The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Blass Beats Douglas

  “I’ve seen it, Agnes. The whole thing disgusts me. The city is screwed.”

  “It looks like you would have lost your seat anyway, even without being fired. It’s a Republican sweep across the board,” Agnes said, pointing to the results.

  “It’s a disaster.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Agnes asked.

  “Looks like the mob bosses will have free rein. Corruption is no longer corrupt.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Corruption is powerful people doing dishonest things, behind a veil of honesty. If the veil has been lifted, can you still call it corruption?”

  “So what do you call it?” Agnes said, staring at the newspaper.

  “I wish I knew.” Arnold patted Agnes on her shoulder and took a step towards his office.

  “What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, closing his office door behind him.

  Standing by the window overlooking the busy concourse was Gray.

  “Gray, when did you get here?” Arnold asked.

  Gray turned to face Arnold. He pulled a hanky from his pocket to wipe the sweat off his brow. “Good morning, Arnold. I just arrived a few minutes before you,” Gray said.

  Arnold took a peek at the thermostat on the wall. It read 68 degrees. Certainly not too warm, yet Gray was perspiring as if it was twenty degrees warmer.

  “You’re sweating again, Gray. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just my constitution.”

  “Right, that’s what you told me. Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. I was speaking with Moshe, and he told me that he had a dream about you,” Arnold said.

  “Did he?”

  “He said something about you warning him about the rasha.”

  “Isn’t that interesting. What do you think it means?”

  Arnold shrugged. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Gray shook his head. “Sounds like a crazy dream. But the reason I’m here is to ask you what your plans are for dealing with the new mayor?”

  Arnold shook his head and said, “What can I do against such a powerful political machine?”

  “You organize a resistance, by keeping people informed about the truth. The truth is a powerful weapon.”

  “How would I do that? I no longer have a platform after losing my councilman seat.”

  Gray adjusted his gray suit jacket as he stood up. “You have one of the largest venues in all of the Bronx.”

  “Are you talking about political rallies here, in the theater?” Arnold said.

  Gray nodded as he patted the sweat off the back of his neck.

  “You want me to back some candidate to run against Myron?”

  “No, Arnold. I want you to run against Myron in four years,” Gray said.

  “Are you kidding? I just got fired as councilman, and I would have lost my seat anyway in the election. I have no credibility, no following. I’m a joke.”

  “That speech you gave at the rally will prove to be your rebirth.”

  “What, when I said that we all know that Myron’s campaign was being funded by the Coppola crime family?”

  “You will provide an alternative for voters in the years to come. But you have work to do.”

  Arnold listened, and thought about his desire to do something of significance with his life. He tried to stop Myron and Solomon from gaining power by finding the tzaddik. But that seemed to have gone nowhere. Perhaps the answer was not in some Kabbalistic fantasy, but from something he could do himself. Maybe he could challenge the new power structure and prove himself as a worthy opponent. But he would need allies with power to take on such corruption.

  “Excuse me for a moment, Gray. I need to ask Agnes to make a phone call for me.”

  Gray nodded, and Arnold opened his door.

  “Agnes, see if you can get Mayor Douglas on the phone,” he said.

  Chapter 46

  Myron scanned the crowd from the podium. Seated in the front row were Mickey Coppola and the other Mob bosses. It looked like an FBI most wanted lineup, he thought. This was the second time he had seen all the bosses together. The first time was at his election night celebration at Antonio’s when he received their wish lists, which was what he expected: a realignment of trash pickup territories, union contracts for new construction in the city, and of course no interference from the police. Amid all these demands, he wondered if he had the stomach to enable such corruption, not to mention deal with the public backlash that it was sure to invigorate.

  Today, he was surprised to see them out in public. The news media were in a frenzy photographing the elite of organized crime in the city. Myron imagined the headlines tomorrow,

  Mafia Bosses Welcome New Mayor.

