A Village Voice

by Brian Martin

  He handed over a piece of paper with a very professionally drawn out ownership chart. C&J Textiles was owned 20% by Charles Morgenstern and 80% by a trust whose beneficiary was Joseph Tarantino.

  “How did you get a hold of this,” Brian asked.

  “Someone I know at the accounting firm.”

  Back in the day, before 9/11 and all the big money laundering scandals, banks really didn’t pay much attention to the ownership details. They were more concerned with meeting the people who ran the business and made the day to day decisions. If the ownership structure said Charles Morgenstern and ABC trust, and Mr. Morgenstern said that the trust represented silent investors, that was usually where the enquiries stopped. If Mr. Morgenstern’s background check came out okay, no further due diligence was required. However, after the RICO thing started, if a bank came across this kind of information they would quietly find a way to exit the banking relationship as soon as possible.

  “So he comes to the meeting, I show him this and I tell him that I will keep it to myself, but that he should probably put in a few more trusts and that the beneficiaries should not be anyone directly connected with him or his business, and I’m doing this because…?”

  “Let’s say, in return, several more businesses that currently bank with another bank decide that they want to bank with you, but only if you are their account officer. So you help him out and he returns the favor. He will absolutely understand this kind of reasoning.”

  His Uncle Jim had obviously given this a lot of thought. He had rehearsed this in his mind like a play and he was explaining it like a director would explain an actor’s motivation. Brian was a young ambitious banker, he had come across some information that he might use to help his career and he chose to take advantage of it. He was a neighborhood kid and he didn’t have any particular moral dilemma. He understood that most of the big corporations, they did business with were equally if not more crooked than Mr. Tarantino.

  “Isn’t he going to ask me about myself, where I’m from, before he even starts talking, won’t he make the connection between us?”

  “What if he does, at that point it won’t really matter.”

  “So, I get him to the meeting, explain all this and just leave?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What about the police, how do I handle that?”

  “What about them? The meeting will be after hours, Morgenstern would never have a meeting with Tarantino during office hours, the place will be locked up and he will ask you to come in by the alley entrance. It’s highly unlikely that anyone will see you come or go.” Jim, the director, had also considered set design; nervous banker exits stage left. “If the cops do find out you were there, you tell them all about the meeting and you tell them you were scared. You would lose your job if the bank found out about it. That is a risk. I don’t think it’s much of a one and it’s one worth taking considering what we are trying to prevent.”

  Brian didn’t know why but he did feel reassured by this. He wanted to trust the director that when he got on stage he wouldn’t make a fool of himself.

  “What about after? I’m assuming this guy has friends and family who are going to make enquiries. Are they going to want to speak with the people who spoke to him before it happened? Are they going to suspect that he was lured to the meeting? What about Morgenstern?”

  “Well, kid, now we get to the part where you are just going to have to trust me. Don’t you think I have considered this? You can’t know any of what you might call the operational details.”

  Brian felt bad expressing doubt but he needed to tell Jim that he was concerned that this would come back to him and that he might be putting his wife at risk.

  “Kid, I can’t guarantee it but I really can’t see that happening. Joey’s father died in prison years back and his only brother died of a heart attack three or four years ago. He doesn’t really have anyone else and what friends he has really don’t care for him all that much. He is where he is because his old man was stand up and his brother by all accounts was a good guy. If things don’t go well, God forbid, send your wife back to the old country to visit her folks and join her there if you need to. God knows you should be safe enough in Tipperary.”

  So, with the unpleasant vision of spending the rest of his days knee deep in cow dung on his wife’s family farm, he returned to practical matters.

  “How and when should I approach Morgenstern?”

  “We need to move right away. Morgenstern eats lunch every day at that Jewish deli on 34th Street, he eats in a booth near the back by himself. Fat bald guy with thick glasses. Go up and introduce yourself. Tell him it concerns ‘Alberta Trust’, you will get his attention.”

  On the way home, Brian thought about ways out. How to get out of this thing before it went too far, before it was out of control. There had to be a way but everything he thought of smacked of betrayal. Betray his father, betray his uncle, betray somebody or something. Betrayal was a big theme for his family. His grandfather passed away when he was ten years old, but he remembered him saying, “Never trust a politician, they will always betray you in the end.” He never heard his grandfather speak about his experience fighting for Ireland, but his dad told him that his grandfather and his brother had been with the IRA and had seen action and that like many veterans (including his uncles who had fought in WWII), they simply didn’t want to talk about it. His father explained to him that his grandfather had fought to kick the British out of Ireland and to establish an All-Ireland Republic. He had come on some sort of mission to New York with his brother (maybe to arrange guns or something, he never would talk about it, not even to his dad and they were close as could be) and in the meantime, a treaty was signed with the British and ‘the politicians’ got to work and betrayed the Republic. They gave up the six Northern counties and accepted dominion status with an oath of allegiance to the crown instead of the Republic that everyone had been fighting and dying for. The politicians frightened the people and persuaded them that dominion status was the best deal they could get and if they didn’t accept, the British would respond with immediate and terrible war (as if what they had been doing wasn’t immediate and terrible enough). Brian’s grandfather was a ‘die-hard’ Republican but he did respect one of the leaders of the other (pro-treaty) side. Michael Collins had been the chief of intelligence for the IRA and had been instrumental in getting arms to the men in the field like his grandfather. Collins argued that the treaty with the British did not give Ireland the freedom they wanted, but the freedom to achieve it. Collins was well-respected and many people believed him, including some of their own cousins in Ireland, and then Collins was killed in an ambush. Some say members of his own security detail may have been involved. More betrayal. As far as his grandfather was concerned, that was the last straw. He would never set foot in Ireland again.

