“PUTZVATIG,” MICKEY TOLD HIMSELF AS HE LOOKED INTO one of the lobby mirrors on his way to the dining room. The derisive Yiddish expression brought on a broad clownish smile and a rumbling hysterical giggle. Of course it was crazy, he thought, but then again, wasn’t it a noble act? There were few enough acts of nobility in the world. Were’nt there?

Noble shmoble, he told himself. It was love and he was being an exhibitionist, a show-off, offering this grand gesture to impress the woman he loved by saving her from a life of white slavery.

“Love can kill,” he whispered to his image in the mirror. “Not only that. You don’t look so good.”

Yet he continued to linger in front of the mirror as if he were searching for something beyond his visible image, trying to mine heroic nuggets beneath the crust of himself, searching for a grail even more powerful and significant than love to justify his actions. Perhaps it was also revenge for what these animals had done to his father. Or maybe it was the very idea of these gangsters, their insult toward all Jews, toward all decent, law-abiding people who played according to the rules.

Who was he kidding? It was love, mysterious, illogical. Why her? How come? The only answer that made sense didn’t really make sense to the brain, only to the heart, which could not think. For love people do stupid things and this was one of them.

Suddenly, he remembered all the jokes he had told about love.

“Is it better to have loved and lost? Much better.”

And the one that usually got the most laughs: “I’ve been in love with the same woman for thirty years. If my wife found out she would kill me.”

Kill? It made him tremble. It’s for love, he agreed finally. For love, you took risks.

“You’re a bigger putz than I thought,” he told his image in the mirror.

Mutzie had stayed behind in the boathouse until he had gone into the main building. He had given her the key to his room and detailed instructions on getting to it by using the back stairs, the “help” stairs. Then he had posted himself at an obscure area of the porch, watching her proceed.

He observed her as she moved quickly up the rise of the lawn. The overcast had darkened, deepening the green of the lawn, and it had begun to rain. Mutzie accelerated her pace as the rain quickened, running up the porch stairs to the safety of the overhang, then through the French doors. When he had ducked inside to the lobby, she had disappeared.

“I got news, tumler.”

Gorlick’s voice startled him. He had been looking in the mirror but only at himself. Now he saw Gorlick’s image clearly. He forced himself into tumler high gear. To be fired today would call attention to himself. For the moment he needed this job. And then? He pushed any thought of the future out of his mind.

“I’m keeping you hired, tumler. Albert says you’re the funniest he ever saw. When Albert talks, I listen.”

“He’s God.”

“Bigger,” Gorlick said. “On top, I’m giving you a five-dollar raise.”

“How lucky can you get, Mr. Gorlick? You make me feel like Samson.”

“I know. I know. You’ll bring down the house.”

Mickey forced a laugh. “Stepping on my lines again, Mr. Gorlick.”

“I’m entitled. I just gave you raise,” Gorlick said, looking out the window. “Oy the rain. You’ll really have to tumel them today. It rains on a Sunday, those that go back say the weather stank all weekend. Those that come up are worried they paid for lousy weather.” He turned toward Mickey and pointed a stubby finger at his nose. “For you, tumler, this is the, how you say, the truth moment.”

“Moment of truth,” Mickey corrected.

“Whatever,” Gorlick said. “So go tumel.”

Mickey knew what rain meant. He would have to organize indoor games and shows to keep people from thinking about the weather. He had hoped good weather might have spared him that on this of all days.

He went into the dining room. Most of the tables were still empty, but stragglers were coming into the room at a slow trickle. He looked toward what he had dubbed in his own mind “the gangster’s table.” Mrs. Reles was there with her bratty son. Also Mrs. Buchalter.

“Top a the mornin, ladies,” he said with a slight Irish brogue.

“Now he’s a mick,” Helen said. It did not seem to him to be a lighthearted remark.

“I thought you were very funny last night,” Mrs. Buchalter said. “Very amusing.” She was a chubby woman, overdressed for the morning with large diamond rings on her fingers, a diamond bracelet and a huge string of pearls over an ample bosom.

He could feel Helen Reles studying him with some hostility. He pretended not to notice. Some women, he knew, could not deal with rejection. He wondered if he had been wrong to refuse her invitation. But then, wouldn’t that have set off a whole other set of dangerous circumstances? Like possessiveness, jealousy, spite. Not to mention the wrath of Kid Twist. He watched her pat her son’s ear.

“Let me kiss the booboo,” Mrs. Reles said, putting her lips against his cheek.

“Little guy get a clop on the ear?” he asked.

“Your girlfriend, tumler,” Mrs. Reles said, turning to look at him. “She swatted my kid.”

“Who?” he asked, hoping that he had hidden his sudden anxiety.

“Right here,” the Reles kid said showing his red ear.

“I don’t understand,” Mickey said.

“That Mutzie,” Mrs. Reles harrumphed, her nostrils inflating with contempt and anger.

“You mean Mr. Strauss’s friend?” he corrected forcing an air of naïve innocence.

“Yeah,” she snickered. “Pep’s so-called …” She whispered the word “coorva.”

“The one with me in the show?” he persisted, deliberately avoiding confrontation, determined to appear good humored, although he was burning inside.

“He’s dumb like a fox,” Mrs. Reles said.

With effort, Mickey maintained what he hoped was an expression of vague confusion. It seemed to soften Mrs. Reles’s blatant hostility.

“Not that this one didn’t deserve it, probably,” she said, pinching her son’s upper arm while looking at Mrs. Buchhalter. “Anyway, Abie went lookin faw huh. Pep said she went out.” She shot Mickey a sharp glance. “Ya seen her?”