  But today was Inauguration Day, and he planned on relishing the attention. He looked down at his speech, took a breath, and began.

  “Welcome friends, distinguished guests, and to all the people of New York City who supported our campaign. This has been a tough fight against a strong competitor, and a good man, our outgoing Mayor Nathan Douglas.”

  Myron paused to allow Nathan to push his hefty body out of his seat at the dais and acknowledge the polite applause from the audience.

  “I want to say right here, from day one, that my administration will fight for the good people of our city. There will be law and order. We will fight corruption wherever it rears its ugly head.”

  Myron caught a glimpse of his father seated a few rows back, who offered a warm smile. This gave him a sudden surge of pride that elevated his tone, and put excitement in his voice.

  “I am here, not as a puppet of the powerful, but as a leader for the average man,” he said, veering off the written speech in his hands.

  “This will be an administration that represents everyone looking to make an honest living, raise a family, and live a rewarding life in this country’s greatest city.”

  A round of applause caused Myron to look up from his speech, and saw Mickey smiling and carrying on with his cronies. Apparently they liked his hollow message, though Myron was feeling an urge of truthfulness in his words.

  After the ceremony concluded Myron asked his staff to allow him and his father a few minutes alone in his new office. He stood and looked out through one of the six towering arched windows onto the park. This was a day he would never forget. How was this possible? Just last year I was a real estate investor, and a small-time bookie in the Bronx. Now I’m the most powerful man in the largest city in the United States.

  Solomon sat in one of the red upholstered chairs looking at his son.

  “You’ve done well, Myron,” he said.

  “Thanks, Pops.”

  “I hope you understand, though, that your life is no longer your own.”

  Myron turned to face his father, who looked tired and old. The past few months had not been kind. He had complained to Myron that he was afraid to sleep, because of what would happen in his dreams. But so far, since the visits from Gray and the cobbler, he hadn’t been disturbed in weeks.

  “I know, Pops. But I was thinking that I shouldn’t just be their puppet. Sure, I’ll give them some things to keep them happy, but they will not take total control of this city.”

  Solomon pushed on his cane to help him up. He walked over to the window and stood by his son.

  “Myron, don’t think you have any power just because this is your office,” he said waving his finger about. “You were put here because of Mickey Coppola, and he won’t allow you to do anything he doesn’t want done.”

  “I know, Pops, but let me figure it out. This is my time,” Myron said, laying his arm around Solomon’s shoulder and giving him a hug.

  Solomon looked at his son, shook his head, and said, “Okay, Myron, I wish you luck.”

  As Benjamin drove up to the front gate he caught a glimpse of Myron in his rearview mirror, and said, “Gracie Mansion, Mr. Mayor. Your new home.”

&nbs
p; Myron fell silent with reverence as he took in the legendary estate, surrounded by a freshly painted white picket fence and partially hidden by huge oak and tulip trees. With its wrap-around porch and wooden shutters, the two-story mansion looked like it belonged out in the suburbs and not along the river in Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

  “I still can’t believe all of this. It’s like a dream.”

  “You deserve it, sir.”

  “Thank you, Ben. You’ve been there with me for the entire ride, and we’re not done yet.”

  “Looks like we’re just getting started, boss. I mean, Mr. Mayor,” Benjamin said with a laugh.

  “You better believe it,” said Myron.

  After Myron met the house staff, he was served dinner in the mayor’s private dining room and then settled down in the master bedroom suite. It was a long day, and he was exhausted. Just as he lay his head upon the feather and down filled pillow, there was a knock at his bedroom door. He got up, put on his robe with word Mayor embroidered on it, and opened the door.

  “What is it, Frank?” Myron asked the house butler.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, sir, but there is a young lady at the gate saying she knows you,” Frank said quietly.

  “Who is she?”

  “She said her name is Ingrid.”

  “Ingrid?” His heart pounded hard, hearing the name.

  “Yes, sir. Should I send her away?”

