Funny Boys (26 page)

I
N
B
ERNSTEIN’S
O
RCHARD THEY HUDDLED IN THE CAR ALL
night, both of them too traumatized to find the energy to move. Mickey was too terrified to think clearly, nor could he find of a joke in his mind to chase away the utter gloom that had descended on them both.

The night was chilly and Mutzie nestled herself in the crook of his arm. Her body trembled and she sobbed quietly, remaining unresponsive to his attempts to draw her out of herself.

What he had witnessed stunned him, despite the conditioning to the gangsters’ cruelty he had received when they had beat his father. They were totally without mercy or humanity. Human beings became “shitbags” in their peculiar system of logic. And once they had been transformed into “shitbags,” they became garbage, objects to be discarded like empty tin cans or stripped chicken bones.

If there was the slightest doubt in his mind about the course of action he had chosen for them, there was none now. He was certain that he would remember every detail. The question now was who could be told, who had the power to act and bring these people to justice. Nor did he have any doubts that if he and
Mutzie were ever found, they could expect no mercy.

Pep had made it quite clear what he would do if he caught up with them. And there was no reason to believe he would be dissuaded by Reles or anybody else. The man was a maniacal killer, a ruthless monster. There was also an odd disconnect growing in his mind. The idea of Jewish gangsters seemed somehow against the grain, an aberration. Maybe this was a reaction for all those centuries the Jews were kicked around and treated like dirt. A sense of ethnic shame was beginning to seize him. Jews were not supposed to do this to each other. The idea gave impetus to his mission.

Sometime around dawn, Mutzie stopped trembling. He had dozed and her sudden quietude awakened him. Her eyes were open and she was watching the gray stripe of impending dawn through the windshield. The weather had cleared and the sun’s morning rays painted the tops of the orchard’s trees with a golden glow.

“I’m afraid all the accommodations I could offer is this luxury lodge,” he said hoarsely.

“At least there’s a good view,” she murmured.

“A beautiful spot. Here the hand of man has never set foot.”

“Now what, Mickey? We saw them do this. Now what?”

“We have to tell people,” Mickey answered.

“But who?” she whispered tremulously.

At that point he had no idea about what to do next. Going to the police, considering how the combination had probably corrupted them, seemed fruitless, probably dangerous. He remembered Irish’s words “dey own everybody.” How else could they get away with gambling, prostitution and, worst of all, murder?

Then it occurred to him that the wiser course would be to go to the state capital in Albany and, hopefully, find someone who
would listen to their story, someone beyond reproach, someone who could take action. He wasn’t sure how the idea of Albany had entered his mind; perhaps it was all those election signs along the road featuring candidates for state office. He had noted that Governor Lehman was seeking a second term, a source of pride since Lehman was a Jew.

“They can’t own everybody,” Mickey reasoned. “Maybe we can find someone in Albany.” It was more of a place than a plan, but not too far upstate from where they were.

“I don’t know, Mickey,” she said. Discouragement and fear had begun to sink in.

“All we need is one good man in a position of authority. The proof is undeniable. Gagie’s body is at the bottom of Swan Lake.” He paused. “Unless the fish have a feast and make all gone.”

He did not want to frighten Mutzie with his uncertainty and the possibility of failure. Up to then it hadn’t been an option. There was, of course, the risk that they would run into a corrupt official, someone on the combination’s payroll who would turn them in, make them “shitbags.” It was not a comforting thought.

“Remembering,” Mutzie said, shivering. “That will be bad enough. Telling will be worse. Sometimes the memory plays tricks.”

“Like Rabinowitz,” Mickey said determined to raise their spirits. When in doubt make funny. Laughter was therapy. His new idea was filling him with renewed energy.

“Rabinowitz?” she said, obviously trying to jump start her own optimism.

“Guy runs over to Rabinowitz. Says, ‘You’ve changed. You used to be six feet. Now you’re shorter. You used to have black hair. Now it’s red. You used to have blue eyes. Now they’re brown. What happened to you, Rabinowitz?’ Guy looks at him and says, ‘I ain’t Rabinowitz.’ …”

“‘Oh,’ he says,” Mutzie interrupted. “‘You also changed your name.’”

