Joey-O
a novel in progress by Earl Coleman

Chapter 6

Joe checked his cue and crouched low at the side of the table, lining up the shot, squinting at the lie, head cocked, knowing Kingsley was loving it, playing with a pro.

Some day he'd have this drop light, sharp against the dark green felt. A professional table like this one, kept up better than the best. Not in his shitty little apartment. Nah. But when he made it! He'd get Beth to decorate it, didn't trust himself. Not yet. Art and furniture were hard, so much to know. He hadn't even let her see his place, sensed it needed something more. Didn't want her saying to herself that he knew zilch. He'd learn it. Why not? She had. Some day he'd have that counter overhead. Maybe some day not so far from now. He knew to make a billiard room like this by heart. He'd started on a list for all the rest. What's wrong with copying?

"Bank the 13 in the side." He straightened, planted feet, addressed the cue ball, looking for a little overspin to break the cluster up above, just force enough to make the shot, but just.

The 13 dropped and Kingsley tapped his cue stick on the tile floor in applause. Now where did he learn that? From movies? Memories of Willie Hoppe, back some years when he was still a boy? Thought of playing him for money once, some hustle, but what for? Not exactly friends but that might come, now Kingsley had him in his poker game, his life. Could he be friends with Kingsley, get in that tight? Call on him any time, he'd said. Not bad to here. Fucking his daughter. And Mary had the hots for him. Every hustle didn't have to be a win. Now there was something new he'd learned.

He purposely miscued and scratched. He put a ball up, pushed his marker back. "I gotta remember, keep my cue stick chalked."

"Well Joe, you left me something I can look at for a change. Let's try the 7 in the corner," pointing his cue. Bent over the table, going just a little bald under the center light.

For a big-shot lawyer not too bad. Sometimes runs of 20, 25. Slow shooter, like the good ones were, the careful bead, the gentle kiss like it was with some broad, with action just enough to make the target drop. Good for a guy who'd spent his time with law books and in school. A guy who didn't know the streets. Big wheel in politics, the names he threw around! A guy who had a million secrets, using them to help his clients steal. Not as good as he was. Not as sharp an eye. But not bad.

Kingsley ran the table, left the last ball near the spot. "Good shooting, sir. I'll rack." He piled the balls in. Lined the rack a hairsbreadth left, so that when Kingsley sank this easy shot he'd make the break, extend his run. Kept it interesting at least. He could always win. If he wanted to.

On the next rack, when Kingsley missed a hanger, the score his 42 to Kingsley's 39, the target 50, he decided this would be a good one he could lose. He broke the pack a little, not to be too obvious. Make it seem that Kingsley had to work to win. Kingsley made his 50 on the run. Seemed unconvinced. "Am I getting better, Joe? Or are you having an off night?"

"I'm having an off night, sir." It was Beth who'd made him funny. Beth. Who'd have guessed she'd taught him how to be a better con? Without her knowing it.

They laughed and turned to their drinks, Kingsley with his Chivas Regal, Joe with Coke.

Table empty of the pool balls, smooth green felt. Both in shirtsleeves, white. Kingsley looking sun-tanned always, like he owned a beach. The sticks lay on the table side by side, just as they themselves were side by side, almost touching, close.

Kingsley leaned imperceptibly toward him as if to give him something, maybe some advice. "I've got my eye on you, Joe. I'm thinking of last Tuesday night. I admire how you kept your cool. I've thought all along you had the makings, Joe. I've seen men break at table stakes pot limit, walk out of there a thousand dollars down. Don't take this wrong -- but I know you can't afford to drop that kind of money in a poker game, not many can. That makes it all the more impressive -- that you didn't lose. Surprised me when I said Rodriguez was in Ponce and you volunteered for such a high-powered game. But they liked you. Asked me to invite you back."

He'd done a double take when all the guys in the poker game were Spics. At an apartment in the East 80's. Loaded, the guy had to be. But he'd seen a difference in the furniture. From the little that he knew, Kingsley's was better. The apartment was flash, not class. So what did the guy who owned it do for a living? This had to be Kingsley's tough-guy game, or maybe low men on the ladder, one Jew and bunch of Spics. Bet he had another game with Wasps. And now the fucker thought he had the makings? Shit. He'd show this meathead makings. "Hey. I owe you, Mr. Kingsley, getting me into a big game like that. I've never played for stakes that high. I need to get the hang of it. But it's not good enough I didn't lose. I didn't win. But I kept score. You didn't either." Kingsley laughed and shook his head, as you might at a son you were bringing along. They nodded to each other in acknowledgment. Clinked glasses twice.

