Read Online Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn - Free Book Online

… like you.”
    Isaac scratched his ear. “I interviewed so many lads for Columbia. I can’t remember them all.”
    â€œDermott had a miserable record … but you were so fierce about him. And you were right … never met a boy who could plunge into Ulysses like that. Dermott had the gift. But he’s Irish, of course. And now he’s a millionaire. Has a whole wing at the hotel, a wing for himself.”
    â€œAnd six bodyguards,” Sylvia Berkowitz said.
    â€œWhere’s that wing of his?” Isaac asked.
    â€œEast of the elevator. On the fifth floor.”
    Isaac excused himself. He strolled up to the fifth floor. The Shelbourne had royal banisters and rugs, with gold leaning posts on the rails. Fuck the costs. He would park at no other hotel in Dublin town. The fifth floor was full of little wings. Isaac couldn’t tell east from west. He recognized a man standing behind a closed fire door. It was a retired cop, Timothy Snell, who had once been a sergeant with the Chief Inspector’s office. He went up to the old sergeant. Snell didn’t open that fire door for Isaac. The First Dep had to mumble through the glass.
    â€œTim, do me a favor. Tell the king I’d like a word with him.”
    Old Timothy was playing deaf. “Isaac, what king is that? All the kings I know are dead.”
    Isaac spoke Dermott’s name into the fire door.
    â€œDermott isn’t expecting any guests. But if he wants you, we’ll knock on your door.”
    â€œTimmy, who told him I was staying here?”
    â€œNobody. We bribed a porter. And we figured Mr. Moses Herzog of New York City had to be Isaac Sidel …”
    â€œHe knew I was coming, didn’t he?”
    â€œNot at all.”
    Isaac skulked down to his room. He did have a knock on his door. Close to midnight. It was Sylvia Berkowitz, wearing a raincoat with nothing underneath.
    â€œWhere’s Marsh?”
    â€œAsleep,” she said.
    â€œWhat if he wakes up? He won’t think you’re with Dermott. He’ll come to my room. I don’t know how Marsh will take to having three in a bed.”
    â€œHe’d never notice. And he won’t wake up. He likes his dreams too much …”
    â€œDoes he dream of Number Seven Eccles Street?”
    â€œNo,” she said. “He dreams of fucking his wife.”
    The Berkowitzes were too profound for him. It was much easier to lie on his bed with Sylvia. She left her raincoat on. She nibbled Isaac a bit and then climbed on top of him. She writhed with a fury, and Isaac felt like some wooden soldier with a great toy prick that could be sucked on and used as a hilt. She wasn’t oblivious of him. She fondled his bald spot, kissed him with devotion, but he couldn’t keep up with that hunger she had. He was thinking of his daughter, her many marriages, her wildness for men. And Jennifer Pears? Was her good husband going down on her this minute? Or was Dublin time confusing him? Sylvia’s writhing stopped. She fell asleep on Isaac’s shoulder. Women, crazy women, were soaking his head. He dreamt of Annie’s scar. The scar had moved to her belly in Isaac’s dream. She had an “S” on her, for Sidel. The “S” began to wiggle. Isaac woke up, his legs kicking out in some kind of panic. Sylvia wasn’t there.

11
    H E had breakfast with the Berkowitzes in the Shelbourne’s Saddle Room. The Dean had kippers, bacon, haddock, eggs, one of Isaac’s sausages, most of Sylvia’s ham. Sylvia bumped Isaac under the table with both her knees. Isaac had to beg the waiters for toasted whole wheat bread. They weren’t impolite. “Sorry, sir, brown bread doesn’t toast easily.” He was beginning to wonder if the king took his breakfast in his rooms. Then, at half nine, while Marshall was stealing scraps from Sylvia’s plate, Dermott came down to eat with his bodyguards. They occupied four