The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Arnold continued his taunt over the din of the audience, “We all know that your campaign is being funded by the Coppola crime family. Our city does not want your kind.”

  This sent the capacity crowd to their feet, cheering wildly.

  As Arnold watched from the podium he saw the two men reach the exit doors leading to the lobby. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Gray appeared and blocked the large double swinging doors. It looked like Solomon had stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Gray for a moment. He couldn’t tell if words were exchanged, but Gray eventually stepped aside, allowing the men to leave.

  Chapter 42

  Moshe had a dream that shook him awake. He flipped his legs off the side of the bed and pushed himself up to seating.

  Leah was already out of bed. He heard the percolator popping away in the kitchen. He slipped his bare feet into the slippers stationed by his bedside. He needed to gulp down a throatful of coffee before he could absorb his dream. But then he saw the Daily News sitting on the kitchen table and read the large bold block style letters: Bronx Councilman Fired!

  He ran back to the bedroom, grabbed his eyeglasses from his nightstand, returned to the kitchen sat down and started reading.

  Arnold Lieberman lost his job last night as Councilman for the Bronx’s 16th District. During the councilman’s introduction for Mayor Douglas at his Campaign Rally at the Paradise Movie Theater in the Bronx, several violations of election ethics laws were cited.

  The article continued describing the event, and the public takedown of the mayor’s opponent Myron Blass.

  The mayor sadly said that he had no choice but to relieve Mr. Lieberman of his civic duties.

  Moshe put the paper down and put his hand to his mouth. “Oy vey,” he said.

  “What?” Leah asked.

  “The paper… it’s about last night. I knew Arnold shouldn’t have said those things.”

  Leah looked over Moshe’s shoulder and said, “They fired Arnold? Can they do that?”

  “I guess they can. I’ve got to go and see Arnold before I open up. I’ll tell you about it later tonight, Leah,” Moshe said, stepping into the bathroom.

  “Okay, Moshe, I’ll pack your lunch.”

  “Arnold, what got into you?” Moshe asked as soon as he arrived at Arnold’s office.

  “I admit it. I let the moment move me, but you know what, Moshe? I don’t regret saying it, and if I had a do over I’d say it again,” Arnold said, kicking his feet onto his desk top.

  “Aren’t you the bold one,” Moshe said.

  “It doesn’t matter, Moshe. This councilman’s position is starting to annoy me. I told the mayor that I will still help campaign for him. There’s no hard feelings.”

  “But what about Mickey? You’re not worried about pissing him off?” Moshe said.

  “I said nothing that everyone doesn’t already know,” Arnold said, taking his feet off his desk.

  “Something else happened last night, Arnold,” Moshe said, standing up and moving towards the window.

  Arnold rose too and touched Moshe’s shoulder. “What is it? You look upset.”

  Moshe scanned the busy concourse and saw his cobbler shop across the street. He looked at his watch, he still had fifteen minutes before he needed to open.

  “Last night Gray came to me in my dream,” Moshe said, turning his head to face Arnold.

  “You had another dream about Gray?”

  Moshe nodded and said, “Just like you and I are speaking to each other now. It was that real.”

  Arnold nodded quickly.

  “I was working in my shop,” Moshe said, pointing out the window, “and Gray walked in, like he’s done before.”

  “Moshe, come, we need to talk.”

  “The next moment we are sitting on a bench in St. James Park.”

  “This is where you met Jack?” Gray said, looking over to the bushes where Jack slept.

  Moshe nodded.

  “Very unfortunate what happened to him,” Gray said.

  “The bullet was meant for me,” Moshe said.

  Gray shook his head and said, “It wasn’t your time.”

  Moshe looked around and felt an unease, then a realization. “Wait a second, this is a dream, right?”

  Gray smiled and said, “Yes, Moshe, you’re dreaming.”

  “Oh, for a moment, I thought this was real life.”

