Funny Boys (15 page)

The men liked cruder, often scatological, humor, especially the roughest of the Brownsville boys. These jokes he told only privately. They would be very upset if he told them in front of their women.

“What’s the best thing comes out of shmekel when you stroke it?”

“Awright, what?”

“The wrinkles.”

Howls of laughter.

“Hear about the waitress scratching her ass when the intern was about to order?”

No comment.

“‘You got hemorrhoids,’ the intern asked. ‘Hey,’ the waitress said. ‘No special orders.’”

Howls of laughter.

“You hear about the three old ladies sitting on a park bench? A man sits down and exposes himself. ‘Oy,’ two of the women said. ‘I’m having a stroke.’ The third woman couldn’t. It was too far to reach.”

Sometimes he would whisper the jokes in the guests’ ears. They loved that, their own private tumler.

Behind the jokes, his heart and mind were filled with feelings and thoughts of Mutzie. It was a private agony and proved the saying about clowns being sad under their painted smiles.

M
UTZIE LAY ON A RECLINED BEACH CHAIR BY THE LAKESIDE
sunning herself. Her eyes were closed. Beside her Pep played pinnocle with Bugsy Goldstein and Kid Twist. In the distance, she could hear the voices of the children splashing in the water and the hum of distant conversation.

They were off to one side, away from the bulk of the weekend crowd. She realized that she must have looked asleep, but she was very much awake, recalling events, relieved that Pep had seemed to be so understanding.

He had been in upstate New York all week.

“On a job,” he told her. She could, of course, tell he had been on a job by the way he acted sexually. It proved to her that he had been faithful. He was obviously starved and demanding and she did her best to provide him what he needed, tried extra hard. She wanted him to know how happy she was, how happy the tumler had made her.

Between their furious sexual bouts, when he was still and satiated, she had told him about the show and the applause. She even told him some of the jokes from the show. He laughed, but she could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere.

She tried to find out if anyone had whispered those rumors about her and Mickey to him. Apparently they hadn’t and she didn’t think it wise to bring up the subject. After a job was always a delicate time for Pep. He needed lots of sex, in lots of different ways, and she had learned what gave him the most pleasure.

“Good?” she asked him after each time he had an orgasm.

“Yaw gettin real good at this stuff, Mutzie,” he told her.

“Just like you taught me, Pep.”

“Pep’s the Professor, right, baby?”

Nodding, she snuggled her body against his and kissed his chest and played with his hair.

She knew that no matter how enthusiastic she appeared, she was now acting mechanically, fighting away a tide of disgust. How did it come to this? The only way to cope was to imagine herself as disembodied, someone else, not Miriam Feder from Brownsville. Not the real Mutzie Feder.

By Saturday morning Pep had calmed down and they got up and put on their bathing suits and bathrobes. The waiters brought their lunch to the lakeside and she lay on the lounge to sun herself.

“Sumbitch wouldn’t quit,” she heard Pep say in a low voice.

“Tough case, eh, Pep.” It was Kid Twist’s voice.

“I swear he had his heart on da wrong side. Musta picked him ten, twenty times and he was still squirming.”

“Happens,” Bugsy said. “Memba Porgy Schwartz? Finally had ta rope him ‘till his eyes bugged.”

“Anyway, I got him,” Pep said. “And Tony D in Albany. One pop through the temple and he was down.”

“And Marty Katz?”

“He shit his pants. I tink he died befaw I roped him.” Pep laughed. “On his knees, he begged. I hadda listen ta all dat crap.”

“Tree in a row, Pep,” Kid Twist said. “I wish I been with ya.”

“Some ya do by yaw lonesome. Some ya need help.”

“We’re gonna need help with yaknowwho if we getta go,” Kid Twist said. “Two ana wheelman ta help. Dumb bastard. Skimmin is da woist. Greediness. Will do it all da time. Albert’s comin in tomorrow, along with Frank. We have a meet, we get da woid.”

“Shit, you guys get all da fun.”

They paused for a moment, apparently continuing their card game. Mutzie found herself listening, although she feigned sleep. She tried to tune out the words, but couldn’t. Was this about killing? she wondered, dismissed the thought, then wondered again.

“Feget the chippy,” Kid Twist said.

