The Dogs of Brownsville

By Stan Weisleder

““The Dogs of Brownsville” is a historical novel ripped from the headlines of the
past seventy years told in Godfather fashion that tells the story of a handful of
guys, and girls, that make it out of the ghetto of Brownsville and arrive in Las
Vegas in time to witness and participate in the changing of the guard from the
“Mob” to Howard Hughes to Corporate America.

The novel traces the lives of Lawrence Cohen or Mongoose and his boyhood
friends, Ringo, Solly, Moe, Scumbag and Charlie The Man together with Eunice
and Yetta, the wife of a Rabbi who runs a “bunny ranch” in Pahrump and her
daughter Wylie who becomes a Navy jet pilot. Mongoose, who is in charge of
the gaming activities for the Desert Winds Hotel and Casino, the last holdout of
the “Mob”, works for Frank Rothman the “Wizard of Odds” and Ignacio Baldacci
or Balsy, reunites with Eunice who has become a successful showgirl under the
name of Venus. At first she ignores him but softens after he is almost killed in a
car bombing. As their relationship develops Mongoose is haunted by her prior
connection with Tommy DiMeglio who he must deal with, and “make his bones”,
as he was responsible for the car bombing. The novel concludes with the
partnership between the Desert Winds and Stanley Ho, the richest man in Asia
to establish The Pacific Winds in time for the new millennium in the Year of The
Dragon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781663206015

Stan Weisleder

Stan Weisleder worked as an Actuary for most of his life. When he decided to retire it wasn’t to sit on the back porch and watch the grass grow. He became a cop, an author and had his own internet radio program, “The View From Over Here”. He put in 23 years with the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, most of that time as a reserve Detective with the Child Abuse Unit of Special Victims. As an author he wrote three novels, one play and a half dozen screenplays. His first novel is based on his personal experiences with the LASD and being the oldest one to have graduated from their Academy.His next novel, “A Killer of Lions”, is the story of the Tuskegee Airmen that had to fight two Air Forces in order to be recognized, the Luftwaffe and the US Army Air Corp. Stan is also available as a speaker on what to do after you retire.

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Copyright © 2020 Stan Weisleder.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means,

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except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-6632-0602-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6632-0601-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020913980

iUniverse rev. date:  10/12/2020

Contents

PART I

Chapter 1     Brownsville

Chapter 2     Ringo

Chapter 3     Mongoose

Chapter 4     Eunice

Chapter 5     Candy Store Nights

Chapter 6     Charlie The Man

Chapter 7     Jeff

Chapter 8     Mo

Chapter 9     The Winter Of ’47

Chapter 10   Max Feinstein

Chapter 11   Curtis

Chapter 12   Yetta

Chapter 13   Changes

Chapter 14   Soldier Meyer

Chapter 15   East 54th Street

Chapter 16   Bay Five

Chapter 17   Moving Along

Chapter 18   Sean La Salle

Chapter 19   Vero Beach

Chapter 20   Graduation

PART II

Chapter 21   Mustang Sally

Chapter 22   Maiyor Suchowlinski From Grodno

Chapter 23   A Matter Of Convenience

Chapter 24   Parking Cars And Pumping Gas

Chapter 25   Las Vegas Would Never Be The Same

Chapter 26   An Act Of Madness

Chapter 27   So We Don’t Whack Him

Chapter 28   In The Interest Of National Security

Chapter 29   We Take Care Of Our Own

Chapter 30   Wylie

Chapter 31   Scumbag Redux

Chapter 32   Wings Of Gold

Chapter 33   Task Force 76

Chapter 34   Transitions

PART III

Chapter 35   One Hell Of A Party

Chapter 36   For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow

Chapter 37   Those Fucking Trees

Chapter 38   A Close Call

Chapter 39   A Stand-Up Guy

Chapter 40   The Desert Winds

Chapter 41   Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Chapter 42   Blue Skies Forever

Chapter 43   South Of The Border

Chapter 44   The Shit Hits The Fan

Chapter 45   Arthur Andersen, Llp

Chapter 46   Changes And Transitions

Chapter 47   Down Memory Lane

Chapter 48   The Year Of The Dragon

Afterword And A Few Words About Brownsville

MAY 4, 1996

M ONGOOSE LOOKED ASKANCE AT HIMSELF in the bathroom mirror. He could not believe the reflection of the image that stared back at him. His hair was gray at the temples but most of what he saw was still black, with only a modest sprinkling of gray throughout. His personal barber, ‘Hollywood Joe’ as he was called because he once worked for the studios, suggested he dye his hair. Not completely, just enough to cover up part of the gray. Mongoose refused. He preferred to rely on his good genes. As he ran his hands over his hair, he could actually feel the difference of the softer strands that had already turned to a silver gray. That plus a tan that he was always working on made him fairly attractive for his sixty-two years. Working out in the gym, which he had detested at first, became a routine that helped keep him in shape. He thought of his father, who had passed away a haggard old man, and yet in another three years he knew he would be eligible for Medicare and could put in for Social Security benefits without being penalized.

