MORTY
Morty was despondent, sick to his soul. He had lost Anna. She was with another guy now, an Italian her mother and uncle approved of. She’d probably marry him. Morty knew he had to get on with his life and not think about her, but she was always there in the back of his mind. When he woke in the morning, she was the first thing he thought about. When he went to sleep, she was the last thing he thought about. He told himself to go out with other girls, but he never met anyone who could compare to Anna, and he dreamed of her all the time.
He struggled through his classes and his work. Each morning when he awoke and opened his eyes, a black dread would wash over him, and he would remember. Then one morning, he awoke, and she wasn’t the first thing he thought of. It’s over, he thought. Thank God. Anna was gone. He got out of bed and started his day. It was February 1938. It had taken him almost a year. He was almost twenty-four years old, but he had finally shaken her out of his head and could get on with his life.
Until the day he walked out of his night class, and there was Anna, standing at the door of the school, waiting. His heart almost stopped. They stared at one another, and she walked so close to him that he could not stop his arms from encircling her and pulling her close.
“I’m sorry, Morty. So sorry,” she whispered. “I’m done with him. I couldn’t make myself do it. I love you.”
Part of Morty wanted to just take her at her word. Part of him yearned to understand. “Let’s walk,” he said, breathing into her hair. It smelled of lemons.
He walked so fast she had to run to keep up with him. “Slow down, Morty. Please. I’ll tell you everything.”
Purposefully, Morty slowed his pace. It was dark out. Cold. His hands felt like ice. “All right. Tell me. We’ll get a cup of coffee. There’s a little place a block away I sometimes go to.”
They ducked into the local restaurant and took a booth. They sat quietly until Morty ordered coffee and pie, and the waiter brought it. Morty couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was more beautiful than ever, but her face was pale. She wasn’t even wearing lipstick, he noticed, and it didn’t matter. She was perfect. She gripped her fingers together on top of the table. She took a big breath, sighed.
“My uncle wanted me to marry him.”
“Yeah. So why didn’t you?”
She shook her head. “I knew deep down he was connected. He was part of my uncle’s business. Not the deli business. The protection business. I told you how I feel about that. I told him too. I told him I’m not going to stand by and live my life in the shadows. I couldn’t marry him unless he got out of that life. He said he would, but then he didn’t. I found out, so I broke it off.”
Morty touched her hands. She let go of her own fingers and took his.
“To tell you the truth, I was relieved. Believe me, Morty, I never wanted to marry him. I still love you.”
They drank their coffee in silence. Morty’s head was buzzing. So, he thought, we can go back to what was before . . . hiding from our families. He didn’t want to go back to the way it was. “Will you bring me home to your mother? Introduce me?”
Anna hesitated for a minute. “I will,” she said. “Will you?”
Morty nodded. “Okay then,” he said. He picked up her hand and drank his coffee while he held it. Then he paid the check, they walked out together, and Morty took her home. They went up to her front door, and he kissed her goodbye right there. Next time I’ll get inside.
Morty came to Anna’s house a week later when he picked her up for a date. He rang the doorbell and heard her footsteps on the stairs in the hallway, and the door opened, framing her in the light behind her. His breath caught in his throat; she looked so lovely. They had decided she would invite him in and introduce him to her mother, so Morty followed her into the hallway and up the stairs.
The upstairs was a large apartment, and Anna brought him into her living room and told him to sit down. He tried to still his heartbeat. No need to be so nervous, he thought. It’s just her mother.
Anna came back with an older version of herself trailing behind. Morty jumped up to greet them.
“Morty, this is my mother, Patricia DeMaio. Ma, I want you to meet my . . . my friend. Morty Feinstein.” She emphasized his last name, making sure her mother heard it.
“How do you do, Mrs. DeMaio,” Morty said, with his best manners.
Mrs. DeMaio stood, appraised him for a while, and said, “Feinstein?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you from?”
“From? I was born in Brooklyn,” Morty answered, knowing that wasn’t what she was asking.
She nodded. “Your people? Were they born here too?”
“Oh, no. They came from Europe. Poland.”
“So . . . Jews?”
“Ma,” Anna said, a warning in her voice.
“It’s okay, Anna,” Morty said and turned back to Mrs. DeMaio. “Yes, we’re Jewish. And I know you’re Italian.” The sentence hung in the air.
Mrs. DeMaio nodded. “Glad to meet you,” she said. “Don’t come home too late,” she said to Anna, and left the room.
Morty and Anna faced each other in silence. Then she shrugged and said, “I told you.”