  Chapter Six

  New York, 1987

  Brian had never been to Katz’s deli on 34th Street. Truthfully, he had never been to a Jewish deli. His dad was not a fan. Sean considered the Jews to be liberals and he blamed the liberals for ruining the city. When he got up on the soap box and Brian’s mother was around, she would always bring him down to earth and remind him that people were people and that there were Irish liberals and even Irish Communists too.

  “Sure, weren’t the Kennedys liberals or so you always told me? Wasn’t James Connolly, a martyr of the Easter Rising in 1916, a socialist? Weren’t there Irish Communists fighting during the Spanish Civil War, your own cousin among them?”

  Brian’s mother had the habit of supporting her arguments with facts in such a way as to reduce his father to sullen silence. Truth be told, however, the remark about the Communist Flanagan cousin was not entirely accurate. Like much family history, it had become muddled over the years. Johnny Flanagan had moved to Dublin seeking work and adventure. Not finding much of either he became bored and restless and had planned on moving on to London when he fell in with a group of country lads w
ho persuaded him that Spain was the place to go. Great weather, good wine, willing women and action, a plenty in a cause worth fighting for. It all sounded good to Johnny and a hell of a lot better than anything else he had going on. They set out for London, then took a freighter for Spain. Johnny was a life-long Irish Republican and had great sympathy for the working man but he was never a member of the Communist Party. In fact, his failure to join almost cost him his life.

  Johnny served in the first company of the XV International Brigade. He was a brave and popular soldier, so much so that when the first company commander was sent to Madrid to take part in a propaganda exercise, Johnny was left in charge of the company. The first company was comprised mostly of Irish volunteers and had become known as the Irish Section. The XV Brigade itself was mostly comprised of English speaking volunteers and most of its officers were ex-British Army. Irish Republicans taking orders from British officers was bound to end in grief. Things came to a head when the Brigade was addressed by their Political Commissar and he insisted on addressing the soldiers present as his British comrades. Johnny interrupted the speech to point out that the First Company were not British, but in fact, being mostly Irishmen, were the victims of British colonial oppression. Johnny felt that the colonial oppression comment would go down well with the Commissar. The Commissar looked confused, the Irish Company started to cheer, the British volunteers booed. The British commanding officer who was on stage with the Commissar ordered Johnny to sit down and be silent. Johnny, his blood up now, shouted back that he would take no orders from any bloody British bastard. As expected, a punch up ensued, Johnny was arrested and First Company was confined to barracks. A hasty enquiry was held by the Commissar during which the British commanding officer, who was a member of the Communist Party, explained that Johnny Flanagan was not a party member, but actually a Fascist agitator sent to cause trouble. The result of the enquiry was the decision to hold a hasty court martial for Flanagan with the foregone conclusion that he would be shot.

  Fortunately for Johnny, the First Company Commander returned to Brigade HQ before the court martial was held and managed to peacefully resolve the entire situation. On the morning scheduled for the court martial, the soldiers at Brigade HQ roused themselves and quickly noticed that the Irish billet where First Company had been confined was empty and that the machine gun posts which ringed the camp had their guns pointed in the wrong direction. After a brief discussion, it was decided that Johnny would be set free, all charges against him would be dropped and that the First Company would leave the XV Brigade and join the English speaking, but American dominated, Lincoln Brigade. Johnny fought on for another month, was wounded in the leg and sent back to London. Johnny settled down in North London, found work in a brewery, rose to level of foreman and met and married the love of his life, Esther Cohen. The couple had three girls, all of whom were raised in their mother’s Jewish faith. They all survived the war, married men of their own faith and had large families. So although the Flanagan’s did not have any Communist cousins they certainly had plenty of Jewish ones. Had Brian’s mother known this part of family history, his father’s soap box would have been reduced to kindling.

  Brian looked at the menu in the window, and actually thought about getting a sandwich to go. When he saw the prices, he decided against it. He had never understood the big deal about pastrami or corned beef. He remembered being surprised when he found out that they don’t eat corned beef in Ireland. Anyway, he went inside and told the waiter that he was meeting a friend. He went toward the back and spotted his man seated in the last booth, on his own and facing the door. Charles Morgenstern was, as his uncle had described him, a fat bald man with glasses, tucking into a sandwich that had enough meat to choke a horse. He decided on the direct approach and marched straight up to the booth.

