“I brought her what she wanted,” he pointed at Bayani. “But the other one tried to stop her,” he laughed. “So she killed her with the knife. The same knife the bitch used on me. And you thought you could save them.”
My mother smiled at me, “Now get these whores the hell out of here. You know what to do with them!”
“This just in to KYW radio. At 11:59 PM Aron Heilman was executed. Heilman had been on death row for the past 25 years. He is the first inmate to be put to death in the Commonwealth since 1999….”
Chapter 59
Shona and Levy boarded the boat at the Key West Marina. It was a fully equipped Pearson 40 sailboat, capable of making the trip to the Caribbean in luxurious comfort, no matter what conditions they may encounter. Levy had made the arrangements through intermediaries before they left Fishtown. The Captain cast off shortly after 6 AM.
Shona and Levy sat foredeck and held hands as the boat cleared the marina and entered the Atlantic Ocean. The waters were calm, and the Captain told them the forecast called for fair weather all the way to St. Lucia. Were they actually going to escape their past? Shona looked at Levy. He smiled and squeezed her hand. After all she had been through she still could not stop wondering if she could trust him.
The Captain watched his passengers as they sat holding each other’s hands as the boat moved effortlessly out to sea. They seemed like such a nice couple. It’s a shame they didn’t realize what was waiting for them when they made port. What the hell, he thought, why not let them enjoy their fantasy for the time being? Too bad reality was waiting for them when they arrived at their destination.
Epilogue
Flynn opened the door and smiled at her. Courtney Wells was just as breathtakingly beautiful as he remembered. He stepped aside to let her in.
She walked past him and surveyed the room. “So this is where you ran off to,” she said. “Somehow I thought a master art thief like you would live in a grander place.”
He walked up behind her and stood close as he inhaled her scent.
“Have ya come all this way just to criticize my flat?”
She turned and he took her in his arms. He pulled her closer but she pushed him away and said, “No, that’s not what I came here to tell you.”
Once again, he found himself lost in the depth of her eyes, “Then what?”
As he waited for her response he was overwhelmed by her presence. Her face, her touch, her scent, the sound of her voice, she dominated all of his senses.
“Please tell me,” he asked.
She fought back the tears, still not certain of his reaction to the news she was about to impart. Finally she replied, “I’m pregnant.”
The look of joy in his eyes told her all she had hoped to know.
He took her back in his arms and they kissed.
THE END
Glossary
Yiddish
Boychik – an affectionate term for a young boy
Goniff – crook, thief, swindler, racketeer
Mispocheh – family, generally extended family
Emes – the truth
Oy-Vey – woe is me
Putz- a fool
Italian
Capisce- used in American slang to sat “got it?” or “understand?”
Pisello- Italian street slang meaning penis.
Irish
Gouger- a dangerous knacher/thief
Sláinte- Health
Local
Mahoff – The term used by Philadelphians for anyone in a position of power, authority, or prominence. Usually said as a phrase, “big mahoff.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
About the Author
Neal Goldstein was born and raised in Philadelphia. He lives with his wife in Haverford, Pennsylvania. A graduate of Central High School, Temple University, and Temple University School of Law, he currently practices law in Philadelphia representing labor unions and employee benefit plans. Fishtown is the sequel to Murder and Mayhem in Manayunk, the third book in the series, Northern Liberties, is scheduled for publication in 2016. He is also the author of The Pa-La-ti-‘Shan.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank everyone who assisted me in the research, reading, editing, promotion and publication of this novel. Special thanks to my editor, the incomparable Mariska Mourik, who would not allow me to forget my responsibility to respect my readers and give them a story worthy of their time.
Mariska lives in Provence and our collaboration was via long distance calls and emails. There were occasions during our exchanges when I was glad we were separated by an ocean, rather than hear her insightful and sometimes painfully candid criticisms face to face. Her diatribe via email concerning my penchant for clichés is a classic example of just how valuable her contributions to my growth as an author have been and will remain forever just between the two of us. If Fishtown falls short of my goal of keeping you on the edge of your seat until the end, the fault is all mine.
Very special thanks to my copy editor, or as Mariska refers to her my ’corrector’, Carole Zatz, whose knowledge of all things grammatical—including spelling, punctuation, and love of the written word—was sorely put to the test by the world’s worst speller and grammarian. And special thanks to my technical and spiritual advisor (pardon my homage to “Click and Clack’), my assistant Margaret McGrath, whose good natured indulgence in repeatedly showing me how to work the computer saved me countless times from deleting my entire manuscript.
Those of you who have read my books know that my novels are Philadelphia-centric. I love this city and the amazing characters that live here. Philly is an underserved venue for this genre. It is both historical and contemporary, and always unique. It is a great place in which to kill and be killed.
