The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  “Of course,” he said and as he rose from his chair, he saw Niko waving goodbye. She was putting on her coat and walking out the door. He nodded slightly, not wanting to be caught waving to Mickey’s daughter, then he turned and followed the mobster to his table.

  Chapter 34

  The next morning, Agnes ran into Arnold’s office in a near panic announcing, “The mayor’s office just called. They say he’ll be here in thirty minutes.”

  “Who will be here, Agnes?” Arnold asked.

  “The mayor.”

  “The mayor is coming here?”

  “Yes, the Mayor of New York City, Nathan Douglas, will be walking through that door,” Agnes said.

  Arnold and Agnes had not moved from their perch since the call. They stood overlooking the Grand Concourse from the majestic window, high above the movie marquis.

  “Where is he already?” Agnes said, rubbing her hands together nervously.

  “Obviously he’s late, Agnes,” Arnold said.

  “Look,” Agnes said pointing. “Is that him?”

  A black limousine had pulled up in front of the theater.

  “Okay, Agnes, get back to your desk and look busy, and let’s not bring up what we found about Solomon’s dreams. The mayor would think we’re nuts,” Arnold said.

  Agnes hustled out, while Arnold stepped into his private bathroom to check his appearance in the mirror.

  Moments later, the mayor and his assistant, Stanley Bennet, entered.

  “Mr. Mayor, what an honor, sir. Please come in and make yourself comfortable,” Arnold said, shaking the mayor’s hand.

  “Arnold, it’s good to see you. You remember Stan?” the mayor said.

  “Of course. Can we get you coffee or water?”

  “No thanks,” he said, as he and Stan took a seat on the sofa.

  Arnold sat across from them on a wood frame chair, and silently prayed that the sofa would hold the excessive weight of the mayor.

  “Tell me, Arnold, any updates on Solomon Blass?”

  Arnold shook his head. “I’m afraid not. We searched the records at the forty-fourth, but found nothing unusual.”

  The Mayor shifted to the front edge of the sofa, leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his belly hanging in between his thighs and said, “We’ve heard some disturbing news.”

  “What news?” Arnold asked.

  “It’s actually more of a rumor. Apparently Mickey Coppola is planning to back a candidate for mayor to run against me next year.”

  “I’ve heard that too,” Arnold said.

  “What did you hear?”

  “People are saying it’s Myron Blass,” said Arnold.

  “Dammit. I’m hearing the same thing. You think it’s true?”

  “Sounds absurd, but we shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “We need to make sure he doesn’t win. A stooge of Mickey Coppola’s as mayor would be a disaster for the city,” said the mayor.

  “I agree. So what are you planning?” Arnold asked.

  “We came here today to get you on the team,” Stan said.

  Arnold looked back and forth at the two men sitting on the sofa. “I’m already on the team. Aren’t I?”

  “We want you to run my campaign up here in the Bronx. You’ll make the Paradise Theater the campaign office,” Stan said.

  Arnold leaned back in his chair and gently rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I appreciate that, but what makes you think I can do this? I ran my city council campaign, but never one for mayor.”

  The mayor said, “It’s not much different. Stan will help get you started, and there’s some time before things get going.” Raising a finger, he added, “You know, Arnold, this can be a boost to your political career if I get reelected. You may want to run for mayor yourself one day, and I can be very supportive when that time comes.”

  “Again, I appreciate your trust, sir, but—”

  The mayor interrupted and said, “Good. It’s settled, then. In the meantime, I want you to find out if this rumor about Myron is true.”

  Arnold sighed and then relented. “Sure, I’ll try to do that.”

  “Perfect,” the mayor said, clapping his hands together and standing up.

  After the mayor and Stan left his office, Arnold sat in his chair trying to assemble together the many pieces of his rapidly confusing life.

  “Are you all right, Arnold?” Agnes asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  “I’m sorry, Agnes, I didn’t even see you come in. I’m fine, just exhausted trying to keep track of what’s happening. Speaking of which, I need to make a call. Can you see if you can get Myron Blass on the phone for me, please?”