From his suite on the top floor of the Desert Winds Hotel and Casino, he had, when the drapes were open, an excellent view of McCarran, the Luxor and the Mandalay through the floor-to-ceiling wraparound windows.

Deciding what to wear was always a chore. His wardrobe boasted a full array of suits, sport jackets and pants to match, three tuxedos, more than fifty shirts and a dozen pair of shoes, with all of the required accessories for any occasion. Frank Rothman told him, "If you dress like you’re worth a lot of money, people will think you’re worth a lot of money, and if it’s success you’re after, dress Italian, act British, and think Yiddish."

For now, the morning mail had his attention. There were the two car payment notices, which he would give to his accountant to take care of. The slew of mortgage refinance offers puzzled him since he did not have a mortgage. One piece of mail caught his eye. The return address was of particular interest, Brooklyn, New York. Then he saw the familiar logo, BBC, The Brownsville Boys Club. He could not wait to open it and revisit old times.

Venus, hon. Guess what? called out Mongoose in the direction of the bedroom.

What?

I got a letter from the BBC.

The British Broadcasting Corporation?

No. The Brownsville Boys Club.

Don’t tell me they want another donation.

Venus walked into the living room and wrapped her arms around Mongoose. She was only a few months younger than him but could easily pass for forty-five. She still had the figure of a showgirl, a trade that she plied for almost thirty years. Tonight she was dressed in leather. With her blonde hair, blue eyes and pale pink lipstick, it did not matter what she wore. Eyes followed her wherever she went. Talk about good genes.

When you put your arms around me like that, I get an erection.

Erection? You mean hard on.

Whatever.

So what’s the big deal with the BBC?

"It’s another reminder about their fifty-sixth anniversary, May 5, 1996, that’s tomorrow, at the Stone Avenue Library. You remember that odd-structured building? It was like the castle in Central Park where Hamlet was performed, but it served as the cultural center of Brownsville."

Yes. I do remember, she answered softly as she walked over to one of the windows and smiled back at the memories that called out to her.

It would be nice if we could go. It’d be fun strolling down memory lane. Oh, here’s one for you. It’s from that guy in Palm Springs. You know, where they take retired showgirls who still have what it takes and parade them onstage in their skivvies.

Yeah, I remember that guy, the one with the greasy moustache who kept comparing me to that cunt Edy Williams. Somehow I had the feeling that all he wanted to do was to slide his hand in between my legs.

I thought he wanted to slide his tongue in between your legs.

Now, now. Don’t be jealous.

Can I help it if he reminds me of a pimp?

Mongoose kissed Venus on the cheek, walked back to the bathroom and fixed his gold cuff links into the folded over cuffs of his sleeves. He was about to select a silk tie to go with his pale blue shirt when he began to reminisce. He stared at himself in the mirror once again, and as though a kaleidoscope opened up before him, he began to think about where he had come from and how far he had gone, and all the years in between.

PART I

Chapter One

BROWNSVILLE

I T WAS AFTER THE MEMORIAL day weekend, just a couple of weeks before school let out. The Dogs flexed their muscles and took advantage of the early days of summer to work on their tans. Stretched out on the concrete, soaking up the rays of the sun whenever it peeked out from behind the clouds, were Ringo, Mongoose, Scumbag, Pot Cheese and Shitman .

Betsy Head Park, a by-product of President Roosevelt’s Work Progress Administration that opened up to the public in 1939, sprawled out over three city blocks, from Strauss Street on the west to Hopkinson Avenue on the east, and from Livonia Avenue with its ‘El’ on the south to Dumont Avenue on the north. It was an oasis of recreational activities run by the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation.

Its centerpiece was made up of a swimming pool one hundred meters long and fifty meters wide with an average depth of three and a half feet, and a separate diving pool with five diving boards whose dimensions were ten by fifty meters with a depth of fifteen feet. The cost of admission was ten cents for children and twenty-five cents for those over the age of twelve. Next to the swimming pool complex were a full-size athletic field surrounded by a quarter-mile cinder track and a dozen or more handball courts.

During the summer months the swimming pool complex served as a mecca at which to ‘see or be seen.’

The cost of admission was the same as what it would cost for most of the local movie houses, like the Ambassador, Stadium, Stone, Loews Palace and Loews Premier. The Loews Pitkin was in a different category, costing all of fifty cents.

Having suntan lotion was a luxury that none of them could afford. Mongoose concocted his own brand of suntan lotion, which was mineral oil with iodine mixed in. It didn’t actually promote a tan but rather acted upon the skin as a stain.

After swimming two laps or seeing who could hold their breath the longest under water, they were pooped out and preferred to work some more on their tans and smell the chlorine that permeated the air around them as they watched small cumulus clouds pass over them against a blue sky background.

Look at the way those clouds change shape, said Ringo as he followed them with his finger.

Clouds are made up of drops of water that collect on dust in the air, said Pot Cheese. Did you know that?

Shit, man, said Shitman.

What are the clouds doing now? asked Scumbag.