“You did. But we broke the ice. I met her. The first time is the hardest.”
Anna nodded. “Now you can call me. She knows who you are.” Anna wrote their phone number on a piece of paper. Morty knew that Anna’s family had a phone in the house, courtesy of her uncle, and it gave Morty a sense of security to know that he could get in touch with Anna if he wanted to. He folded the paper and put it in his pocket, took Anna’s hand, and said, “Let’s go.”
A few evenings later Morty came home after his classes at Polytech were over, dropped his books on the table, and saw his father sitting across from him, staring into space. Ben looked up at his son and took a breath. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.
Morty was surprised. His father had never waited up for him. It was late, after ten o’clock, and Morty knew his father usually would be long asleep, as was his mother. Sylvia was probably reading in bed, or maybe asleep. “Is there something you need?” he asked.
Ben looked at his son. His eyes were bleary, red. He shook his head slowly and whispered, “You have to help me.” His father’s eyes shifted away, looked behind him, to the side of him.
“With what?”
“I’m in trouble, Morton.”
Morty felt his legs giving out. The panic he saw in his father’s face, heard in his voice, frightened him as never before. He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and put it opposite his father with the seat facing out. He sat legs astraddle, leaning on the back of the chair. “Papa, what’s the matter? How can I help?”
There was a long beat of silence. Then, “I don’t know how you can help, but maybe . . .”
“Tell me.”
“I owe money—a lot,” Ben said.
“For what?”
Ben sighed. His shoulders seemed to collapse. He put his head in his hands. “When Abe owned the building of the repair shop, he paid me a salary. But he lost the building when the stock market fell, and the bank took it. Then there was no salary, and I had to start paying the bank rent. Otherwise, they would have evicted me. And there was rent on the other store too and debt from all the merchandise I had bought. It all added up, and I had to use some of Mama’s money from the embroidery.” Ben looked sideways at his son. “And a little of your school money.”
Morty looked alarmed.
“Not all,” Ben said. “Not all of it. I borrowed where I could. I went to the Gemilas Chesed to borrow, but they had none. Nothing. The banks don’t lend either—not to me anyway. I even went to my cousin Surah, and she gave me a little, but then she didn’t have any more to give me . . . so I did something stupid. I borrowed.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Papa? From who did you borrow?” Morty asked, but he knew. He felt a hard knot in his stomach. On every street corner there were loan sharks ready to lend anyone money, at high interest. And if you were late paying . . . at least the interest . . . there were consequences.
Ben closed his eyes. “From them. On the street. That’s the only place you can get money now. I thought I would get another job,” he repeated. “But no one is hiring. So the loan, the money, each month is more and more. I can’t even pay all the interest now. Can you help me?” he asked. He was begging.
“I have no money, Papa. I could quit school and work full time . . .”
“No.” Ben’s voice was sharp. “You won’t quit school . . .” They were silent for a few minutes.
“What about what you saved for me for next year? You could use that.”
Ben whispered, “I already did. I spent it.”
Morty was stunned. He thought. “Mama’s money? That she puts in her drawer?”
His father shook his head. “I took most of it.”
“And you still need more?” Ben nodded. “How much do you owe?”
“Fi . . . five hundred forty-seven dollars,” Ben stuttered.
Morty couldn’t believe it. He had no idea how his father had come to this, and after he had used the money for his school, and his mother’s savings. He sat silently, hearing the clock ticking on the wall and the traffic in the street. He said, “I don’t have any money to give you, Papa. Maybe we can ask the school for a refund for next term’s tuition. I’ll take a break.”
“I don’t want you to do that. Anyway, they won’t give it back.”
“We could ask.”
Ben shook his head. “I already asked,” he whispered.
Morty’s heart was beating so hard he thought his father could hear it. His father had stolen from his mother. Tried to get his tuition back. All without telling them. His stomach was in knots, acid rising in his throat as he thought of his next question. “Who gave you the money, Papa?”
“Not a good man, Morty. Not a good man.” Ben shook his head. “Georgie Lieber.”
“Georgie the Gonif?” Morty could barely say his name. He knew who Georgie was. He worked for Mickey Adler and was known as a great enforcer. No one stiffed Georgie Lieber. “He’s one of Mickey Adler’s guys.”
Ben looked shocked. “How do you know about Mickey Adler?”
Morty sighed. “Rudy works for him. I met him at a birthday party Rudy had.”
