Funny Boys (21 page)

“You’re a doll,” he said, moving quickly past the busy cooks through the food storage area to a door that led to the outside. Then he ran to another exit near the rear of the hotel and scrambled up the back stairs.

Mutzie was startled by his return.

“Quick,” he said. “No questions.”

He gathered up the remains of her breakfast, wrapped it in the napkin he had brought up earlier and moved swiftly out of his room and down the corridor to Marsha’s room.

“Pep thinks you’re hiding me, right?” she asked.

“I don’t know what he thinks. Just stay here until I come back.”

He locked the door from the outside and was down the back stairs as fast as his feet could carry him. He started across the lobby to the dining room.

“You, tumler.”

He turned. It was Pep. Behind him was the gloating face of Irish.

“He says …” Pep said, his head gesturing toward Irish, “dat if anyone knows where Mutzie is, it’s you.”

“Dey been pretty thick, Mr. Strauss … Pep,” Irish said.

“I did what you told me, Mr. Strauss. You said keep her happy …”

Pep reached out and gripped him under one arm. Irish took the other and they moved him out to the porch.

“I been hearin tings bout you and Mutzie,” Pep hissed, his eyes glowing with anger. He grabbed Mickey’s windpipe and squeezed. “Ya shtup my Mutzie?”

Mickey gagged and tried turning his head. Pep’s strong hand dug deeper.

“Where da fuck is she?” Pep scowled, suddenly releasing his grip. Mickey gagged and sucked in deep breaths.

“How would I know?” Mickey said, shaking his head vigorously. “And they’re liars. We only did the show.”

“Not what I heard,” Irish said, sneering.

“And he’s the biggest liar.”

“Sure?” Pep asked. His hand grabbed Mickey’s testicles. He squeezed. Mickey bit his lip, but resisted screaming.

“You wan I should pull dese out?” Pep said, his mouth twisted in a menacing grin. Mickey groaned in pain.

“Please. I don’t …” Mickey could not go on. Pep released him and stuck a fist in his stomach pushing upward. Mickey writhed in pain.

“Ya gonna feed da fishes, tumler,” Pep said.

“If I knew I would tell,” Mickey managed to say.

Pep turned toward Irish.

“Whaddaya tink, Irish?”

Pep’s attention obviously gave Irish courage.

“Maybe she’s in his room,” Irish hissed.

“Yeah, maybe,” Pep said. They grabbed Mickey under each arm and dragged him forward and up the back stairs.

“Ya shit me, yaw a dead man, tumler,” Pep said as they moved clumsily up the stairs.

“It’s all wrong, Mr. Strauss,” Mickey said, suddenly looking
at Irish. “This bastard hates me. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit.”

“Ya cocksucka,” Irish shouted.

“You watch him closely, Mr. Strauss.” Mickey said, remembering what was going to happen tomorrow evening, hoping he was undermining Irish’s credibility. “He’s a lying punk.”

Irish reached over and pulled Mickey’s hair. The pain was intense but Mickey did not give him the satisfaction of showing it. They reached the help floor and the men pushed him forward in the direction of his room. Then they moved down the corridor, passing the door of Marsha’s room, where Mutzie was hiding, to Mickey’s room.

“Open it, putz,” Pep said. With a trembling hand Mickey managed to open the door. Then they pushed Mickey forward and he fell on the floor. It didn’t take them more than a few seconds to discover that Mutzie wasn’t there.

“I told you. This Irish is full of shit,” Mickey said as he struggled up from the floor. “You’ll see. He’s not reliable. This is a perfect example.”

“She ain’t heah,” Pep said. He turned to Mickey. “Ya bettah not be shittin me.”

Then he turned to Irish and whacked him with a backhand across the face. “Goes faw ya, too, putz.”

“He’s a fuckin liar, Pep,” Irish squealed.

“Up yaws,” Pep said storming out of the room, leaving Irish alone with Mickey. They glared at each other.

“I seen ya wid her, big shot. Dis mawning. Near da boathouse.”

“Maybe you should have looked there?” Mickey said.

“I did,” Irish said. He took a step toward Mickey, who grabbed a pair of scissors that were laying on the table.

“Go on, Irish. Give me the pleasure.”

Irish backed away. He pointed his finger, started to say something, then ran out the door.

Mickey threw the scissors on the bed. His hands shook. Was he capable of such an act? These men were. How could they? It was a question that answered itself. When it came to human beings, anything was possible.

After Irish had gone, he washed and changed his clothes, then moved cautiously into the corridor to Marsha’s room knocking quietly.

“It’s me. Mickey. Open up.”

