by Betty Smith
requirements were simple. A kid had to be a punk to
matriculate.
One of Sal's instructors worked on the punk and turned
him into a hoodlum. Then a sort of assistant professor
came in and turned the hoodlum into a gangster. If the
gangster worked hard and did what he was told and didn't
doublecross Sal or the syndi
~ 37, 1
care, why, in time he might get to be a first-class
criminal.
The punks stood around and their faces brightened and
they stood up real straight when one of Sal's men walked
into the poolroom. Who would be chosen? All were
anxious. When the man chose a kid and gave him a neatly
wrapped box containing three fifths of rye or Scotch with
an address and the instructions: "Collect twenty-five and
keep five," the boy beamed as though he had been tapped
for a fraternity, and all the other punks were jealous.
Denny had no part in this. He sat on a high stool and
watched the pool games and watched the comings and
goings of Sal and his men. It was like a show to him. He
was fascinated by Sal with his expensive tight-fitting black
overcoat and his cream-colored Borsalina hat and his
two-hundred-dollar suits and ten-dollar ties and his long
black Packard.
From time to time, Denny was approached and asked if
he'd like to make an easy "ten." Sure, Denny would have
been glad to make an easy ten, but not that way. He
always said "No." Why? He was afraid of F ether Flynn.
Denny went to confession each week. He had been doing
so since he was eight years old. It was as much a part of
his life as eating dinner at noon and supper at six. He'd
have to confess to Father Flynn. The priest would not
violate the confessional but he might withhold absolution
until Denny went to the police and confessed. It never
occurred to Denny flat to go to confession or to falsify a
confession.
Then he was afraid of his father. He always had a
feeling that his father divas waiting . . . waiting for him,
Denny, to do something real bad so that he could beat
him to death with his shillelagh.
So while he did nothing worse than sit in the poolroom,
it got around in the neighborhood that he was in bad
company and he was tarred, bad.
It was the common consensus of the neighborhood that
Denny was headed straight for Sing Sing.
1 374
~ CHIC P T. E ~ Fl F T. Y- Fl V E An'
DENNY'S boss, Ceppi, the greengrocer, always brought
his lunch from home. But one day he left it home standing
on the sideboard and never missed it until noon. He called
Denny out from the back room where the boy was sorting
tomatoes: the firm for salads and eating out of hand in
one basket, and the soft ones for soup or stewing in
another basket.
"Hey, Wal-yo," called the boss. "Go by Winer the butcher
and buy me six slice' hard salami slice' thin like fishy
paper only to Winer you say dingy because he's a Heinie."
Otto Winer, in white apron, white coat over a sweater
and straw cuff protectors and wearing a straw hat as all
butchers did, even in winter, had taken advantage of the
noon lull in trade to eat his steaming hot dinner in the
room adjoining his store.
The dinner, which he ate from a cake-mixing bowl,
consisted of pigs' knuckles, spinach, noodles and
sauerkraut, all of which had been simmering together in
a covered iron pot since seven o'clock that morning. A t
hand was a lump of Schwartzbrod, spread with butter, to
be used to sop up the broth, or "bree," as he called it,
when the solid food had been eaten. His beverage was a
bottle of beer which he had brewed himself.
Since his wife's death some years back, he'd lived in and
cooked in the little back room. His living was lush, but his
equipment sparse. All he had was a one-plate gas stove,
the covered iron pot, a coffeepot, a coffee mug, a drinking
glass and a knife, fork and soup spoon.
He had a basic recipe with seven variations, one for
each day of the week. Each morning' he put all the stuff
in the pot, covered it with w ater, added salt a Id pepper
and let it simmer all day long. At noon, he ate a bowlful
with knife and fork because the meat was still in chunks.
For his mid-afternoon snack he used only a fork because
the stuff had cooked to stew by that time. By supper, it
had simmered down to I thick soup, which he ate with a
spoon.