Kingsley draped his arm carelessly around Joe's shoulders. He'd done that last at the party where the bug was found. When Kingsley spoke, Joe heard the subtlest difference in his volume, tone. A hint, but just a hint of change, some shift in the direction of their fellowship. And then his gut announced: here came a secret! Ready to be shared. With him! A secret Kingsley was about to offer, like a tip to a bartender. You only needed one!

"There's something come my way. The work I do. I really can't discuss it, Joe. Not with you or anyone. But I have an interest in you, which goes past Beth. Always have my eye out for raw talent and you have that, Joe. You're young and a little rough around the edges but you learn fast. I've found in life one never knows what opportunities may come along. Besides, I have a debt to you I won't forget too soon. So first -- do you know anything about the market? Ever own a share of stock?"

What opportunities would come along? Were the Spics in the game guys that Kingsley would find "opportunities" to use? Was Kingsley trying to sell him stock? Stock? Who understood? Some banker's game. Some sucker's game. "You mean like IBM?"

"Well, yes. Like IBM. Or Union Oil. You know nothing of the market, Joe? Don't even follow it?"

"I don't."

" Well, what we look for, those of us who play the market, is something that is sure to rise in price. Stocks go up and down of course, sometimes for reasons no one on the outside knows. The trick is to identify a guaranteed winner."

"You mean like fixing fights?"

"Not quite, Joe. No, nothing as irregular as that. Except this private conversation that I'm having here with you and I know this room's not bugged. And yet there are sure things."

"So how can they be sure?"

Kingsley put his glass down. Looked him full in the face. "Inside information, Joe, obtained quite frequently in the ordinary course of doing business."

He knew it! Crooks! "So once you have this inside information, what?"

"You buy or sell. Not so anyone can know you're doing it. You use a broker, buy in street name, trade off shore -- there are ways. Mostly legal ways. As a lawyer, information often comes to me, but rarely something big as this. To get to the meat of it -- there's a company named Berkey Photo, selling at a buck a share. It will go a lot higher. You don't have a broker, I assume. To open an account takes time, and this stock's ready now. My suggestion is, if you wanted to invest in this, knowing as little as I've told you, and it's very little because I can't tell you any more, not even what I've told you already, you'd have to make up your mind real fast and buy the stock through me, which means you'd have to trust me with your money. Do you have the stomach for that, Joe? Would you trust me with your money? I know how hard you have to work for it."

He thought at lightning speed. He knew these guys were crooks so it came as no surprise. What handle could he get on "opportunities?" An opportunity for what? To get a house like this? A place where no one could get at his stuff? With more to come? He knew now that he wanted it as bad as he had wanted Beth. Or could this be a con? Impossible. "Would I? I'll tell you, Mr. Kingsley, I think I'd trust you with my life." That's what you did for heavy secrets that were shared with you. He'd always known it. Just never knew a guy before who had a secret worth a damn. Just small-time hoods and schlepperdiks.

Kinglsey covered Joe's hand with his own and squeezed it. "Good. I'm sure you can't spare much, but buy a round lot, Joe, that's a hundred shares, or two if you can afford that much. You won't regret it."

Joe closed his eyes, but only for a second. Just to calculate. Opened them. "Let me have a shot of that Chivas, Mr. Kingsley, while I catch my breath." Hated scotch but who would know? The goal was get tight in. Get to be his buddy, like the guys in his game. "Buy me 37 of those round lots, sir."

"Thirty-seven hundred dollars!? Plus commissions? You have that much to risk?"

"That's everything I've got. I give it all to you I know you'll watch it like a hawk."

*

Beth was impatient. Joe was not on time. Was something happening? He brooded lately in a grown-up way. Well, that was silly, she was grown up too. It wasn't that. He brooded like her father did, like there were fifty angles to a case and he was making sure he covered every one of them. It was the same as when he concentrated on a billiard shot, his cue ball caroming off the rail to touch the two balls sitting side by side. And his lists! Always writing on his lists. Ever since that introductory supper.

Well that was all beside the point. It wasn't work. No, no. This was a Sunday so it wasn't work. Where did he go? She had a faint idea that it was business of some kind. She never asked. If that was his requirement she'd go along with it, although it seemed quite juvenile. But maybe that's what Jewish men were like. Not that she would know what Jewish men were like. Her mother constantly reminded her of that. If they were all like Joe they kept their business to themselves. But more than that. They mounted guard on it, protected it. From the little that he said she knew he'd lived through hard times, poor, no father. Obviously it had had a negative effect. That made his caution understandable, though she was sure that she could help him if he needed help. Even Dad said she had brains enough to run a company.

