jerkoff, beating up an old man like that. Besides, he was defending
you
.”
Sonny paused. “Yeah,” he said, “but you better not say nothing. You don’t want to end up with the mark of the squealer.”
“What’s that?” Jimmy asked. Little puffs of steam issued from their mouths when they talked.
“They take a knife and they dig in the point
here
,” Sonny said, twisting his forefinger into his cheek at the hinge of his jaw. “They make a hole, see? And then”—he pulled
the finger down his cheek to the corner of his mouth—“then they cut it all the way down to your mouth. So everybody knows
you got a big mouth. They know that for the rest of your fucking life.”
“Jesus,” Jimmy said.
Michael shuddered.
“It’s real bad,” Sonny said. “Very bad. The mark of the squealer.”
“Still…,” Michael said.
“The bulls come askin’ you questions, Michael, you didn’t see nothing,” Sonny said. “That’s it. For you. For all three of
us.”
Michael remembered what Frankie McCarthy had said as he was leaving with his pack of Lucky Strikes. You didn’t see nothing.
One of the rules.
“Okay,” Michael said. “But what happens to Frankie?”
“Nothing, probably.”
“That’s not right, Sonny.”
“No, but that’s the way it is.”
“You mean, he can just do that and not get punished? He beat the crap out of an old man. He
could
’ve beat the crap out of
us
. So who punishes him?”
“I don’t know. God, maybe.”
Jimmy Kabinsky smiled. “My uncle said Mister G got what he deserved.”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
“He’s a Hebe,” Jimmy said. “My uncle says back in the Old Country they would have killed him.”
“For what?” Sonny said. “Resisting assault?”
“No, just, you know, in general.”
“Your uncle is a goddamned jerk,” Michael said.
“What do you mean, a jerk? He’s—”
“Hey, come on, knock it off,” Sonny said. “What do we gotta have an argument over Jews for? Jesus Christ.”
“My uncle says the Jews killed Jesus and they gotta pay.”
“Jesus was killed, what? Five thousand fuckin’ years ago?” Sonny said. “I guarantee you Mister G wasn’t there that day.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Not buts, Jimmy. Look, I don’t like Jews any more than the next guy. But it don’t make no fuckin’ sense to beat the shit
out of Mister G because of something he had nothing to do with.”
“Right,” Michael said. “It wasn’t about Jesus. It was about
us
.”
“Well…”
“Come on,” Sonny said, “let’s go shovelin’.”
They wandered along the snowy ridges and icy hills of Ellison Avenue, repeating jokes they’d heard at school before the Christmas
break, discussing the possibility that if it snowed at least one more time they’d never go back to school, arguing about who
invented the telephone and wishing they had one, and stopping in shops, where they offered to shovel snow. The shopkeepers
had their own shovels, and some of them had kids who were doing the work. But they earned sixty cents anyway and then went
to Slowacki’s and sat at the counter and ordered three hot chocolates.
“You know, I gotta confess something,” Michael said.
“
You
beat up Mister G,” Sonny said laughing.
“No,” Michael said. “Something else.”
He told them about his visit to the synagogue on Kelly Street and how the rabbi appeared in the blizzard and called him over
and asked him to turn on the lights. He couldn’t exactly describe the sound of the man’s voice, or admit to his fear when
he stepped into the vestibule. But he did say that he thought the rabbi was a pretty good person.
“That’s
it
, that’s why you got so pissed off before,” Jimmy said. “You’re in with them.”
“All I did was turn on the goddamned lights,” Michael said, sipping the thick, sweet cocoa. Mrs. Slowacki was busy withother customers; with Mister G’s closed, she was busier than ever, selling candy to
you
.”
Sonny paused. “Yeah,” he said, “but you better not say nothing. You don’t want to end up with the mark of the squealer.”
“What’s that?” Jimmy asked. Little puffs of steam issued from their mouths when they talked.
“They take a knife and they dig in the point
here
,” Sonny said, twisting his forefinger into his cheek at the hinge of his jaw. “They make a hole, see? And then”—he pulled
the finger down his cheek to the corner of his mouth—“then they cut it all the way down to your mouth. So everybody knows
you got a big mouth. They know that for the rest of your fucking life.”
“Jesus,” Jimmy said.
Michael shuddered.
“It’s real bad,” Sonny said. “Very bad. The mark of the squealer.”
“Still…,” Michael said.
“The bulls come askin’ you questions, Michael, you didn’t see nothing,” Sonny said. “That’s it. For you. For all three of
us.”
Michael remembered what Frankie McCarthy had said as he was leaving with his pack of Lucky Strikes. You didn’t see nothing.
One of the rules.
“Okay,” Michael said. “But what happens to Frankie?”
“Nothing, probably.”
“That’s not right, Sonny.”
“No, but that’s the way it is.”
“You mean, he can just do that and not get punished? He beat the crap out of an old man. He
could
’ve beat the crap out of
us
. So who punishes him?”
“I don’t know. God, maybe.”
Jimmy Kabinsky smiled. “My uncle said Mister G got what he deserved.”
“What do you mean?” Michael asked.
“He’s a Hebe,” Jimmy said. “My uncle says back in the Old Country they would have killed him.”
“For what?” Sonny said. “Resisting assault?”
“No, just, you know, in general.”
“Your uncle is a goddamned jerk,” Michael said.
“What do you mean, a jerk? He’s—”
“Hey, come on, knock it off,” Sonny said. “What do we gotta have an argument over Jews for? Jesus Christ.”
“My uncle says the Jews killed Jesus and they gotta pay.”
“Jesus was killed, what? Five thousand fuckin’ years ago?” Sonny said. “I guarantee you Mister G wasn’t there that day.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Not buts, Jimmy. Look, I don’t like Jews any more than the next guy. But it don’t make no fuckin’ sense to beat the shit
out of Mister G because of something he had nothing to do with.”
“Right,” Michael said. “It wasn’t about Jesus. It was about
us
.”
“Well…”
“Come on,” Sonny said, “let’s go shovelin’.”
They wandered along the snowy ridges and icy hills of Ellison Avenue, repeating jokes they’d heard at school before the Christmas
break, discussing the possibility that if it snowed at least one more time they’d never go back to school, arguing about who
invented the telephone and wishing they had one, and stopping in shops, where they offered to shovel snow. The shopkeepers
had their own shovels, and some of them had kids who were doing the work. But they earned sixty cents anyway and then went
to Slowacki’s and sat at the counter and ordered three hot chocolates.
“You know, I gotta confess something,” Michael said.
“
You
beat up Mister G,” Sonny said laughing.
“No,” Michael said. “Something else.”
He told them about his visit to the synagogue on Kelly Street and how the rabbi appeared in the blizzard and called him over
and asked him to turn on the lights. He couldn’t exactly describe the sound of the man’s voice, or admit to his fear when
he stepped into the vestibule. But he did say that he thought the rabbi was a pretty good person.
“That’s
it
, that’s why you got so pissed off before,” Jimmy said. “You’re in with them.”
“All I did was turn on the goddamned lights,” Michael said, sipping the thick, sweet cocoa. Mrs. Slowacki was busy withother customers; with Mister G’s closed, she was busier than ever, selling candy to
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