F3 s]
After supper, everything, in the pot was fed to his cat.
The cat was a huge black one with a white face and a
head like a codfish. The cat's name was Schweinefleisch.
Translated, it vaguely meant "Porgy." The only thing was
that the cat wouldn't answer to the name Schweinefleisch
in or out of translation. He answered only to the name of
"Kitty."
The cat slept all day in the clean, empty window of the
butcher shop against a backdrop of brown paper bags,
each hung up by one corner, to make an overlapping
diamond design: a standard butcher-shop window
dressing. The big, fat, sleek cat in the window was a good
ad J or the store. People thought it must be a very clean
butcher shop. No rats or mice. People figured that the cat
was big and fat from eating up all the rats and mice.
Schweinefleisch had never been known to chase a rat,
much less eat one. He was too fastidious for that. He was
fat and shiny and strong from all the melted bones and
meat and vegetables that he ate, and from the "bree,' that
the cat lapped up in lieu of milk.
As Winer ate today's dinner, he dreamed of tomorrow's.
He planned to put some chunks of veal in the pot, whole
potatoes, whole onions, a couple of handfuls of uncut
string beans, seasoning and half a gallon of buttermilk.
That would make a nice "bree," the buttermilk.
He lacked sugar in his diet. He didn't take sugar in his
morning coffee. He liked his coffee thick and black and
laced with chicory. Sometimes just before bedtime, he got
a craving for something sweet. At such times, he poured
himself a tumbler of pre-prohibition, thick, sweet port v.
ine. After downing that, he felt he was caught up on sweet
stuff for life. Usually, he ate a sour pickle as an antidote.
But he was a good man, just the same.
Denny walked into the empty shop and saw Winer
eating in the back room. "Hey, Otto," he yelled, "Ceppi
the Boss wants six slices of hard salami sliced di72ny."
"For a penny profit," said Winer coldly, "I don't let my
dinner stand."
"Aw, come on. Chop-choiJ! Chat means get the lead out
in Chinese."
"Listen! Go by Blyfuss the butcher, for your worst."
"The boss said to get it here. I lave a heart. I'm on
ly
trying to make a living."
1 376
"D, Bzll?lme1~" muttered winter.
Denny wished he was still hanging out at the newsstand
with the fellers. What an act he could put on. He
rehearsed the lines.
"Ihe boss says to me, 'Iley, what'a mat'? Where's me,-
eats?'
(Denny thought of IIOW he u ould make the dialect
broad for comic effects.) " 'Get-a-me der salam'.!"
But there was no newsstand crowd now and the fellers
in the poolroom would think he has ntits if he `ent into
a routine like that.
While he vitas mentally rehearsing, he jiggled his way in
back of the meat counter. He looked at the meat-cutting
block. He remembered coming to this s me store when he
u as a little kid, the time Maggie-Now came h re to buy
a leg of lamb for Claude's first dinner at: the house. He
remembered vividly how he had been entranced with that
meat block then.
Now he took his fill Of looking at it. I he hardwood
WJS whitely clean and had a slight hollow like a big,
shallow bowl. He ran his hand over the smooth wood and
a thrill a shiver went down his spine. He fell in love
with the block. He looked at the rack of sharp knives
fastens d to one side of it. He had an impulse.
"Hey, Otto," he called, "mould you let me cut the salami
for you? "
NONV, whether there was something in the timbre of
Denny's voice, or Winer's conscience bothered him
because he had been mde to a customer, or he felt
generous because he was replete with good, sound food,
he matle an answer ullich had a tremendous effect on
Denny's life.
He said: "Go 'head! "
"Where's the salami? '
"Is in icebox."
The icebox was a small rooll1 lighted by a small barred
window high in the wall. TNVO huge blocks of ice stood
on the sawdustcovered floor. Denny looked around
reverently like an art connoisseur in an art museum.
