Page 46 of Maggie Now

requirements were simple. A kid had to be a punk to

  matriculate.

  One of Sal's instructors worked on the punk and turned

  him into a hoodlum. Then a sort of assistant professor

  came in and turned the hoodlum into a gangster. If the

  gangster worked hard and did what he was told and didn't

  doublecross Sal or the syndi

  ~ 37, 1

 

  care, why, in time he might get to be a first-class

  criminal.

  The punks stood around and their faces brightened and

  they stood up real straight when one of Sal's men walked

  into the poolroom. Who would be chosen? All were

  anxious. When the man chose a kid and gave him a neatly

  wrapped box containing three fifths of rye or Scotch with

  an address and the instructions: "Collect twenty-five and

  keep five," the boy beamed as though he had been tapped

  for a fraternity, and all the other punks were jealous.

  Denny had no part in this. He sat on a high stool and

  watched the pool games and watched the comings and

  goings of Sal and his men. It was like a show to him. He

  was fascinated by Sal with his expensive tight-fitting black

  overcoat and his cream-colored Borsalina hat and his

  two-hundred-dollar suits and ten-dollar ties and his long

  black Packard.

  From time to time, Denny was approached and asked if

  he'd like to make an easy "ten." Sure, Denny would have

  been glad to make an easy ten, but not that way. He

  always said "No." Why? He was afraid of F ether Flynn.

  Denny went to confession each week. He had been doing

  so since he was eight years old. It was as much a part of

  his life as eating dinner at noon and supper at six. He'd

  have to confess to Father Flynn. The priest would not

  violate the confessional but he might withhold absolution

  until Denny went to the police and confessed. It never

  occurred to Denny flat to go to confession or to falsify a

  confession.

  Then he was afraid of his father. He always had a

  feeling that his father divas waiting . . . waiting for him,

  Denny, to do something real bad so that he could beat

  him to death with his shillelagh.

  So while he did nothing worse than sit in the poolroom,

  it got around in the neighborhood that he was in bad

  company and he was tarred, bad.

  It was the common consensus of the neighborhood that

  Denny was headed straight for Sing Sing.

  1 374

 

  ~ CHIC P T. E ~ Fl F T. Y- Fl V E An'

  DENNY'S boss, Ceppi, the greengrocer, always brought

  his lunch from home. But one day he left it home standing

  on the sideboard and never missed it until noon. He called

  Denny out from the back room where the boy was sorting

  tomatoes: the firm for salads and eating out of hand in

  one basket, and the soft ones for soup or stewing in

  another basket.

  "Hey, Wal-yo," called the boss. "Go by Winer the butcher

  and buy me six slice' hard salami slice' thin like fishy

  paper only to Winer you say dingy because he's a Heinie."

  Otto Winer, in white apron, white coat over a sweater

  and straw cuff protectors and wearing a straw hat as all

  butchers did, even in winter, had taken advantage of the

  noon lull in trade to eat his steaming hot dinner in the

  room adjoining his store.

  The dinner, which he ate from a cake-mixing bowl,

  consisted of pigs' knuckles, spinach, noodles and

  sauerkraut, all of which had been simmering together in

  a covered iron pot since seven o'clock that morning. A t

  hand was a lump of Schwartzbrod, spread with butter, to

  be used to sop up the broth, or "bree," as he called it,

  when the solid food had been eaten. His beverage was a

  bottle of beer which he had brewed himself.

  Since his wife's death some years back, he'd lived in and

  cooked in the little back room. His living was lush, but his

  equipment sparse. All he had was a one-plate gas stove,

  the covered iron pot, a coffeepot, a coffee mug, a drinking

  glass and a knife, fork and soup spoon.

  He had a basic recipe with seven variations, one for

  each day of the week. Each morning' he put all the stuff

  in the pot, covered it with w ater, added salt a Id pepper

  and let it simmer all day long. At noon, he ate a bowlful

  with knife and fork because the meat was still in chunks.

  For his mid-afternoon snack he used only a fork because

  the stuff had cooked to stew by that time. By supper, it

  had simmered down to I thick soup, which he ate with a

  spoon.

