The kid that had been sweeping up had followed me into the toilet. He must have been around 14 with that eager young puppy look, all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Kind of reminded me of myself before I got wise.

“You really going to do it?”

“Do what?

“Get into the ring with the Hammer?”

“The Hammer? Is that his real name?”

“Don’t know. That’s all I ever hear anyone calling him.”

“He any good?”

“Never saw anyone get past the first.”

I’ve always been able to take care of myself, so hearing that I was about to get into the ring with the Hammer, didn’t exactly worry me. I was more concerned that Blondie may not stick around.

“What’s the story with Blondie?”

“Miss Margie?”

“The pretty one.”

The kid’s face turned all red, and I could tell that he had spent many a lonesome night thinking about her. “That’s Margie. The Hammer’s girl.”

“Is she going to watch?”

“Guess so. She always does.”

Things were looking up.

“What color shorts should I wear?”

“Most guys wear the red one. They say it hides the blood better.”

“I’ll wear the white.”

Sunday Morning and there’s some jack hammering going on that won’t stop. The sunlight is like a knife repeatedly stabbing me in the one eye that I can barely open. And every little noise is a baseball bat against the side of my head..

I’m trying to remember how this happened, but it’s no use. Everything is blank. Never had this before. I usually can remember something. When I finally managed to open my eyes, they don’t recognize the room. I certainly haven’t been in one of these for a while. There weren’t any roaches on the wall, I didn’t hear any rats gnawing in the walls, and the ceiling didn’t look like it had been smeared with crap.

I turned to my right and there was someone else next to me. She had long blonde hair. It was Blondie from the gym. Still nothing in my brain. At least nothing about what happened in the room which was a shame given that I was naked and so looked Blondie. She was quiet. Probably hurting as much as me.

The fight at the gym didn’t last that long. The Hammer was one of those lummoxes that come straight at you, all brawn and no brain. Grunting, sneering, he had showy foot work, but his overhand right strolled like a snail hurrying through the garden and I caught him by surprise when I moved. I then hit him with a left to the solar plexus, immediately followed by a short right. His jaw crumbled from the punch and I was already untying the gloves with my teeth before he hit canvas with a loud thud. He wasn’t going to get up for a while.

That’s how it all started, me and Blondie. A smile led to a wink which led to some breakfast, then lunch, followed by dinner and ending with dessert. Still don’t remember much about what happened once we got back to her place. I leaned closer to her to see if she was awake. Her eyes were open, staring at the wall. She was dead.

I woke up in the local jail. It wasn’t my first time, and it probably won’t be my last.

I was in a cell with 20 other joes that were innocent too. The crapper was in a corner of the cell. Funny, there’s always one guy who seems to enjoy sitting on the throne in open view. This time it was some small guy who kept yelling “come on,” like he was playing a game of craps</a>. In a manner of speaking, I guess he was.

I hadn’t slept much. Between the snoring and shouting, I was trying to figure out how I got into this mess. Usually it’s of my doing. Not this time.

“Jake Tiger.”

“Here.”

The guard walked over rattling like Marley visiting Ebeneezer Scrooge</a>, but it was too early for Christmas.

“Get your things. Charges dropped.”

I guess Christmas came early this year. “Get my things?” I was wearing all my things.

I walked out to the morning sun. It was going to be another scorcher especially since Lieutenant Crimson was waiting for me.

“What do you want, Harry?”

“Don’t give me a hard time, Jake. You want to go back in? I can make it happen real fast.”

I looked over at his partner Vinny who sneered at me. Although the sneer was hard to take seriously because of the train whistle that sounded every time he breathed. It was an accident, I swear.

“And what did I do to deserve this special treatment?”

“We heard about you and the Hammer.”

“And?” It still didn’t explain why I was cut free after I had been unfortunate enough to wake up next to a dead Blondie. Bad for me. Worse for Blondie.

“I spoke to the D.A. We thought we’d give you 48 hours to tell us what happened.”

“I told you last night that I didn’t remember anything.”

“48 hours.”

“What makes you think I won’t run.”

“Vinny’s your shadow. Have fun.”

