Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn Page A

mad-eyed, bruised, with Dermott’s mark annihilated from her, that “D” covered over with crisscrossing welts and blue lines. She didn’t recognize Isaac without his bum’s pants. “Mister, what are you staring at?… if you don’t like the goods, you can crawl up or down a few more blocks.”
    â€œAnnie,” he said, “I’m Father Isaac.”
    Those mad eyes whirled in her head. “Keep away from me … I don’t know any Father Isaac.”
    â€œAnnie …”
    Her shoulders began to heave with a terrifying rhythm. Isaac had set her off. She was leering at him with froth in her mouth. “The champagne boy … wanna buy some pussy?” She pulled her skirt up to her belly. Annie had forgotten her underpants. Tourists and dudes were blinking at her. A plainclothesman ran over from an Irish bar. Isaac kept him from Annie. “Go back to your whiskey house … I’m Isaac Sidel. I’ll handle the girl.”
    Annie lowered her skirt the minute Isaac walked away. She muttered to herself. Anybody could have heard the clacking of her teeth. God knows where she would find any johns. Isaac phoned his office from a booth on Ninth Avenue. “Annie Powell,” he said. “She’s doing the shimmy on Forty-third. I want two kids to watch her day and night … hold her hand if they have to … she could hurt herself.”

    He couldn’t put on his stinking pants. He wasn’t in the mood to be Isaac the bum, with black shit on his face. Would Annie show her crotch to the universe every time he came near her corner? Isaac went looking for the king’s muscleman, Jamey O’Toole.
    O’Toole had stepped on Annie, and somebody had to pay. It wasn’t Dublin, where Isaac had to sneak around with a hairbrush as his only weapon. He brought six detectives with him to Jamey’s apartment house. O’Toole lived in Chelsea with a thick metal plate on his door to discourage burglars, thieves, and cops like Isaac. It was two in the morning. Isaac hadn’t come unprepared. His men had shotguns, crowbars, and a sledgehammer.
    He didn’t knock on Jamey’s door. The crowbars bit under the metal plate. The sledgehammer demolished every hinge. The door gave with a scream that nearly sounded human. Isaac wouldn’t murder Jamey in his own house, God forbid. But if O’Toole was dumb enough to throw himself at six detectives, Isaac couldn’t swear what would happen. A shotgun might go off. And Isaac would have a lot of paperwork. He’d build a good story. Rogue cop, Jamey O’Toole, dies resisting arrest.
    Isaac didn’t crouch in back of his men. He was the first to climb over Jamey’s door.
    â€œO’Toole, come on out … it’s only Isaac.”
    Someone was crying in there. It wasn’t O’Toole. Isaac and his men trampled into all the rooms. The sobbing didn’t go away. They searched the closets next. Isaac found an old woman sitting behind a pile of brooms. They began to mock her, Isaac’s men. “Look at that. Jamey’s hiding one of his aunts.”
    â€œShut up,” Isaac said.
    The men who’d watched that fucking house for Isaac didn’t, even know Jamey had a mother. Isaac brought her out of the closet. He sat her in the kitchen with a glass of water. He let her drink before he questioned her. He cursed himself for the shotguns and the big hammer. All he’d accomplished was to frighten an old woman. “Mrs. O’Toole, could you help us, please? Where’s that son of yours?”
    She couldn’t say. “He told me the cops was after him.”
    â€œWhich cops?”
    Mrs. O’Toole shrugged at Isaac.
    â€œHow long’s he been gone?”
    She counted on her fingers. “Thirteen days.”
    What cops could be after Jamey? Isaac’s own men hadn’t been chasing the big dunce. O’Toole ran from home while Isaac