Ed Lacy - Dead End

“No sir. It's my ball. I'm sure because I got it cheap—there's a bump in the rubber and it bounces cockeyed.”

“Don't give me no Eye-tie lip, just the ball.”

“No, sir. That bump—that's how I'm positive it's mine,” I said, scared stiff but standing up to him. As Nate used to tell me, If you think you're right, never back down, Bucky. A beating isn't the worst thing in the world.

So he made a grab for me with one dirty mitt and I ducked under his arm, punched him as hard as I could in his big belly. I didn't hurt him but some of the other men began to snicker. He roared, “Now I'm going to wack your guinea ass, and wack it bare!”

I suppose I was too scared to run. I kept side-stepping his rushes, hitting his stomach—too dumb to smack him below the belt. Some of the women were telling him to stop it, and I remember Mom screaming out of the window to leave me alone. She had a bitch of a temper when she cut loose—even Nate respected it—and I'm sure if she had been able to dress and get down the five flights in time, she would have tore into this lump.

The exercise was sobering him up and when he finally caught me, he ripped my shirt down the back, tore my pants, pulling them down. Maybe he was a queer—he was licking his lips, and I felt his spit on my bare can before he walloped me. That spit hurt worse than the actual lick. Then Nate was pushing through the ring of people. He said in a mild voice, “Get your dirty hands off my kid!” Yeah, he said my kid.

The big jerk dropped me. He stood there with his hands down, roaring, “Look what we have here, the Eye-tie dude!”

Rolling out of the way as I pulled up my pants, I watched Nate step in and belt the guy. It was a hard punch and Nate neatly turned his gloved hand as it landed cutting the eyebrow.

His face bloody, this giant rushed at Nate. His idea of fighting was to come in bellowing and cursing, swinging like a gate. If he'd ever got to Nate he would have crippled him. But Nate knew what he was doing, dancing in and out like a cutie, those tan gloves slicing the big face. Why, Nate's pearl-gray Homburg never even came off! And in a matter of seconds he had the lump's eyes puffed shut, blood streaming from his nose and flabby mouth. Then Nate started working on the heaving belly, and after another minute the big slob was sitting on the street, puffing and actually crying with shame. Nate said, “If you ever lay a hand on my kid again, I'll give you the full treatment. Come, Bucky. Daisy has supper waiting.” And Nate without a mark on him, hardly breathing deeply.

I was one proud and happy kid as we walked through the crowd. And those gloves were so bloodstained Nate could only use them for fishing. Daisy didn't want me to sleep with them, but Nate said it was okay. When I grew bigger I wore them until they fell apart.

Nate was so many things. Except for going to work, most of the people never left our block. But Nate and I went every place. He was a great cook and on picnics he would build a fire and broil the fish we'd caught. Or split hot dogs and stuff cheese and bacon and all kinds of spices in them. Or roast whole ears of corn, husks and all. Often Daisy went with us but usually she was too tired. Even now I can recall the time Nate killed a rabbit on the run with a stone, roasted it on a spit—man, what a meal that was! I'm not lying about that, Nate was a hell of a pitcher. He once played semi-pro ball. Sometimes he'd pitch for a local sand-lot team and everybody would ask him why he'd never made the major leagues. Nate knew everything about the game, would often take me to a ball game and practically call every play before it was made. He told me not to tell Daisy about going to ball games, it made her sick. I didn't understand about that until I left home.

Nate was all-around. Whenever one of those professional pool players, one of those masked marvels sent around by the pool-table outfits, played at the corner pool hall, they would ask Nate to take him on. Of course Nate never won but it was always a close game. And when his office had their yearly outing, Nate would take me and Mom, and we'd watch him win the sack race, or even the hundred-yard dash against younger fellows.

The first I knew Nate wasn't my real dad was when I was thirteen and he went away for a week end to attend his mother's funeral. I knew Daisy's folks had died long ago, although I'd never seen them. She had a sister I saw once when I was a kid. Nor had I met any of Pop's people, and when he went away I kept asking Daisy why I had never seen or heard of this grandfather. She told me it was because they lived way out west. Daisy really hit the bottle that week end. I had to put her to bed. When Nate returned Sunday night they had an argument in their bedroom. On account of Mom being crocked I'd been sleeping lightly, so I awoke to hear her say, “Hon, he's getting big now, and asking questions. Why don't you adopt him?”

“No. Let's not go into that.”

“But I know you love Bucky. Why put him through this? He isn't to blame.”

“Daisy, I've had a rough week end. You look like you've had one, too. Let's not talk about it. I'm providing for him, doing everything I promised.”

“But why can't you go all the way?”

He didn't answer and then I heard her sobbing and Nate said, “Come on now, Daisy, dear. You know I've done the right thing. Please don't cry.”

I tossed on my day bed in the living room for the rest of the night, was sick in school the next day thinking about it. That night, when we were listening to the radio and Daisy was in the kitchen finishing the dishes, I asked him right out. “Nate, are you my real dad?”

I was a little hysterical. He glanced toward the kitchen, whispered, “Bucky, do you know what a real father is?”

“Well, he's... a father.”

