"Shit, Lipensky, you’re always starvin’!”

“Yeah, that is true , but I get especially hungry when I get into a gangbang an’ beat the shit outta two wop hoods… You got any edible food in this shitty neighborhood?”

“You wanna eat, huh? Ya think you Jews know what good food is, huh? Okay, I’m gonna take ya for somethin’ like ya probably never had before in your life!”

“Yeah?” Becoming very interested, “Like what?”

“Ain’t gonna tell ya. You’ll find out.” 

                                            Chicago, Illiniois

                                               June 18, 1949

                                 Girl With Green Teeth: part 3 of 6

Going east on Sixty-third once again, “Mitch, I been thinkin’.”

“You, thinkin’? No shit, Rizzo!”

“Yeah, no shit! Ya know, if they know you’re a J… uh, Jewish, you’re gonna be a target for all the guys in the neighborhood, an’ I can’t fight ’em all off, so while you’re here, what if I call you, uh… Mario. You bein’ so dark an’ all you could easily pass for a wop, an’ if I introduce ya as my paesano,” he looked at Mitchell. “My paesano, my pal, Mario, from say, uh… Milwaukee. Yeah! That’s it! I’ll introduce ya as Mario, my old pal from Milwaukee, an’ no one’ll fuck with ya… I hope!”

Though thinking, I don’t like that idea too much, he’d been badly shaken by the violent experience with Guido and Al and would have agreed to just about anything so long as he didn’t have to go through that again. “Yeah, okay,” he said, “but what about the girls? They know I’m Jewish! An’ what about those other two pricks?”

“Gina’n’Lisa won’t say nothin’ an’ me’n’them guys don’t run in the same circles, so probably we won’t be seein’ ’em again.”

Mitchell glanced skyward. “God willing!”

“Yeah! So what’ya say? It’s okay if we call you Mario?”

“Call me whatever you want, only let’s do two things.”

“Yeah,” Frank looked over his shoulder, “what’s that?”

“Let’s eat! An’ where the fuck’s the girls?”

“The girls’ll come a little later.”

Glancing at each other, they smiled at the unintended pun.

“You don’t get much chance to eat Italian food, do ya?”

“Well, my mom makes spaghetti.”

“I said Italian food—real Italian food! Come on!” Frank started to run.

“Hey, hold up, not so fast!” Mitchell chased after him. Half way down the block, Frank disappeared through a doorway and he followed.

It had sawdust on the floor! He’d never been in a restaurant, or anyplace else, outside of a job site once with his grandfather, that had sawdust on the floor. Along the walls on both sides of the room there were wooden booths. In the middle of the room were six round tables, each of which was surrounded by four wire-back chairs. All the booths and tables were covered with crisp, clean, red- and white-checkerboard tablecloths. And each booth and table had a wax-dripped, raffia-bound wine bottle with a candle on its neck. Mitchell had never been anyplace with wax-dripped, raffia-bound wine bottles either.

“Uno momento!” a female voice called from the back room.

Sliding into one of booths, “Sit down Mitch.”

Sitting, he looked at the cheaply reproduced paintings of Italian masters that hung on all four walls.

“Frankie!” Folds of flesh from her copious bosom spilling over the top of a low-cut, off-the-shoulder white cotton blouse, wearing an apron tied about her overly abundant middle, coming from the rear of the store, “You come to visit your mama?”

“Frankie,” Mitchell whispered, “she ain’t your mother, is she?”

Waddling across the floor with both arms outstretched, encircling his head, all but pulling Frank out of the booth, the heavy-set, middle aged woman forced his face into the soft crease of her breasts.

His words muffled, “Nantmma!”

Able to turn his face after a few seconds, “No, “he said through puckered, compressed lips because her hand was pushing against his cheek, “she ain’t my ma.” His head still pressed against her chest, rocked back and forth, “she’s my godmother.” Reaching around her wide hips, “Mama, enough already,” he patted the big lady.

Laughing, she released him.

“Mama Mia! You almost smothered me!”

“Frankie, how come you never come to see your Mama no more?”

“Mama, if I came here more, I’d be big as you.” Reaching up, he patted her cheek. “I save coming here for special times.”