He felt his mind turning over at double time.

“I think at Simon Sez,” he said. “Yeah. At Simon Sez. But if I do see her again, I’ll tell her that your husband is looking for her.”

“Better say nothing until Abie cools off.”

“That serious?” Mickey asked, sorry immediately for showing his concern.

“Nobody likes nobody to swat their kid, right, Ruthie?”

“Labele would go through the roof,” Mrs. Buchalter said. Or worse, Mickey thought.

“I’m sure everything will turn out hunky-dory,” Mickey said patting the boys red ear. At that moment, he saw Pep and Reles come into the dining room. He knew he should have left the table, but he stayed out of curiosity. And panic.

“You find huh?” Mrs. Reles asked.

“Looked eveyweah, even in da ladies’ can,” Reles said.

“Ah, she’ll be aroun, Abie,” Pep said, but without much conviction, as if the subject were simply annoying and unimportant.

“No big deal,” Abie said. “Alls I want is to tell huh to watch huh hands.”

“Somtimes da brat desoives a belt, Abie,” Pep said.

“Believe me, Pep, we do ouwa shaih. Don we, Hesh?”

Heshy made a face.

“Alls I did was call her a coorva,” the boy said.

“He had it right,” Helen said.

“Me, I wudda twisted his shmekel faw dat,” Pep said.

“And I’d drop ya in Canarsie,” Reles said.

It was more bantering than argument, Mickey thought. They often kidded around like that.

“Maybe ya should get married Pep, seddle down. Get a brat a ya own. Ony wid no coorvas,” Mrs. Reles shot Mickey a surreptitious wink.

“Can’t she keep huh trap shut, Abie?” Pep said. He was obviously working himself into a sour mood.

Throughout this conversation, Mickey stood rooted to the floor, unable to find the will to move, hoping they would continue to ignore him. No such luck. Pep’s eyes suddenly drilled into him.

“Ya seen Mutzie, tumler?” he asked.

“She.…” He coughed to mask his panic. “I think I saw her at Simon Sez.”

“And aftah?”

“I didn’t see her. Maybe she went back to the room.” He struggled to find something funny to say. “Unless she likes singin in the rain.” He trilled the words from the song. It went over like a lead balloon.

“Yeah. Well maybe she went back up. I’ll go see,” Pep said. He turned to Abie. “I’ll tawk ta huh about da kid. Only ya keep hands awf.”

Abie smiled thinly, looked at his wife and shrugged while they all watched Pep walk purposefully out of the dining room. But it left Mickey worried. Was she safe? Thankfully, Gorlick was too cheap to have the help’s rooms cleaned by chambermaids. Mickey smiled and gently squeezed Heshy’s shoulder.

“He’s a good boychick,” Mickey said.

“When he sleeps,” Reles said. Mickey forced a laugh and went to his table.

As he drank his coffee, Mickey watched the gangster’s table. Pep came back, looking angrier than ever. Albert Anastasia joined them at the table, then Frank Costello and Lepke. One big happy family, Mickey thought bitterly. He also kept an eye out for Irish, who seemed to be perpetually watching him with sinister intent, hoping he would falter in some way.

Then he saw him. Irish smiled wryly and winked malevolently as he passed Mickey’s table. Did these gestures augur anything imminent? Mickey wondered, remembering again that Irish would be the driver, the “wheelman” in the killing of Gagie that night. We’ll see you in hell, too, Irish, Mickey vowed silently to himself.

When Irish went back to the kitchen and the people at the gangster table concentrated on their breakfast, Mickey filled his pockets with bagels and wrapped some lox and cream cheese in a napkin, which he hid under his shirt. Then he stood up and started to move through the dining room. Peripherally, he saw Pep watching him. His pores opened and perspiration ran down his back. He could not tell if Irish had seen him leave.

In the lobby, he walked quickly toward the back stairs, which he ran up two steps at a time. In his room, he found Mutzie sitting on the bed. His sudden entrance frightened her. Quickly, he emptied his pockets, put the food on the bed and opened the napkin.

“It’s the best I can do, Mutzie,” he said breathlessly, his heart pounding. “Now I gotta get back.”

“Have you heard anything?” she whispered.

“Pep’s looking for you. Reles, too. You smack their kid?”

“I twisted his ear. I wanted to do worse.”

“I gotta go,” Mickey said.

“Mickey …” she called to him as he reached the door.

“Lower,” he pleaded, putting a finger on his lips.

“Are you sorry, Mickey?” she asked. He turned to look at her. She looked helpless, vulnerable. He wanted to hold her in his arms, comfort her.

“So far, no,” he said, wanting to tell her more. They exchanged glances. “Just keep the door locked. I’ll bring lunch later, okay.”

She nodded. He opened the door a crack, then closed it as someone came past in the corridor. He waited and opened the door again. The corridor looked deserted and he ducked out of the room. Walking quickly, he reached the staircase.

He began to perspire as he walked through the lobby again. He felt flushed and out of breath. His heart pounded. He sat down at the table and tried to lift his coffee cup, but his fingers shook. Suddenly Gorlick was bending over him, talking into his ear.

“You seen dat girl?”

“What girl?”

“Don hand me, Fine.”

“You mean Pep’s girl?”

“The one you said you didn’t shtup.”

“You, too. I’m not a meshuganer.”

“Yaw entitled to yaw opinion. Ya seen huh?”

“Yes, at Simon Sez.”

He could smell Gorlick’s foul, stale cigar breath as he hovered above him.

“She musta done something. Dey all been lookin faw huh.”

“Yeah,” Mickey said. “I heard them talking. She slugged the Reles brat.”

“Dat it?” Gorlick asked.

