Brooklyn Noir by Tim McLoughlin
Authors: Tim McLoughlin
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Short Stories, American Fiction, New York, New York (State), Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Detective and Mystery Stories; American, Brooklyn (New York; N.Y.), American fiction - New York (State) - New York, Noir fiction; American
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and you come up with a walk down Memory Lane. Who you think you are—Joe Franklin?”
But the kid is hooked. “Carl Anthony Furillo hit .296 for the 1955 World Champions. Edwin Donald ‘Duke’ Snider hit four home runs, batted in seven, BA .320 in the Series. ‘Sandy’ Edmund Isasi Amoros led the team with .333…”
“Enough,” Sylvia says, like she’s letting the dentist know one more drill and she’s outa there. “We didn’t come here to talk baseball.”
But the kid has cleared the fences. When Scoop and I seen the last of each other, we had this pact, at least I thought we had a deal, only talk, talk only, about Dodgers, once O’Malley had packed up the gang including the great Sandy Koufax himself and hauled kit and caboodle off to L.A. I’m touched that the kid—did Sylvia say he was her nephew?—has got it all down pat. The memories,
my
memories of our church that was Ebbets Field.
“Everything isn’t picture perfect between Scoop and me,” Sylvia goes on. “I’m not gonna tell you it is. Like Senior’s. Me opening the restaurant, a deli. I’m ordering my pastramis from Langers. You never taste a smokier, saltier, peppery flavor in your life. ‘Yer ordering pastramis from L.A.,’ Scoop says. ‘I won’t hear of it. First they steal our Dodgers. Now you’re goin’ head to head with Junior’s with an L.A. pastrami.’ That’s what he says. No head for business.”
“Say, kid,” I say. “They call you I.F.? What you know about Izzy Stone?”
“He published an independent newsletter, received a Special George Polk Journalism Award in 1970, the same award the
Brooklyn Eagle
won for Community Service in 1948 and 1949. Stone thanked the Brooklyn Center of L.I.U. for what he called a great honor.”
The kid gets no further than that when Sylv is back again.
“What is this? First down Memory Lane, now it’s Old Home Week. The
Brooklyn Eagle
is dead and so are Front Page and Sherlock. Scoop is facing the hot seat and you’re cutting up about Brooklyn bygones. You taking the case or I gotta fly a shammes in from L.A.?”
“Sanchez, you say?” I say. “Pablo Sanchez. He still around? Must be a sergeant since I seen him last. I’ll give him a call.” Sylvia is pumping her heels, the kid is flipping his lid, brim forward now. I can see the fading white monogrammed
B
. The number comes to me easy, 84th Precinct, 718-875-6811. I’m still chomping the stogie when I’m on the line with Pablo.
“Socorro! Socorro!”
I say by way of openers. “I gotta talk to you,
amigo
. I hear you got Scoop O’Neil in for
asesinato
. His wife Sylvia put me on the case. I gotta talk to him.
No puedo esperar.”
“Come on over,” Pablo says,
“Esperaré aquí.”
“I’m on,” I tell Sylvia and the kid. “You might as well come along for the ride.”
“Sure I know my way around Brooklyn,” the kid tells me as we’re ambling toward Gold Street. “I got a map.” Then he says, “You ever hear of
Only the Dead Know Brooklyn?”
“Not now,” says Sylvia, wobbling on her high heels. “I’m in the dumps without more bad news.”
I say, “Yeah. A story by Thomas Wolfe, the elder. I never knew kids your age even knew who he was.”
“Izzy knows all about books and batting averages,” Sylvia squawks. “But ask him to slice a corned beef and it comes out like he’s working the Blarney Stone.”
When we reach the old brown brick precinct house where they’re holding Scoop, Pablo greets Sylv,
“Mucho gusto en conocerla, señorita.”
Then, he makes it clear, only one visitor at a time in the detective’s office. He’s arranged for me to have a confab with Scoop.
I’m sittin’ on one of those hard-back chairs that must’ve been designed by a chiropractor to increase business when Scoop comes in looking like it’s ten seconds after Bobby Thomson’s home run that done us in in ’51.
