The Amboy Dukes (19 page)

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to. Honest.”

“You don’t.”

“Look,” Frank reasoned with her. “You’ll say I don’t and I’ll say I do and we won’t be getting anywhere. Come on in and eat supper like a good kid. Mom’s got to get up early tomorrow.”

Alice kept her face pressed into the bed. “She doesn’t have to. She can work all the time. I don’t care.”

Frank pushed her. “Stop the acting.”

“You can’t take me anywhere,” she continued unheedingly, “but you got enough time to take out Fanny Kane.”

“Who told you that?” Frank hissed at her.

Alice sat up and wiped her eyes. “She did. And not so long ago you told me not to talk to her. All my friends know what she is. She lets boys feel her.”

Frank raised his hand and approached the bed. “I’ll rap you in the teeth if you talk that way and if you say anything to them.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on. Get washed and tomorrow I’ll show you a real time.”

As they ate Alice spoke of her loneliness. She was tired of going to the Center and making raffia baskets, of eating her lunches and suppers in restaurants, of sitting alone in the lonely kitchen at night as she did her homework and attempted to read the books she withdrew from the library. At eleven the world still had its axis in her mother, father, and brother, and there was no counterbalance for their voluntary and involuntary neglect. A natural shyness and instinctive aversion kept her off the Brownsville streets, and she shrank from the noise and tumult of the afternoons and evenings which made Amboy Street reverberate with shouts and cries and curses. Alice lowered her eyes as she walked from the Center to the tenement in which she lived in order not to see the women holding infant girls over the curb while they urinated, not to see and hear the small boys who chased one another around baby carriages while they screamed vicious obscenities, not to see the dirt and refuse that lay in the streets and which everyone else took for granted. Each day as she climbed the steps of the tenement she said a silent prayer that they would someday find an apartment in East Flatbush where she could find joy in walking through the streets and not experience the fear, horror, and dread that seeped from the tenement walls onto the Brownsville sidewalks.

Mr. Goldfarb noisily sucked the last of his tea from his plate and moved his chair back from the table. “You go with Alice to the movies now,” he said to his wife, “and I’ll clean the dishes with Frank.”

“You’ll break more than you’ll wash,” his wife replied.

Mr. Goldfarb tried to smile. “Don’t worry. I washed plenty of dishes. Where’s the steel wool for the pots?”

“In the pan under the sink.”

“So go. You’ve got money? And after the movies take Alice into a nice place and treat yourselves to good sodas.”

“You come to the movies too, Meyer.”

Mr. Goldfarb took an apron from the hook on the bathroom door. “Some other time. Go now and have a good time.”

Frank wiped the dishes rapidly as his father handed them to him and stacked them on the washtub. He had plenty of time before he met Betty in Dubrow’s at ten o’clock. If he could have had his way he would not have gone to the dance, but he knew that the Dukes expected every member to be present. Ever since the guys had been arrested they were changed, especially Larry Tunafish. Now he bossed the Dukes and would not permit himself to be crossed in any decision he made, for he was obsessed with the idea of clearing every Duke. Thus Larry demanded a rigorous obedience from each Duke, and often Frank was tempted to tell Larry that he was dropping out of the gang, but he knew if he did this he would never be safe from Benny.

Too often he remembered that Benny had threatened to kill him if he endangered his freedom and security, and the threat worried him, kept cropping into his sleeping and waking, gave him no rest. Benny was desperate. No matter how often Frank reassured him that they were safe, the sight of Gallagher, Leonard, Finch, or Wilner would send Benny into a tailspin of violent fright. And after the detectives would leave them Benny would turn on Frank and accuse him of talking too much or too little, of being too flippant in the presence of the detectives, or suddenly acting as if he were in the possession of a great secret. Benny never repeated his threat to kill Frank if he had to, but the manner in which he would look at Frank before he would leave him made Frank’s back turn to ice. Not for a moment did Frank doubt that Benny hated him, because Benny, in attempting to justify their crime, now considered him the reason for their being hunted, and once when Frank had mentioned that it had been Benny’s idea that they return to the high school he had backed away as he sensed the murderous fury that obscured and extinguished reason within Benny.

“So how is it going in school?” His father spoke to him.

“Like it shouldn’t happen to a dog,” Frank replied.