“That’s what they told me,” Mickey said.

“Only dat. I thought maybe all dis had sumpin to do with dat schmeckel a yaws.”

“I told you, Mr. Gorlick. No way. And I resent your attitude on this.”

“But why would Strauss be so mad, den?” Gorlick asked, obviously puzzled. “Da brat don look any the woise for weah.”

“It’ll blow over,” Mickey muttered.

“Sumpin’s not kosher, tumler. Pep and Reles is stayin ovanight. And Lepke, Costello and Anastasia are coming back Friday night. Sumpin’s happenin. Only I hope whatever is happening doesn’t happen at Gorlick’s.” He had partially risen. Then he bent down and put his mouth closer to Mickey’s ear.

“Anyting to do wid ya, I swear, Fine, yaw balls is gawn. Got that, tumler? Gawn.”

“I don’t like this talk, Mr. Gorlick,” Mickey said, desperately trying to keep his emotions in check.

“What does it count what ya like?” Gorlick said. He straighted up and waddled through the swinging doors into the kitchen.

Soon the dining room grew more crowded. Mickey got up to make his usual breakfast announcement and his Sunday goodbyes with the usual jokes. As hard as he tried he could not keep the tremble out of his voice.

“I understand there wasn’t a single roach in your room,” he said, “Only married couples with large families.” There was a trickle of laughter.

“We also have last minute exercises for everyone leaving. You bring down your own valises. Then we do bend overs in the lobby. You bend over the valises, then you open them and give Gorlick back his towels.”

There was some polite laughter among the diners.

Because it was raining, he was expected to do a routine. It was the moment for Marsha to do the lines he had taught her and paid for in lieu of sex. They had done it a few times before. He pointed his finger at her as she passed and she nodded.

“How did you get in here?” he called to her.

“It’s raining outside.”

“How long can a person live without brains?”

“I don’t know. How old are you?”

“Looks who’s talking. She thinks she’s a Lana Turner. Actually she’s a stomach turner.”

“And him,” Marsha retorted. “Everybody thinks he has a good heart because the dogs lick his hand. If he ate with a knife and fork they wouldn’t lick his hand.”

“You notice how she talks slow. Before she could say, ‘What kind of a girl do you think I am?’ she was.”

“Last night I dreamed my husband bought me a mink coat.”

“Next time you dream, wear it in good health.”

The audience tittered. She seemed to be waiting for more lines from him, but at that moment he saw Pep rise and move to a corner of the dining room. Irish moved to meet him. Their heads seemed to tip toward each other as they talked. Then their heads rose and they looked toward Mickey. He felt a thump of fear, quickly aborting the routine and announcing that after breakfast there would be games inside. Then he stepped from the raised platform and moved to the kitchen where Marsha had gone. She was starting to ladle oatmeal into bowls.

“You didn’t get your money’s worth, Mickey,” Marsha said. “I was just getting warmed up.” She winked. “I can get warmed up pretty fast.”

“I need a favor, Marsha. And I need it now,” Mickey pressed, his eyes searching for any signs of Irish.

“From little me?” Marsha said coyly.

“I need the key to your room.”

“Finally,” she said. She dipped a hand in her pocket and gave him the key. “I’ll be up right after breakfast. Like I promised. It’ll be on the house.”

He wanted to clarify the request, but it was too late. Through the window of the swinging doors, he saw Irish coming toward the kitchen.

“You’re a doll,” he said, moving quickly past the busy cooks through the food storage area to a door that led to the outside. Then he ran to another exit near the rear of the hotel and scrambled up the back stairs.

Mutzie was startled by his return.

“Quick,” he said. “No questions.”

He gathered up the remains of her breakfast, wrapped it in the napkin he had brought up earlier and moved swiftly out of his room and down the corridor to Marsha’s room.

“Pep thinks you’re hiding me, right?” she asked.

“I don’t know what he thinks. Just stay here until I come back.”

He locked the door from the outside and was down the back stairs as fast as his feet could carry him. He started across the lobby to the dining room.

“You, tumler.”

He turned. It was Pep. Behind him was the gloating face of Irish.

“He says …” Pep said, his head gesturing toward Irish, “dat if anyone knows where Mutzie is, it’s you.”

“Dey been pretty thick, Mr. Strauss … Pep,” Irish said.

“I did what you told me, Mr. Strauss. You said keep her happy …”

Pep reached out and gripped him under one arm. Irish took the other and they moved him out to the porch.

“I been hearin tings bout you and Mutzie,” Pep hissed, his eyes glowing with anger. He grabbed Mickey’s windpipe and squeezed. “Ya shtup my Mutzie?”

Mickey gagged and tried turning his head. Pep’s strong hand dug deeper.

“Where da fuck is she?” Pep scowled, suddenly releasing his grip. Mickey gagged and sucked in deep breaths.

“How would I know?” Mickey said, shaking his head vigorously. “And they’re liars. We only did the show.”

“Not what I heard,” Irish said, sneering.

“And he’s the biggest liar.”

“Sure?” Pep asked. His hand grabbed Mickey’s testicles. He squeezed. Mickey bit his lip, but resisted screaming.

“You wan I should pull dese out?” Pep said, his mouth twisted in a menacing grin. Mickey groaned in pain.

“Please. I don’t …” Mickey could not go on. Pep released him and stuck a fist in his stomach pushing upward. Mickey writhed in pain.

“Ya gonna feed da fishes, tumler,” Pep said.

“If I knew I would tell,” Mickey managed to say.

Pep turned toward Irish.

“Whaddaya tink, Irish?”

Pep’s attention obviously gave Irish courage.

