3

Duddy didn’t get home until after seven o’clock. His father was out, but he found Lennie in the bedroom.

“Hi!”

“Duddy,” Lennie said, “how many times have I asked you not to barge in here when I’m studying?”

Duddy’s face flushed.

“Look, Duddy, half the guys who flunk out do it in their second year. Anatomy’s the big killer. Your supper’s on the kitchen table.”

Duddy ate his frankfurters and beans standing up, poured himself a glass of milk, and returned to the bedroom. “We got a new class master today,” he said. “Mac, of all people.”

No answer.

“Hey, guess what? I heard a rumor that a sort of mission’s opened up on St. Joseph Boulevard and the jerk who runs it is going to hand out pamphlets and stuff at F.F.H.S. Isn’t that an insult to our religion like? I think somebody oughta complain.”

“Look, Duddy, I really must get back to work.”

Duddy jumped up. “You don’t have to worry about your fees next year. I’m going to get a job as a waiter up north for the summer and you can have all my tips.” Embarrassed he fled.

“Duddy!”

“I know,” Duddy said, half into his coat. “Uncle Benjy is gonna take care of your fees.”

“I think I’m going to be free Saturday afternoon. You want to come to the movies with us?”

“Aw, Riva wouldn’t like it. I’d be a fifth wheel like.”

It’s true, Lennie thought, and come Saturday morning he’d regret that he had asked Duddy to join them. “You’re coming with us, that’s definite.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, where are you going?”

“I’m invited to a musical evening at Mr. Cox’s house. All the guys are.”

Young Mr. Cox, the newest teacher in the school, was, in Duddy’s opinion, the World’s No. 1 Crap Artist. Once he had dropped into Irving’s Poolroom after school to talk to the boys — a terrifying intrusion. Another crazy thing he had done had been to come to the Students’ Council tea dance in the gym one day — not so when you remember that he danced three slow numbers with Birdie Lyman. But, wackiest of all, he invited the boys round regularly for musicales. Mr. Cox’s music was a bore. But there were plenty of Cokes, hot dogs sometimes, and lots of laughs. Best, of course, was Mrs. Cox, who was always chasing after you with questions like are you jealous of your younger sister and how do you feel about restricted hotels, as if their parents could afford them.

After the second musicale Mrs. Cox tried to do something about the boys’ language. “I know very well,” she said, “that you only use those words for their shock value and that’s silly, because you can’t shock me. You ought to know the correct anyway. We can begin by naming the parts of the body. Bo you all know what a penis is?”

“Sure,” Duddy said. “A pinus is a guy that plays the piano.”

That ended the language lessons, but not the quarrels about Jane Cox. One night the boys detected the shadowy shape of an unmistakably black lace brassiere under Jane’s white cotton blouse and this prompted Duddy to observe, “A broad who wears a black brassiere means business.”

“Maybe it wasn’t black, smart guy. Maybe it was just a dirty pink one.”

At this Duddy howled derisively.

“O.K.,” Tannenbaum said, “it’s black, let’s say, but she could wear it only for her husband’s sake.”

“She wouldn’t need it for Cox, you jerk, because he can see her completely any times he feels like it.”

This silenced everybody but Hersh. “You have to make everything dirty. Nothing’s good for you unless you can make it dirty.”

That night, while the others were pretending to listen to a symphony, Duddy slipped out into the hall to examine the bookcases. He did not notice Jane Cox hovering over his shoulder until she coughed. Blushing, he shut the book quickly and retreated. “I was reading a book, that’s all. I wasn’t stealing anything.”

“But nobody accused you of stealing anything.” She picked up the book — U.S.A. Dos Passos. “Do you usually read such heavy stuff?” she asked with a faint smile.

“Why not, eh? You think I have to be a moron just because my old man is a taxi driver? My brother’s studying to be a doctor. I read lots of books.”

“Are you sure,” Jane asked, still smiling, “that you didn’t pick up this book simply because you were looking for… sexy passages?”

“Look, I’m not the kind of a shmo who has to get his sex secondhand.”

Jane brought her hand to her mouth, suppressing a giggle. “Don’t be alarmed. When I was your age I used to flip through modern novels for the same reason. It’s normal. You’re just at the age when a boy becomes aware of all the secret powers of his body.”