“E’special times! E’special times!” she scolded. “Frankie, you know your mama miss you when she don’t see you! Don’t wait for e’special times!” She looked at Mitchell. “And this is an e’special time?”

“Yeah, Mama. I want you should meet my oldest an’ best friend, Mi… Mario.” Looking at Mitchell, he winked. “Mario, I want you should meet my Mama Maria.”

Holding his hand forward, “Hi, I’m…” Surprised when he was jerked forward and also pulled into her copious bosom, for a moment Mitchell was alarmed, then, with his nose pressed against Maria’s chest, he smelled the pleasant odors of spice and sweet dough and, surprisingly, liked the soft, warm feel of his face being pressed against the large woman’s huge breasts, and he unwittingly sensed a tightening in his groin.

“Mama, Mario an’ me are hungry… Mama, let him go!”

Releasing Mitchell, pretending to pout, standing back, she looked at Frank. “I’m just saying hello.”

“I know, Mama, but I been bragging about your Special and…”

“My E’special! So,” scolding playfully, “that’s all you come to see Mama for? For my E’special?”

“No, Mama, I wanted Mi… Mario to meet you, but we want a Special, too.”

“Hokay!” Smiling broadly, she began to walk away.

“Oh, and Mama,” Frank called after her, “some vino!”

“Vino?” Mitchell questioned, “what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

Reaching beneath the table, Frank took a crumpled package of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his sock, then, partially standing so he could reach into his pocket to remove a Zippo lighter. “Oh, vino!” Sitting, he picked a bent cigarette out of the package, flipped the lighter open and flicked the wheel with his thumb. A large, orange-capped blue flame erupted from the wick.

“Frankie, you smoke?”

“Yeah, sure! Been doin’ it for years… Wine.”

“Huh?”

“Dummy, vino’s wine! You really don’t know nothin’, do ya?”

“Come on, Frank, we’re kids! They don’t serve kids wine!”

“Yeah?” Drawing on the cigarette, blowing the smoke upward, he looked over his shoulder, to the kitchen, where Maria had just emerged carrying a small tray. “All dagos drink wine, Mario! You do want wine! Don’t you, Mario?”

Laying the tray on the table, Maria put a glass in front of each boy, then holding the bottle by its neck, poured a glass for Frank, who covered the second glass with his hand. “So, Mario,” he asked again, “do you want some wine?”

He hesitated a moment. The crimson-colored liquid did look refreshing, and the odd-shaped, raffia-bound bottle intrigued him. “Yeah, sure!” Mitchell said. “Why not?”

Pouring the Chianti, Maria stopped only when the glass was brim-full, then, smiling at both boys, patting Frank on the head, turning, she walked back to the kitchen.

Lifting the glass, holding forward, “Salud!” Frank said, and waited for Mitchell.

He wanted to pick it up, but the glass was too full so, hesitating, looking from the glass to Frank and back at the glass, lowering his head, bringing his lips to the rim, Mitchell slurped a few drops, “L’chayim!” so he could pick it up without spilling any on the clean tablecloth.

The two friend’s glasses clinked

Frank drained his without stopping.

Outside of an occasional glass of beer or an ounce or two of the thick, sweet kosher wine used in religious ceremonies, Mitchell had never tasted alcohol, and after the first quick swallow of the strong, dry Chianti, putting the glass down, closing his eyes tightly, grimacing, “Yuck!”

“Ahh!” Frank said with a wink, “’Tis the blood o’Christ!”

“What?” Holding the glass away. “The blood of Christ! What the hell do you mean, this is the blood of Christ?”

Smiling, “That’s what the Micks call their booze,” Frank said. “The blood o’ Christ. Come on, drink up! Don’t be such a baby! Drink up! I dare ya! I double dare ya!”

“You dare me, huh? You double dare me, huh? Okay you…” Remembering what he’d called Frank after their sexually enlightening discussion with Skorupski. “You, wop tittie, you!” Mitchell brought the glass to his mouth, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, drank, stopped, took another breath and drank slowly till he drained it. “Whew!” Opening his eyes, he put the glass down, looked seriously at Frank, pointed a finger at him and, the wine going immediately to his head, giggled. “You know, Frankie…”

Re-pouring, interrupting, “Yeah, I know Frankie, great guy!” Frank said, causing both boys to giggle, then to laugh.