“Maybe she’s in his room,” Irish hissed.

“Yeah, maybe,” Pep said. They grabbed Mickey under each arm and dragged him forward and up the back stairs.

“Ya shit me, yaw a dead man, tumler,” Pep said as they moved clumsily up the stairs.

“It’s all wrong, Mr. Strauss,” Mickey said, suddenly looking at Irish. “This bastard hates me. I wouldn’t trust him as far as I can spit.”

“Ya cocksucka,” Irish shouted.

“You watch him closely, Mr. Strauss.” Mickey said, remembering what was going to happen tomorrow evening, hoping he was undermining Irish’s credibility. “He’s a lying punk.”

Irish reached over and pulled Mickey’s hair. The pain was intense but Mickey did not give him the satisfaction of showing it. They reached the help floor and the men pushed him forward in the direction of his room. Then they moved down the corridor, passing the door of Marsha’s room, where Mutzie was hiding, to Mickey’s room.

“Open it, putz,” Pep said. With a trembling hand Mickey managed to open the door. Then they pushed Mickey forward and he fell on the floor. It didn’t take them more than a few seconds to discover that Mutzie wasn’t there.

“I told you. This Irish is full of shit,” Mickey said as he struggled up from the floor. “You’ll see. He’s not reliable. This is a perfect example.”

“She ain’t heah,” Pep said. He turned to Mickey. “Ya bettah not be shittin me.”

Then he turned to Irish and whacked him with a backhand across the face. “Goes faw ya, too, putz.”

“He’s a fuckin liar, Pep,” Irish squealed.

“Up yaws,” Pep said storming out of the room, leaving Irish alone with Mickey. They glared at each other.

“I seen ya wid her, big shot. Dis mawning. Near da boathouse.”

“Maybe you should have looked there?” Mickey said.

“I did,” Irish said. He took a step toward Mickey, who grabbed a pair of scissors that were laying on the table.

“Go on, Irish. Give me the pleasure.”

Irish backed away. He pointed his finger, started to say something, then ran out the door.

Mickey threw the scissors on the bed. His hands shook. Was he capable of such an act? These men were. How could they? It was a question that answered itself. When it came to human beings, anything was possible.

After Irish had gone, he washed and changed his clothes, then moved cautiously into the corridor to Marsha’s room knocking quietly.

“It’s me. Mickey. Open up.”

“Anything wrong?” Mutzie asked as he moved inside the room.

“They think I’m hiding you,” he said. “Pep just worked me over.”

“Oh my God,” Mutzie said. “I’m so sorry, Mickey.” She embraced him and held him tightly. “It’s not fair.” Her proximity calmed him.

“They are very bad people, Mutzie. Maybe we should burn bagels on the front lawn?”

“It’s no joke, Mickey.”

“We’ll call in the Ku Klux Kleins.”

“Be serious.”

“Me serious. They don’t scare me. They get too pushy, I’ll put locks on their bagels.”

A tiny smile broke through her gloom.

“Stay that way,” he said, taking her hand. He opened the door. There was someone in the corridor. He waited for the person to disappear then ran with her back to his room.

“Now I’ve got you in trouble, Mickey.”

“It’s Irish, making accusations. “

“About us?”

“Guess he has a good sense of rumor,” Mickey shrugged, his groin area still painful. His expression gave him away.

“Did Pep hurt you?”

“He insulted my dignity. Both of them.”

She sat on the bed and put her hands over her face. Her shoulders shook with sobs. He sat down beside her and caressed her back.

“Better to laugh than cry,” Mickey said. “It works, believe me.”

After a while she stopped crying. “Now what?” she asked.

“We get outa here. Then, later, we get to Swan Lake, the place where they’re going to do Gagie tomorrow.” His plan, once vague, was beginning to grow in his mind.

“How are you gonna get to Swan Lake?” Mutzi asked. “We need a car.”

He nodded.

“We’ll borrow one from the guests coming in. I can drive.”

“That’s stealing,” Mutzie said. Mickey waited for a joke line. None came. She seemed to grow sad.

“Who asked you?” Mickey winked, hoping to pick her up. “Here’s one: Man gets thirty days. On what charge? No charge. Everything’s free.”

“You’re impossible,” Mutzie said, again cracking a tiny smile.

“Trust Irving,” Mickey said.

She looked at him, puzzled.

“It’s a Jewish bank. Used to be Irving Trust.”

She shook her head.

So he was the boy whistling in the cemetery to keep up his courage. But despite the danger, he could not deny the secret pleasure it gave him to be part of this.

“We’ll never get away with it, Mickey,” Mutzie said.

“Who said?”

Another thought occurred to him suddenly, diluting his fear somewhat. He was on the side of what was right and right always wins. Right? In the face of such overwhelming virtue in his reasoning, how could they fail?

“Who are we, Mickey?”

“The good guys, that’s who.”

“You are. Not me.”

“So now you’re fishing for compliments.”

“You’re crazy,” Mutzie said.

“You and Gorlick,” Mickey sighed. “He called me a meshuganer.”

“He’s right,” Mutzie said. Shrugging, she put her arms around him. “You’re something, Mickey. Really something.”

“So are you, Mutzie. So are you.”

Her closeness thrilled him and he felt her kiss him on the cheek.

“It’s a start,” he whispered.

He left Mutzie in Marsha’s room and came down to the lobby for the fourth time that day. The lobby was beginning to fill with people checking out. Most of the new check-ins would not arrive until later in the day. He would take one of their cars. That part he viewed as simple.

The boys who parked the cars kept the keys in a cabinet near the driveway in front of the hotel. All he had to do was watch one of them park, then put the keys of the particular car he had in mind in the cabinet. Sure, it was stealing, but this was an emergency, wasn’t it?