“Oh, will you leave me alone? Will you please leave me alone?”

Duddy rushed into the bedroom, grabbed his coat, and ran down the stairs. Outside, it was snowing and he had to wait a long time for a streetcar. He sat down on the seat over the heater and melting snow ran down his neck. Later, he thought, Jane would tell Shmo-face Cox about catching him with that dirty book. Tomorrow Cox would repeat the story in the Masters’ Room and everybody would have a good laugh at his expense. The hell with them, Duddy thought. He walked up to Eddy’s Cigar & Soda, across the street from the Triangle Taxi Stand, and there he found his father drinking coffee with some of the other men. Josette was there, too.

“Duddy,” Max said gruffly. “I thought you’d be home in bed by this time.” Turning to the others with a wide smile, he added, “You all know my kid.”

“That’s Drapeau asked.

Max laughed expansively. “Ixnay. He’s not gonna be a sawbones. Duddy’s a dope like me. Aren’t you, kid?” He rumpled the boy’s snow-caked hair. “Lennie’s twenty-one. He’s had scholarships all through school.”

A big man, burly and balding, with soft brown eyes and an adorable smile, Max Kravitz was inordinately proud of the fact that he had, several years ago, been dubbed Max the Hack in Mel West’s What’s What, Weinstein’s column in the Telegram, that, as a consequence, he (along with West’s most puerile Yiddishisms) had gone by that name ever since. Max was said to be on first-name terms with the Boy Wonder and, as Mel West would have put it, a host of others.

Max, in fact, delighted in telling tales about the legendary Boy Wonder. His favorite, a story that Duddy had heard over and over again, was the one about the streetcar transfer. Max loved to tell this tale, one he believed to be beautiful, to newcomers; and earlier that evening he had repeated it to MacDonald. Not just like that, mind you, because before he could begin Max required the right atmosphere. His customary chair next to the Coke cooler, hot coffee with a supply of sugar cubes ready by his side, and a supporting body of old friends. Then, speaking slowly and evenly, he would begin, letting the story develop on its own, never allowing an interruption to nonplus him and not raising his voice until Baltimore.

“He was broke,” Max began, “and he hadn’t even made his name yet. He was just another bum at the time.”

“And what is he now? The gangster.”

“I’m warning you, MacDonald, if the Boy Wonder knocked off his mother, Max here is the guy who would find an excuse for him.”

“I mean you could say that,” Max continued. “We’re like this, you know, and I’d say it to his face even. The Boy Wonder was just another bum at the time. isn’t it? I mean his phone bill alone last year must have come to twenty G’s (he’s got lines open to all the tracks and ball parks all day long, you know), but only ten years ago he would have had to sweat blood before he coulda raised a lousy fin.”

“No wonder.”

“How that goniff to keep out of jail beats me.”

“It’s simple,” Debrofsky said. “The whole police force is on his payroll.”

Max waited. He sucked a sugar cube. “Anyway, he’s broke, like I said. So he walks up to the corner of Park and St. Joseph and hangs around the streetcar stop for a couple of hours, and do you know what?”

“He trips over a hundred dollar bill and breaks his leg.”

“He’s pulled in for milking pay phones. Or stealing milk bottles, maybe.”

“All that time,” Max said, “he’s collecting streetcar transfers off the street and selling them, see. Nerve? Nerve. three cents apiece he’s up a quarter in two hours, and then what? He walks right in that door, MacDonald, right past where you’re standing, and into the back room. There, with only a quarter in his pocket, he sits in on the rummy game. Win? He’s worked his stake up to ten bucks in no time. And what does he do next?”

“Buy a gun and shoot himself.”

“I got it. He donates the ten to the Jewish National Fund.”

Max smiled indulgently. He blew on his coffee. “Around the corner he goes to Moe’s barbershop and plunk goes the whole ten-spot on a filly named Miss Sparks running in the fifth at Belmont. On the nose, but. And you guessed it, MacDonald, Miss Sparks comes in and pays eleven to one. The Boy Wonder picks up his loot and goes to find himself a barbotte game. Now you or me, MacDonald, we’d take that hundred and ten fish and buy ourselves a hat, or a present for the wife maybe, and consider ourselves lucky. We mere mortals, we’d right away put some of it in the bank. Right? Right. not the Boy Wonder. No, sir.”