All that was hypothetical and this was real. He was a male, a cock. That was the whole of it. She smiled at the pun she'd made, if only to herself, although annoyed at his lateness. It wasn't like him, always punctual.

What were the limits to the way cocks dominated things? Or was she in a stew because of her stupidity and now her relief? When Joe arrived, whenever that would be, it was what she would talk about, the function of a cock. Some men went crazy with their cocks, like Peter, thought it was a scepter, evidence they ruled the world. And some were serious about their cocks and knew vaginas made a perfect fit, and brought more to the party than a bottle and a cock. And cocks could pose a danger. Had.

But here he came, the cock himself, pushing through MoMA's revolving door, tall, muscled, lean, looking serious as always, brown eyes scouting out the entrance hall, then caught her standing there and smiled.

If no one saw the startling sunshine of his smile then they were blind. She put conflicted feelings to the side and went to him. And took him in her arms, the man that she was crazy for. They kissed. "I've made a reservation in the members' dining room. We'll only be a little late." It was the closest she could come to scolding him.

"Pretty soon I'll quit my job and get a gig here as a guide."

She searched his face. "We don't only have to do the things I like. There's so much here I haven't brought you to. Today I thought that you'd enjoy this special retrospective of Picasso that they're showing now."

"Hey, teach. I will. He's the guy who did that lady on your wall, the one that you explained to me. It's OK, Beth. I'm starting to like it. Get an education knowing you. A couple painters' MO I can tell you now."

She took his arm, leading him toward the turnstile. "I'll bet you can." Her instincts had been right! But even if they hadn't would she care? Her body tingled from the moment she got up, most times with him. Even concentrating on her term paper, Clan Formation, he was in her thoughts, connected to her in some caveman magic. She'd started calling him H H, her homo habilis, her "handy man," the guy before erectus. Well, no one had to know what H H meant. It was between the two of them.

The two of them. She'd guarded him jealously. Had that been fair? Did that show trust in him or did she still feel she was slumming, Joe uncouth? Here she was annoyed at him for being late and still she hadn't really trusted him, afraid he'd come off primitive. She made her mind up. She'd begin with Grace and Mark, maybe here. And then she smiled because it pleased her that what she really had in mind was show him off.

She wished he'd read enough to have a name for her instead of "babe." Maybe it would happen -- how he leaped from habilis to sapiens so fast. For now she was aware each second that he waited in the wings, or on the way, or in the shower, in her life. She was inhabited by him. A thought insinuated itself. Could it be only sex with a rough-hewn handsome man that had her going ape like this? Could it do that? And then she realized -- more than a possibility. Just sex. Good Lord. As gross as that! She let go his arm and squeezed his hand for nothing, walking toward the dining room.

They had a window table on the garden, still reserved for them. Over menus, wine list, she thought how she would tell him what she had to say. "I think we ought to celebrate. I know you rarely drink, but would you have a glass if I have one?"

"Hey babe." He grinned the grin. "What are we celebrating?"

"My close call."

"What close call, what?"

"I was late. But this morning I came around. So we should celebrate."

"What late? How could you be late, you take the pill?"

"I've forgotten sometimes, Joe. It's new to me, you know. I used to wear a diaphragm but when you do you've got to stop and spoil the fun, unless you walk around with it all day and night." She'd never seen this hardness in the eyes, the face, this set of jaw, his body jutting forward as though ready to do battle. With her as enemy!

The thought came quick of Kingsley and the risk."The fun? What kind of fun? There's no forgetting, Beth!" He gripped her left hand in his steely fingers. "No forgetting. Got it?"

"Joe! You're hurting me."

"I'm sorry." Picked the menu up and studied it.

He was a dangerous man. Another facet of Picasso's primitives and habilis. For just a moment it had seemed he might get violent. No one ever dared to show her violence before. What would she have done? Not someone you'd want to tangle with. Ever. Jump down her throat like that. Still shocked, she looked across at him as he concentrated on the menu, his jaw set pugnaciously. Was she fearful of him? Angry? She wasn't sure. She tried to think it through although her hand still hurt. She had forgotten. Well. There were consequences to forgetting. In Joe's caveman world violence just might be one of them. "I'm sorry, Joe." She put her hand on his.

He pushed aside her napkin, laid his hand on hers. "Beth, listen good. I knew from right away you'd bring me luck. I think of you I get a hard-on on the spot. But don't pull any of this shit again. I got a plan. I'll tell you when my plan says kids. There's no forgetting in this plan. Capeesh?"

She calmed herself. "I understand you, Joe."

"So good. I like you better in a dress, not jeans. You get the wine. I'll have a Coke."