Outside, the rain had gotten worse and people came into the lobby in raincoats and hats, stamping their feet on the porch to remove droplets of water. He saw the Buchalters, Albert Anastasia and Frank Costello being fawned over by bellhops as their luggage was brought out to waiting cars.

They were saying their goodbyes to Pep and Reles with much fanfare, embracing like ordinary departing guests. Except for the carful of Anastasia’s body guard goombas that waited nearby, the scene struck Mickey as so normal and bourgeois, so far from the truth of these people’s lives.

“Hey, watchacallit, c’mere.” It was Albert Anastasia. He had spied Mickey and motioned with his hand for him to come over. He stuck a hand in his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of bills, peeling off a twenty.

“Faw da kicks, kiddo. Not so funny, but ya tried.” He laughed and handed Mickey the twenty. Despite his sense of revulsion at touching anything of Anastasia’s, Mickey took it and forced a smile.

“Everything runs hot and cold at Gorlick’s,” Mickey said. “Except the water in the rooms. That’s cold only.”

“Maybe he’ll be cold alla time, too.”

It was Pep who had come up behind them. Mickey turned and continued to maintain his false smile.

“Ya hidin Pep’s doll?” Albert asked with mocking laughter in his voice. “Ya look in his pants, Pep?”

“It ain’t funny, Albert,” Pep said, scowling.

Mickey felt the sudden need to change the mood.

“How about this: Man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigar stubb. ‘Oh no,’ he cries hitting himself in the head. ‘What happened’ somebody asks. Man says, ‘I think I smoked my penis.’”

Albert guffawed, then laughed for a long time. Finally, he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

“So she runs out on ya, Pep,” Anastasia said putting a hand on Pep’s shoulder after he had finally stopped laughing. “What’s it to ya; a crumb on ya lap. Ya got a mudderlode a quiff.”

“Nobody runs out on Pep,” Pep grunted, scowling.

“A regular brooder,” Reles said, joining the group.

“This schmuck knows,” Pep said, pointing to Mickey. “I’m watchin ya, tumler.”

“Listen, I need all the audience I can get,” Mickey said.

“It ain’t funny,” Pep muttered.

“Where’s ya sense a humor, Pep?” Albert Anastasia turned to Mickey. “Ya think this little kikey stole huh from da great Pittsburgh Phil? Ya really think dat, Pep?” His hand was still on Pep’s shoulder.

“Na,” Pep said. “He’s a punk.”

“She was good, but I had bettah, Pep,” Albert laughed. “What ya should do, call Gloria. Let huh send ya some prime meat. Clean da pipes. Memba you got tings ta do tomorrow tonight. Loosen up.”

“Yeah, yeah, Albert. Don worry. I got my head in da job.”

“Business foist, right, Pep?”

“Nothin bodders business, Albert.”

“Bettah not. Ain’t no percentage in it.”

There was more tipping of the fawning help by Costello, Buchalter and Anastasia. Finally, they left the lobby like visiting royalty. Pep, Goldstein and Reles went out to the porch to wave goodbye to the three big cars as they headed along the driveway to the main road.

Mickey started to go inside, and once again he felt the ubiquitous eyes of Irish following him. He repressed a flash of anger by reasoning that as long as Irish kept his eye on him, he would not be searching for Mutzie.

As he entered the lobby Marsha suddenly appeared.

“I thought we hadda date,” she said, her hands on her hips, her eyes accusatory.

“I was about to go upstairs.”

With a peripheral glance at Irish, he grabbed her arm and moved her out of his line of vision.

“Forgive me, Marsha. Maybe later. It rains, a tumler works.”

“It was raining when I gave you the key, Mickey.”

“Garlic caught me on the stairs.”

She probed him with an unbelieving skeptical stare.

“I think I know where she is.” Marsha said. “They been lookin for her.”

At that moment Irish strode into the lobby.

“Please Marsha. Trust me. I’ll explain later.” He started to move away, but she held his arm.

“Make like ya wanna, Mickey?” she said smiling lewdly, licking her lips with her tongue.

At that moment, Irish reached them.

“Don bodder, Marsha.” He cut a glance at Mickey. “He used it all up on Pep’s quiff. Ain’t got none left?”

“You scumbag,” Marsha hissed.

“Ya givin him da flat rate, Marsha, or da twofers,” Irish said. He turned his malevolent eyes on Mickey. “Wassamata, ain’t got enough from Pep’s coorva?”

Irish was baiting him. He tried to hold his temper.

“Pay no attention,” Mickey said. “He’s a two bit punk wants to make like big time gangster. Only he hasn’t got the stuff. Have you, shlonghead?”

He watched Irish flush red, his lips quivering. Intimidation and tough talk were apparently the only ways to deal with Irish. Thankfully, the method worked once again and Irish retreated quickly, but not before a parting threat.

“Ya keep lookin ovah yaw shoulder mamzer, cause Irish is watchin yaw back.”

Mickey knew the threat was real. It also comforted him to know that Irish would be caught in the trap that he and Mutzie were preparing.

“Thanks, Marsha,” Mickey whispered.

“Ya playin with fire, Mickey,” Marsha said. “Ya betta get her outa here.”

“We got a plan,” Mickey replied.

“Betta be a good one,” Marsha said. “But if ya ask me, pussy ain’t worth dying faw.”

“I’ll remember that, Marsha.”

“And I’ll memba to pray for ya. Both.”