They’re changing shape, said Ringo. That one up there looks like a giraffe.

A giraffe? What’s it doing? asked Scumbag.

Now it’s on top of that other cloud, said Ringo.

The first cloud reminds me of Scumbag’s mother, said Mongoose.

What’s that thing hanging down from its middle? asked Shitman.

It’s touching the first cloud, said Pot Cheese.

Uh, oh, commented Ringo. Is that what I think it is?

Oh no. I think it’s humping the first cloud, said Shitman.

Yeah. It looks like it’s humping Scumbag’s mother, said Mongoose.

Are you sure that’s what it’s doing? asked Pot Cheese.

They all laughed at the expense of Scumbag. When they were through making fun of him they ran off and dove headlong into the shallow pool.

Those who could went over to the diving pool and showed off on the three-meter board, first with swan dives followed by jack knives, half gainers and, lastly, one-and-a-half somersaults.

The girls, those who could, showed off in the latest import from France, the bikini.

Oh, Bev. I don’t know. Everything shows. And with yours, half of your ass sticks out.

My gawd. It’s supposed to, Eunice. Don’t be so chicken.

My mother would kill me.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt.

And with those parting words of wisdom, Eunice and Beverly left their clothes with the locker attendant and put the elastic strap with the key on their wrists. They gave each other one last look over before they braved the outside.

The sun, although partly blotted out by white puffs of clouds, was bright, but as it was the last days of spring the air was still cool and crisp.

Both kids and adults splashed away to their hearts’ content in the oversized pool. The crowd was light—nothing at all like it would be on the July 4th weekend when everyone and their uncle would come. The lifeguards had it easy today, whether they sat in their high chairs overseeing the activities at the diving boards or walked the deck. All they had to do was to keep the girls, who always congregated around them, at a proper distance lest they be reprimanded by their supervisor.

Today Beverly and Eunice had one up on all of them. No sooner than they stepped onto the deck, the wolf calls and whistles started.

Hey, called out Mongoose. "Is that Beverly and Eunice? Get a load of those bathing suits. Ringo, look at Eunice."

Who cares and why are you telling me?

Shit, man. WOW, said Shitman.

Do you think they’ll walk this way? asked Scumbag.

That would be nice, giggled Pot Cheese. But they’re walking the other way.

Beverly walked with her head up high. She ate it up as she thought, best fifteen dollars I ever spent.

Eunice, not used to the notoriety that Beverly craved, tiptoed behind her. When she realized that most of the wolf calls and whistles were for her, she remembered what Beverly said to her—The guys are going to want to fuck you in the worst way—and quickened her pace.

C’mon, slow poke, said Beverly as she squirmed with the bottom portion of her bikini to get more comfortable. Let’s go to the diving pool.

Are you kidding? What if this thing comes off?

So? And who says we have to jump or dive in? All we have to do is slooowleey walk by.

A well-tanned young man with black, slicked-back hair who looked like he was in his early twenties—Eunice referred to him as an older guy—propositioned her in unmistakable words, Honey, I would just love to fuck you, causing her to tremble inside. She came to the realization that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time and in the wrong bathing suit.

Bev, I want to go home.

Gawd. Such a party pooper.

Before Eunice could protest any further, Beverly grabbed her by the arm.

There’s someone I want you to meet. Tommy Di Meglio. Quit school when he was sixteen and went to work in his old man’s store. Don’t know what he does, but he always has lots of money in his pocket.

He’s not Jewish. He’s Italian.

No kidding. And what about Ringo? He’s Eye-talian. Listen to me. When you get married, you marry a Jewish guy. When you get laid, you go out with an Eye-talian. One that makes money.

Where did you hear that?

From my sister, Cynthia.

As soon as Tommy spotted Beverly, he and his two friends, Rocco and Funzi, swaggered in her direction. But his eyes were on Eunice.

Hi, Tommy.

Yo, Beverly.

What’s with this ‘yo’ stuff? Can’t you say hi or hello like a regular person?

Hey. That’s the way I talk. And who’s your friend?

Tommy, Eunice. Eunice, Tommy. And those are his two ‘bodyguards,’ Rocco and Funzi. Don’t mind them.

Rocco and Funzi were used to it. They were also about sixteen and looked up to Tommy, who only had to motion with his eyes for them to move back out of earshot.

You’re cute. And you have a nice pair of … eyes. They’re blue. I can see myself drowning in those blue eyes.

Tommy stared at Eunice, not letting up, waiting to see who would blink first. She did.

Just like with the older guy who said Honey, I would just love to fuck you, she trembled inside when she heard Tommy’s words. In the first instance it was revulsion, but this time, she didn’t know.

Bev. Beverly. I really want to go home. Tommy it was nice meeting you … and your friends.

Sorry, Tommy. We gotta go. Eunice is kind of bashful. You know. She needs more time.

She can take all the time she needs. I’m very patient.

