Portraits (8 page)

“Where is this place?” Jacob asked eagerly.

“On Chrystie Street there’s a big gym. It ain’t Madison Square Garden, but that’s where some of the big ones got started.”

Thoughtfully, Jacob took out the corned beef sandwich and offered half to the Irishman. As the two men ate, Jacob thought, this really is a wonderful country. Where else could a Jew and an Irishman become friends? Although Jacob was not yet aware of it, Patrick Michael O’Leary and Jacob Sandsonitsky had just become partners in a new venture.

When Tuesday finally arrived Jacob was filled with an assortment of guilts. He knew his mother would object to his going to a prize fight…she didn’t believe in fights of any kind. She would object to his getting involved with what she thought were bums and lowlifes, and she would certainly forbid him to mingle socially with
goyim
. They drank whiskey, smoked cigarettes, slept with bad women; in short, they were without morals. For two thousand years, the Jews had lived with a rigid code of morality, but the
goyim
were so mixed up they didn’t even know who God was. They worshipped idols, pagans, like in Egypt.

Jacob left his mother to meet Patrick with many misgivings.

He sat on the wooden bench next to Patrick, listening to the sounds and repulsed by the sights. The crowds roared as an upper right landed, hitting the opponent so hard he hung like a doll on the ropes, then dropped to the canvas. Two new contenders replaced the last. Again the bell rang and the fighters came together. There was a brutal foray.

It seemed to Jacob the referee took his time in separating the fighters. One to the right, then the left, short jabs to the kidneys, then biff, bang, one to the jaw, and it was over as the winner held up his arms clasping his hands together over his head. Shifting gracefully from one foot to the other, he laughed triumphantly. The crowd went wild.

Jacob despised it. This was not a contest; it was a savage, pagan rite, it was the Roman arena, the pogroms. He looked around at the evil delight on the faces of the spectators. They wanted blood. And this is what men did for money?

On the way out Patrick said, “Well, boyo, now you saw your first prize fight. That’s what you call sportin’ fun.” When Jacob didn’t answer, Patrick smiled and said, “You thought it was a little too much, did ya? Well, let me tell you, me bucko, life ain’t exactly a circus.” Laughing, he cuffed Jacob on the arm and added, “The first time it might seem a little rough, but the next time it won’t seem so—”

“There won’t be a next time,” Jacob answered quietly.

“Ho, now, me boy. Weren’t you the one sayin’ just the other day how much you wanted to make more money?”

“Yes, but I didn’t think that a prize fight was—”

“Let me stop you right now. What you saw tonight was the manly art of self-defense. Now you just think about it, me boy. I’ve been around fighting all me life, and let me tell you, if I had your body and those hands instead of being the leprechaun I am, I’d have been in that ring tonight. Now I’m strong enough, mind you, to work the way I do. Make no mistake about that. But you got something I ain’t; you got the makin’s of being a champ. I can spot ’em a mile away.”

“I don’t want to be—”

“Wait now, just wait till I’ve had my say. With the proper training, the right manager, why you’ll never hit that canvas. The ones you saw tonight are sluggers, flat on their feet. Maybe you don’t know it, but I’ve watched you work, and you ain’t no ordinary buck.”

“I’m not going to fight.”

“Well, that’s fine with me, but you’re missing a golden opportunity. You know how much those bums got tonight?”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“Okay, but I’ll tell you all the same.” Patrick came closer to Jacob and almost whispered, “Ten dollars. That’s a hell of a lot of money, wouldn’t you be thinkin’? Ten dollars for a night’s work.”

“What does the loser get?”

“What he deserved, about three. As I said, there are winners and losers. You’re a winner. Go home and sleep on it. You could be a rich man in no time at all.”

Jacob went home, but he didn’t sleep. Instead, he lay awake in the dark, unaware of Shlomo’s soft breathing. The thought of Lotte kept nudging his conscience. If he wanted Lotte as much as he said he did, wasn’t she worth fighting for? But what would his mother say? He wouldn’t be able to tell her. He could hear her arguments; Jews don’t fight, it’s against our religion and a sin against God. But ten dollars a fight, two nights a week, was twenty dollars, multiplied by six months—more money than he needed to send for Lotte. If he continued as he was going, it could take years. That thought frightened him. Patrick said he was a winner. If he could make enough money in a short time, he could not only marry Lotte but save enough to get started in a business. Fighting was considered the manly art of self-defense. If he’d known
that
he wouldn’t have lost his legacy,
zayde
and
bubeleh
’s house…

The next morning, he sought Patrick out. “I did what you said, I thought about it. How do I become a fighter?”

