—D’you ever see him with other people?
—Nope, said Leon. —But that don’t mean they ain’t there.
I pushed my fedora away from my eyes.
—They’re always there, certain guys, said Leon. —You don’t have to see them, is all.
I knew what he meant. I was back in Dublin.
I could still feel No’s fingers on my arms, his slaps on my face. I could have decked the cunt with half a thump, I could have creased him. But it wasn’t how I wanted it to be.
I’d given him his boards, done what he’d told me to do. No big sacrifice; I had boards of my own now. I had Beep Beep’s Joe and two other kids wandering for me. So, were we all square? He’d told me to make sure we never met again. Would that be enough? My guess was, Yes.
My hunch was, No.
But I wasn’t leaving. I’d only arrived.
I opened my eyes.
And there she was.
The air was thick and well-fed. The day outside was winding down; the once-sharp horns and shouts were soaked in sweat. And the vicious band of light on the floor beside me would soon slice its way up the wall and go.
I’d been asleep for hours. I’d no memory of lying back.
She was sitting on the side of the bed. And she was looking at the photograph. She knew I was looking at her. The picture was in one hand, my wallet in the other. She was caught, but that wasn’t how she saw it. Her eyes made no budge from the frayed and fading picture of my wedding day.
But she spoke.
—The dress is a wow.
—It was a great day.
The 12th of September, 1919. A gunman on the run married a ruined schoolteacher. A happy man and happy woman, both made shy by the sun thumping into their faces. The two of them sitting on a bench in front of the whitewashed wall of the bride’s mother’s house.
—How long ago?
—Five years.
—You lived some since then, daddio.
I didn’t answer.
—Like the tommy, said Fast Olaf’s half-sister; she was talking about the Thompson sub-machine-gun on the groom’s lap.
—No wedding should be without one, I say.
She put a finger on the photograph.
—She the one gave you the marks on your forehead?
—I’m still your teacher, Henry Smart.
I didn’t answer.
—What’s her name?
—I don’t know.
Now she looked at me, and she held it up.
—This the real thing? she said.
—Yes.
—You got yourself hitched.
—Yeah.
—That’s the wife?
—Yeah.
—And you don’t know her name?
—No.
—That the thing, where you come from? Not knowing the name.
—No, I said. —I don’t think so.
—You forget it?
—I never knew it.
I sat up.
—I don’t know yours either.
—We ain’t married, daddy. She dead?
—No, I said. —Not as far as I know. Give it to me.
—Who’s the fat sport?
—I know his name, I said. —Ivan.
He stood behind me, one hand covering his holster, the other feeling his cousin, the bridesmaid. Ivan the Terrible – Ireland’s an island, Captain, a dollop of muck – probably Ivan Reynolds T.D. by now.
—Give it to me, I said.
—Please.
—Please.
She dropped it to the bed. It took its time. The air, full of the day it had been feeding on, held the photo before it slid onto the blanket.
—So, how come?
—What?
—You here, she wherever.
—It’s complicated, I said. —The wallet as well, please.
—Nothing in it, daddio.
—I knew that before I came here. But that’s not the point.
—What is the point?
—Willing to pay for it?
—No.
—Then.
She looked out the window for a while. She never had to squint.
Then she spoke.
—Miss her?
—Yes.
The wallet was the point, not the contents. I was a man with a wallet. The fact that it was empty didn’t matter. (My money, when I had any, was in a calfskin belt that hugged my waist and added no seen weight or bulge. And when I lay back on the half-sister’s mattress, the belt was under Hettie’s.) The client saw me take out the leather billfold, saw me throw it open, saw me handle his money, casually, respectfully, and saw me slide it between the layers of soft leather without counting it first. He saw a man who was familiar with money, who made plenty but wasn’t excited or corrupted by it. An intelligent, handsome man who was looking after business, his own and his client’s, a calm man with quiet flair, and a man they could trust.
And what they saw was what they got. I could be trusted. I was doing it by the book. Their book. They paid; I delivered. Few of the clients tried to deny that there were more customers falling through their doors since my squad of good-shouldered boys had started parading the streets that clung to their own street.
I closed my wallet – always thin, never a dollar sticking out a grubby tongue – and I smiled at the fourth Mister Levine. He smiled back and answered my question.
—Yes, he said. —I’d say I’m happy.
He lifted his eyes very slightly, showing me the ceiling.
—We’re all happy. We’re busy and that’s the way we like it here. There was a stretch there, Saturday, when all the Mister Levines and their wives and my own baby doll had to man the floor, there were that many customers suddenly needing good fabric for the coming winter.
He wiped his brow. It was another hot one.
—Normally they don’t turn their minds to cotton until the first morning they wake up cold. So, yes, Mister Glick. We’re all happy here at Levine’s.
He smiled again.
—And, he said. —I have another reason to be happy.
The smile became a grin.
—There’s another little Levine on the way. Although, of course, his name won’t be Levine.
—Congratulations, I said.
—Thank you, Mister Glick.