  “Myron Blass? Why would you want to speak to him?” Agnes asked.

  “There’s a rumor he’s running for mayor, and I want to ask him straight up if it’s true or not.”

  Agnes shook her head. “That’s the craziest thing I have ever heard,” she said exhaling and walking to her desk.

  Chapter 35

  Solomon sat in his office gazing out the window onto Southern Boulevard. He rarely came into the office, but he wanted to meet with the rabbi to discuss his disturbing dreams. He hadn’t said anything to Myron. He had enough to worry about with Mickey’s sudden interest in having him run for mayor.

  Solomon opened his dream journal and reviewed the past several days. On Thursday was the dream showing him the football game outcome. Then a few days later, came the visit of the gray man along with his ominous warning of making things right.

  Solomon’s dreams had never felt like they’d been infiltrated by an outsider before. There had been visitors, or more like guides. But no one ever like this gray person. Who was he, and who sent him? Does this have anything to do with the tzaddik?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his office door.

  “Come on in, Rabbi.”

  “Solomon, it’s good to see you. Are you well? You look tired,” Henryk said squinting.

  Solomon rubbed the back of his neck. “I haven’t slept well the past few days.”

  “What’s troubling you?” Henryk said, and took a seat in front of Solomon’s empty desk.

  Solomon explained his dreams to Henryk.

  “I don’t know if the tzaddik has powers to penetrate one’s dreams, but someone has, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s connected,” said Henryk.

  “What do you think I should do?” Solomon asked.

  “If the gray man returns, ask him who he is, and what he wants.”

  Solomon just nodded, and ran his open palm across his wooden desk top. It had been years since he did any actual work here. That was why his desk was free of a single sheet of paper or even a pencil. He liked his life and wondered if it was time to stop trying to squeeze every dollar out of each day. “Maybe it’s time to stop, Rabbi. I’ve been at this a long time. It looks like Myron has found a place for himself.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with spending your remaining days just fishing, and hanging out at Charlie’s,” Henryk said.

  In the taxi on his way back home to City Island Solomon had a feeling that perhaps he should listen to the rabbi and retire, and let Myron take full control of their enterprise. After all, it was only a matter of time, maybe a few years, that his body would die. It wouldn’t be a bad idea if he took what was left of this life and focused on the passing of his soul into the afterlife. He convinced himself that he wasn’t afraid of death. Though when the time came, he wondered if he would feel so brave.

  Chapter 36

  “I’m going to grab a sandwich at the deli. Can I pick up something for you, Jack?” Moshe asked.

  Jack looked up from the worktable where he was cutting into a hide of leather. “I would love a corned beef sandwich,” he said reaching into his pocket.

  “It’s on me, Jack, and I’ll get you one of those garlic pickles that you love, too.”

  “Thank you, Moshe,” Jack said with a warm smile.

  Moshe walked out of his co
bbler shop and crossed the busy Grand Concourse to the delicatessen. As he stepped onto the curb, he saw Arnold walking toward him.

  “Hi, Arnold, where you headed?”

  “Right here for lunch, care to join me?”

  “Absolutely,” Moshe said holding the door open for Arnold.

  The two men squeezed into a small table by the window, ordered and within a few minutes were served their sandwiches.

  “So, Moshe, who is this new guy you hired?” Arnold asked in between bites of his overstuffed pastrami sandwich.

  Moshe explained the story of how he stumbled upon Jack sleeping under the bushes in the park and ended not only hiring him, but also renting him out his basement to live in.

  Arnold scrunched his forehead and asked, “Do you trust him?”

  “Sure I trust him. He’s a good man,” Moshe said taking a sip of his cream soda.

  “You’re a better man than I am.”

  “Nonsense, Arnold. You’re a good and generous person. Speaking of employees, what’s happening with Gray? I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “Agnes just said the same thing. He does that at times. He disappears for a few days, then he’s back,” Arnold said.