Yesterday can feel like a million years ago and ten years ago can feel like yesterday. Not sure how that works, but time is always screwing with me.

About a year ago, I was running some numbers around the Bowery. Would go around collecting slips, money, and make some payoffs. It was nothing hard: the people loved you, the boss took care of the cops, and the pay wasn’t bad.</span>

You just had to make sure you didn’t lose some betting slips or the money. Joey lost a whole bag one miserable day and was found floating in the Hudson the next morning. It was a warning that goes out to make sure the rest of us keep our concentration. Still don’t know how Joey screwed up, but it happens. Nice guy. He just had a kid too.

A few of the runners quit after Joey bobbed to the top and then the coppers felt that they needed to squeeze the rest of us. That’s when Harry and Vinny unexpectedly showed up at my door. It wouldn’t have turned out that bad if they first knocked, but when they kicked down the door I reacted by kicking back and that’s when Vinny’s nose turned into a pancake drowning in strawberry syrup. The worst part was that some of the blood wound up on the nice beige suit that I was wearing. It ruined my day. After that me and Vinny just didn’t get along. Can’t imagine why, but I really liked the suit.

And here we were, heading off together in his DeSoto. Nice car. Too nice for Vinny.

“How’s the nose?”

“Fuck you.”

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you over the whistle.”

“Fuck you.”

I could see where this was going and I reached down to change the radio station.

“Leave it. I like the station.”

“Opera? You never struck me as the opera type.”

“Where we going?”

“The gym.”

We pulled in front of Louie’s. The heat was still killing everyone, the street looked the same, and the same losers were jumping rope. It had only been about 24 hours, but it felt much longer. Funny that thing about time. It moves fast, slow, and in between. Not sure how that works, but now it stopped. No one moved. Traffic was still. Pedestrians were frozen in mid step.

And I saw Blondie standing inside the gym.

What the . . . ?

Vinny must have seen me gaping at the woman in the gym. She looked identical to the long legged blonde that had died in my bed.</span>

“It’s her twin.”

A twin? I’ve seen identical twins before but this was incredible. She wore the same hairstyle, same dress, same shoes, even the same makeup and she had the same pouty look that sends this strange feeling running through your veins. </span>

“Yeah. Margie and Mary. Margie is dead. That’s Mary.”

“How can you tell the difference?”

“Mary has a scar on the lower left ankle.”

“You’re kidding.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“You never told me how Mary died.”

“Margie.”

“Margie died? Thought it was Mary.”

“No. It was Margie. Margo identified Margie. Not Mary.”

“Margo?”

“Their mom.”

Margo, Margie, and Mary? I thought only guys did stupid crap like that. “You still haven’t told me how Margie died.” I was proud of myself, got the name right.

“You mean Mary.”

“Who’s on First?”

“Who.”

We sauntered into the gym, me and my shadow. Margie turned her back, the Hammer scowled with his broken nose, and Louie walked over shooing us away with his hands.

“Vinny, you can stay. Jake, you have to leave.”

“You like Vinny better than me?”

“What are you doing here, Jake? How’d you even get out?”

“Louie, I didn’t do anything. I feel bad about Margie.”

“Margie? I thought Mary died.”

Great, the third stooge had just joined us.”Yuk, yuk, yuk, yuk. Does it matter?”

“I always thought Margie was cuter.”

“You could tell them apart?”

“Margie has a scar on the lower left ankle.”

“I thought Mary had the scar.”

“No, Margie has the scar.”

I looked over at Vinny who shrugged his shoulders. Figures, my shadow was wrong. I turned back to Louie. “So who’s the lady standing there?”

“Who?”

And I thought that vaudeville was dead.

Unlike Sammy “Nutso” Kaplan, the Moose had an uneventful childhood. His mom was usually pregnant and every couple of years there was another mouth to feed. By the time the Moose was thirteen-years-old, he had three brothers and three sisters. To support the growing family, the father Alphonso made a living any way he could. He’d sell clothing one week, do some labor the next, maybe knead some dough at the bakery. His wife Sophia helped out by taking in mending when she wasn’t looking after the little ones and somehow they managed to survive without any help from anyone.

