Tender Is LeVine: A Jack LeVine Mystery

by Andrew Bergman

“You can believe me or not, but it’s a fact. Sid’s problem was that he thought he could play it either way: If you failed to track down Toscanini, he figured he would have ingratiated himself sufficiently with Lansky to work something out, and maybe get a little taste for himself. I don’t deny that. But if you succeeded, he’d have Maestro back, which is what he really wanted in the first place. I’m not saying he was perfect, God knows, but Sid was very much dedicated to the continuation of the NBC Symphony.”

  “Are you?” I asked.

  Sarnoff made a little steeple of his fingers. “An appropriate question, which I will answer by saying that I deeply love and honor Maestro, but the orchestra has become a terribly expensive proposition. That said, I had nothing to do with the kidnapping and was willing to pay any amount for Maestro’s safe return.”

  Toots cleared his throat. “So what was this charade with the heart attack and waiting for the double at the airport?”

  “I had no choice; I was afraid that Maestro was going to be killed if I didn’t play my part in what you quite accurately call a charade.”

  “Lansky didn’t offer you an interest in the hotel he was building?” I asked.

  Sarnoff nodded. “He did, but I declined. Wasn’t worth the exposure, wasn’t worth the risk.” He nodded toward Toots. “Wasn’t worth smart guys like you finding out. I didn’t want to be in the hotel business. What is certainly true is that at some future point, it will be necessary for RCA to get out of the orchestra business. But not yet. Nature will run its course; Toscanini is eighty-three years old.” He arose from his chair. “I am aware that Sidney offered you twelve thousand dollars if you brought Maestro back, which you have done, and magnificently.”

  “He already paid me half.”

  Sarnoff smiled. “The incorruptible LeVine. If I gave you forty thousand dollars, you wouldn’t accept it?”

  “It would depend on what you wanted in return.”

  “You coming to work for me.”

  “Doing what, running a quiz show?”

  “Being my eyes and ears in this company.”

  “You mean a corporate spook?”

  “Forty thousand a year, Mr. LeVine.” Sarnoff raised his eyebrows. “Surely you don’t earn that as a private detective.”

  “Surely I don’t, but the corporate life doesn’t appeal to me. I’m an old-fashioned boy; I’ll take the six grand you owe me and call it a night.”

  Sarnoff nodded. “Fine. Helen will give you an envelope when you leave.”

  “And that’s it?” I asked.

  “I offered you a job, Mr. LeVine, and you declined.” Sarnoff smiled. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  Barbara rose, as did Toots.

  “I want my fathers murder avenged,” she said quietly but forcefully.

  Sarnoff looked at her for a long moment, then looked at Toots. “Off the record, Mr. Fellman.”

  “Absolutely,” said Toots.

  Sarnoff pursed his lips, then locked eyes with Barbara.

  “Miss Stern, my guess is that your father’s death has already been avenged.”

  She stared at the General, not understanding.

  “He means LaMarca was offed, sweetheart,” I said. “Case closed.”

  “That’s what you mean?” Barbara asked him.

  “I really have nothing I can add to what I already said. Good night, Mr. LeVine, Mr. Fellman, and especially you, Miss Stern. I only knew your father slightly, but I never would have guessed his daughter would be the most beautiful woman in New York.”

  Barbara nodded. She heard it all the time.

  “That’s very flattering, but it doesn’t bring my dad back.”

  Sarnoff didn’t have a ready answer to that, so he simply shook her hand, then Toots’s, then mine.

  “If you ever wish to reconsider my offer, just call Helen,” he said to me, then turned and walked out of the office.

  Five minutes later, the three of us were standing on Fifth Avenue. The streets were packed with people leaving work, fighting each other for cabs, streaming toward the subways. Oh, the humanity, like the man once said on the radio. I felt like a stowaway who had just stepped out of a steamer trunk after a month at sea.

  Barbara read my thoughts.

  “Your head spinning, too?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure it actually is my head.”

  Toots lit up his pipe. “I’m going back to the office, you cute kids. That’s some story, but I think it’s for my memoirs. Too dangerous, too off-the-record. My editors would think I was smoking hop if I brought this to them.”

  “I agree.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for everything, Tootsel. I owe you a major dinner. Your choice.”