Chapter Two

RINGO

I F YOU ASKED RINGO HE would tell you that Brownsville was never part of the Wild West but it did have its share of horses. Across the street from PS 184 were the horse stables. Anyone who lived next to the stables always reeked of the smell of horse shit. The horses were used to pull the pushcarts and wagons of the various purveyors of food products, articles of clothing or anything that could be put up for sale or bought.

On the morning of the first day of August, Mendel Nussbaum, the junk man, was tending to Mordecai, his trusted horse for the past fifteen years. From out of nowhere something spooked Mordecai, causing him to rear up on his hind legs, almost knocking over Mendel, and charge out of his stable. With bulging eyes he clip-clopped as fast as he could on the asphalt of Watkins Street down to Riverdale Avenue and turned in the direction of Abie’s Candy Store. But poor old Mordecai could not successfully negotiate the turn and collided with a parked car. He neighed as he fell to the ground, in the process snapping his front right leg below the knee. He tried to stand up but could not. You could see the fear in his eyes as he repeatedly tried to get up but could not. Then he lay on his side, motionless except for his heaving chest.

It took only two minutes for Mendel Nussbaum to get to his old friend, but to Mordecai it must have seemed like an eternity. Mendel cried as he knelt down and tried to comfort Mordecai. He knew what had to be done.

Someone in Abie’s Candy Store had dialed the Seventy-third Precinct and a patrol car was on its way. Within minutes an all too familiar green and white coupe of the NYPD pulled alongside the soon to be corpse of Mordecai. One of the officers got out and put on his cap. He spoke briefly to Mendel and then removed his service revolver from its holster. The noise was loud. It took only one shot to the side of Mordecai’s head to ease his suffering.

Later in the day a truck from the New York City Sanitation Department was dispatched to cart away the remains of Mordecai.

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It was a hot summer day. According to the item in six-point pica on page four of the New York Sunday Mirror on August 17, 1947, that heralded, After Ten Day Heat Wave Man in Arizona Fries Egg on Hood Of Car, together with a grainy black-and-white of some moron with a fork in his hand grinning from ear to ear as though he was really going to polish off the double yolks that lay sunny-side up on his ’41 Chevy, it was hot indeed.

The thermometer in Brooklyn registered only in the high eighties to low nineties, nowhere near the three-digit numbers of that in Arizona, but with the sweltering humidity the mid-eighties was as bad or worse.

Ringo sat on an empty milk crate and spread out the paper before him. The major headlines of the day were Atom Worker Dies from Rays, Brooklyn Boy Dies after Fall, Pakistan Applies for UN Admission, Man Dies after Leaving Doctors Office, TWA Unlikely to Merge, Palestine Partition Favored in UN, and India and Pakistan Unite to End Riots. But they were of no interest to him.

He preferred the sports section, so he started at the back of the paper and worked his way to the front. This was his news: Single by Hatton Trips Chicago, Cincinnati wins 7-6, Athletics Win over Senators 5-2, Yanks Nip Red Sox 1-0, MacPhail to Direct Yankees, Cards Lose to Pirates 12-7, Dodgers Top Phils in 9th by 5-4, Increase Lead 5½ Games, Braves Defeat Giants 4-1, Babe Ruth at Game.

When he got to the article on the man in Arizona he chuckled as he crumpled it up and tossed it into the hot summer breeze.

What they should have wrote, he said and laughed to himself, was that it was so hot that if you pissed on the sidewalk it would sizzle.

You’re up, called out Pot Cheese, squeezing the rubber Spalding into the well-oiled pocket of his Joe DiMaggio glove, the one that his aunt Bessie gave him for his thirteenth birthday, following up with the silly giggle he was known for. Pot Cheese knew that his height and girth made him appear awkward whenever he crouched down and tried to imitate Birdie Tebbetts or even Yogi Berra. Nevertheless, in less than one month they would all be freshman at Thomas Jefferson High School and he would be trying out for the football team.

The bat in Ringo’s hands was a sawed off broomstick that he clutched two inches from the bottom while his narrow eyes squinted down Watkins Street into the noonday sun. With peripheral vision he took into account the asphalt gutter that was closed in on either side by twelve feet of cracked pavement, and the ever squalid tenements and three-story walkups that stretched on the right down to the horse stables and on the left down to the cyclone fence of the schoolyard of Public School 184. The game was stickball, and such were the boundaries within which he could hit the ball.

Pot Cheese looked up at him from his catcher’s position and called out, Ready? followed by a giggle, whereupon he tossed the Spalding to the pitcher.

Mongoose easily shagged the Spalding with his left hand and then bounced it on the ground three times with his right. He stared in the direction of home plate and decided to taunt the batter by shouting out with his booming voice, Let’s go, we don’t have all day, you know.

Charlie the Man, the only black kid on the makeshift team, was positioned at the equivalent of first base, Solly was on second, Scumbag was at third and Mo was in the outfield two and one half sewers down from home plate.