The focus of interest was a large, cleaned, split hot,
crucified from a rack by a hook i ~1 each front foot.
There w as also a quarter of beef hanging up and legs of
ham and legs of veal. Also there was something he had
never seen before. It looked like a rubber washboard.
L ,77
"Gee!'' he breathed admiringly.
He found the salami hanging with other bolognas, near
the door. He brought it out to the block. He took a knife
from the rack. It was as big as a saber. He walked twice
around the block, half afraid to start cutting the salami.
"Hey, Otto," he called. "How do you make it dingy?"
Otto sighed, put down his bread and came out into the
shop. He snatched the saber from Denny, gave him a dirty
look and said: "Dockle!" He replaced the saber and
withdrew a long thin knife from the rack. It had been
honed so many times that it was down to a quarter inch
of blade.
"Watch!" commanded the butcher.
He inserted the fingernails of the middle and forefinger
of his left hand deep into the salami near the edge of the
roll. He leaned the knife blade against his fingers and
sliced. He held the slice up to the light. It was
transparent! Even a little seed in the salami had been cut
in half.
"My God!" said Denny in admiration.
"Dinny!" proclaimed the butcher.
Winer handed him the knife. Denny dug his nails into
the salami, wishing they were cleaner, and placed the
knife blade against his fingers. The hand holding the knife
started to tremble. He looked an appeal at Winer. The
good man understood.
"I ain't done eating yet," he said. He went back to his
bread and "bree" and beer.
Denny breathed easier. His hand stopped trembling. He
cut through. He held up the slice to the light. It was
almost as transparent as the butcher's!
"Gee!" he whispered. thrilled.
He cut four more slices, testing each against the light.
The fifth slice was opaque. He had grown too confident.
He popped that into his mouth and cut the last two slices
perfectly. He arranged the slices overlapping on a bit of
oiled paper. He thought he had never seen anything so
beautiful. He carried the salami roll back to the icebox
and hung it up. Still holding the knife, he went over to the
hog and stared at it.
"You like the hog?" said Winer, who had come in behind
him.
"It's a ditty," said Denny.
[ 378 ]
"C;o 'head," said Whler. "Tell Nile kinds of pork it gives
from a hog."
Denny touched the hole with his knife. "pork chops?" he
asked hesitantly.
"Sure."
"Honest?" said Denny, all aglow
Otto Winer felt a distinc t thrill. I-le recognised
immediately a meat aficionado. "Go 'head' Show me
more."
Denny touched a haunch with the ktlife. Fresh ham?"
"Good! "
"Shoulder ham?"
"Good! "
"Pigs' knuckles."
"Good."
"Spareribs?''
"Sehr good!"
"But where's the bacon?" asked Dentin.
"Smoked. Hanging on the hook by the ~ indoN;," said
Winer. scathingly. "Dockle!"
Denny drew himself up :-o his full height and even
stretched a little. He looked Winer right in the eye.
"Listen," he said, "I don't like that name Dockle. Call me
Dennis."
Winer measured him with a look, then said, "All right,
Den-iss.' "What's that white wrinkled skin hanging there?"
"Tripe."
"Tripe? I always thought that v. as a word meaning 110
good." "I don't like tripe, needer," said Otto.
"Do you ever need a helper? " asked Denny.
"When I'm busy, I need, when I ain't, I don't."
But thoughts raced through Winer's mind. I know a lot
of things about meat, he thought in (Berman. It is not right
that, when I die. nobody lives no more as l nows caveat I
know. For forty years, the meat is nzy life and I learned
many things by myself. About cutting meat. This boy here, I
could teach him these things. A son l never had. But this boy
. . .
Denny broke in on his revery. "Well, if you ever do need
a helper, think of me. The name is Dennis Moore."
"I don't hear good from you," said the butcher. "You go
by the poolroom every night.'
t'791
"I quit that."
"How long ago you stop?"
"Starting now."