His father handed him a soup bowl. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The place is driving me nuts. I want to transfer out of there next year. That is, if you won’t let me quit.”

“You’re staying in school,” his father said.

“What the hell I’m getting out of it, maybe you know. I don’t.”

“You’ll get out what you put in.”

“I’m not putting anything in.”

Mr. Goldfarb stopped washing and turned to Frank. “Remember, I’m your father,” he said quietly, “and I can still give you a good slap in the face.”

Frank moved out of his father’s range. “I was only kidding,” he said hurriedly.

Mr. Goldfarb resumed his dishwashing. “Your kidding has got you into plenty of trouble already.”

“For chrissakes”—Frank threw his dish towel on the washtub—“aren’t you ever going to forget it?”

“It’s not easy,” his father said. “You keep reminding me, and people in my place who I hardly know ask me about it. Funny,” he meditated, “if you would’ve made good marks in school nobody would even bother to ask me. But because they think my son is a gangster I’ve got plenty of people who are interested in my business.”

“I’m not a gangster!”

“I hope not. But your friends?”

“They’re all-right guys,” Frank said hotly. “They just got a tough break.”

“I don’t know what’s going to become of you.” Mr. Goldfarb rubbed the steel wool hard along the inside of an aluminum pot. “I don’t understand you. Not for years. Ever since you had to ask your uncle Hershell to buy you your bar mitzvah suit. Somehow”—he faced his son while he rinsed the pot under the warm water—“you’ve never forgiven me for that. No matter how you suffered, it was worse for me. You’ll understand if you ever have children.”

Frank was ashamed to look at his father. “I’m not sore at you,” he said. “I’m just having a tough time, Pop. But once school is over, I’m going to change. You’ll see.”

“I’ll finish,” his father said. “Go get dressed for your date. Where you going?”

“To a little party,” Frank said. “Nothing special.”

He saw Betty sitting at a table as he passed through the revolving door of Dubrow’s, and the old joy in seeing her made his sullen face young and eager. Before each date with her he would wonder whether she was as pretty as he thought she was, and at each meeting he would know that his picture of her was accurate, that she was young, lovely, desirable, and his. Betty waved to him as she saw him enter the restaurant, and he nodded approvingly as he quickly noted the flowered jersey dress which accented her figure and the red velvet ribbon with which she had bound her hair. Betty wore high-heeled red wisps of sandals, and across her red fabric purse lay a pair of long red gloves.

“You look like a house afire,” Frank greeted her. “Waiting long?”

“I don’t think so.” She smiled. “No one’s tried to pick me up.”

“That’s a good way for you to tell time.” Frank took her check. “You’re gonna be a killer tonight. Want something?”

“Can we get a drink?”

“Not here.”

“I’d like one before we go to the dance.”

Frank stood up and pulled her chair back from the table. “I’ll get you one.”

As he walked before her he was proud of the stares and whistles Betty received from the wolves who sat at the tables. His eyes brightened and he half strutted after her, proud that real sharp guys who were lots older than he were eying Betty and even wishing they had her as a date. Her hips swayed slightly, a provocative promise of her grace and desirability, and Frank wished they did not have to go to the dance, even though he knew the guys would be rocking on their heels when they saw her. Betty held his arm as they entered the bar, and Frank felt himself grow in stature. She winked at him as they clinked glasses, and after they left the bar and were seated in the taxicab that was driving them to the dance she put her arms around him and kissed him slowly and sensually.

As they stepped out of the cab in front of the Tigers’ clubroom Frank noted the four silent squat young men whom he had never seen before. Without speaking they examined his tickets and nodded for him to enter. There was no need for them to speak, for in their presence one felt the electric spark of danger and violence, swift and savage, without pity or mercy, and only a fool would have disputed their suggestion or order. Certain and sure of their menace, they examined tickets and permitted the boys and girls to descend the clubroom steps.

Larry Tunafish stood at the checkroom counter behind which Bull Bronstein was checking hats and other miscellaneous articles.

“You’re late,” Bull said to him after he curtly acknowledged the introduction to Betty.

Frank took Betty’s hand and led her into the clubroom. “So don’t tell me the dance’s been a flop,” he called over his shoulder to Larry.

Bull looked at Larry and shook his head. “He’s getting to be a regular wise guy.”