Ben looked up. “Rudy? He works for him?” Ben’s voice had changed. It sounded hopeful. “Maybe you could talk to Rudy . . . you think you could?”
“What would I say to him? What would I ask?” Was his father begging him? It was such an enormous sum of money. “We’re hardly friends anymore, Papa, since he started working for Adler, and I started college. We grew apart. I don’t think he’d listen to me.”
“You were such good friends, Morton. I remember how he came here and played checkers with you . . .”
Morty was silent. Finally, he said, “I’ll think what I can do. I’ll see.” He got up from the table, bone tired now. “I think I’ll go to bed now. Maybe I’ll look for him tomorrow. I’ll see.” He could not think of another thing to say, and he couldn’t bear to look at his father’s face. Morty felt a shiver of disgust; his father looked full of pure hope. He patted his father on the back, feeling that somehow their roles had been reversed. He went to the cot he now slept on in the living room, while his father got up slowly and went to his bedroom. He looked broken, his body stooped, his steps faltering.
Morty lay on his bed, his arm covering his eyes, struggling with his feelings. He had never in a million years expected to hear words like he had from his father’s mouth. He did not know what to do with the information. What could Rudy do? Could Rudy do anything? Morty had never asked him for that kind of a favor before. Could he get the loan delayed? Forgiven? Even as the thought came, he knew it would never happen. Georgie Lieber didn’t forgive loans. What would Rudy say when he went to him?
Morty was furious with his father. As he lay on his bed and thought about it, he knew that if he asked Rudy to help and Rudy agreed, he would owe Rudy. He didn’t know exactly how, but he would owe him somehow. And that could be big trouble for Morty.
He and Rudy had been so close as kids. And hadn’t he flirted with joining the group of young teens that hung out on the corners and at Solly’s, waiting to run errands for the big-shot gang members who gathered in the back room? It had only been his father’s encouragement, his complete belief in Morty’s ability to do something better, that had kept Morty studying. That and his own natural ability at math and science.
Rudy had been angry when Morty refused to join him with Mickey Adler’s gang. He didn’t understand why Morty wouldn’t want to get in on the good life that Rudy was living. He thought Morty was nuts. And Morty hadn’t even taken him up on the favor of using his apartment to be alone with Anna.
Now, he wondered, if he couldn’t get help from Rudy without some kind of payback, what would he do? How could he leave his father, never a fighter, to deal with the gangsters and loan sharks who ran the street business? Morty remembered how his father hadn’t even been able to defend him when Joey Simpson’s father had beaten him up. He touched his nose. There was still a slight bump from a small break in it. Thinking of it, a sliver of resentment entered Morty’s heart. Morty wanted to walk away from the whole thing. But what would happen to his father if he didn’t pay the money back? How could he turn his father away?
His parents had sacrificed so much to send him to school. Morty didn’t think he could live with himself if he didn’t help his father. It didn’t matter what he had to do to help, he would do it. He closed his eyes. He would go see Rudy. Then he would decide what to do.
The next day he went to look for Rudy. He found him in the back booth of Solly’s—the same booth where Morty had first seen Anna. He was sitting with two other gang members; Morty only knew them by sight. He realized how far apart he and Rudy had grown if he didn’t even know the names of Rudy’s friends. Rudy told the two men to leave, and they scooted out of the booth without a word, showing that he was their boss.
Morty slid into the empty seats opposite Rudy and looked at his old friend. Rudy looked sharp. He wore a gray striped suit with a blazing white shirt and a red-and-blue tie. His red hair, darker now than it had been when they were kids, was slicked back with pomade, and he had grown a thin mustache. His nails, Morty noticed, were manicured and buffed to a shine, and on his pinky was a gold ring with a red stone. Morty wondered if it was real.
Morty took a deep breath and forced himself to speak. “I need your help, Rudy. My father’s in trouble. He owes Georgie Lieber a loan payback.”
Rudy blew out a breath and shook his head. “Georgie Lieber. He’s a tough one.” He waited, and then said, “Why should I help your father?”
“Come on, Rudy,” Morty said. “He’s my father. If you help him, you help me.”
“Yeah, how? And why should I help your father? When did he ever give me anything but fishy eyes when I was at your house? And your mother. She always disapproved of me.”
Morty felt slightly nauseous. What Rudy said was true. His parents had never thought much of Rudy; they had only tolerated him because Morty liked him. But Morty knew that if Rudy didn’t help him, there was nowhere else for him to turn. These were hard times. Everyone was looking for extra money.