  “Let’s go to Brooklyn, then, get some steaks at Luger’s.” He smiled at Barbara, tipped his hat. “Might you join us?”

  “I might,” she said.

  “Good. Jack and I tend to run out of conversation pretty fast.” He buttoned the top of his coat. “Gonna walk back. Newsmen can’t afford these swell cabs,” he said, and started down the street.

  Barbara took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I better go home.”

  I nodded. “Yes, you should.” Suddenly I felt as shy and disoriented as a teenager. “Can I give you a call later?”

  Barbara didn’t answer. She put her arms around me and kissed me for a long, hungry time. When she stopped kissing me, she buried her head in my neck and I could feel her tears. I didn’t say a word, just held her, there on Fifth Avenue, in front of Atlas holding up his sculpted world. When the crying ended, she looked up at me and said, “Yes, please call me later,” and then went out onto Fifth Avenue and hailed a cab.

  I grabbed the next one and twenty-five minutes later I was walking into my lobby in Sunnyside. Mr. Winkler from apartment 4C was exiting the elevator, being dragged by his ever-frantic wire-haired terrier.

  “Jack, where the hell you been?”

  “Out of town,” I told him. The terrier’s nails were madly scratching the lobby floor.

  “Son of a bitch bastard,” Mr. Winkler said for the thousandth time, and disappeared out the door, his arm nearly pulled from its socket.

  It felt very good to be home.

  I let myself into my apartment with a great feeling of relief. I expected it to smell dank and closed-in, but it didn’t.

  It wasn’t even dark in the apartment.

  In point of fact, the windows had been thrown open and the lights turned on and Meyer Lansky and Lucky Luciano were seated in the living room drinking my scotch.

  The two of them were seated side by side on my sofa, like guests at a party that hadn’t begun. Lansky was at ease and comfortable; Luciano, wearing dark slacks, a blue shirt, and a cardigan, looked like a homicidal accountant.

  “Welcome home, Jack,” said Lansky. “How was the trip?”

  “I would have to say there were very few dull moments,” I replied, taking off my hat. “How’s my scotch?”

  “I’ve had a lot worse. I’ve had a lot better, too,” Lansky said, and flashed that sour smile. Luciano stared at me like I was something in a store window. His brown eyes seemed strangely outsized behind his steel-rimmed glasses, and he appeared both mousy and irritated.

  “You ever meet Charles Luciano?” Lansky asked.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

  Luciano finally opened his mouth. “You’re very smart,” he said hoarsely. His voice had a lot of Italy in it; raspy yet melodic. “I give you a lot of credit. We fucked this up good, but still, you’re very smart.”

  “Where’s Barbara?” Lansky asked.

  “Went back to her mother. Mind if I wash my hands?”

  Lansky held out both his small hands. “Be our guest.”

  I took my jacket off and went to the bathroom, lathering up my shapely paws. Maybe I was just punchy, but it was strangely unsurprising to see those two mobsters in my home; I knew they weren’t here to kill me, because it wasn’t the kind of work they did personally. But
God only knew why they had shown up.

  I returned to the living room and headed for the open breakfront that I use as a bar.

  “Is it stupid of me to ask how you got in?”

  Lansky nodded. “Very stupid.”

  I grabbed a tumbler and dropped in some ice cubes that Lansky and Lucky had thoughtfully put into a bucket.

  “Rumor is that LaMarca is no longer among the living,” I said, pouring out three fat fingers of bourbon.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Lansky said, sipping at his scotch.

  “It didn’t seem very bright of him to pull a gun on Sarnoff, did it?”

  Luciano grunted. “He was always a crazy dumb fuck. Too impulsive.” He looked over at Lansky. “Is that the right word?”

  Lansky nodded. “Good enough.”

  I took a long pull on my bourbon, let it wash around my mouth for a soothing moment, and then took a heartfelt swallow. It felt like a week’s vacation.

  “I know that LaMarca killed Fritz Stern.” I said it as a matter of fact.

  Lansky glanced over at Lucky with an expression that said, What’s to lose? then looked up at me. “Like Charles said, he was always a hothead. But he won’t be in the future, okay? Enough said; you don’t need a map.” Lansky got up and poured himself another scotch. “Now all that stuff I told you on the plane,” he continued, “looks like it’s moot, as the lawyers like to say.”

