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

“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.”

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Chicago, Illinois

June 18, 1949

The Girls

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…

“Shit!” Gina said, breaking the silence. “Was today ever a hot day!” Reaching under the skirt of the sofa, searching a moment, she pulled out a package of Camels. “I thought school would never end!”

The three watched as Gina sophistically pushed a cigarette upward from the bottom of the package, pulled it out with her teeth, tapped it on the back of her hand, stuck it between her lips, struck a match, took a deep drag… and started to cough and began to gag and had to run out of the room, into the toilet.

Turning to Lisa after he heard the door slam shut, “Uh,” Mitchell asked, “did I hear her say that you two had school today?”

“Yeah. You public-schoolers got out a week ago, but, oh, no, not us kids that go to Catholic school! Us, they give an extra week an’ just got out today… Ain’t we lucky?”

“No!” Thinking she was serious, “I don’t think that’s too lucky at all. Is that why you’n’Gina’s wearin’ the same kind’a clothes, ’cause’a school? They’re some kind’a uniform?”

“Yeah, they are.”

“Yeah? What school?”

“Immaculate Heart.”

“You like it? Going there?”

“No! I hate it! I’d much rather go to school with Frankie.” Looking at Frank a moment, Lisa kissed his cheek. “You’d like it if me’n’you went to school together, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said sincerely, “you know I would!”

“Don’t know why I smoke that shit.” Returning to the room, dropping onto the sofa, but closer to Mitchell, “It always makes me puke,” Gina said. “So, Mitch, how do you like this shitty neighborhood? Kind’a shitty, huh?” Angling her body in his direction, exposing her knee and about four inches of the bare flesh of her inner thigh, lifting her skirt, she folded her left knee beneath her right leg.

He looked down, and up again, quickly, “It ain’t so bad,” and down again. “I’ve seen worse.” Though in truth he hadn’t.

Inching closer, “Where do you live?” Gina asked.

“Uh,” Looking at the smooth, white flesh of her inner thigh, “on the west side, on Homan, uh, near Ogden.” and up, into her beautiful blue eyes.

Noting his flickering eyes, “Gee, it’s really nice there.” she said, though in truth she had no idea of where Homan and Ogden were.

He’d never thought of his neighborhood as being really nice or even nice, but in comparison to this neighborhood it was. “Yeah, it’s okay, I guess.”

“Yeah! He’s just gotta love this neighborhood, ’specially since he almost got himself banged up real good by a couple’a assholes.”

“What couple’a assholes, Frankie?” Gina asked.

“These two guys that hang out together, Guido and Al.”

“Yeah, I know them cocksuckers.”

He’d never heard a girl swear as much as Gina, and Mitchell stared at her.

“So, what happened?” she asked.

“Shit!” Frank said, taking one of Gina’s Camels. “It was all my fault. I had’a do some work for my pop for a couple’a minutes, an’ it was hot in the store so I told Mitch to wait outside, an’ then them two pricks came along an’ started hasslin’ him…”

“Yeah,” Mitchell interjected, “an’ ol’ Frank here came out like Gang Busters an’ kicked the…” hesitating a moment because up to now he’d never sworn in front of a girl but, Oh, well, he rationalized, swearing doesn’t seem to bother these two. “…shit out’a both of ’em.”

“I feel bad whenever somethin’ like that happens to anyone ’round here, but to Mitch? Jesus, was I ever mad!”

No one spoke for a few seconds but, afraid of letting the conversation come to a complete halt again, “An’ talk about puke!” Frank said.

“Puke?” Lisa laughed. “Who’s talkin’ ’bout puke?”

“Gina! When she came out’a the toilet she said smokin’ makes her puke. You should’a heard what Mitch here said ’bout Mama’s pizza.”

“Come on, Frankie! If you didn’t fill me full’a cheap booze,” he said jokingly, “I’d’a never said such’a thing.”

“Yeah? What’d he say, Frankie?” Lisa asked.

“Would’j’ya believe he’s never had any before, and said Mama’s pizza looked like puke on’a pancake… An’ it was only one or two teensy,” holding his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart, “weensy glasses of Chianti. Guess Jews just don’t hold their liquor too good. That’s if you want to call one or two teensy, weensy glasses of Chianti liquor.”

“Mitchie, it’s true ? You’ve never had pizza before?”

“Gina, I’ve never even heard of pizza before. But, really,” enjoying the humor of the situation, he began to laugh so hard he was almost unable to continue talking, “after I burnt my tongue and my fingers, an’ almost had the whole damn thing slip off the crust and land on my lap, it was really pretty good… No! It was great!”

“Frank,” Lisa scolded good-naturedly, “maybe, for Italians, eating pizza comes naturally, but for a Jewish guy like Mitchie maybe it don’t, and maybe you should have taught him how to eat it.”

“I did! But the dumb shit was so drunk he wouldn’t listen.”

“Dumb shit? You schmuck! You dared me… you double dared me to drink the wine. An’ the glass was this big!” holding both index fingers, vertically, a foot apart.

“Schmuck?” This tickling him, “Schmuck?” Frank fell onto his side laughing. “You called me a schmuck in front’a these ladies.” Catching his breath after about thirty seconds of prolonged laughter, that, though not quite understanding the joke, the three others joined in, Frank sat up. “An’ talkin’ ’bout vino!” He looked at Lisa. “How’s ’bout it? How’s ’bout us bringin’ some’a your ol’ man’s stuff up?”