*

Hesh started at Bay Four each Sunday morning. Why? Was he Dick Tracy just to pay McCullough for the opportunity, the trust? It wasn't for the extra 30 in his salary. When he'd finished at Bay Four Hesh checked the other bays. He opened drawers, looked through. He would have opened up the lockers but there was no way. There was never anything to nail Joe with, I got you now. Never. Nothing out of place.

Only after he had scouted everything, all painted fresh now, spanking new, did he continue with the renovation of the office. First all the notices removed, some ten years old and more, so you could see the bays now through the windows. The squeaking door and files were oiled. The budget that he got he spent on Canal Street, handling with the gonifs for new calculator, typewriter. Only made do when equipment still had life in it. He fixed the swivel chair, put in a gooseneck lamp so McCullough didn't have to strain to see, his eyesight getting worse. Now ready for the files.

As usual he checked the time cards, Clancy, Intrator, a married guy he'd stolen from a shop in Bay Ridge, Joe's, and even his own. Time in, time out, breaks for lunch, for quitting time. Most days Intrator worked an hour, two, of overtime at time and a half. He of course was there till late but never took the overtime, punched out at five. Clancy was dead weight but he couldn't get McCullough to lay him off. Came down to Joe, of course, as everything came down to Joe. It's why he owed McCullough, gave him overtime for free. He'd thought of asking Binky if he knew what Joe was up to. Forget about it. Binky would tell Joe and then there'd be more shit.

After time cards he began at the beginning on the files. McCullough did so many deals by handshake, hard to make him stop. How do you change a guy who started fifty years ago when handshakes maybe meant? Today, a contract signed and notarized was nothing, sometimes less. But that was all you had, a file, a signature. An inventory so employees couldn't steal. He'd have to set it up from scratch. He'd never done it, didn't know if it was right how he was planning doing it, but did it anyway. You had to get it under your control.

Already it was four o'clock. He'd promised mama take her to a movie at the Loweys, then seeing Edie after. He'd made so little progress here. He'd learned to type two fingers only, so it took ten times, with weeks and weeks of work ahead. But now at least they had two good ones, him and Intrator, and not a single customer had kicked about the buck an hour more, so they were making money, he could tell. They had no space to add another bay, but who knew, maybe in a year or so. But first these files, the end of summer if he went real fast.

After that he'd pay attention to the desk, you couldn't find a thing in it you went to look.

*

Joe spent ten minutes studying the place. He couldn't run his business from McCullough's any more. Not only stupid Heshy with his nose in everything, it just had got too big -- more on the way. Where was he to stash the tires and the parts so he could get them easily? Space. He needed space. One bay would do but two would give him room to grow.

This was a corner lot. The original barn and building went back a hundred years. But sturdy. He remembered heavy beams and spic and span when he schlepped laundry for his mother there and back. Who knew if Mrs. Reinheimer was still alive? If so, she had to be in her eighties by now. The way that he remembered it she and her husband Max had no kids, although she'd always had a ginger snap for him back then when he was nine. Would she remember him? The inside of the house had always seemed to him a mansion, furniture from way back when, and yet, not classy, like the Kingsley's stuff.

He walked around the corner to scope it out. Quiet. Access easy. What he remembered of the barn was only that it had an old De Soto in it, didn't take up half the space. Probably still there. He studied it. As big as two full bays, maybe bigger. The beauty part -- it wasn't twenty blocks from work.

He walked up on the porch and rang the bell. At first just silence. Then he heard a sound and knew someone was home. The door cracked open. "Yes?"

And he remembered her. A tiny woman with big breasts, her gray hair in a bun, her face still plump, now wrinkled with a thousand lines. He grinned the grin. "Hello, Mrs. Reinheimer, Do you remember me? I'm Yussel. Yussel Ostowitz. My mama used to do your laundry. Mrs. Ostowitz? Lena?"

The massive door swung open slowly. "Yussel! But you're all grown up and look so handsome. You were such a scrawny little thing. Come in. Come in." She led him across the rugs to the living room, which was the same as he remembered it, even the tiny doilies on the arms of the sofa. "A pleasure. Look, I'm making tea. You'd like a cup?"

"Yes, thank you. I haven't seen you in so long. I thought I'd pay a visit. See how you were."

"A visit? My! I don't have many visitors. How nice that you remembered me. Sit down. The teapot's whistling. I'll get it -- and some cookies. I still remember that I always gave you some. How long ago! Mein Gott!" She turned to go, a little wobbly.

"Can I help you, Mrs. Reinheimer?"

"To help me? No, Yussel. I can manage it. Sit, sit. Gott. Little Yussel. How tall they get." She went to the kitchen.

