Funny Boys (14 page)

As much as Mickey didn’t want to listen, he heard. These gangsters had banded together after prohibition and had divided up the country. If someone that had not the approval of the bosses tried to muscle into territory, they called on the Brownsville boys and their Ocean Hill cohorts to do the job of getting rid of them.

It was no secret that they owned cops and judges and politicians. Judging from the clientele coming to Gorlick’s, that seemed to be absolutely true. The sheriff of Sullivan County, where the Catskills were located, was a regular guest, as were cops and politicians from the city and the state. The Italians came, too.
They gambled on the slots or blackjack tables while their wives and girlfriends enjoyed the facilities. Gloria’s girls were on call to do whatever guests required.

From his own observation of Kid Twist and Pep in the beating of his father and his own toilet ordeal, it was not hard to make the leap in his mind that these men were also vicious killers. Worse, they were killers for hire, which meant that they would kill without emotion, in cold blood. Like doing a show business gig, he thought. You do your act, walk off and collect your check.

Until Mickey first laid eyes on Mutzie, he was prepared to ignore whatever he heard about these people. It was none of his business. He was here to make people laugh, not pass judgment on anybody. But her association with Pep, the alleged cruelest killer of them all, made indifference impossible. How could such a beautiful dream girl consort with such a killer? The disconnect disturbed him deeply. He knew why it did, and it scared him.

Up until Pep made his offer to Mickey, he had barely uttered more than five words to Mutzie. Secretly, he watched her—studied her, in fact. He was always conscious of her presence. She had, he thought, a mysterious air about her, something exotic. She moved with such grace and elegance, just like Jean Harlow. There was no escaping the comparison. Everything about her called attention to the image. He had no illusions. She was far, far beyond his reach.

At first, he thought, he was being very clever in his secret observations. He knew the importance of not appearing the least bit interested. But she drew his gaze like a magnet. Unfortunately, his pose of indifference was not a clever enough ploy for the likes of Irish. Irish was a man with a score to settle.

“Stay off the grass, tumler,” Irish had whispered to him one day when he was caught off guard staring at Mutzie as she sat near
the lake reading a book. That was before Pep had asked him to make Mutzie happy.

“What the hell are you talking about, Irish?” he had muttered.

“You know,” Irish had said, puckering his lips to kiss the air. “Put your eyes back in your head.”

Often, when he was alone in his bed, he thought about Mutzie, inventing fantasy conversations with her.

“How can you possibly be involved with that killer?” he would ask her in his imagination.

“He’ll kill me if I try to escape.”

That satisfied him for a time, but what he suspected was that Mutzie was blindly in love with this killer.

“He’s cruel and mean and has no heart. When he is finished with you, he will toss you in the garbage,” he told her in his mind. This was a repetitive theme.

“I can’t help myself,” was her imaginary response.

“But I’ll help you.”

“I know.”

“How can you go to bed with him? His hands are covered in blood and he has had many women. In fact, he probably has girlfriends everywhere. You are just one of a pack.”

“I know, but I don’t care.”

“I’m someone who loves you,” he would beg her in these conversations. He would burn inside and he felt the entire center of him yearning for her. It was an awful burden to bear, this strange feeling of both jealousy and devotion.

Which is why, when Pep confronted him that day when he was leaving, he felt that God had reached down and patted him on the tush. Go, my son, God might have said. Here’s that little knish you’re longing for. Surprise!

As he walked across the lobby the afternoon Irish saw him
with Mutzie, Gorlick, who had been talking to the desk clerk on duty, summoned him with a wave of his hand to follow him into his office. Gorlick waddled around his desk and sat down on his chair. Behind him were photographs of Gorlick’s Greenhouse in various stages of remodeling. There were also photographs of Gorlick with famous celebrities. He spotted Gorlick and George Raft. Gorlick and Edward G. Robinson. Gorlick with Mayor Walker.

“What is rule one for a tumler?” Mr. Gorlick asked.

Mickey was puzzled, although he searched his mind for an answer. But before he could come up with one Gorlick answered his own question.

“To exercise extreme caution with one’s schmuck,” Gorlick said, his eyes staring in the general direction of the offending anatomy.

“Exactly what are you trying to say?” Mickey said, putting a great deal of energy into his sense of outrage. The so-called “word” about him and Mutzie had finally reached Gorlick. This was an irony since, above all, he had heeded Gorlick’s advice in the face of great pressure and, in some cases, genuine temptation.