He don't Arrow, thought Winer.
"But where you world, you don't stay long. You get
fresh with the boss and you be lazy."
Denny put away the fresh retort which came so handily
to his mind. He took his cap cliff and wrung it in his
hands, looking away from Wmer.
"I've been working since I'm sixteen. All the things I've
don't like. So I get fresh so I can get fired. But here . . ."
He looked around at the sides of meat. "To work here, it
would be like going to Coney Island every day in the
summer."
It was done! Winer knew it and Denny knew it. But
there were certain formalities.
"How much does Ceppi pay you?" asked Winer.
Denny was going to lie and say twenty dollars. He
decided against it not that he believed in the truth, but
he thought it would be bad luck if he lied now.
"Eighteen dollars," said Denny.
"Maybe I could pay that," said Winer. But he sounded
doubtful.
"I get eighteen dollars. And tips for deliveries."
"Eighteen dollars I give you and no more," said Winer
firmly. "Your tips is that I learn you a good trade."
Denny's heart jumped. He was hired! He had never
expected ... why he would have worked for nothing....
Winer mistook Denny's introspection for hesitation. He
felt he had to add something. "Never will you starve are
you a butcher because always people must eat and always
they like to eat meat."
"Eighteen dollars is fair enough," said Denny.
They shook hands clumsily over the deal. Both were
embarrassed with being so secretly delighted. "You start
Monday?" asked Winer.
"First, [ must tell Ceppi and my sister."
"That's a good boy," approved Winer.
"But are you sure, Denny? 'All my life' is a long time
when you're only nineteen."
[ 3S ]
'I'm sure. I went in there and there vas this cat in the
window and clean sawdust on that clean floor, and the
wood block and the good knives that he keeps
sharpened.... I wish I could get it over to you,
Maggie-Now, btlt I can't. Anyway, I knew all of a sudden
that that was what I wanted to do all my life. This is a
dopey thing to say, but I felt that I'd been born just for
that."
She smiled. Maggie-Now had never expected Denny to
grow up to be President of the IJnited States. Still and all,
she'd had a dream or two for the baby her dying mother
had put into her arms; a dream for the vulnerable little
boy who had sat on his cot alone the day she married;
who had said: "I want to go with you." No, she had never
~ xpectcd hin1 to become President or even a governor.
Yet . . . ye t . . .
"I'm glad you found what you avant to N ork at, Denny.
I think it's a fine trade for a n1an."
Denny was making soup greens. He walked along the
bins, taking a wrinkled carrot, an outside stalk leaf of
celery, pinched with wilt at the top, a tomato with a soft
spot and a sprig of parsley. He put these in a twist of
paper called a toot. When he had enough toots filled, he
wrote a sign on a paper bag: Sale on Soup Greens. Only
5�. He put the toots on a stand near the door to
immediately attract buyers. He vas following the boss's
orders to push soup greens that morning.
"Ceppi," asked Denny briglltly, 'do you think you could
do without me?"
"Anytime. All-a time," said Ceppi.
"Because after Saturday you won't see me any more."
"Sure, I see you. Ever' Sunday I cotne see you in reform
school and I bring orange for you."
"All kidding aside," said the boy. "I'm quitting Saturday
night. I'd quit now but I don't want to leave you holding
the bag."
Ceppi snatched a toot of soup greens out of Denny's
hand. "Go! Go now!" he said passionately. "Beat it!"
"I'll stay to the end of the veek. You uptight have
trouble getting another boy."
"Ha! You think? Oh, to! ~ here's plent' more loafers
where you come from."
Denny came home with half a vveek's pay. f 3811
"Oh, well, you were going to leave Ceppi's anyhow,
Denny," said his sister.
"Sure! But he didn't have to kick me out while I was
resigning. And he didn't have to give me that loafer and
reform-school routine, either. But I'll show him! I'll show
them all," vowed Denny. "I'll be the best damned butcher