The Predators Page 4

  “Jesus,” she exclaimed, and turned the last of the Pepsi from the bottle upside down and poured it over my balls!

  “You’ve gone crazy!” I shouted as I leaped from the cold, sticky liquid. “Look what you did to my sheets. Now I’ll have to take them to the self-serve laundry.”

  “Don’t be a jerk,” she said. “I’ll lick all the Pepsi off your cock and balls, then I’ll make you come on top of the Pepsi, and that will make it just perfect.”

  She was right. It was perfect. Later, after we got out of the bed, I made some instant coffee for us. That was good, too. She looked around. “It’s Sunday. Don’t you have any of the newspapers?”

  “What for?” I asked. “I don’t need a whole newspaper. I read the sports page from leftover papers at Uncle Harry’s counter. All I care about is how the Yankees are doing.”

  “Don’t you know that there is a war coming?” she asked.

  “I hear the bullshit on the radio about it,” I said. “But I’m not old enough yet.”

  “You’re going to have to go into the army,” she said. “You’re getting really close to the age.”

  “So? There’s nothing I can do about it,” I answered nonchalantly. “What are you worried about?”

  “I just don’t want you to go to war and get killed.”

  “That’s a stupid thing to say,” I answered. “We’re not even in a war yet. I’m not going to worry about it until I have to.” I took another cup of coffee. “Is the self-serve laundry open today?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll do them for you tomorrow. How are you doing on your job?”

  “It’s not bad,” I answered. “But it’s kind of boring.”

  “What do you mean?” Kitty asked.

  “The counter kind of like runs itself. Uncle Harry has a Puerto Rican agency that sends him all the help he needs. Those guys do all the dirty work. Uncle Harry watches the cash during the day and he has a cashier girl that just sits in a chair and collects money. She leaves at seven, the same time as Uncle Harry, and then I handle the cash until we close at nine. The only time it gets really busy is when the Puerto Ricans are on the dinner break, and I’m by myself. It’s the only time I get to go into action.”

  “The cashier girl, what kind of girl is she?” Kitty asked.

  “Fat,” I answered. “Zaftig, Uncle Harry calls her.”

  “Is Uncle Harry screwing her?” Kitty asked.

  I looked at her. “You’ve got a dirty mind.”

  She laughed. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

  “How would I know?” I said. “The only thing I know is that she goes up to his office at lunchtime to do the books. When I get to work she’s always sitting in the cashier’s chair.”

  “He’s screwing her,” Kitty said positively. “Does she keep the books in the betting department?”

  “How the hell do I know?” I said, annoyed with her prying. “My job is working at the counter, serving two cents plains and egg creams and Cokes in small glasses. Then I sell cigarettes, cigars, and candy bars. But I heard from Buddy, this nigger guy that’s worked for Harry for a long time, he runs the numbers for Harry. He said that my dad used to keep the accounts.”

  “You never told me that Harry was running numbers,” she said.

  “I didn’t think about it,” I said.

  “Taking numbers is pretty good money. Why didn’t you ask for a job doing that?” she questioned.

  “It’s a nigger’s job. Buddy covers all the coloreds in the area and he told me that if I tried to do his job, I wouldn’t live a minute,” I said. “They don’t like white people taking money from them. He said they’d never give me a dime, ’cause they’d be afraid they’d never see it again.”

  She was quiet for a minute. That was unusual.

  “Why are you so nosy about Uncle Harry’s business?”

  “Maybe he needs a bookkeeper now that your father isn’t there,” Kitty said.

  I couldn’t even believe what she was saying. “You want to work for Uncle Harry?”

  “I could use a little extra money.” She laughed.

  “Little is what you’d get,” I said. “He pays the spicks thirty cents an hour for a fourteen-hour day. He’s only giving me twelve bucks a week, and that’s because I’m family and he knows that I wouldn’t steal any money from the cashbox.”

  “Your Uncle Harry is a funny guy,” she said as she looked off as though she were in a dreamworld. “You look at him and think that he is some kind of a poor slob. But that’s not the truth at all. He’s got a good booking operation and he runs numbers, too, and he also has the hottest corner in town for drinks and stuff. It just goes to show you, you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

  “You sound like you like him,” I said.

  She shrugged. “He’s like my father,” she answered. “A real prick. I like to study people like that. They’re interesting.”

  “You told me that you didn’t like your father.”

  “I don’t,” she answered. “But sometimes I wish he wasn’t my father. He has one hell of a cock. Even my mom said so.”

  “Is that all you ever think about? Cocks?” I said. “Sometimes you are really too much.”

  “Well, that’s why I went after you.” She laughed, reaching for my prick. “After all, if you want to be an important lady, you got to grab a man with big balls.” She laughed.

  8

  Buddy was a tall, very light-skinned black man. He had strong, big shoulders and big hands. He always sat at the back of the counter while I ate my dinner that Aunt Lila sent me every evening. Tonight it was boiled chicken and matzo ball soup.

  He stared over at me. “How can you eat that shit that she sends down here for you? I notice that she ain’t giving Harry stuff like that.”

  “I don’t know what they eat for dinner,” I answered.