Mongoose hesitated like a real pitcher would on the mound. He sneered at the batter and then cast a glance at the imaginary runner on first, did a double windup and let go with a knuckle ball. The pink Spalding twisted and turned, but Ringo, who had the hot summer breeze, such as it was, at his back was ready and waiting. He stepped into the pitch and gave a mighty swing, but instead of sending the Spalding flying maybe three sewers away, it made a fartlike noise before it split in two, each half rolling harmlessly away from home plate.

FUCK! yelled out Mongoose, who was up next. That was our last Spalding. Did you have to hit it so fucking hard?

I could have hit it a lot harder.

"That was my ball," said Scumbag.

With that brief but succinct exchange of words, the game would be postponed until such time that someone came up with a dime or, more accurately, was willing to part with one.

Now what? asked Mongoose as he waived the others in.

We can go down to the schoolyard and watch the ‘big guys’ play, offered Pot Cheese, followed by a meek giggle.

Fuck you, stupid. That’s our schoolyard. Just ’cause they’re bigger and older than us they think they can kick us out of there whenever they want. And we have to play on the fucking street and maybe get killed by a fucking car or one of those fucking junk wagons with the fucking horse.

Hey, there’s Eunice and Beverly, said Scumbag.

Mongoose turned to see for himself and then called out, Ohhh, Peeeenis, singsonging the words.

It’s Eunice, said Ringo.

You really like her, huh.

"Fuck you, Mongoose."

"Boy, I’d sure like to fuck her," said Scumbag.

You? You wouldn’t know what to do with it, said Solly.

Hey guys, Ringo’s getting upset, added Mongoose with an all-knowing grin.

She’s not that kind of girl, said Ringo.

"I got news for you. They’re all that kind of girl. Take my advice, Ringo. Fugetabout her. You’ll be a lot better off just thinking about her when you go to sleep and jerk off instead."

Eunice and Beverly ignored them as they sashayed across Watkins Street, each carrying a small bag of groceries, knowing full well that they were being talked about. Eunice glanced back over her shoulder at Ringo, her eyes looking for a sign of recognition, but all he could manage was an embarrassed expression as he turned away and fumbled with the laces on his sneakers. In spite of his admonition to Ringo, Mongoose did keep his eyes on Eunice.

Mo wiped the sweat off his glasses and adjusted his yarmulka. As the only Hebraic scholar among the group, destined to follow in the footsteps of his father and become a Rabbi, his words of wisdom were always listened to but not necessarily followed. "You shouldn’t talk that way. It’s a shonda, a disgrace."

Charlie the Man didn’t say anything. It was one thing to be included on the team, but entirely another matter for a black kid to make comments about a white girl in the presence of other whites.

Scumbag, tall and skinny but a full year younger than his peers, not sure yet which way his puberty was going, tried to impress everyone with his feigned bravado that he knew what Mongoose was talking about.

Solly was in his own little world as he repeated to himself the musical scales, do-re-mi-fa … .

With nothing better to do, they settled on the schoolyard. Luck was with them as the ‘big guys’ were wrapping up the ninth inning of their second game of softball. They could not step into the schoolyard while the game was still on so they waited patiently leaning against the fence with the sun beating down on them. The only relief from the rays of the sun was the gathering thunderclouds.

A five-foot by three-foot opening was cut into the cyclone fence near home plate. This makeshift entrance allowed easier access to the schoolyard than having to walk another ninety feet or so to the gate. The school superintendent would repeatedly replace the torn section of fence, but to his dismay it would always be visited at night by someone with a pair of heavy-duty wire clippers and so he finally decided to leave the torn fence as is.

Hey, Ringo! called out Rexall, one of the oldest of the ‘big guys,’ tossing the softball to him. Keep it.

You mean it?

Yeah, we can afford to buy a new one.

Ringo hefted the softball. It had seen better days. A full roll of adhesive tape had been applied to the outer skin in order to keep the interior stuffing from oozing through the leather seams.

Thanks.

What about a bat? asked Mongoose in his booming voice, What are we going to do with a softball and no bat?

For starters, you can shove it up your ass, said Bags, as he exited the schoolyard in back of Rexall.

Funny!

Of the ‘big guys,’ Rexall and Bags, although similar in size and build, were the complete opposite of each other. Whereas Rexall sported a neatly trimmed moustache and had a steady job as a pharmacist, Bags was your typical neighborhood smart ass with the personal demeanor to match.

With the changing of the guard the seven of them sat on the concrete between home plate and first base with nothing to do but stare at the darkening thunderclouds. They were bored. Mongoose coughed up some phlegm and spit it out as far as he could. He then repeated the process a few times and tried to beat his own record each time. When some of the spray from Mongoose’s spittle got on Scumbag, he objected vociferously.

Watch where you’re spitting. I don’t mind the wind, but the rain I can do without.

What’s the big deal, Scumbag? It’s only water.

It’s not water. It’s spit. And why do you call me Scumbag? I don’t like that name.

Because you look like a scumbag and you are a scumbag, that’s why.

