As usual, I got up the next day around two in the P.M., having been out most of the night thanks to Willie. Loretta had taken baby Margaret out for a push in her pram, so I had the luxury of lying in bed half-awake for a half an hour or so, with no squalling babies or whining women to bother my reveries.
I dressed, breakfasted on some cold rolls and an apple and then sauntered out into the street. I guess you could say I was feelin’ more than a little cocky that day, what with a second scalp on my belt and me feeling like not just the Duke of the West Side but the king of the whole damn town. I was runnin’ through my mind just how, or even if, I was going to mention what had happened last night to May, and had pretty much decided that I wasn’t going to when these pleasant thoughts were interrupted by the blast of a police whistle and somehow I just knew it was blasting for me.
If it seems like my life was at this period more or less one run-in with the Law after another, you would be right, because it was seeming that way to me as well. Before my ears had registered the sound of the cops’ klaxon my feet were already in motion, instinctively. My brain, meanwhile, had turned to thoughts of which of the passengers on board the trolley the previous evening might have ratted me out, and I was already figurin’ revenge as I sprinted like hell up Tenth.
The problem was they had me pretty much out in the open and there were plenty of them too. When this many bulls showed up all at once, it made you wonder whether there wasn’t something else going on, such as for instance a double cross, but there was no time to fret about that. If I managed to get away clean, there would be plenty of time for settling scores, and if I didn’t, well, I would have plenty of leisure time in the Tombs or up the river to chew things over.
I hit the intersection of 34th and Tenth flying. I could have sprinted right and headed east, hoping to lose myself in the crowds that started milling proper once you got past Seventh. Instead, though, I kept on across the roadway and then dashed left, barreling toward Ninth, making for the safety of a place I knew well, namely, Mr. Mike Callahan’s bar.
The thing about me in them days was that I was some kind of quick and I knew the beefy bulls were as likely to catch me as they were to jump to New Jersey. So damn me to hell and gone if here don’t come more pigs, lurching and blowing hard around the corner from Ninth.
I had to judge fast and I did. I could make it down the service steps of Callahan’s before the first of the blue lugs could take a swing at me, and I did that too.
Five or six steps and I hit the door hard.
It crashes open and there I am, in Mike’s cellar.
I almost skiddooed on some beer foam down there in the dark, but this was no time to lose my balance because I could hear the shouts from street level and the heavy footfalls of some brave rounder chasing me.
Through the long dark cellar, up the stairs and into the bar.
Mike, wiping some glasses, sees me, sizes me and nods over his right shoulder at the stairs up.
Through the half-glassed door, hoping I wouldn’t shatter it because I didn’t want to cause Mike no damage, and then a flat rush up and up and up.
Noises behind, heavy breathing, more than one breather, whistles, Jesus, you woulda thought I was a menace or something.
Three floors up, four, then I was through the door and onto the roof.
The big wide city sprawled before me, ripe. I took in the view while I caught a brief breather and then the door clangs and bangs once more and this time it’s not one bull or two, but at least three, or maybe half the damn force, and one of ’em cries out my name, but I haven’t been exactly filing my nails and before he gets the final “n” out, I’m off again, flying.
The West Side back then was pretty much all of a piece, by which I mean the buildings was more or less the same height. And here’s where you could appreciate the difference between New Law and Old because with Old you can just run like hell, dodging the smokestacks and hurdling the dividing walls without having to worry about plunging down one of the air shafts, whereas with the New you did, or you died.
It may occur to you that at this moment I was pretty much scared on account of the bulls clearly had my number and were hell-bent on nabbing me, but the truth is I was never happier than when I was up on the roofs of the city and it was right about this moment that it came to me that it was silly being a Gopher, scuttling about in the dark, when you could be a mighty American Giant Homer, soaring where you liked.
So I ran and ran, the cops’ voices growing ever fainter as I put some distance between ourselves. I hopped from one address to another, sailing above the streets, trampling on the rooftops, shouting with joy, and I wished my sister might hear me and share my pride.
I’d managed to make it all the way to the west side of Eighth at 39th when I figured it was safe to come down now. The whistles had long since been silenced, the footfalls quieted; the noise of the city wafted up from below, but there was no danger in it.
I halted and holed up between a chimney and a vent pipe, tucking my legs beneath me like some Buddha. Perched above the town in makeshift rook I must’ve nodded off, for when I came to, the sun was setting, which meant it was high time I stopped fooling around and went to work.
I rose and scooted down the fire escapes, the usual tableaux unfolding behind the curtains. Here a man in his undershirt was busily polishing shoes. A floor lower, a couple of children played in a room by themselves, their mother fast asleep on the bed, one hand clutching a sack. On three a couple was arguing loudly; the woman had a big red welt across her back but she was giving nearly as good as she got and I found myself rooting for her as I passed by.
On two there was an old woman sitting by herself, staring into space and listening to a phonograph whose needle had finished its job in the matter of sound reproduction and was scratching away at the interior of the record.
I rode the sliding ladder halfway the length of the first floor and dropped to the sidewalk.
I shoulda knowed Becker would be there, waiting for me. He emerged from the shadows like the very divvil himself, the flame of a match signaling his malevolent presence.
I made to flinch and run, but instead of clobbering me Becker just held up his hand. “Smoke, punk?” he asked.
I allowed as how I wouldn’t mind, but you can bet I was pretty leery accepting the fag, in case he tried to sucker-punch me. “What’s the angle?” I said, inhaling.
“Taking the night air.”
“What’s the beef?”
Becker took a long drag like he was in no hurry to reply. “Who said anything about a beef?”
We stood there like a couple of pals, puffing away, saying nothing.
Becker threw his fag down and ground out the butt. “Kid named Henshaw got himself killed last night.”
“I’m all broke up about it.”
“Rumor is you did it.”
“Impossible. I was home with my mother.”
He reached into his side pocket and I caught a glimpse of some heat under his armpit. My own cannon was in my pants and I wondered if I could get to it before he shot me down.
His hand came out of his pocket. Matches. “The hell of it is, the only witness fell down the stairs this afternoon and broke his neck.”
“Guess things are tough all over.”
He lit another cigarette. “Heard Hymie steered you to Shalleck.”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll stop by the Winona tonight to refresh your memory.”
“So I can refresh your bank account.”
“Guess you’re not as dumb as you look.”
I had to hand it to Becker, playing both sides of the street like a pool hustler fleecing the house. “So what was all this hugger-mugger about?”
“Exercise. I like to keep my boys fit.”
“They still ain’t faster than me.”
Becker flicked his fag into the gutter. “Pretty tough guy, aren’t you, punk?” he said.
“If I have to be.”
He buttoned up his coat. “Know what’s the difference between us?”
I did, but I didn’t say.
“Some folks may hate me when they see me in the street, but more of them like me, because I’m all that’s standing between them and mugs like you. Which means I can pretty much expect to be visiting Mrs. Becker in the comfort and safety of our marital bed every evening. Whereas it’s precisely the opposite with yourself: some of the yeggs in this shithole of a precinct may like you, but more of them hate you and what’s worse they fear you, and there’s damn few’d shed a tear if you was to disappear tomorrow. If I was a betting man, I’d wager that my chances of expiring with my boots off are a lot better than yours.”
“I’ll take that bet,” says I.
Becker turned and walked away, confident as all get-out. “I thought you might,” he said over his shoulder, and disappeared back into the shadows.