Keeping the remaining guests amused through the morning was torture. Chaos reigned. Children ran in and out of the rooms. He tried his biblical routine. “So you know why they didn’t play cards on the Ark? How could they? Noah kept sitting on the deck.” Not a titter. He tried again. “Poor Abraham. Had to sleep five in a bed. How come? He slept with his forefathers. And Moses, you know, was the first tennis player in the bible. He served in Pharoah’s court.”

Still not a giggle. He couldn’t blame them. It was the wrong time and the wrong energy. Especially on his part. He was thinking of Mutzie, worrying now that a light might go on in Irish’s unscrupulous head.

“Play some games, tumler,” someone shouted from the unruly and restless group. He consented, but organizing games was nearly impossible. He tried a “Pass the Orange” game in which participants pass oranges from one to another using their chins and not their hands.

A woman participant got a crick in her neck and had to be taken to her room. One of the children stepped on a fallen orange, squashed it and slid across the floor. He searched his mind for anything to hold their attention. But he could barely hold his own.

During lunch, he felt himself under continuous surveillance. The dining room, as always at Sunday lunch, was half empty. Pep seemed to glare at him. Irish shot him menacing glances. Mrs. Reles looked at him strangely. He felt persecuted. Most of all, he worried about Mutzie alone upstairs and he plotted getting hold of one of the box lunches the kitchen prepared for homeward bound guests.

“Go tumel them,” Gorlick told him. He was in a bad mood. The weather prediction was for rain all week. Mickey didn’t feel like tumeling. But he made his rounds of the dining room, cracking whatever jokes were not stifled by his nervousness. He tried to skip the gangster table, but Kid Twist called him over.

“My wop friend’s a good tipper, eh, tumler?” Reles said.

“Mr. Anastasia was very generous,” Mickey said. Pep still groused at him, but seemed less interested as he ladled sour cream over blintzes.

“Ya wanna piece of his action, Abie,” Bugsy Goldstein chimed in.

Reles laughed.

“Yeah, protection for tumlers,” Reles said. He looked at Pep and pointed.

“Especially from him.”

It was meant, Mickey supposed, as good-natured joshing. Pep didn’t crack a smile.

“Ya find her, tumler, ya keep her,” Reles said.

“I find her I twist her tits off,” Pep said, looking up from his sour cream and blintzes.

Reles clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“Comes ta love, Pep got no heart,” Reles said sarcastically. “No heart.”

Mickey hated hearing Mutzie disparaged, but he kept a smile pasted on his face and moved to the next table.

He made his announcements amid his usual patter of jokes. Luckily Sunday afternoons were absorbed with registering guests. Mr. Gorlick liked him to hang out in the lobby to tumel with them as they arrived. He also arranged for a movie showing in the social hall, taking care of the kids while the women who were left behind played cards.

His objective now was to arouse no suspicion, to carry on with business as usual, even knowing that he and Mutzie would not be coming back to the hotel once they had gotten out safely. His plan was still in embryo stage, but the outlines were coming into focus. He and Mutz would drive the stolen car to Bernstein’s apple orchard, then get to a spot near Swan Lake that would give them a good vantage point to witness the deed.

Of course, it was an awful and dangerous prospect. He decided not to focus on that part just yet. He hadn’t any idea what would happen after they witnessed Gagie’s killing. He had it in his mind to tell someone, someone who could act against these fiends. Surely there must be some government authority in the state that might prosecute these killers on the strength of his and Mutzie’s testimony. There had to be someone. They couldn’t control everything. Or could they?

As the plan grew in his mind, his began to focus on his sense of mission. He would be the righteous avenger for his father’s beating, the savior of the woman he loved. The thoughts energized him. There was one more thing he had to do. He had to get himself fired.

He got up and addressed the dining room crowd with a string of jokes that got a good laugh. Then he launched what he hoped would be the clincher.

“Now let me tell you about Garlic.” He looked toward Gorlick, who was eating vegetables and sour cream at his regular table. At the mention of the hated word, he seemed to misfire, getting his spoon to his mouth. Sour cream covered his chin.

“He hates me to call him Garlic. But when a man stinks, what do you call him? Mr. Fart?”

The audience roared, the joke enhanced by Gorlick’s dripping chin and beet red complexion.

“When it comes to money, you’ve got to hand it to Garlic. He’ll get it anyway.” The audience roared, encouraging him. “Garlic has so much money he doesn’t know which building to burn next.” More laughter. “But I can tell Garlic wants me around. He keeps giving me postdated checks.” The audience howled. “If he can’t take it with him, Garlic will send his creditors. After all, he has something the creditors like, but he won’t spend it. But he gives me plenty of exercise. Every time he gives me a check I have to run to the bank.” He looked at Gorlick, whose face had gone from beet red to ashen. His eyes glared hatred.

What surprised him was that even Pep howled. Maybe, just maybe he was taking his mind off Mutzie. He knew he had succeeded in making Gorlick the laughingstock. The fact was that he, Mickey Fine, also enjoyed it immensely.

“Sorry, Mr. Garlic,” Mickey said. “You wanted I should make them forget about the rain. Keep the checkouts down.”

After the usual announcements about the evening’s activities, none of which he would attend, he stepped down to some enthusiastic applause. When he looked around, he noticed that Gorlick had gone. But he had barely started to drink his coffee when Mildred Feinstein, Mr. Gorlick’s cross-eyed assistant came to the table.

“He wants to see you in his office now,” Mildred said.

“Now now? Or now later?”

“Now now. He’s having a conniption.”

Mickey strode out of the dining room, feeling jaunty and exhilarated. In his office, Gorlick sat slumped in his chair.

“An ungrateful mamzer I hired,” Gorlick said.

“All right, then, we’re even. A mamzer hired a mamzer.”

