Funny Boys (32 page)

M
UTZIE FELT UTTERLY DEFEATED, TRAPPED AND WORRIED
about Mickey. She had barely slept, preferring to curl up in a chair rather than use the bed that she had shared with Pep. The shame of it was almost too painful to bear. Soon, she supposed, Pep would arrive and her ordeal would begin. Remembering what they had done to Gagie, she dared not contemplate what they would do to Mickey. As for herself, she decided, she would do anything they asked of her if only they would spare Mickey.

Perhaps, she wondered, she might buy his freedom with the two thousand dollars Mickey had given her. It was her only bargaining chip, and a very long shot. Not wishing to carry it on her body, for obvious reasons, she stuffed the envelope in one of her high heel shoes that had remained in the closet.

Suddenly, she heard a noise at the door, and it was opened by Irish. He carried a tray, on which were a sandwich and a glass of milk.

“I brung ya some eats,” Irish said, putting the tray down on the dresser.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

“Hey, lady, ya gotta keep up yaw enegy. Pep will be heah soon and Albert and his goombas may want to share some of the action. Ya gotta stoke the fires.” He laughed and winked. Mutzie looked at him with revulsion. He came closer and as she started to back away, he grabbed her and pushed her close to the bed.

“First, Irish wants a little nosh,” he said, manhandling her to the edge of the bed and pushing her down. Despite her struggles Irish dropped down over her, straddling her body.

“Make nice to Irish, baby, and Irish gonna make nice to ya,” he whispered, his sour breath floating past her nostrils. She tamped down her nausea and he tried pressing his lips against hers. Quickly, she turned her face away and his lips found her cheeks instead.

“Never,” she told him.

“Oh yeah?”

He pressed her body full length against his, crushing his groin against hers. His arousal was unmistakable, as he grabbed at her robe, forcing it open, reaching between her legs. Controlling her panic, she became rigid as she searched her mind for some way to thwart him. He began to open his belt.

“Going to wet your pants now, Irish?” she said calmly. “Like the other night at Swan Lake.”

His body stiffened against her and his hand slowly withdrew from her flesh. Mutzie knew she had hit the mark, remaining silent as the meaning of her words sunk in. He had stopped pawing her and it was apparent that he was no longer aroused.

“Wha did ya say?”

“Gonna pee in your pants, like when you, Pep and Reles killed Gagie?”

She said it deliberately, moving her head back so that she could get a clear view of his expression. It was like watching the
air go out of a balloon. His face sagged and his complexion turned gray, pasty. His lips began to tremble. It was the moment to be relentless and she pressed on.

“You peed in your pants, remember? Pep kneed you there and got his pants wet. Remember that?”

He started to say something, but his throat had clogged with hoarseness and he had to cough it clear. “Yaw in deep shit, lady,” he managed to say, but the words lacked conviction.

She rolled away from him, stood up and tied her robe. He sat upright on the bed and made no move to stand. From her vantage, he looked whimpering, abject.

“No. You are,” she said, shaking her head from side to side, feeling the sense of confidence and command that had crept into her voice. “And them.” She cocked her head and made a directional motion toward the door, her meaning clear. Standing over him, looking down at his stunned face, she felt a kind of renewed sense of herself. She watched him as he rose to his feet, hoping she looked haughty and superior.

“I see your boner went south,” she sneered, pressing her advantage.

“Fuck you, hooer.”

“That’s something you’ll
never
do.”

His complexion had become chalk white. He reached into a side pocket and pulled out his revolver. His hands shook.

“I see you got a replacement for the one that doesn’t work.”

He waved the gun threateningly, but she felt no fear. “Ya jes makin up stories,” he croaked, but his words seemed hollow, tentative.

“And there’s more, Mr. Tough Guy,” she said, pausing to savor his discomfort. “You helped tie a slot machine to Gagie’s body, a kind of practical joke, very practical. He sunk like a shot.”

“Who tole ya that crock?” Irish muttered.

“Joke’s on you, Irish,” Mutzie said.

He was obviously trying to make some sense of her revelation. A line of perspiration had sprouted on his upper lip and his gun hand trembled as he brought it up to his face to swab away the moisture with the back of his hand.