I have called upon my friends and acquaintances to assist me with their insight on the various story lines, locales and subjects covered in my books. Thanks to Fred Bilstein, retired Homicide Detective, Philadelphia Police Department, Bill Ross and Howard Gensler of the Newspaper Guild of Greater Philadelphia, Harvey Young and Jerusalem gal, among others, for their contributions.
Thanks to my son Matt, who keeps me grounded, focused and committed to my projects, and my son Ben whose artistry graces the covers of my books, and whose back page photographs make me look like a serious author.
Last, to my best friend, Marilyn, my wife of 45 years, who through the good times, the tough times, and all the other times, has been my rock.
Preview of the next Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel
NORTHERN LIBERTIES
Prologue
“Yit’ gadal v’yit kadash sh’mei raba
B’al ma di v’ra khir’utei
V’yam’likmal’ Khutei b’chayei Kon uv’yomeik hov
Uv’ chaye I d’kholu beit yis’raeil
Ba’agala uvitz’ man kariv v’im ru:
Amen…”
The rabbi chanted the Mourner’s Kaddish as his widow and children watched them lower the casket into the ground. A military honor guard and hundreds of police officers from the Philadelphia Police Department, and other departments in the tri-state area, all in full dress uniform, stood silently as the ancient ritual was carried out. He had been killed in the line of duty and was given the honor and respect of his fellow officers and the city he had served for over forty years.
Regan, his father and the other pallbearers stood directly behind the family. A steady chill wind made the top of the tent that had been erected over the gravesite strain against the thin poles that secured it to the ground. The widow turned and reached for Jack’s hand. “Come stand next to me,” she said. “He loved you like you were one of his
sons.”
She held Jack’s hand, and even though she knew what was coming, squeezed his hand startled by the sound of the each of three volleys as the honor guard fired the 21-gun salute. Jack fought back his tears when the bagpiper played “Oh Danny Boy,” as one by one his family and friends placed a shovelful of dirt on the coffin until the burial plot was filled.
Jack’s father, the former police commissioner, as the senior officer present, handed Izzy’s widow the flag that had been draped over the coffin. He leaned close and said, his voice trembling with emotion, “He was my best friend for more than 40 years. I loved him like a brother. I promise you we will find who did this and bring him to justice.”
Part 1. Isadore Ichowitz 1942- 2014
Chapter 1
Jack Regan is standing on the stage of the Academy of Music with his family by his side as the President Judge of the Court of Common Pleas administers the oath of office for his second term as District Attorney of Philadelphia. He forces a smile for the photographers as the Judge shakes his hand. It is a bittersweet moment because Izzy isn’t there. If only he had resisted his friend’s request to join his staff Izzy would still be alive today.
Kate can tell from the faraway look in his eyes that Jack’s focus was no longer on the ceremony. She gently touches his hand to bring him back to the moment.
The warmth of her touch never fails to amaze him, and he smiles in gratitude for her support in this difficult time. He can’t believe they have been married for nine years. He turns his gaze to his stepson Liam who is now eighteen years old, and will graduate from Episcopal Academy in a few weeks and start at Princeton, Jack’s alma mater, in the fall.
Liam is the image of his father Michael Flynn, with all of his athletic gifts, good looks, and charming manner. Jack loves him as if he was his own blood. He smiles as Liam rests his hand on his sister’s shoulder and whispers something in her ear. Brigid, their eight year old daughter, who is a miniature version of her mother, with red hair the color of maple leaves in autumn and sparkling green eyes, idolizes her brother and giggles at whatever he told her.
After the ceremony, as they’re walking off the stage, Jack notices Liam make eye contact with a beautiful young woman in the third row who smiles back at him.
“Dad, tomorrow night I’m going down the shore with some of the guys on the team. Can you give me an advance on my allowance?”
Jack hands him some bills, “Does your mother know where you’re going?”
He nods.
“OK, be safe. By the way, who is that beautiful girl you were smiling at?”
Liam blushes, “Just a friend from school.”
“Jack,” his father waves him over to a group of men he doesn’t recognize. One of them, the alpha dog, extends his hand, “I’m Dale Updike; it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. You know you look a lot like a young JFK.”
Jack smiles and notes the unnecessary firmness of Updike’s grip.
“Dale’s with the DNC,” his father adds.
What did the Democratic National Committee want with him?
“I realize this might be an inopportune time, my condolences on the loss of your friend, but I wonder if we might get together to discuss something I believe you might find interesting. Here’s my card with all my contact information. I’ll be in town for the rest of the week if you’re available. If that doesn’t work, I can come up from DC whenever it’s convenient.”
“Mr. Updike, I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out,” Jack replied and walked back to his family.
“Who was that?” Kate asked when he rejoined her and the children.
“Some guy from the DNC. He wants to talk to me about something. My father seems to know him. I’ll have to ask him what it’s all about when we see him tonight at the shiva at Izzy’s house.”
