McNally's caper

‘Bea? Jack.’

I let him in. We were both very cool. No reference to our acrobatics of the night before. No passionate kiss, not even an intimate hug. We were both casual acquaintances. Maybe I was a bit hurt and disappointed. I don’t think I was, but maybe I was.

‘Been out?’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Buying a few things I need. Like drinking-glasses. Now I won’t have to bother you.’

‘Uh-huh. Hungry? Want to grab something to eat?’

‘Sure. We’ll go Dutch-okay?’

‘What else?’

We walked through the drizzle, two blocks south to a side-street bar-restaurant called Fangio’s. It advertised ‘Oriental and Puerto Rican Food.’ If that sounds odd to you, you haven’t been in New York lately.

Fangio’s was a basement joint, three steps down from the sidewalk. In the rear was a squarish dining area lined with booths. That’s where we went, to a booth against the far wall where we could see everyone who entered and everything going on.

I wanted a glass of white wine. I ordered a vodka on the rocks instead. Donohue asked for a double bourbon and grabbed the waitress’ wrist before she could get away.

‘Ribs okay for you?’ he asked me.

‘Fine.’

‘Two on the ribs,’ he told the waitress, releasing her. ‘And heavy on the sauce.’

I looked around. The bar was crowded. Most of the customers were watching a football game. It was noisy, smoky, more a drinking than an eating place. The smell of stale beer and old cigars, a few framed photographs of horse races and ballplayers. Realism.

Donohue seemed distracted.

‘Waiting for someone?’ I asked.

‘Sharp gal,’ he said, smiling bleakly. ‘As a matter of fact, I am.’

‘Sure you want me here? I can take off.’

‘No, no,’ he said hurriedly. ‘It won’t take long. A minute or two. You stay right where you are.’

I may have been imagining it, but I didn’t think so. I thought he was using me, that my presence was needed and wanted. I stared at him as he kept his eyes on the front door, inspecting everyone who came in. I didn’t think he was frightened exactly, but he was tensed, coiled. He sure didn’t look like a man expecting good news.

We were on our second round of drinks when Donohue said, ‘There he is.’ He slid out of the booth, then smiled tightly and patted my cheek. ‘This won’t take long, Bea,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He moved toward the bar to meet a man who had just entered. If they shook hands, I didn’t see it. The other man was short, squat, and smiling. My God, did he smile! Donohue grinned frequently, but this man smiled constantly. But it was more grimace than smile: a stretching of his mouth, a squinching of his eyes. It looked painful: a contortion of his features. You keep waiting for that frog face to relax, to melt into something easier and more natural. It never did; that smile was frozen.

They spoke for a few moments, both standing away from the bar, heads close together. Once the smiling man struck Donohue’s shoulder with his knuckles, a little harder than just a friendly tap. Then Donohue jerked his thumb towards me, and the short squat man stepped clear to glance in my direction. I saw he was wearing a sweater

under his suit jacket, no raincoat or topcoat. He had on a black leather cap, rakish as a beret. I thought he tipped the cap to me, but he may have been merely adjusting it.

Donohue put a hand on the other’s shoulder, patted him a few times. Then he turned, came back to our booth. He arrived just as the waitress brought our ribs.

‘Pleasant fellow, your friend,’ I said casually. ‘Always smiling.’

‘Yeah,’ Donohue said. ‘That’s why they call him — Smiley.’

‘A close friend?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘What does he do?’

He didn’t look at me. He finished a rib, put the naked, gleaming bone carefully aside, wiped his fingers delicately on a paper napkin.

‘Smiley?’ he said. ‘Smiley is a villain.’

I was about to quote Shakespeare on the same subject and clicked my mouth shut just in time. To cover my fluster I made a long guess.

‘You owe him?’ I asked.

He nodded. Stolid expression. ‘Almost five big ones.’

‘What will happen to you if you don’t pay?’

‘At best? Two busted kneecaps.’

‘And at worst?’

‘They’ll squash me,’ he said with a flimsy grin. ‘Don’t happen to be carrying that kind of loot, do you?’

I shook my head.

He grinned, this time with genuine mirth.

‘Just a joke,’he said. ‘Not to worry. I’ll work it out.’

‘Can’t you just take off?’

‘Not really. They’d find me. Eventually. As somebody said. “You can run, but you can’t hide.”’

‘Is it worth all that to them? Five thousand? To go to that much trouble?’

‘It’s not the gelt,’ he explained patiently, ‘it’s the principle of the thing. They let a small fish like me welch, the word gets around. Next time it might be a big fish. They can’t afford that. So they run a tight ship. You said you had an idea for a campaign?’

The sudden question stopped me. I put the half-gnawed rib back on my plate. Jack Donohue was staring at me with stony eyes. I began to understand his pride. He wouldn’t show his hope. It would be weakness.

‘I have something going, yes,’ I told him. ‘It looks good.’

‘How much?’ he said hoarsely.

‘Plenty,’ I said. ‘Your five thousand is chicken feed. This means big money. Big.’

‘So? Tell me.’

I shook my head. ‘Can’t,’ I said, ‘without getting the okay from my friend.’

‘Your friend? The Tooth Fairy? Why him?’

‘1 owe him.’

It was a language he could understand.

‘All right. Let’s meet and talk about it. Set it up.’

‘Finish your ribs. Have another drink. On me.’

‘Sure,’ he said, flashing his teeth. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m sleeping alone tonight,’ I said, staring into his eyes.

He shrugged. ‘You’re the boss, Bea.’

I actually believed it.

BUSY, BUSY, BUSY

Writing is a lonely business. Hardly an original observation, but true. I mean, it’s you, a typewriter, and a blank sheet of paper. I’m not talking about plays or movie scripts. Those are communal endeavors, writing by committee. But novelists and poets are recluses. And after you spend a few years at this anchoritic occupation, you lose the sense of the great big world out there. You forget how to act, how to do. The universe is condensed on that blank sheet of paper.

That was the way I had been living, like a goddamned hermit. A few friends, a little sex now and then to reassure myself that I was still alive. But generally I had been living an inactive life, sedentary, chained to the