“As I was sayin’ before I was so rudely inter… urrp…” belching loudly, “uppted.”

“Yeah?” Blowing smoke rings, “What were ya sayin’?”

“Uh, where’s’a’food? An’ I wanna tell you som’thin’! It’s’a good thing you came out when you did, Frankie, ’cause I was just gettin’ ready to wipe the place up with them two dago pricks.” Lifting the glass, about to take another drink, “Know what?” Not waiting for an answer, “I don’t think… urrp… I ought’a drink no more’a this here stuff.” He looked at the glass. “Aw, what the hell!”

“Yeah, sure you were!”

“Yeah?” Lowering the glass, “Sure I were, what?”

“You was getting’ ready to wipe the place up with them two dago pricks.”

“Boy-oh-boy, Rizzo, you don’t know what a tough son’a’a’bitch I can be when I get riled up. An’ le’me tell ya, I’d just about had it with them two pricks when you came out an’ saved ’em from really getting’ the shit kicked out of ’em.”

“Yeah, they sure were lucky I came out an’ saved ’em from ‘Super Jew,’ the caped defender of liberty, justice an’ the American way!”

“Yeah, that’s me okay. Mitch Lipensky, Super Jew!” Lifting his head, he sniffed deeply. “What is that smell?”

“You’ll see.”

“Jeeze, that smells sooo good!” Hoisting the glass, he took a gulp. “So tell me. Whaz ’er name? The girl, my girl, what’s she like?”

“Girl? What Girl?” Teasing, “Oh, that girl… Gina.”

“Yeah, Gina. She pretty? She got big tits? Shit, she got any tits?”

“Yeah, sure she got tits. They ain’t this big,” holding his cupped hands a foot from his chest, “but she do got tits.”

“An’ she really want’s’a fuck me?” Taking another drink of wine. “She really want’s’a see my dick, an’ she’ll show me hers?”

“Mitchie,” Frank said patiently, “Gina’s a girl, an’ in case ya d’know, girls don’t got dicks. An’ like I tol’j’ya,” feeling the wine, too, “Gina’s been wantin’ to see yours for years, ’cause I told her you’re the biggest prick I know.”

“Outside of them other two pricks, Al an’ ol, wha’ziz’face?”

Re-filling Mitchell’s glass, “Guido,” Frank said.

“God, I can’t wait! I’m really gonna get fucked!”

Drinking more wine, lifting his head, sniffing the air, Mitchell watched as Maria came from the kitchen carrying a large, round, steaming tray, which she put on the table between Frank and himself.

His eyes opening wide, “Oh, my God!” Salivating, Mitchell followed her every movement as, using a spatula, Maria lifted a large wedge of the pie-like substance. His eyes following the spatula, he stared at the thick, trailing strings of steaming yellow cheese as she put a slice onto his plate, then Frank’s.

“Bon appetiteo!”

“Thank you, Mama,” Frank said.

Looking at the near-empty bottle, “You want more vino, Frankie?”

“No, Mama. Thank you, not now.”

“Hokay.” Turning from the boys, Maria waddled back to the kitchen.

Looking at his plate in absolute awe, his mouth, literally watering, “Frankie,” Mitchell asked softly, “what is this?”

“Pizza. An’ be careful ’cause it’s hot.”

“Pizza?” Gazing at the chunks of Italian sausage, tomato, onion and green pepper, “Kind’a looks like a pancake that someone puked on, huh?”

Reaching for Mitchell’s plate, “Then I guess you don’t want any.”

Making a stabbing motion with his fork, “Touch it, Pal, an’ you lose a finger! You kiddin’? I’ve always loved puke on my pancakes!” Slicing the tip of the wedge, lifting the running cheese with his finger, he brought it to his mouth, and…

“Watch it, it’s hot!”

Even though it temporarily burned his tongue, drawing air inward, his eyes rolling upward, “Oh, God!” Mitchell said, “It’s de-licious!”

The only sounds then were chewing, slurping and sighing.