The others laughed. The truth of the matter is that one year ago Harvey Hartstein was rummaging through the personal items of his older brother Harry when he came upon a package of Ramses. Of course he had heard of them, but that was as far as it went. He secretly took them and one by one filled them up with water and dropped them from his third-floor fire escape onto the unsuspecting pedestrians on the sidewalk below him. Harvey did not know anything about the basic laws of physics and that the force of the latex package filled with a pint of water would equal its mass times the acceleration during the fall. Luckily no one was hit. Henceforth Harvey Hartstein would be known as Scumbag to his friends and classmates.

I wish we had a basketball, said Scumbag. I really like playing basketball and doing layup shots like Max Zaslovsky.

If we can’t afford a Spalding between all of us, how could we ever afford a basketball? asked Ringo.

Mongoose held his hand over his eye and looked up toward left center field and the Stone Avenue gate. Hey guys. It’s those shit heads from New Lots Avenue. Maybe they want to play for money?

Money? I don’t have any money, said Scumbag.

Do they have a bat? asked Pot Cheese.

You can’t hit a softball with a stickball bat, added Solly.

Looks like they have a bat, said Charlie the Man.

The contingent from New Lots Avenue usually played ball at Mosquito Field next to the railroad tracks off Linden Boulevard. No one minded the high grass that was never mowed, but since it had become a dumping ground for all kinds of refuse, running the bases became a problem.

There were six of them, and their self-appointed spokesman was Norby. Nobody liked Norby, not even his own teammates. He was tall and wiry, had a bad case of acne and wore Clark Kent–type eye glasses. But it was his bat.

Everyone liked Shitman. He was always funny and gregarious. He got his name because of his habit of addressing every incident with the exclamation, Shit, man. The exclamation became his trademark and thus his name. No one ever knew his real name.

The other four were new kids that nobody paid much attention to, as was always the case when someone had just moved into the neighborhood. The Dogs were up to the challenge.

Seven against six would work. The team in the field would play first, second, shortstop, third, left and centerfield, and the outfielder would move over to right field if a left-handed batter was up. The team at bat would also pitch and catch for its own men. They chose via odds versus evens to see which team would be up first. The New Lots Avenue team lost the toss to the Dogs.

It was quickly decided that Ringo would be up first since it was a sure thing that he would either get on base or maybe hit one over the fence.

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Alphonse Rosario Contarino hated the name Alphonse and you can forget about Rosario. He didn’t like to be called Al because it sounded too old. A lot of older guys are called Al, he would say. A cowboy movie that he saw prior to his confirmation had a desperado in it who went by the name of Ringo. He was good with his guns and didn’t take shit from anyone, even though he died ignominiously at the end of the second reel in a blistering shootout. Alphonse Rosario Contarino was enamored of the gun-slinging loner and so took on the name of Ringo for himself and was loathe thereafter to respond to anyone unless they referred to him by his adopted name, the only exception being his parents. Ringo, an only child, lived on the second floor of the tenement at the southwest corner of Riverdale Avenue and Watkins Street together with his parents, Colisimo and Celia, who immigrated to America in 1929, the year of the Great Depression, and who had since become naturalized citizens. At five feet five and 120 pounds, Ringo was in excellent condition for his fourteen years. His jet-black hair and dark complexion made him, in spite of his shyness, attractive to those of the opposite sex. As a natural athlete, he had all the right moves combined with unerring instinct. Whenever sides were chosen for a ball game, whatever the game, he was always the first one picked. Everyone said he should become a professional athlete, so much so that it was expected of him and nothing less would do. In the Contarino household Colisimo was almost always out of work, so Celia had to take in sewing and washing in order to make ends meet. Being among the neediest in the neighborhood they had to swallow their pride when receiving handouts and hand-me-downs from the other families, who in reality were not much better off than the Contarinos. Ringo was oblivious to his economic status, or at least that is what he attempted to convey, which was punctuated by his using a heavy-duty rope around his waist instead of a belt to hold his pants up. The only part of his clothing that was not secondhand were his Keds sneakers.

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Ringo rubbed his powerful wrists, first the left and then the right. He then slung the bat over his right shoulder and walked gingerly toward home plate. He could bat right- or left-handed but was decidedly a stronger right-handed batter. As he stepped up to the plate he occupied the position of a right-handed batter. He crouched down in his usual stance and looked over the centerfield fence toward the trees. All eyes were upon him, anticipating what he would do. Would this be the day? he asked himself. Maybe. But why take a chance and fail in front of my friends? There will be plenty of opportunities. He decided against going all out for the trees and instead settled for a line drive along the third-base line this time.

An easy double. He didn’t even have to run very hard.

As soon as Mongoose took up his batting position at home plate it started. He looked up to the sky. First one drop and then another, and before anyone could run for cover the blackened thunderclouds opened up with a summer downpour that had them all drenched within seconds.

Shitman made his usual pronouncement, Shit, man. The others said Fuck or Fuck this shit and ran to the north side of PS 184, which offered some protection against the wind and the rain that were blowing in from Canarsie and points south.

Mongoose held his face up to the warm rain with his arms outstretched.

Do you know what it means when it rains like this? It means that God is pissing on us.

The dark sky opened up and crackled with lightning.