  “They eat out at restaurants most of the time,” he told me. “That’s where Harry meets up with his connection. He settles up with them for the betting and the numbers.”

  “You mean it’s not his book?” I asked.

  “It’s his book all right,” he answered. “But he has to operate under the okay of the Mafia.”

  “You gotta be kidding. They’re Italians,” I said. “Harry is Jewish.”

  He waved his hand. “Don’t mean nothin’.” Buddy smiled. “He can’t touch the numbers anywhere in this city unless he got the okay from the wops.”

  “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  “You can believe it,” Buddy said. “The Mafia controls the whole city.”

  “How’d you get to know so much, Buddy?” I asked.

  “Niggers know street business,” Buddy said. “I live up in Harlem and everybody there knows how it works and what’s going on. But we mind our own business, and that’s how we stay alive.”

  I finished my dinner and washed off the plate and the pot that Aunt Lila had sent me. Then I walked over behind the counter and lit a cigarette. I was glad that Uncle Harry wasn’t here because I never smoked in front of him. There wasn’t much action tonight. Mario the spick was handling the business with no problems. He would give me the cash and I would give him back whatever change was needed.

  I turned back to look at Buddy. He was still sitting at the back of the counter, where most of the customers couldn’t see him. “When do you get your dinner?” I asked him.

  “I eat before I come down to settle up the numbers with Harry,” he said.

  “Then why are you hanging around here?” I asked. “There’s nothing happening down here at night.”

  “It’s my job,” he said.

  “What job?” I asked, surprised. “There’s no business for numbers now.”

  Buddy laughed. “I’m your bodyguard.”

  “What the hell for?” I asked. “Nobody ever bothers us down here.”

  “You never know.” Buddy smiled. “Why do you think Harry is always carrying a gun? You just never know.”

/>   “I didn’t know Harry carried a gun,” I said.

  “They hit on him a couple of times,” Buddy said. “But he was smarter than they were. He’s a tough man, your Uncle Harry.”

  “Yeah, but why would I need a bodyguard?” I asked. “I’m not carrying any money like Harry does.”

  “Nobody knows that,” Buddy answered. “And you might be an easier hit.”

  “What can you do about it?” I asked him.

  He took a small revolver from his pocket. “This helps a little,” he said easily. “I also have my special slicer.”

  I stared down at his other hand. He had a straight razor encased in a white ivory holder. Quickly he moved the weapon, and the razor was now held against his fist. He smiled at me. “This is a special.” He looked at it, admiring it. “No matter how many times someone might hit you. All you need is one shot. Hit him once, anywhere. It doesn’t make any difference. It will cut through any part of him.”

  I watched him as he slipped the knife back into his shirt pocket. “Where did you learn how to use that?” I asked.

  “Two years in reform school,” he said. “That will teach you a lot of things besides readin’ and writin’.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment; then I asked, “Can you teach me about handling a razor?”

  “You planning on cutting somebody?”

  “No,” I said. “I just want to learn.”

  “Your only day off is on Sunday,” Buddy said.

  “It’s okay with me,” I said. “You can come to my place.”

  9

  During the day the corner counter store was always jumping. Hundreds of people were going in and out of the subway station, traveling to and from home to work. They all needed a drink, cigarettes, or a snack. We didn’t serve real meals, only snacks. Uncle Harry had made a deal with the two restaurants on the street that he wouldn’t even sell wax-paper-wrapped cold sandwiches. I found out that the real business was between seven and nine in the morning, when people were going to work, and between five and six in the evening, when they went home. Uncle Harry was always there during the rush hours. He would pace around and start counting the money as soon as the crowds let up. By seven in the evening Aunt Lila would pick him up in the car and he would go deposit the money at the night depository of the bank. She would also send me dinner when she came by to pick him up.

  During the day there were usually five countermen. After Harry left there was only one counterman besides me. It always slowed down after seven in the evening. Mario, the late counterman, was a good workman. His main job was to clean the counter and all the syrup pumps and glasses. He never spoke very much. He didn’t speak very good English; it was kind of a mixture between Spanish and English. So most of the time I would just shoot the breeze with Buddy, because the only thing he had to do was sit there and watch me. It was Buddy who taught me more than anyone. It was Buddy who told me my uncle had a girlfriend set up in an apartment in one of the houses in the next block.

  I was shocked when I heard this. I really couldn’t believe that Uncle Harry was that interested in women. He never said anything to me about other women. “What kind of a lady is she?” I asked, curiously.

  Buddy smiled, his big-face smile. “She’s somethin’ else.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “She dances up at Small’s Cabaret at night,” he answered. “She’s got real talent and everybody that goes there likes her. She wants to be a big singer someday and your Uncle Harry pays for her singing lessons.”

  “Small’s Cabaret, isn’t that up in Harlem?” I said.

  Buddy nodded his head.

  “I thought only coloreds entertained there.”

  “She’s a chorus girl,” Buddy said. “She’s really cute.”

  “But I thought only coloreds could work there,” I said again.

  “You’re a stupid Jew schmuck.” He laughed. “Harry likes black ass. The girl he used to take care of was black.”