“I know,” Larry said with ominous patience. “And I’m not forgetting it.”

Frank helped Betty thread their way through the crowd and the packed dance floor to the bandstand, where Frank looked around for someone he knew. He waved to Mitch, who leaned against the wall, and pushed over to him.

“I want you to meet my girl,” he said to Mitch. “Betty, this is Mitch. Mitch is a Duke.”

Mitch dropped his cigarette and crushed it underfoot. “Hello,” he said appraisingly. “I’m glad to know you.”

“Same here.” Betty nodded.

“Where’s the guys?” Frank asked Mitch.

“Circulating around. I’m waiting for my date. She’s out to the powder room.”

“How’s the dance going?” Frank looked around for Benny, who was coming stag and who was sorer than hell because Betty was dating while Ann had blackballed him since the police questioned her.

“Pretty good,” Mitch replied. “The crowd’s sure coming. But they’re leaving too. See that guy over there?” He pointed to a slight consumptive-looking boy about twenty who had a face as thin and deadly as the blade of an ax and whose double-breasted jacket was too large and too long for him. “He’ll go into action soon as Larry tells him to.”

“Who’s he?” Betty asked.

Mitch replied respectfully, “A hard guy. From Bushwick and Moore.”

“Williamsburg,” Frank explained to Betty.

“I saw him go into action about an hour ago,” Mitch went on. “He sure cleaned up on a guy who was going to crash. Shimmy,” Mitch called to the Williamsburger, “come over here.”

Shimmy detached himself from the wall and walked slowly toward them. “What’s the trouble?” he asked Mitch in a low-pitched voice that sounded like sharp slivers of ice.

“No trouble,” Mitch explained. “I want you to meet another one of our guys. Shimmy Rosen, this is Frank Goldfarb, one of our guys. And this is his girl. Betty?” He turned to her.

“That’s right,” Betty said. “Hello.”

“Frank can stay all night if he wants to,” Mitch said to Shimmy.

“I’ll remember. You want to dance?” he asked Betty.

Betty started to speak but stopped.

“Sure”—Mitch nudged Frank—“go ahead.”

“You don’t mind?” Shimmy said to Frank.

“No,” Frank replied. “Go ahead.”

Frank watched Betty move into the crowd with Shimmy and then he pushed Mitch. “What’s the big idea?”

“These guys are helpin’ us,” Mitch explained. “We gotta show them a good time.”

Frank’s lower lip trembled. “So you show them a good time with your date.”

“I am,” Mitch replied calmly. “Shimmy’s buddy is in the back room giving my date the business.”

“I thought we were gonna have Rosie down with some of her friends?”

“They haven’t come yet,” Mitch said. “Stop your bawling.”

Frank grasped Mitch by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him forward. “Listen, guy,” he said. “I think you’re a pretty good guy even though you’re a friend of Crazy’s. But I’m tellin’ you now that I’m in a lousy humor and I’ll slug you.”

“Get your hands off me, you bastard,” Mitch said quietly. “You want to start a riot? The dance’s gotta go over.”

Frank released him and stepped back.

Mitch smoothed the lapels of his jacket and did not look at Frank as he spoke. “I’m not forgetting this, Frank. I’ll take care of you some other time.”

“Up your ass,” Frank replied, and whirled around as he felt someone’s hand on his sleeve. It was Benny.

“You come alone?” Benny asked him.

Frank’s hands trembled as he took a cigarette out of the pack. “No. Betty’s dancing with someone supposed to be a hard guy from Williamsburg.”

“Looks like it’s going over.” Benny waved to a Duke who whirled by on the dance floor.

The band screamed to a stop, and Frank rushed into the dancers to find Betty. She was standing almost in the center of the floor, laughing at something Shimmy had said to her.

“I was bringing your date back to you.” Shimmy’s voice was so low that Frank had to strain to hear him.

“Thanks!” Frank said. “Come on”—he took Betty’s arm—“let’s go. It’s hot and the dance stinks.”

“But I like it,” Betty protested. “And we just got here. You told me so much about the Dukes and now you want to go.”

“Well, it’s goddamned hot,” Frank insisted.

“So let’s go sit in a corner somewhere,” Betty coaxed him. “Please.”

“All right,” Frank said sullenly. “I’ll stay. But we’ll go in about an hour.”