Smoke by Elizabeth Ruth Page B

the house leaving the side door to creak and slap shut behind her.
    â€œThe sesquicentennial.” Buster is sour and incredulous. “It’s a whole year off.”
    â€œWell, don’t let her hear you talking like that. I’m told you can never plan too far ahead.” Doc John chuckles but a choking sensation grips him. He coughs. His stomach begins to burn, a low hot cloud that sometimes comes over him, and he coughs harder until he can’t stop. The discomfort that he’s been suffering on and off for years has recently grown worse, dramatically worse an hour or so after he eats. It’s impossible to ignore. He leans forward in his rocking chair, grips the chrome-and-cushion arms tightly and waits for the pain and nausea to pass. Buster offers his drink but the doctor pushes the glass away and tries to catch his breath.
    â€œJohn?” Alice calls out through the kitchen window. “Everything all right?”
    He waves her off and gestures for the boy to thump his back, which Buster does a couple of times, and despite its doing nothing to quell the pain Alice ducks back and disappears into the house. Inside, she uncrosses her fingers from behind her back. A simple gesture, like so many of her superstitions, to buy more time.
    The doctor breathes more freely and resumes his conversation. “The first time I saw fireworks it was July fourth. I was down at the riverfront with all the other spectators.” Buster leans into his chair, takes a gulp of cold milk. “Jefferson Avenue was bumper to bumper. They had these barges in the middle of the Detroit River and thousands of people lined up along both shores to watch.” He gestures widely with his hands as if to recreate the marvel. “Never heard anything so loud in all my life. Must’ve gone on for half an hour, popping them into the air and watching them fall like red, white and blue bombs. Your father and I are going to rig something like it here. You gonna stick around?”
    â€œSuppose so,” Buster says. “Where else would I go?” He thinks about Doc John’s tales. Distant cities. Living incognito. “Can’t even get along at school these days,” he adds, searching the old man’s face for an argument.
    â€œWhy’s that?”
    Buster shrugs and looks at the floorboards. “Guess I’m not much for people any more.”
    â€œI see,” says Doc John. And he does. He knows what it is to hide. Once you start there is no stopping. “Many ways to learn besides school. Don’t worry; you’re just out of practice. Listen, you know about the Oakland Sugar House Gang, right?”
    â€œThe who?”
    â€œOh, see now to understand the Purples you’ve got to know about the Sugar House Gang. They taught the Bernstein brothers everything.” Doc John takes a deep breath and feels the pain in his abdomen wane. With Buster healed he hasn’t been telling his stories, and he realizes he misses them, misses the relief of sharing them. “Let me think … It was Joe Bernstein who came out of the Sugar House bunch. Of all the Bernsteins he was the most dangerous. Joe dabbled in businesses on the up and up too—had a barbershop once. He used his criminal career to save and bankroll a legitimate business. But it was when he was younger, at the Bishop school, that he met a bookie named Solly Levine who introduced him to Charles Leiter, head of the Sugar House Gang, and the man who would become his best teacher yet.”
    â€œFunny names,” says Buster, pulling his chair in closer.
    â€œNothing funny about them. Detroit was a mixed bag. You had your Irish, your Eye-talians and your Jews like the Bernstein brothers, and they were all fighting to carve out territory. Even the boys who weren’t organized added excitement. Like this blind-pig owner named Slappy so-and-so, who stood in the doorway of his establishment guarding it with a