The Hoods (11 page)

“Thank you for this great honor, my Lords.”

He allowed his listeners no time to recover from their shocked resentment. In a suave, confident manner, he unfolded his ambitious scheme for the welfare of the Combination: plans for building distilleries to manufacture strong drink; for leasing large sailing vessels to import foreign liquors; for gigantic projects to acquire tremendous revenues by distributing and operating the peculiar gambling contrivances called slot machines; for controlling all houses of chance throughout the land and all manner of gambling such as lotteries and games called numbers.” His Majesty detailed his ideas for controlling the parks where the sport of kings takes place, horse and greyhound racing. He pictured the future in glowing terms of power and riches for all.

The tension lifted as the king continued developing his many novel schemes for squeezing huge revenues from the common peasantry. There were happy smiles as His Majesty parceled out bountiful lands to the various lords. He made two strict royal proclamations: no trespassing on one another's territory was the first. Then, he paused and smiled.

“Murder among the members of this combination is taboo, unless,” King Francisco paused again and smiled graciously, “given special permission by the Crown. Every Lord is to be of equal rank with the exception of Philip of Kasetel who next to myself shall be of highest rank. I designate him as the Royal Chamberlain and Minister to the Crown. Peter the Printer of Thompson shall be the Royal Minter of all Monies and all Crown Documents. I designate as Provost Marshall, Chief Executioners and Royal Undertakers Extraordinary, Sir Maxie, Sir Noodles, Sir Cockeye and Sir Patsy, the Lords of the Lower East Lands.”

His Majesty King Francisco shifted his crown at a pugnacious angle.

“Any objections or questions, my Lords?” he asked.

Sir Maxie stood up, musket in hand, Sir Patsy, Sir Cockeye and I followed suit. There was a heavy silence in the room. Nobody moved or spoke. Big Maxie picked up a glass and held it aloft. He gestured violently.

“On your feet, my Lords, a toast to our King.”

One by one the hesitant robber bands rose, glasses in hand, facing King Francisco. They shouted their allegiance and toasted in unison, “Long live the King.” King Francisco bowed and waved his hand in royal acknowledgment.

The immense gong rang out again. Musicians came in playing their instruments, followed by page boys carrying trays laden with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and baskets heaped with gold ducats, gifts from His Royal Highness to all his new subjects.

The gong rang out once more. Beautiful, scantily dressed maidens streamed through every entrance. They came dancing and singing in a heavenly chorus.

“What a breathless spectacle,” I said with admiration.

The guests waited with ill-concealed impatience to take one of these delectable dancing morsels for their very own.

The dancers were of every race and of every color. Smooth, cool, white skins with perfect bodies swayed in a slow sensuous tempo; warm pink-tinted maidens danced languorously. Voluptuous, olive-colored Venuses stood in one spot, their hips rolling in tantalizing, rhythmic gyrations. There were red, blue and green-skinned beauties. There were bewitching tawny and black Amazons, all dancing slowly. Then the dancers, their bodies swaying, their hips moving in thrilling, suggestive slowness, formed a circle. Their dance quickened, then faster, faster, still faster in a mad whirl of color and movement. They went around, around and around, in a whirlpool of passionate frenzy. Suddenly, out of the vortex, a lone nude female was discharged! She came sliding, face down, on the marble floor. She rose in all her naked beauty, the most startling creature in all creation! She was not a slim maiden. She was a woman, a voluptuous, curvaceous, ample-bosomed woman. Seductive in every movement, she was created for only one purpose—for the pleasure of man!

A slight mist enveloped her alluring nakedness. The mist was like a silken web spun from a heavenly scent. She pirouetted around and around, her seeking arms waving and exuding wondrous music, like angels playing on harps. The heavenly scent, the wondrous music, the voluptuous body came excitingly closer and closer! She was frantically whispering, “Darling, come to me, come to me.”

