Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [176]
When he returned to Baltimore he was a troubled lad. It didn’t take long for him to become a leader. Not in school, where he struggled to make passing grades, but out on the streets. When little guys get tough, watch out. Gideon started smoking cigarettes, ran with a gang, and generally flirted with trouble.
There was a street called Herbert Street, which ran off Monroe. It was not much more than an alleyway lined with tiny, tiny row houses mostly inhabited by poor Irish and poorer Portuguese fishermen. It was a mean street with mean kids and there were nightly brawls between neighbors and inside the homes.
Gideon Zadok was able to control his gang and lead them with his sharp little mind. They heisted stuff out of neighborhood stores, prowled for other gangs to fight, stole bicycles and sold them for spare parts, and otherwise spoiled for trouble.
The kid was on his own. His father, Nathan, was in Philly. Molly was in Norfolk and Leah was gone from the house most of the time. Bubba Hannah did most of the raising. She loved Gideon powerfully, but she had grown old. When we had a matriarch as strong as Hannah, we thought she’d never age, but each Sunday now, we saw it happen.
Bubba would darn his socks, keep his clothing clean, and feed him, but that was it. She could not cope with a wild teenager who had fast turned into a street fighter.
Dominick Abruzzi had worked his way up to detective sergeant and we had become close, over the years.
“I’m worried about Gideon,” he said.
“Me too, Dom.”
“Up to now I’ve been able to talk the juvenile officers into keeping the kid’s name off the blotter. He’s got no record, but Uncle Dom can only do so much.”
“I think we’ve got to bring his father in on it. Maybe he can take the kid in Philly a little more, give him something to look forward to.”
Dom and I agreed to give it our best try, even though we didn’t like Nathan Zadok or his Communist shit. We phoned him.
“I’m in the neighbor’s apartment, I can’t talk, and he needs the phone,” Nathan said.
“The boy is getting into trouble,” I answered.
“It would be very hard to have him in Philadelphia. We barely have room to breathe in now. Look, I’ll write you a letter.”
Dom had his ear against mine so he could hear. He snatched the phone from my hand. “Listen, Zadok, your son is one step away from going to the detention home. How are the comrades on the Central Committee going to take that one?”
“All right, all right, calm down, Abruzzi. You Mussolini Fascist,” he hissed under his breath.
“Now, you get him to Philly as often as you can and spend some time with him.”
“I’ll get things arranged, no matter what the cost, the extra train fares, the extra cooking, laundry, clothing. You do know that I send him support money, without fail,” Nathan whined.
When we signed off, both Dom and I shook our heads. “He’s not going to help. Jesus ... Jesus ...”
We took it upon ourselves to wean him away from his gang as carefully as we could. As a detective sergeant, Dom had free entry to all the sporting and cultural events. If it had anything to do with baseball or music, Dom took care of him.
I encouraged Gideon to come and see us anytime he wanted. With Pierre away at college and three nonathletic daughters, it was fun to have somebody to shoot baskets with. We both liked to run and we’d spend many an early evening trotting around the neighborhood. We would pass Garrison Junior High School and Forest Park High, modern schools set in lawns and trees and serenity. It wasn’t difficult to see how much Gideon wanted to attend these schools.
So I went into a little conspiracy with him. He’d use my Belle Avenue address as his own and get a transfer out of his inner-city school. It worked, and the boy became very attached to Garrison. After-school activities, particularly the drama club, did a lot to keep him