“Listen, Rudy, maybe I can do this? Take on the loan? You give me the money to pay Georgie Lieber back, and I’ll be your runner. I’ll work for you until I pay you back.”
Rudy was quiet, playing with the soda glass he had in front of him, making rings on the Formica table. Morty took Rudy’s silence for a good thing. He pressed his point. “I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“Whatever I say?”
The air in the store seemed to get heavy. Morty took a breath. “As long as I don’t have to hurt anybody.”
Rudy shrugged. “I can’t promise that.”
Morty didn’t say anything.
“I’ll try for that,” Rudy said after a while. “I can’t promise, but I’ll try.”
Morty’s breath slowed. He nodded, smiled, stuck out his hand, and shook Rudy’s. He figured they could always work that out.
“How much do you need?”
Morty told him.
Rudy shook his head. “He really screwed himself, didn’t he?” Rudy said. He reached into his pocket, took out a wad of bills, and peeled off enough to pay Georgie back and a little extra. “There’s twenty bucks more there for you. Make sure your father don’t get into any more trouble.”
Morty nodded. “Thank you, Rudy. You won’t regret this.”
“I better not,” he said. “Go pay your father, and then he should pay back Georgie. He shouldn’t let on where he got the dough. I’ll get in touch with you.”
Morty stood up and slipped out of the booth. He hesitated, but there didn’t seem to be anything more to say, so he left the store.
There was a part of Morty that wanted to make his father wait to get the money, but then he felt ashamed. Every second that his father didn’t know whether Morty could help him was torture. Holding the money in his pocket, he went home as fast as he could. He found Ben sitting in his chair in the living room, a prayer book open on his lap, but he didn’t seem to be praying. He looked up at his son, who stood in front of him, staring.
“I got it,” Morty said. He reached into his pocket and took out the money, leaving the extra twenty dollars tucked away. His father’s hands were icy and trembling when he took the bills. He counted them and looked up at his son. “How did you get it so fast?” he asked, bewildered.
“You don’t need to know that.”
Ben nodded. “Th . . . thank you,” he stammered.
It hurt Morty to see his father so diminished. He was afraid his father would begin to cry, so he said, “You pay Georgie back, but don’t tell him where you got the money. Don’t mention my name. Don’t mention Rudy’s name. That’s important.”
Ben nodded. “I’ll go and find him now and pay him back. I am so grateful,” he said.
“And, Pop,” Morty said, “don’t borrow from them again. You need money, ask me. I’ll get it for you.”
Ben stood up and reached over to touch his son’s shoulder. “You’re a good son,” he said. “A very good boy.” Morty didn’t feel like such a good boy. He felt tarnished. Like he had done something shameful. But he didn’t know what he had done. All he was trying to do was help his father.
There was a lot to learn, working with Rudy. So much of his time he was learning the ropes, hanging back, slightly afraid of the gang members. Rudy urged him on. “Stop being such a patsy,” he said. “You can’t act afraid.”
All through the winter, Morty struggled with his feelings. He knew he wasn’t made for this life. Petty thieving. Guilty feelings. Conflicted feelings. But this was a way to get rich, working for Adler. He had never had so much money at his disposal before.
He kept going to school but often cut his night classes to do something for Rudy. Then he would have to work extra hard to make up the work he’d missed. He was working for Rudy, at his beck and call, but increasingly their meetings together were fewer and fewer. Rudy had gradually climbed the ladder of Mickey Adler’s Brownsville gang, and as one of the more reliable senior members, he had less and less time for Morty.
Rudy had put him to work, first as a gofer, a small-timer who could be counted on to run errands, keep his mouth shut, and not demand too much money. But more recently, Morty had gotten a reputation as a card shark. If he got into penny gambling games with small-time bettors, he always won, and that had drawn the attention of the gang members. He picked up most of his extra money gambling. He liked the extra money, he liked the card games, and he liked winning. His card acumen made him famous in the neighborhood. He had a terrific memory, keeping the cards that had been played in his mind so that he knew the possible combinations that were left. The gambling added a little bit of excitement to what he was doing.
He spent the money on clothes, so he didn’t look shabby anymore. He bought himself two good pairs of shoes and a soft brown leather jacket. At the store, they sewed a label in it with his name embroidered on it. He bought a brown leather wallet. Wearing the jacket and using the wallet made him feel like a king. He had deliberately not bought one of the silk suits that the other guys in the gang wore. He didn’t want people to see him and associate him with gangs. But he bought a fedora and some nice shirts. His parents noticed.
Ben said nothing, but Golda was a different story.
