The Amboy Dukes (18 page)

Stan held Frank’s jacket and handed him his hat. “Sorry you came so late. We could’ve had a longer visit.”

“I’m sorry I bothered you,” Frank said. “I’ll be seeing you around the Center. Take it easy.”

Stan held the door open. “Good night. Sleep well, if you can.”

Frank waved, but concern and fear made the flippant gesture weak. “I will. Good night. Thanks for the coffee.”

For nights that seemed like years the Dukes had given Frank the freeze. At first he had been glad because he thought of this as a chance to break with the gang. But there was nowhere to go, he was sort of marked lousy, and Benny had kept closer to him than ever before. Benny, always Benny, with his talking and stupid scheming, until Frank thought he was going to go crazy if he didn’t get rid of him. So when Larry Tunafish had called him into Selma’s one Friday night he had tried to appear calm, but his heart was throbbing like a pump.

Selma nodded as he squeezed into a booth with Larry and Bull, and he knew it was all right for him to start hanging out there again. Then he saw Benny come in, and his stomach dropped as he wondered whether their secret had been discovered.

“We’re waitin’ for you,” Bull said to Benny.

“I got your message just a little while ago. What’s up?”

“Sit down.” Larry moved over. “We’re running a dance.”

“A dance?” Frank and Benny echoed.

Larry reached into the bosom pocket of his jacket and removed a thick envelope, which he placed on the table. “Tickets,” he explained. “We’re running the dance two weeks from tomorrow night to raise dough for the Dukes. Yeah”—he looked squarely at Frank—“most of us guys need some dough. Not everyone’s got a bank account. So we thought before the other clubs started to think about it we’d run a dance and raise some dough.”

“We printed a thousand tickets,” Bull interrupted.

“A thousand tickets?” Benny exclaimed. “Where you running this dance? Steeplechase?”

“A guy needs two tickets to get in with his date.” Larry ignored Benny’s question. “And tickets cost two-fifty apiece.”

Frank’s mouth hung slack. “You mean you’re gonna get guys to shell out five bucks for a dance? Where we holding it?”

“The Tigers’re lending us their clubroom, and they’re all buying tickets to help us out. They’re swell guys.” Bull shook his head appreciatively. “So that means with more than twenty members we’re getting rid of at least fifty tickets right there.”

“But you must be nuts,” Benny objected. “How the hell are you gonna squeeze a thousand people down there? Their club is no bigger than ours was. The son of a bitch,” he swore as he thought of their ex-landlord.

Larry took two tickets out of the envelope and handed one to Frank and the other to Benny. “Very nice printing job,” Larry said. “We got it for nothing. This dance is gonna be all profit. Look at the bottom of the ticket,” he went on. “See what it says about not coming before ten o’clock? Some of the tickets say nine o’clock. Some ten, eleven, twelve, one, two, and three. And the tickets are on different-colored paper for the different times. And when a couple comes in they gotta pin their tickets on their suits and dresses where we can see them. We got a coupla real gorillas who’re gonna stay at the door. And a guy with a ten o’clock ticket is only gonna get in between ten and one minute to eleven. Then we’re gonna have a couple more hard guys circulating on the floor, and when they see that the place is getting crowded they’ll go over to the people who’ve been dancing for about an hour and tell them that maybe they’d better cop a walk. So that way we keep the crowd changing and we won’t have too much of a mob.”

“Who’re the hard guys?” Benny’s voice was filled with admiration.

“Some guys from Flushing and Broadway,” Bull said. “My cousin fixed it up. They’re helping us out and all we’re gonna do is fix them up with Rosie Beanbags and a couple of her friends. They’re not taking a dime, and these guys are hard.” He pounded a fist into the palm of his other hand.

Frank’s forehead was furrowed as he computed for a moment. “So you’re gonna make about twenty-five hundred, except for what you gotta pay the band.”

Larry’s smile was not pleasant. “Who’s gonna pay what band?”

“Oh,” Benny said.

“We’re gonna run a checkroom,” Bull informed them. “And everybody’s gotta check, whether they got something or not.”

“Checking is gonna be twenty-five cents apiece,” Larry added. “Every dime we’re taking in is gonna count.”

“I hope it goes over,” Frank said.

Larry stopped counting tickets. “It’s gotta go over. I’m giving you thirty tickets. That’s seventy-five dollars.”

“Thirty tickets!”

“What’s the matter, Frank?” Larry leaned across the table. “Not enough? Maybe you wanta take forty?”