“Ya sleepin, Mutzie?” Pep asked. When she didn’t answer he said, “Snow wonder. Fucked huh brains out last night. Musta come six, seven times.”

“Me an Helen did triples,” Reles said. “One in da mout, one in da ass, one in da same old.” He suddenly roared with laughter.

“Shut up, ya wake the knish, Kid.”

Such talk was nauseating. It was an abomination. Not that she hadn’t heard it before, but now it caused her to approach a new level of disgust and self-loathing. Above all, she hated for Pep to count the times. Six, seven times was downright bragging. Besides, she felt no pleasure in it any more. None at all.

“Evything ready faw da big sitdown tonight?” Pep asked. “Gonna be a real shindig.”

“Helen made all da arrangements. Gorlick promised a real fancy dinner.” Reles paused. “And a real surprise for a show.”

“Surprise?” Pep said.

Mutzie tensed.

“Yeah, sumpin real special, Helen says. Right, Mutz?”

Mutzie froze, showing no reaction. Her heart jumped to her throat.

“Needs huh rest,” Pep said. “Aftah last night.”

She heard the men’s laughter, then Pep said, “We gotta get some quiff faw Albert,” Reles said. “He’s always horny. Not Frank. He don eat out.”

“I’ll call Gloria,” Bugsy said.

“I gotta betta idear,” Pep said.

“What?” Bugsy asked.

“My call,” Pep said. “Nothin but the best for Albert. Hell, he’s done the best for us, ain’t he?”

There was a long silence after that and she heard only the flapping and shuffling of the cards and the alien talk of the game of pinochle, which she didn’t understand, and finally she did go to sleep.

Dinner was special, very fancy, and Gorlick hovered around them as if they were celebrities—which to him they were. The table was set with gleaming silver and shiny plates and situated in a spot opposite French doors, through which they could see the lights from the structures on the edge of the lake and the overhead lights of the pier.

Two waiters and waitresses were assigned to them, so the service was lightning fast. Around the table were silver buckets filled with ice and champagne, which was poured into long trumpet glasses. Not everybody drank champagne, however—Mr. Buchalter and his wife drank red wine. Pep, Mr. Anastasia and Mr. Costello drank scotch. Although both of the Italians had families, they never brought their wives to social occasions that were outside the family. Their bodyguards, steely-eyed
goombas, stood around trying, unsuccessfully, to be unobtrusive. Some waited outside.

Walter Gage, who they called Gagie, drank nothing but water. Mutzie had met him at the corner in Brownsville and Pep had mentioned that he had been sent up to Sullivan County to run the rackets.

“Nobody more honest than Gagie,” Pep had said. Reles and he were particularly close, as Pep had explained.

“Dey been kids togedda. Been in da can in Elmira togedda.”

“Asshole buddies, huh, Pep,” Bugsy had commented.

Gagie was a chubby, teddy bear kind of guy who said little. When he did speak, his words came in the form of a twinkly wise crack, and when he looked at Mutzie he would always give her a smile and a wink.

She felt every guest’s eyes on their table and, despite her growing misgivings, she felt proud that she was with the handsomest one of them all. Pep wore a brand new suit that he had brought up with him for the weekend, a crisp white shirt and a beautiful silk tie. She held his hand under the table and felt the glow of being part of such important company.

On her right was Mr. Anastasia, a dark complexioned man with a cute smile and eyes that were dark and searching. He was very polite and seemed to hang on her every word, which surprised her since she didn’t think what she had to say was very interesting at all.

Mostly everybody talked about the heat in the city, which had hit the high nineties, and whether the Chicago White Sox would ever catch the New York Yankees for the pennant. Pep said he was disgusted that the Dodgers played such lousy ball, but Reles, who was a Giants fan, wanted to bet anyone that the Giants would win although they were six
games behind and it was unlikely they could catch the Cubs for the pennant.

“I’ll take that ten to one,” Gagie said.

“That’s a putz bet,” Reles said. Gagie looked at Mutzie and winked.

She didn’t know much about baseball, but when they got to the movies she was an expert and she was surprised to find that even Mr. Anastasia had seen
Wee Willie Winkie
.

“I like da way da kid dances and sings. Cute as a button.”