—Levine and Nephew, I said. —It has a ring to it.
—It does, at that.
The wallet was one thing. And the shoulders were another. Honesty and shoulders. My boards told no lies and the shoulders that held them were broad and day-long straight. They were shoulders for carrying commandments, for humping the world – reliable, upright, dust- and dandruff-free. I had six young lads on my books now, all good, strapping kids, two of them older than me. All of them bright and on the go. My boys were several cuts above the rest. They carried the boards like well-cut suits of armour.
And the market approved. Even Mister Stern admitted that he’d noticed.
—Women, he said. —All kinds of women. Dames, janes, women kind of women. Cuties. All kinds.
—And they’re buying cigars?
—Some of them.
—Are they smoking them?
—What you think? I follow them?
The women didn’t smoke the cigars; very few of them did. But they admired the bearing of the boys who carried Stern’s poetry and address. They stopped and watched and sometimes even followed – I’d seen them do it – and hoped that a Stern cigar would work any sort of magic on their own men – husbands, fiancés, strangers. The fact that the boys between the boards weren’t smoking didn’t matter. The message was in the shoulders. The women gave the men these unexpected gifts and watched them as they smoked, and they imagined they saw happy results – better men walked out of the smoke. Women carried a Stern cigar in their pocketbooks and bags, or hidden beneath silk or sacking, around their necks or strapped to their waists, behind their ears or as fat hairpins. At night, they lit them at open windows and waved their incense across ai
rshafts to men who sat alone at tables. Or they went out to dark, dry halls at strange hours of the morning and blew the magic smoke under locked apartment doors.
And Stern thought it was all about tobacco.
—I sell good cigars, is all.
But he paid me every Friday.
And it wasn’t just cigars. Happy families were wrapped in Levine’s cloth, Hettie’s clients were fuller, Palumbo’s ice stayed solid through the dog days.
It was the shoulders that did it. The mouth and nose were at the front, no good to eyes following the boards. A good back was just that, a back. But shoulders were front and back; they advertised the man from every angle. And my boys wore well-dressed shoulders, because women were the market. Even the dykes preferred boys with shoulders to girls with none. Men’s clothes, automobiles, office furniture, cigars – women were still the market. I knew it, and the big shots on Madison Avenue knew it. For the Modern American Girl. The only surprise – and it did surprise me – was that the women didn’t know. And neither did most of the clients. But I knew. And the ad men knew. They sold their dreams to women. They frightened – Domestic Hands! – then flattered them – You modern mothers have set your babies free! They gave the women the words and pictures, on every corner and page. But I went further: I gave them the words made flesh.
She was drifting in front of my face again.
—Every one of our thoughts becomes a reality.
She opened her eyes.
—Say it.
I repeated the words, exactly as she wanted them.
—You got a way with other people’s words. The trick is—. Listening or looking?
—Listening.
—You can look too, daddio. The trick is to say the words often enough, and you’ll start to believe them. Believe me?
—Yeah.
—No. You don’t. Every one of our thoughts becomes a reality. Believe me yet? Cross your heart?
—No.
The blanket slid off her shoulders. She pointed at my lap.
—Look, she said. —My thought is becoming reality right in front of my eyes. But that’s an easy one, I guess.
I kissed her shoulder.
—See those orange wrappers beside the pot? she said.
I turned my head and looked at the chamber pot, to the left of the window.
—Yeah, I said.
—Know why they’re there?
Her breath was scalding my ear.
—I wipe my ass with them. Say it.
—Every one of our thoughts becomes a reality.
—Fast learning, daddio. It’s saying the thing, all the time. Not just remembering. Here’s another. Listening?
—Yeah.
—Sure?
—Yes.
—Goodie. We are what we make ourselves and not what circumstances make us. You believe that, daddio?
—Yeah.
—So, say it.
—We are what we make ourselves and not what circumstances make us.
—And ain’t you the living proof? What circumstances we got here, daddio? Me, you, the bed. We’re not going to let these circumstances bully us into doing something we don’t want to do. Are we?
—No.
—No. Because we are what we make ourselves. Ain’t that the case?
—Yes.
—Yes. I shouldn’t say ain’t. It’s not the thing. But guys like the way I say it. Now, where was I? Oh, yare. Circumstances. Got any circumstances in your wallet today, daddy?
—No.
—Now ain’t that a wad of lettuce. A dollar or two could’ve tipped the scale. So, back to school, I guess. Because there’s the thing, you know. I can make me what I am. And you can make you what you are. But, sometimes – most times actually, not together. And not now. For me to make myself me, I need some of your circumstances. And for you to make yourself you, you need me to flip over. And that just ain’t what I am right now.
A finger touched my nose.
—This stuff has a name, she said. —Want to know it?
—Yeah.
—Autosuggestion.
She leaned at me a tiny bit more and spoke straight at my left eye. All I could see was a mouth, and wet teeth.
—Autosuggestion. Sounds good, don’t you think?
—Yeah.
—Yes. Want to know what it means?
—Yes, please.