This ploy had come to her suddenly and she wasn’t certain how it might play out. She had, of course, prevented her abasement, but now she needed to expand her victory.

“Who tole ya that crock?” he asked again. It was obvious that he was trying to rally his courage. “Ya betta answer,” he said, but his voice was more of a whine than a command.

She offered nothing more than a harrumph, as if his question was an annoyance.

“Sumbody’s shittin ya. Bet ya tink Irish is stupid.”

“More a sucker,” she said, watching him.

“A sucker?”

Obviously searching to regain his poise, he squared his shoulders, tightened his belt, then flipped up his pants with his elbows.

“Nobody plays Irish faw a sucker,” he hissed.

“And Pep kicked you in the shins when he got his knee wet,” she said, forcing a giggle of ridicule.

He brought back his gun hand as if to whip her face with it.

“I saw it, you idiot,” she said, pointing her finger under his nose. “And unless you’re going to kill me, you had better not touch me again.”

He had already checked his swing, lowering the gun down to waist level but still pointing it at her. His hand, she noted, continued to tremble.

“Hooer,” he mumbled, nostrils flaring. His face had flushed with anger and confusion.

“I’m an eyewitness. I saw it. I knew what was going down and I watched.”

“How come?”

“Me to know and you to find out,” she said. “Tell me I’ve got it wrong.”

Irish frowned and swallowed hard. His eyes nervously explored the room, as if he were looking for someplace to run. He seemed thoroughly frightened and confused, unable to set a course of action. The hand that held the gun grew more uncertain and tremulous.

Watching him, she was surprised by her own fearlessness. But she had sensed that he was not going to pull the trigger. Hasn’t got the killer instinct, she decided, remembering his behavior at Swan Lake. Besides, at this point she had nothing to lose.

Finally, he shook his head. Then, as if acknowledging to himself that he was not a killer, he lowered the gun and shoved the barrel into his belt.

“I got lots to tell,” she whispered.

“Who ya gonna tell, hooer?” he said, trying to salvage some semblance of bravado. “Ya ain’t gonna live long enough.”

She felt the first trill of fear, but shrugged it off. “We’ll see,” she said.

“I diden kill nobody,” Irish said. She caught a whiff of pleading in his voice.

“You’re a lot of obnoxious things, Irish,” Mutzie said pointedly, as if searching for some common ground with him. “But you’re no killer.”

“Ya saw dat. Aw, I can’t kill nobody. I ain’t goin to no hell.”

It was an extraordinary admission, Mutzie thought, as if his entire façade had collapsed, revealing the frightened little boy within.

“I can put you all in the chair,” Mutzie said.

“Not from six feet under.”

“You going to tell them, Irish?”

“Who’s ascared now, hooer?” Irish said, managing a smile, as if his courage was making a comeback.

“Thing is, Irish. I wrote it all down and it’s in a safe place. Anything happens to me or Mickey. …” She made a slicing motion with her hand across her neck and watched him. In what movie had she seen this? She wasn’t sure.

“Am I in what ya wrote?” Irish asked, clearly panicked.

“Hell, you’re one of the main characters, Irish.”

Now that she had gained his attention, she needed to embellish the point. Suddenly she remembered Morgan’s words and the names of the people he had mentioned. “Here’s the story Irish. The combination’s days are numbered. Tammany Hall will be broken. Dewey will be the next DA in New York City and he’ll be going after all the killers like Pep and Abie and Bugsy. La Guardia is the reformer. And when Lehman is reelected, it will be all over for the pack of them.”

She wasn’t sure what any of it meant. She had never had the slightest interest in politics. But watching the confusion in Irish’s expression, she knew he was trying to make sense of what she had said. She hoped she sounded as if she knew what she was talking about.

“Sooner or later, they’ll all get the chair,” she reiterated, as if passing the sentence herself. “You got a yen for an electrical massage, Irish?”

“So where is what ya wrote down, hooer?” Irish said, brightening, as if he had come up with a flaw in her explanation. His mind had been slow to grasp it.

“Safe,” she sneered.

“Ya tink Pep will believe dat?”

