(2 of 2)
He thus becomes a receptive but essentially passive observer of a garish, deadly world, living, as he puts it, "in the very pulsebeat of the tabloids." He freely enters Mob-owned nightclubs and elegant, exclusive brothels. When no one, including reporters or federal agents, can find Schultz, Billy is allowed into his presence: "It is spectacular enough to see someone in the flesh whom you've only known in the newspapers, but to see someone the newspapers have said is on the lam definitely has a touch of magic to it." The young apprentice also learns that "I had caught on with the great Dutch Schultz in his decline of empire, he was losing control." The mobster's legal problems are mounting, his bribe money is no longer good in New York City, and gentlemen competitors of Italian ancestry -- Schultz calls them "dago scungili" -- are moving in on his operations. Dreadful events threaten; all of them occur, and then some.
Its period authenticities and relentlessly violent plot practically guarantee Billy Bathgate a sale to the movies. Good luck to all concerned, for the novel's greatest strength resides in its least cinematic feature. Billy's language -- breathy, breakneck, massing phrases into great cumulus sentences that rumble with coming rough weather -- is totally unlike the short, syncopated rhythms of Ragtime. At first, readers may wonder how this young, confessed truant has run across terms like "dissynchronously" or where he picked up the poetic skills to describe a waterfall: "At the very bottom there hovered a perpetually shimmering rainbow as if not water but light was pouring and shattering into its colors." Doctorow eventually accounts for Billy's erudition, but by that time, no explanation is really required. Billy's voice has long since justified both itself and the unique power of the written word: it is convincing, mesmerizing and finally unforgettable.