Patrick smiled, thinking, money is the greatest little whore in the world, that and jealousy and lust.

“Meet me at the gym tonight and we’ll start trainin’. I don’t want you to do nothin’ until you’re ready.”

“How long will that be?”

“In a few months.”

“Months?”

“Maybe sooner. Leave it in my hands, trust me. I have an instinct about these things.” …

Every night after supper Jacob met Patrick at the gym. At first, Jacob spent hours jumping rope, then graduated to the punching bag. On Sunday mornings after Patrick’s early Mass, the two met in Central Park and Patrick clocked the miles Jacob ran. Jacob’s stamina was more than Patrick could have hoped for. He was going to make this Jew into a champ.

The time had come for Jacob’s first bout. Jacob waited his turn, nervously pacing back and forth. The heavyweights were always the last. That’s really what the crowd wanted to see, the heavyweights.

As he climbed into the ring, Jacob’s fears were more real than his opponent—he was frightened because his mother and family didn’t know what he was doing, frightened because he might hurt his opponent, frightened because he might lose. Winning was so important. It meant his life, his life with Lotte.

Then the first round began with the ring of the bell, and unsure of himself, he sparred with his opponent, played with him.

Patrick stood at ringside, gesturing as he instructed Jacob…a jab to the rib, another, dance away and never let the bastard get in too close. Hit the kidneys, dance away. Come in close and keep the right up, the head covered. Wear him down, keep jabbing. Don’t be in a hurry, easy, easy. A jab and dance away.

When the bell rang, Jacob sat down in his corner, perspiring and winded, as Patrick handed him a glass of water. Jacob swished it around in his mouth, spat it into the bucket, and put the mouthpiece back in.

Round two began, and Patrick kept up his ringside patter. Keep him away, he’s getting tired. Now, knock the stuffing out of him, a right, a left, another right, another left. Think about Lotte, me boy, you’re doin’ this for Lotte. Keep punching, gettin’ closer, one to the jaw. It’s time for the kill.

Suddenly, the crowd went wild. Jacob looked at the unconscious man on the canvas. Blood was coming from his mouth, and his eyes were swollen shut and black and blue from the pounding he’d received. Jacob didn’t have a scratch.

He ran down the short dark corridor, slammed the door and vomited. He could still hear the roaring of the crowd, stamping for him to come back, but all he wanted was to get his money and get away from this place as fast as he could.

When O’Leary entered, Jacob was getting into his coat.

“By Jesus, you were a tiger in there, did everything like I said. You’re a killer, me boy,” he said, shaking his head in admiration.

“Just give me my money,” Jacob said woodenly.

Patrick took a good look at Jacob. He decided he would only take a fourth of the earnings for tonight. Patrick had never had the likes of this one before, and he could wait until the boy was hooked before he collected his fifty percent. Slowly and deliberately, Patrick peeled off the money, knowing how impatient Jacob was, then counted off seven dollars and placed it in Jacob’s sweating palm.

Jacob was sick. It was blood money. A man could have been killed for seven dollars. But he had more coming to him than seven dollars. “Where’s the ten dollars you promised?”

“Hold on there, me boy. You don’t get the whole thing. I got something coming; I’m your manager. In fact, I should be gettin’ half. The gym gets a bit too, you know. You’d better wake up, Jackie Sanders,
champ
. You got to pay money to make money.”

Jacob closed his fist hard around the money and ran out, leaving Patrick standing in the middle of the room. Patrick smiled, not at all worried. He would think it over. He’d be back.

Patrick was a very good judge of human nature. Jacob would never have believed himself capable of sinking as low as he had tonight. It was vile, reprehensible. No, there were some things a man would not do for money. But that still left him exactly where he was a few days ago. Where and how would he be able to earn sufficient money to bring Lotte over? Even if he got an additional part-time job, he would earn only a few extra dollars at the most, and time was so important. His want, his need for Lotte was an all-consuming thing now.