  F3 s]

 

  After supper, everything, in the pot was fed to his cat.

  The cat was a huge black one with a white face and a

  head like a codfish. The cat's name was Schweinefleisch.

  Translated, it vaguely meant "Porgy." The only thing was

  that the cat wouldn't answer to the name Schweinefleisch

  in or out of translation. He answered only to the name of

  "Kitty."

  The cat slept all day in the clean, empty window of the

  butcher shop against a backdrop of brown paper bags,

  each hung up by one corner, to make an overlapping

  diamond design: a standard butcher-shop window

  dressing. The big, fat, sleek cat in the window was a good

  ad J or the store. People thought it must be a very clean

  butcher shop. No rats or mice. People figured that the cat

  was big and fat from eating up all the rats and mice.

  Schweinefleisch had never been known to chase a rat,

  much less eat one. He was too fastidious for that. He was

  fat and shiny and strong from all the melted bones and

  meat and vegetables that he ate, and from the "bree,' that

  the cat lapped up in lieu of milk.

  As Winer ate today's dinner, he dreamed of tomorrow's.

  He planned to put some chunks of veal in the pot, whole

  potatoes, whole onions, a couple of handfuls of uncut

  string beans, seasoning and half a gallon of buttermilk.

  That would make a nice "bree," the buttermilk.

  He lacked sugar in his diet. He didn't take sugar in his

  morning coffee. He liked his coffee thick and black and

  laced with chicory. Sometimes just before bedtime, he got

  a craving for something sweet. At such times, he poured

  himself a tumbler of pre-prohibition, thick, sweet port v.

  ine. After downing that, he felt he was caught up on sweet

  stuff for life. Usually, he ate a sour pickle as an antidote.

  But he was a good man, just the same.

  Denny walked into the empty shop and saw Winer

  eating in the back room. "Hey, Otto," he yelled, "Ceppi

  the Boss wants six slices of hard salami sliced di72ny."

  "For a penny profit," said Winer coldly, "I don't let my

  dinner stand."

  "Aw, come on. Chop-choiJ! Chat means get the lead out

  in Chinese."

  "Listen! Go by Blyfuss the butcher, for your worst."

  "The boss said to get it here. I lave a heart. I'm on
ly

  trying to make a living."

  1 376

 

  "D, Bzll?lme1~" muttered winter.

  Denny wished he was still hanging out at the newsstand

  with the fellers. What an act he could put on. He

  rehearsed the lines.

  "Ihe boss says to me, 'Iley, what'a mat'? Where's me,-

  eats?'

  (Denny thought of IIOW he u ould make the dialect

  broad for comic effects.) " 'Get-a-me der salam'.!"

  But there was no newsstand crowd now and the fellers

  in the poolroom would think he has ntits if he `ent into

  a routine like that.

  While he vitas mentally rehearsing, he jiggled his way in

  back of the meat counter. He looked at the meat-cutting

  block. He remembered coming to this s me store when he

  u as a little kid, the time Maggie-Now came h re to buy

  a leg of lamb for Claude's first dinner at: the house. He

  remembered vividly how he had been entranced with that

  meat block then.

  Now he took his fill Of looking at it. I he hardwood

  WJS whitely clean and had a slight hollow like a big,

  shallow bowl. He ran his hand over the smooth wood and

  a thrill a shiver went down his spine. He fell in love

  with the block. He looked at the rack of sharp knives

  fastens d to one side of it. He had an impulse.

  "Hey, Otto," he called, "mould you let me cut the salami

  for you? "

  NONV, whether there was something in the timbre of

  Denny's voice, or Winer's conscience bothered him

  because he had been mde to a customer, or he felt

  generous because he was replete with good, sound food,

  he matle an answer ullich had a tremendous effect on

  Denny's life.

  He said: "Go 'head! "

  "Where's the salami? '

  "Is in icebox."

  The icebox was a small rooll1 lighted by a small barred

  window high in the wall. TNVO huge blocks of ice stood

  on the sawdustcovered floor. Denny looked around

  reverently like an art connoisseur in an art museum.

  The focus of interest was a large, cleaned, split hot,

  crucified from a rack by a hook i ~1 each front foot.

