kids and cigarettes to men.
“That’s how they get you,” Jimmy said.
“What, to trick me and drop me through a trapdoor? Jimmy, here I am, alive.”
“How do you know he didn’t hypnotize you?”
Then Sonny put up his hands, palms out.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, halting the argument. “This could be good.”
Michael turned to him.
“What do you mean?”
“The treasure.”
“What treasure?”
“Don’t tell me you never heard of the treasure, Michael. Everybody knows about it.”
“I never heard of no treasure,” Jimmy said.
Sonny lowered his voice and leaned close to Michael and Jimmy. “All the Jews, they give money and jewels and rubies and gold
and shit like that to the rabbis. But these rabbis, they don’t put it in banks. They bury it. They hide it. They keep it there,
so if one morning they gotta run, they pack it all in a bag and get the fuck out of there.”
Michael thought about the rabbi’s frayed coat, his dirty hands, the peeling paint in the vestibule.
“They always talk about the treasure up the synagogue on Kelly Street,” Sonny went on. “My uncles, my aunt Stephanie, they
all heard about it. It’s hidden up there. Jewels, diamonds, gold, everything. A long time ago, before the war, my cousin Lefty
even busted in there one night with some friends, trying to find it. But the rabbis got it hid pretty good.”
He paused, his eyes excited, gazing around to be certain that nobody in the candy store could hear him.
“So?” Michael said.
“So Michael, you got your foot in the door now. Go all the way in. Find the fucking treasure.”
Michael’s heart tripped.
“You mean, so we could
rob
it?” he whispered.
Sonny turned his head to the side, his eyes drifting toward the rack of comic books and pulp magazines.
“Nah. Not rob it. Take it back is what I’m thinking. It’s all money they got from rents and charging too much in stores and
shit like that.”
“Come on, Sonny,” Michael said. “That’s just stealing.”
“So what if it is? Wouldn’t you like to get a house for your mother? Out in Flatbush or someplace? You know, with a yard and
a tree and a garage with a car in it? You wouldn’t like to say to her, Ma, no more working at the fucking hospital, I made
a score?”
“She’d laugh at me. Or she’d call the goddamned cops.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Michael,” Sonny said. “Money is money. You make up a good lie and she’d take it. Nobody
calls the cops on their own kid.”
“You don’t want your share,” Jimmy Kabinsky said, “you give it to me. My uncle wouldn’t call the cops.”
“I saw the rabbi,” Michael said. “He’s poor. His clothes are raggedy. The tops of his shoes look like burnt goddamned bacon.
He has a treasure in there, why doesn’t he buy a coat?”
“Maybe he don’t even know the treasure is there,” Sonny said. “He’s new, right? You never seen him before, right? Maybe the
last guy died and never told this guy about the treasure.”
“And maybe there’s no treasure.”
“So find out.”
Costello, the fat cop, came in, wheezing as he stood beforeMrs. Slowacki and ordered a pack of Pall Malls. The boys stopped talking. The detective gave them a look and walked outside,
peeling the cellophane off the cigarette pack. Abbott was sitting in the police car, which was raised on one side on a hummock
of frozen snow. He nodded when the fat cop slipped in behind the wheel.
“That tub of shit,” Sonny said.
“Big tough guy,” Jimmy said.
“So what about it, Michael?” Sonny said.
“I just don’t believe the story,” Michael said, wishing he’d never told them about his visit to the synagogue.
“You believe in Captain Marvel and you don’t believe this?” Sonny said.
“Who says I believe in Captain Marvel?”
“You told me last year maybe it could be true.”
“That was last year.”
“So this year, go up the fucking synagogue and see
“That’s how they get you,” Jimmy said.
“What, to trick me and drop me through a trapdoor? Jimmy, here I am, alive.”
“How do you know he didn’t hypnotize you?”
Then Sonny put up his hands, palms out.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said, halting the argument. “This could be good.”
Michael turned to him.
“What do you mean?”
“The treasure.”
“What treasure?”
“Don’t tell me you never heard of the treasure, Michael. Everybody knows about it.”
“I never heard of no treasure,” Jimmy said.
Sonny lowered his voice and leaned close to Michael and Jimmy. “All the Jews, they give money and jewels and rubies and gold
and shit like that to the rabbis. But these rabbis, they don’t put it in banks. They bury it. They hide it. They keep it there,
so if one morning they gotta run, they pack it all in a bag and get the fuck out of there.”
Michael thought about the rabbi’s frayed coat, his dirty hands, the peeling paint in the vestibule.
“They always talk about the treasure up the synagogue on Kelly Street,” Sonny went on. “My uncles, my aunt Stephanie, they
all heard about it. It’s hidden up there. Jewels, diamonds, gold, everything. A long time ago, before the war, my cousin Lefty
even busted in there one night with some friends, trying to find it. But the rabbis got it hid pretty good.”
He paused, his eyes excited, gazing around to be certain that nobody in the candy store could hear him.
“So?” Michael said.
“So Michael, you got your foot in the door now. Go all the way in. Find the fucking treasure.”
Michael’s heart tripped.
“You mean, so we could
rob
it?” he whispered.
Sonny turned his head to the side, his eyes drifting toward the rack of comic books and pulp magazines.
“Nah. Not rob it. Take it back is what I’m thinking. It’s all money they got from rents and charging too much in stores and
shit like that.”
“Come on, Sonny,” Michael said. “That’s just stealing.”
“So what if it is? Wouldn’t you like to get a house for your mother? Out in Flatbush or someplace? You know, with a yard and
a tree and a garage with a car in it? You wouldn’t like to say to her, Ma, no more working at the fucking hospital, I made
a score?”
“She’d laugh at me. Or she’d call the goddamned cops.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, Michael,” Sonny said. “Money is money. You make up a good lie and she’d take it. Nobody
calls the cops on their own kid.”
“You don’t want your share,” Jimmy Kabinsky said, “you give it to me. My uncle wouldn’t call the cops.”
“I saw the rabbi,” Michael said. “He’s poor. His clothes are raggedy. The tops of his shoes look like burnt goddamned bacon.
He has a treasure in there, why doesn’t he buy a coat?”
“Maybe he don’t even know the treasure is there,” Sonny said. “He’s new, right? You never seen him before, right? Maybe the
last guy died and never told this guy about the treasure.”
“And maybe there’s no treasure.”
“So find out.”
Costello, the fat cop, came in, wheezing as he stood beforeMrs. Slowacki and ordered a pack of Pall Malls. The boys stopped talking. The detective gave them a look and walked outside,
peeling the cellophane off the cigarette pack. Abbott was sitting in the police car, which was raised on one side on a hummock
of frozen snow. He nodded when the fat cop slipped in behind the wheel.
“That tub of shit,” Sonny said.
“Big tough guy,” Jimmy said.
“So what about it, Michael?” Sonny said.
“I just don’t believe the story,” Michael said, wishing he’d never told them about his visit to the synagogue.
“You believe in Captain Marvel and you don’t believe this?” Sonny said.
“Who says I believe in Captain Marvel?”
“You told me last year maybe it could be true.”
“That was last year.”
“So this year, go up the fucking synagogue and see
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