The Righteous One

by Neil Perry Gordon

  Frank leaned in to Arnold and said, “He can’t be serious?”

  Mickey held out his palms again and spoke. “I have a message for our mayor. Today you heard from the carpenters. If union workers are not permitted on this jobsite, tomorrow you may hear from the electricians, the next day from the plumbers, and then the steelworkers and the painters.”

  Mickey Coppola had just backed Myron into a corner. He would either have to back down or take a stand.

  “You think Myron will give in?” Arnold asked Frank.

  “He better not. Listen, Arnold, I have to go,” Frank said, patting Arnold on the shoulder.

  “Where are you going?”

  “City Hall. It’s time to put an end to Mickey Coppola’s reign of terror.”

  Chapter 65

  “Are you willing to risk your eternal soul for some momentary sexual pleasure?” Henryk asked, sitting across from Solomon at his table at Charlie’s.

  “Come on, how do I know it’s really this ancient spirit, this Francesca Sarah of Safed and not Gray in disguise? In the dream world you never know,” Solomon said, leaning back in his chair, his arms folded over his belly.

  “I don’t know, Solomon. But my advice is to stay away from the temptation.”

  “Understood, Rabbi,” Solomon said, and took a sip of his whiskey.

  Henryk slid forward on his chair, and said, “I have some interesting news to tell you.”

  Solomon flicked two fingers on his right hand to summon him to continue.

  “You told me about this visitor in your dreams that comes to you wearing all gray.”

  Solomon nodded.

  “I was in Queens last week, seeing an old friend from rabbinical school. As I was crossing the street, who do I see? The cobbler, and he was walking with a man dressed in all gray. I thought to myself, didn’t Solomon tell me about this gray man? So I ran after them to get a better look.”

  “What did you see?” Solomon asked, with heightened interest.

  “As I reached the sidewalk they turned toward me. First I saw the cobbler. Then I looked at the man next to him,” Henryk said.

  “Was it him?” Solomon asked.

  Henryk leaned in over the table, and whispered, “He was just like you described him in your dream. And there was one more thing that was unusual. Both the cobbler and the gray man were sweating, and it was below freezing.”

  “They were sweating, so what?”

  “This triggered a memory that I completely forgot. Years ago, before we met, I went to a lecture about dreaming from a famous kabbalist. So when I got home later that night after seeing Moshe and Gray, I spent hours going through my old journals, and I found my notes,” Henryk said, nodding and pulled out of his old case a note pad.

  “What does it say?”

  Henryk opened the cover and flipped a few pages. “Here it is,” he said pointing.

  “Read it to me.”

  “Dreams are the portholes into our souls, and in order to reach our full potential, it is important to make our dreams a significant part of our lives and not just something that occupies our minds and are forgotten or dismissed when we wake up.”

  “This is nothing new, Rabbi,” Solomon said impatiently.

  “I can’t believe I forgot about this, but it was so long ago. Anyway, it says that people who developed the practice of being awake in the dream world had this unusual side effect,” Henryk looked up, allowing Solomon to respond.

  “Which is?”

  “They sweat when they’re awake.”

  “They sweat?”

  “The body somehow adjusts itself when you spend a period of time awake in the dream world, and that’s why you sweat. When I saw the cobbler and the gray man, it was freezing. Why were they sweating?”

  “Because they are living in both worlds. Just like me. Except I don’t sweat.”

  “Right, that’s because you’re rasha, and rasha can live comfortably in both worlds without the sweats. At least, that’s what my notes say.”

  Solomon touched the scar on his forearm left by the cobbler and looked out the window at the snow swirling on the frozen ground. “This is most enlightening, Rabbi.”

  “I thought so too. But there’s even more,” Henryk said, tapping a finger on the note pad.

  “Tell me,” Solomon said.

  “Kabbalists believe that the rashas source of their power comes from the dream world. Apparently your foresight is not as unusual as you thought, at least among previous rasha.”