  There w as also a quarter of beef hanging up and legs of

  ham and legs of veal. Also there was something he had

  never seen before. It looked like a rubber washboard.

  L ,77

  "Gee!'' he breathed admiringly.

  He found the salami hanging with other bolognas, near

  the door. He brought it out to the block. He took a knife

  from the rack. It was as big as a saber. He walked twice

  around the block, half afraid to start cutting the salami.

  "Hey, Otto," he called. "How do you make it dingy?"

  Otto sighed, put down his bread and came out into the

  shop. He snatched the saber from Denny, gave him a dirty

  look and said: "Dockle!" He replaced the saber and

  withdrew a long thin knife from the rack. It had been

  honed so many times that it was down to a quarter inch

  of blade.

  "Watch!" commanded the butcher.

  He inserted the fingernails of the middle and forefinger

  of his left hand deep into the salami near the edge of the

  roll. He leaned the knife blade against his fingers and

  sliced. He held the slice up to the light. It was

  transparent! Even a little seed in the salami had been cut

  in half.

  "My God!" said Denny in admiration.

  "Dinny!" proclaimed the butcher.

  Winer handed him the knife. Denny dug his nails into

  the salami, wishing they were cleaner, and placed the

  knife blade against his fingers. The hand holding the knife

  started to tremble. He looked an appeal at Winer. The

  good man understood.

  "I ain't done eating yet," he said. He went back to his

  bread and "bree" and beer.

  Denny breathed easier. His hand stopped trembling. He

  cut through. He held up the slice to the light. It was

  almost as transparent as the butcher's!

  "Gee!" he whispered. thrilled.

  He cut four more slices, testing each against the light.

  The fifth slice was opaque. He had grown too confident.

  He popped that into his mouth and cut the last two slices

  perfectly. He arranged the slices overlapping on a bit of

  oiled paper. He thought he had never seen anything so

  beautiful. He carried the salami roll back to the icebox

  and hung it up. Still holding the knife, he went over to the

  hog and stared at it.

  "You like the hog?" said Winer, who had come in behind

  him.

  "It's a ditty," said Denny.

  [ 378 ]

 

  "C;o 'head," said Whler. "Tell Nile kinds of pork it gives

  from a hog."

  Denny touched the hole with his knife. "pork chops?" he

  asked hesitantly.

  "Sure."

  "Honest?" said Denny, all aglow

  Otto Winer felt a distinc t thrill. I-le recognised

  immediately a meat aficionado. "Go 'head' Show me

  more."

  Denny touched a haunch with the ktlife. Fresh ham?"

  "Good! "

  "Shoulder ham?"

  "Good! "

  "Pigs' knuckles."

  "Good."

  "Spareribs?''

  "Sehr good!"

  "But where's the bacon?" asked Dentin.

  "Smoked. Hanging on the hook by the ~ indoN;," said

  Winer. scathingly. "Dockle!"

  Denny drew himself up :-o his full height and even

  stretched a little. He looked Winer right in the eye.

  "Listen," he said, "I don't like that name Dockle. Call me

  Dennis."

  Winer measured him with a look, then said, "All right,

  Den-iss.' "What's that white wrinkled skin hanging there?"

  "Tripe."

  "Tripe? I always thought that v. as a word meaning 110

  good." "I don't like tripe, needer," said Otto.

  "Do you ever need a helper? " asked Denny.

  "When I'm busy, I need, when I ain't, I don't."

  But thoughts raced through Winer's mind. I know a lot

  of things about meat, he thought in (Berman. It is not right

  that, when I die. nobody lives no more as l nows caveat I

  know. For forty years, the meat is nzy life and I learned

  many things by myself. About cutting meat. This boy here, I

  could teach him these things. A son l never had. But this boy

  . . .

  Denny broke in on his revery. "Well, if you ever do need

  a helper, think of me. The name is Dennis Moore."

  "I don't hear good from you," said the butcher. "You go

  by the poolroom every night.'

  t'791

 

  "I quit that."

  "How long ago you stop?"

  "Starting now."

  He don't Arrow, thought Winer.

