The Meyers were Orthodox Jews. At the briss, the classic circumcision ceremony, Meyer's father made his announcement.
The announcement concerned the name of his new offspring. The boy was to be called Meyer Meyer. The old man thought this was exceedingiy humorous. The moile didn't think it was so humorous. When he heard the announcement, his hand almost slipped. In that moment, he almost deprived Meyer of something more than a normal name. Fortunately, Meyer Meyer emerged unscathed.
But being an Orthodox Jew in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood can be trying even if your name isn't Meyer Meyer. The repetitive handle provided the hate-mongers with a ready-made chant:
"Meyer Meyer, Jew on fire!" If the haters needed any further provocation for beating up the nearest Jew, Meyer's double-barreled name provided it. He learned to be patient.
Patient, in the beginning, with his enemies.
Later, when he realized how maliciously innocent had been his father's little joke, patient with his father. Patient, still later, with the young doctor who had originally diagnosed his mother's malignant cancer as a sebaceous cyst-a faulty diagnosis which had probably cost her life. And finally, patient with the world at large.
Patience is, perhaps, a rewarding virtue.
Patience leads to tolerance. A patient man is an easy~ going man.
But anger must erupt somewhere.
Somehow, the body must compensate for years and years of learning to sublimate.
Meyer Meyer, at the age of thirty-seven, was completely bald.
Now, patiently pecking at his typewriter, he composed his message.
"What's your name?" Byrnes asked the girl.
"What?" she said.
"Your name! Que es su nombre?"
"Angelica Gomez."
"She speaks English," Willis said.
"I don' speak English," the girl said.
"She's full of crap. The only thing she does in Spanish is curse. Come on, Angelica. You play ball with us, and we'll play ball with you."
"I don' know what means thees play ball."
"Oh, we've got a lallapaluza this time," Willis said.
"Look, you little slut, cut the Marine tiger bit, will you?
We know you didn't just get off the boat."
He turned to Byrnes.
"She's been in the city for almost a year, Pete.
Hooking mostly."
"I'm no hooker," the girl said.
"Yeah, she's no hooker," Willis said.
"Excuse me. I forgot. She worked in the garment district for a month."
"I'm a seamstress, that's what I am. No hooker."
"Okay, you're not a hooker, okay? You lay for money, okay? That's different. That makes it all right, okay? Now, why'd you slit that guy's throat?"
"What guy you speaking about'?"
"Was there more than one?" Byrnes asked.
"I don' sleet nobody's thro'."
"No? Then who did it?" Willis asked.
"Santa Claus? What'd you do with the razor blade?" Again, he turned to Byrnes.
"A
patrolman broke it up, Pete. Couldn't find the blade, though, thinks she dumped it down the sewer. Is that what you did with it?"
"I don' have no erazor blay." Angelica paused.
"I don' cut nobody."
"You've still got blood all over your hands, you little bitch! Who the hell are you trying to snow?"
"That's from d'hanncuffs," Angelica said.
"Oh, Jesus, this one is the absolute end," Willis said. The trouble, Meyer Meyer thought, is that it's hard to get the right words. It mustn't sound too melodramatic or it'll be dismissed as either a joke or the work of a crank. It has to sound sincere, and yet it has to sound desperate. If it doesn't sound desperate nobody'll believe it, and we're right back where we started. But if it sounds too desperate, nobody'll believe it anyway. So I've got to be careful.
He looked across the room to where Virginia Dodge was watching the interrogation of the Puerto Rican girl.
I've also got to hurry, he thought. She may just take it in her mind to amble over here and see what I'm doing.
"You know whose throat you slit?" Willis asked.
"I don' know nothin'."
"Then J'm gonna let you in on a little secret. You ever hear of a street gang called the Arabian Knights?"
"No."
"It's one of the biggest gangs in the precinct," Willis said.
"Teen-age kids mostly. Except the guy who's leader of the gang is twenty-five years old. In fact, he's married and has got a baby daughter. They call him Kassim. You ever hear of anybody called Kassim?"
"In fiction, he's AH Baba's brother. In real life, He's leader of this gang called the Arabian Knights. His real name is Jose Dorena. Does that ring a bell?"
"No."
"He's a very big man in the streets, Kassim is. He's really a punk-but not in the streets. There's a gang called the Latin Paraders and the shit has been on between them and the Knights for years. And do you know what price the Paraders have set for a truce?"
"No. What?"
"An Arabian Knights jacket as a trophy and Kassim dead."
'~So who cares?"
"You ought to care, baby. The guy whose throat you slit is Kassim. Jose6 Dorena."
Angelica blinked.
"Yeah," Willis said.
"Is this legit?" Byrnes asked.
"You said it, Pete. So you see, Angelica, if Kassim dies, the Latin Paraders'll erect a statue of you in the park. But the Arabian Knights won't like you one damn bit.