  Solomon shook his head. “Why are you just telling me this now? You’ve known about my abilities for years.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t remember this. I’m sorry, Solomon. But when I saw them sweating, something triggered my memory,” Henryk said.

  “Okay, was there anything else.”

  Henryk nodded. “There were stories of clashes between rasha and tzaddik from centuries ago. All of these battles took place in the dream world. Because, it was said, that the only way to destroy the eternal soul of a rasha was for the tzaddik to enter the dream world and deliver him to the valley of Gehenna.”

  “That’s why the cobbler is visiting me,” Solomon whispered.

  Henryk nodded.

  “What does this have to do with the gray man?” Solomon asked.

  “Could he be coaching the cobbler on how to enter the dream world and confront you?” Henryk said.

  Solomon nodded and said, “So it would seem. Perhaps this gray man is the instigator.”

  Henryk said, “What are you going to do about it?”

  “The gray man will need to understand that I am no one to trifle with.”

  Chapter 66

  When Moshe pulled up to his daughter’s home he saw Leah waiting for him by the front door, along with her valise.

  “Why are you standing outside?” Moshe said, walking down the driveway.

  “You’re late, and I want to go home,” Leah said with her hands on her hips.

  “I’m sorry, the traffic was terrible,” he said, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek.

  Leah pulled back and reached out to touch Moshe’s face. “You’re still sweating. Didn’t you go to the doctor?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” he said and took a step toward the front door. “Can I at least say hello to my granddaughter?”

  “No one’s here. Barbara took Candy shopping for new shoes.”

  “All right then, let’s get you home,” Moshe said, taking hold of her hand and leading her to the car.

  During the ride home, Moshe had to skillfully defend against Leah’s probing questions about his supposed visit to his sick brother Hymie, and her concerns with his sweats. When he finally reached the house and brought her inside, he exhaled.

  All he wanted to do was get back to his normal routine. But after the past three nights with Noa and her meshuga boyfriend Sammy, that seemed unlikely.

  He told Leah that he was exhausted since he didn’t sleep well at his brother’s and was going to bed early. It didn’t take but a few minutes for Moshe to doze off.

  When he awoke the next morning he felt surprisingly refreshed. Moshe realized that he hadn’t dreamed, or at least none that he could recall, and certainly he was not awake during them. Perhaps, he thought, he was too exhausted from the activity of the previous three nights.

  That first night was something Moshe could have never imagined. According to Noa, her initial plan was to observe his dreaming behaviors while he slept.

  “When you’re lucid in your dreams, your physical body exhibits physiological changes. I’ll be taking notes of how your breathing pattern changes, as well as your body temperature,” she said holding up a thermometer.

  “You’re going to take my temperature while I’m asleep?”

  Noa nodded. “You won’t even know I’m doing it. When you’re in the dream world, Moshe, your mind is in a deep lockdown, allowing me to do almost anything to you without you awakening.”

  But after Sammy show
ed up, these plans changed.

  Noa was busy preparing a chicken for their dinner when Sammy announced that he had an idea.

  “I was thinking, instead of you observing Moshe, why don’t we all meet tonight in the dream world and give him more of a guided tour?” Sammy said, looking over to Moshe sitting on the blue and red plaid sofa.

  Noa had just placed the chicken in the oven. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to look at Sammy and Moshe. “You know, that’s not a bad idea. There’s no reason to waste time.”

  “Excellent,” Sammy said, clapping his hands together.

  Moshe said nothing.

  Sammy came over and sat next to him, slapping his hand on Moshe’s knee. “Don’t worry, Moshe. You’ve been awake in the dream world already. I can tell by the sweats.”

  Noa pointed at Moshe with a wooden spoon she was using to stir the vegetables and said, “I’ll need to brew the tea.”

  Moshe looked up and said, “Tea?”

  Noa reached for an old tin sitting on a shelf above the stove. She unscrewed the lid and lifted it to her nose and inhaled. “There’s nothing like Mugwort.”

