The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arnold. Nathan has told me very encouraging things about you,” said Frank.

  “It’s an honor to meet you as well, sir. Your fine reputation precedes you,” Arnold said.

  “Gentlemen, I wanted us to get together to discuss strategy. We can’t wait for the ’64 campaign to do something. The city will be too far gone by then,” the former mayor said.

  Frank stood up and walked over to the window, looking out upon the Grand Concourse. “This is a wonderful building,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Arnold said.

  Frank continued, “I like the idea of Arnold running against Myron in ’64. We have time to build upon his credentials. I’ll hook you up with the right people in the city. Many of the same people Nathan knows, plus a few he doesn’t.” He turned and winked at Nathan.

  Nathan laughed, and said, “No doubt.”

  “This sounds good,” Arnold said, joining Frank by the window. “But what about the meantime? We need to stop Myron from wielding his power now.”

  As Nathan was speaking, Arnold thought about the battle between the tzaddik and the rasha, and how the result could affect Myron’s ability to govern. The reason Myron got elected was because of his father’s prowess of foreseeing events and moving upon them for financial advantage. If that weapon was destroyed the dynamic would certainly change.

  This idea of positioning Arnold for mayor involved many moving parts in order to succeed, including keeping Frank Aldrich as the Police Commissioner for as long as possible. Myron could fire Frank at any time and put someone in his place as his puppet.

  “You need to show Myron that you’re willing to play his game. Give him some wins. Let him think you’re with him. This will give us time,” Arnold said.

  Frank turned from looking out the window to facing Arnold, and asked, “Time for what?”

  Arnold took a breath, and considered telling them about the tzaddik, but lost his nerve, and said, “Time to organize our campaign.”

  Chapter 49

  Moshe had been a cobbler for forty-five years. He learned the craft from his father, who in turn, learned it from his father. This legacy of carrying on the family business was well into its third generation, lasting nearly one hundred years.

  This thought would occasionally pop into Moshe’s head during his daily tasks at work, and cause him to smile. His father would have been proud knowing that after all these years, through good times and bad, the cobbler shop was still there to serve its customers.

  Just as he was walking to the front door to unlock it for the day he saw Gray standing and staring at him through the glass.

  Moshe unlocked the door.

  “Hello, Moshe,” he said, the usual beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

  “Gray, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to talk,” he said, walking in.

  Moshe locked the front door, and said, “Let’s go to the back room.”

  Gray and Moshe sat across from one another at his worktable.

  “You know, Gray, I’ve been dreaming about you,” Moshe said.

  “That’s because I’ve been visiting you in the dream world.”

  Moshe jerked his head back a quick inch, and said, “What do you mean?”

  “Just what I said. I can enter your dreams.”

  “How can you visit a place that exists in our minds?”

  “If it exists in your mind, then it exists.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Gray smiled, and a bead of sweat rolled down his cheek and landed on Moshe’s table. Gray wiped it off with a finger. “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Moshe said, looking at the salt stain already forming on the canvas table cover.

  “Moshe, I have been with you in both the dream world and the awakened world. Am I not real,” he said, pointing to the sweat stain.

  “This is true. But dreams feel different.”

  “That’s because you’re just learning how to awaken within them. As you improve your skills, you will find them just as real.”

  “But what about you? How do you come from the dream world?”

  Gray shook his head. “No one comes from the dream world, Moshe. But if one can awaken while dreaming, then it’s possible to move about there.”

  Moshe paused, trying to comprehend the complexity of Gray’s words. “Are you saying that you can live a life while you’re asleep?”

  Gray smiled and said, “Indeed. I live in both worlds, Moshe.”

  “Last night, in my dream, I saw Solomon and grasped his arm. My touch burned him. I felt his flesh melt,” Moshe said.

  “That should shake him up.”

  “How is that possible?

  “It’s not possible for me, but apparently you can.”

  “I can inflict physical harm in the dream world?”

  “Looks that way, Moshe. But you’ll need to go further than just a burn.”

  Moshe rubbed his fingers across his lips and asked, “Can the rasha do the same?”

  “Probably,” Gray said shrugging his shoulders with a tilt of his head.

  Moshe exhaled and asked, “What will happen if Solomon retaliates?”

  “If he can harm you in the dream world, you need to be ready. I am sure his rabbi friend will be offering wisdom from the dark side to battle you.”

  “When I’m dreaming, I don’t feel at all in control. How can I defend myself?”

  “It will take time, and practice,” Gray said, patting the sweat off his forehead and neck with his hankie.

  Moshe stood up and looked past Gray and onto the busy concourse, reflecting for a moment before he said, “I need to destroy Solomon in the dream world, before he harms me. Is that what you’re saying?”

  Gray nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”

  Moshe sat back in his chair, contemplating the words Gray spoke. Then he leaned forward and asked, “How do you know these things, Gray? You appear in my dreams, in my life, and you have this knowledge. Who are you? Why are you here?”