  Moshe thought of his dream of Gray and asked, “How did you meet him, anyway?”

  “He just started hanging around the theater. I really don’t remember exactly when. He would help out during showtimes. But he was never actually hired. He just comes and goes. He likes hanging around and doing things for me.”

  “He came to me in a dream a few weeks ago,” Moshe said.

  “You had a dream about Gray?”

  Moshe leaned over the linoleum table top, and whispered, “He warned me about the rasha and said that I must destroy him in my dreams.”

  Arnold slapped his hands to the table, causing several heads of nearby dinners to turn and look. “This is interesting. Solomon’s power comes from his dreams and Gray told you to battle the rasha in your dreams.”

  “Stop it, Arnold. You need to listen to your words.”

  “No, Moshe, you need to listen to your dreams,” Arnold said, wagging a finger at him.

  With the sandwich and pickle wrapped up in a paper bag for Jack, Moshe said goodbye to Arnold. Just as Moshe was crossing the large expanse of the Concourse nausea swept over him. His knees buckled, and he almost collapsed in the street. He barely made it to the other side when he recognized the symptoms. Something terrible was about to happen.

  He struggled to his feet and felt a hand helping him up. It was Arnold.

  “Moshe, are you okay? I saw you fall from across the street,” Arnold said.

  “Something bad is happening. Quickly, help me get back.”

  Arnold helped Moshe stumble his way to the cobbler shop.

  Shards of the storefront glass, sparkling in the sunlight, were scattered across the sidewalk. Moshe saw a crop of blond hair before he saw the body. It was Jack. He was on the floor inside the cobbler shop. His head was propped against the counter, his arms dangled alongside his limp body. Blood was seeping through his new white shirt that Moshe bought for him at Alexander’s.

  Moshe knelt down beside him. “What happened, Jack?”

  “He thought I was you,” Jack said, and grabbed his belly and cried out in pain.

  Moshe gently touched Jack’s cheek.

  Jack released his grip on where the bullet entered his belly and let go a long exhalation. He looked at Moshe, squeezed his hand, and said, “You’ve touched my soul.”

  Arnold leaned over, and asked, “Who shot you, Jack?”

  But it was too late. Jack was dead.

  Chapter 37

  Myron was determined to find a romantic place for dinner, one where he wouldn’t run into Niko’s father. Then he would bring her back to his place, where he knew privacy was assured.

  It had been weeks since he had seen her at the Stork Club. Myron knew that Mickey wouldn’t think fondly of him dating his daughter. More likely he would insist, in his most persuasive and likely painful way, that Myron not even look at his precious little girl. But Niko was an adult and free to see anyone she desired, Myron convinced himself.

  It was late afternoon when he picked up the phone and called the Stork Club. He was hoping to catch Niko preparing for the early dinner crowd.

  “Thank you for calling the Stork Club, this is Niko, how may I help you?”

  Immediately, Myron felt his face flush. What luck, he thought. He exhaled to calm himself and said, “Hello, Niko, this is Myron Blass.”

  A momentary pause of silence worried him. Then she replied with a smile in her voice, “Myron! It’s so good to hear from you! Are you calling to make a reservation?”

  “No… Actually, I was calling to ask you out for dinner.”

  “That would be lovely,” she said.

  Myron told her he would send a taxi to pick her up from her apartment on East Nighty-Second Street in Manhattan and take her to a small restaurant in Riverdale with only six tables, called Martio’s.

  Myron had known Martio, the owner, for years, and he promised him complete discretion along with an amazing dining experience. From there, Myron’s home was only a short five minute walk, where, he hoped, he and Niko could extend the evening.

  When the time arrived Myron paced the sidewalk in front of Martio’s like a tiger in a cage. He repeatedly looked at his watch. The taxi should have arrived twenty minutes earlier. Finally, he saw a Checker turn the corner and pull up to the curb.