  “Jesus,” I exclaimed. “When does he have any time to see her? He works all day, and I know Aunt Lila doesn’t let him out of her sight at night.”

  “Not all day,” he said. “He takes a few hours off every afternoon. You know when he says he’s going to go settle with the wop bankers. That only takes him about a half hour, then he scoots up to his girlfriend.”

  “I wonder if Aunt Lila knows about it?” I asked.

  “No way,” Buddy answered emphatically. “Harry’s real smart about his business, private and public. Nobody can get anything on him. Even the cops leave his book and numbers alone. He pays off everybody.”

  “Then how come you know all about his business?” I asked.

  “We niggers hang together,” he said. “A pimp I know up on St. Nicholas Avenue told me the whole story about Harry. He told me to look after the girl, too.”

  “She’s a whore?” I asked.

  “She’s straight,” he answered. “But the pimp told me that she was his sister and he wants her to be a big star someday. He wants her to be like Billie Holiday or Lena Horne—they got big at the Cotton Club. He said Harry can help her be a star.”

  Before I could ask any more questions the counter started getting busy. I went over to help Mario out. Even Buddy had to step in and help us out because we couldn’t handle the rush. I looked at my watch. It was almost eight o’clock. We never had been this busy. “What’s going on tonight?” I asked one of the girls sitting at the counter drinking a Coke.

  “Overtime,” she said. “We’re making army coats. The boss just got a big rush order from the government and he had to put us all on overtime until the end of the month.”

  “What time do you start in the morning?” I asked her.

  “Six,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

  “That’s rough,” I said.

  “Once I get up I’m okay,” she said. “I can use the extra money. I have two kids to take care of.”

  “What about your husband?” I asked.

  She stared at me. “He’s been gone a long time. Disappeared. No hubby, no money.” She threw down a dime on the counter.

  I gave it back to her. “This is a treat on me.”

  She looked at me. “What time do you get off?” she asked.

  “Nine o’clock,” I said.

  “Damn,” she said. “That’s late. I live in Brooklyn. I have to take the subway and bus to get home. It takes over an hour.”

  “That has to be a drag.”

  “It sure is,” she said. “Maybe you’d like to come to Brooklyn some time. It’s nice there. I live near Prospect Park.”

  “That’s nice of you to ask,” I said. “But I’m stuck here trying to study for my finals when I’m not at work. I’ll be graduating from high school this year.”

  She stared at me. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in January,” I said.

  “You look a lot older,” she said. “In fact, you look real good. I would have never guessed that you weren’t twenty.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She turned to go over to the subway entrance, then looked back at me. “I’ll see you,” she said, and waved at me.

  “Check,” I said, and started wiping the counter.

  Buddy was standing next to me. “She got the hots for you,” he said.

  “That’s cuckoo. She doesn’t even know me,” I said.

  “Maybe she don’t know, but her pussy do.” Buddy laughed. “I know those Polack girls that work at the factory. They all like to fuck like minks.”

  “How do you know?” I said. “Polacks are just like everybody else.”

  “That’s right.” Buddy smiled. “And everybody’s got to have a national pastime. And they ain’t got baseball. Gettin’ laid is their national pastime!”

  10

  The next day when I got to work, I put on my apron and went straight to the counter and began to make two egg creams for a couple of hackies waiting there. I picked up the single that th
ey gave to me and then took it over to Fat Rita at the cashier’s chair. “Two creams,” I told her.

  She pushed ninety cents back to me and I looked at her. Her eyes were swollen and her mascara had been running down her cheeks. I gave the change to the customers and then I went back over to her. “What’s going on, Rita?” I asked.

  “Your fucking uncle is a prick,” she said.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “I’m fed up with him. Not only did he screw you out of money that he owed to your father from bets that he had already turned in before he died, but now he is trying to screw my brother out of his business. I tell Harry every day that my brother will pay him the money that he owes as soon as business picks up for him. Things are very slow right now,” she said, sniffing, crying, and collecting cash from the Puerto Ricans all at the same time.

  “Why does your brother owe Uncle Harry money?” I asked.

  “My brother is a jerk,” she said. “He owes a grand for bets he made. Bad bets. I even told Harry I would pay off the markers at ten dollars a week. But Harry said no, the bankers want the money right now.”

  “Gee, Rita, what are you going to do?”

  “My salary is only twenty-two dollars a week and I just can’t give any more to Harry,” she said. “Harry said that my brother will have to give his business up; if he doesn’t he said that the bankers would take care of him.” She sniffled some more. “Harry said he didn’t want to see my brother thrown in the street and offered to pay him thirty a week and he can work for Harry.”

  “Is your brother’s business any good?” I asked.

  “Fair. Eddie was just managing to make a living until he got stupid and began playing the horses,” she said, and pulled out another handkerchief.

  “What kind of business is it?” I asked.

  “Seltzer water,” she answered. “He has a small truck. He bought his own bottles and then he filled them with seltzer. He has a good name for it, Coney Island Seltzer. He was just beginning to get new customers. He delivered the bottles of seltzer to the customers’ apartments.”

  “I don’t know what Harry could do with that kind of business,” I said.