Mo looked at him.

"You shouldn’t talk like that. It’s a shonda."

Chapter Three

MONGOOSE

S OAKING WET, THEY ALL TRUDGED homeward. There was no point in wearing themselves out by running the two blocks in order to avoid the pounding rain. They were already sopping wet down to their underwear and then some. Other people did not have to run. They walked under their umbrellas. The branches of the trees that were spaced fifty to sixty feet apart swayed with the wind as their leaves lapped up the falling rain. Loud thunderclaps that followed the bright flashes of lightning by four to five seconds caused the boys to constantly look back over their shoulders as though they were being chased.

Mongoose and Ringo stomped their sneakers on the front steps to shake off the water as they entered the tenement at the corner of Riverdale and Watkins. Mongoose lived on the third floor and Ringo on the second floor of the four-story structure. There were no elevators.

Eunice and Beverly, who were cousins, lived in adjacent apartments on the ground floor.

Pot Cheese and Scumbag lived on the same street but one building over.

Charlie the Man lived with his parents, one brother and two sisters on the ground floor of a two-story walk-up on Riverdale between Watkins and Stone.

No matter when a building was constructed or how many floors it had, there were two characteristics that they all had in common. The first was that they were rife with unidentifiable cooking odors, the top floor being the worst. Even a fresh coat of paint could not disguise the ever present aromas that seemed to permeate the entire structures from the basements to the rooftops. The second was that they all had fire escapes.

Mo’s parents were the only ones who could afford their own house. They lived on Stone Avenue across from PS 184 in a private but modest house whose basement was converted to a meeting hall so that it could serve as the neighborhood synagogue. Their home was distinguished from all the rest by the three trees in their backyard that loomed above all the others in the neighborhood. Mo had his own room, as did his younger sister Leah.

Mongoose turned the key and the door easily swung open but with a slight squeal. The landlord’s too cheap to oil it, he thought. He looked down at his sneakers and double wiped them on the entry mat to make certain that he would not track any wet footprints into the apartment. Once inside he could hear the whine of the vacuum cleaner.

The apartment was meager but neatly kept. There were three bedrooms, no living room, a kitchen that also served as a dining room and one bathroom for the entire family to share. His two sisters, Ellen and Zelda, one older and one younger, had to share a room. But he had his own bedroom.

Hey Ma! What do we have to eat?

"Help yourself Label. Can’t you see I’m busy?

Mongoose opened the ice box and began to rummage through the various leftovers from Friday night’s dinner. There was an open can of Heinz beans, a couple of matzo balls wrapped in wax paper, a jar of pickles, a plate of Bumble Bee tuna fish, a small Schmulka Bernstein salami, a bottle of Fern Dairy homogenized milk and a wedge of chocolate cake, among other things.

I’m having the chocolate cake.

On not getting any objection, Mongoose helped himself. He sat down at the kitchen table, devoured the wedge of chocolate cake, washed it down by drinking straight from the bottle of milk, burped twice and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He then retreated to his room.

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Lawrence Cohen, or Label to his parents, which is his Hebrew name, spent almost as much time in the principal’s office as he did in the classroom. When he was thirteen, one of the eighth-grade line monitors in the schoolyard of Junior High School 165 noticed that he was selling pornographic postcards for a nickel each to his classmates and told Mrs. Hartman, a strict disciplinarian who wasted no time in dragging him by the scruff of his neck to the principal’s office, where he sat until his parents came to claim him. The lurid images were of men and women participating in various stages of fornication and sodomy, and although they were considered disgusting by the girls and even some of the boys, they could still arouse a few of them. He had gotten the ‘French’ postcards from Noel Tenint, who lived on Rockaway Avenue near the El. As much as they questioned him, he would not rat on his friend. From then on Lawrence Cohen was always the prime suspect and consequently in deep shit whether he did the deed or not. His two sisters despised him and detested having to live under the same roof with their juvenile delinquent brother. To avoid arguments they would spend their free time with their spinster aunt Ruthie, who lived in Canarsie. Unbeknownst to them, Ruthie favored their errant brother and would secretly stuff dollar bills into his shirt pocket. His parents, Herman and Millie, both mild mannered, found it exasperating to have a black sheep in the family. Millie, on more than one occasion, questioned Ruthie about her intentions regarding her Label. When everyone was on his case he would seek solace and escape to the privacy of his room. He laughed to himself when he recalled the time when he and Noel had to bring their parents up to school because their third-grade teacher, Mrs. Eisenberg, thought that they were hard of hearing. As he lay back on his bed, he could admire the baseball posters on the wall before him. Not at all like Ringo’s, who didn’t have a pot to piss in. My father, he thought, is a plumber and is never out of work. He stared at the picture of Peewee Reese, shortstop for the Dodgers. Did he secretly desire to become a ballplayer like Peewee Reese? Maybe Ringo has such aspirations, but not him. He had no idea what he wanted to do when he grew up. The one thing he knew for sure was that he did not want to be a plumber like his father. There are plenty of suckers out there and he didn’t want to be one of them. No one remembers how he got the name of Mongoose. Some say it was because of his appearance and aggressive attitude. He was never shy about anything. Nor was he as intimate with females as he led everyone to believe. All his braggadocio was learned from listening in on the conversations of the ‘big guys.’ He was in fact a virgin. At five feet eight and 160 pounds with a booming voice, a lock of dark hair that always covered his left eye and a slightly but not too elongated nose, Mongoose seemed to fit.