  She handed the tin to Moshe, who plucked one of the greenish-looking buds and took a sniff.

  He jerked his head back and said, “Is it rotten?”

  “No, that’s just how it smells,” Noa said, taking the tin back from Moshe.

  With the water coming to a boil she dropped the tea strainer in, turned the stove off, and covered the pot. “We’ll let it steep for a while before we drink it.”

  “What does it do?” Moshe asked, rubbing the tops of his thighs nervously.

  “Many cultures use Mugwort for prophetic dreaming and astral traveling. There was a Native American tribe in northern California called the Paiute that called Mugwort the dream plant,” said Noa.

  “Stop worrying,” Sammy said, and took three mugs from the cupboard. He lifted the lid off the pot and carefully filled the mugs. He handed the first one to Moshe. “Here you go, Moshe. Drink up and we will see you in the dream world.”

  Later that evening, after a decent chicken dinner, Noa and Sammy retired to the bedroom while Moshe stretched out on the sofa. The Mugwort tea had left his eyes feeling heavy throughout dinner. Moments after he lay down, he was asleep.

  Moshe left Leah standing on the boardwalk while he went to set up their beach chairs. As he unfolded the frames he heard voices and looked over and saw a young couple lying on a large beach towel. They were clutching each other and passionately kissing.

  Moshe shook his head and said, “I don’t need this,” and moved his chairs further away from the two lovers.

  “Moshe, it’s me, Noa.”

  Moshe turned around and looked at the woman. It was Noa, but younger. “Noa, is that really you?”

  “It is me. Aren’t I beautiful?”

  Moshe nodded. “You are, and so young.”

  “Hey, Moshe, you’re here. You’re in the dream world!” Sammy said.

  Moshe looked at Sammy. He looked the same, but more muscular.

  “Bring your wife over?” Noa said.

  “Let me get her,” Moshe said, and as he turned, Leah was standing in front of him.

  Moshe looked at her. She too had transformed into an image of her younger self.

  “Leah, you look so young,” he said, touching her cheek.

  “Are you aware, Moshe?” Noa asked.

  “I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”

  “We all are, except Leah. She’s from your mind,” said Noa.

  Moshe watched Leah smile before she vanished and was gone from the dream.

  “You can stay here a while, Moshe, and do what you like,” Noa said.

  “How will I stop the rasha?” Moshe asked impatiently.

  “No time to play?” asked Sammy with a devilish smirk.

  “This looks like fun, but I need to get this done and return to my normal boring life as a cobbler.”

  “I understand, Moshe,” Noa said. “Come with me, I’ll show you what you need to do.”

  Chapter 67

  “We need to take a stand. If we don’t he’ll take this as a sign of weakness and ramp up these intimidation tactics to other non-union sites,” Frank said.

  Myron stood by the window and looked out onto the freezing rain coating the trees in City Hall Park. “The entire jobsite is shut down. The trades are scared to send in their work crews.”

  “It’s our job to make it safe. I’ll put a protection detail around the project.”

  “I don’t know, Frank. They can always get to them off-site.”

  “That’s right, Myron. That’s why we need to put an end to Mickey Coppola’s reign of terror.”

  Myron turned from the window and sat back down at his desk. “What’s your plan?”

  “Do you mind?” Frank asked leaning over Myron’s desk, and pointing to the intercom button.

  Myron gestured to proceed.

  Frank pressed the button and said, “Agnes, please send in Officer Malone.”

  The office door opened, and in walked a tall, lanky man wearing a black suit. He had a black hat in one hand, and a black coat draped over his forearm.

  Frank said, “Thanks for waiting, Michael.”

  “Anything for you, Frank,” he said, shaking hands.

  Frank turned to face Myron, who was now standing beside his desk. “Mr. Mayor, this is Agent Michael Malone. He is the Assistant Director in charge of the New York Field Office for the FBI.”