Max dropped a sugar cube onto his tongue and took some time sucking the goodness out of it.

“Picture him, MacDonald, a twenty-nine-year-old boy from St. Urbain Street and he’s not even made his name yet. All night he spends with those low-lifes, men who would slit their mother’s throat for a lousy nickel. Gangsters. Graduates of St. Vincent de Paul. Anti-Semites, the lot. If he loses, O.K., but if he wins — If he wins, Will they let that little St. Urbain Street punk Jerry Dingleman leave with all their money? He’s up and he’s down, and when he’s up a lot the looks he gets around the table are not so nice.” Max cleared his throat. “Another coffee, please, Eddy.”

But Eddy had already poured it. For, at this point in the transfer story, Max always ordered coffee.

“Imagine him, MacDonald. It’s morning. Dawn, I mean, like at the end of a film. The city is awakening. Little tots in their little beds are dreaming pretty little dreams. Men are getting out of bed and catching shit from their wives. The exercise boys are taking the horses out. Somewhere, in the Jewish General Hospital let’s say, a baby is born, and in the Catholic Hospital — no offense, MacDonald — some poor misguided nun has just died of an abortion. Morning, MacDonald, another day. And the Boy Wonder, his eyes ringed with black circles, steps out into God’s sunlight — that was before his personal troubles, you know — and in his pocket, MacDonald, is almost one thousand de-is-ollers — and I should drop down dead if a word of this isn’t true.

“But wait. That’s not all. This is only the beginning. Because the Boy Wonder does not go home to sleep. No, sir. That morning he takes the train to Baltimore, see, and that’s a tough horse town, you know, and they never heard of the Boy Wonder yet. He’s only a St. Urbain Street boy, you know. I mean he wasn’t born very far from where Ilive. Anyway, for six weeks there is no word. Rien. a postcard even. Imagine, MacDonald, try to visualize it. Has some dirty nigger killed him for his roll, God forbid? (There are lots of them in Baltimore, you know, and at night with those dim street lamps, you think you can even see those black bastards coming?) Is he a broken man, penniless again, wasting away in a hospital maybe? The public ward. weeks and not a word. Nothing. Expect the worst, I said to myself. Good-by, old friend. Au revoir. night, sweet prince, as they say, something something something. Then one day, MacDonald, one fine day, back into town he comes, only not by foot and not by train and not by plane. He’s driving a car a block long and sitting beside him is the greatest little piece you ever saw. Knockers? You’ve never seen such a pair. I mean just to look at that girl — And do you know what, MacDonald? He parks that bus right outside here and steps inside to have a smoked meat with the boys. By this time he owns his own stable already. So help me, MacDonald, in Baltimore he has eight horses running. O.K.; today it would be peanuts for an operator his size, but at the time, MacDonald, at the time. And from what? Streetcar transfers at three cents apiece. Streetcar transfers, that’s all. I mean can you beat that?”

Whenever he told that story Max’s face was suffused with such enthusiasm that the men, though they had heard it time and again, sure as they were that it would come out right in the end, unfailingly moved in closer, their fears and hopes riding with the Boy Wonder in Baltimore, who, as Max said, was only a St. Urbain Street boy.

But they were extremely fond of Max, anyway. He didn’t push, he was always good for a fin, and though he never complained, it had been hard for him since his wife died.

Minnie had died eleven years ago and that, Max figured, was why Duddy was such a puzzle. A headache, even. All he ever wanted to do was play snooker. Max, of course, was anxious for Duddy to get started in life. About Lennie he had no worries, not one.

“Awright, Duddy, since you’re here already, what’ll you have?”

“A Scotch and soda.”

Max shook with laughter. “Some B.T.O., my kid.”

“Getting much?” MacDonald asked, winking at Duddy.

Drapeau guffawed and Debrofsky gave Josette a meaningful poke. But Max frowned. “You shouldn’t talk like that, MacDonald. He’s only a kid.”