“Pete. Pistol Pete,” he says, shaking his head from side to side, the flaps of his
But the kid is hooked. “Carl Anthony Furillo hit .296 for the 1955 World Champions. Edwin Donald ‘Duke’ Snider hit four home runs, batted in seven, BA .320 in the Series. ‘Sandy’ Edmund Isasi Amoros led the team with .333…”
“Enough,” Sylvia says, like she’s letting the dentist know one more drill and she’s outa there. “We didn’t come here to talk baseball.”
But the kid has cleared the fences. When Scoop and I seen the last of each other, we had this pact, at least I thought we had a deal, only talk, talk only, about Dodgers, once O’Malley had packed up the gang including the great Sandy Koufax himself and hauled kit and caboodle off to L.A. I’m touched that the kid—did Sylvia say he was her nephew?—has got it all down pat. The memories,
my
memories of our church that was Ebbets Field.
“Everything isn’t picture perfect between Scoop and me,” Sylvia goes on. “I’m not gonna tell you it is. Like Senior’s. Me opening the restaurant, a deli. I’m ordering my pastramis from Langers. You never taste a smokier, saltier, peppery flavor in your life. ‘Yer ordering pastramis from L.A.,’ Scoop says. ‘I won’t hear of it. First they steal our Dodgers. Now you’re goin’ head to head with Junior’s with an L.A. pastrami.’ That’s what he says. No head for business.”
“Say, kid,” I say. “They call you I.F.? What you know about Izzy Stone?”
“He published an independent newsletter, received a Special George Polk Journalism Award in 1970, the same award the
Brooklyn Eagle
won for Community Service in 1948 and 1949. Stone thanked the Brooklyn Center of L.I.U. for what he called a great honor.”
The kid gets no further than that when Sylv is back again.
“What is this? First down Memory Lane, now it’s Old Home Week. The
Brooklyn Eagle
is dead and so are Front Page and Sherlock. Scoop is facing the hot seat and you’re cutting up about Brooklyn bygones. You taking the case or I gotta fly a shammes in from L.A.?”
“Sanchez, you say?” I say. “Pablo Sanchez. He still around? Must be a sergeant since I seen him last. I’ll give him a call.” Sylvia is pumping her heels, the kid is flipping his lid, brim forward now. I can see the fading white monogrammed
B
. The number comes to me easy, 84th Precinct, 718-875-6811. I’m still chomping the stogie when I’m on the line with Pablo.
“Socorro! Socorro!”
I say by way of openers. “I gotta talk to you,
amigo
. I hear you got Scoop O’Neil in for
asesinato
. His wife Sylvia put me on the case. I gotta talk to him.
No puedo esperar.”
“Come on over,” Pablo says,
“Esperaré aquí.”
“I’m on,” I tell Sylvia and the kid. “You might as well come along for the ride.”
“Sure I know my way around Brooklyn,” the kid tells me as we’re ambling toward Gold Street. “I got a map.” Then he says, “You ever hear of
Only the Dead Know Brooklyn?”
“Not now,” says Sylvia, wobbling on her high heels. “I’m in the dumps without more bad news.”
I say, “Yeah. A story by Thomas Wolfe, the elder. I never knew kids your age even knew who he was.”
“Izzy knows all about books and batting averages,” Sylvia squawks. “But ask him to slice a corned beef and it comes out like he’s working the Blarney Stone.”
When we reach the old brown brick precinct house where they’re holding Scoop, Pablo greets Sylv,
“Mucho gusto en conocerla, señorita.”
Then, he makes it clear, only one visitor at a time in the detective’s office. He’s arranged for me to have a confab with Scoop.
I’m sittin’ on one of those hard-back chairs that must’ve been designed by a chiropractor to increase business when Scoop comes in looking like it’s ten seconds after Bobby Thomson’s home run that done us in in ’51.
“Pete. Pistol Pete,” he says, shaking his head from side to side, the flaps of his
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