                                                       ***

The pizza finished, the raffia-bound bottle of Chianti drained, “Mama,” Frank called, “okay if I use the phone?”

“Sure, Frankie, anything you want. You like’a the pizza?”

“Just like always, Mama, it’s great, an’ my friend loved it!” Forgetting he’d given her the impression that Mitchell was Italian, “He’s never had pizza before.”

“An Italian boy who’s never had pizza?”

“Uh,” thinking quickly, Frank said, “he’s from Milwaukee.”

As though Milwaukee were on another planet, “Oh.” Maria replied simply.

At the telephone on a battered desk at the rear of the kitchen, fishing a nickel out of his pocket, dropping it in the slot, Frank waited for the operator to ask for the number.

“Hi, baby, it’s me… Yeah, he got here just fine, an’ we just finished eating… Mama Maria’s. … Yeah, he loved it! Would you believe he’s never had pizza before? … Yeah! Those people don’t know what’s good. … Yeah! He can’t wait to meet Gina. … Yeah, sure he’s gonna like her! … Yeah, okay, see you in a couple’a minutes.”

“Mama, let me pay you for lunch this time!”

“Frankie, I’m’a tell you a tousand times, I’m’a no take’a money from my godson! An’ besides, me’n you papa got a deal.”

“Yeah, I know, for the vegetables.”

“Yeah. An’a you for the pizza.”

“Okay, then, at least for the vino!”

“No, Frankie,” she said with finality, “you no pay here!”

“Okay, Mama.” Kissing her on the cheek, “Thank you.”

“Hey, Mitch… Shit! Mario! Okay, we did the first thing on your list.” Sliding into the booth, Frank lit a cigarette.

The heavy lunch sobered him, somewhat, but, picking the last of the crumbs off the tray with the tip of his finger, he still felt the effect of the wine. “Yeah, an’ what’s next?”

“What’s next? Well, we et, diddle we?”

“Ah, so!” Mitchell said in a terrible Chinese-American accent. “An’ what else does the honorable Charlie Chan desire?”

Standing, “Honorable Charlie Chan…” making a deep, exaggerated bow, “now desire fuckie, fuckie! Is so?”

“Ah…” pulling himself from the booth, standing, a bit wobbly, “ís so! Honorable Charlie Chan do desire fuckie, fuckie.” Reaching into his pocket, Mitchell removed his five dollars.

“No need.” Frank pushed his hand away. “It’s all taken care of. She never charges my family or me for nothin’, an’ she gets all her vegetables for free. Some deal, eh, wot, Holmes?”

Taken from any Sherlock Holmes movie, “Elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary!” Holding his hand forward again, “You sure?”

“Yeah, put your money away,”

“Okay, if you’re sure. Thanks! So, where are they?”

“Where are they, who?”

“The girls!”

“Girls? What girls?”

“What do you mean, what girls? You dago, fart!”

“Oh, those girls! Come on.”

They walked two blocks south and one east to Sixty-sixth and Rockwell. The entire block consisted of weather-beaten, two-story frame houses, some of which had been converted to small apartments: one up and one down. Stopping five houses from the corner, “This is it,” Frank said. Its paint, whatever color it may have been, was now faded, blistered and peeling.

Looking at the structure, God, Mitchell thought, what a terrible place to live. “This is where your girlfriend lives?” he asked.

Taking the steps two at a time, “Yeah,” Frank knocked on the door.

Following him, standing alongside Frank, Mitchell heard the muffled sound of a radio, then echoing footsteps on a hardwood floor…

The door opening, “Hi, Frankie!” the girl looked from Frank To Mitchell.

“Hi’ya, Lisa!” Turning to Mitchell, “Mitchie, this here’s my girlfriend, Lisa.” Turning back, “Lisa, this is my pal, Mitchell.”

Thinking, She’s cute, “Hi, Lisa,” he said, “nice to meet’ch’ya.”

Fourteen years old, on the short side, slightly overweight, much of the girl’s weight was around her hips and bust—just the way Mitchell liked girls. She had a dark complicated round face with clear, smooth skin. Cut into bangs to help cover a wide forehead, Lisa’s hair was jet black. Widely set over a small nose, her large eyes were dark brown. When she met Mitchell she smiled, showing small, even teeth. The girl wore a short-sleeved white blouse and a dark-blue, calf-length skirt with white bobby socks and black, patent leather shoes. A small, silver crucifix hung from around her neck.

