The Amboy Dukes (12 page)

His father stood up and stared at him. “You’ll what?”

“Zindele”—his mother’s voice stopped them—“what’s going on here? You”—she pointed at her husband—“go downstairs! And maybe you shouldn’t live to come back tonight! Go!”

Crazy slowly lowered the bottle to the table. “He’s always picking on me,” he said to his mother after his father left.

“But you shouldn’t pick up things to your father.”

“He hates me,” Crazy said. “He hates me for nothing.”

“He’s your father,” his mother insisted. “Here”—she went to the icebox—“I’ve got some fruit salad for you. Eat it and go get dressed for your girl.”

Crazy opened the shallow closet in his room and looked at his three good suits. One was a blue chalk stripe, the second a gray chalk stripe, and the third a blue-purple tweed that looked like clashing cymbals. The tweed suit was the one he had bought himself. The other suits were chosen for him by Mitch, but he liked the tweed suit best.

Dressing was more difficult for Crazy than heaving sides of beef into the delivery truck or changing flat tires. He felt most at ease when he wore dungarees and denim shirts, but now that Fanny was his girl he was going to be as sharp as any of the guys in the Dukes. He placed his initialed tie chain across the tie and looked at himself in the mirror. The result was disappointing. The collar of his shirt appeared wilted and did not roll with the nonchalance with which Mitch’s collars did. He fluffed the collar, but it did not help, and his tie hung awry and continued to shift under his collar. Crazy decided not to bother any more and slipped into his trousers.

The weather was warm and he decided not to wear his vest, and after looking at himself again in the mirror he decided that the knot in his tie was all right and he wanted Fanny to see his fancy initialed tie chain.

Carefully he lifted his pearl-gray hat with the blue Paisley ribbon which he had bought for the Passover holidays and which, remarkably enough, had only minor stains, and placed it upon his head. He tried tilting the hat at an angle, wearing it forward on his head, then pushed farther back, then straight on his head, then with the brim up in a nonchalant manner, then lowered on one side, but still the hat did not look at ease. In desperation he called his mother to help him, and she set the hat on his head as he had done originally, assured him he looked wonderful and handsome, and finally he was dressed.

As his mother left the room he shut the door, withdrew his knife from his pocket, and pressed the spring. The blade leaped into position, three and a half inches of thin stainless steel that shone as he twisted the handle. With a look of grim satisfaction he pushed the blade back into its socket and returned the weapon to his pocket.

“You have two handkerchiefs to blow your nose?” his mother asked him as he entered the kitchen.

“I’ll get them now,” Crazy said.

“You’ll be a good boy?” His mother adjusted his tie.

“Sure, Mom.”

“Don’t spend your money on nothing. Where’re you going?”

“To Broadway. We’re going to the movies. I’m gonna see a war-fighting picture. I like those best.”

“Oy,” his mother said half to herself, “at least thank God they’ll never take you in the Army.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Crazy felt his hip pocket to see whether he had his wallet. “Well, Momma, I’m going.”

“Have a good time and be a good boy. And, zindele. Don’t fight with anyone. And if the yentes on the block bother you, don’t answer them.”

“I’ll do what you say, Momma. And, Momma—”

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow with the other steak, you’ll make more french fries?”

“Yes.”

“And can I go to the delicatessen and buy some potato salad?”

“Go.” His mother pushed him toward the door. “Yes.”

“Good-by, Momma.” Crazy waved to his mother. “Good-by.”

When he reached the sidewalk he remembered what his mother had said about fighting with people on the block, and he crossed the street. He was uncomfortable with his collar buttoned, but he wanted to look well for Fanny. The jeweler’s clock on Pitkin Avenue was lit and the time was eight-thirty. Crazy crossed the avenue and entered the candy store.

“Selma,” he said, “tell Mitch I won’t be around tonight.”

“Look at him,” Selma smirked, “all dressed up.”

“You like the way I look?” Crazy asked her eagerly.

“Well,” Selma said, “I’d rather look like you than have my legs cut off.”

Crazy scratched his ear. “What the hell’re you talkin’ about?”

“Nothing.” Selma continued to rinse glasses. “I’ll tell Mitch when I see him.”

“Any of the other guys around?”

“Only Black Benny was here. He was looking for Frank.”

“Who cares? Gimme a pack of Camels.”

Selma took the cigarettes from the carton. “Give me the seventeen cents.” She beckoned to him knowingly.

Crazy handed her the coins and Selma gave him the cigarettes. “You’ll tell Mitch for me?”

“Yes.”