“Stop horsing me around.” Frank pushed his face forward and met Larry’s stare. “I can ask questions. If I’m supposed to take thirty I’ll take them. But don’t practice being a hard guy on me.”

“Cut it out,” Bull said to them. “We got enough trouble already. You can get ridda thirty tickets, Frank, and it’s for a good cause. Some of the guys’re up against it. We’re gonna divide the money according to who needs it most.”

“I suppose I get thirty tickets?” Benny asked.

“Thirty for you.” Bull nodded. “And how about your brother Sam? He knows plenty of guys and could get rid of some.

Benny whistled softly. “I don’t know. Sam’s sorer’n hell at me.”

“Let me take the numbers of your tickets,” Larry said to Frank. “You got a ten o’clock batch, so they should be easy to sell.”

Bull counted off thirty tickets in one pile and fifteen in another. “This’ll be your thirty,” he said to Benny, “and take the fifteen for Sam. He’s got to help out.”

“You’ll work fast,” Larry said to them. “Try the stores, everybody. If they give you the two and a half and they don’t take the ticket, you’ll turn in the dough and still sell the ticket. And”—he glanced around the table—“I better not find out that anybody’s sticking dough in his pocket.”

Frank looked at the tickets which had been assigned to him, counted them, and placed them in his pocket. “Who gets the money?” he asked.

“Me or Bull,” Larry replied.

“You know what Moishe is doing?” Bull interjected.

“What?” Benny asked.

“His rap is costing him plenty. So he went out and printed up raffle books to raffle off a pair of nylon stockings at fifty cents a chance to help a friend in need.”

“A very good idea,” Frank said. He wondered if he ought to take a couple of chances and fix it up with Moishe so that he would win and then he could give the nylons to Betty.

“But this is the pay-off.” Bull laughed and Larry smiled. “Moishe is the friend in need, and the tickets don’t say when the raffle is gonna be held or where, and who’s got a pair of nylons?”

Benny roared. “That’s solid!”

“But wait,” Bull went on. “Crazy hears about this and decides that he’s gonna raffle off twenty salamis for a friend in need. But he was gonna give the salamis. So he goes to that job printer on East New York near Rockaway and tells the printer he wants some books. The printer says all right and tells Crazy to design the slip. I don’t have to tell you any more.” He wiped his eyes.

“Nothing that jerk does strikes me funny,” Frank said sourly.

“Anyway”—Bull ignored his comment—“he went back to Mitch and Mitch told him to give us the salamis and we’ll auction them off at the dance. We oughta get at least fifty bucks that way.”

“Selma,” Benny called to her, “are we customers again?”

“I guess so,” she replied.

“You want black and whites?” Benny asked the boys at the table.

“Sure,” Bull answered for them.

“Four black and whites,” Benny ordered. “I’m treating. Gee,” he said to Larry and Bull, “I’m glad to be in business with you guys again.”

“Me too,” Frank said slowly.

“Cut out the crying towel,” Larry said. “We’ll drink the sodas and then we gotta get busy.”

Frank found that selling the thirty tickets was not too difficult, for the Dukes had been the first to plan a dance, and when Frank told the prospective customer that the money was to be used to keep the Dukes out of prison they bought readily. Some boys who were reluctant to part with five dollars for two tickets had only to be reminded by Frank that there were many dark streets in Brownsville and guys occasionally were held up and had their suits taken off them—and more tickets were sold. Frank had sold one ticket that the purchaser had returned to him, and when he saw Fanny Kane sitting in front of his stoop he threw her the ticket, figuring that the kid might be good for some laughs at the dance.

“Take it,” he said to her. “The dance’s tonight and it’s gonna be solid.”

“For nothing?”

“Sure. I’m giving it to you.”

“Who you taking, Frank?”

Frank paused before he entered the hall. “Not you. I got a date.”

“Thanks, Frankie,” Fanny called after him. “I’ll be there tonight.”

Frank opened his collar and loosened his tie as he climbed the steps. Everything was working out fine. Gallagher, Leonard, Finch, and Wilner were still hanging around, but he had steeled himself to their presence. Only once had he been flippant when he had met Leonard and Wilner, and they had taken him to the Liberty Avenue station for questioning. For two hours they had questioned him without being able to shake his original story, and finally they had released him. Now he knew that it did not pay to be funny or friendly with cops. The only thing he regretted was visiting Stan Alberg that night, but Stan had kept quiet, and when Frank went to the Center, Stan never referred to his visit or their conversation.

