This was not the first time he felt an urge to aid the homeless. Leah would often complain that whenever they came across a “bum in the street” as she would call them, Moshe would want to engage with them, either by reaching generously into his wallet or by just by simply touching the man to see if his connection to the Almighty would provide some improvement to their life. “It’s the least I can do,” Moshe would say.
Still fresh in his mind was the mystical moment he shared with Rabbi Shapira at his passing. If he indeed had renewed his connection to Hashem, perhaps this encounter may offer additional proof.
As were many of the others he observed and helped, this man was dressed in dirty, threadbare clothes. Moshe could smell his pungent body odor as he got closer. His head was resting on an old army-style duffle bag which was overstuffed with rags spilling out of its opening.
“Leave me alone,” shouted the man. He voice was graveled, sounding like he smoked too much.
“I’m not here to harm you,” Moshe said, as he crouched down.
“What do you want from me?”
Moshe could now see the man’s eyes. They were bloodshot and glassy. His face and arms had spots of dried bloody scabs, where he must have picked at some skin condition too many times.
“When was the last time you ate?” Moshe asked.
The man showed Moshe a small piece of a sandwich that he must have pulled out of the wastebasket in the park.
“Why don’t you come with me and let me buy you a decent meal? There’s a diner on the corner. You could use a burger and a cup of coffee,” Moshe said.
The man hesitated a moment then nodded and emerged from the bushes. Now Moshe could see the rags the man was wearing. Layers of faded clothes covered his body, most of which were so old that they were unraveling into threads that hung off him like garland on a Christmas tree. His worn-out shoes left several toes exposed.
“Before we get you something to eat you’ll need new clothes, follow me,” Moshe said leading the man out of the park and into Alexander’s Department Store, on the corner of Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse.
“Just stay close,” Moshe said, walking through the grand sets of brass doors.
Shoppers turned and gawked at the homeless man walking through the perfume and fragrance kiosks on his way to menswear.
Thirty minutes later, Moshe and Jack were sitting at the counter of the Fordham Diner. Jack was wearing a new shirt, pants and shoes along with new undergarments. Moshe watched Jack’s reaction to each sip of coffee. It was as if he was drinking a specially brewed elixir that was seeping into his soul.
“Good?” Moshe asked.
Jack nodded, and took another bite of his cheeseburger, ignoring the trail of meat juices and ketchup running down his chin.
“Why are you doing this for me?” Jack asked.
Moshe shrugged. “It looks like you need a helping hand.”
Tears welled up in Jack’s eyes.
“Tell me what happened to you?” Moshe said, reaching across the table to squeeze Jack’s shoulder.
Later that night, Moshe told Leah that he hired someone today to help out at the cobbler shop.
“Wonderful, you finally listened to me. How did you find him?”
“We sort of found each other,” Moshe said.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Jack McCoy. He’s from Texas. He’s worked with leather before on a ranch. He’ll pick up the work quickly, I’m sure.”
“So he just walked into the shop, and asked for a job?” Leah asked, still confused.
“Not exactly, we met in St. James Park.”
“You hired a stranger in the park?”
“I suppose I did,” Moshe said, trying to contain a smirk.
“You’re hiding something, Moshe. Tell me, what is it?”
“Like I said, his name is Jack, he’s from Texas and he was living under a bush in the park.”
“What?” Leah said.
“Leah, he was homeless. I bought him new clothes at Alexander’s, and a meal at the diner. He had some bad luck the past few years and needed help. So I am helping him.”
“I can understand giving him some money for a meal. But Moshe, you are giving him a job, too?”
Moshe nodded.
Leah continued, “So, let me ask you another question. Where is this Jack fellow going to live? Will he be commuting from the bushes at St. James Park?”
“Not exactly. I rented him our basement.”
Chapter 28
Solomon sat at his table at Charlie’s Oyster Bar, watching the New York Giants play the Chicago Bears. He knew from his dream that the Giants were going to win 21–20. So earlier that day, he put his money on the Bears, since the Giants were not going to beat the three-point spread.
The game was late in the fourth quarter when Mickey Coppola walked in the bar.
“There you are, Solomon, you’re a hard man to get a hold of. I’ve been calling you for the past two days,” Mickey said, taking a seat on the stool across from Solomon.
Solomon spread his hands out wide and said, “Here I am.”
“I wanted to thank you for that tip on the brothel raid. Jacky DeMeo owes me big time.”
“Glad I could help out,” Solomon said.
“I’m curious how you knew about this. Who’s your source at the Tenth Precinct?”
Solomon took a sip of his drink and smiled. “Why are you here, Mickey?”
“Okay, keep your secrets,” Mickey said, and signaled to Ralph, the owner, to pour him a drink. “Whatever Solomon’s having is fine,” he said, and turned back to Solomon. “I came to talk to you about Myron.”
“What about him?”
“He makes a nice first impression. He carries himself well. The other bosses are also impressed with him.”
Solomon agreed that Myron dressed to the nines, and was well spoken, but enough to impress important people, that sounded like a stretch. But perhaps his son deserved more credit than he gave him.
