The Hoods (37 page)

“Goddamn. He looks good to me, Max,” I said. “Tall, dark and handsome Pasquale. Eleven o'clock right on the dot,” I smiled.

Then I saw Cockeye, then Jake, and finally Goo-Goo nonchalantly walking around. Max and I laughed at the sight, especially Jake the Goniff in evening clothes.

Max remarked, “I'll bet it's the first time.”

They were a welcome sight among those hundreds of alien faces. Knowing they were down there gave us as good a feeling as a shot in the arm. Patsy started to play. He put down small bets carelessly. Max didn't say anything to Fat Boy, operating the switches. He let Pat lose the small amounts.

Pipy wandered away to the rear, out of my vision. I went over to the hole covering the dice table. Sure enough, there was little Pipy squirming through the crowd. I watched him making small bets against the shooter.

Then it came his chance to roll the dice. He was marvelous. He suddenly got busy with a cigarette, fumbled for his matches, then fast, he shot the dice. I laughed; a terrific thrill went through me at his artistry. He wasn't wasting any time.

He shot a seven. I could see the croupier look at Pipy in surprise. Then he looked sharply at his assistant, evidently thinking it was his fault for throwing Pipy the wrong dice. I watched Pipy make a few more wins. His finesse with dice was astoundingly smooth.

I went the rounds looking through the various holes on the floor. I looked out the window; I looked down into the cashier's office. Everything was normal. Everything was copasetic.

I went over to the hole covering the big poker game. I watched Jake and Goo-Goo, both wearing the luminous glasses. The game looked like an even match from up here: the banker with his phony eyeshade and his shill versus Jake and Goo-Goo. The only time Jake could get the advantage would be when he had the chance to slip his own deck in the game. The game was getting interesting. I hated to leave, but I had to keep an eye on the whole place. I went regularly from one hole to the next.

Finally, I went back into the control room. Max was puffing his cigar. He was surprisingly at ease though he was hovering over Fat Boy like a hawk. He smiled at me. “How goes it?”

“Everything's copasetic,” I said.

A few minutes later Max looked at his watch. 'This is it,” Max said. “It's eleven twenty-three.”

Max picked up the Tommy gun.

His easy manner changed. “This will tell the tale, Fat Boy,” he snarled. Big Max's voice was savage and brutal. “One move out of line, and you're cold meat.”

The fat guy looked like he was about to konk out.

“I said I'd do as you say,” he insisted in a pitiful whine.

“Okay, watch the play downstairs, and answer questions. Who's the bum that runs this joint?”

He gave the big politician's name.

“What's his phone number and address?”

He answered, “It's in a book downstairs.”

“When we go downstairs, you call him up and tell him to come over.”

The fat guy nodded fearfully.

I watched the wheel downstairs. I looked at my watch. It was eleven twenty-five. Patsy was increasing his bets gradually. The croupier, with satisfaction, was pulling in Patsy's losses. Pat skipped a play. I was watching him. I saw him glance at his watch. I looked at mine. It was eleven-thirty.

This was it. Patsy was pushing all his chips together in one heap. Then he pushed them slowly and carefully on number eight. The croupier looked at Patsy in amazement. It was the largest bet made.

The other bettors nudged each other. They fidgeted and whispered in their excitement.

The croupier hesitated, then shrugged his shoulders. I guess he couldn't help himself; out of nervousness he glanced furtively up at the ceiling.

Big Max put the Tommy gun to the fat guy's head. He hissed fiercely, “Okay, bastard, that big bet wins, or your head gets blown off.”

Breathing in gasps, hands shaking in fright, he put the switch on Patsy to win.

Downstairs, eyes followed the ball around and around. There was a hush as it stopped. Then pandemonium, a terrific furore downstairs. People came running to the table.

We could hear the shouting, “He broke the bank!”

Strangers were slapping Patsy on the back in congratulation. The croupier was looking up at the ceiling, aghast.

A short stocky guy with authority in his manner hurried over to the table. For a moment he stood, a bewildered look on his face. Then he shrugged and told the croupier to continue the play.