“Hi, Mitchie! Frankie’s talked so much about you I feel like we’re friends already… Please, come in.”

“Me, too. Thank you.”

She led the boys down a long hallway, past two closed doors into a large, sunny living room.

Considering the structure’s deteriorated exterior, the apartment was surprisingly clean and orderly.

The girl sat on a green, slip-covered sofa. “Hi’ya, Frankie.” Standing, nodding her head, she looked expectantly at Mitchell.

“Gina,” Frank said, “this here’s my friend, Mitchell… Mitchie, this is Gina.”

Feeling awkward, thinking, She’s ugly! Hoping the disappointment he felt wasn’t too apparent, knowing he should step forward, offer his hand and say hello, or something… but standing, as though rooted, Mitchell muttered a barely heard, “Hi.”

“Jeeze, Mitchie, I never knew you was so bashful.” Poking him in the back, Frank propelled him forward.

Coming closer, forcing a smile, holding his right hand forward, “Uh, Frank’s told me all about you.”

Which seemed to be the wrong thing to say because, shooting Frank an angry look, forcing a smile, Gina haltingly took Mitchell’s hand, pumped it once then released it, leaving both outstretched arms hanging, self-consciously, in mid-air.

If Lisa was a bit overweight, than this girl was completely the opposite.

Tall, almost as tall as Mitchell and, Olive Oyl, reed thin. She looks like Olive Oyl! Instantly bringing the picture of Olive Oyl from the Popeye comic strip to mind. Wearing the same blouse, skirt and shoes that Lisa wore, obviously a uniform from some parochial school, whereupon Lisa’s neck hung a small silver crucifix, upon Gina’s neck hung a huge wooden crucifix. Probably to keep vampires away, Mitchell thought. That’s if any vampire would want to put his teeth into that neck. Gina’s pasty complexion accentuated the shadow of grime that went from behind her ears and down and around her chin, and there were streaks from dribbling water that ran beneath her chin and down her neck. When she smiled Mitchell noticed, Jesus… the upper portions of her front teeth had a greenish tinge… she’s got green teeth! Also noticed, when she turned her head, She don’t clean her ears too good, there’s wax in Gina’s ears. As though she had tried and failed to dye her hair a lighter color, her short cut, dark brown hair has a brassy sheen. Gina’s eyebrows had been plucked to a near nonexistent line then heavily penciled over. To add to this, as far as Mitchell was concerned, rather unappetizing picture, the girl has a long, thin nose with a red blemish midway up the sharp ridge.

But, yes, Gina did have two noticeably redeeming features. Of lesser importance, she had beautiful, light-blue eyes. Of primary importance, noticing the two outward-pointing points, Gina did have breasts. Gina’s breasts appeared to be rather small beneath the formless, white parochial school blouse, but yes, they were definitely breasts, and, yes, they were definitely there.

Unaware that in the few seconds they’d been standing, facing each other, Mitchell had assessed the multitude of her bad points and, in his mind, her primary two good points, which were not her eyes.

“Hi, Mitch,” Gina said, “glad to meet’ch’ya.” Doing a bit of assessing herself, unlike Mitchell, though, Gina liked everything she saw. “Frank’s been talkin’ bout’ch’ya for years now. Come on, sit down!” Back-stepping around the coffee table in front of the sofa, sitting in the near-exact middle, she patted the seat to her right

Going to the sofa, he sat, too, but rather than immediately to the right, Mitchell sat to the left of Gina, on the far end, as far to the end as possible.

Holding hands, Frank and Lisa sat with their legs crossed on the carpeted floor in front of the coffee table.

Nobody spoke.

No one seemed to know how to get the conversation started.

Mitchell stared at his hands, which were resting one on each knee. After a few seconds his fingers began a nervous, systematic tapping.

A breeze blowing through the open window caused the white, lacy curtains to flutter inward.

Three sets of eyes darted back and forth, from one to the other as Mitchell sat, looking at his tapping fingers, till…