calm down now.”
“It’s lucky that Joe was there with him, Tante,” Motty said.
“Yes, yes,” Marta said. Then she looked up at him. “Why were you there? I thought you were to stay out of Brooklyn.”
“I had to ask Papa a question,” he said.
“What question?” she insisted.
“If he could ask Mr. B. to let me out of the job so I can take the job in Hollywood.”
Marta looked at him. Suddenly she was stronger. About this, she was in charge. “Don’t you worry. That lowlife will do anything you want or I’ll make him wish he was never born!”
Dr. Gitlin came into the waiting room. He was smiling as he came toward them. “Everything’s all right. The electrocardiogram shows normal, no more damage, blood pressure one thirty-five over eighty-five, no fever. A good night’s rest, and he can go home in the morning.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Marta gratefully. “Can I see him now?”
“You can,” he said. “But remember to be very calm, don’t get him excited, and stay only ten minutes. I want to make sure that he sleeps.”
“We’ll wait here, Mama,” Joe said. He watched his mother follow Dr. Gitlin into the elevator and then turned to Motty. “You look all right,” he said.
“I’m almost five weeks late,” she said sarcastically. “Isn’t that the time when pregnant women are supposed to look their best.”
He tried to make her smile. “That should make Stevie very happy.”
She didn’t smile; instead she frowned. “Stevie will be here the day after tomorrow. That’s Wednesday. The wedding’s set for Sunday afternoon. That is, if he doesn’t suspect anything before.”
“He won’t,” he said confidently.
“I’m not that sure,” she said. She looked at him. “When are you supposed to go?”
“My agent said Saturday on the Twentieth Century from Grand Central.”
“I guess that’s it,” she said. “But I don’t feel good about it.”
“You’ll feel better when you’ve gotten married,” he said.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m confused. I’m worried. Maybe the marriage will be delayed because your father is sick.”
“My father will be home in the morning. Everything will go according to schedule. Now, you stop worrying.”
“I can’t stop.”
He smiled. “Normal bride’s jitters.”
13
MISS SHELTON HANDED two envelopes to Joe across her desk. “The first envelope holds your train tickets, first class, of course. The second is a letter of introduction to Mr. Ray Crossett, who is in charge of the story department at the studio and your immediate superior. The second envelope holds your checks, one for the story rights, twenty-five hundred less our ten percent commission, twenty-two hundred fifty net, also one hundred dollars in cash for expenses. Your weekly salary check will be sent to us here and we will send our check to you after we deduct our usual commission and expenses.”
“I can’t thank you enough,” Joe said, glancing through the envelopes. “I’ve never had this much money in my life.”
The Storyteller Page 9