“You heard it.”

“From you.” She cuddled closer to him. Her nearness sparked his confidence.

“Sometimes there are miracles,” he whispered. When in doubt there was always the supernatural.

“I don’t believe in miracles, Mickey. Not any more.”

“The truth is still the truth. We saw it, Mutzie. With our own eyes. The important thing is that we do what’s right. No decent person can live with this and do nothing. We’d never forgive ourselves.”

“And I have a lot to forgive. For me, that will be the hardest part,” she said, raising her eyes to his. Her face seemed radiant, less fearful, as if she had finally resolved something within her. He wondered if she was offering her lips for a kiss. But somehow any response on his part seemed inappropriate to the moment. Not now, he told himself, although he wanted to with all his soul.

“You’re a good person, Mickey,” she sighed, offering a tiny chuckle.

“So are you, Mutzie.”

“Then tell me, if I’m so good, how did I get us into this? A few weeks ago we were strangers. You were a lot better off than now. I feel so guilty.”

“Like the Jewish mother on jury duty. They sent her home. She had insisted she was guilty.”

“I wish I could laugh, Mickey. It’s like we’re whistling in the graveyard.”

“Better to whistle. Above all we must avoid being a permanent resident.”

She shrugged and was silent for a long time, before she spoke again. “What do you make of Irish?”

Irish’s actions had been a surprise. He had expected the little turd to enjoy the experience.

“First time jitters,” Mickey said, wondering if his own hatred of Irish colored his conclusion.

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s a decent streak in him somewhere.”

“I doubt it,” Mickey said, remembering Pep’s admonition to find them. One might conclude that for Irish that could really be a matter of life or death. Whatever Irish’s motives, Mickey and Mutzie’s testimony, if it could ever find a receptive audience, could certainly send him to prison. In an odd way, he wished that Irish had participated in the killing. That would make it possible for him to join the others in getting the electric chair. The irony of it suddenly jumped into his mind. It was Irish who had given him the weapon, told him about third party witnesses. His stomach reacted to the thought by turning itself into a knot.

His mind remained busy trying to come up with a course of action. Albany was still a possibility, but it seemed to grow more and more remote. He felt certain that the combination’s contacts reached all the way up to the state capital. And even if they found an honest man among the state politicians, then what? Witnesses were certainly routinely murdered by these monsters. It was not a happy prospect.

Was doing the right thing worth risking his future, their future, their lives? At the moment, he found himself dealing with too many negatives, too many obstacles. Maybe they had already crossed an invisible Rubicon.

To add to their dilemma, they had run out of food and their
money was almost gone. And they were both tired and grungy. Still, Mickey started the car and headed to the highway with no fixed purpose or plan of action.

They stopped at a gas station and bought another dollar’s worth of gas and picked up a free map of New York State. Studying the map, he considered the route northward. Canada was a possibility. Then he traced the route to Albany, which was much closer. He borrowed a pencil from the young teenager who pumped the gas and marked the route. It would be no more than an hour at the most. Still, he was wasn’t sure.

“At least I know where we are,” he sighed.

“Where?” Mutzie inquired.

“Up shit’s creek without a paddle.”

Not far from Bernstein’s Orchard, they found a campground. The sign out front said a dollar a day. They paid their fee and headed into the grounds. They had coffee and doughnuts at a small canteen and parked the car in one of the camp spaces, the most obscure one they could find. Then they showered in the community bathhouse and bought some basic toiletries.

Somewhat refreshed, they walked hand in hand through the wooded trails, contemplating their options. Around the lake, children played and adults cooked on stone grills. Later, when the sun went down, they sat by the lakeshore and watched the stars spangle the lake. Considering the danger they were in, Mickey felt oddly content.

“No second thoughts?” Mutzie asked, revealing what was on her her mind.

“None,” he replied, believing it in his heart.

“I have. Many. My mother was right. I had foolish dreams.”