Helen Reles herself had broadly hinted her availability one day on the lake where he had taken her and her little boy for a sailboat ride. She sat close to him as he worked the rudder and the little boy in his life jacket sat on the prow of the little boat.

“You got a chippy, Mickey?” she asked, her hand resting lightly on his knee as if to support her from the gently heeling boat.

“Sometimes a shiksa. Never a chippy,” he joked as Helen’s hand began caressing his knee taking a detour toward his thigh.

“You should try a real Yiddish mama sometime,” she told him, her hand roaming.

“I got one,” he said. She snuggled closer and brought her lips up to his ear. He was certain she put her tongue in it.

“I can give you something you’ll never forget.”

Suddenly he moved the rudder abruptly as if it were an accident. Little Reles fell into the water and Helen screamed. But the boy remained afloat on the calm surface and Mickey jumped in to save him. He had also saved himself.

Similar situations had arisen in other cases as well. He had had experiences at Blumenkranz but here he was doubly careful. The fact was that he had taken Mr. Gorlick’s admonition to heart and had no illusions about the consequences.

Of all people it was Marsha who made the situation crystal clear. One night he had seen her come out of the room of one of the male help, one of the sous-chefs, an ugly fat guy. Their eyes met and he must have shaken his head in some gesture of negative judgment. She followed him into his room.

“Ya tink I’m a dirty hooer, doncha, Mickey?”

“Not my business,” he replied. He had always been polite with Marsha.

“I think of myself as a business person,” she said hoarsely. “I gotta sick kid. I need the dough. What else have I got to sell? I need the extra. In this place, the help needs pussy. I’m the supply. You fuck with the guests, you get canned. Call me a safety valve.”

Suddenly and inexplicably her eyes filled with tears and her shoulders shook. Mickey rose from the bed and embraced her.

“I hate myself, Mickey. I feel like dirt.”

“I’m a tumler, Marsha. Not a rabbi. Everyone does what they have to do.”

She pressed against him and he felt her hard, massive, unfettered breasts, but he felt no desire.

“I got feelings like evabody,” she whispered finally as she
calmed down. He released her and she rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Yaw a good boy, Mickey. Ya treat me nice. That Irish, he got it in for you.”

“Does Carter make liver pills?” Mickey said. “I cleaned his clock.”

“Irish, he’s like a watchdog.” She tapped her nose. “It don matter. He wants to make trouble, he makes it.”

“Dog, you said?” Mickey retorted, determined to lift the mood. “Man says to a psychiatrist, ‘I just can’t stop believing I’m a dog.’ ‘When did that start,’ the doctor asks. ‘When I was a puppy,’ the man says.”

Marsha giggled, her mood brightening. He felt good too. Always for the underdog, he thought, shrugging.

“I got some good ones too, Mickey,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Man says, ‘I’m having an affair.’ ‘Yeah?’ the other man says. ‘Who’s catering it?’”

“Old, but still funny,” Mickey said. “Know this one? You know why a Jewish American Princess closes her eyes when she makes love?”

Marsha laughed, her tits shaking. “Cause she don want to see him having a good time.”

“You give me an idea, Marsha. Sometimes I need a shill. You know, when I do a routine in the dining room, I throw you a joke. You throw back an answer.” He looked at her, watched her smile happily. “I throw you a buck or two for the gig.”

She studied him from head to toe.

“I like ya, Mickey,” throwing him a kiss. “Anytime ya want a freebee.” Then she smiled coquetiishly, lifted her dress, showed her behind, then shimmied out of the room.

Not his cup of tea, he decided. What she did with Irish was
a turnoff. Still, he was only human. But he was too embarrassed to go to any of Gloria’s whorehouses in the area. At times, he did take extraordinary measures, tumeling with himself.

“Stand up one more time and I’ll beat you again,” he often told his erection. And did. Laughing helped. But nothing helped his fantasizing about Mutzie. Nothing could assuage his yearning. For him, it was a new kind of suffering, and just a glimpse of her in person was enough to satisfy him for a time, calm his insistent heart. Forbidden love. He tried to joke that one away as well, but couldn’t.

“You want me to draw you a picture?” Gorlick asked. He was, Mickey could see, dead serious.

