Billy Phelan's Greatest Game (18 page)

Billy watches them go, watches, too, as Mike crosses the street to walk beneath the brightest of the bright lights, one of the many maestros of Broadway power, now heading into the center of the
garden in search of other earthly delights.

The station was still alive with travelers, with the queers buzzing in and out of the men’s room, and the night crowd hot for the papers. When Billy had bought the
Times-Union
, found the ad, decoded what they all knew was there to begin with, then Martin said to Morrie: “I saw your father tonight and told him about this.”

“Heh,” said Morrie. “What’d he say?”

“Ah, a few things.”

“Nothing good, bet your ass on that, the old son of a bitch.”

“It wasn’t exactly flattering, but he was interested.”

“Who’s that?” Billy asked, looking up from the newspaper.

“My old man,” Morrie said.

“He’s a son of a bitch?”

“In spades.”

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing. He’s just a son of a bitch. He always was.”

Well, you got an old man, is what Billy did not say out loud.

They stood in the rotunda, in front of the busy Union News stand with the belt-high stacks of Albany papers, the knee-high stacks of New York
Newses
and
Daily Mirrors
, the
ankle-high stacks of
Herald Tribs
and
Tmeses
and
Suns.
Billy was translating Honey Curry’s name from the code. E-d-w-a-r-d C-u-r-r-e-y They spelled it wrong.

“Honey Curry,” Billy said. “Where the hell is
he
these days?”

Martin passed on that, and Morrie said, “Who knows where that son of a bitch is?”

Billy laughed out loud. “Remember when they had the excursion. The Sheridan Avenue Gang. And Curry went wild and hit Healy, the cop, with a crock of butter and knocked him right off the
boat and Healy goddamn near drowned. Curry lit out and wound up in Boston and Maloy met him there, downtown, and they’re cuttin’ it up and Curry’s afraid of his shadow. Then a
broad walks by, a hooker, and looks at Curry and says to him, Hi ya, honey, how ya doin’? and Curry grabs her with both hands and shoves her up against a tree and shakes the hell out of her.
How come you know my name? he says to her.”

“That’s Curry,” said Morrie.

“Where’s Maloy? I hear he’s in Jersey. Newark, is it?” Billy asked.

“Could be,” said Morrie.

“Goddamn,” Billy said. “That’s where I heard it.”

“What?”

“The rumor they were going to kidnap Bindy last summer. We were up in Tabby Bender’s saloon. You and me. Remember?”

“No. When was that?” said Morrie.

“Goddamn it, don’t anybody remember what I remember? We were sitting at the bar, you and me, and Maloy was with Curry, and Maloy asks if I heard about the Bindy kidnap thing and I
didn’t. We talked about it, Maloy and Curry shootin’ the shit and comin’ up to the bar for drinks. And then Maloy tells me, We’re gonna take this joint. Now, you
remember?”

“I remember
that
,” Morrie said. “Screwballs.”

“Right,” said Billy. “Maloy says, Get out now if you want; we’re gonna clean him out. And I told him, I’m comfortable. Clean him out. Take the pictures off the
walls. What the hell do I care? And you and me kept drinking.”

“Right,” Morrie said. “We never moved.”

“Right, and they go out and they’re gone ten minutes and back they come with handkerchiefs on their faces. Goddamn wouldn’t of fooled my nephew, in the same suits and hats. And
they cleaned out the whole damper, every nickel. And when they were gone, I said to George Kindlon, the bartender, Let’s have a drink, George, and I pushed a fiver at him. I don’t think
I can change it, he said, and we all busted up because George didn’t give a rat’s ass, he didn’t own the joint. It was Tabby’s problem, not George’s.”

“Right,” Morrie said, “and George give us the drink free.”

“Yeah,” said Billy. “But it was Maloy and Curry really got us the free drink.”

“That’s it. Maloy and Curry bought that one,” and Morrie laughed.

“Son of a bitch,” Billy said.

“Right,” said Morrie.