“Where did you get that shirt?” Golda asked him one morning.
“Why?” Morty felt defensive. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing,” Golda said, “but it’s the third new shirt I’ve noticed. You have so much money?”
For a minute Morty wasn’t sure how to answer. The truth. Say the truth. “I won some money at cards.”
“Cards? You have money to bet at cards? And your papa is working so hard.”
Morty could see the look of disapproval on his mother’s face. “I usually win, Mama. I’m good at cards,” he said.
Morty saw the familiar downturned mouth, the furrowed brow. “Don’t be a big shot. You can lose as well as win. And then where will you be?” she said and went into the kitchen.
Morty had built up a cache of money from his card games. Soon he had enough to pay the last of his debt to Rudy. When he gave him the money, they were sitting in the back booth at Solly’s where they usually met. Morty felt this was a great day. He was going to pay Rudy the last of his debt.
He laid the money on the table between them. “Are we even now?”
Rudy picked up the bills, counted them, fingered them. “Yeah, for the money for your father.”
Morty breathed deep. “Okay, now I want out. I got to get back to school. I don’t want to run errands for you anymore.”
Rudy didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “It’s not so easy as that, Morty. You don’t get to come in and go out when you please.”
“What do you mean?” Morty didn’t like the sound of Rudy’s voice or the way he was staring above Morty’s head.
“Maybe you know a little too much, Morty. Adler won’t like it if you just stop like that.” He shook his head. “You know once you’re in . . .” His voice drifted off into silence.
Morty shook his head. He didn’t trust his voice. His throat felt tight. Finally, he said, “That wasn’t what you told me when I asked you for help.”
Rudy shrugged. “I sort of did. I told you that you had to do what I said. And now I’m saying . . .”
Morty’s heart was pounding, but he made his voice calm. “I want out. I never signed on for life. You got to get me out.” Morty stared into Rudy’s eyes, which were hard, glinting. It was a look that Morty didn’t like.
Rudy waited a while before he answered. “Look, I’ll talk to Mickey. We’ll see what he says. Until then, you’re still on the payroll.”
The next time Morty saw Rudy, he got his answer. Mickey Adler wanted Morty to go up to Sullivan County and take charge of the slots that were more and more being set out in the casinos, hotels, and bars. “He sweetened the deal for you too. Because I asked him to. He knows what a card shark you are, so he said you can also set up card games—gambling, craps—and you keep half the profits.”
But Morty wasn’t interested. “Didn’t you tell him I wanted out? That’s what we agreed.” He could hear Anna in the back of his head. She was more and more insistent that he get free of the gangs.
“I told him. Yeah, I told him. But Adler wants you upstate,” Rudy said. “And he doesn’t like to hear no.”
“Why would he care?” Morty asked. “I’m just a penny-ante messenger. What does it matter if I stay in Brooklyn?”
Rudy sighed. Rolled his glass round and round on the table. Sighed again. “Look, Morty,” he said. “He trusts you, for some reason. I think he likes the way you play cards. You always were a good player.”
“What would he do to me for saying no? I don’t want to leave the city. Anna’s here.”
“So what? Up there is money to be made. Big money.”
“I don’t need big money.”
Rudy’s mouth dropped open. “What? Are you going to live on nothing like your folks do? Scrimp and save and mumble prayers for better times?”
“Look, I don’t need a lot for Anna and me. We just got back together. I can’t leave her now. I want to marry her.”
“Forget Anna,” Rudy said. His voice was hard. “The last guy Adler had up in the Catskills, Al Satella, did something stupid.”
Morty’s heart stopped. “What did he do?”
“He got married. He’s no good married, always pining for his wife. Adler dumped him.”
“D . . . dumped him?” He could hardly get the words out. “Had him killed?”
Rudy stared at him for a long minute. Morty thought he was evaluating what to say. Then he laughed. “Don’t get nervous. He’s not into that. Nah, he just fired him.”
Morty evaluated what Rudy said. He breathed a little more easily, but he wasn’t sure. Something made him doubt what Rudy said. Morty thought maybe they had gotten rid of Al Satella, but he couldn’t prove it. He didn’t even know who this Al Satella was.
Rudy was saying, “I told you, forget Anna. She’s nothing. You don’t need her. Listen to me. Do what I tell you.”
Morty looked Rudy straight in the eye. “Since when do I have to do what you say?”
Rudy breathed deep. “If you want to stay healthy.”