“Anything wrong?” Mutzie asked as he moved inside the room.

“They think I’m hiding you,” he said. “Pep just worked me over.”

“Oh my God,” Mutzie said. “I’m so sorry, Mickey.” She embraced him and held him tightly. “It’s not fair.” Her proximity calmed him.

“They are very bad people, Mutzie. Maybe we should burn bagels on the front lawn?”

“It’s no joke, Mickey.”

“We’ll call in the Ku Klux Kleins.”

“Be serious.”

“Me serious. They don’t scare me. They get too pushy, I’ll put locks on their bagels.”

A tiny smile broke through her gloom.

“Stay that way,” he said, taking her hand. He opened the door. There was someone in the corridor. He waited for the person to disappear then ran with her back to his room.

“Now I’ve got you in trouble, Mickey.”

“It’s Irish, making accusations. “

“About us?”

“Guess he has a good sense of rumor,” Mickey shrugged, his groin area still painful. His expression gave him away.

“Did Pep hurt you?”

“He insulted my dignity. Both of them.”

She sat on the bed and put her hands over her face. Her shoulders shook with sobs. He sat down beside her and caressed her back.

“Better to laugh than cry,” Mickey said. “It works, believe me.”

After a while she stopped crying. “Now what?” she asked.

“We get outa here. Then, later, we get to Swan Lake, the place where they’re going to do Gagie tomorrow.” His plan, once vague, was beginning to grow in his mind.

“How are you gonna get to Swan Lake?” Mutzi asked. “We need a car.”

He nodded.

“We’ll borrow one from the guests coming in. I can drive.”

“That’s stealing,” Mutzie said. Mickey waited for a joke line. None came. She seemed to grow sad.

“Who asked you?” Mickey winked, hoping to pick her up. “Here’s one: Man gets thirty days. On what charge? No charge. Everything’s free.”

“You’re impossible,” Mutzie said, again cracking a tiny smile.

“Trust Irving,” Mickey said.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s a Jewish bank. Used to be Irving Trust.”

She shook her head.

So he was the boy whistling in the cemetery to keep up his courage. But despite the danger, he could not deny the secret pleasure it gave him to be part of this.

“We’ll never get away with it, Mickey,” Mutzie said.

“Who said?”

Another thought occurred to him suddenly, diluting his fear somewhat. He was on the side of what was right and right always wins. Right? In the face of such overwhelming virtue in his reasoning, how could they fail?

“Who are we, Mickey?”

“The good guys, that’s who.”

“You are. Not me.”

“So now you’re fishing for compliments.”

“You’re crazy,” Mutzie said.

“You and Gorlick,” Mickey sighed. “He called me a meshuganer.”

“He’s right,” Mutzie said. Shrugging, she put her arms around him. “You’re something, Mickey. Really something.”

“So are you, Mutzie. So are you.”

Her closeness thrilled him and he felt her kiss him on the cheek.

“It’s a start,” he whispered.

He left Mutzie in Marsha’s room and came down to the lobby for the fourth time that day. The lobby was beginning to fill with people checking out. Most of the new check-ins would not arrive until later in the day. He would take one of their cars. That part he viewed as simple.

The boys who parked the cars kept the keys in a cabinet near the driveway in front of the hotel. All he had to do was watch one of them park, then put the keys of the particular car he had in mind in the cabinet. Sure, it was stealing, but this was an emergency, wasn’t it?

Outside, the rain had gotten worse and people came into the lobby in raincoats and hats, stamping their feet on the porch to
remove droplets of water. He saw the Buchalters, Albert Anastasia and Frank Costello being fawned over by bellhops as their luggage was brought out to waiting cars.

They were saying their goodbyes to Pep and Reles with much fanfare, embracing like ordinary departing guests. Except for the carful of Anastasia’s body guard goombas that waited nearby, the scene struck Mickey as so normal and bourgeois, so far from the truth of these people’s lives.

“Hey, watchacallit, c’mere.” It was Albert Anastasia. He had spied Mickey and motioned with his hand for him to come over. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills, peeling off a twenty.

“Faw da kicks, kiddo. Not so funny, but ya tried.” He laughed and handed Mickey the twenty. Despite his sense of revulsion at touching anything of Anastasia’s, Mickey took it and forced a smile.

“Everything runs hot and cold at Gorlick’s,” Mickey said. “Except the water in the rooms. That’s cold only.”

“Maybe he’ll be cold alla time, too.”

It was Pep who had come up behind them. Mickey turned and continued to maintain his false smile.

“Ya hidin Pep’s doll?” Albert asked with mocking laughter in his voice. “Ya look in his pants, Pep?”