Patsy gathered his winnings and started toward the cashier's office. The stocky guy and two husky men followed close behind.

Then I saw Jake, Pipy and Goo-Goo move in from different directions.

Max looked at his watch. He nudged the fat guy with the machine gun. “Okay, Fat Belly, downstairs.”

With reluctance the fat guy made for the stairway. Maxie with the Tommy in the fat guy's back, and I, with my .45 and knife, started down.

We reached the bottom of the stairway. It was like a play with all the actors converging from different entrances on to the stage. The cashier, an amazed expression on his face, had turned, facing us.

Patsy crowded in from the doorway holding his .45, looking fierce and incredulous at the same time. Behind him was the stocky guy and the two tall men. Back of them pushing into the room were Jake, Pipy and Goo-Goo with rods. All eyes were fixed on us, Maxie and me. Big Max had the Tommy gun in his hands. His .45 in the holster was strapped to his bare chest. His .32 was attached to his right arm, and I crouched with my .45 in my right, my big knife in my left hand.

We were a dirty, sweaty, savage, bizarre-looking pair. We were the protagonists in this play, and this was our big scene. For the moment I had a feeling, a wonderful feeling that everything was going our way. In my imagination I heard drums beat, bugles blow. I heard stirring martial music.

Boy, this is what I was living for. I was Noodles. Yeh, I was Noodles the Shiv from Delancey Street, the fastest man with the knife on the East Side, yeh, the fastest man with the knife in the whole world. This was my exalted moment, a moment that packed the biggest thrill of my life. It was more intense than a sexual gratification. It was wonderful. Every nerve in me was screaming for action.

The action started. Patsy turned savagely. He grabbed the stocky guy by the head and flung him headlong into the room. Jake, Pip and Goo-Goo pushed the other two in. I was crouched low.

Max rapped out, “Close the door!”

Jake turned to close it. The stocky guy made a dash for the door pulling out his gun. He was my meat. He was mine, all mine. I was as confident as a cat with a mouse. I flew through the air. I made a tremendous leap with my knife. I slit open the hand that held the gun. The gun dropped to the floor. His hand gushed blood. He fell to his knees. I had the knife at his throat.

I snarled, “You want to croak, you friggin bastard?” He froze like a statue as I wiped the bloody knife on his cheek.

Big Max motioned to one of the tall men. He snapped savagely at him. “Fix the bastard up before he bleeds to death.”

The tall guy looked at Maxie with defiance. He mumbled under his breath, “You sonsofbitches.”

Patsy, with a lightning movement, lashed viciously downward on his face with the butt end of his gun. It caught the bridge of the guy's nose, almost taking it off completely. He sank slowly to the floor, groaning. He sat there. His two hands held his hanging, bleeding nose. He rocked from side to side in agonizing pain.

That did it. That gave them the feeling we wanted to instill in them, the feeling of the necessity for immediate obedience. We were in a spot. We were outnumbered. We had to show them that we were vicious, that we would kill.

“Okay, you.” Big Max motioned to the other tall guy.

“Fix your friend's hand up before he bleeds to death. Any more goddamn remarks you'd like to make?”

Quickly he shook his head in fright. With a handkerchief he tried to stem the flow of blood. His hands were too shaky. I took over the job. I tied a tourniquet tightly around the guy's wrist.

“Frisk them, Jake.” Maxie made a quick movement of the Tommy gun. Jake removed three “pieces” from the group.

“Okay, these four down the cellar.”

Max pointed with the Tommy to the two guys that were hurt, to Fat Boy, and to the remaining tall man.

I lifted the trap door. Jake helped the stocky guy down. The tall guy helped his sobbing companion. The weak-hearted fat guy labored down last.

“Okay, Jake, you stay down with them,” Max ordered.

Jake disappeared downstairs. I kicked the trap door shut.

The cashier stood looking at us, panic-stricken.

