Free Blue Eyes by Jerome Charyn

him into his own head. From the Simpson Street station you could almost pick carrots off the windows of the Bronx Hotel; twice he had seen colored girls undress; he recalled the torn matting of his seat, the underpants of the second girl, the specific angle the train made with the window ledge, minimizing Coen’s view, forcing him to hold his neck at an incredible degree or lose all command of the window.
    He came down from the subway at 174th Street, where Southern Boulevard bisects Boston Road. He didn’t go straight to Papa. The candy store was a main policy drop, and Coen might frighten off a few of Papa’s runners. So he gave the store enough time to react to a foreign cop in the neighborhood. He stayed across the street, near the Puerto Rican social club which served as a lookout for Papa. The club members eyed him from their curtainrod. Coen revealed a piece of his holster. He wanted the Puerto Ricans to make him. He felt relieved when they signaled to the candy store by flapping bunches of curtain. They leered at him and mouthed the Spanish word for fairy. Coen smiled. Then he moved into the store. Papa’s runners and pickup men were concentrated at the shelves devoted to school supplies. They were tallying policy slips with their backs to Coen. Nobody stirred for him. Papa was behind the counter preparing banana splits for a tribe of cross-eyed girls sitting on his stools. The girls, with thick glass in their eyes, must have been sisters or cousins at least. They thumped the stools and wailed with pleasure when Papa brought over a big jar of maraschino cherries. Being a fat policy man didn’t get Papa to neglect his ice cream dishes. He wouldn’t look at Coen until he satisfied every girl. “Sprinkles, Mr. Guzmann. Marietta expects another cherry.”
    With the girls rubbing their bellies and wearing hot sauce on their cheeks, Papa came out from the counter to hug Coen. They embraced near Papa’s Bromo-Seltzer machine. He wasn’t timid about showing affection for a cop. He could kiss Coen without repercussions. No one but Papa controlled the candy store. He stayed king because of this. He squatted over his provinces with one finger in the chocolate sauce. Every individual runner, pickup man, and payoff man had to report to the candy store. Papa’s three middle sons, Alejandro, Topal, and Jorge, ran for him when they weren’t fixing sodas or frying eggs. His other collectors were South American cousins, retired Jews, busted cops like Isaac, or portorriqueños who owed their livelihood to Papa. Any runner who grew independent and bolted with the day’s receipts had twenty-four hours to redeem himself; after this period of grace he was ripe for Papa’s dumping grounds at Loch Sheldrake, New York. Whoever accompanied the reprobate to Loch Sheldrake would say, “Moses, I’m working for Moses.” In matters of business Papa demanded that his code name be used.
    â€œPapa, where’s Jerónimo?”
    â€œAh, that dummy, he walked into the next borough to be with his brother. He can’t swallow a marshmallow without César. I’m only his stinking father. I bathed him forty-three years. Manfred, you remember how Jerónimo went gray at fifteen? Imbeciles worry more than we do. Their arteries dry fast. They don’t live too long. You ask me, he’s smarter than Jorge. Jerónimo counts with his knuckles, but he counts to thirty-five. Jorge can’t go over ten without mistakes. They’re good boys, all prick and no brain. Am I supposed to make fudge the whole day and forget Jerónimo? César won’t bring him back.”
    â€œShould I collect him for you, Papa? Tell me where César is. I need him for something else.”
    â€œHe keeps ten addresses, that boy. So who’s the moron? Manfred, he’s a baby. He had to fly from here. They’ll cripple him in Manhattan.”
    â€œHow did Jerónimo find him,