So Jacob lay awake, finding that the struggle to totally dismiss the money was a battle much greater than the one he’d fought tonight. Maybe, if he could keep thinking that the end justified the means, then maybe he could consider the fighting as just another job, another challenge to deal with. If he could only remember, when he was in the ring, that he was fighting for his future security, forget he was dealing with a man, block it out of his mind…Suddenly there was a new thought. Would the man he was fighting have any qualms about beating the hell out of him? Why should Jacob worry about him when no one had ever worried about Jacob. His past bitterness suddenly welled up in him. Who gave a damn what
his
life had been like? He had been kicked out of his grandparents’ house, his property and then his money had been stolen, he had been thrown in jail for no reason. Why shouldn’t he at long last have some happiness, the happiness of having Lotte at his side? Why shouldn’t he grasp this opportunity. Why…?

The next morning, Jacob was in such a hurry to see Patrick that he didn’t notice the women haggling with the pushcart vendors, nor the people taking their thin mattresses off the fire escapes, where they had slept the night before to avoid the unbearable heat inside. He stopped just briefly to watch a group of boys beating one another up. That was stupid, unproductive, he thought. If you’re going to fight, at least get paid for it. Fight for a purpose, fight for someone you love.

Jacob put on his mental blinders, refused to consider the man he’d fought as anything more than a punching bag. He pushed aside any previous revulsion he’d felt. He would not condemn what he was doing, not when he counted out the money. In the last few weeks, he had stashed away thirty dollars, which he’d earned from “the art of self-defense,” plus twenty-one he’d earned from the sweat pouring out of his body as he unloaded freight in the scorching sun. His assets were now fifty-one dollars, and
no one
would steal this from him. But there was just one little matter he was going to take care of, and that was his dear friend, Mr. Patrick O’Leary.

After the fight on Tuesday night, Jacob stood wiping his face on a towel. His body ached from the blows he’d received. Tonight he’d come up against a big bruiser, not as fast as Jacob, but when he connected a body blow, Jacob had been staggered. Jacob had almost met his match in this one.

With a broad grin, Patrick hoisted himself onto the table. “Well, me boy, you showed that crowd what real pugilistic ability looked like. Your footwork was beautiful, and the way you kept your distance, waitin’ for the openin’—why, when you landed that blow, I swear by the saints it could have been heard in Brooklyn. You’re gonna be—”

“I want more money,” Jacob said as he buttoned his pants.

The smile froze on O’Leary’s face. Why the dirty, money-hungry Kike. No wonder Jesus chased them out of the temple. Taking out his handkerchief, Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow. Slow down, O’Leary, don’t want to lose the big bucko Jew pigeon. The smile returned. “So, it’s more money you’re wanting, is it?”

“Yes.” Jacob nodded as he slipped into his jacket.

“And how much more would you be wantin’?”

“Ten dollars.”

Patrick slapped the side of his thigh and let out a booming laugh. “Well, now, it’s one thing to be wantin’, but where in the saints are you goin’ to be gettin’ it from?”

“From you.”

“From me, is it now?”

“That’s what I said, from you.”

Jacob’s American schooling on the docks had been illuminating. He had learned to recognize the guises of prejudice, which existed even in this so-called land of opportunity, and he had consequently become wary of anyone who offered something as an “opportunity.” These bitter lessons had been completed with the discovery that O’Leary was cheating him, that O’Leary was getting twelve dollars, not ten. Jacob spilled his guts and got only five, and that Irish Jew-hater wound up with seven.

Jacob came closer and looked down at Patrick. Patrick knew this was one Jew he would never have any sport with. He remembered the time he and his cohorts had cornered a young Jewish dockworker and ripped off his pants so they could see his smooth shiny penis, minus the foreskin the Lord had provided. The young boy had never returned. But Jacob would, and with a vengeance.

Patrick got off the table. “Now, Jackie, me boy, you’ve got to be sensible. How in the name of heaven can I give you ten dollars?”

“You’ll have to ask heaven. That’s what I want or I don’t fight.”

“You’re going daft, me boy. Now, Jackie, I’m your manager and I’m entitled to—”

“Not when I get five and you take seven. Not for the kind of punishment I take.”