Small, sallow MacDonald smiled thinly. “Well, if he can drink Scotch…”

“Okey-doke, Eddy, give my boy a Grepsi and a lean on rye. I’ll have the same.” Max sat down beside Duddy at the counter. “Keep away from MacDonald,” he said in a low voice. “He’s new here and I don’t like him.”

Duddy told his father about Mr. MacPherson. “He said you weren’t fit to bring me up, the bastard.”

“If your teacher said that he had a good reason. What did you say first?”

“Do I always have to be in the wrong? Jeez. Why can’t you stick up for me? Just once why can’t you —”

“You’re a real troublemaker, Duddy, that’s why. Lennie never once got the strap in four years at Fletcher’s.”

Duddy repeated to his father the rumor about the missionary who was going to distribute pamphlets outside F.F.H.S. “Something oughta be done,” he said. “The P.T.A. oughta complain.”

“That’s true,” Max said. “It’s not like we were Chinks or something.”

But Duddy sensed that his father wasn’t listening to him. He seemed edgy, and from time to time he glanced anxiously at Josette.

Josette was a handsome whore with splendid black hair and enormous breasts. “She wears a sign under her bra,” Duddy had once overheard Max say, “and you know what it says? It says look out for the four-foot drop.” She often came in to drink coffee with the drivers and occasionally, when there was no game going on in the back room, she went there with one or the other of them. In exchange, the men tried to be helpful. Josette was obviously drunk and seemed to be in a black mood.

“You finish your sandwich,” Max said to Duddy, “and I’ll drive you home. It’s time to pack in, anyway.”

“Hey, c’mere kid,” MacDonald said. “Got something to show you.”

“You put those cards right back in your pocket, MacDonald.”

“You were glad enough to look through them, so why can’t the kid… ?”

“Because he’s a kid.”

“Aw, come on, Daddy, lemme look at the cards.”

“Your old man figures you still think it’s got no other use but to piss with.”

The phone rang and Debrofsky went to answer it.

“Don’t needle me, MacDonald.”

MacDonald flipped his deck of cards.

“When I lose my temper,” Max said, “I lose my temper.”

MacDonald looked closely at Max and retreated. Josette tittered. Max grabbed his boy firmly by the arm. “Let’s go,” he said. But Debrofsky blocked his way. “It’s for you, Max.”

Duddy, left alone, looked longingly at MacDonald. MacDonald smiled his thin, humorless smile, and walked towards the back of the store. Just as Duddy started after him Eddy called out, “You sit right down here and finish your sandwich. Come on, Duddy.”

“I’m not a kid any more.”

“You’re a kid,” Eddy said.

MacDonald began to lay out his cards face up on the pinball machine and the other drivers moved away from him.

“How’re you doing at school?” Debrofsky asked.

“Aw.”

Max stepped out of the phone booth and took Josette aside. They whispered together.

“I can’t drive you home,” Max said to Duddy.

“Why?”

“I’ve got to take Josette somewhere.”

Josette began putting on more makeup.

“Where?”

“I can’t take you home. You’ll have to walk, that’s all.”

“I’ll drive him home,” MacDonald said.

“He’ll walk.”

“Why can’t Debrofsky take Josette?”

“It’s gotta be me. No more questions. O.K.?”

Duddy kicked an empty cigarette box with his toe.

“I can’t explain,” Max said. “Now will you go home, please.”

Duddy hesitated.

“He gets it off the top,” MacDonald said.

Max flushed. He took a deep breath, and the only sound was the click of Josette’s compact. MacDonald slipped behind a chair, ready to pick it up, and Max started for him. He was stopped by the expression in Duddy’s face.

Duddy smiled; he laughed.

“Jeez,” he said proudly. “That’s something. Jeez.”

Max slapped his face so hard that Duddy lost his balance and fell against the counter.

“Get out of here. Go home.”

Finger marks had been burned red into the boy’s cheeks. Max buried his hands in his pockets.

“You’re a pimp.”

“Get out, Duddy.”

Duddy got up and ran.

“I didn’t mean to hit him so hard,” Max said to the other drivers.

“He had it coming to him.”

“Easy, Max. It wasn’t your fault.”

Max took Josette by the arm. “Awright,” he said. “I haven’t got all night. Let’s go.”

“You’re hurting me,” Josette said.