“You remember our verbal agreement. No boss jokes.”

“A verbal agreement isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” Mickey shot back.

“This schmuck will kill me,” Gorlick said. He handed Mickey a check. “Go. Go. As fast as your legs will take you. I want to fumi-gate your room.”

Mickey, hiding his elation, looked at the check.

“You deducted for room and board?”

“You didn’t eat? You didn’t sleep?”

“That’s not very fair, Garlic,” Mickey said. He knew he was gilding the lily and had expected the deduction.

“Mildred, throw this man out,” he screamed. “And call around the other hotels. I need a new tumler fast. I’ll pay double.” He turned to Mickey. “Double. You hear me. Double.”

“Easy, Mr. G, your heart,” Mildred cautioned.

“If I die, he’ll have it on his head for the rest of his life.”

“And what will you have on your head, Garlic? A tombstone.”

Mickey quickly about-faced and left the man’s office, having accomplished his objective. He wasn’t sorry and he could not deny the enjoyment he had had.

With surprising boldness he went back into the dining room, then strode into the kitchen and picked up a box lunch and went out through the storage area and up the back stairs to Marsha’s room. Irish, he had noted, was busy in the dining room.

Mutzie looked pale and frightened and seemed to be losing heart.

“As my mother always said: Eat. Eat,” he said. She appeared puzzled by his ebullience.

“Why are you so cheerful?” she asked.

“I just got a lot of laughs,” he replied. “Best of all, I got fired.” He explained how he had done it. “All part of the master plan. You see the logic? Now they won’t suspect we left together.”

“But you lost your job,” she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “You put yourself in danger. You lost a job that meant something to you. You should check yourself into the nearest asylum.”

“Actually, I’m more certain than ever that we’re doing the right thing.”

“The right thing, maybe. The dumb thing, for sure.” She bit into an egg salad sandwich without apparent appetite.

“When you’re on the side of the angels, why worry?”

“I don’t mind being on their side. I just don’t want to be an angel,” she said.

“I need this competition,” he laughed.

“I also don’t feel too good about Gagie,” Mutzie said. “He was always nice to me. A perfect gentlemen.”

“Another killer. You said so yourself.”

“I know,” she agreed. “They just … it’s all so strange. Their meanness. They have no conscience. I don’t understand it. How can people kill other people?”

“Happens all the time.”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Like in the movies.”

“Like in real life,” Mickey said.

He had never really seen violence, except that terrible scene in his father’s store. He did have a few scrapes as a kid, but nothing even approaching a fatality. These people seemed like beings from an alien land, engaged in conduct outside of the value system he had been taught. Considering the heinous crimes that they were to have committed, it seemed almost a civic duty to thwart them, even beyond the broader reason of helping to save Mutzie from a life of sexual enslavement. He reveled in such noble and heroic thoughts, remembering King Edward the Eighth’s abdication speech in which he said he was giving up the throne of England for the woman he loved.

“If you don’t stand up and be counted,” Mickey said, “the bad guys win.”

“Such a hero,” Mutzie said, putting aside her sandwich. She sounded depressed, but he ignored it. Instead he told her about his plan, as far as it had developed.

“If they catch us, you know, we’re gone,” she said.

“A real gloomy Gus.”

“Better a miserable life than none at all,” she said. It was, of course, the nub of her depressive state and he let it pass. If she was having second thoughts there was no way to force her to go along with his plan. This had to be her decision. He had made his.

“Now I want you to try on some of my clothes and fiddle with them to make them fit. There’s no way you can go back to your old room. And we’ve got to get the hell out of here.”

He went back to his room and quickly picked out some of his clothes and threw them in his battered suitcase. Above all, he needed to find a car and make a safe exit for both of them. Like some of his comedy routines, he was obliged to make it up as he went along. The important thing for him was not to show her any indecision on his part. He came back to Marsha’s room.

“I feel like I’m in a Marx Brothers comedy.”

He gave her the clothes he had chosen and turned his back while she put them on.

Finally she told him it was okay to see her and he turned and saw a good imitation of a boy wearing his big brother’s clothes. She had tucked up her bleached, Jean Harlow hair under a beret that he used as a costume for French imitations. He looked down at her feet and noted that the pants covered her tennis sneakers.

“Sam, you made the pants too long,” he sang. She smiled and he felt that the song had lifted her spirits.

“Fact is you look beautiful as a boy,” he said and meant it. She blushed. “A girl, too.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment. Hers moistened.

“You think I’m worth all this, Mickey?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ve been such an idiot.” She hesitated. “I’ve soiled myself.” A sob shook her chest and she turned away from him.

He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but held back. His mind was absorbed by his plan. He would station himself near the driveway and observe the guests arriving by car and make his move at the most propitious moment. He would drive the car to the road and park next to a stand of trees that would screen it from the hotel. He would wait there until Mutzie joined him and they would take off to scout the Swan Lake area in preparation for their nocturnal observations.

Mutzie listened intently as he explained the plan. Admittedly there were risks and he tried to calm her fears. Above all, she must appear natural, certainly not furtive or uncertain. She would use the back stairs, then make her way to a corridor near the lobby and duck out onto the porch. From there she would descend a side stairway to the lawn and make her way on foot to the road. He told her exactly where he had planned to park the car. He looked at his watch.

“Give me about fifteen minutes.”

“I’m scared, Mickey,” Mutzie said.

“Worse things have happened,” Mickey replied, smiling.

Her face brightened. She apparently sensed he was throwing her a straight line.

“Like what?”

“Like the farmer who tried to milk a bull.”

She clicked her tongue and shook her head, but it brought out a smile. Then he got serious again.

