Secret Isaac by Jerome Charyn Page B

was in Dublin with the king. Why? Irishmen don’t abandon their mothers. What kind of trouble was the lad in? It’s hard to scare a donkey who’s six feet seven.
    Isaac left the kitchen. His men got in place behind him. They began to sicken Isaac. O’Toole’s neighbors peeked out of cracks of light in their doors. The detectives looked ridiculous lugging shotguns and crowbars in shopping bags. But they had their badges pinned to their chests. “Police,” they muttered, “police,” and the neighbors closed their doors. It was Isaac who should have calmed the neighbors, if only to cover himself. But those shopping bags tore at Isaac’s guts. The creature was stirring again. Isaac’s personal “angel,” Manfred Coen, used to carry his shotgun inside a shopping bag. He was a blue-eyed detective from the Bronx. Isaac appreciated a sad, beautiful, inarticulate boy around him. Blue Eyes. He was loyal to Isaac, and Isaac got him killed. The First Dep pushed Coen into his war with the Guzmanns. Coen didn’t have the cleverness to stay alive. Isaac destroyed the Guzmanns, but his trophies were pretty irregular: a live, live worm and a dead Coen.

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    H IS mind must have gone to rot. He didn’t understand the street anymore. He lived among pimps and dudes, but couldn’t get a word out of them. The “players” had been organizing in the past two years. They weren’t so vulnerable to the pussy patrol that Tiger John sent down on them. None of the “brides” would inform on her man. But the “players” were careful not to beat up on a girl. They’d come under the tutelage of Arthur Greer. Sweet Arthur didn’t belong to the brotherhood of pimps. He had no need for a wide-brimmed hat. He acted as a kind of magistrate for most Manhattan dudes. If a quarrel developed between pimps, they took it to Arthur. Arthur decided who was right and who was wrong. He was better than a bail bondsman. He always gave you walking money for any “bride” who got into trouble.
    What was his real profession? He owned boutiques, nightclubs, massage parlors, grocery stores, and a cab company. Arthur could afford to snub the Taxi Commission. He gave out his own “medallions” to all his gypsy cabs. They had meters and windows in their roofs. The “players” wouldn’t ride in any other cabs.
    The cops knew all about Sweet Arthur. They decided to leave him alone. Arthur held tight to his various enterprises and policed them by himself. He was something of a loanshark, but he wouldn’t touch any shit. No one bought dope in Arthur’s cabs. He warned the pimps to clean their stables of contaminated girls. Junkie whores were cast out of Arthur’s zones. They had to operate in the pigsties of Brooklyn.
    Arthur had a few comrades under him. It was a family of sorts, a loose confederacy. Killers, bondsmen, pornographers, loansharks, and head pimps. Such were the “blues” of Sugar Hill. But there wasn’t much of a Sugar Hill anymore. It was only a name, a manner of describing a certain sweetness among rich black thieves. They lived in co-ops throughout Manhattan and Queens. Arthur had a penthouse near Lincoln Center, whose windows took in half the cliffs of Jersey. Assemblymen showed up for dinner. Judges talked to Arthur at his penthouse. Actresses walked into his boutiques. So it wasn’t much of an honor when the First Deputy came to his door.
    Isaac had no one else. Whatever black Mafia there was began with Arthur Greer. The pimps hadn’t given any of their secrets to Isaac the bum. Black and white hookers shuttled in and out of jail. Money was collected. The king sat in his Dublin hotel. Isaac couldn’t put a dent into the traffic on Whores’ Row.
    Who were the lords of New York City? It was hard to tell. Sam won his primary. But mayors went cheap this year. His own clerks copied his signature behind the