Free Streets of Gold by Evan Hunter Page B

mixing with new, yellows and pinks and oranges and whites in silk and organdy and cotton and linen, long dresses fanned out upon blankets in turn spread upon the grass, women holding parasols aloft to keep the sun off their delicate olive complexions, men fanning themselves with straw skimmers and mopping their brows with handkerchiefs cut from worn-out shirts, hemstitched, slurping beer foam from their mustaches as the man on the bandstand (an alderman, whatever the hell
that
was) went on and on about the glories of being a part of this wonderful nation called the United States of America, where there was freedom and justice for all, provided you didn’t run afoul of an Irishman’s pick. After the speech, Sam Ryan and his grand aggravation played a few choruses of “America, the Beautiful” and then (out of deference to the audience, which consisted mostly of guineas from the surrounding side streets of Italian Harlem) played not “My Wild Irish Rose” or “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” but instead played a rousing mick rendition of “
‘O Sole Mio!”
followed by another all-time favorite (in Napoli, maybe) called “
Funiculì-Funiculà.”
Nobody sang along.
    The beer barrels had been rolled out long before the alderman began his heart-rending speech about that old Statue of Liberty out there holding the torch of freedom aloft for all those tired, poor, and huddled masses, and everybody had a mug in his hand or tilted to his lips, and many of the picnickers who were not yet accustomed to American beer had had the foresight to bring along some good dago red made in the basements of countless rat-infested tenements. So the ladies and gentlemen tippled an assortment of sauce (no hard liquor anywhere, except behind Sam Ryan’s piano, in a pint bottle he swigged after each nerve-tingling number) and ate the sandwiches providently provided by the sponsors of this little outing, ham and cheese, or just plain ham, or just plain cheese on soggy rolls.
    In those good old days of nineteen hundred aught one, contrary to today, when Republicans and Democrats alike give fund-raising dinners at a thousand dollars a plate, the vote of the common man was thought quite important, and both parties sought it avidly. Picnics and rallies were organized at the drop of a holiday, with free beer, sandwiches, ice cream, music, fun and frivolity for all, the only political hawking being in the form of buttons passed out for pinning to lapel or bosom, the equivalent of today’s bumper stickers. It was understood that none (or at least very few) of these noisy wops were as yet entitled to vote in America since they were not yet citizens and (in many cases) did not
intend
to become citizens. But even Hitler recognized the beauty of getting ’em while they’re young, and so the wise politicians of yesteryear handed out their little buttons with the Republican eagle on them (at this particular picnic) or the Democratic star (at a picnic some few blocks away), hoping to begin a painless form of education that would guarantee the casting of the right vote in the near or distant future. A penny saved is a penny earned, and it’s a wise man who knows his own father. Francesco took the button handed to him and promptly pinned it to Pino’s backside, where it was later discovered by Angelina, who burst into delighted laughter. Her amusement impressed Francesco not one whit. She was the cause of Pino’s defection, and Francesco wasn’t about to forgive her simply because she had a melodic laugh and beautiful white teeth and sparkling brown eyes, and
Madonna
, maybe he
should
have stayed in Luisa’s kitchen and sampled the cuisine!
    Someone requested “
La Tarantella”
which caused Sam Ryan to stare in goggle-eyed bafflement at his saxophone player, who shrugged and turned to the accordionist, an Italian who had been hired especially for this ethnically oriented outing. The accordionist nodded that he knew the rune, and he began