Free Blue Eyes by Jerome Charyn Page A

Papa?”
    â€œWith his nose. You develop your smell living around sweets. What do boroughs mean? Sweat can carry across a river.”
    â€œWhat about Isaac? Where’s Isaac?”
    Papa stared at the banana splits. “Which one? Isaac Big Nose? Or Isaac Pacheco?”
    â€œMy Isaac,” Coen said. “The Chief.”
    â€œHim?” And Coen had to face the wrath in Papa’s yellow teeth. He’ll curse his family with devotion, Coen thought; not strangers or cops. “I leave the bones for Isaac. He picks my garbage pail.”
    â€œPapa, since when are you so particular about one busted cop? You have pensioned detectives fronting for you, you keep old precinct hands on the street. You should use him, Papa. Isaac has the biggest brain in the five boroughs.”
    â€œSo smart he got caught with a gambler’s notebook in his pocket.”
    â€œSomebody stuffed him. I can’t say who. Isaac won’t talk to me.”
    â€œI say he’s a skell and a thief. I took him in because I’m ashamed to see another Jew starve on Boston Road. The city has charity. I have charity. No one can tell me Moses doesn’t provide. Manfred, how’s the uncle?”
    â€œPapa, he looks fine. He can’t stop thinking about my father.”
    â€œI mean to visit. I’m not comfortable away from the store. But I owe it to Sheb. He was kind to Jerónimo. You remember how your uncle could paint an egg. Him and César, they were the only two could take Jerónimo’s mind off chocolate and the halvah.”
    The girls screamed for Papa; they wanted second helpings. Papa hissed back. “Quiet. You’re at the mercy of the house. Free refills come at Papa’s convenience.” He asked Coen to stay.
    â€œCan’t,” Coen gagged; the aromas off the counter had begun to take hold. He was incapacitated by the imprint of Jelly Royals under sticky paper, lollipop trays, pretzels in a cloudy jar. Papa couldn’t have changed syrups or his brand of malt in thirty-five years; the sweetness undid Coen. He saw Jerónimo go gray. His throat locked with thick fudge. House, house, is Moses in the house? If César could steal pretzels, so could Coen. In twenty years of patronizing the store, Coen stole no more than twice. He had a fierce respect for the old man. It was Moses who wired him the money to come home from the barracks at Bad Kreuznach after his mother and father died. And it wasn’t Papa’s fault it took three weeks for the money to find Coen. Sheb knew where he was. But Sheb wouldn’t open his mouth.
    â€œManfred, why do you need him?” Once behind the counter Papa had to shout to hear himself over the girls. “César.”
    â€œInformation, Papa. César can help me find a runaway girl.”
    â€œA goya or a Jew?”
    â€œA goya, Papa.”
    â€œManfred, you know the dairy restaurant on Seventy-third near Broadway? Go there. Maybe eight, nine at night you’ll see the old cockers with boutonnieres. Pick up a flower and wait. It’s a dice-steering location. Get in the car with the old men. Give my name to the steerer. Say Moses, not Papa. That’s the closest I can get you. Manfred, you won’t forget Jerónimo? You’ll tell me if he likes it with his brother?”
    â€œPapa, I will.”
    Coen avoided his father’s egg store, south of the Guzmanns on Boston Road. He didn’t want to dream of eggs tonight Now a pentecostal church, painted sky blue, it was another Guzmann policy drop. Coen met Jorge outside the candy store. The middlemost of Papa’s five boys, stupid and uncorruptible at thirty-nine, with few attitudes about his brothers, and wifeless like them, he was carrying quarters in his pockets and in his sleeves; because he was poor at arithmetic and could get lost turning too many corners, Jorge walked the line of Boston Road accepting only quarter plays. Papa bought him shirts and