Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn Read Free Book Online Page B

He’d sponsored him, brought him into the First Dep’s territories, built him up. What did Ned have to do with “little Dermott”? The worm was erasing Isaac’s memory, that’s it.
    He dialed Kathleen in Florida. It was four A.M. The wife had to be in bed with one of her suitors. “Kate,” he mumbled, “did we ever know a boy named Dermott?”
    He had to ask her again. She yawned into the phone. “Isaac, go fuck yourself.”
    So he was left with a Dermott he might have known, but didn’t know now. Ned O’Roarke wouldn’t have launched Dermott as a pimp. It couldn’t have been Ned who made a “king” of Dermott Bride.
    Isaac had Jennifer to console him three days a week. She was the only woman who could drive Dermott out of him. The worm never pinched Isaac when he was with Jennifer Pears.
    But he had other pulls on him. “Hizzoner” was growing desperate. The Daily News vouched Sam would only get one vote in ten. He was told to remove himself from the primary lists. “Hizzoner” refused. He went on more excursions with Isaac. Then he had a heart attack in Gracie Mansion. He was carried to the hospital across the street. Rebecca sent a full page of condolences to the New York Times . People were already calling her Mayor Karp.
    Isaac felt sorry for old Sam, but he was glad he didn’t have to parrot little lies in churches, shuls, and social clubs. He did more strolling as Isaac the bum. Annie seemed to have fled from her corner. Lazar came out of his pornography shop to chat with Isaac. “Sidel, stop dreaming about that woman … I can get you a beauty with poems written on her chest.”
    â€œLazar, you didn’t leave your shop to become my pimp … what happened to Annie Powell?”
    â€œShe’s in the hospital … Roosevelt. They found her unconscious last night … somebody stepped on her face.”
    Isaac hailed a patrol car. “Get me to Roosevelt Hospital, quick.” The cops were ready to laugh at the bum who was giving orders. “Call my office on your radio. I’m First Deputy Sidel.”
    They ran up to Roosevelt with their sirens on. He found Annie in some rear beggar’s ward. The nurses couldn’t understand what this bum was doing with two cops. The cops took their eyes off Annie Powell. Her face was one, huge, distorted puff. The lips were split apart. The “D” on her cheek had lost its continuity. Its pith was broken and submerged. Dermott had erased himself from Annie. “Get her out of this fucking hole,” Isaac shouted to the resident in charge of the ward. “Put her in a private room.”
    â€œHey,” the resident said, trying not to look at Isaac’s baggy pants.
    â€œPrick, it’s Police business … and stop blinking at me. I’ll pay for the room.”
    The patrol car brought him up to Marble Hill. Isaac burst into Martin McBride’s eight-room flat. The old bagman was having dinner with a covey of nephews, nieces, and his wife. Isaac lifted him off the floor in front of everybody. The nephews weren’t much good. They shrank from the mad bum who was shaking their uncle up and down.
    â€œMartin, you tell me where Dermott is, or I’ll squash you into a piece of shit.”
    â€œDublin,” Martin said, riding against Isaac’s shirt. “The nephew’s in Dublin town.”
    â€œWhat’s his address?”
    â€œThe Shelbourne. St. Stephen’s Green.”
    â€œWasn’t one scar enough for him? Did he order O’Toole to smash both sides of her face?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. I swear to Christ. Dermott never talks to me …”

    Isaac didn’t return to the hotel. He went down to his monk’s corner at Centre Street. He sat in the dark, his fingers rubbing under his nose. The king’s in Dublin. Isaac had to murder him. It didn’t matter that there was no