Snow.
Driven now by a sudden wind off the harbor. Coming now at a harder angle. As birds rose in great flocks to tell the news and dogs barked and windows opened.
Snow in August.
The Golem smiled. He handed Michael the shofar and then the boy led the way back through the synagogue. Now we will do it, he thought. Ready or not, Frankie, here we come. He left the shofar on the kitchen table and went out into Kelly Street with the Golem behind him, bending his head and shoulders under the lintel. The August snow was falling hard. Kids ran through it, shouting and yelping. An old woman came out on a stoop, looked up at the dense snow, made a steeple of her hands and mumbled prayers. Michael heard the wolf wind, and wished for Arctic fury, and the storm grew more violent. In the churning, gyrating, eddying frenzy of the sudden storm, nobody saw the white boy and his giant black companion.
Michael prayed. In English and Latin and Yiddish. Prayed to God, to Deus, to Yahveh. Prayed in thanks, prayed in awe. But he did not turn back. He moved steadily onward, leading a procession of two, the Golem’s bare feet crunching a soup can, his face grim, his cape unfurling in the wind. The snow was so thick now that nobody could possibly see them, and yet Michael wasn’t cold. Screened by the blinding snow, they reached the alley behind the abandoned hulk of the Venus, where Frankie McCarthy once had threatened Michael with a knife. Then they came to Ellison Avenue. Across the street was the Star Pool Room, with a six-foot-long WELCOME HOME FRANKIE BOY banner draped above the front door. A stray dog came out of the snow and huddled in the doorway beside the poolroom.
“They’re in there,” Michael said, standing beside the abandoned box office under the marquee of the Venus. “We’ll have to go and get them.”
The Golem placed his hands on Michael’s head. His brow furrowed. The driving snow halted, then skirled and danced, before resuming with even greater fury. Michael glanced at the dirty glass of the shuttered box office, where he had once admired the look of his suit on an Easter morning. He could not see himself. He could not see the Golem.
Jesus Christ, he thought. We’re invisible!
He stepped out into the street, the Golem behind him, and marched through the storm, directly to the front door of the poolroom. The stray dog came over, big, black, muscled, sniffing around them but not seeing them, growling in a baritone voice. “Sticky?” Michael whispered, and the dog barked an answer. Oh, Dad. Oh, Daddy: Thank you.
Michael gently opened the poolroom door, and he and the Golem stepped inside. The dog waited in the snow, as if for a command. About fifteen of the Falcons were bunched together in front of the six pool tables with green baize tops. All turned to the door. The wind howled. Snow scattered across the floor. But they could not see Michael and the Golem.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said. “Close that fucking door!”
Michael saw Frankie McCarthy coming from a room at the rear of the pool hall, buttoning his fly. He was dressed like a movie gangster, in pinstriped dark suit, thick-soled shoes, a white tie on a white shirt. Tippy Hudnut slammed the door shut, and turned to Frankie.
“You find out anything yet?” he asked.
“I’m on the phone ten minutes, calling up newspapers, radio stations, everything,” Frankie said. “Nothing. Nobody ever heard of it, snowing in fucking August. They treat me like I’m a fucking nut.”
The Golem opened the door again, and he and Michael stood to the side. The dog continued to wait.
“Hey, what the fuck is it with that door?” Frankie said.
“You seen me close it, Frankie,” Tippy said, closing it again. “Maybe it’s that dog out there.”
“Then give the mutt a swift kick and lock the motherfucker.”
“We lock it, how will the broads get in?” the Russian said, as Tippy shooed the dog and closed the door.
“They knock,” Frankie said, glancing at his watch. “Where are the broads, anyway?”
Michael saw that they were all there. Not only Tippy, but the Russian and Skids and Ferret. Along with the other idiots who followed them around and laughed at their jokes. And Frankie McCarthy. Playing boss. Acting like a big shot. Snarling, giving orders. To the right, a table was laid out with cold cuts and cheese, baskets of rolls and bowls of potato salad, quarts of whiskey and gin, and a tub full of beer bottles. On a table in the rear, a phonograph was playing “Sleepy Lagoon.” Frankie went to the windows, his eyes glittery, his lips curled, and stared at the driving snow.
“What the fuck is this?” he hissed. “I gotta fuckin’ party to throw.”
He slammed a fist against the doorframe. The door swung open.
“All right, which one of you fucking jokers is doing this?” He laughed in a weird way. “You got some kind of a fucking button or something?”
Michael thought: Now. We’re going to do it now. No more waiting. We’re going to wipe that smile off his face.
The Golem seemed to understand. Skids came over to close the door, taking a key from his pocket to lock it. The Golem placed his hands on Michael’s head. The lights above the pool tables dimmed, then came back to full strength. Michael and the Golem stood there, visible to all.
“What the fuck?” Frankie McCarthy said, backing up, his face twitching. The others inched to the side, looking at the huge black man and the kid they had tried to terrify out of the parish. “Hey, what — hey, Devlin, who is this guy?”
The Golem stared at him, then turned to Michael. A smile flickered on his face.
“That’s Frankie McCarthy,” Michael said, as if making a formal introduction. He took the key out of the locked door and slipped it into his pocket. “He’s the one I told you about.”
Frankie backed up, his hand darting inside his jacket but not finding what he was looking for. He’s scared, Michael thought. Scared out of his goddamned wits. Without taking his eyes off the Golem, Frankie reached in a fumbling way for a pool cue, finally gripping it by the narrow shaft. The other Falcons began spreading out. Their hands went into their pockets. They picked up pool cues. Their eyes were wide and uncertain, as if calculating odds. Glancing at the other Falcons, Frankie McCarthy was suddenly a little braver.
“You’re looking for fucking trouble,” he said, “yiz’ll find it here.” His bravado was cut by the crack in his voice. “This is members only. So leave now. While you can still fucking walk.”
Michael saw Skids slap the butt of his pool cue into his hand. The hand that had mauled his mother’s body. Most of the others followed Skids’s example. Michael could sense their thinking: Good odds. Fifteen to one. Or fifteen to one-and-a-half. Good odds, no matter how big the guy is that’s wearing the cape. The Russian put his hand in his back pocket and whipped out a knife. Ferret eased around to the side, holding an eight ball in his right hand.
“Just so you know, Frankie,” Michael said, taking a step forward, “I never said a word about you to the cops.”
“Don’t horseshit me, you fuckin’ punk.”
“I’m not horseshitting you, Frankie,” Michael said. “I didn’t rat. But you know what I learned? I should have told them everything. I should have told them right from the start what a goddamned coward you were, beating up poor Mister G.” Michael remembered what the rabbi had said one night in early spring. “That’s what I learned. I learned, you keep your mouth shut about a crime, sometimes that’s worse than the crime.”
“A rat is a rat.” Frankie sneered.
“No, Frankie. A cowardly bum is a cowardly bum. And you are a goddamned coward and a goddamned bum.”
Frankie saw that all of them had weapons now. He winked at Skids and moved to the side, turning his back on the Golem.