“A Shirley Temple fan,” Mutzie exclaimed, looking at Pep. “Mr. Anastasia likes Shirley Temple.”

“Please,” Albert said. “Call me Albert.”

“And I’m Miriam. But my friends call me Mutzie.”

“Albert also likes Jean Harlow, don’t you Albert?” Pep said winking. “Looks like dis little knish heah, don ya tink?”

“I lika dis one, Pep,” Albert said.

“What Albert likes Albert gets,” Pep said. “Don he, Mutzie?”

She was confused by his remark, but nodded. Sometimes the men talked in a kind of code known only to themselves and she had gotten used to merely smiling or nodding her head in acknowledgement. Abie Reles, who sat between Mr. and Mrs. Buchalter, spoke in low tones and it was difficult to hear what was being said, although Mrs. Buchalter told everyone that she was leaving “to take the waters” in Europe, which sounded very worldly and exciting.

“Ya come back a new poison,” Mr. Buchalter said. “Youse should all do it someday.”

They were served chopped liver, sweet and sour stuffed cabbage and mushroom and barley soup. Then came stuffed roast turkey, carved right there at the table by the chef himself, candied yams, peas, asparagus and delicious biscuits.

“No butter, Albert. Strictly Kosher Jew food,” Reles said.

“I was lookin for the pasta vazoo,” Albert said chuckling, showing a set of bright, even teeth.

“Schmuck chef neva hoid a it,” Reles said. “I tole him I break his knees he don make pasta vazoo. So he tries ta get veal parmesan past the rabbi. Ya know that’s milkik and flashik. Rabbi back dere in da kitchen has a shit hemorrhage.”

“Every religion gotta have respect,” Costello said. “Hebew, Catolic, whatever.”

“Catolic’s a good religion,” Pep said. “Cept don like confessions.”

Albert, Costello and Gagie burst into laughter. Albert doubled up and tears came into his eyes.

“In the Catskills in July you can call it a Jewish Thanksgiving, right, Abie?” Mrs. Reles said.

“An we got a lot ta be thankful for,” Lepke Buchalter said. “We got organization, good friends evywhere.” He winked and smiled. “Especially in da government.” There was a wave of chuckling laughter. “On da bench.”

“In da cops,” Albert said, still wiping his eyes.

“In da cops,” Mr. Buchalter repeated. “Da unions. Da shmata bosses. Da bakers and dere bosses. Da ponies. Da numbers. Da banks.” He looked at Gagie. “And right here in da Catskills tanks to Gagie.”

Gagie blushed.

“He’s doin one helluva job up heah, ain’t he, Albert?”

“Da best.” Albert looked toward Gagie and raised his glass. The others did the same.

“To the king of the Catskills,” Albert said, drinking. The others did the same.

“We wuz smart sending him up heah, right, Frank?”

“We used our, how ya say, tuk ass,” Frank said, pointing to his temple.

“Tuchas, Frank,” Bugsy Goldstein said. “And yaw pointin to da wrong place.”

Frank Costello howled with laughter and the others did the same.

“So we gotta lot ta be thankful faw, Lep,” Reles said.

“America is a good place,” Anastasia said. He raised his glass of scotch and everybody raised their own, turned to their neighbor and clinked.

“Da best,” Mr. Buchalter said, winking. “Except faw dose bums La Guardia and Dewey. Dey gonna try ta make trouble and we gotta handle it right. Da Tammany boys are running scairt.”

“No cojones, Lep?” Albert said. “We gotta lotta woik ta do.”

“Sumbitch little flowa, dat La Guardia. Refawma, he calls hissef,” Reles said. “Ya know his mudder was a Jew broad from Italy.”

“We gotta loin him a lesson,” Albert said.

“We ain’t afraid of dose punks,” Reles said. “Say da woid and we give ’em a trip ta Canarsie.”

“Canarsie? Hell, we got lots a good lakes up heah,” Gagie said.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence. Costello turned toward Gagie and seemed to give him an angry look of authority. Mutzie felt a moment of extreme tension come over the group. Reles covered his mouth and looked at the ceiling.

“I nevah said nothin, Frank,” Gagie croaked. “What I meant was it’s da beauty up heah, da hills and da lakes. Ya know what I mean?”