Dominic was a bright kid. In another era he would have become a doctor, a scientist, a teacher. But this was the early 1900’s. And for a child born to an immigrant Italian family, the opportunities were limited. New York City was booming, construction was everywhere, and most of his friends took jobs building the skyscrapers that would eventually fill the landscape.

Construction wasn’t something that Dominic was crazy about. He could do it if necessary, but there was something more that he wanted out of life than getting yelled at by some boss. There were these men in fancy suits that never seemed to work and made their living providing protection to the shops in the area. Once the Moose grew up, it wasn’t too long before he would accompany them on their recruitment drives for new clients or when they needed to collect from a shopkeeper that had fallen behind on the easy installment plan.

It was just another way to make a living. The Moose would stand in the background with his hands in his pockets and make a few cents. Occasionally, he would hold a guy or smash a window, nothing that serious, but it was enough to add money into the family savings jar.

His best friend was Abe Solomon, a Jewish kid about his age, who grew up one floor above the Mancini apartment. Moose and Abe were like brothers. They were the same age, had the same interests, and when they got older even enjoyed the same women. While the Moose made money with protection, Abe kept looking for something even bigger. And when the 18th Amendment that banned alcohol was passed, he found it.

In 1920, the United States turned dry. Moose, his two younger brothers, and Abe Solomon stole a small truc. They painted a giant Moose on the side and started to drive in liquor from Canada. One truck led to two and before long, they had a dozen trucks driving back and forth. Everyone made money, the neighborhood had plenty to drink, and the Moose became a big shot.

Of course, there were risks: a driver would get hijacked; a truck would get torched; some runner would get arrested. But a few dollars here and there kept the party rolling. And by 1924, Moose Trucking had become the largest trucking company on the East Coast. Liquor continued to pour in from the north, but concrete needed to be delivered, heavy machinery needed to be moved, and cheap cigarettes could be brought in from the south.

In 1925, two truck drivers called in sick. It happens. Some concrete needed to be delivered to the West Side and Moose’s brothers volunteered to drive the few blocks to the job site. The Moose said, “it could wait.” Abe responded, “What’s the big deal?” Carmine and Mario drove out of the lot, made a right, and continued straight for a couple of blocks before they got stopped behind some road work that had mysteriously appeared. Four men with Thompson Submachine Guns appeared and riddled them both with enough bullet holes that made an open casket impossible.

At the Molina Funeral Home, a pale, distraught Abe Solomon walked in to pay his respects to his best friend. He went to give Moose a hug when Moose pulled out a handgun and shot his friend in the head. After Abe fell to the ground, the Moose shot him five more times, and then spit on the body before he slowly left the funeral home. The Moose wasn’t angry at Abe, but he wanted to make a point; mistakes are not tolerated.

The seventy-eight mourners who were in the funeral home when the shooting took place didn’t see how it happened and the local police, after receiving a sizable donation to their early retirement fund, closed the investigation as another unsolved murder in the escalating gangland violence.

In the years since, the Moose has become the head of the largest mob family in the United States.

Unsurprisingly, mistakes are still not tolerated.

The story is that little 4’ 2” Sammy is on his way to P.S. 114 on Delancey Street when he gets stopped by these two kids who ask him for his lunch. They’re a few years older, at least a foot taller and are even flashing a switchblade. It wouldn’t have mattered if they had a .45, Sammy’s response would have been the same. He refused to turn over his liverwurst sandwich. The funny part is that he hated liverwurst and normally tossed it away when he got far enough from his building so that his mom wouldn’t see.

When he told the much older boys to go fuck themselves, the kids grabbed him and held the blade to his throat. Ten-year-old Sammy kicked one of them in the nuts, snatched the knife and plunged it into the other boy’s chest. He then calmly pulled the knife out and went over to the kid that was lying on the ground holding his crotch. Due to all the squirming, Sammy missed the chest but did manage to nail the boy in the stomach. Sammy then picked up his lunch that had fallen during the fight and rushed off to school as he didn’t want to get into trouble for being late. Like always, a few blocks from his home he tossed the liverwurst sandwich down a sewer.