  “Mr. Morgenstern, I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch. My name is Brian Flanagan and I’m with Empire bank.”

  Before he could get any further, Morgenstern put down his sandwich and raised both hands in a defensive position.

  “Young man, if this is business you call me at the office, I am trying to have my lunch here.”

  “I am really sorry, Mr. Morgenstern, I just need a quick moment,” and lowering his voice he said, “it’s about Alberta Trust.”

  At this point, the waiter began to approach the table. He looked at Morgenstern and gestured toward Brian. One thing you can say for New Yorkers, they really can speak with their hands. The waiter was saying, “Is everything okay, should I go get the manager?” and Morgenstern replied with one palm raised and a shake of the head, “It’s okay for now but keep an eye on our table.”

  Being fluent in New York hand sign gestures, Brian took this as an invitation to sit down.

  “Mr. Morgenstern,” he began as a reached into his jacket pocket. Morgenstern sat up straight as soon as Brian reached into his jacket and for a moment looked really alarmed. When Brian removed nothing more sinister than a piece of paper, Morgenstern seemed to relax. However, when Brian tried to pass the piece of paper to him, the hand went up again. Translation: “If that is a subpoena I am not accepting it, I never said I was Morgenstern, I don’t even know who that is.”

  To reassure him Brian said, “It’s just an ownership chart, something I came across and would like to discuss with you and this gentleman (pointing at Joseph Tarantino’s name). I think I could save you both a lot of trouble and I would like to meet you both and explain how I could help. I would be acting on my own behalf as a kind of consultant on organizational structures.”

  “Young man, I have no idea what you are talking about and I would really like to finish my lunch now.”

  He had expected that response. It was what any smart New Yorker would say. Morgenstern wasn’t going to get too mad, he didn’t have any idea who Brian was, he wouldn’t admit to knowing what this was about, after all, Brian might have been wearing a wire.

  Brian gave him his rehearsed reply,

  “I understand completely. Just hold onto that piece of paper. My number is on the back. Call me soon or I won’t be able to help you.”

  He got up and walked to the door. The piece of paper stayed on the table. Morgenstern wasn’t going to touch it until Brian had left, smart move. The fact that he didn’t ask Brian to take it away indicated that he had gotten his attention.

  The following day around four O’clock Brian received a call from Morgenstern.

  “Flanagan?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is the guy whose lunch you so rudely interrupted yesterday.”

  “Yes sir, good to hear from you.”

  “Yeah, listen. The other gentleman you mentioned and myself are interested in meeting you to discuss, how did you put it… organizational structures. Why don’t you come by Thursday evening around seven O’clock. We’ll be closed. Come around the side alley entrance by the loading dock.”

  “Thank you sir, I look forward to it.”

  “Yeah, okay,” and the dial tone.

  Please note that Brian had not once used Morgenstern’s name. He was pretty sure Morgenstern had noticed it and approved. It is by little gestures and things often left unsaid that New Yorkers come to know one another.

  It was time to meet again with his Uncle Jim

  Jim wanted to meet after work in Washington Square Park. Brian told his wife, Noreen, that he would be working late and he caught the subway down to the Village. He was a little early so he walked over to St. Joseph’s. He went in and said a few prayers, sat in the pew, stared at the crucifix and tried to justify what was going to happen. Tried to figure out what he would say to Him if he ever got to meet Him and he was asked to explain. Could the taking of a life be justified in the circumstances as he understood them? Was it like self-defense? If someone broke in and tried to kill his father, he would defend him. Wasn’t this like that? What about the sanctity of human life? Thou shalt not kill, love your neighbor. What about just wars? What would Jesus do? He certainly wouldn’t
do what Brian was doing but then, He is divine and Brian was a sinner. If he didn’t act and something happened to his father he would never forgive himself. If he did act, he might never receive forgiveness from the Big Guy. He kept thinking that there must be some other way to deal with this. He wished that he could talk to someone but in reality the only person he could talk to was the person he was going to see in a few minutes and he had already made up his mind about what he needed to do.

  Listen God, he thought, I am about to do a bad thing but it’s for a good reason. I will try and be a better person and never do anything like this again. Stop looking at me like that. You could stop this, you could come back and take us all to Paradise if you wanted, you could take this guy out today before anything happens, I’m sure he has a lot to answer for. Am I your instrument in stopping him from doing more evil in this world? Okay, okay, he thought, I’m sorry I said that, but I’m running out of time and you are still all sad and disappointed. I’m sorry, really I am, I’m sorry about the whole thing. I have got to go now.

  Brian waited for a few minutes under the arch and then he saw Jim being dropped off. They hugged and started to stroll across the park. As they walked across the park, they passed a young black guy speaking intently to two young white girls. He could see the look of disgust on Jim’s face.