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He listened for it at the partially opened window. The rain had stopped and when he looked out the sun began to shine. The street below him slowly came back to life. It was only 4:30, too early for supper, but with at least three hours of daylight left, everyone would be hanging out at Abie’s Candy Store. But wait. Something caught his eye. Rumbling slowly through the intersection of Riverdale and Watkins he saw the seltzer truck, loaded on top with bottles of seltzer and sodas. He rushed to his closet and pulled out his Red Ryder B-B gun, stood back out of sight, cranked the lever and fired through the partially opened window. Within ten seconds he fired his B-B gun four times and shattered four soda bottles atop the lumbering truck. The driver brought his truck to a halt, got out and looked around in all directions. He scratched his head after viewing the four ruptured bottles with their contents running down the side of the truck.

Mongoose laughed as he placed the B-B gun back in his closet. He then took off his wet clothes and left them in a neat pile next to his bed. After he put on a clean pair of pants that he was saving for school, he put on a clean tee-shirt, dry socks and loafers and combed back his wet hair.

Hey, Ma! I’m going down to the candy store.

A brief pause and then, Be back before it’s dark.

On reaching the ground floor he looked in the direction of Beverly’s apartment. She usually left the door open and walked around in her bra and panties whenever it was hot. But not today.

Eunice lived next door to Beverly. She was cute and all that, in addition to being far more attractive than her cousin Beverly. But Mongoose and Eunice had known each other almost all of their lives. When they were younger they would play ‘games.’ In the world of make believe, he imagined what it would be like if they got married. They would have to be a lot older, of course. When they were ten, Eunice’s older brother, who had garnered for himself the nickname Horsey by being a master at ‘Johnny on the Pony,’ found them under the stairwell playing ‘doctor’ and threatened to beat the living shit out of him if he ever caught him messing around with his kid sister. Ever since then he had stayed clear of Eunice.

Outside, the clear air that followed a thunderstorm was all around him. The smell of ozone filled his nostrils. He never knew what caused the peculiar odor that came after every storm that was accompanied by lightning until his seventh-grade science teacher explained the phenomenon to him.

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The jukebox was playing a Sinatra record, with the familiar words, why not take all of me … . They were all there. The ‘big guys’ held court inside and occupied all of the seats. There was Eunice’s older brother Horsey, who played varsity basketball at Tilden High and was a sure thing to make the freshman team at NYU; Rexall the respected professional; Bags the smart ass prick, who was a runner on Wall Street; Big Al the local bookie, obnoxious as ever; Momo the erstwhile sleaze bag lawyer turned ambulance chaser, now a respected ‘Court Street Commando’; and Richie the Homo, who it is said got into the navy at age fifteen in 1943 because he lied about his age but was in for a big surprise when he was ‘adopted’ by a bunch of older guys from the back woods of Alabama who fucked him up the ass so much that he actually began to like it. It was just a rumor, of course. They all sat around Tondelayo, a wild-eyed chick with an even wilder head of hair. They whispered to each other and exchanged a snicker or two and, when they thought no one was looking, a touch here, a pat there.

Mongoose peeked inside. He could only guess what they were up to but smiled to himself as though he knew. Just a couple of years more, he thought as he greeted his friends at the penny vending machines, one for bubble gum and the other for sunflower seeds.

So Mongoose, you guys gonna chip in and replace my Spalding?

Fuck you, Scumbag. It’s only ten cents, a fucking dime. Can’t you afford it? Tell you what, Scumbag. You suck my dick right here and now and I’ll buy you two Spaldings.

Shit, man. Go for it, said Shitman.

Pot Cheese giggled to himself.

Ringo and Charlie the Man stood back and watched as they chewed on sunflower seeds and spat out the shells.

Scumbag chose to forget about the Spalding. It wasn’t worth it, he thought.

Where’s Mo? asked Mongoose.

Home, studying the Talmud, said Shitman. His old man, you know, the Rabbi, doesn’t want him getting too friendly with us bums.

Bums? I thought we were juvenile delinquents. At least that’s what my sister calls us.

Ever meet his father?

Once. Very polite and proper. Seems like a nice guy.

Ever meet his mother?

Nope.

"A real piece of ass. Doesn’t look anything like a Rabbi’s wife should look. And his sister Leah, a real cunt who thinks she knows everything.

It sounds to me like you’re attracted to her, Shitman.

Not his sister. His mother.

That would make you a mother fucker, said Mongoose.

Can’t you guys talk about anything else? asked Ringo.

Don’t mind him, said Mongoose. "He’s madly in love but doesn’t know what