  “No, please show her in, and have her wait for me in the library.”

  “Yes, sir,” Frank said, turning away.

  “Oh, and Frank, please be discreet.”

  “Always, sir.”

  Chapter 47

  Solomon could fight it no longer, and allowed sleep to consume him. Though he was aware he was in the dream world, he was unable to move about like he was accustomed. He felt helpless of his destination, his desires or even an ability to understand what was happening to him.

  Smoke swirled in ringlets, as he floated upon silver clouds. Solomon tried to force himself awake, but the dream world would not release him. Like a sauce ready to boil, his fear simmered just below the surface. Solomon knew it could explode at any moment.

  Out of the smoke a face formed. It was a face of many shadows, at first unrecognizable, then he understood who it was. Gray was standing before him. Solomon reached out to touch his visitor, but he grasped smoke.

  “He is here,” said Gray.

  Solomon tried, but couldn’t speak. Gray vanished, and out of the silver mist stepped a man. There was no denying it, it was Moshe the Cobbler.

  Moshe did not smile, but Solomon spotted a light sparkling off a blade in his hand. Moshe suddenly swung his arm back, and then swiftly sliced the blade through the air. A piercing sound of metal cutting through the silver mist rang through Solomon’s awareness.

  As the blade sliced through Solomon’s throat, Moshe said, “I am here to stop you.”

  Solomon gasped, and clutched his neck. His vision blurred, grayness turned to black.

  To Solomon’s delight he woke up alive, but not well. He was lying in a bed of sweat. Nausea consumed him. He felt his body sink into the mattress. Even his fingers hurt. He reached for his phone and called his son. Some moronic operator at Gracie Mansion answered.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s two-thirty in the morning, the mayor is asleep. Would you like for me to take a message?”

  “This is his father, you idiot. Wake him up.”

  He was answered with a click, followed by a dial tone.

  Solomon swung his legs off the side of the bed and sat up. His head was pounding. He made his way into the bathroom, where he found an old bottle of aspirin in his medicine cabinet. He swallowed two pills with a gulp of water from the bathroom sink.

  He looked in the mirror and ran a finger across his neck to confirm that it was unharmed. His eyes, however, were bloodshot and featured heavy, puffy bags under each one. It looked like his face was slowly melting away.

  The nausea soon passed, and his headache faded. He looked out the window and considered a walk, but it was too early. After shuffling around the house for a few minutes, Solomon lay back in his bed, and within minutes fell back asleep and swiftly returned to the dream world.

  A black crow perched on Mickey’s shoulder. Its beady eyes sparkled back at Solomon. Mickey spoke to a large man whose belly stretched his suit jacket tightly. Antonio placed a large white ceramic bowl of pasta upon the white tablecloth.

  “You’re going to love this, Carmine,” Mickey said.

  “What you going to do about that nitwit mayor friend of yours?” asked Carmine, plunging his fork and spoon into the spaghetti.

  “I’ve allowed him some leeway to sow his oats. But that’s over, Carmine.”

  “It better be, Mickey. The other bosses are upset you let him go this far. You know he’s pushing for tax legislation on the parking garage contracts.”

  “I understand, Carmine,” he said, taking a sip of his wine.

  “I don’t think you do, Mickey. I own ten garages downtown. If this law passes, my costs will double.”

  “Don’t worry, Carmine,” Mickey said, reaching over and patting Carmine on his beefy shoulder. “I’ll get Myron in line.”

  Carmine spun a load of spaghetti on his fork and shoved it into his mouth. He washed it down with a healthy gulp of red wine and said, “Don’t let this fuck get carried away. He needs to be reminded who put him there.”

  The black crow began to caw and stood behind the table where Mickey and Carmine continued to drink and eat, taking no notice of the bird, or the visitor.

  “Solomon,” the tzaddik said, and took a step forward.

  “What do you want, cobbler?” Solomon asked, standing his ground.