  Niko waved through the window as the taxi came to a stop. Myron waved back and opened the door. She stepped out showing off shiny white boots that ended at her knees. When she stood before him Niko performed a twirl, showing off her outfit. She was wearing the shortest skirt Myron had ever seen.

  She grabbed onto Myron’s arm and kissed his cheek.

  “I’m so hungry. Is this the place?” she said, pointing to the front door.

  “This is it. Martio is holding our table,” he said.

  They entered the restaurant, and the moment they stepped onto the lush carpeting in the candlelit reception area Martio Giovanni appeared to greet them. “Ah, Mr. Blass and Miss Niko, how lovely to see you both,” he said in a heavy Italian accent.

  “You know my name?” Niko asked, putting her hand over her heart and tilting her head.

  Martio bowed slightly at his waist. “My dear, it’s all I heard about from Mr. Blass. He described your beauty, but I couldn’t imagine such a goddess,” he said with a smile.

  “Mr. Martio, you are very charming,” Niko said, her cheeks a lovely shade of pink.

  Dinner was just as Myron had imagined it to be. Niko laughed at his wit and seemed to hang on his every word.

  “Tell me, Niko,” Myron said, “what’s it like being the daughter of the renowned Mickey Coppola?”

  She smiled, tilted her head to the side and said with a giggle, “I’m Daddy’s little girl.”

  “So what type of man would Daddy find suitable for his princess?” Myron asked with a smirk.

  Niko shrugged. “That’s hard to say. Daddy is very moody when it comes to my boyfriends.”

  Myron nodded and took a sip of his red wine.

  “Tell me, Myron,” she said, leaning in close to him across their table, “have you ever been in love?”

  Myron pursed his lip and thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why is that?”

  Myron shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve just never found the right woman—so far. When it happens, I think it will be obvious.”

  “I like your answer,” she said pointing at him with one hand and sipping her red wine with the other.

  Myron took a breath and held it a moment while he thought that perhaps he had found the right woman to make a life with—that is, if her father approved.

  They finished off two bottles of wine from Montepulciano. They were both drunk, and laughed and stumbled the entire walk back to Myron’s home.

  “This
is it,” Myron said, standing before the front door and fumbling with his keys.

  “Hurry up, Myron, I need to pee,” Niko said.

  “Sorry – I got it now.”

  The door opened, and she ran in. “Where’s the bathroom?” she asked, squeezing her legs together.

  “Down the hall. Last door on the right.”

  Niko ran, her boots clonking on the marble tile.

  Myron walked into the living room, turned on the light, and walked over to the bar.

  “Good evening, Myron,” a voice said.

  Myron turned quickly and saw sitting in his Queen Anne armchair, Mickey Coppola.

  “Mickey, what the hell are you doing here?”

  “I see you’ve been taking care of my daughter,” he said stone faced.

  “How in the world…” Myron started to say when Niko walked into the room.

  “Daddy?”

  “Hey, baby girl. Why don’t you go wait in the car. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I need to speak with your friend,” Mickey said.

  “Oh, Daddy, why?”

  “We’ll talk in the car,” he said, flicking his hand at her.

  Mickey waited for the sound of the front door to close before he spoke.

  “Do you really think you can fuck my daughter?”

  “We were just having dinner,” Myron said.

  “Shut the fuck up and sit down.”

  Myron sat on the sofa as Mickey stood up.

  “This is a warning. If I ever catch you even looking at Niko again, I will personally cut your balls off, and shove them down your throat. You understand me?”

  Myron nodded.

  “You know, Myron, I came here tonight to surprise you, instead you surprised me.”

  “I’m sorry, Mickey. It won’t happen again. What was your surprise?”

  Mickey walked over to the window and pulled back the drapes to look outside. He then turned back to Myron. “Tomorrow morning at nine, you will be announcing your run for mayor on the steps of City Hall.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Look your best and be on time. The press will be there. Big day,” Mickey said, walking to the front door.