  Gray smiled, and looked at Moshe. “I was born in Amsterdam in 1915. My father was Frederick van Eeden, a famous Dutch writer and psychiatrist. He liked to write poetry and people described him as a Bohemian, which I gather to mean that he lived an unconventional lifestyle. He hung out with artists and intellectuals.”

  Gray continued, “Anyway, it was Father who coined the term lucid dreaming. He was strongly influenced by Hindu practices, and their belief of being awake in the dream world.”

  As Gray spoke, Moshe got up, filled a glass with cold water and handed it to Gray.

  “Thank you, Moshe,” Gray said, taking a gulp.

  “Please continue, I’m fascinated,” said Moshe.

  “Father used me as his lab assistant. I was eight years old when we started. He would watch me sleep, and after a while, he could tell when I was dreaming. When he thought there was a break in my dreams, he would wake me up and I would describe them. That was the first step. Next he started a way to send me a signal that would tell me that I was in a dream without waking me.”

  “What was the signal?” Moshe asked, with his hand was on his chin, expressing his interest.

  Gray grabbed Moshe’s hand. “Open your palm,” he said.

  Moshe did so, and Gray ran a gentle finger across it.

  “That was it, and it worked. The light brushing of his finger was just enough for my conscious self to become aware that I was dreaming. Soon, I was able to become lucid without the stimulation, and I have been that way ever since.”

  “What happened to your father?”

  Gray offered a strained smile and said, “He passed away when I turned twenty. But he gave me a gift that few people have.”

  “But why are you here, helping me?” Moshe asked.

  “When you are living in the dream world, you’re able to see disturbances. I have been observing Solomon in the dream world for years. His manipulations create an imbalance and I have been
trying to find a way to stop him, but without success. That is, until I met you.”

  “What do you mean he creates an imbalance?”

  “The dream world, not unlike the awakened world, requires certain rules or laws. When someone crosses the line at the expense of others, people like me take notice and try to restore order, like a police force.”

  Moshe turned his palms up and said, “But what’s your connection with Arnold? When I first met you, you were working for him.”

  “That is where Solomon’s dreams have led me. This imbalance is not only in the dream world, but it has its reach into the awakened world as well, as you can see with his son Myron, who has no qualms about breaking the law.”

  Moshe slowly nodded. “This is not easy to understand. But perhaps you can explain your name, and everything else,” Moshe said, gesturing to his grayness.

  “I call myself Gray because it’s my way of moving between the two worlds without notice. I’m visible to those I choose to be—in either world.”

  Moshe shook his head. “I’ve never met anyone like you before, Gray.”

  Gray patted Moshe on his back and said with a smile. “I’m uniquely Gray.”

  Chapter 50

  When Myron finally arrived back at the mansion it was nearly midnight. His workday had begun at six in the morning and concluded with dinner with the Police Commissioner. All he wanted to do was to go to bed.

  After his shower, Myron wrapped a towel around his waist and made his way out of the bathroom into his bedroom, when he saw Niko. She was lying under a thin bedsheet on the king size bed, waiting for him.

  “What took you so long?”

  Myron spread his arms and said, “Niko, when did you get here?”

  “Just now, when you were in the shower,” she said, offering a sultry smile.

  “I’m exhausted. I need to sleep.”

  “Of course, Myron, you’ll sleep. Just not yet,” she said, tugging and releasing the knot in his towel.

  Like an ember in a hot fire, it didn’t take but a moment for Myron to ignite. He lifted the bedsheet, crawled in, and embraced Niko. As they kissed, his heart started to race. Of all his previous girlfriends—and there had been many—he had never felt quite the same way as he did with this one.

  He heard the alarm bell ring first in his dream, and it kept ringing until he woke up and reached to turn it off. Myron opened his eyes and saw it was six am. He was scheduled to leave the mansion in thirty minutes and head downtown for more meetings with Police Commissioner Frank Aldrich. Last night was less of a business meeting, and more of a getting to know you dinner.

  Myron liked that Frank was interested in what he had to say. He even surprised Myron by offering to implement a few of his ideas. This was more respect than he ever got from Mickey and his lineup of mobsters. What if I could dial back the criminal influence a bit and become a mayor that people can actually be proud of? he wondered. Wouldn’t that be something?

  He imagined himself being praised by the news media as the savior of the city. The mayor who punished the mob and regained the city for the people. This made him smile as he looked at himself in the mirror.

  Niko was still asleep and would be for several more hours. He gently kissed her cheek, and thought he heard a soft moan.

  When Myron reached the garage his car was waiting for him, but Benjamin wasn’t there. Someone else was sitting in the driver seat. As Myron walked over to the driver-side window, it rolled down and a man with slicked back black hair and matching black eyes told him to get in.

  Myron took a step back and was met with a hard object jamming him in the kidney.

  “Get in,” the voice said.

  The back door was opened, and Myron climbed in.

  “Slide over,” the voice said.

  Myron was sitting in between one of Mickey’s goons and Mickey himself.

  “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” Mickey said.

  “How did you get in the garage? Where the hell is my driver?”