Later that day, the police showed up at the Kaplan residence to speak to Sammy. Mrs. Kaplan was busy making dinner for her husband who had not yet come home from his job at the neighborhood butcher shop. And Sammy was in his room reenacting the fight by repeatedly stabbing his pillow with a pretend switchblade. I know all this because Sammy told me the story over a few drinks one night when we started reminiscing about the good old days.

A shocked Mrs. Kaplan called Sammy to the kitchen where Officers Murphy and Kelly were drinking seltzer water having turned down Mrs. Kaplan’s offer of a nosh. Like everyone else in the neighborhood, they too were aware of Mrs. Kaplan’s culinary skills. Now the cops knew the punks that had held up Sammy for his liverwurst sandwich and did not give a crap that Sammy had nearly killed them. But they needed to do their job and that’s when Sammy walked out of his room with the sweetest smile that you ever saw.

It’s hard to know how it came about, but Sammy is incredibly handsome. I’m not a bad looking guy, but Sammy is from a different planet. Wherever you go with Sammy, women follow. Young, old, single, married, divorced, it doesn’t matter. They all chase after him.

Even Officers Murphy and Kelly were influenced by Sammy’s looks and when they asked him whether he had stabbed the kids, Sammy batted his long eyelashes and said, “Oh no Officers, I would never do anything like that.” Now I’m not giving this story justice, but when Sammy told it, he fluttered his eyes when he got to this part, and that’s when I started pissing in my pants. After meeting Sammy, Officers Murphy and Kelly left convinced that the kid had nothing to do with the stabbings.

From that day on, Sammy was known as “Nutso” by the rest of the neighborhood. But never to his face.

It was February, and the cheap fucking landlord kept the apartments colder than the icy stoop in front of the building. All the banging on the pipes couldn’t get the super to turn on a little heat. I gave up trying some time ago.

You couldn’t say I was living it up big. Yet, I still needed to make a few bucks a week to get by. My usual shitty jobs had dried up. No one needed me to run some numbers or protect some big shots. That’s how it goes. When it gets cold like this, everything freezes over, even fucking hell.

And that’s how I wound up taking the train uptown to “Louie’s.” The gym was on 48th, off of Tenth. I was hoping to make a few bucks sparring with some punk. You know, the one who’s thinks he’s all hot shit until someone whacks him in the face one time.

I got off the IRT, took a left past the porn theaters, the peep shows, the hookers, and the pushers. The cold didn’t stop the perverts and addicts from crowding into Times Square. It was going full blast. I kept walking until I hit the third wave of whores past the Port Authority. You know, the ones who had gotten too old for the glittering lights of Broadway.

“Hey, Paula.” I knew her from the old neighborhood. We were about the same age, but she looked twenty years older.

“Hey, Jake.” Her face reddened.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, just waiting for some friends.”

I kept five bucks in my wallet for an emergency. I took out the money and slippped it into her hand.

“I’m good, Jake. You keep it.”

“I just hit it big. Take it. Go home.”

Paula sniffled. “You’re a good guy, Jake.”

“It’s nothing. Say hello to your mom for me.”

“She always asks about you.”

“And what do you tell her?”

“I always say the same thing. ‘He’s doing great.’”

The gym was chugging along when I got finally got there. Must be a landlord thing. Louie also didn’t believe in heat. “Jump some fucking rope if you’re cold,” he’d say.

Mary was at the front desk keeping out the riffraff and collecting what she could from the gawkers and the wannabees.

“Jake, where’ve you been?”

She kind of looked happy to see me which was a bit of a surprise.

“Vegas. But I missed this place so I came back.”

“Who comes back to New York in February?”

“Someone with a great travel agent.”

Mary laughed a little too hard. “That’s funny. You want to make a few bucks. There’s this guy who’s getting ready for some fight. Needs someone to go a few rounds. Max got sick. You interested?”

I didn’t have a good feeling. The last time I saw Mary I was sneaking out while she was sleeping. No way was she was gonna be helping me.

“Who’s the guy?”

“Some loser.You can handle him. What do you say? Hundred bucks. Three Rounds.”