  “It’s best not to share what you’ve seen here with your son.”

  Solomon looked over to the table. The men were gone. But the crow was eating the bread crumbs off the tablecloth.

  “I’m not frightened of you, cobbler. You have no power over me.”

  The tzaddik reached out and grabbed Solomon’s forearm. A searing pain shot through him. He pulled his arm out of the tzaddik’s grasp. Solomon looked at the burning flesh where he held him. He screamed.

  “Pops, wake up,” Myron said.

  Solomon heard his name as if he was called from deep within a cave. He felt his shoulders shake and he opened his eyes. “Myron?”

  “Are you okay, Pops? I’ve been trying to wake you.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, raising up onto his elbows. “Can you make me coffee, I’ll be right there.”

  “Of course,” Myron said, and left his bedside and walked to the kitchen.

  Solomon sat up and reached for his journal. Just as he did, he saw a burn mark on his forearm. It was an imprint of four fingers seared into his flesh. He gasped, and gently touched the wound. The pain was severe. He went into his bathroom and found a jar of skin cream in his medicine cabinet, and applied it to the wound. It stung at his touch. He grabbed from under the sink a box of gauze pads and first aid tape. He slipped on his robe and walked into the kitchen.

  “Here you go, Pops,” Myron said, placing a steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee on the kitchen table.

  “Thank you, Myron. Can you help me with this please?” he said handing his son the gauze and tape.

  “What did you do, Pops?” Myron asked, staring at the ghastly wound.

  “He burned me?” Solomon said, his eyes bulging forward.

  “Who burned you?”

  “The tzaddik, in my dream.”

  As Myron applied the bandage, Solomon told him his dream.

  “I don’t understand how something that happens in your dream can result in a real injury,” Myron said.

  Solomon stood up, grabbed his cane and pointed it at his son. “I need to speak with the rabbi.”

  “Sure, Pops, I’ll have him picked up and brought over right away.”

  Chapter 48

  “Dammit, Arnold, what’s with the
elevator?” Nathan said, stumbling into Arnold’s office, drenched in sweat.

  “Nathan, I’m so sorry. It broke down a few days ago. We’re still waiting for a part to fix it. Come sit down, let me get you some water,” Arnold said.

  Nathan lumbered himself over to the chair and squeezed himself into the wood frame. “Those stairs nearly killed me,” he said, patting the sweat off his forehead with a hankie.

  “Here you go,” Arnold said, handing him a glass of water.

  Arnold watched the former mayor guzzle down the water.

  “Thank you, Arnold,” Nathan said, looking at his watch.

  “You said on the phone that you were coming with the commissioner.”

  Nathan looked at his watch and said, “He should be here in a few minutes. I’m sure he won’t like walking up all those steps. Though he is in much better shape than me.”

  “Commissioner Aldrich will be fine. I hear he’s a runner.”

  “Better him than me.” Nathan chuckled.

  Police Commissioner Frank Aldrich had led the New York City Police Department for over eight years. He had a reputation for unwavering integrity and brutal honesty. In his thirty years on the force the word was that he never accepted a bribe and had no tolerance for those who did. Under his watch, the department cleaned house and was known as the least corrupt police force in the country.

  But with the election of Myron Blass and his gangster backers, the commissioner’s real test was about to begin.

  When Frank entered Arnold’s office Nathan lifted his heavy body out of the straining chair and said, “Good to see you, Frank. Let me introduce Arnold Lieberman.”

  “Mr. Lieberman,” the commissioner said, extending his right hand.

  Arnold gripped his hand, and both men shook hard.

  The commissioner smiled, showing off the whitest teeth Arnold had ever seen. But that was only where it started. Obviously, he was interested in making a good impression with his appearance, though Arnold thought it unusual for someone in his position to wear such expensive clothing. But the navy blue silk suit was beautiful, and the commissioner’s slim physique only added to its elegance.