It was a startling revelation. The dancing figure was Dolores! And she was calling me! It was me, Noodles, she was dancing toward. I could feel her exciting sweet-smelling womanly warmth drawing me to her like a powerful magnet. The exciting, stiff rosebuds on her ardent full breasts were two beckoning signals of unashamed passion! She was at her moment of white hot, excruciating, joyous agony! She was at the moment of frenzied hip and wild limb movements. She was at the moment of sweet swooning surrender. She was heaven's supreme gift!

I embraced her violently. My soul, my life plunged into her. We were bound together, melted as one, in a soul-connected rapture. My soul swelled with love deep in a heaven that was Dolores. It soared in and out of heaven, throbbing in a wondrous exquisite sensation, straining and eager. It was like a pent-up volcano. It was a sharp delicious, celestial explosion of shooting stars.

Suddenly someone was patting my face. The mist cleared completely. A gruff voice growled in my ear, “Wake up, wake up, hey, Noodles, wake up, we got a heist to do.”

I looked up. There was Big Maxie standing over my bed. I sat up and turned around. Patsy was standing before the mirror, adjusting his Roscoe in his shoulder holster. I got out of bed. I could smell the heavy sweetish odor of opium, but I felt fairly good, a little high but good.

Boy, what a dream! I was still tingling all over with the realism of it. If I could only have Dolores in my arms as I had in that dream. I sighed longingly.

Maxie was reloading his forty-five and wiping it carefully with his handkerchief. He put his gun in his holster, nodded his head toward the sleeping figure of Cockeye and said to Patsy, “Wake him up; we better get moving.”

There was a knock on the door. I opened it. Joey the Chinaman came in smiling. “You boys up already?”

He chuckled.

“Have pleasant dreams, boys?”

He turned to Maxie and asked, “Can you spare a few minutes? I want your opinion, Max. I got a fresh shipment of the stuff this morning.”

Maxie was putting on his jacket. He said, “Okay, Joey, let's see it. A few minutes we can spare for a friend.”

We followed Joey down into the cellar. He unlocked a large steel door. We went through a long narrow hall. He unlocked another steel door. We came into a well-lit room. Five Chinese were sitting, bent over a table.

Joey introduced us to his smiling compatriots. They were members of the same Tong he belonged to, the On Leongs. They spoke better English than we. I commented on it to Joey. He whispered, “They got their degrees from Columbia University.”

The five Chinamen had their sleeves rolled up. We watched them awhile, kneading little balls that looked like dark dough moistened with water.

Joey explained with pride in his voice, “This is the way opium is prepared for smoking. It has to be moistened and kneaded. This operation requires real skill.”

He patted the nearest Chinese on the back. “And they certainly are artists,” he added.

Joey pointed to the box in the corner and asked Maxie, “What brand, Max? What do you think of the quality?”

I bent over the box curiously and said, “I thought opium is opium, that there was only one kind.”

Maxie assumed the didactic manner of a schoolteacher explaining a lesson to his pupil.

“Yuh see, Noodles, while you were up at Cedar Knolls, the Professor taught me a lot about this stuff. There are Patna, Benares and Maliva. They each have a distinctive taste and smell because they come from different soils and countries.”

Joey and I nodded, impressed with Maxie's knowledge.

In the box there were about forty four-pound balls packed tightly together in neat rows. Max picked up one of the balls, peeled off about one inch of poppy leaves, “The packer used these leaves as a wrapper,” he explained. He pinched off a piece of the uncovered dark mixture, rubbed it between his fingers, smelled it, put a speck on his tongue and remarked, “This is okay stuff, Joey. Pure Patna.”

Joey nodded his approval. “I thought so, Maxie, but I wasn't quite certain. Thanks for your opinion.”

We said, “So long,” to Joey and his smiling workmen and went upstairs. A hissing, snarling tomcat was pursuing its mate down the dark, narrow, deserted street. We watched with interest as he cornered her among the garbage cans. She yowled with pain and pleasure as he jumped on her back and sank his teeth into her neck, forcing her into a submission.

We piled into the Caddy, laughing, feeling a vicarious thrill. Maxie sang a risque parody to “Everybody's doing it, doin' it.”

Cockeye at the wheel turned to look at Maxie for instructions.