“All the family bosses meet occasionally to discuss matters that affect us all,” Mickey said and threw back his drink in one swift gulp before he continued, “We are concerned about the mayor’s new initiatives. It’s been hurting our businesses, so we’re looking for a candidate to back in the election this fall.”
Solomon shook his head, and asked, “Okay, what has this got to do with me?”
“We want to groom Myron to run for mayor.”
“Mayor of what?” Solomon asked.
“What do you mean of what? Of New York City, what do you think I am saying?”
Solomon shook his head. “Mayor of New York City? You can’t be serious.”
“He is the sizzle, but you’re the steak, Solomon.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Myron is the pretty boy and you’re the brains. You get it now?” Mickey said sounding annoyed at needing to explain the obvious.
“Have you lost your mind? You want Myron to run for mayor? He’s not qualified to hold such an office. Who will vote for him?”
“You leave that to me.”
“I’m not doing it,” Solomon said, grabbing his cane and standing up.
“Sit back down,” Mickey said, giving Solomon a sharp push backwards and forcing him to sit down.
“What the fuck, Mickey,” Solomon objected.
“You listen to me, you old fuck. I saved Myron from the electric chair. Do I need to spell it out for you? I own you and Myron.”
Solomon didn’t need a dream to see this was coming. His son’s stupidity had backed him into a corner and Mickey Coppola was going to milk this for all its worth. But Myron as Mayor of New York City? This would certainly be a humbling and embarrassing defeat for Myron. But at this point it was probably time to stop protecting his son.
Solomon sat at the table alone after Mickey left. A roar at the television caught his attention. The game had just ended. Apparently, he missed seeing the Giants kick a field goal. Bu
t he did see the final score, which was Giants 24–Bears 20. The Giants had beat the spread, meaning Solomon lost his bet.
He grabbed the table with both hands. The shock of hearing the score nearly caused him to fall off his barstool. As both teams walked off the field Solomon realized that his dream of the final score was wrong.
When Solomon got home and lay down upon his bed, all he could think of was the final score, and what that meant, which was that a dream had failed him. This had never happened before. Could this be the end for me? he wondered.
Chapter 29
The records room was in the sub-basement of the Forty-fourth Precinct in the Bronx. Arnold and his secretary Agnes faced row upon row of musty old records, stored in rusty metal filing cabinets. A strange odor that they could almost taste enveloped the windowless storage area.
Arnold was told by the mayor on a phone call that he had unlimited access to any of the records the precinct had in its procession.
“Get me something we can use on the Blasses,” the mayor demanded.
“Let me see what I can find. Perhaps there is something that can explain the roots of this new partnership.”
“Good. And one more thing. A few days ago our boys downtown had a raid of a brothel go south. Somehow this super tight-lipped sting operation leaked. The plan was to send in an undercover detective as a john and provide cause to raid the place. But what happened instead was when the detective arrived, none of the girls would accept money in exchange for sex. The detective looked foolish, and the sting never proceeded. How they got the heads-up was a mystery. See if there’s any connection to Coppola or the Blasses,” the mayor said.
“What are we looking for?” Agnes asked, scanning the files in an opened filing cabinet drawer.
“I’m not sure. The mayor wants to find dirt on Solomon or Myron. We need to find a reason to press them legally. But they always seem to be a step ahead of the law.”
“But what about that cobbler, Moshe? Wasn’t he supposed to help?” Agnes asked.
“You’re not supposed to know about that.”
“I’ve been working for you for over twenty years, Arnold. You think I don’t see or hear things?” Agnes said with a smirk.
“I suppose you do,” Arnold agreed. “Sadly, I don’t think that the tzaddik can help. The trip to Safed did ignite something inside him, but what if it’s not enough to stop a mobster, like Solomon? Maybe there’s another way through something we find here,” he said, glancing at the multiple rows of five-foot high filing cabinets.
Hours later, Agnes pulled a file and showed it to Arnold. “I think I found something.”
“What do you have?” Arnold said, walking down the corridor formed by the arrangement of the cabinets.
Agnes brushed back a lock of her red curls and pointed to something inside a faded yellow folder as Arnold approached. “This is a transcript of a surveillance at Solomon’s home on City Island taken two years ago. It’s a conversation between Solomon and his son Myron.”
“Can I see?” Arnold said. He read aloud.
Solomon Blass: What took you so long?
Myron Blass: Traffic, sorry Pops.
Solomon Blass: All right, just sit down.
Myron Blass: Sure, okay.
Solomon Blass: I had a dream last night about Leo.
Myron Blass: Leo Gorpatsch?
Solomon Blass: We were fishing out on the Sound.
Myron Blass: What did he say?
Solomon Blass: He said that our enemies are not who we think they are.
Myron Blass: Who are they?
Solomon Blass: That’s the troubling part. He didn’t say.
Arnold looked up at Agnes and shrugged.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Are there any more transcripts in the file?”
“Let me see. Yes, here is another one,” she said, handing it to Arnold.
Solomon Blass: Did you read the paper this morning?
Myron Blass: So it finally happened. I was wondering why it took so long. You told me about this almost a year ago.