“It ain’t funny, Albert,” Pep said, scowling.

Mickey felt the sudden need to change the mood.

“How about this: Man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar stubb. ‘Oh no,’ he cries hitting himself in the head. ‘What happened’ somebody asks. Man says, ‘I think I smoked my penis.’”

Albert guffawed, then laughed for a long time. Finally, he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

“So she runs out on ya, Pep,” Anastasia said putting a hand
on Pep’s shoulder after he had finally stopped laughing. “What’s it to ya; a crumb on ya lap. Ya got a mudderlode a quiff.”

“Nobody runs out on Pep,” Pep grunted, scowling.

“A regular brooder,” Reles said, joining the group.

“This schmuck knows,” Pep said, pointing to Mickey. “I’m watchin ya, tumler.”

“Listen, I need all the audience I can get,” Mickey said.

“It ain’t funny,” Pep muttered.

“Where’s ya sense a humor, Pep?” Albert Anastasia turned to Mickey. “Ya think this little kikey stole huh from da great Pittsburgh Phil? Ya really think dat, Pep?” His hand was still on Pep’s shoulder.

“Na,” Pep said. “He’s a punk.”

“She was good, but I had bettah, Pep,” Albert laughed. “What ya should do, call Gloria. Let huh send ya some prime meat. Clean da pipes. Memba you got tings ta do tomorrow tonight. Loosen up.”

“Yeah, yeah, Albert. Don worry. I got my head in da job.”

“Business foist, right, Pep?”

“Nothin bodders business, Albert.”

“Bettah not. Ain’t no percentage in it.”

There was more tipping of the fawning help by Costello, Buchalter and Anastasia. Finally, they left the lobby like visiting royalty. Pep, Goldstein and Reles went out to the porch to wave goodbye to the three big cars as they headed along the driveway to the main road.

Mickey started to go inside, and once again he felt the ubiquitous eyes of Irish following him. He repressed a flash of anger by reasoning that as long as Irish kept his eye on him, he would not be searching for Mutzie.

As he entered the lobby Marsha suddenly appeared.

“I thought we hadda date,” she said, her hands on her hips, her eyes accusatory.

“I was about to go upstairs.”

With a peripheral glance at Irish, he grabbed her arm and moved her out of his line of vision.

“Forgive me, Marsha. Maybe later. It rains, a tumler works.”

“It was raining when I gave you the key, Mickey.”

“Garlic caught me on the stairs.”

She probed him with an unbelieving skeptical stare.

“I think I know where she is.” Marsha said. “They been lookin for her.”

At that moment Irish strode into the lobby.

“Please Marsha. Trust me. I’ll explain later.” He started to move away, but she held his arm.

“Make like ya wanna, Mickey?” she said smiling lewdly, licking her lips with her tongue.

At that moment, Irish reached them.

“Don bodder, Marsha.” He cut a glance at Mickey. “He used it all up on Pep’s quiff. Ain’t got none left?”

“You scumbag,” Marsha hissed.

“Ya givin him da flat rate, Marsha, or da twofers,” Irish said. He turned his malevolent eyes on Mickey. “Wassamata, ain’t got enough from Pep’s coorva?”

Irish was baiting him. He tried to hold his temper.

“Pay no attention,” Mickey said. “He’s a two bit punk wants to make like big time gangster. Only he hasn’t got the stuff. Have you, shlonghead?”

He watched Irish flush red, his lips quivering. Intimidation and tough talk were apparently the only ways to deal with Irish. Thankfully, the method worked once again and Irish retreated quickly, but not before a parting threat.

“Ya keep lookin ovah yaw shoulder mamzer, cause Irish is watchin yaw back.”

Mickey knew the threat was real. It also comforted him to know that Irish would be caught in the trap that he and Mutzie were preparing.

“Thanks, Marsha,” Mickey whispered.

“Ya playin with fire, Mickey,” Marsha said. “Ya betta get her outa here.”

“We got a plan,” Mickey replied.

“Betta be a good one,” Marsha said. “But if ya ask me, pussy ain’t worth dying faw.”

“I’ll remember that, Marsha.”

“And I’ll memba to pray for ya. Both.”

Keeping the remaining guests amused through the morning was torture. Chaos reigned. Children ran in and out of the rooms. He tried his biblical routine. “So you know why they didn’t play cards on the Ark? How could they? Noah kept sitting on the deck.” Not a titter. He tried again. “Poor Abraham. Had to sleep five in a bed. How come? He slept with his forefathers. And Moses, you know, was the first tennis player in the bible. He served in Pharoah’s court.”