The Credit Draper Episode 33

Avram was surprised how many of Lucky Mo’s punters he knew. A lot of local shopkeepers and tradesmen. A lot of Jews. A lot of Irish.

“Then there’s Baked Fish,” Solly said. “Who’s Baked Fish?”

“Come on. Ye ken who I mean.” “Howie the fishmonger?”

“Try again.”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on.”

“I give up.”

“Yer Uncle Mendel.”

“Uncle Mendel bets on horses?” “Why not? It’s no’ a sin last time I looked.” “It’s illegal.”

“Like I said, it’s no’ a commandment. It disnae say anywhere – ‘Thou shalt not bet on the two-thirty at Ayr.’”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Well, there’s a lot more ye wouldnae believe. We’ve got punters that cannae speak a word of English but can scan a racing card as fast as the Mourner’s Kaddish. Where’s yer Uncle Mendel anyway? He’s no been around.”

“He’s staying out of Glasgow until all this enemy alien stuff ’s sorted out.”

Solly checked out both ends of the lane again, then glanced up at his father’s window. He snatched a cigarette from behind his ear, scraped a match against the dry underside of a lifted brick and lit up.

Spotted

“It was my only chance to get spotted by Celtic,” Avram said, taking up his thoughts where he had left them before the arrival of the Mad Hatter. “My only chance.” “What are ye moaning about now?” “Not playing the final.”

“There’s nothing ye can dae about it.” “I could run away. Play for a boys’ club.” “Dinnae be daft. Where would ye go? And anyway ye’d still need permission from Mr Kahn to sign for a club. Ye’ll have to wait till yer an adult. Adults do what they want. Want a drag?”

Avram took the cigarette, inhaled. The end was wet, almost soaked shut. He inhaled again, this time sharp, drawing strands of tobacco into his mouth.

The smoke scratched hard in his throat and his lungs but he managed not to cough. He handed the cigarette back. “I don’t want to wait that long.” “Lots of players dinnae play till they’re in their twenties.”

“Not Patsy.” He knew Gallacher had signed for Celtic when he was 18. He would have been contracted earlier but the teenager had wanted to finish his apprenticeship down the shipyards. “I want to play now.”

“Look at all the players breaking up their careers by enlisting,” Solly wheezed, managing to hold the smoke deep in his lungs and speak at the same time. “God knows when they’ll come back to the game. If they come back at all.”

“That’s different. I told you – I want to play now.”

“Ye can play with the Jews. They’ve got a team. They play on Sunday.”

“The Jews? They always lose. Anyway, it’s not the same. There’s no future with the Jews. With a proper boys’ club, I might get picked up by the scouts.”

“Yer a nutter, d’ye know that? A bleedin’ spoiled nutter at that.” Solly stamped out the cigarette, laid his back flat against the wall, pulled his cap down over his face.

Ignored

The rain was coming down heavy now. Avram turned up the collar of his jacket, watched the sheets of water strafe the muddy pool at his feet. He wanted another drag on a cigarette.

“What do you mean, I’m a spoiled nutter?”

Solly ignored him, began a tuneless whistle. Avram grunted, scuffed his shoes against the loose stones underfoot. A raindrop rolled off his cap and on to his nose. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.

A light came on at a first floor window. A woman came into the room, hauled open the window.

“Ma bleedin’ washin’,” she moaned, snatching her laundry off the outside pulley. Avram snorted a laugh, as did Solly. He felt the tension between them ease.

“Aye, yer a spoiled nutter,” Solly sniffed. “So what if ye dinnae get to play for Celtic? Ye can always play football for fun. The park’s full of teams on a Sunday needing their numbers made up. Meanwhile, yer getting an education.”

“I don’t want an education.”

“Dinnae knock it, Avram. Yer clever. Really clever. When ye came here ye couldnae speak the language, never mind kick the leether about. Now look at ye. Staying on for secondary. And yer always thinking about all that religious stuff. Ye could be a rabbi or something.” “What? Like Lieberman?”

“Just dinnae be like me if ye can choose not to be. Standing out here in the rain waiting for the polis or the punters while my father’s working illegal. Just dinnae be like me.”

Another figure appeared at the far end of the lane. Avram braced himself to run but Solly held him back

“It’s the lampie, ye bampot.” Avram peered down the lane at the tall, lanky, uniformed figure emerging from the drizzle with his lit-up pole laid over his shoulder like the rifle of a soldier coming through the fog on a French battlefield.

Avram curled his fingers into the shape of a makeshift gun, sounded off a shot. Then, without saying goodbye to his friend, he ran off through the rain to his Hebrew class.

Restrictions

So what if ye dinnae get to play for Celtic? Ye can always play football for fun. The park’s full of teams on a Sunday needing their numbers made up.

“Ah, it’s you, Avram.” Rabbi Lieberman reluctantly sat back down. “These lighting restrictions make everything such a darkness. Nu? I am in a hurry. Quickly, now. What do you want?”

“Today we studied from the Book of Samuel. The story of King David.” “Nu?”

“There is something I don’t understand.” “Nu? Spit it out. Quick, boy. Quick.” “Are there two Gods, rebbe?” “What are you saying?”

“I just wanted to know if there could be two Gods?”

“How can you say such a thing? You of all boys, with the Shema prayer in your bar mitzvah portion.”

More tomorrow.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J. David Simons. He has written five novels, all published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net