  “Do you think this is not real?” Gray asked, gesturing to the surroundings.

  “Dreams are not real,” Moshe insisted.

  “Why do you say that? Are we not speaking to each other?”

  “What does that prove?”

  Gray held out his hand, “Touch me. Do you not feel me?”

  Moshe squeezed Gray’s hand. “I feel you.”

  “What does that tell you?”

  “That you are real?”

  “Yes, and if you can become aware that you are dreaming, an entire new world opens up to you. Just imagine the possibilities of moving around your dream world, with none of the earthly obstructions of your awakened life.”

  “Sounds entertaining,” Moshe said, smiling.

  “Entertainment is not the reason for my visits. I am here to show you how to be awake in your dreams for a purpose.”

  “My purpose? What is my purpose?”

  “To destroy the rasha.”

  Arnold’s mouth remained open as he tried to express himself. But no words came out.

  “Arnold, are you all right?”

  Arnold shook his head, bringing himself out of his stupor. “I could never figure out why Gray started to appear just before I found you. He knows about the rasha, Moshe?”

  “At least he does in my dreams,” Moshe reminded him.

  “I have a feeling there’s more to it than that.”

  Moshe scratched his chin and said, “It’s starting to look that way.”

  Chapter 43

  The polls were set to open in three hours, and Myron was still in bed with Niko. He wasn’t too concerned, because he realized there was only one good outcome - which of course was to win. This way Mickey wouldn’t care if he was fucking both his daughter and his wife at the same time. But if he lost, well, he knew that would be worse in so many ways. Not only would Mickey cut off his balls and shove them down his throat for fucking his precious daughter, he would also feed him his fingers and toes, one by one.

  He hadn’t planned to have Niko in his bed, but he had no choice. She just showed up at his home after midnight. He was practicing his acceptance speech when the doorbell rang and there she was, in her full glory.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, looking past her to see if anyone else was there.

  “Do you want me to go?” she asked, offering her most alluring smile.

  “Come inside, quickly,” he said, closing the door, and bolting the lock.

  “It’s freezing out there,” she said.

  “I’m surprised to see you after last time.”

  “I know. Daddy is very protective. But I want to be with you, Myron,” she said and dropped her shoulder, allowing her long shearling coat to slip off her.

  Myron caught her coat and had to catch his breath as well upon seeing what she was wearing underneath. Her colorful, low cut blouse and short red skirt stirred all his senses. No wonder she was cold.

  “Wow, you look great,” he said.

  “Thank you, Myron. Can you pour me a drink, and help me warm up?”

  Myron took two tumblers and poured scotch into each one. He handed the drink to her, pointing to the fireplace. “Would you like to sit by the fire?”

  “I have a better idea,” she said grabbing his hand. “Show me your bedroom.”

  In the morning Myron showered, and as he toweled himself off he took a moment to admire himself in the mirror. He was ready for the biggest day of his life, and he felt even better about the woman lying in his bed. But for now, he would have to leave her as he was about to go to the polls at the Riverdale High School to vote fo
r himself for Mayor of New York City.

  He leaned over and gave a soft kiss on Niko’s cheek. “Wish me luck.”

  An arm suddenly appeared, wrapped around his neck, and pulled him close.

  “Come back to bed,” she purred.

  “That’s a wonderful idea, but you know what today is.”

  “Oh right, I forgot. Happy birthday,” she said, with a laugh.

  “Funny girl. If all goes well we will be celebrating at Antonio’s tonight. I assume you’ll be there.”

  “Maybe I’ll come in a disguise,” she said, giving him a kiss on his lips.

  “Really? Tell me, what do you have in mind?” he asked, feeling himself getting aroused.

  “I always wanted to be a tall, blonde, Scandinavian woman.”

  “Oh, I like it. What’s your name?”

  “My name is Ingrid,” she said, with a questionable Swedish accent.

  “I’ll look forward to meeting Ingrid later tonight,” Myron said.

