The Angels in Disguise

They were the tumbleweeds of Tumbleweed Hotel, and for all their preposterous and well-thumbed dreams, there was something resplendent about them. Because they were young and sexy, and because they had both dreams, and the courage to haul their dreams up into the days they—albeit briefly—lived in. And for this, George gave them beds. And here and there among them would appear older dreamers.

Gathered together, they formed a second group of bookstore people. George would send them upstairs to lodgings of greater prestige: As writers they were rarely very established, and perhaps not all that published—or at least, not in any great commercial capacity, and not by major houses.

Nor even were they very sexy, though they were, much to the distress of the sexy kids, not infrequently quite sexual in their literary imaginations What? Older people think about sex too! I remember a poetry reading given one time by a weathered hippie with a gray beard and an indigo headband, in which he explained, with exceptional gentleness, how the poem he was about to read was written in Spain, concerning the afternoon he and his friends had been walking down a mountainside, and, as they descended, they had become—quite naturally—naked, and started making paintings with different parts of their bodies.

He had painted one, which had seemed just so beautiful, using the end of his penis. These unestablished writers fell all over the map in terms of style, interests, erudition, and form, though all shared being quite far out.

It was a community of fringes, and while their writing may not have been very proficiently executed with respect to a target market, as an expression of human emotion in words, it was almost never without sincerity, nor without the power that comes when any living presence is captured in a work of art, no matter how cobble-stitched or personal. How many of them will, like Melville or William Blake or the Gawain poet, be unearthed in some forgotten attic in a future century, or pulled from a box on the banks of the Seine and vaulted thence into the canon as some indeed liked to think or dream , is yet to be seen.

His haphazard treatment of cash was due in no small part to his hatred of being inside a bank. In fact, and for all his avowed communism, he hated having anything to do with anything that smacked of institutions or bureaucracy.

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His response to what was required of him by regulators was a complex mixture of subterfuge, evasion and intransigence. Until I got good enough at it for him to trust me to make them up alone, and hardly have to touch the ledgers himself. The beleaguered accountant we passed them to was left no doubt wiping his glasses, and tearing what was left of his hair.

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Rather, in an important and inescapable sense, it was impossible for George to run a bookstore in the way that places like Waterstones do. For all that George was eccentric, as well as, by turns, hilarious, cantankerous, mischievous, sweet, exploitative, perverse, capricious and hugely hugely generous, and—though he surrounded himself with people—more shy than many recognized or thought, he was all these things not by posture, but inveterately so.

And as such, he was someone who was magnificently unable do the things that society, quite reasonably perhaps, would ask and expect of him.

It was the brightest element of his sparkling genius, and the first lesson many of us learned from him. George, and the bookstore he invented, were an astonishing source of inspiration for the bales of young dreamers who tumbled through. But contact with the bookstore exposed them to a different universe, and it changed a lot of them. It was a lesson in how to build a life without following everything the world can immediately think up for you to do or say, and as such, it was immensely powerful. Through it the bookstore has seeded and born fruit in its own innumerable ways: And for every one of them, the world is a more interesting place.

For the literary non-greats, the older dreamers, awaiting their discovery, or quietly growing older without needing it, the lesson was less one of entrepreneurial zeal than of soft spaces. These were people who were already making their own unconventional way through life. Not a few had been younger dreamers, and had been touched by George decades previously. What the bookstore gave to them now was a continuing means to go on being who they were.

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It was one in a network of places and communities that made it possible for them to exist on the fringe, and for their existence to be acknowledged. And whether bad writers or good, the world is more interesting place for each of them too.

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Sach Jones Huntz Hall and Slip Mahoney Leo Gorcey are copy boys for the New York Daily Chronicle newspaper and they hear their friend Gabe, a local police officer, has been shot in the line of duty, while trying to stop a robbery. Both boys are members of the Bowery Boys gang, and they decide to find the person who killed their friend. They soon find a lead, since another police man has been shot by the same killer, who turns out to be a mob gangster and member of the Loop Gang from Chicago.

The boys then decide to go undercover to try to infiltrate the mob and expose them. They get a green light from their editor, Joe Cobb, to go and investigate the story further. They encounter two members of the Loop Gang and befriend them, with the result that they get to meet their boss, Angles Carson Mickey Knox.

An Angel in Disguise: Summary & Quotes - Video & Lesson Transcript | www.newyorkethnicfood.com

Angles likes the boys and soon they are involved with the gang's next hit - a new robbery. Before long, they get to meet Angles' boss, Carver Edward Ryan , who takes a liking to them because he thinks they are tough gangsters that he can use in his operation. He lets the boys in on a plan to rob the Gotham Steel Works the next day, and Slip sends this information to the police.



An ambush is set, to stop the robbery and catch the gangsters, but someone on the inside slips the information about the ambush to Carver. Carver changes his plans and instead tries to rob the Beacon Machine Works. Slip has no possibility to warn the police, but when Carver is trying to crack open the safe at Beacon Machine Works the next evening, Slip gets a chance to call his editor, who passes the information forward. Unfortunately, another employee at the Chronicle, a cartoonist named Lowell, informs Carver that the police is coming.