Maxie snapped at him. “Call your boss. Tell him it's very important to come right over.” He moved menacingly closer. “One wrong word, bastard, you'd wish your old man shot his load into a rubber and you were never born.”

The cashier timorously picked up a telephone book. With shaking fingers he turned the pages. He went over to the phone. In a quavering voice he gave the operator the number. He had a little difficulty with his boss.

We could hear the boss shouting at the other end of the wire, “What's up? What's up? What's so goddamned important?” But finally we heard him say, “I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Damn you, it'd better be important.”

A man and a woman started walking over to the cashier's window. Max and I in our odd garb barely had time to duck into the bathroom. Maxie snapped to Pat, “Let the cashier conduct his business. You stay with him.” Patsy edged closer to the cashier.

Pipy and Goo-Goo sank to the floor out of sight. The couple bought five hundred dollars worth of chips and walked away. We came out of the bathroom.

“Goo-Goo,” Maxie said tersely, “tell Cockeye to park the car close by. You come back in with him.”

Goo-Goo walked out through the door.

Just in time, we saw another guy walking toward the window. Again we ducked into the bathroom. I left the door slightly ajar. Pipy dropped to the floor.

The man stuck his face to the window. He looked curiously at Patsy standing alongside the cashier. He said, “Where's Paul? In the crapper?”

The cashier, at Patsy's nudge, answered, “Yes, he's in there.”

I quickly flushed the toilet for the sound effect.

The guy at the window peered at Patsy suspiciously. “Who's this guy?” he asked.

“I'm his new assistant,” Patsy volunteered.

He looked intently at Patsy. “I never seen you before. Hey, Si,” he was addressing the cashier, “you better tell Paul I want to see him. There's something funny going on. I can't place it. There's something wrong with the wheel. It's throwing too many winners. Everything's going haywire.”

Patsy, with a disarming smile, said, “Come in and tell him about it yourself.”

Pat opened the door wide. The guy paused before coming in. He seemed a little chary. Pat coaxingly took him by the arm, smiled in his face. “Come in, pal, come in.”

As soon as he was inside the door he got suspicious. He tried to twist out of Patsy's hold. Pipy slammed the door shut. The guy was startled.

He said to Pipy, “What're you doing here?”

“You're a nosy bastard, aren't you?” Patsy said sarcastically.

Pat twisted the guy around and gave him a chop with his gun on the back of his neck. He fell to the floor, sprawled face down like a dead rabbit. Pipy went through his clothes and extracted a .38 Colt. “Tsk, tsk,” he said, “these big local boys acting tough, carrying real pistols. Water pistols they should carry.”

He jauntily twirled the gun around his finger like a cowboy. Then he put it in his pocket.

We walked out of the toilet. Max said to me, “Okay, Noodles, throw the jerk down the cellar.”

Pat and I carried him to the trap door. We started to ease him down. He slipped out of our hands. He went head first down the stairs. Jake called up.

“Hey, you guys, where do you think you are? Down on Delancey throwing garbage down the street?”

I went down to see how the guy was. I was the mob doctor.

Jake asked, “How is he, Noodles?”

I examined him. “He's all right; he's breathing,” I said. “But he could have a broken head.”

Jake had the four of them herded in the back on a bench. We carried the limp guy over. “Move over,” Jake barked. “You guy's got yourself some company.”

I cautioned Jake to watch them closely.

“Don't worry. I got my two Roscoes.”

I went upstairs. Goo-Goo had come back with Cockeye.

Maxie said to Cockeye, “How's them big shmucks outside?”

He meant the uniformed guards.

“Them donkeys?” Cockeye sneered. He spit to show his contempt. “They don't know their elbows from their asses. Them dumb shmucky bastards.”

More customers came to the window. Patsy and the cashier changed their money into chips.

Patsy said to the cashier, after the customers walked away, “You may as well cash mine, too. I'm loaded down with the crap.”

The lowest chips Pat had in his pockets were hundred-dollar ones. Most of the rest were five-hundred dollar ones. The total ran to seventy-four thousand, five hundred dollars.