“A father is one who feeds his boy, dresses him, takes him out, cares for him. I dress you better than any other kid in the block, take you more places, don't I?”

“You bet. Then you are my real father?”

“Keep your voice down. I just answered that, didn't I, Son?”

“Then what was Mom crying about last night?”

He grinned and poked me on the arm. “You know women; sometimes they get high strung. Tell you what. Tomorrow is Friday. If Daisy don't want to go to the movies, I'll take you bowling. It's a nice sport and you've never tried it. And you forget Mama's crying—talking about it will only make her nervous. You know how she gets at times. Okay?”

I thought he meant she was unwell. He took me bowling on Friday and won a carton of cigarettes for making high score of the week.

When I was just turning eighteen and in my last term of high school, Daisy began to have sick spells, keep to her bed a lot. She was always skin and bones, although I was surprised when I once came upon a snap of her as a young girl—she had a slim but solid figure. I came home one afternoon from football practice—I was always a second-string tackle—to find her on the kitchen floor. I set up such a hollering the neighbors came running and soon an ambulance doc. He said Daisy was dead—as if I didn't know—that her heart had given out. Nate took it bad, crying all night and staring at the wall for a few days. Of course, I felt bad at losing Mom, but it really didn't change my life much. After the funeral things went on as before, except I did the shopping after school and Nate cooked.

I was almost as big then as I am now, weighed in at a hundred and seventy-four pounds, and was trying to be an amateur boxer. Nate was my manager, trainer, and second, and after Daisy's death we worked hard at it. Three nights a week I'd train at a gym the pros used during the day. I had a few fights, winning them all. They weren't easy fights and I didn't see any future in throwing leather. But it made it easier for us to forget Daisy, gave both of us a charge, me in there fighting, Nate leaning on the ring apron, shouting advice. Nate and I were closer than any father and son.

When I graduated school a few months after the funeral, Nate gave me a swell watch, a wrist watch with the picture of a pug, the hands of the clock being his arms. I still have it. The night of my graduation he took me out for some real Japanese food and a couple of belts of rye, telling me how sad it was Daisy didn't see me get my diploma, how I must go to college, maybe even get an athletic scholarship. When we returned to the flat there was a check for three hundred and fifty dollars in the mail for Bucklin Penn. There was one for Nate too, for the same amount. He said, “From your dear mother's policy.”

Never having had that much money before, I was too delighted to think straight for a moment. Then I asked, “But what's with this Bucklin Penn tag?”

Nate was unrolling my diploma, which he was going to have framed the first thing in the morning. I was astonished to see the same name on the diploma—Bucklin Penn. I asked, “What is this, Dad? Why isn't Laspiza printed there?”

Nate had the same look in his eyes as when he was getting ready to make a tough pool shot, or pitch his fast ball. “Because your name is Penn, Bucky.”

“That was Mom's maiden name but my name is Laspiza.”

“No it isn't,” he said quietly. “That's why I arranged for your correct name on your diploma. Son, it's time you knew I'm not your actual father.”

“Well, who is?” I asked, my voice a croak. I was all mixed up; him telling me that and calling me son at the same time.

“I don't know. Daisy would never tell me. Truth is, I never asked.”

Now, Nate had a good sense of humor, sometimes was given to mild practical jokes. Like once I'd saved up for a model plane they were advertising on a corn-flakes box. I gave Nate the letter with the money to mail on his way to the office. That night he came home with the plane-kit box, addressed to me, stamped and everything, said mail service was sure fast these days. It took me a few days to realize he had bought a kit in a store, had his company's mail room fix it up.

Feeling like I'd stopped a gut wallop, I asked, “Nate, what kind of a gag is all this?”

“How I wish it was a gag, Bucky. This is going to be rough, for both of us, but I have to tell you something I wanted to say long ago, but Daisy wouldn't let me. I kept telling her it was a mistake not to tell you....”

“Tell me what?”

“You're almost a man now, Bucky. You can understand this. Daisy and I grew up together in a small town not far from Gary. We were sweethearts from the day we first saw each other. Her folks weren't too keen about having me in the family because I was Italian. Well, her parents were killed in an auto accident when Daisy was fifteen, and she came to live with us. We were to be married when she was eighteen. After about a year or so, she began working as a waitress in a combination bar and restaurant. My people were very strait-laced, you understand. They didn't want her working. But Daisy liked being independent, and she wasn't working nights—when the bar might get rough—only during the afternoons. I don't have to tell you about sex, Bucky; we went over that a few years ago. What I'm trying to say is, I never touched Daisy, although we both wanted it. You see, we agreed we would wait.”

He stopped talking for a moment, and when he continued his voice was shaking like a ham actor's. “Daisy was going to be seventeen on August twenty-fifth. I was nineteen and that summer I got an offer to play semipro ball up in Canada. It looked like my big chance. In July—July eighth in fact; 111 never forget that date—my father wrote that I should consider Daisy dead—they had kicked her out of the house. I left the team and rushed home. She was a month pregnant with you. Some louse had fed her a few drinks, raped her. She had been ashamed to even go to the police. We were married that same day, and came east. I promised her I would raise you like my own son. Bucky, you know I've kept my word. I intend to help you through college, keep on being your best friend and—”