Max looked at his watch and said, “Three a.m., plenty of time left for a bath to really pick us up.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “Yep. And at the same time, we'll fix up the alibi with Lutkee.”

Cockeye turned the key, kicked the starter, shifted into first and swung the car uptown on South Street. Those are the motions he actually went through, but it seemed as though all he did was to slip behind the wheel and the big car responded to his slightest wish, like Aladdin's magic lamp.

With Cockeye at the wheel the Caddy was alive. It was a “she,” and in an emergency, when we were in a tight fix, he would talk to her affectionately. He called her “Baby” in the tone of voice a fervent lover uses. He was what we called a “bitch at the wheel.” He could do tricks with that car a Hollywood stunt driver would never dream of doing. He had developed into the most skillful driver on the East Side. He had something solid to handle, for the Caddy was a special job, bulletproof throughout, and geared to do one hundred twenty-five miles an hour.

We hummed speedily and quietly through the night. The big, black car like a chameleon blended into the darkness of the deserted streets. Abruptly, we were in the midst of bright lights and a beehive of activity.

“Ah!” Cockeye exclaimed as he breathed in deeply. “Chanel number five.”

Maxie leaned forward, digging his fingers deep into Cockeye's back, and said, “Hey, Cockeye. How many times have I told you to close your window when we're driving through the Fulton Fish Market?”

Cockeye laughed at our discomfort. We were holding handkerchiefs to our noses.

“You guys are too sensitive. To me it smells delicious. Just like overripe pussy.”

We breathed in deep as we left the market behind. The stinking East River air smelled good by comparison. We glided swiftly through the labyrinthine streets of the lower East Side.

Then, in the distance, a dim electric sign shone, “Lutkee's Turkish Baths.” Cockeye kicked the gear into neutral and taxied smooth as silk under the sign. He turned the purring motor off. We walked into the baths.

There was a peculiar combination of fear, respect and pleasure in Lutkee's manner as he smilingly shook our hands. He escorted us personally to the choicest rooms in the place. We undressed and walked naked toward the hot room. As we swung through the baths with Big Maxie in the lead, the soft padding sound of our bare feet on the stone floor and the sight of naked, hairy bodies, gave me the odd thought: Darwin was right. I bet we have more wild beast than homo sapiens in our make-up. I could not help imagining we were a ferocious animal pack traveling through a hot, steaming jungle. Big Max was sleek muscled in his dark nakedness, his catlike gait covering the length of the long hall with the speed and grace of a man-killing tiger. Patsy walked a step behind, his long legs and arms moving in fine rhythm. His powerful muscles flowed in an easy ripple beneath an abundant growth of dark body hair. His slinking movements were a vicious black panther's on the prowl. Cockeye, somehow, reminded me of a leopard. I chuckled to myself, wondering what animal I resembled.

We pushed through a swinging door into the dry heat room. The sudden heat hit our cool bodies like a gust from the terrific heat of a blast furnace.

The floor was burning hot. Cockeye hopped around from one foot to the other. I still felt a little high.

I said, “What's the matter, boy? Too hot for you? Better get used to it. You don't want our friend Mephistopheles laughing at you when we finally get down below, do you?”

Cockeye asked, “Who the hell is this guy Mephistopheles? He sounds like Greek to me.”

I laughed.

“He's a hell of a Greek, all right. He's the guy with the horns and the pitchfork, down below.”

Cockeye bent down and pointing to his backside said, “If I ever meet him, he can kiss my tauchess.”

Cockeye spied the reclining chairs, hopped over on one foot and sat down. He jumped up in the air with a stream of startled curses. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”

“Better get used to it. You remember what old Safety-Pins Mons said, that we'll all wind up in the hot seat?” Maxie laughed.

Cockeye hopped around on one foot and rubbed his backside. “She can drop dead, that bitch,” he said.

An attendant came into the room with cool white sheets, laid them over the wooden reclining chairs, and we stretched out on them. We felt comfortable and relaxed.

In a short while the sweat poured off us in continuous trickles. It was a fiery heat. Cockeye slapped his thigh. “How do you guys like your meat, rare or well done?”