“Do you?”

Again, he was reaching for courage. She could tell he needed more persuading. His face was a kaleidescope of doubt and uncertainty, and he seemed to be struggling with his thoughts. Her mind groped for something that might put more force behind her assertion, and a new idea emerged.

“Maybe I’ll tell Pep that it was you who told me the story about what happened to Gagie at Swan Lake. They think you’re a loose cannon anyway. Like you were bragging about what a tough guy killer you are. Making yourself the big man.”

There was no mistaking his surrender. She knew he fully understood that Pep would believe her. He went through a gamut of nervous ticks. He rubbed his chin, flipped up his pants again, bit his lip, but he was clearly defeated and frightened.

“Ya gonna take me outa what ya wrote?”

“Depends.”

“And don tell Pep what ya said about me tellin?”

“That also depends. You got us here. Now get us out of here.”

“What am I supposed to do? I tole Pep I was bringin ya both in,” Irish said. “Dere’s no way outa dat.” He shook his head. “And at dinner dey want da tumler ta tumel, to make Albert and the boys feel good. I brung da tumler to Gorlick. I hear there’s a lot goin down today, a big meetin.”

“And after dinner?” Mutzie asked.

Irish shrugged. He was sweating profusely now and blinking nervously.

“I’m for dessert, right, Irish? Right?” A surge of cold fear gripped her.

He started to pace the room.

“Gotta tink, hooer,” he muttered.

Suddenly, she stood in front of him. He stopped his pacing and she slapped his face as hard as she could. He was stunned. Her red handprint splashed over his cheek.

“If I ever hear that word out of your filthy mouth again, Irish, you’re toast. Capish?”

He looked as if he was about to collapse. Unfortunately, she didn’t have the pleasure of seeing it.

At that moment, she heard the key in the door and Pep stepped into the room.

F
ROM WHERE
M
ICKEY STOOD IN AN OBSCURE CORNER OF
the lobby, he could see the guests moving into the dining room. He was too depressed to work up any enthusiasm to mingle with them. His mind dwelled on what he imagined was going on with Mutzie in Pep’s room. Yet he knew he had to keep these thoughts at bay while he concentrated on his plan.

As he stood there, plumbing his memory, reciting in his mind the jokes he would tell, he caught a glimpse of Helen Reles stuffed into a gold lamé dress. She was roaming helter-skelter in the lobby, obviously looking for her errant obnoxious son. As she passed him, Mickey caught her eye. He put a finger over his lips and beckoned her with his eyes.

“Oy, Mickey, are you in deep doody,” she said. “You got Pep mad, boychick. Not smart, you taking away his coorva.”

“What do you hear, Helen?”

She looked at him and patted his cheek.

“Believe me, boychick. I would have taken good care. You wouldn’t have nothing left for anyone else.”

“What can I say, Helen? I fell in love.”

“Love? That’s only in the movies, dummy. I coulda shown you real love, boobala. You woulda had love you could die for.”

“I know, Helen. I guess I missed out.”

“Not too late.” She winked then took his hand and put it over her right breast. “Beneath this dollink is a beating heart. Oy, I’m getting hot.”

“Helen, please. What do you hear?”

“I can tell you that Abie doesn’t like this business of Pep with the goilies. With Abie it’s business foist. And your little love knish was stupid. It’s a matter of respect. Not as bad as the wops, but when it comes to private pussy, Pep goes bananas. I can tell you that they’re gonna pass her around like an hors d’oeurve. So she’ll be one of Gloria’s hooers. Look, she had eyes wide open.”

“Will they hurt her?”

“Not like they hurt that waitress hooer that helped you. She’ll be in the hospital for a month. You may be, but I hope not. I’ll talk to my Abie. They won’t hurt huh. Not where it shows. Okay. Tell you the truth. I don’t approve. But now they got real tsouris. La Guardia, Dewey, the government ain’t foolin around no more. Soon gambling up here will be kaput. Albert, Lepke, Costello, Bugsy, Pep, Abie. The whole comibination. I mean everybody is worried. I can tell you they ain’t in a good mood.” She put her mouth close to his. “My Abie. He’s got plans.”