“I’ve never been at a Jewish funeral before. Do you know why the Rabbi tore the black ribbon he pinned on Ida and her sons after Izzy’s coffin was put in the ground?”
“It’s called, ‘rendering of the garment’, mourners wear it as a sign of grief.”
Jack explained that the Hebrew word shiva means seven, the traditional mourning period for Jews, when their friends come to the mourners’ home to ‘sit Shiva.’ “According to the custom friends bring them food and offer companionship and comfort. When we get there you’ll notice that all of the mirrors in the house are covered, and the mourners aren’t wearing shoes. It’s symbol of their giving up vanity and comfort.”
“It sounds kinda solemn, nothing like a wake.”
Jack shakes his head, “No, it’s really uplifting. It helps the family celebrate the life of the person who passed away.”
By the time Jack and Kate arrived the house was packed with Izzy’s relatives and friends, and others who wanted to pay their respects to his wife and children.
“Kate, thank you for sending over the dinner. It was delicious,” Ida greeted them when they entered the front pallor and embraced her.
Although Jack had not shared the details of his death, from what little he had told Kate Izzy must have been killed in a brutal and violent manner.
Ida turned to Jack, “You must promise me, you will not blame yourself for what happened. Izzy loved being a police officer. He hated being retired and when you offered him the job as one of your investigators he was like a kid in a candy store.”
“Ida…”
“No it’s alright. We’ll be fine…”
Jack found his parents in the kitchen. Larry Jackson, the Chief of Homicide and his wife were standing with them. Jack’s father and Izzy met at the Police Academy, and Izzy had been Jackson’s rabbi when he was assigned to the Homicide Division.
“Larry’s been filling me in on the progress of the investigation. He told me you were reviewing the cases Izzy had been handling to see if there’s anything that can provide a lead.”“We still on for 10 tomorrow morning?” Jackson asked.
Jack nodded.
When they were alone Jack asked his father why the Executive Administrator of the DNC wanted to meet with him.
“They want you to run for governor.”
“What?”
“Don’t you read the newspapers? All the polls predict the incumbent is unelectable. Even his own party wants to dump him. Your name has been mentioned in a number of articles. You just won reelection with over 800,000 votes.”
Running for governor was the farthest thought from his mind. “The governor’s election is two years away. I can’t believe the DNC is getting involved so early. Besides, I’m pretty sure the state party already has a candidate in mind.”
His father smiled, “Who, Louis Bondi? He lost the last election by double digits. There’s no way the powerbrokers are going to back him. The DNC is looking for new blood. They want a candidate who’s exciting; someone who has a record that will cross the divide between the urban voters and the rest of the state. You know, the DNC refers to our state as ‘Pennsyltucky’- Philadelphia and Pittsburgh with Kentucky in between.
Your record as D. A. plays well in the rural communities between Philly and Pittsburgh. The voters in the cities and the suburbs like your moderate positions on education. The big mahofs in the party want to back you.”
Jack shook his head. Did he really want to be governor? This was all happening so fast. He had never really given it any serious thought; or had he?
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“Jack, meet with the man. Hear him out. What do you have to lose?”
48 Hours earlier
The examination room in the morgue was uncharacteristically quiet as the technicians brought in the body bag. The City of Philadelphia’s Medical Examiner Louis Delgado and Ichowitz had been friends for over 20 years. Delgado and his assistant gently lowered the bag onto the autopsy table, unzipped it and removed the cover from the body.
> Delgado cleared his throat and started the procedure by speaking into the microphone that was suspended from the ceiling over the table. “For the record, District Attorney of Philadelphia John Regan and Police Captain Lawrence Jackson, Chief of the Homicide Division of the PPD, are present as observers.”
He directed his assistant to photograph the body as he dictated the position of the clothing, carefully noting the torn clothing around the areas where the assailant had stabbed the victim. Before removing the clothing they used a magnifying glass to look for residue that might have been left by the perpetrator.
They undressed the body, placed all of his clothes in an evidence bag for further analysis, and continued with the external examination. “The victim is a white male, approximate age, 72 years old. He has brown hair and brown eyes; he is 187.96 centimeters in length, and weighs 104.78 kilograms. There is a an old scar on his left shoulder from an apparent bullet wound, and another scar on his right thigh, 8.2 centimeters above the kneecap, another bullet wound, and scarring from a medical procedure, measuring 12.7 centimeters in length on the outside of the thigh.
An examination of the victim’s hands and arms reveals no defensive injuries.”
Delgado carefully examined the knife wounds as his assistant photographed the process. “There is a deep puncture wound starting 8.2 centimeters above the navel and extending 8.4 centimeters ending 6.4 centimeters below the sternum. The depth of the wound measures 12.7 centimeters from entry to exit. The apparent fatal injury is a second knife wound, 17.8 centimeters across the victim’s neck, nearly severing the head from the body.”
Fishtown: A Jack Regan/Izzy Ichowitz Novel Page 27