Billy pictured Morrie kicking the holdup kid. Vicious mouth on him then, really vicious, yet likable even if he used to be a pimp. He had a good girl in Marsha. Marsha Witherspoon, what the hell
kind of a name is that? Billy screwed her before she even went professional. She was a bum screw. Maybe that’s why Morrie dumped her, couldn’t make a buck with her. But he didn’t
take up any other whores. Morrie would always let Billy have twenty, even fifty if he needed it. Morrie was with Maloy the night Billy almost lost a match to Doc Fay two years ago. Billy played
safe till his ass fell off to win that one, and when he won and had the cash, Morrie and Maloy came over and Maloy said, You didn’t have to worry, Billy. If he’d of won the game,
we’d of taken the fuckin’ money away from him and give it to you anyway. Crazy Maloy. And Morrie was tickled when Maloy said that, and he told Billy, Billy, you couldn’t have lost
tonight even if you threw the match. Morrie was two years older than Billy and he was a Jew and a smart Jew and Billy liked him. This was funny because Billy didn’t like or even know that
many Jews. But then Billy thought of Morrie as a gambler, not as a Jew. Morrie was a hustler who knew how to make a buck. He was all right. One of Billy’s own kind.

While Billy, Martin, and Morrie ate midnight steaks in Becker’s back room, tables for ladies but no ladies, George Quinn came in and found Billy, took him away from the table and
whispered. “You hear that Charlie McCall’s been kidnapped?”

“I heard that, George.”

“Do you know your name’s in the paper in some kind of mixed-up spelling?”

“I know that, too.”

“The cops were just at the house looking for you.”

“Me? What for?”

“They didn’t say. Peg talked to them. She asked if you were in trouble and they said no, but that’s all they’d tell her.”

“Who was it?”

“Bo Linder and somebody else in the car, maybe Jimmy Bergan. That’s his partner.”

“You see Bo?”

“He came to the door and told Peg for you to call the detective office.”

“He didn’t say why.”

“He said what I told you.”

“Right, George. Peg said you wanted to talk to me about a book.”

“There’s a fellow named Muller works over in Huyck’s mill and writes a hell of a good-sized book. I figured you might sit in while I talked to him about taking his layoff. Kind
of break the ice a little. I don’t know him at all.”

“All right, George, I’ll do that. When you meeting him?”

“Tonight, one-thirty, quarter to two, when he gets off work. He’s coming here.”

“I’ll probably be here. If I go anyplace, I’ll try to be back by then.”

“Are you in trouble, Billy? Did you get mixed up with something?”

“No, George. I really don’t know what the hell they want.”

“You need money? Peg said you took a lickin’ today.”

“I’m all right on that.”

“I can rustle up some if you need it. What do you need?”

“Don’t worry about it, George. You need it yourself. I’ll be all right. I just got lucky in a card game.”

“You’re sure you’re not in trouble?”

“If I was in trouble, I’d be the first to know.”

“All you got to do is ask, whatever it is. And I mean that, even on the money if you’re in a jackpot. We’ll find it.”

“You’re a sweetheart, George. Have a drink, relax. I gotta finish my steak.”

“Isn’t that Jake Berman’s kid there?”

“Right, Morrie.”

“His name’s in the paper, too.”

“Right.”

“Jake’s father made me the first suit of clothes I ever had made.”

At the bar a man’s voice said, “That’s right, I said I hope they don’t catch them, whoever they are.”

The bar went quiet and Red Tom said, “That’s just about enough of that talk,” and he took the man’s beer away. Billy recognized the talker, name of Rivera, spic like
Angie’s husband, a pimp. Red Tom poured Rivera’s beer in the sink and shoved his change closer to him on the bar. “I don’t want your business,” Red Tom said. But
Rivera wouldn’t move. Red Tom came around the bar and grabbed his arm. Rivera resisted. Red Tom reached for the change and shoved it into his pocket. Then he lifted him with one arm, like a
sack of garbage, lifted him off the bar stool and walked him out the door.

“The McCalls got everybody scared to do pee-pee,” Rivera said over his shoulder. “They think they can treat people like dogs.”

“Who’s that guy?” George Quinn asked.

“He’s a bughouse pimp. Gotta be bugs,” Billy said.

Red Tom closed the front door and moved in behind the bar.

“That kind of talk stays out in the street,” he said to all in earshot, looking at no one in particular. He pointed twice toward the door with one finger. “Out in the
street,” he said.

