Read Online Motherless Brooklyn by Jonathan Lethem - Free Book Online Page B

afraid to speak.
    “You monkeys thirsty? Because personally I’m dying out here.”
    Minna drove us to Smith Street, a few blocks from St. Vincent’s, and pulled over in front of a bodega, then bought us beer, pop-top cans of Miller, and sat with us in the back of the van, drinking. It was my first beer.
    “Names,” said Minna, pointing at Tony, our obvious leader. We said our first names, starting with Tony. Minna didn’t offer his own, only drained his beer and nodded. I began tapping the truck panel beside me.
    Physical exertion over, astonishment at our deliverance from St. Vincent’s receding, my symptoms found their opening again.
    “You probably ought to know, Lionel’s a freak,” said Tony, his voice vibrant with self-regard.
    “Yeah, well, you’reall freaks, if you don’t mind me pointing it out,” said Minna. “No parents—or am I mixed up?”
    Silence.
    “Finish your beer,” said Minna, tossing his can past us, into the back of the van.
    And that was the end of our first job for Frank Minna.

     
    But Minna rounded us up again the next week, brought us to that same desolate yard, and this time he was friendlier. The task wasidentical, almost to the number of boxes (242 to 260), and we performed it in the same trepidatious silence. I felt a violent hatred burning off Tony in my and Gilbert’s direction, as though he thought we were in the process of screwing up his Italian rescue. Danny was of course exempt and oblivious. Still, we’d begun to function as a team—demanding physical work contained its own truths, and we explored them despite ourselves.
    Over beers Minna said, “You like this work?”
    One of us said
sure
.
    “You know what you’re doing?” Minna grinned at us, waiting. The question was confusing. “You know what kind of work this is?”
    “What, moving boxes?” said Tony.
    “Right, moving. Moving work. That’s what you call it when you work for me. Here, look.” He stood to get into his pocket, pulled out a roll of twenties and a small stack of white cards. He stared at the roll for a minute, then peeled off four twenties and handed one to each of us. It was my first twenty dollars. Then he offered us each a card. It read: L&L MOVERS. NO JOB TOO SMALL. SOME JOBS TOO LARGE. GERARD & FRANK MINNA . And a phone number.
    “You’re Gerard or Frank?” said Tony.
    “Minna, Frank.” Like
Bond, James
. He ran his hand through his hair. “So you’re a moving company, get it? Doing moving work.” This seemed a very important point: that we call it
moving
. I couldn’t imagine what else to call it.
    “Who’s Gerard?” said Tony. Gilbert and I, even Danny, watched Minna carefully. Tony was questioning him on behalf of us all.
    “My brother.”
    “Older or younger?”
    “Older.”
    Tony thought for a minute. “Who’s L and L?”
    “Just the name, L and L. Two L’s. Name of the company.”
    “Yeah, but what’s it mean?”
    “What do you need it to mean, Fruitloop—Living Loud? Loving Ladies? Laughing at you ers?”
    “What, it doesn’t mean anything?” said Tony.
    “I didn’t say that, did I?”
    “Least Lonely,”
I suggested.
    “There you go,” said Minna, waving his can of beer at me. “L and L Movers, Least Lonely.”
    Tony, Danny and Gilbert all stared at me, uncertain how I’d gained this freshet of approval.
    “Liking Lionel,”
I heard myself say.
    “Minna, that’s an Italian name?” said Tony. This was on his own behalf, obviously. It was time to get to the point. The rest of us could all go fuck ourselves.
    “What are you, the census?” said Minna. “Cub reporter? What’s your full name, Jimmy Olsen?”
    “Lois Lane,”
I said. Like anyone, I’d read Superman comics.
    “Tony Vermonte,” said Tony, ignoring me.
    “Vermont-ee,” repeated Minna. “That’s what, like a New England thing, right? You a Red Sox fan?”
    “Yankees,” said Tony, confused and defensive. The Yankees were champions now, the Red Sox their hapless, eternal