Deacon King Kong(18)

They were in the old man’s bedroom just days before he died. The old man had sent his mother to the store, claiming he needed fresh orange juice—something he disliked but occasionally drank for his wife’s sake. They were in the bedroom, just the two of them, watching Bill Beutel, the longtime anchorman on Channel 7, giving the local news, Elefante in the room’s only chair, the old man propped on the bed. His pop seemed distracted. He raised his head from his pillow and said, “Turn the TV sound up.”

Elefante did as he was told, then moved his chair next to the bed. As he tried to sit, the old man reached up and grabbed his shirt and pulled him onto the bed, yanking his son’s head close to his. “Keep your eyes open for someone.”

“Who?”

“An old fella. Irishman. The Governor.”

“The governor of New York?” Elefante asked.

“Not that crook,” his father said. “The other Governor. The Irish one. That’s his name: the Governor. If he shows—and he probably won’t—he’ll ask about your health. That’s how you’ll know it’s him.”

“What about my health?”

His father ignored him. “And he’ll sing about the road rising up to meet you, and the wind being at your back and God being in the palm of your hand. All that Irish Catholic crap. If he’s crowing that and asking about your health, that’s him.”

“What about him?”

“I’m holding something for him, and he’s come to collect it. Give it to him. He’ll treat you fair.”

“What’re you holding?”

But then they heard the door open and his mother return, so the old man shut down, saying they’d talk later. Later never came. The old man slipped into incomprehensibility a day later and died.

Elefante, seated before the Irishman, who was staring at him oddly, tried to keep his voice even. “Poppa did mention something about health. But that was a long time ago. Just before he died. I was twenty, so I don’t remember so well.”

“Ah, but a fair-play mate he was. He never forgot a friend. A better man I never knew. He looked out for me in prison.”

“Look, get your blockers out the backfield, would ya?”

“What?”

“Put the show on the road, mister. What you selling?”

“I’ll say it once again for Mother Mary. I need something moved to Kennedy.”

“Is it too big for a car?”

“No. You can fit it in your hand.”

“You wanna play blackjacks and spout riddles all day? What is it?”

The Governor smiled. “If I was light-headed enough to drag a barrel full of trouble to a friend’s house, what kind of man would I be?”

“That’s touching, but it sounds like a lie.”

“I’d move it myself,” the old Irishman said. “But it’s in storage.”

“Get it out then.”

“That’s just it. I can’t. The header running the storage place don’t know me.”

“Who’s the guy?”

The old man smirked and peered at Elefante out the side of his one good eye. “I’d tell you in installments, but at my age, how’s that gonna work out? Whyn’t you wind yer neck in and pay attention?” He smiled grimly, then from his chair sang softly:

    Wars were shared and gay for each

Until the Venus faced the breach

The Venus, the Venus, so dear to me

At Willendorf always her image be.

The Venus oh beauty

Now covered and taut

Lost to me, but not for naught.



When he stopped, he found Elefante glaring at him, his lips pursed. “If you wanna keep your teeth,” Elefante said, “don’t sing no more.”

The old Irishman was nonplussed. “I got no tricks,” he said. “Something fell in my lap many a year ago. I need your help getting it. And moving it.”

“What is it?”

Again the old man ignored the question. “I’m on a short lease, lad. I’m on the way out. It won’t do me no good. My lungs are going. I got a grown lass, a daughter. I’m giving her my bagel business. It’s a good, clean business.”

“What’s an Irishman doing baking bagels?”

“Is that illegal? No worries about the cops, son. Come up and see it if you want. It’s a good operation. We’re in the Bronx. Right off the Bruckner Expressway. You’ll see I’m square.”

“If you’re so square and tidy, give your daughter what you got and live happily ever after.”

“I said I don’t want my daughter mixed up in it. You can have it. You can keep it. Or sell it. Or sell it and give me a little piece if you want, and keep the rest for yourself. However you like. That’ll be the end of it. At least it won’t be wasted.”

“You oughta be a wedding planner, mister. First you want me to move it. Then you want to give it to me. Then you want me to sell it and give you a piece. What is it, for Christ’s sake?”

The old man looked at Elefante sideways. “Your old man told me a story once. He said you wanted a job working for the Five Families when he came out. You wanna know how the story ends?”

“I already know how it ends.”