  With his campaign staff gathered around, Myron fiddled with the rabbit ears on top of the black and white television set. After a few minutes of trying to find a station without the annoying snow or rolling screen images he was finally able to tune to Channel Two News.

  The dozen young volunteers who helped Myron with the campaign let out a cheer upon Myron capturing a watchable station. Myron turned, rubbed his hands together and said, “Okay, here we go.”

  A commercial was finishing for Canada Dry Ginger Ale. Then a graphic appeared on the screen that said Election Results -1960 New York City Mayoral Race, which faded to a newsman sitting behind a desk holding a piece of paper in his hands.

  “The polls have been closed for two hours and forty-five minutes and we are ready to call a winner for mayor,” he said without emotion.

  The staff blurted out with conversation that quickly died down when Myron waved his arms, insisting upon silence.

  The broadcaster stared into the camera and said, “Based on over ninety-percent of the precincts reporting, CBS News is reporting that the winner for the next Mayor of New York City to be Myron Blass.”

  Cheers exploded with plenty of back slapping and offers of congratulations. Myron stood up, shook hands and chatted with his staff while they reminisced about the campaign. Then someone asked, “Did you ever think that you could actually win?”

  Myron smiled and reflected upon the question. He felt himself breaking out into a cold sweat. He asked the people surrounding him if he could be excused. “I think I need a little time alone to comprehend what just happened.”

  He walked into his campaign office and closed the door behind him. At the window looking out onto the open area of desks and phones, he pulled the cord and shut tight the slats of the wooden blinds. Except for the continuous buzz of conversation seeping through the thin walls, he was alone.

  “I can’t believe I won,” he said out loud as he sat down in his leather desk chair.

  It was one thing running around the city, shaking hands and giving speeches. But actually winning? As Myron sat there rolling a pencil back and forth across his desk, he swallowed hard and shouted into his empty office, “What the fuck do I do now?”

  The crowd in front of Antonio’s filled the sidewalk and spilled onto Arthur Avenue, becoming a nuisance for the long line of black limos dropping off celebrities and politicians. Everyone wanted to be a part of the celebration. Myron Blass was the new Mayor of New York City.

  Myron peered out from the window of his caddie at the crowd awaiting his arrival. Television news crews had their cameras positioned. Reporters from all of the city’s newspapers were there with photographers poised to capture the moment. He figured that Mickey was behind the big turnout of the press and well-wishers.

  Myron wished his dad had decided to go. But he refused. Ever since his dream of the gray man he had sunk into a depression and didn’t want to leave the house, except to go to Charlie’s.

  “This is the biggest day of my life, Pops. I want you there,” Myron pleaded, when he called him earlier that day.

  “You don’t need me anymore, Myron. This is your time, I’m proud of you.”

  Myron had never heard his dad this way before. He always was upbeat and positive. But the gray man certainly put a scare into him. Maybe his gift of foresight was coming to an end. This was not great timing, Myron thought, as this ability would certainly be helpful as mayor. But he had faith in himself that he could do a good job, even without his father’s prophetic dreams.

  He did worry about how to handle Mickey Coppola. There would be expectations that as mayor he would need to be Mickey’s puppet, carrying out his wishes. Unless, Myron thought, he learned how to wield the power of his office effectively. Perhaps he could curb Mickey’s influence. After all, he did have the power of the New York City Police Force behind him now.

  After waiting in front of the restaurant for a few minutes the crowd started to chant his name. “Myron! Myron! Myron!”

  This was the moment to greet his constituents and commence the celebration.

  “Okay, Benjamin, let’s do this,” Myron said to his driver.

  Benjamin exited the car, walked around to Myron’s passenger door, and opened it. Myron stepped out and the crowd roared. Photographer’s flashbulbs exploded, television cameras rolled, and the crowd pressed forward.