He remembered now that it was always dark in here. And quiet, you could hear a pin drop. What did she do by herself? Loaded. Look at all this stuff.

She returned, carrying a silver tray. Poured him a cup of tea. "So Yussel, you like sugar, lemon, milk?"

"No thanks. I'll have this cookie though, to remind myself of how nice you were to us. By the way, Mrs. Reinheimer, I call myself Joey now. Joe."

She laughed and cocked her head at him like a plump sparrow. "Why not? Keep up with all the change. So how's your mother, Lena? I remember her so well."

Mama'd never liked her. Hadn't done her laundry or anybody else's laundry now in years. Too breathless when she bent and scrubbed. "She's fine, Mrs. Reinheimer, and asked me to remember her to you. And my twin, Heshy -- you remember him too?"

The bright eyes behind the glasses beamed. "Of course. The two of you with the laundry baskets twice your size. Such good little boys. How big you are. And what a pleasure -- out of nowhere. You were in the neighborhood? So changed from when you were a boy."

"Well you've been here so long, but even me, I see the changes, what. I thought I'd come here, look around. I need some space, you know, to store some things and work on my car, and I remembered that you had the barn and thought I'd come and take a look. Do you still have that De Soto that you used to have?"

"Oh no. Max used to keep that car so shiny, just like new. I stopped driving and didn't need it any more and couldn't care for it like Max. I sold it about eight years ago."

Terrific! Old man had probably died. "I remember how I loved the way that car was kept. I think that I became an auto mechanic cause I loved that car, so beautiful."

"My, my. An automobile mechanic. That's wonderful. And so young." She shook her head in amazement and sipped her tea. Seemed to have a sudden understanding of what he'd said. "So you think maybe my little barn would be what you're looking for? Why not? It isn't used. It's empty now. Just wasted space."

He knew how Kingsley had to feel when he was running interference for his friends, planning scams for clients, taking risks. In the head, that's where the action was. So she was in her eighties, what? Go easy, sorry, what? He had a Plan. Why think of her as people when he had a Plan? That's what Kingsley and his friends would do. Except his plan was better. Why? They weren't tough enough. He was. "It might be perfect, Mrs. Reinheimer. As I remember it, it's exactly the kind of space I need. Would you consider letting me use it? But wait -- let me say right off that if you let me use it I'd have to pay you rent for it, of course."

"I wouldn't hear of it Joe. It's empty. It's really of no use to me at all."

"No, no, Mrs. Reinheimer. I couldn't accept it as a gift. Rent and a lease, I'll write it up." He had to get a lock on it, in case she changed her mind. "You haven't seen me for years and years. I couldn't take advantage of you like that. You're too nice, Mrs. Reinheimer. This is a tough world. People could take advantage of you. I'm thinking -- who does your handy work in this big house? Is Mr. Reinheimer still able to take care of things?"

"Oh Joe. We get old. I'm now alone. No children. Family all passed away. Do you remember him, my husband Max, God rest his soul, or was he sick even then? He died ten years ago, may he rest in peace. His heart. I miss him so. I still care for myself, but when you get as old as I am you don't need too much. When things go wrong, not often, then I call the electrician or the plumber, mostly the plumber in this old house."

"And who does all your shopping? Halloween and Thanksgiving coming up."

"All? You're still a boy who thinks of other people. Not much shopping, Joey. I shop for only me of course. Sometimes a visitor."

"And schlep your groceries from Flatbush Avenue?"

"It isn't very far. I take my time."

"I tell you what." He bit a ginger snap. "I'd like to rent your barn if you let me. It's such good space. But I wouldn't like it I don't pay you for it. So -- we'll do a lease and I'll do all your handy work. Get all your shopping done. And pay you twenty dollars a month. What do you say?"

"What are you talking, Joe? I wouldn't let you. Twenty dollars? Much too much. How can you afford it, Joe, you're just a kid? And do my work besides?"

"No, I insist. I'm big and strong. I'll be glad to help you. Pay you back for all those cookies. Maybe share them with you evenings when I get through with work."

She shook her head. "From out of nowhere. As nice now as the way you were. So unexpected. Little Yussel. What's to say? OK. You show up on my doorstep -- I haven't seen you in twelve, thirteen years, and suddenly you'll be my handy man. A pleasure to do business with you."

He popped the rest of the cookie in his mouth. "Can I just peep inside the barn to see if I remember how much space there is? I'll bring some tools in, in a week or so, so I can work around the house, but I'll pay you now in cash the first month's rent, come in tomorrow with the lease. You'll show me through and point out everything that gives you problems. And I'll make sure to keep it all for you in tip-top shape."

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