“What’s life worth without dreams?” Mickey sighed, wondering if his heart had sidetracked his dreams. Feelings have no logic, he decided.

“It was my choice,” he whispered. She squeezed his hand.

Mickey had no doubts about what he felt. As best as he could define it, he was in love. Why else had he risked everything for her? Despite the danger, he felt enobled, as if he was proving his love by his sacrifice. And yet, her gratitude was his greatest fear. What he wanted most was her love and the proof of it.

He wondered what thoughts might be going through her mind. She had grown silent and he chose to respect that. He sat with his back to a tree and she leaned against him, nestling in the crook of his arm. He could feel her heartbeat. Still, he sensed a barrier and was reluctant to transcend it.

“Is it possible to cleanse oneself?” she said.

“Are you planning to jump in the lake?”

“If it was only that easy.”

“Besides, first you have to be dirty,” Mickey whispered.

“I am. Very.”

“Not by my inspection.” He caressed her head. “Maybe I should look in your ears.”

She didn’t react and he knew his words were a futile gesture.

“I’m scarred for life, Mickey.”

“Scars heal,” he said, caressing her shoulders. “As for life, that’s what we’re trying to prolong.”

She shook her head in response. Again he concentrated on the danger they confronted and what action they should be taking. After a long silence, her steady breathing indicated that she was asleep.

“Sleep peacefully, my darling,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

It was still dark when he awoke. She had stirred and was standing up.

“My God,” she said. “I wasn’t sure where I was.”

Mickey stood up and they headed back along the trail to
their campsite and the car. Before they reached it they saw spears of light crisscrossing through the woods. As they got closer, they saw two policeman studying the license plate on the Chevy. They heard voices, then stopped all movement.

“This is it,” one of them said. “Matches.”

Apparently the man at the entrance had written down their license. Mickey realized that he had forgotten that the car was stolen.

“They gotta be around here somewhere,” Both policeman washed the beams of their flashlight into the woods. Mickey and Mutzie backed against the trees, holding their breath.

“Maybe they’re at the lake,” one of the policeman said, continuing to shine their lights into the woods and along the path that led to the lake.

“Let me pull this,” the other policeman said. They heard the tinkle of metal. Mickey figured they were disabling the car.

“Let’s go,” one policeman said.

They moved down the path to the lake, playing the flashlight beam in front of them. Mickey grabbed Mutzie’s arm and moved through the woods. They found another path that intersected and headed out in the direction of the main road.

They moved quickly but cautiously and by the time they reached the road the sun was just beginning to rise through the trees. They continued to walk along the road. There was little traffic except for some trucks that passed by occasionally, going either way.

“We still have our thumbs,” Mickey said.

A truck passed and they both held up their thumbs. It didn’t stop.

“We look like two bums,” Mickey said. They were still not very far from the entrance to the campground. Another truck
passed on the other side of the road. Again they put out their thumbs. The truck didn’t stop.

“Maybe if I was wearing a dress,” Mutzie said. “Like Claudette Colbert in
A Night to Remember
. It won an Oscar.”

“I’m no Clark Gable,” Mickey said, remembering Gloria’s comment.

A few more trucks passed. Whenever they saw a car or a truck they ran to the side of the road on which it came. It didn’t matter which direction. Avoiding the police was all Mickey could think about. It wasn’t simply the fear of the police, but the knowledge that the combination and the police were probably partners in crime.

Finally, they saw a milk truck and ran across the road with raised thumbs. The truck ground abruptly to a halt.

“Ya coulda got killed,” the driver shouted.

“One way or another,” Mickey replied winking at Mutzie.

The driver scowled and shook his head in puzzlement, then looked them over and reluctantly motioned for them to get in. They scrambled up in the seat beside him. The driver gunned the motor. Through the side mirror Mickey saw the police car turn into the road, moving in the opposite direction.

“Where you headed?” the driver asked.

“Wherever you are,” Mickey asked

“Albany,” the driver said.

Mickey and Mutzie exchanged glances. They both nodded.

“Albany it is,” Mickey said.