Morty couldn’t speak he was so stunned. His eyes began to wander. He looked behind Rudy and saw some of Mickey’s crowd sitting at another booth. He shivered. One of them was a guy he had played cards with many times; he’d usually beaten him. He looked away.
“Look, Morty.” Rudy’s voice had taken on a more reasonable tone. “I don’t mean to push, but there’s a lot of rumbling around. Adler says there may be a war down here. He needs you up in the Catskills, in Liberty, and you’ll be better off—safer—up there. And make more money. There’s definitely going to be trouble down here.”
“Why don’t you go up there, then?”
“I have important business here.”
“And I don’t?”
“No, you don’t. All you have is a girlfriend who’s turning your brain to mush.”
“I don’t want to go,” Morty said. He was afraid to say an absolute no . . . Rudy didn’t seem to be willing to take a hard-stop no. “How about I think about it a little bit. Maybe I’ll go just for the summer. Then I go back to school in the fall.”
Rudy shrugged. “You really don’t get to think about it too much. Mickey decides for you. But maybe he’ll be okay with the summer. Once you get things established, he might let you come back to Brooklyn. One week. I give you one week to go. Otherwise . . .” His voice drifted off in menace. Morty did not like the tone of Rudy’s voice. Rudy stood up and walked out of the store.
The next time he saw Anna, Morty told her about what Rudy had said. It was late May, and the days were long again. He had picked up Anna when she finished working at the deli, and they were walking in the Botanical Garden along paths lined with pink and red peonies. Anna would lean over and smell the flowers, gently brush her hands over the blossoms. “These are so gorgeous,” she said. “I think they may be my favorite flowers.”
Morty didn’t respond to her.
“Are you listening to me?” Anna asked. She pushed her long black hair back off her face. When she worked at the deli, she had to pin her hair up. As soon as she left work, she would pull out the pins and let her hair flow down her back. Now she had stopped walking and was facing Morty.
He reached out and took a lock of her hair and smoothed it behind her. He hesitated, then said, “He wants me to go up to Liberty, in the Catskills. Set up the slots. I don’t want to, but Rudy acts as if I have no choice, so I said I’d go for the summer.” When he said that, his heart bumped in his chest.
“Rudy’s crazy,” Anna said. “Why do you listen to him? Of course you have a choice. There are always choices.”
Morty stared at Anna. He was a little surprised. It seemed as if there were things she didn’t know about the gangs and how they worked. He realized that she also didn’t know that he had gotten involved because Rudy had given him the money to get his father out of debt, and Morty had taken on the debt himself. Even though he had paid it back, that hadn’t freed him.
He’d once heard that if you were in a gang, you were in it for life. They didn’t trust you if you left, because even if you swore you would never betray them, they didn’t believe you. There was always someone who could bribe you for information.
The thing was, Morty didn’t really know if he was in so far with the gang that he couldn’t get out. If he was, the big guys wouldn’t ever trust him not to turn on them if they let him walk away, and if he did it anyway . . . well, they’d get rid of him . . . maybe not right away, but eventually.
Now Anna looked carefully at Morty. “You have only one more year to graduate as an engineer. Why would you stop now?” she asked. “You almost have your ticket out.”
Morty nodded his head. She was right, and she was wrong. He wanted to tell Rudy he wasn’t going upstate, but if Rudy insisted . . . he probably would have to go anyway. Morty gave a half promise to Anna that he wouldn’t leave Brooklyn. He wondered if he could keep it. He didn’t want an argument with Rudy, but he also didn’t want to be pushed around.
When the week was up, he came to meet Rudy again. He sat in a booth at Solly’s pushing around a Coke, unable to drink it. His insides were gnashing. He was not looking forward to the upcoming meeting. He sat, jiggling his leg, glancing out the door again and again. No Rudy. It was midafternoon, and the store was quiet—too early for the schoolkids to stop by for penny candy. Too early for Adler’s boys to be gathering, playing cards, filling the back booths.
“Shark?” A short boy, his acne-pocked face puffed with self-importance, approached him. He was using the name Adler had dubbed him . . . Shark for card shark. Morty turned to look at the boy. “They sent me to tell you in case ya didn’t hear.”
“Hear what?”
Morty could see the boy was just hanging on to the information, not wanting to give away his importance and be left with his ordinary presence. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. Opened his mouth. Closed it.
“What? Tell me. What?”
“Rudy bought it.”
Morty’s throat closed. He could feel his heart pounding. He stared at the boy, certain he was making this up and at the same time certain he was telling the truth. All he could muster were the words “Tell me.”