“Above all, talk to no one, keep moving and do not make eye contact,” he warned.

She pursed her lips and nodded.

“I hope I can handle it,” she said.

“You can.”

He picked up his mostly empty suitcase, moved toward the door and turned.

“Such a pretty boychick,” he said, then he let himself out.

The lobby was less crowded than earlier and he strode through it, heading for the driveway. He carried his suitcase, proof of his departure.

“I’m really sorry about this,” a woman’s voice called from behind him. He turned quickly. It was Helen Reles.

“Not your fault,” he said curtly. “Garlic had a right.”

“Screw him,” Helen said. “Abie will talk to him.”

“It’s all right,” he said quickly. Her hand touched his arm and squeezed.

“No, it’s not,” she said, putting on what she must have thought was her most compassionate look. “I hope it wasn’t me that made this trouble for you.”

“Nothing to do with you, Mrs. Reles,” Mickey said.

“I’ve given you a bad time. And I’d like to make it up to you.” She bent closer to him. “Give me a chance to be nice to you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Mickey protested.

“What can I do? I’m Jewish. I feel guilty.”

Her eyes opened liked puddles and her lips seemed to have mysteriously moistened. Nor did he have any doubt about her intentions.

“I’m resigned to it,” he sighed, searching in his mind for some way to dismiss her.

“C’mere,” she said, leading him by his arm to an alcove in a deserted corner of the lobby. He stole a glance at his watch. Mutzie would be getting ready to leave his room. In the alcove, she nuzzled close to him.

“Gorlick is no problem. Abie will take care of it. No problem.”

“Really, Mrs. Reles …”

“Helen,” she whispered poking her breasts into his chest. “Believe me, boychick. I can help.”

“I … I’ve already lined up another job.”

“So what. You belong here. It’s me that made the trouble.”

“It never happened.”

“Okay, so I was wrong.” She patted his face. “But who could blame me, such a cutie pie.” She bent her head and whispered in his ear. “Don’t be a putz. I can fix it.” She paused and watched him. “All I have to do is tell my Abie and all you have to do is be nice to little me sometimes. Believe me. You’d be in the clear. I swear it. Abie won’t think nothing, cause Abie won’t know nothing. I know how to handle that. I’ll tell him that Heshy gets a kick out of you.”

“It’s okay. I don’t need anybody’s help.”

“Everybody needs a little help now and then. Even me. Now and then.”

Mickey nodded, then realized what his nod might mean.

She reached down and squeezed his crotch. He jumped back stunned by her gesture.

“Oy, can I make a lollypop outa you bubbala,” she whispered.

“Please, Helen,” Mickey whispered.

She pressed closer to him. “I promise you.” She took his hand and moved it to her crotch and kept it there with the pressure of her arm. “I can send you to the moon. Come on. We gotta deal?”

He was saved from answering by someone coming in their direction. She released his hand and moved away.

“And don’t worry about nothin. We’ll work it out. Right?”

He felt trapped. By now Mutzie had to be proceeding to where he was supposed to be meeting her with the car.

“I don’t know what to say,” Mickey said. It was true, of course.

“Say mazel tov,” Helen said. She patted the hand.

One of the guests passed by the alcove glancing at them briefly. When he had gone, Helen moved quickly toward him and kissed him on the lips, prying them open and inserting her tongue. He felt nauseous, but he let it happen.

“Now go,” she ordered pointing to his suitcase. “Bring this upstairs. You ain’t going nowhere.” He hesitated and she said sharply. “Go before I go crazy.”

He moved back to the lobby. She followed him and, guiding him silently with an upward motion of her chin, watched him, until he moved up the help-forbidden front staircase. Then she moved forward, ascended the first flight, watched him hesitate, egged him on again with her chin until he had no choice but to ascend the stairs to the top floor that housed his old room.

There was a window on the landing. Peering out, he could see Mutzie making her way along the path by the lakeside that would take her on the roundabout route toward the place where he was supposed to be waiting with the car. He started toward the help stairs, planning to descend, then realized that if Helen Reles saw him with his suitcase she would logically assume that he had double-crossed her. He quickly put the suitcase in one of the maid’s closets.

Then he looked out the window again and his heart lurched. Mutzie was still moving across the path, trying her best to look unconcerned and casual in her oversized costume. True to his instructions she did not waver, looking forward only. But following behind her, stalking her like a predator, crouching, hiding behind trees and shrubs, was Irish.

He started to run down the corridor in the direction of the main staircase, which would be closer to the lobby entrance than the backstairs. There was no time for niceties of concealment. Mutzie was clearly in danger. Another ominous surprise greeted him as he reached the top of the stairs. Pep was ascending rapidly, accelerating his pace when he saw Mickey. He was certain that Irish had alerted Pep to what was happening.

Mickey saw his face, the killer mask firmly in place, the eyes burning with hatred. Turning, he dashed backwards down the corridor to the back stairs, hearing Pep’s pounding steps behind him. With the banister for balance he moved quickly down the first flight.

“Where’s the fire?”

He saw Marsha moving toward him, standing in the center of the narrow stairway, her face frozen in an attitude of surprise. As he passed her, he nodded and smiled thinly, perhaps hoping to disguise his terror. He saw her head turn upward, surely seeing the menacing Pep descending on him.

As he ran, some anxious reflex made him turn. It was only for a miillisecond, but it captured the moment with all its harrowing portent. “Don’t,” he cried out, or thought he did, although he heard nothing. He saw Marsha stick her leg in Pep’s path and heard Pep’s angry curse as he tumbled forward.

Mickey did not look back as he ran out of the building.