Marilyn the Wild by Jerome Charyn Read Free Book Online Page A

spaces between his teeth. “Amerigo, keep your goons on your side of the Bowery. If I catch them near Essex Street, they won’t be in any condition to search for lollipops.”
    He got up without fantasies of destruction in his head. He wouldn’t spit on dominoes, smash the espresso machine, bring the Garibaldis to Headquarters. He had no grudge against Amerigo Genussa. He walked around the tables and landed in the street.

5.

    M ARILYN didn’t mourn her penniless state. Shuffling from Bellevue to Coen’s to the Crosby Street jail, she narrowed her problems down to the question of logistics: how could she avoid her father on her father’s turf? She sat in Bellevue with her Jewish grandmother, surrounded by bottles and tubes that could draw the wastes out of Sophie and drip vital sugars into her body. Sophie’s bruises had turned yellowish. The coma she was in wasn’t absolute. She would come out of her sleep to frown at the pipes in her nose and signal to Marilyn with her dry tongue. Marilyn couldn’t gauge the extent of Sophie’s recognition. Was Sophie calling for a nurse or mouthing “Kathleen,” the name of Marilyn’s mother?
    â€œI’m with you, grandma Sophie. Kathleen’s daughter. Your grandchild Marilyn.”
    She escaped the stare of interns and orderlies on the prowl. Isaac could be behind the door. He had a whole catalogue of spies to trap her with; men in hospital coats, detectives wearing powder and a false moustache, who would point a finger at Isaac’s skinny daughter and cluck for the Chief. She saw this type of man scrounging on Crosby Street. She was carrying cookies for uncle Leo that she made with flour from Coen’s single pantry shelf. The man had pieces of charcoal around his lips. He tried to mimic the auras of a bum. He blew on his knuckles, tore at the threads of his coat, bit hairs off his wrinkled scarf. Marilyn laughed at the flaws in his disguise. The cop had protected feet: only a police bum would walk around in Florsheim shoes.
    A crease near the eyes disturbed Marilyn. “Brian Connell,” she said without embanassment She knew him from Echo Park, and her junior-high-school days. She’d had several “sweethearts.” Brian was one of them.
    â€œMary?” he said. He couldn’t understand how a girlie could pinpoint him under a coat, a hairy scarf, and a blackened face.
    â€œI’m Marilyn. Marilyn Sidel.”
    The cop blew on his knuckles again. He had gorgeous teeth. Memories of Marilyn ruined his charcoal complexion. His cheeks burned with color as he recollected a bony girl with big tits.
    â€œMarilyn, it’s insane I should meet you at the bottom of Manhattan. I’m with the anti-crime boys. I work out of Elizabeth Street The bosses are sitting on our heads. They’ll murder us if we can’t produce the mutts that hit your grandmother. That’s why I’m in my Bowery clothes.”
    Marilyn felt silly shaking the paw of an old, old boyfriend, someone who’d licked her flesh eleven years ago. Brian had never been shy with her; now he rocked on his Florsheims, knuckles in his mouth. He’s afraid of my father, Marilyn guessed. She showed him the cookies. “I have to deliver them to my uncle. See you around, Brian. Goodbye.”
    Brian moved his jaw in a cunning way. He wouldn’t release Marilyn’s hand. He had to bend one knee to hide his erection from her.
    â€œMarilyn, don’t be brief. We could divide Marble Hill and the North Bronx between ourselves. We share the same freaky past. Have a beer with me.”
    Brian contemplated a quick romance. If he could get close to Marilyn, blow on her nipples until she was crazy about him, he would have an opening to Isaac. Brian needed a big Jew. (None of the Irish rabbis at Headquarters had picked him up.) Isaac was the First Deputy’s whip and high chief of all the rabbis, white, black, and Puerto