Stan was waiting for Frank to reopen the subject, and Frank now felt sufficiently safe to bury the episode forever. The picture of Bannon lying on the classroom floor with the stain on his chest becoming larger was less distinct, and to Frank the shooting became an incident that was unfortunate, like getting a flat tire just when a couple of guys were starting on a hot date. Guys were being killed by the hundreds every day in Europe and the Pacific, and no one made any fuss about them; and if a guy believed in God, then it was fixed for Bannon to die that way, although Frank would have preferred that someone else had been chosen to make a stiff of him.

His father was just seating himself at the kitchen table when he opened the door of their apartment. “You’re on time,” his father said. “A miracle.”

“I just came from East Flatbush,” Frank lied. “I’m half dead with looking for a place. A guy told me about a basement apartment on Kings Highway near Ninety-sixth, but it was a bum steer. So I’m pooped.”

“Sit down after you wash.” Frank’s mother was unimpressed. “We want to get done early because we’re working tomorrow and we want to go to sleep early.”

“Oh, Momma!” Alice ran into the kitchen from her bedroom. “Again? Working again?”

Her mother embraced her. “I’m sorry,
schondele,
but they want us to come in.”

Alice clung to her mother’s skirt. “You said you were going to take me somewhere tomorrow”—there was a tremble in her childish voice—“and I was going to wear my new suit! I haven’t worn it since
Pesach.”

Mrs. Goldfarb kissed her daughter and patted her hair. “What I earned from one Sunday’s overtime was what bought you your pretty suit.”

Mr. Goldfarb looked up from his newspaper. “Must you go in? Maybe you should stay home and take the children out tomorrow? To Radio City?”

Alice clapped her hands and trembled with excitement. “To the Music Hall, Momma! Take us. Take us! You said you were going to take me somewhere tomorrow, Momma! You said!”

Mrs. Goldfarb shook her head and glared with annoyance at her husband. “You with your ideas,” she said to him. “You think I want to go to work tomorrow? Like I want a broken leg.”

“Don’t shout, Rashke,” Mr. Goldfarb said. “I was only suggesting.”

“I told the forelady I was coming in tomorrow. Why don’t you stay home with the children?”

“Because my double time on Sunday,” Mr. Goldfarb was patient, “is a lot more than yours.”

Mrs. Goldfarb pushed Alice from her and adjusted the flame of one of the burners on the gas range. “Next you’ll tell me you work harder than I do.”

“Let’s not fight. It’s out of the question for me to stay home tomorrow.”

“So I’ve got to stay home again alone tomorrow!” Alice burst into tears and ran into her bedroom. “I’m alone! Always alone!” they could hear her shouting.

Mr. Goldfarb looked at Frank. “Suppose I gave you five dollars,” he began, “would you take Alice to the Music Hall tonight?”

“I can’t, Pop,” Frank said.

“Why not?” his mother asked him.

“I got a date tonight. Something special.”

“Phui.” His mother spit into the sink. “Dates with
junge stinkerkes
and
bummerkes
are something special. Better”—she waved the spoon with which she had been stirring the rice-and-milk soup—“you should be careful that you don’t come home someday with a
krank
from one your special dates.”

Mr. Goldfarb shut his paper with a snap. “What sort of talk is this, Rashke? Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Ask him, Meyer”—his wife pointed to Frank, whose face was red with embarrassment—“if he doesn’t know what I mean. I read in the papers,” she continued, “that they got a two-day cure for it now. At least we’re lucky for that.”

“Rashke!” Mr. Goldfarb stood up and took two steps toward his wife and stopped. “No more!” He turned to Frank. “You can’t take your sister tonight to the Music Hall?”

“I’ll take her tomorrow,” Frank said. “I mean it. Honest”—he spoke to his mother’s back—“I’d take Alice out tonight, but this is a date I can’t get out of. And you shouldn’t say things like that about this girl. She’s a good kid.”

“So I shouldn’t say it.” His mother shut off the gas. “Go get Alice and tell her I’ll take her to the movies after supper if she helps me with the dishes.”

Alice lay diagonally across her bed and refused to move when Frank asked her to come for supper. “Go away,” she said to him. “I don’t like you.”

“Don’t be that way, kid.” Frank was distressed. “Mom’s taking you to the movies tonight and I’m gonna show you a time tomorrow.”