Crazy pushed into the crowd along the avenue and walked toward Barrett. He crossed the street at Saratoga and had one of the bootblacks in front of the bank shine his shoes. There were too many people around to start an argument, so he paid the boy, and with his shoes gleaming he waited under the marquee of the Pitkin Theater. It was five minutes to nine. Fanny would be along any minute.

There wasn’t anything doing around the Winthrop Billiard and Recreation Parlor, and the way Feivel kept talking to him made Frank nervous. For more than an hour, during the times when Feivel wasn’t racking balls, taking cash, or selling behind the counter, he kept bothering Frank with all sorts of questions about who might have shot Mr. Bannon. And when Feivel wasn’t bothering him the Tigers wanted to know what had happened and how it felt to be grilled by the cops and if he or anyone else in his class had seen the stiff. Frank answered them curtly, and soon everyone took the hint and left him alone except Feivel.

Feivel hoisted himself into one of the tall armchairs next to Frank and offered him a cigarette. “Take one,” he said.

“I don’t feel like smoking,” Frank said.

Feivel placed the pack in his shirt pocket. “’Sall right with me. You think they’ll ever get the guys what done it?”

“I don’t know.” Frank wished he would go away.

“It must’ve been one of the kids in your class who did it.”

“A regular defective,” Frank sneered.

“Yeah.” Feivel faced him. “Who else woulda done it?”

Frank stood up and put on his jacket. “I don’t know. And I don’t care. If you see Black Benny around tell him I went to the movies or something.”

He did not want to go to the clubroom or back to the corner, and he did not want to see Benny. Betty had gone to a party in the Bronx with some other guy, and even though she had thought about breaking the date she had gone to the party, and he was alone and lonesome. If Betty liked him the way she said she did, he didn’t see why she hadn’t given this other guy a stand-up. Saturday night and nothing to do, unless he wanted to go to the club or hang around with Benny. While he had been hanging around the poolroom he had looked up Stan Alberg’s telephone number, but he didn’t have the nerve to call him, even though the guy had invited him over to the house.

Frank turned from Sutler into Howard Avenue and walked toward Pitkin. He wished it were summer and that school were over. Once the term ended, he felt certain the case would be just another unsolved murder on the police blotter, and interest would slacken and the case be forgotten. In June the boys in his official class would be promoted and dispersed to other classes; some would quit school and go to work, some would be drafted into the Army, and as the group would be separated the clues would become more obscure, and Frank would be safe so long as Benny was safe. So long as Benny was safe. That was a joker.

One thing was certain, Frank thought, he would have to stay out of trouble forever, and Benny would have to do the same. That morning when he had awakened he had lain in bed for almost an hour thinking of the rough break he had had. All the good things seemed to come naturally to some guys, while as soon as he had begun to get a little break, a little money and clothes, he had to be involved in a murder. Frank shuddered and was suddenly cold. So long as Benny was safe.

He saw the girl leaving the apartment house and turned again to see if he knew her. The slick chick who smiled at him and who was sharped up like a million was Fanny Kane, looking at least three years older than her twelve years, and wearing her high-heeled shoes with ease. Compared with her, his sister Alice was still sucking on a bottle. Fanny called to him and he stopped. As she approached he took in the slave bracelet she wore around her right ankle and noticed that her sheer stockings encased a pair of slender, graceful legs.

“You’re really reet,” he said as he guided her closer to the curb where they could speak without obstructing the sidewalk.

Fanny touched the belt of her dress. “Like it?”

Frank winked appraisingly. “Sure do. This is the first time I’ve really seen you.”

“You never looked before.”

“I know,” Frank admitted. “Where you going?”

“I gotta date.”

“How old’s the guy?” Frank asked her. “Thirteen?”

“Yeah,” Fanny said, “he’s older than you. He’s at least eighteen.”

Frank laughed at her. “Stop dreaming.”

“He is!”

“And he’s dating you?”

Fanny started to walk away but stopped. “I got a date with Crazy Sachs,” she said.

Frank thought rapidly. This might be another way of getting even with Crazy. And Betty too. All she did was talk about maybe giving the guy a stand-up, but she had gone to the party.

“I was only kidding you,” Frank said. “You’re all right, Fanny”—he placed his hand familiarly on her arm—“all right. A high-powered-looking babe. I sure wish I had a date with you tonight.”

“You never asked me.”

“So I’m asking you now. How about it?”

“You mean you want me to stand Crazy up?” Fanny asked him slowly.

“Sure, why not?”

“He gave me a steak.”

“A steak.” Frank chuckled. “So that’s it.”

“My mother doesn’t know I’m going out with him,” Fanny said.

“Crazy’s a funny guy,” Frank said. “He’s liable to drag you into a cellar and pull your pants down.”