  Mickey rolled his head to the side and said, “He woke up with a headache this morning. Not to worry, he’ll be fine.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Mickey? I’m the goddam mayor. You can’t kidnap me.”

  “Stop worrying, Myron. I’m not kidnapping you. We have a meeting to go to.”

  “And so do I, with the commissioner in fact.”

  “Well, isn’t that a coincidence, Myron. That’s exactly where we’re going, too.”

  The car sped down FDR Drive with two police motorcycle escorts opening a pathway through the morning rush-hour traffic. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the underground garage of One Police Plaza.

  “Here we are,” Mickey said.

  The men exited the car and took the elevator to the tenth floor where the commissioner’s suites of offices were located.

  “We’re here to see the Commish,” said Mickey to the receptionist.

  An older woman with black rimmed eyeglasses looked up at Mickey and offered a look that said, who the hell are you? But when she saw Myron she sat up tall and said, “Ah, Mr. Mayor, the commissioner is waiting for you. Let me tell him you’re here.”

  Just as she was about to press the intercom button on her phone Mickey reached over and grabbed her hand. “Let’s surprise Frank, why don’t we?”

  The receptionist pulled her hand away as if she was being touched by someone with a communicable disease.

  Mickey gave her an awkward smile and approached the office door. He turned the knob and entered with Myron following behind him.

  “Mr. Commissioner, so good to see you,” Mickey said.

  Frank was sitting at his desk. He quickly rose and put his hands on his hips, obviously annoyed at the sudden intrusion. “Mr. Coppola, this is a surprise. Tell me, what’s this about?” Frank said.

  “Call me Mickey. May I call you Frank?”

  Frank nodded.

  “I would like for the three of us to have an understanding,” Mickey said, gesturing to Frank and Myron.

  “What kind of understanding?” Frank asked, shooting an inquisitive look at Myron.

  “Let’s stop pretending. I’m expecting a certain level of cooperation from your people.”

  “My people?”

  “Do I need to spell it out for you? I put this man in office for a reason. He’s your boss now, and I’m his. Capiche?”

  Frank pointed a finger at Mickey and said, “How dare you threaten the Mayor and Police Commissioner of New York City? We won’t be intimidated by a two-bit gangster. Get the fuck out of my office before I have you arrested for threatening government officials.”

  Mickey stood up and walked over to the door, then turned to face Myron and Frank.

  “Careful, Commish, your words may come back to haunt you. Myron, we will talk later,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.

  Chapter 51

  Moshe was playing in the woods just north of the village when he heard men coming. He ducked behind a fallen tree to hide. As they approached, Moshe peeked out and saw Solomon and his son Myron pushing a blindfolded man with his hands bound behind his back.

  They pressed the man against the tree and removed the blindfold. It was Moshe as an old man.

  Moshe stood up, exposing himself to the men and pointed, “Is that me?”

  Solomon turned to Moshe the younger and said, “You think only you have the power of inflicting harm in the dream world?”

  Moshe stood still for a moment, staring at Solomon. Then he turned and ran toward the village, and just as he reached his home the front door opened and his mother, Clara, appeared.

  “Mama, I’m in danger. The rasha is coming.”

  “Moshe, quick, come inside,” Clara said.

  He dashed for the door, and just as he did, Solomon grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

  “Mama!” Moshe screamed.

  But she was gone, and so was the village. He was his elder self again, standing inside his cobbler shop. It was nighttime,
the street outside was desolate. He heard the front door squeak open, and in walked Solomon.

  Solomon’s face was washed in shadows. Only his eyes reflected the small amount of light in the room. He approached holding his cane like a baseball bat, ready to swing. Moshe backed up in fear.

  Solomon swung his cane, connecting on Moshe’s thigh, just below his right hip.

  “Moshe, wake up, you’ll be late for work,” Leah said, gently shaking her husband.

  Moshe opened his eyes. “I’m getting up,” he said, and swung his legs off the bed and sat up. He reached for his glasses on the nightstand and slid his feet into the slippers by his bed. When he stood, a sudden pain shot through his right leg, forcing him back onto the mattress.

  He pulled down his pajama pants and saw a large purple bruise on his right thigh. “Dammit! How in the world?”

  “What’s wrong, Moshe?” Leah asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said, gently touching the contusion. He stood up and limped to the bathroom to further examine his leg. He looked at himself in the mirror, and upon seeing his reflection, he recalled his dream.

  “Solomon,” he said aloud. But how is this possible?

  Moshe’s heart started to beat faster. His bowels churned, forcing him to sit on the toilet to relieve himself. The last time he had been this frightened had been when he was a young boy during the war, when Captain Berbecki and his Russian soldiers dragged the wounded Jewish fighters from the synagogue, lined them up against the wall, and assassinated them by firing squad.

  Moshe got dressed. He winced in pain when he pulled up his pants and limped his way through the kitchen, giving Leah a kiss on her cheek as he passed her by. “I need to run, Leah.”

  “Looks like you’re not running anywhere,” she said, watching him hobble out the front door.

  Moshe greeted Agnes and pointed to Arnold’s door. “Is he in?”