from his mother's apartment on East 116th Street, having walked over to visit her from his dump up in Washington Heights. He liked walking around New York and didn't mind the hike. Besides, he didn't own a car. He couldn't afford a car. He didn't mind visiting his mother from time to time either, even if that meant hav ing to sit in her dining room and listen to her kvell about his good looks and yiddische kopf and kvetch about bis lack of a job.
Strictly speaking, she was incorrect, for he had a job—or, rather, he had several. It was just that none of them was either very respectable or very good. Most of his time was spent trying to figure out how a guy as smart as he could be so poor.
Some small-time crap games here, a little bootleg ging there, even running a team of newspaper shtarkers in Harlem to make sure the vendors were selling Pulit zer's World and not Hearst's Journal. The shtarkers were a fixture of the newspaper business in those days. Their function was to encourage newsstand vendors to carry their paper instead of its rivals, and their means of persuasion were generally baseball bats and suspi cious fires. He wasn't proud about this line of work, but it paid reasonably well—even after kicking back part of his money to the cops so they might continue to look the other way until they got a better offer—well enough to keep him from looking like a bum, even if he often felt like one.
What he really wanted to do was run a speakeasy. Everything about nightlife attracted him, starting with the hours; he was a night owl living in an early bird world. Although he didn't play an instrument, an ear for music ran in the family, as his mother never tired of reminding him. The clink of glasses, the sound of fresh liquor being poured from a bottle, the satisfying whoosh of a beer keg being tapped—these were his instruments.
And the money! At his age, other fellows who ran speaks were riding around town in Duesenbergs, with a doll on each arm. Him, he was lucky to scare up car fare. He wanted to blame it on the Depression but knew he couldn't. He couldn't blame it on anybody but him self.
His destination, Ruby's Appetizing and Delicates sen, sat on the corner of Hester and Allen Streets in their old neighborhood, handy to the local el stop. This was his weekly mitzvah, going downtown to buy his mother a knish when there were perfectly fine knishes up and down Second Avenue. Miriam insisted that the best knishes—and the best latkes and the best gefilte fish and the best everything—were still to be found on the Lower East Side.
He liked to think of himself as a tough guy, and here he was, riding the el to buy an old lady a knish.
The Lower East Side was where he spent most of his childhood. The "old neighborhood," the old folks called it, using the same tone—nostalgia mixed with audible relief at not having to live there anymore—that they used when they talked about the old country. Which, for the Balines, as for most of the other Jewish families in East Harlem, was Russia, the Ukraine, or Poland. Ninety thousand Jews lived in East Harlem and eighty thousand more in Harlem proper, which made the area north of Central Park the second-largest Jew ish neighborhood in the country, after the old neigh borhood.
New York had plenty of German Jews, the Deutscher Yehudim, but many of them were established, rapidly assimilating snobs who took one look at their embar rassingly unwashed brethren pouring in from Eastern Europe and promptly changed their names. Take that fancy pants August Belmont, the big macher at the Metropolitan Opera: he had been born Sch ö nberg. Rick swore to himself that he would never change his name. "Yitzik" to "Rick," maybe; but Baline he was born and Baline he would stay.
That was his mother's influence. His father might have had an influence, too, but Rick had never known his father; Morris Baline had died before Rick was born. Miriam wanted better for her boy, but she also wanted him
Strictly speaking, she was incorrect, for he had a job—or, rather, he had several. It was just that none of them was either very respectable or very good. Most of his time was spent trying to figure out how a guy as smart as he could be so poor.
Some small-time crap games here, a little bootleg ging there, even running a team of newspaper shtarkers in Harlem to make sure the vendors were selling Pulit zer's World and not Hearst's Journal. The shtarkers were a fixture of the newspaper business in those days. Their function was to encourage newsstand vendors to carry their paper instead of its rivals, and their means of persuasion were generally baseball bats and suspi cious fires. He wasn't proud about this line of work, but it paid reasonably well—even after kicking back part of his money to the cops so they might continue to look the other way until they got a better offer—well enough to keep him from looking like a bum, even if he often felt like one.
What he really wanted to do was run a speakeasy. Everything about nightlife attracted him, starting with the hours; he was a night owl living in an early bird world. Although he didn't play an instrument, an ear for music ran in the family, as his mother never tired of reminding him. The clink of glasses, the sound of fresh liquor being poured from a bottle, the satisfying whoosh of a beer keg being tapped—these were his instruments.
And the money! At his age, other fellows who ran speaks were riding around town in Duesenbergs, with a doll on each arm. Him, he was lucky to scare up car fare. He wanted to blame it on the Depression but knew he couldn't. He couldn't blame it on anybody but him self.
His destination, Ruby's Appetizing and Delicates sen, sat on the corner of Hester and Allen Streets in their old neighborhood, handy to the local el stop. This was his weekly mitzvah, going downtown to buy his mother a knish when there were perfectly fine knishes up and down Second Avenue. Miriam insisted that the best knishes—and the best latkes and the best gefilte fish and the best everything—were still to be found on the Lower East Side.
He liked to think of himself as a tough guy, and here he was, riding the el to buy an old lady a knish.
The Lower East Side was where he spent most of his childhood. The "old neighborhood," the old folks called it, using the same tone—nostalgia mixed with audible relief at not having to live there anymore—that they used when they talked about the old country. Which, for the Balines, as for most of the other Jewish families in East Harlem, was Russia, the Ukraine, or Poland. Ninety thousand Jews lived in East Harlem and eighty thousand more in Harlem proper, which made the area north of Central Park the second-largest Jew ish neighborhood in the country, after the old neigh borhood.
New York had plenty of German Jews, the Deutscher Yehudim, but many of them were established, rapidly assimilating snobs who took one look at their embar rassingly unwashed brethren pouring in from Eastern Europe and promptly changed their names. Take that fancy pants August Belmont, the big macher at the Metropolitan Opera: he had been born Sch ö nberg. Rick swore to himself that he would never change his name. "Yitzik" to "Rick," maybe; but Baline he was born and Baline he would stay.
That was his mother's influence. His father might have had an influence, too, but Rick had never known his father; Morris Baline had died before Rick was born. Miriam wanted better for her boy, but she also wanted him
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