  “FBI?” Myron said.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Mayor,” Malone said, offering a firm handshake.

  “Please, let’s sit,” Myron said, gesturing to the chairs.

  “Agent Malone has been brought up to speed, and he has a few ideas on how to deal with our number one headache,” Frank said.

  Malone sat with perfect posture at the edge of his seat. Myron thought he had never seen someone with such a straight spine.

  “What do you think, Malone?” Myron asked.

  “First, I must tell you that Mickey Coppola has been under surveillance by the Bureau for the past year, Mr. Mayor,” Malone said.

  Myron rubbed his chin and looked over to Frank who shrugged and said, “News to me.”

  “We know what went down at Antonio’s when Carmine Rizzo was murdered,” Malone said.

  “You do?” Myron said cautiously, not sure if he was implicating him, or just probing.

  Malone nodded and said, “And you were there when he was gunned down.”

  Myron slammed both palms on the desk. “What’s this all about, Frank? You brought this G-man in to accuse me of murder?”

  “I had no idea about any of this, Myron,” Frank said.

  Malone inched forward on his chair and said, “No one is accusing you of anything, Mr. Mayor. I only want you to know that the bureau has eyes everywhere. This helps us gather information that may or may not be useful.”

  “Excuse me, Agent Malone,” Myron said, holding his palm out toward the agent. “I’m not sure I understand why you’re here. What is it you want from me?”

  “The bureau wants what you want.”

  “Which is?” Myron said impatiently.

  “To put Mickey Coppola behind bars for good,” Malone said.

  Myron looked over to Frank who offered a quick nod of support, and said, “I’m all ears.”

  Later that night Myron fussed with his suit jacket, trying to smooth out any bumps the recording device that was taped to his chest may have caused. The last thing he wanted was to get caught with a wire by Mickey or one of his goons during dinner at the Stork Club.

  When he was satisfied, he walked down the steps and out through a side door of Gracie Mansion where Benjamin was waiting for him.

  “Are you ready, sir?” Benjamin asked, holding the car door open.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” Myron said stepping into the Caddie.

  Myron looked out through the window as Benjamin drove down the East Side Dr
ive toward the Stork Club on East Fifty-third Street. A sudden flash of warmth washed through him, causing him to break out into the sweats. He worried that the perspiration may short-circuit the recording device strapped to him. “Is it warm in here?” he asked Benjamin.

  Benjamin looked at Myron through the rear-view mirror and said, “I don’t think so, sir. Would you like for me to turn down the temperature?”

  “I’m sweating like a pig back here. I’m going to open the window a bit.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Myron closed his eyes as the frigid air rushed in. He loosened his tie, allowing the coolness to seep under his shirt, but the sensation did nothing to quell his anxiety. The visit from Agent Malone had disabled Myron’s entire position of power as the Mayor of New York City. How had he allowed himself to become this pawn between the FBI and the Mafia? He had seen his once glorious life whittled down to an anxiety-ridden mess. Now he was going to try to trap Mickey into incriminating himself by recording their conversation. Just as he was thinking this, Benjamin drove into a dark tunnel and Myron feared that his entire future had just done the same.

  He hoped he could be ushered quickly past the front door staff in order to avoid any awkward encounter with Niko. She had no idea he was coming, and he didn’t want to raise anyone’s suspicions that they were still involved with each other.

  Before Agent Malone’s visit, Myron hoped that if his relationship with Niko did become public that Mickey would be forgiving since he had saved his life. But now with the FBI running surveillance for months and apparently knowing everything about him, he wished that their secret affair was all he had to worry about.

  As Benjamin pulled up to the curb in front of the Stork Club, Myron knew that things were not going to go as he planned, because Mickey was standing outside speaking to his daughter alongside a long line of patrons waiting to gain admission to the club.

  “Fuck, Benjamin,” Myron said.

  “Do you want me to keep driving? I can take a loop around the block,” Benjamin said.