  The police created a pathway through the well-wishers for Myron as he made his way to the podium set up in front of Antonio’s. Mickey insisted on using his restaurant as the venue for the big event, to which Myron had no objections, and even if he did he knew he didn’t want to start disagreeing with Mickey so soon.

  After months of campaigning throughout the five boroughs Myron had memorized a handful of stump speeches, written by some political guru Mickey set him up with. He even had Myron take lessons on how to deliver effective speeches. By the end of the campaign he had become a fairly good public speaker.

  The speech that he was expected to give was neatly folded up in his breast pocket. He placed it there after reading it on the way to the restaurant, but decided that tonight was his night, and he would, for the first time, speak from his heart, with his own words.

  “What the hell was that?” Mickey asked in the private dining room in the back of Antonio’s.

  “Was it that bad?” Myron asked.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I thought I did okay. I spoke from the heart.”

  “You spoke from your ass. You sounded like a bumbling moron.”

  Myron gave an awkward smile and said, “I thought it was okay.”

  “Don’t ever go off script again,” Mickey said, wagging a finger at Myron.

  Myron nodded, but thought that soon this hoodlum would know that he, Mayor Myron Blass, was no one to trifle with.

  “Okay,” Mickey continued. “Later tonight, after this little shindig, I want to introduce you to some of my business associates. So go out there, Mr. Mayor Elect, and mingle. You’re the man of the hour,” he said with a sly smile.

  “Yes, sir,” Myron said, and walked out into the packed restaurant.

  Chapter 44

  When Henryk showed up at Charlie’s Oyster Bar, Solomon raised an eyebrow and said, “Hey Rabbi, what are you doing here?”

  “Solomon, you called me this morning and said you wanted to see me. Did you forget?” Henryk said, looking at his watch.

  “No Rabbi, I didn’t forget.” He stroked his forehead and offered a less than reassuring smile.

  “Solomon, are you okay? I’ve never seen you like this before.”

  “I need to talk to you about my dreams. There’s been a visitor.”

  “A visitor?”

  “He calls himself Gray, and he wears only gray color clothing. Even his skin looks gray,” Solomon said, and drifted off for a moment.

  “Your visitor is a Mr. Gray?”

  “No, just Gray,” Solomon said, regaining his focus.

  “So what does this Gray fellow talk
to you about?”

  “He told me not to harm the tzaddik. I asked, why, do you protect him? He told me that he is the hand of Hashem.”

  Henryk’s eyes widened, and he rubbed the back of his neck. “This is interesting indeed, Solomon.”

  “Interesting to you. It could be deadly to me.”

  “Do you feel threatened by the tzaddik? After all, he’s just a cobbler, what can he do to you?”

  Solomon stared at Henryk, thinking of what to say. “He’s not just a cobbler in the dream world. There, you can do anything, be anything. A cobbler can even be a warrior.”

  “Oh come on, Solomon. You’ve had these dreams all your life. What’s different this time?”

  “Up until Gray appeared, my dreams just provided me with information of what was yet to come.” Solomon lifted his glass, stared at the melting ice cubes, and then looked up to Henryk. “I had a second dream last night, Rabbi.”

  “Also about Gray?”

  “No, this time I was visited by the cobbler himself, Moshe.”

  “What did he say?” Henryk asked, leaning in.

  “He didn’t say anything. He just stood there in the corner of my bedroom looking at me, while I was lying in my bed.”

  “Did you try speaking to him?”

  “I asked him why he had come. But he just stared at me and said nothing before he disappeared.”

  Henryk rubbed his chin, absorbing the details. “What do you think it means?”

  “He’s learning how to move about in his dreams. Gray is teaching him.”

  “Are you worried that he can harm you in the dream world?” Henryk asked.

  “I don’t know, Rabbi. But I need to know how to defend myself, and you need to help me learn how.”

  Chapter 45

  Agnes was reading the Daily News when Arnold walked into the office.

  “I can’t believe this,” she said pointing to the front page headline.