Solomon Blass: Big deals like this takes time. But we did well. I see that Singer agreed to buy Container Corp for eighty-six dollars per share. What did we buy it at?
Myron Blass: I bought ten-thousand shares at twenty-four, when you told me about your dream.
“Oh my god, Agnes. I think Solomon knows things will happen through his dreams.”
“His dreams predict the future?” Agnes asked.
Arnold looked at her and drifted off into thought, before he added, “How else does he know about all these things before they happen?”
“These transcripts mean that the police know about this. Why don’t they do something?”
Arnold shook his head and said, “It’s not a crime to dream, Agnes.”
“But then how could he be stopped? He would know what’s coming ahead of time and prevent it from occurring.”
Arnold let out a long sigh. “I don’t know. But I suppose you’re right.”
Chapter 30
“How can I run for mayor? I’ve never held an elected position in my life,” Myron said.
“You’ll work with a political consultant to get you up to speed on the issues,” Mickey said.
“But why would anyone vote for me?” Myron asked, confused.
“You think people vote for the most qualified candidate?”
Myron shrugged. “I assumed so.”
“They vote for an image, a fantasy. That’s what we’ll create. You have the outer package, we just need to refine the inner one. Like what you’ll say in speeches and answers you give to interviews.”
“But to run against Mayor Douglas? I’ve seen him on television. He always appears composed and professional. What if we end up in a debate?”
“Let me worry about that. You just follow the program, we’ll do the rest,” Mickey said.
“I don’t know, Mickey. This sounds nuts.”
Mickey flicked a few ashes off his cigar and glared at Myron for a moment before speaking. “Let me say this to you once. Like I told your father, I own you. You’ll do what I want and quit bitching about it. You understand me?”
Myron took a breath, and let it go with a nod. “I understand. When do we get started?”
“Good, now go and get back to the party. Mingle and introduce yourself around. There are some important people here today to meet you. I’ll catch up with you soon. I have a few things I need to attend to first,” Mickey said.
Myron stood up from the tufted upholstered chair sitting in front of Mickey’s desk and turned to walk out. Standing in his way was one of Mickey’s men. Myron looked up to the wall of a man, then turned to Mickey for an explanation.
“It’s okay, Billy,” Mickey said as Billy stepped aside, allowing Myron to leave.
As Myron left the well-appointed office and searched for the doorway leading to the festivities in the backyard, he thought about what his father had told him.
“As crazy as it sounds, Mickey is going to ask you to run for mayor and I don’t see much choice for you but to embrace it. Perhaps something good can come from it.”
Myron couldn’t imagine what that good could possibly be, but as with most things in his life he would just see where life led him, and at this moment it was leading him to Mickey’s beautifully landscaped backyard that featured a magnificent view of the Long Island Sound. A large tent was set up where people were being served drinks and appetizers while listening to the sounds of a live band playing “In the Mood” by Glenn Miller.
Myron tugged down on his suit jacket and adjusted his tie. He knew he looked good, as people’s heads turned to see him walking across the lawn. He ordered a scotch and wandered over to the water’s edge to take in the view and calm his nerves with a drink. Today will certainly be a multi-drink afternoon, he decided.
He smelled her, before he saw her. At first he thought it was the rose bushes blooming nearby. Then standing
next to him was a young woman.
“Hello, Mr. Blass,” the woman said.
Myron turned, and saw her. He took a step back to look at her. “Hello,” he managed to say.
“I’m Niko, Mickey’s daughter,” she said, offering a stunning smile that accompanied her brilliant green eyes.
“Mickey’s daughter?” Myron said, offering his hand.
She shook his hand. “I’ve heard Father speak of you.”
Myron turned his head toward the house, looking over to see if anyone was observing their conversation.
“You seem nervous, Mr. Blass,” Niko said.
“Your father has that effect on people.”
“Don’t be. Come, let me show you something,” she said and led him down a meandering staircase made of large quartz stone steps.
Myron watched Niko’s hips swing back and forth. Her yellow dress flowing softly over her gentle curves. Her bare legs extended with each step downward. The majestic view of the landscape no longer drew his attention.
“Here we are. Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, gazing at the waves splashing upon the boulders along the rocky shoreline.
“Magnificent,” Myron agreed.
“Tell me, Mr. Blass, are you married?”
“No, I’m not, and please call me Myron.”
“You’re not married? Such a handsome man. How is this possible, Myron?”
Myron could feel himself blush. This young woman was playing with him. He would love to have her. But she’s Mickey’s daughter. This would not end up well.
“I don’t know. I guess I never found the right woman. Perhaps we should get back to the party,” he said, pointing back up the stairs.
“Of course, come, let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand and leading him back up the stairs.
A few steps short of the top, she turned and kissed Myron on the cheek and said, “Let’s keep in touch, Myron. You can find me at the Stork Club. It’s Daddy’s place. I work there on weekends.”
She turned and ran off like a little girl. Myron stood there watching. His heart pounded lustfully for the young gorgeous woman. But he could not allow himself to give in to the temptation. An affair with Mickey Coppola’s daughter was certainly a fool’s game.
The Righteous One Page 9