—Polite. I’m going to tell you. Listening?
—Yeah.
—Implanting an idea in oneself by oneself. It’s the up-to-date thing. We all know how to do it. Don’t we?
—Yeah.
—Yes, we do. We have will and we have imagination. In there, daddio.
And a finger touched my temple. A cool, wonderful finger. It stayed as a cold point on my skin after she’d stopped touching me.
—And the thing is. Most people think the will’s the thing. Strength, domination. Control. All that guy bullsh. Don’t get me wrong. I like it, you know. Us dolls could do with more of it. But. Here’s the thing. The will ain’t the thing. The will is not the thing. Want to know what is the thing?
—The other one.
—What is that?
—Imagination.
—Pow. It’s masturbation, daddio. Like that word?
—Not really.
—Me neither. Don’t do much for me. The word. But that’s what it is. You masturbate, you use your will when you do it? Got an answer for me?
—No.
—Right. Imagination’s the thing. Close your eyes, daddio.
I did. I felt her breath melting my ear.
—Your eyes are shut and you ain’t even touching me. But your imagination is fucking my brains out. Want to know what my imagination is doing?
—Yeah.
—Ain’t telling.
And her finger was on my temple again.
—The madman at home, she said. —That’s all the imagination is. Mad doll in my case. Bet her tits are even better than mine, too. That’s a thought, ain’t it?
—Yes.
—Yes. I think so. You’ve just got to make that mad guy do what you want him to do. Piece of cake. You’re up to it already.
—Can I open my eyes?
—Nopie. The next bit. Listening?
—Yes.
—Your imagination gives you your hard-on. What else you need to deliver the goods?
—You?
—Ah ah. You a right-handed daddio?
—Yeah.
—That’s all you need. You just grab that thing and pump him, and not too often, I guess. You’re cooking. But it’s the handwork’s the thing. Repetition. That’s the key. Saying it, again and again. Up and down. Every day, in ever-y way, I am getting, better, and better. Until you don’t have to believe it any more.
I heard a creak. She was getting off the bed.
—Lesson over.
I opened my eyes. It was night, and cold.
—So, she said. —Remember the deal, daddio.
—I’ll remember.
—You better, she said. —One good turn. That one there was good, I guess.
—I was disappointed with the ending.
—How come? she said. —Expect it to end in a fuck?
—That would’ve been nice.
—Oh, come on, daddio. You know me better than that. You wanted education, and you got it. In spades. Better than the book. You want me, it’s a different proposition. You knew that. I know you did. I prey on weakness. You know that. I’m being straight with you. Always.
She was dressed now, at the open window.
—Look at me, daddio.
I looked across, through the few feet of darkness, to her outline, in front of the echoes of light that popped and died in the night behind her.
—See much?
—No.
—Remember what I looked like a while ago?
—Yes.
—Make the most of it.
I heard her heels on the fire escape. She spoke again.
; —It’s a land of gold, daddio. Only, the gold ain’t in the streets. It’s in your head. Believe that?
—Yes.
—Well, so do I. You owe me.
I called after her.
—What’s your name?
—You’ll know when you see it in lights, daddio.
She was gone.
And so was I.
I didn’t want a desk or the walls and door that would map me and make me easily found, by Johnny No or & Son, or names from further back, names that could translate Glick to glic, to clever, to Smart. I’d live without the sign on the door. I’d wait. My office was the street, whatever street I was on. Beep Beep’s Joe had my boards now. He was the best of my bunch. And he watched it all – writing the copy, roping the mark, judging the shoulders of the young lads wanting work. Soon, he’d come up and announce that he was going out on his own. He’d plunge right in. He’d even take some of my clients with him.
And Joe was suddenly in front of me, boardless, out of breath; this was on the hot edge of a new morning. Joe tried to speak but there was an El passing over us. We waited as shadow and light fought around our heads, and then I could listen. He looked scared, excited, already on top of it.
—Hooper’s been hit, Mister Glick.
Hooper was one of my new kids. Yezierski was his real name; he was Hooper because he was tall and won basketball games all by himself.
—Hit? I said, the retired hitman. —Where?
—Baxter and Bayard.
I ran the wrong way.
I ran towards Baxter and Bayard, as cleanly as the crowds and barrows would let me. There was a sudden ache in my chest, yelling at me to turn and walk away and further away, and keep walking. But I ran. I got out to the centre of the street and ran against the traffic. Horns honked, horses sneered – my blue heaven – an organ-grinder’s monkey laughed as I passed him and the organ. But I pumped air to my legs and raced, full-steam, into a war.
But Hooper hadn’t been hit. He stood against a lamppost and held his right shoulder. His hat was beside him on the ground. He was paler than his usual pale. He was in pain but still between the boards, working.
TWEED’S ELECTRICAL –
LET OUR RADIOS
SERENADE
YOU
AND
ONLY
YOU
—What happened?
—Got jumped, Mister Glick, said Hooper.
He was fine.
—How many? I asked.
—Five, six.
—Did you know them?