ing footnotes. Speaking of the city’snnew buildings, the text says: “Theirnornamentation is surely excessive, withnstrange, twisted ornaments on theirnroofs and parapets.” Footnote: ” ‘Whatnare these ornaments for?’ someonenasked Lechner. ‘Who will see them?’n’The birds will see them,’ Lechnernanswered.”nThere is a wild indulgence in literaryndiction, as in “The year 1900 wasnthe noon hour of Budapest, even innwinter. Summer was galloping in itsnskies and in its heart.” In such passagesnour author is attempting to do thennovelist’s job. Here is Gyula Kriidy:nHe saw . . . those heart-rendingndays in spring when the newnfrocks bedeck the pavements likenflowers in the meadows; and thenlilting, snowy days in wintern’ when the sun comes out atnnoon on Andrassy Avenue tonencourage the poor office girlsnto step out with the gait ofnduchesses. . . .nLukacs (using his own excellent translations)nquotes generously from Knidy,nenlivening the narrative every time,nthough the result is not history. It is tonhistorians that we turn for the concretenorigins of “atmosphere.” Budapestn1900 shorts us explanations in favor ofna dreamily inert historiography. Readersncharmed by Lukacs — and therenwill be many — ought to consider thenfate of those who refuse to analyze thenpast: they are condemned to relish it.nPaul T. Homak has written for,namong others, Reason and The NewnYork Times. He lives in Georgia.nBabes in Ganglandnby Bill KauffmannBilly Bathgatenby E.L. DoctorownNew York: Random House;n323 pp., $19.95nE .L. Doctorow is our loudest contemporarynchampion of the socialnnovel, whose defining characteristic henposits as “the large examination of societynwithin a story” of “imperial earthshakingnintention.” (The genre’s Amer­n36/CHRONICLESnican apotheosis is Frank Norris’s ThenOctopus.)nBilly Bathgate is Doctorow’s latest,nand if his publicist’s yowling chorus ofn”masterpiece” is a bit much, the novelnis nevertheless entertaining, mordant,nand surprisingly — for those who havenread Doctorow’s dreary socialist haranguesnin The Nation — sage.nFifteen-year-old Billy of BathgatenAvenue in the Bronx is standing outsidena beer warehouse, juggling a batterynof balls, fruits, and stones, whenngangster Arthur Flegenheimer, AKAnDutch Schultz, espies him and pronouncesnthe dexterous lad “a capablenboy.” This throwaway remark begets innBilly grand dreams, and he bids adieunto his urchin-pals, to their “dead witlessneyes” and inevitable “slow death[s] ofnincredible subjugation.” With great resourcefulness,nBilly insinuates himselfninto Dutch Schultz’s inner circle as thenmobster’s “proto-jay.”nSchultz is a brutal psychopath, givennto crushing the skulls of hapless marplots.nHe is a primitive, an anachronismnalmost, in the brave new world ofnthe 1930’s. Dutch’s comptroller,nAbbadabba Berman, explains to Billynthat in the “upcoming generation,”nthe criminal will, perforce, be of ansleeker, more refined shape. “Everythingnwill be streamlined,” he declares,nechoing the regnant New Deal faith inna progress that is founded on science,nefficiency, and centralization.nTry as he might, Dutch just can’t ‘nadapt. To attain polish he takes up withna blue-blooded member of the Saratoganhorsey set; she cuckolds him (withncallow Billy, no less!). Awaiting trial innSyracuse, Jewish Dutch converts tonCatholicism as an “insurance policy”;nthe Church, in his last desperate daysnof supplication, will let him down.nEven Tammany boss James J. Hines,nDutch’s ethical kin (he, too, adjudgesnBilly “capable”), refuses a bribe; thenward-healers are giving way to goodgovernmentnprigs like Thomas E.nDewey. Dutch, pace Elvis Costello, isna man out of time.nAnd what of Billy? Doctorow hasnsaid elsewhere that “a child’s life isnmorally complex … a child is a perceptionnmachine.” Maybe. But ournnarrator Billy witnesses — even abetsn— the grisliest murders, including anconcrete-shoe drowning, and bynnovel’s end he is surveilling prosecutornnnDewey prevenient to a daring assassinationnattempt. Throughout these sanguinarynadventures, Billy is wholly remorseless,nwithout compunction. Wennever learn how this bright lad becameninured to the most sickening violence.nBook chat has it that Doctorow viewsnBilly as a ghetto Huck Finn: an oddnanalogue, given Huck’s supremelynmoral choice in the matter of Jim’snfreedom.n”A perception machine” Billy indubitablynis. He puts Schultz’s appealntersely and well: “People liked to benwhere things happened, or could hap;npen. They liked power.”nThat is what Billy Bathgate is about;nthat is why young Billy is first attractednto Dutch. Doctorow understands thendevilish lure of power—the marcelled,nsluttish girls, the expensive booze, thenevening wear and Black Packards andnthe feeling that one is at the center ofnsomething very big indeed — and henknows that the purpose of glamour isnto conceal enormity, to gloss overncarnage and conquer.nIn the past, Doctorow has writtennfeverishly of the transcendence of thencollective. When To Have and HavenNot’s Harry Morgan snarls, “A mannalone ain’t got no bloodynchance,” this is epiphany; Hemingway,nDoctorow exults, has glimpsed “anmonumental insight.”nBut the gang offers Billy Bathgatenpoor sanctuary. He finds only menacenin numbers. The slightest deviationnfrom prescribed behavior — a loudnnoise, an inept crack — can get himnkilled. In Dutch’s ambit, betrayals “issuenperpetually from the seasons ofnlife.”nSafety can only be found in everlargernconglomerations of thieves.nAbbadabba Berman lectures: “Thenmodern businessman looks to combinationnfor strength and streamlining.nHe joins a trade association. Becausenhe is part of something bigger henachieves strength. Practices are agreednupon, prices, territories, the marketsnare controlled.”nThe stifling regimentation of thisnnew order— (coincidentally?) redolentnof the New Deal—breeds respect forncreeps like Schultz. As the discerningnBilly admits: “How I admired the lifenof taking pains, of living in defiance ofna government that did not like you andndid not want you and wanted to destroyn