A hundred was a lot of money. Minimum wage was a buck and some change. And it usually took me a couple weeks of hustling to make a c-note. I came to Louie’s hoping to score a fin or two. So, I knew this was too good to be true.

“What do you say? Go change. And the tomato can will meet you in the back ring.”

Now, I knew I was getting fucked. And not in the good way.

Mary dropped a couple of sawbucks on the desk. “You’ll get the rest of the moolah after the third round.” I always hated that word “moolah.” Especially the way she said it, “Moooooooolah.” She got that from Louie.

“And if it don’t go the distance?”

“You’ll get the fucking money. Unless you take another dive.”

“Not me. Never.”

“Yeah, right. Go change. Use Max’s locker.” e I grabbed the twenty bucks knowing I’d never see the rest. That’s what happens when you’re down and out. Everyone fucks you over. I knew Mary was messing with me. Not only wouldn’t I get any more dough, but the fucking guy wasn’t gonna be a bum.

It didn’t matter. I wanted to see the chump I was gonna fight, and I definitely needed whatever money I could get.

When I got out of the locker room in Max’s shorts and headgear, I headed to the back ring. It was a lot more crowded than usual. Frank from the Herald was there. Along with about half-a-dozen or so other sportswriters.

Frank shouted, “What the fuck are you doing, Jake?” I gave him the best thumbs up I could with the boxing gloves I were wearing.

I was in it now. No way I was going to walk away. I bent down between the ropes into the ring.

Jimmy, the worst fucking cut man in the whole world, moved to my corner. He waved two filthy towels towards me. “Try not to bleed too much. This is all I got.”

There’s this mirror that takes up the entire wall behind the ring. So, I began to shadowbox. I looked pretty good. Still a little tanned from Vegas. And not eating much brought out my six-pack. I was ready to kick some ass.

And that’s when the so-called “bum” got into the ring.

I checked around to see if this was a mistake. Mary was giving me the middle finger. And the rest of the gym was pointing and laughing. Well, everyone except the broom guy, Sal. He looked a little sad. Sal always liked me. And I liked him. He’s a good kid.

Let me tell you about my boxing skills. I grew up on the streets. Got into a lot fights. Was always pretty strong. Could handle myself. And was definitely great at taking a punch. Not only that but I had gotten a few bits of advice from Jack Dempsey while munching on his cheesecake. “Jake, it’s all about distance.” Whatever the fuck that meant.

Now, the fighter in the opposite corner was grinning at me and yelling, “You’re going down.”

I had no reason to doubt it. You see, I was about to go a few rounds with the heavyweight champion of the world, Emile “The Hammer” Foster.

Fuck you, Mary.

I mean there’s a birth certificate with my birthday and name on it. But that piece of paper came years later.

My first few years was spent in an orphanage. At least that’s what I was told. STory is I was left with piece of paper pinned to my shirt. All it said was “Jake.” And there was a little stuffed animal shoved into the bassinet. See if you can figure which animal it was.

I eventually moved around every year or so to different foster homes. Probably, if I had been born a few years earlier, I would have wound up out west via an Orphan Train. Working on a farm might have been nice. Instead, I roamed the streets of the lower east side with the other outcasts.

It wasn’t all bad living in the land of immigrants. People were generally nice. Taught me about half-a-dozen languages or so. What you’d expect: Italian, Yiddish, Mandarin, Polish, Russian. I speak a little English, too.

I don’t think I have any brothers or sisters. But who knows. Maybe one day, there’ll be some way to check my blood or something for a match. That would be nice finding a blood relative. Be even nicer to find out what happened to my parents.

I was real good at stickball. In a different world, maybe I’d be another Joe Dimaggio or Jackie Robinson.

Boxing is what I drifted to when I got little older. That’s the sport for us poor schnooks. Get a few bucks for getting your brain bashed in. Was pretty good at it until that one night when I walked away from it. Still too painful to think about.

I’m not complaining. It isn’t all bad. I usually got a roof over my head. And sometimes, I even have a few bucks in my pocket.

It’s been a while.

And I’m not going anywhere.

Well, at least for a few days.

Jake