With this he turned and they walked away, and with my eyes on Brady’s back, in the movie screen of my mind I saw the actor Jack La Rue, always typecast as a gangster, standing beneath a lamppost looking menacing—his only look—while flipping a quarter in the air and catching it over and over, which he did in every movie he was in, his movie dialogue now sounding in my head with a boomy echo-chamber effect:
“What about the girl, Baloqui? She’ll talk. Do we kill her?”
“No. I have an arrangement with a white slaver.”
When Baloqui and Brady were far enough away, Jane abruptly quit bawling to look up at me deadpan and utter, “I thought they’d never leave. Listen, Joey, I’m hungry. Can we eat somewhere now?”
I said, “You eat? ”
“What does that mean?” she said, glowering up at me, and after telling her that I had no idea, hand in hand we started walking toward a modest little eatery I’d once seen at the end of the boardwalk where I thought there’d be almost no chance of another highly dangerous “brief encounter”—in particular with Vera Virago. I had to take baby steps so Jane could keep up, and as we walked I looked down at her pigtails and curly red mop, still trying to figure out what was happening. The time jumps. Jane. Were I older I’d have thought about bizarre disorders of the brain, like in that book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat , but back then I was lost. At times I’d just helplessly snicker and shake my head, and once even wondered if I was just dreaming, except the dream was too long and the Nathan’s aromas too pungent. I mean, I see things and I’ve heard things in my dreams but never smelled them.
This was real.
Whatever that was.
10
“Oh, goody!” Jane exclaimed, her eyes beaming in a face as plump and shiny and round as a candy apple held in bright sunlight. Her hand still in mine, she was staring up at the sign for NOT NATHAN’S!!! , the only kosher hot dog server in Coney Island. The sign’s exclamation points sent a message:
GOYS, FORGET IT! WE HAVE NOTHING YOU LIKE!
“What do you want, children? Tell me. I’m here for you.”
The paunchy little white-haired, middle-aged guy behind the counter—who I guess was the owner—was wiping his hands on his mustard-stained apron and could easily have been the actor “Cuddles” Sakall, who played the soft-hearted waiter at Rick’s in Casablanca. Already his eyes were welling up with forgiveness even before we’d done anything wrong.
He said, “Hot dog? Maybe bratwurst with mustard and onion?”
“You serve any beer or wine?” Jane asked him, her dimpled little face upturned and with her arms akimbo in a classic Shirley Temple mode of challenging sulk. Her voice even had that lispy pout.
The owner’s eyes bugged out, and now he looked even more like Sakall saying, “Honest? Honest as the day is long!” whereas Jane’s defiant comeback stare was more “You played it for her, you can play it for me!” “Only root beer, sarsaparilla,” he finally sputtered. “But also Joe Louis Punch. I forgot. It’s new.” He picked up a greenish colored bottle. There was a picture or decal on it of the bare-chested heavyweight champion, the “Brown Bomber,” in a fighting stance. The owner held it up to us. “We also have War Cards,” he added. These were like baseball cards and came with bubblegum strips, but instead of a photo of Dixie Walker or Cookie Lavagetto on the card there’d be these multicolored comic strip sketches of gory atrocities being committed by Japanese soldiers, things like bayoneting babies in midair and whatever else helped them calm their nerves that day.
“No, no War Cards,” I told him. “They’d make the kid sick.”
“I understand.”
I looked up at a posted menu list with the prices, then leaned over with my mouth very close to Jane’s ear. “Have you got any money?” I whispered. She pulled her head away and looked me in the eye
“What about the girl, Baloqui? She’ll talk. Do we kill her?”
“No. I have an arrangement with a white slaver.”
When Baloqui and Brady were far enough away, Jane abruptly quit bawling to look up at me deadpan and utter, “I thought they’d never leave. Listen, Joey, I’m hungry. Can we eat somewhere now?”
I said, “You eat? ”
“What does that mean?” she said, glowering up at me, and after telling her that I had no idea, hand in hand we started walking toward a modest little eatery I’d once seen at the end of the boardwalk where I thought there’d be almost no chance of another highly dangerous “brief encounter”—in particular with Vera Virago. I had to take baby steps so Jane could keep up, and as we walked I looked down at her pigtails and curly red mop, still trying to figure out what was happening. The time jumps. Jane. Were I older I’d have thought about bizarre disorders of the brain, like in that book The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat , but back then I was lost. At times I’d just helplessly snicker and shake my head, and once even wondered if I was just dreaming, except the dream was too long and the Nathan’s aromas too pungent. I mean, I see things and I’ve heard things in my dreams but never smelled them.
This was real.
Whatever that was.
10
“Oh, goody!” Jane exclaimed, her eyes beaming in a face as plump and shiny and round as a candy apple held in bright sunlight. Her hand still in mine, she was staring up at the sign for NOT NATHAN’S!!! , the only kosher hot dog server in Coney Island. The sign’s exclamation points sent a message:
GOYS, FORGET IT! WE HAVE NOTHING YOU LIKE!
“What do you want, children? Tell me. I’m here for you.”
The paunchy little white-haired, middle-aged guy behind the counter—who I guess was the owner—was wiping his hands on his mustard-stained apron and could easily have been the actor “Cuddles” Sakall, who played the soft-hearted waiter at Rick’s in Casablanca. Already his eyes were welling up with forgiveness even before we’d done anything wrong.
He said, “Hot dog? Maybe bratwurst with mustard and onion?”
“You serve any beer or wine?” Jane asked him, her dimpled little face upturned and with her arms akimbo in a classic Shirley Temple mode of challenging sulk. Her voice even had that lispy pout.
The owner’s eyes bugged out, and now he looked even more like Sakall saying, “Honest? Honest as the day is long!” whereas Jane’s defiant comeback stare was more “You played it for her, you can play it for me!” “Only root beer, sarsaparilla,” he finally sputtered. “But also Joe Louis Punch. I forgot. It’s new.” He picked up a greenish colored bottle. There was a picture or decal on it of the bare-chested heavyweight champion, the “Brown Bomber,” in a fighting stance. The owner held it up to us. “We also have War Cards,” he added. These were like baseball cards and came with bubblegum strips, but instead of a photo of Dixie Walker or Cookie Lavagetto on the card there’d be these multicolored comic strip sketches of gory atrocities being committed by Japanese soldiers, things like bayoneting babies in midair and whatever else helped them calm their nerves that day.
“No, no War Cards,” I told him. “They’d make the kid sick.”
“I understand.”
I looked up at a posted menu list with the prices, then leaned over with my mouth very close to Jane’s ear. “Have you got any money?” I whispered. She pulled her head away and looked me in the eye
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