Filled with self-importance, the boy puffed out his chest and spoke in a rush. Morty concentrated on a big pimple on his chin, trying to slow his heartbeat. “He was standing on Pitkin. Some guy comes up, sticks a shiv in his side, twists it, and walks away. No one even knew who he was or could give a description.”
The picture began filling out. He could see Rudy standing there, maybe lighting a cigarette so he wasn’t looking around with his usual watchful eyes. Caught unaware, the look of surprise flashed over his face, then horror, pain, and the awful knowledge. Bought it. Bought it.
The boy made a sound, like a cough. Morty noticed he was fingering an envelope. He stuck his hand out and gave it to Morty, who held it without opening it. “What’s this?”
“Adler gave it to me. To give to you.”
“Okay.”
The boy didn’t move. He seemed to be waiting for something. Morty couldn’t still his mind. What did this pipsqueak want anyway? Why was he waiting? Then knowledge flooded him. A tip. This little pisser wants a tip. He should give him a tip for telling him that Rudy was dead.
“Get the hell out of here,” Morty said, as clearly as he could, with his throat closing over tears. He couldn’t let the kid see that. “Don’t let me see your fucking face again.”
The boy hesitated at first, then turned and walked out of the candy store. Morty watched the boy’s back disappear and then sat staring at the envelope without seeing it. He knew, even before he opened it, what the note inside would say.
Morty let his mind linger. He wondered what happened to the men wiped off the face of the city by the violence around them. Where were Lucky Pete and Big Nosey? No one talked afterward. If they didn’t see their friend fall, if they weren’t there watching, it was as if it hadn’t happened. As if they had not existed. Would that be the way it would be for Rudy? Gone. Forgotten. Morty swallowed hard. He took a breath and opened the envelope.
It said he had to leave Brooklyn for Liberty. He’d have to go that night.
First Morty had to see Anna—at least to tell her he was leaving. It was Monday, and Anna had the day off, so he’d have to go to her house. He walked quickly down the streets, all his senses humming. His eyes darted, left and right. He swiveled his head in each direction, turning backward to see if anyone was following him. As he passed each group, he strained his ears. What were they talking about? The weather was warm, the evening coming on them, the streetlights shimmering. He could smell all the familiar odors as he passed the restaurants and stores; the greengrocer was throwing out the rotten vegetables, there were three men smoking cigars on a corner, the open bar door let out a boozy smell of old beer. He hurried along and turned down the street where Anna lived, and stood, hesitating in front of her two-family house.
The house had a stone facade. Two pillars of brick, each topped with a cement sphere, stood on either side of the stairs that went up to the front door. Morty had only been inside the house once. Before that, he had brought her home and watched while she entered safely before he quickly left the block. He took a deep breath, walked up the stairs, and rang the doorbell on the right, praying that Anna would come. There was no answer, even after he rang a second time. He moved over and rang the bell on the left side. Her aunt and uncle lived there with their four kids.
It was an eternity before the door opened. A girl of about twelve stood peering out at him, not saying anything.
“I’m looking for Anna.”
“She’s not here. She lives upstairs.”
“I know, but no one answers there. Do you know where she is? When she’ll be back?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m her friend, Morty. Do you know where she is?” he repeated.
“Yeah.”
“Could you get her for me? It’s important.”
The girl stood appraising him. She was short and pretty, with the slight pudginess that adolescent girls sometimes get when they start developing breasts. He could see small buds under her shirt and immediately thought she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her hair and eyes were intensely black, and he felt her gaze boring into him.
“I know who you are,” she said.
Was that a warning? Morty wondered. He swallowed hard, nervous, and looked around him. There was no one else there. “So, will you get Anna for me?” he asked.
The girl smiled, a flash of brilliant white teeth. She put her finger to her mouth, warning him not to say anything more, turned her head, and yelled, “Ma, I’m going over to Angie’s. I’ll be back soon.” Closing the door behind her, she signaled for him to follow her across the street, where she told him to wait while she went inside.
Morty waited, watching as two men walked down the street and passed by, hardly noticing him. Why was he so nervous? He wasn’t a target like Rudy had been. He hadn’t done anything with the gang except run errands and play cards. Why would anyone be after him?
The door to Angie’s house opened, and Anna ran down the steps to greet him. As always, the sight of her took his breath away. She took his hand and paused thoughtfully. “What’s wrong, Morty? Is everything all right?” she asked. She stood close, looking into his eyes. He could smell the perfume she used. It was all he could do not to lean over and kiss her. She twined her hands in his.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
They turned the corner. “What’s wrong?” she asked again.