“Mitchie, Lisa’s pop makes the best Dago Red you ever tasted… Well, I wouldn’t wanna use your taste in vino as an example, but believe me, it’s great, an’ Lisa’n’me’n’Gina here helped Lisa’s ol’ man make it… But I suppose, in your case, Lipensky, any vino would taste good.”

“Or bad!” Mitchell added. “How’d he make it? You guys don’t crush the grapes in a tub with your feet, do you?” In geography, he’d seen a movie about people from around the world and remembered the scene of a group of people in a huge vat crushing grapes with their bare feet. He envisioned Gina, bare-footed, crushing grapes with her feet that, he was sure, had to be at least as dirty as her neck.

“Nah!” Gina said… “That’s the way they do in the old country,” while inching closer to him. “Here we use a grape press.” As she came closer, her skirt hiked up further, showing more bare thigh, and…

Mitchell looked away because each time he looked at her, his eyes, as though magnetized, were drawn to her naked thigh that, Oh, God, fighting the urge to do it, I wanna touch so badly! As…

Jesus, Gina thought, everything Frankie’s said about him is true ! He’s just about the best lookin’ guy I ever seen. And, subconsciously, no longer aware of her action, doing something she’d been doing since she was a child: tightening and loosening the muscles of her groin and rectum, Gina was invisibly masturbating.

“Gina, why don’t’j’ya tell Mitch all about makin’ vino while Lisa’n’me go on down to the basement an’ get a jug.” Turning to Lisa, “Huh, babe,” he asked. “Ya wanna go downstairs with me?”

“Your parents let you drink wine?” Mitchell asked Gina.

“My ol’ lady don’t give a crap ’bout whatever I do,” she said bitterly. “Yeah, I’d like vino. Go on, Frank, go get a jug.” Thinking, It’ll gi’me a chance to be alone with him.

“Yeah, okay!” Standing, taking Lisa’s hand, Frank pulled her to her feet. “An’ while we’re gone,” winking conspiratorially at Mitchell, “why don’t you two try an’ get better acquainted.”

Panicking at the thought of being alone with Gina, Mitchell asked, “Maybe you guys need help?”

“No!” Emphatically shaking his head, “Lisa’n’me sure don’t need no help in the basement. Do we, babe?”

“Nope,” she smiled. “We sure don’t need help down there.”

Having spent a lot of time alone in the basement, holding hands, going through the kitchen, Lisa and Frank went down the back stairway, and…

The moment they were out of sight, Gina laid her hand on Mitchell’s thigh.

This being the first time a girl had ever placed her hand on his thigh, staring at the hand a moment, “Uh, Gina,” he said, searching for something—anything—to say, “before, you said your parents let you drink wine, an’ it’s okay with them?”

“Jeeze, Mitchie, this must really be important to ya.” Sighing, “In Italy,” she moved back a couple of inches, much to his… Mitchell wasn’t sure if he was glad or sad that she’d moved away… “kids drink wine ’stead’a milk.”

“Really?” Desperate to keep the conversation going, “Why?”

“For one thing, it’s a lot cheaper ’cause there’s more grape farmers than cow farmers. An’ also, the adults there think vino’s better for ’em than milk. Here, in America, we think that ain’t true , you know, ’bout vino bein’ better’n’milk. An’ also, here a bottle’a milk cost ten cents, an’ a bottle’a wine, even shitty stuff, is at least twenty cents. So like the ol’ sayin’ goes: ‘In Rome do as the Romans do.’ Only here in America we do as the Americans do an’ drink milk. Only it’s just that drinkin’ vino is somethin’ we wops been doin’ a long time, so most parents don’t care so much if we do drink vino, only don’t want us drinkin’ it as much as the kids in Italy. Capisce?”

He smiled. “Yeah, I capisce. Your parents, they come from Italy?”

“My Ma’n’Pa, when I had a Pa, came from Sicily.”

“Really! When’d they come here?”

“Nineteen-thirty-five, when I was two.”

The thought that Mitchell might not like her had never entered Gina’s mind. All guys like me! So she’d thought. “Your mom’n’dad,” she asked, moving her hand along the back of the sofa, touching the back of his neck, “where they from?”

Her touch going through him like the scraping of fingernails on a blackboard, “Here.” Standing, he walked to the window, parted the curtain and looked out.

He’s just bein’ bashful. “Here?”

“Here, in Chicago. My Mom was born on the west side and my Dad on the north side.”

So bashful! “Know what?”

Not answering immediately, trying to fathom why, I hate her touching me, an’ yet I’d’a given anything to touch her leg a little while ago. Turning from the window, “Know what, what?”

“I d’know hardly any second-generation Americans.”

“Second-generation Americans?”

“Yeah. Like me’n’my’Ma’n’Pa were born in Sicily, an’ Frank an’ Lisa’s parents were born in Italy, so that makes Lisa’n’Frank first generation Americans, an’ because I wasn’t born here, I ain’t even that. An’ because your parents were born here, right here in Chicago, an’ you were born here, too, then that makes you a second generation American… Capisce?”

“Yeah, I capisce.” Crossing the room, going to a chair, he sat down. “You hate your school, too? What’s it called again?”

“Immaculate Heart. Yeah, I do! Where do you go? You like it there?”

“Harrison. It’s okay, I guess, but I don’t really like going to school too much.”

“Yeah, me, too! What do you like to do, Mitch?”

What he liked to do, not necessarily in this order, was go to the movies, listen to the radio, watch television, occasionally play touch or tackle football, or baseball with the guys—really, with Phyllis and Sharon—and think about girls and masturbate… but he wasn’t about to tell her that, so… “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Stuff.”

Other than playing baseball, or touch or tackle football, neither knew just how alike they were.