110
PARTISAN REVIEW
Garden every Friday night. Action. When the horses don't run on Sundays,
the men lock themselves in the apartment of Hymie the Nose to play poker
and gin rummy. Coffee, cake, sandwiches-dollars on the kitchen table. Long
Sunday afternoons and the money changing hands, the killings in the air.
It is 1951. I am nineteen years old . I am standing on the corner on a hot
August afternoon. The stillness of Bainbridge Avenue begins to swell with
anticipation . Another hour will bring the rush of people returning from work.
I lean against the subway exit and study the face of Pete the Bookie who is
sitting on the green newspaper stand, next to a pile of New York
Posts,
face
raised to the sun . Pete does not sweat . The toothpick is in his mouth, the tight
black hair nestled to his scalp . He is still thin , but he is beginning to develop a
pot, which looks glued to his frame . A bookie 's diet : starch . Italian with a
Jewish wife . Starch . Dead face, languid eyes, no sweat. A caricature of a
bookie in the movies .
"Why do you book, Pete?" I ask.
The languid eyes open slowly. The toothpick makes a full circle in the
mouth. An iguana in the sun .
" I
provide a service. They hit me, they get even
with the whole world . It's a service . It's something."
" You bet yourself?"
" Why not? You think a man books, he got more brains than his
customers?' ,
A black Buick Super pulls up to the curb, sliding in ahead of the Jerome
Avenue bus. The bus surrenders to opulence and moves past its signpost. A
man in a black suit gets out of the Buick. He is wearing white gloves. Another
man with white gloves and a black suit is behind the wheel. I want to laugh.
The man with the gloves walks over to Pete and slaps him hard. Pete's head
jumps back and the man with the gloves catches Pete's head on the ricochet
with his hand . Then he turns and gets back into the car and the car drives off.
The bus driver stares at Pete, as do the few passengers . We are all embarrassed .
The corner of his mouth has been cut and he spits out a fragment of toothpick
red with blood . His face is blanched, a dry white, the color of the handkerchief
he holds to his mouth .
That night, when I walk over to the corner after dinner, Pete is nowhere
in sight. There is no action. He has left for Florida. Three months later and he
is back on the corner. His face is still languid, impassive. An iguana. Looking
at him, you understand why people enjoy hitting him for a winner.
It
is not
just the money .
He never again forgets to layoff his bets . He never fails to payoff. There
have been too many complaints . Pete 's employers are as careful of their