“If you’re talking about me and Strauss’s lady friend, you’re wrong. Mr. Strauss wants me to amuse her during the week.” He did not say make her happy. “In fact, it was an order and, considering his reputation, I would not think it wise to disobey Mr. Strauss’s orders.”

Mickey’s aggressive defense seemed to take Gorlick by surprise.

“He told you to come up to her room?” Gorlick asked.

“Irish,” Mickey mumbled bitterly. “He just wants to make trouble.”

“Not only Irish,” Gorlick said. Virtue apparently had no rewards, he sighed. He saw the fine hand also of Helen Reles and the others he had rejected. He wanted to tell Gorlick this, but he decided against it.

“We’re only doing a show together,” Mickey said, determined not to be convicted for a crime uncommitted. He searched his mind for a joke to lighten the moment, but none came. Mr. Gorlick shook his head sadly.

“For your own sake, I gotta fire you.”

A hot flush passed over Mickey’s face. His throat constricted and his voice rose an octave.

“You can’t do that. It’s a lie. I wouldn’t touch that girl. Not Mr. Strauss’ girl. Never.”

Mickey felt a surge of hysteria run through him. His heart pounded and he felt helpless.

“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Gorlick said. “You were a good tumler. I’ll have to find another one in a hurry.”

“You can’t do this. I’m completely innocent,” Mickey protested, growing desperate for an idea to save the situation. “I’m gonna call Strauss,” he said.

“Are you crazy?” Gorlick exploded. “You don’t know those people.”

“I’ll tell him that what you’re doing will upset his girlfriend.”

“You think he’ll care. All he needs is one hint that you’re doing his girl and you’ve got big troubles. It’s for your own good I’m doing this.”

“My own good?” Mickey cried. When was the last time you did anything for anyone else’s good, Mickey thought, but his mind was turning over quickly, figuring angles. He was determined not to be driven out by lies and innuendo. “I got a proposition, Mr. Gorlick.”

“I need this,” Gorlick said looking at the ceiling.

“Give me until the weekend,” Mickey said.

“Sonny, you’ll never last through the weekend,” Gorlick said.

“We’ll let Mr. Strauss be the judge,” Mickey said, but he was already considering his fallback position. He was going to fight this. And Mutzie would stand by him. Surely, Mr. Strauss would believe Mutzie.

“You want to keep her in your show, too?” Gorlick asked.

“Absolutely,” Mickey said. “She’s rehearsed. The guests will love it. And it’s only one night.”

Gorlick tapped his desk and studied Mickey, then he shook his head in despair.

“You’re a nut, Fine,” Gorlick said. Mickey was relieved.

“And you’re a wonderful humanitarian, Mr. Gorlick,” Mickey said, back now in his tumler mode. Jokes started to resurface again in his mind. He started to leave Gorlick’s office, then came back. “What do you get when you cross a penis, a potato and an ocean liner?”

“I’m not in the mood, tumler.”

“A dictatorship,” Mickey said. Gorlick’s nostrils quivered. A brief spasm of a laugh erupted lightly in his mouth.

“See, Mr. Gorlick,” Mickey said. “Funny makes people brothers.”

“That was funny?” Gorlick grumbled, studying Mickey, who felt his scrutiny. “Write your will, putz.”

Mickey did not tell Mutzie about his near-firing by Gorlick, nor anything of their conversation. During the dinner hour, he made his usual joking rounds with the guests, cajoling the older women, many of them aunts or mothers of men connected with the Brownsville boys.

“I see you left your grandchildren in the city,” he told them.

The response was invariably an effusive showing of pictures by the guests.

“So what do you do for aggravation?” he asked.

They laughed. They liked Mickey Fine. He felt it. They loved the games he organized, especially Simon Sez by lakeside every morning, his stand-up routines, even his funny announcements of the day’s activities during every meal.

During the week, he was certain he had found the rhythm of the place. He knew what jokes to tell to whom. He had to be extremely careful not to cross the line, although he knew the
women truly loved a dirty joke. And teasing sexuality was essential. Away from their men, they were barracudas, and he had become expert in, as Gorlick had warned, keeping his schmuck out of harm’s way.

“Tonight I’ve got a song that spans the generations,” he would tell the girls. “It’s dedicated to Mae West. I’ve got the son in the morning and the father at night.”