When he’d finished his steak, Morrie Berman stood up and announced he was going off to get laid. Billy thought of tagging along with him but rejected the idea. He
envisioned Angie in bed up at the Kenmore, waiting. He would go and see her. He was tired of gambling, tired of these people here. Maybe later he could come back and play some blackjack if the game
was still running. Do that when he left Angie. If he left Angie. All right, he would see her, then leave her be and come down and play some blackjack. Billy still owed money. First things
first.

“I got a date, Martin,” Billy said, pushing away from the table.

“That sounds healthful. Bon voyage.”

“I’ll keep you posted on the bankroll. We’re doing all right.”

“I know we are. You’ve decided not to go along with Patsy’s suggestion?”

“I listened all night. He didn’t say a goddamn thing.”

“What about the Bindy kidnap rumor? He doesn’t seem to remember it, but you do. Isn’t that odd?”

“That don’t mean anything.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aaahh,” Billy said, and he waved off the possibility and went out onto Broadway and turned up Columbia Street, past the old Satin Slipper, a hot place when Butch McHale ran it
during Prohibition and now cut up into furnished rooms. He crossed James Street and was halfway to North Pearl when the car pulled alongside him, Bo Linder at the wheel, Jimmy Bergan with him.
Billy. Bo. Been looking for you. Oh yeah?

“Bindy wants to talk to you.”

“Bindy? About what?”

“You ask him that.”

“Where is he?”

“Up at Patsy’s house.”

“Patsy who?”

“Patsy who my ass.”

“When’s he want to see me?”

“Two hours ago.”

“If this’s got something to do with Charlie, I don’t know anything.”

“Tell Bindy that. Get in.”

“No thanks.”

“Get in, Billy.”

“You pulling me in? Charging me with something?”

“I can get particular.”

“I’m under arrest, I’ll get in. Otherwise, I’ll take a cab. I know where Pasty lives.”

“All right, take a cab. We’ll follow so the driver don’t get lost.”

Billy walked to Pearl Street and at the corner looked up at the Kenmore, maybe at Angie’s room. She liked the front so she could look down and see people on Pearl Street after she and
Billy had loved all possible juices out of one another. Billy didn’t see Angie in any window. She’d be asleep now, wouldn’t go on the town alone. Twelve-thirty now, hell of a time
to visit the McCalls.

Two cabs stood in front of the Kenmore. Billy whistled and the front one made a U-turn and Billy got in. Bo Linder was idling at the corner, Bo the cop, a good kid when he was a kid. Good second
baseman for The Little Potatoes, Hard to Peel. But what can you do with somebody who grows up to be a mean cop? Never was mean on second base. After he went on the force, Bo walked into Phil
Slattery’s joint and shot Phil’s dog when it growled at him. Dog should’ve bit him on the ass.

“Conalee Street,” Billy told the cabbie.

Billy had never learned to pronounce Colonie Street the usual way. But people understood anyway. The driver moved north on Pearl Street, and Bo Linder swung out of Columbia Street and made it a
parade.

Billy didn’t hate Colonie Street entirely, for it would have meant hating his mother, his greatest friends, Toddy Dunn, for one, even his ancestors. It would have meant
hating the city the Irish had claimed as their own from vantage points of streets like Colonie. It was the street where he was born and had lived until adolescence, when he went off to room by
himself. It was the street his sister, Peg, left with their mother when Peg married George Quinn and took a bigger and newer house in the North End.

Billy told the taxi driver to leave him off at the corner of North Pearl, and he walked up the hill toward Patsy McCall’s house. He passed the old Burns house, where the ancient Joe Burns
always sat in the window, ten years in the window at least. Old Joe lived with his son, Kid, the sexton of St. Joseph’s Church for years until Father Mooney put him through undertakers’
school; and next door to them the Dillons: Floyd, a conductor on the Central, who put Billy and Peg and their mother in a Pullman with only coach tickets when they went to New York to see the ocean
for the first time. Across the street was the vacant lot where the Brothers School used to stand, and next to that the Daugherty house, gone, and then the other house: That house Billy did not now
look at directly but saw always in his memory and hated, truly did hate that much of the old street.