Morty stared straight ahead, afraid if he looked at her, he couldn’t get the words out. He noticed the street traffic, cars and buses rumbling down the avenue. He saw a vagrant, a man down on his luck, rummaging through the trash can on the side of a bakery. He forced himself to look at Anna. “Remember I told you Rudy said I should leave Brooklyn, go upstate?”
“Yeah. But you said you weren’t going.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath, swallowed the lump. “Things are different now. Rudy, he . . . he’s dead.”
Anna pulled him to a standstill and stared, mouth agape. “What happened?”
Morty shook his head. “I’m not sure. A kid came to tell me. He said it happened on the street.” Morty felt his eyes fill up. He looked past Anna. “Someone knifed him and walked away. And now I have to go away, at least for a while. That’s what Adler says, so that’s what I better do. It’s like they’re threatening me or something.”
They kept walking, silent, somehow knowing where they were going without saying anything. One last time they would go down to the cellar club. There, at least, they could hold each other, whisper plans they could not guarantee would come true. Morty gripped Anna’s icy hand. What would he do without her? What if he never saw her again? What would happen after he left, he didn’t know. But one last time he would hold her and tell her he loved her, and then he would take her back home, pack, and leave for Sullivan County, New York, wherever the hell that was.
After he took Anna home, Morty went to his father’s shop. It was late, but he knew his father would be there. Morty found him in the back room working on a broken vacuum cleaner. Since Morty had saved his father from financial and personal disaster, Ben paid Morty respect. He saw his son, put down his tools, and wiped his hands with a nearby rag.
“Morty,” he said, “is everything all right?”
“No,” Morty answered. He took a deep breath. “I’ve been ordered to go up to Liberty.”
“What do you mean, ordered? By who?”
Morty looked at his father, annoyed at the question. “Who do you think? Adler. Mickey Adler.” His voice cracked. “Rudy was just murdered.”
Ben was speechless. He sat hard on his bench. “Why? Who did it?”
“No information. I just know I have to leave.”
Ben could barely control his voice. “Are you in danger too?”
“Anyone who works for Adler is in danger. You know that, don’t you? You knew when we started this business of getting Rudy to help with the money.” Ben was silent. He looked down at his feet. The irritation Morty felt toward his father was palpable. “I’m only telling you so you know I’m all right. For now. But don’t tell Mama where I am. Just say I had to go away.”
Ben nodded. “But what will you do there? How will you live? What about your schooling?”
“What do you think? I’ll do whatever Mickey Adler tells me to do. I’ll quit school. I have no choice. Unless I want to end up like Rudy.”
“Do you think Mickey had Rudy killed?” There was shock and disbelief in Ben’s voice.
“I have no idea, Papa. I only know Rudy’s dead, and if I don’t follow Mickey’s orders, I’m in trouble.” He looked at his father’s face. He had aged a lot in the last months. He had been such a kind and sweet man for most of Morty’s childhood and youth. Now he seemed broken. “I’m sorry, Papa. I got to go. Tell Mama I love her. Beyond that, tell her whatever you want about why I had to leave.” He reached out and embraced his father, and then, afraid his father would start to cry, he turned and left the store.
Morty went next to the apartment. Sylvia was in the living room, curled up on the sofa, reading. She jumped when he came in. Morty did not usually appear in the middle of the day. She followed him into the bedroom, watched with alarm as he gathered his clothing into a pile on the bed and then went rummaging in his parents’ room for the one valise they owned. He came back to the bedroom with it, brown-leather-colored cardboard, bent on the side. The latch didn’t work, and after he loaded his clothes in it and added one book, he slammed it shut and tied it around with the rope that had been inside it. He picked it up and brushed by her, his face set in a grimace.
“Where are you going?” She pointed to the suitcase.
“Away,” Morty snapped. “Upstate.” Then, after a minute, his voice softened, and he added, “I just have to go, Sylvia. Don’t ask me any questions.”
“But why?” Sylvia asked. “Why do you have to leave? What should I tell Mama and Papa?”
“I have to go,” Morty said. “I don’t want to, but I have to. Tell them I went upstate. I already told Papa.” Morty swung the valise, battered and crushed, over his shoulder. “I’ll see you.” He turned, ruffled her hair, and bent to give her an awkward hug and a peck on the cheek. Then he was out the door, almost running down the staircase.
“Wait, Morty, wait,” she called, following him. But he didn’t.