William Kennedy - Billy Phelan's Greatest Game

“I’m the friend?”

“No, you’re a friend of the friend. The friend is Morrie Berman.”

The noise Billy made then was a noncommittal grunt. Maloy and Curry, Berman’s pals. On the list, Curry.

“We understand you know Mr. Berman well,” Max Rosen said.

“We play cards together.”

“We understand you know him better than that,” Rosen said.

“I know him a long time.”

“Yeah, yeah, we know all about it,” said Patsy, “and we also know you didn’t give Pop O’Rourke’s man his ten dollars today.”

“I told Pop why.”

“We know what you told him,” said Patsy, “and we know your brother-in-law, Georgie Quinn, is writing numbers and don’t have the okay for the size books he’s taking on.”

“Georgie talked to Pop about that, too.”

“And Pop told him he could write a little, but now he’s backing the play himself. He’s ambitious, your brother-in-law.”

“What is all this, Bindy? What are we talking about? You know the color of my shorts. What’s it for?” Billy felt comfortable only with Bindy, but Bindy said nothing.

“Do you know the Berman family, Mr. Phelan?” Max Rosen asked.

“I know Morrie’s old man’s in politics, that’s all.”

“Do you like Morrie Berman?” Rosen asked.

“I like him like I like a lot of guys. I got nothing against him. He’s the guy had the idea to buy me a steak tonight. Nice.”

“Do you like Charlie?” Patsy asked.

“Do I like him? Sure I like him. I grew up with him. Charlie was always a good friend of mine, and I don’t say that just here. I bullshit nobody on this.”

Bindy poured more beer into Billy’s glass and smiled at him.

“All right, Billy,” Bindy said, “we figure we know your feelings. We wouldn’t have okayed you for that Saratoga job if we didn’t trust you. We know you a long time. And you remember after the Paul Whiteman thing, we gave you that other job, too.”

“The Chicago Club?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought that came from Lemon Lewis. I didn’t think you even knew about that.”

“We knew. We do Albany people.”

“Then it’s two I owe you.”

“Just one,” Bindy said. “We trusted you then, we trust you now. But that don’t mean forever.”

“Who the hell am I not to trust? What do I know?”

“We don’t know what you know,” Patsy said.

“It’s what you might come to know in the next few days that’s important,” Max Rosen said. “We’re interested in Mr. Berman, in everything he says and does. Everything.”

“Morrie doesn’t tell me secrets,” Billy said.

“We don’t expect that,” said Max. “If he’s involved in the kidnapping, and we’re by no means saying that he is, then he’s hardly likely to talk about it at all. But you must know, Mr. Phelan, that men sometimes betray themselves indirectly. They reveal what’s on their mind merely by random comment. Berman might, for instance, mention the men involved in a context other than criminal. Do you follow me?”

“No.”

“You’re not stupid,” Patsy said, an edge to his voice. He leaned forward in his chair and looked through Billy’s head.

“Nobody ever said I was,” Billy said, looking back through Patsy’s head.

“Billy,” said Bindy in a soothing tone, “we’re playing in every joint where we can get a bet down. I tell you one thing. Some people wouldn’t even put it past Berman’s old man to be in on this.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Max Rosen said. “Jake Berman isn’t capable of such behavior. I’ve known him all my life.”

“I don’t accuse him,” Bindy said, “but he don’t like us. I just make the point that we suspect everybody.”

“People might even suspect you, with your name in the paper,” Patsy said.

Billy snorted. “Me?”

“People talk.”

“Don’t pay attention if you hear that,” Bindy said. “We know you’re clean. We wanted you and Berman in the same boat. He don’t know why you’re on the list, but now you and him got that in common.”

“You think that’ll make him talk to me?”

“It could. What’d he say tonight?”

“We played cards and he kicked the holdup guy a little. He said he talked to Mr. Rosen here, and he said he didn’t get along with his old man. We talked about a drink that we had one time.”

“Who did he talk about?” Bindy asked. “Who?”

“Tabby Bender. George Kindlon, who tended bar for Tabby.”

“Who else?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Edward Curry is on the list. Did he mention him?”

“I mentioned Curry, that his name was spelled wrong. And I told a story about him.”

“What story?”

“About the whore in Boston called him honey and he asked her, How come you know my name. You think Curry’s mixed up in this?”

“What did Berman say when you told the story?” Bindy asked.

“He laughed.”

“You didn’t talk about nobody else? Nobody? Think.”

“I talked about a lot of things but not to Berman.”

“Did he say anything about Hubert Maloy?”

“No.”

Bindy leaned back in his chair and looked at Patsy. Billy looked at the brothers, from one to the other, and wondered how he would get out of the Maloy lie. He wondered why he’d even bothered to lie. It meant nothing. He saw the faces of strangers he’d known all his life staring him down. In between them, the face of the McCall ancestor was no longer scowling down from the wall but was only stern and knowing, a face flowing with power and knowledge in every line. There was a world of behavior in this room Billy did not grasp with the clarity he had in pool and poker, or at the crap table. Billy knew jazz and betting and booking horses and baseball. He knew how to stay at arm’s length from the family and how to make out. He resisted knowing more than these things. If you knew what the McCalls knew, you’d be a politician. If you knew what George Quinn knew, you’d be a family man. They had their rewards but Billy did not covet them. Tie you up in knots, pin you down, put you in the box. He could learn anything, study it. He could have been in politics years ago. Who couldn’t on Colonie Street? But he chose other ways of staying alive. There never was a politician Billy could really talk to, and never a hustler he couldn’t.

“All right, Billy,” Bindy said, standing up. “I think we’ve made our point. Call us any time.” He wrote two phone numbers on the pad and handed the sheet to Billy.

“You come up with anything that means something to Charlie,” Patsy said, “you got one hell of a future in this town.”

“What if I don’t run into Berman again?”

“You don’t run into him, then you find him and stay with him,” Patsy said. “If you need money for that, call us.”

“Berman’s a big boy. He goes where he wants.”

“You’re a big boy, too,” Patsy said.

“What Patsy says about your future,” Bindy said, “that goes triple for me. For a starter we clear up your debt with Martin Daugherty. And you never worry about anything again. Your family the same.”

“What if Berman catches on? He’s too smart to pump.”

“If you’re sure he’s on to it, drop it.”

“We’ll get word to you.”

When Billy stood up, Max Rosen put a paternal hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about anything, Mr. Phelan. Do what you can. It’s an unusual situation.”

“Yeah, all of that,” Billy said.

Bindy shook hands and Patsy gave him a nod, and then Billy was in the hallway looking at the bannister, pretty much like the one he used to slide down in the shithouse across the street until his Aunt Sate caught him and pulled his ear and sent him home. He went out the door and closed it behind him. He stood on the McCall stoop, looking up the street at the Dolan house, remembering the Dolan kid who was kidnapped off this street when Billy was little. An uncle did it. They found the kid in the Pine Bush, safe, and brought him home and put him in the window so everybody could see that he was all right. The kid was only four. Everybody wanted to hang the uncle, but he only went to jail.