  "But where you world, you don't stay long. You get

  fresh with the boss and you be lazy."

  Denny put away the fresh retort which came so handily

  to his mind. He took his cap cliff and wrung it in his

  hands, looking away from Wmer.

  "I've been working since I'm sixteen. All the things I've

/>   worked at, I never liked. I don't like to work at jobs I

  don't like. So I get fresh so I can get fired. But here . . ."

  He looked around at the sides of meat. "To work here, it

  would be like going to Coney Island every day in the

  summer."

  It was done! Winer knew it and Denny knew it. But

  there were certain formalities.

  "How much does Ceppi pay you?" asked Winer.

  Denny was going to lie and say twenty dollars. He

  decided against it not that he believed in the truth, but

  he thought it would be bad luck if he lied now.

  "Eighteen dollars," said Denny.

  "Maybe I could pay that," said Winer. But he sounded

  doubtful.

  "I get eighteen dollars. And tips for deliveries."

  "Eighteen dollars I give you and no more," said Winer

  firmly. "Your tips is that I learn you a good trade."

  Denny's heart jumped. He was hired! He had never

  expected ... why he would have worked for nothing....

  Winer mistook Denny's introspection for hesitation. He

  felt he had to add something. "Never will you starve are

  you a butcher because always people must eat and always

  they like to eat meat."

  "Eighteen dollars is fair enough," said Denny.

  They shook hands clumsily over the deal. Both were

  embarrassed with being so secretly delighted. "You start

  Monday?" asked Winer.

  "First, [ must tell Ceppi and my sister."

  "That's a good boy," approved Winer.

  "But are you sure, Denny? 'All my life' is a long time

  when you're only nineteen."

  [ 3S ]

 

  'I'm sure. I went in there and there vas this cat in the

  window and clean sawdust on that clean floor, and the

  wood block and the good knives that he keeps

  sharpened.... I wish I could get it over to you,

  Maggie-Now, btlt I can't. Anyway, I knew all of a sudden

  that that was what I wanted to do all my life. This is a

  dopey thing to say, but I felt that I'd been born just for

  that."

  She smiled. Maggie-Now had never expected Denny to

  grow up to be President of the IJnited States. Still and all,

  she'd had a dream or two for the baby her dying mother

  had put into her arms; a dream for the vulnerable little

  boy who had sat on his cot alone the day she married;

  who had said: "I want to go with you." No, she had never

  ~ xpectcd hin1 to become President or even a governor.

  Yet . . . ye t . . .

  "I'm glad you found what you avant to N ork at, Denny.

  I think it's a fine trade for a n1an."

  Denny was making soup greens. He walked along the

  bins, taking a wrinkled carrot, an outside stalk leaf of

  celery, pinched with wilt at the top, a tomato with a soft

  spot and a sprig of parsley. He put these in a twist of

  paper called a toot. When he had enough toots filled, he

  wrote a sign on a paper bag: Sale on Soup Greens. Only

  5?. He put the toots on a stand near the door to

  immediately attract buyers. He vas following the boss's

  orders to push soup greens that morning.

  "Ceppi," asked Denny briglltly, 'do you think you could

  do without me?"

  "Anytime. All-a time," said Ceppi.

  "Because after Saturday you won't see me any more."

  "Sure, I see you. Ever' Sunday I cotne see you in reform

  school and I bring orange for you."

  "All kidding aside," said the boy. "I'm quitting Saturday

  night. I'd quit now but I don't want to leave you holding

  the bag."

  Ceppi snatched a toot of soup greens out of Denny's

  hand. "Go! Go now!" he said passionately. "Beat it!"

  "I'll stay to the end of the veek. You uptight have

  trouble getting another boy."

  "Ha! You think? Oh, to! ~ here's plent' more loafers

  where you come from."

  Denny came home with half a vveek's pay. f 3811

  "Oh, well, you were going to leave Ceppi's anyhow,

  Denny," said his sister.

  "Sure! But he didn't have to kick me out while I was

  resigning. And he didn't have to give me that loafer and

  reform-school routine, either. But I'll show him! I'll show

  them all," vowed Denny. "I'll be the best damned butcher