  “You’re not going to build that hotel?”

  Lansky shook his head. “Not immediately. Eventually, for sure, but we need an attraction like Toscanini. This move might have been premature, Jack. Too complicated, too many elements. RCA was a royal pain in the ass; I found Sarnoff very difficult to deal with. A very treacherous man.”

  “Sarnoff told me he didn’t want to be a part of this,” I said.

  Luciano let out something like a laugh and spoke up. “If that’s what he said, then that’s what he said. He’s a captain of fucking industry, isn’t he? Those guys never lie, right?” Lucky stared at me with a chilling mixture of curiosity and indifference. It was a stare that said I could be killed like a raccoon on the highway; left for dead and no one would ever care.

  “You’re very resourceful, aren’t you?” Luciano said, his tone turning dark. “Lost a bunch of good fellas in this deal because of you. Mikey Blond was a good fella….”

  “The guy who got hit by the bus? He’s a bad pedestrian, that’s all. Wasn’t my fault.”

  “Freddy Brancati in Salt Lake was a good fella.…”

  “My mother always said to carry a loaded gun out West.”

  “You have a big mouth,” Lucky said.

  The hell with it. I didn’t need to listen to this self-important crap. Screw Lansky. Screw Luciano. “Yes I do, and I’m tired and beaten up and I can feel myself getting a little bourbon-headed, and if you’re dumb enough to come out to Queens and shoot me yourselves, go ahead and do it.”

  Lansky waved his arms. “Jack, for crissakes, who do you think we are?”

  “All I’m saying is that as far as I’m concerned, this matter is closed. I was hired to bring the old man back and to find out who killed Fritz. It’s done.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Jack,” Lansky said. “Just to close the books.”

  I finished off my bourbon and poured another.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I told him. “But if any of your more impulsive associates ever has the idea that they could improve their standing by knocking me off, let me just tell you the following—there are a number of people who know the story of what really went on here—”

  “That asshole from the News?” Lansky said.

  I ignored him and continued my spiel. “And there are letters to be opened in case of my death, sitting in various safe-deposit boxes”—this part was total bullshit, but I thought it had an authentic and lawyerly ring to it—“so if anything happens to me or to Toots, it’s not only front page in the News, with all names named, but in a half dozen other papers as well.”

  Luciano’s face flushed to a sort of pinkish red. Lansky just sipped merrily at his scotch.

  “Very prudent of you, Jack,” he said. “I’m sure Charles agrees. We want no harm to come to anyone. We just want to do business. Charles isn’t supposed to be in this country in the first place.”

  “I’m going back to Italy tomorrow,” Luciano said, transforming himself into lovable Uncle Charlie. “Can’t take New York anymore. Too many goddamn nervous people. Too much fucking traffic.”

  Lansky smiled. “Charles just wants to grow his tomatoes. Me, I go back to Havana.” He finished his second scotch. “You want to come down, bring Barbara, be my guest. I’ll be there most of the winter. Just call the Nacional.”

  Lansky put his glass down and Lucky pulled himself up off the couch. They looked much less imposing standing up.

  “Matter’s closed, right?” Lansky said. “You’ll tell Barbara that I said so. That it was taken care of, that her father’s death was avenged. I want her to know that.”

  “That you put the contract on LaMarca.”

  Lansky smiled. “‘Contract.’ You talk like a fucking star reporter. I don’t know from contracts. I know from taking care of your friends and loved ones and doing business. Period.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  We all shook hands and then the two gangsters brought their glasses into my kitchen and put them in the sink, just like their mothers had taught them.

  Then they walked out the door and out of my life.

  NINETEEN

  The next night was a Friday and I traveled up to Washington Heights to have dinner with Barbara and her mother and her sister Linda. The kid seemed to have perked up in the past couple of weeks, but Hilde was still living in the cemetery. The circles under her eyes were dark and deep, and she sighed frequently, but she dutifully observed the Sabbath and tried to play the host. She brought out a pot roast that weighed as much as a jukebox and served it with noodles and mixed vegetables and it all smelled like Central Europe on a platter. Then she went back into the kitchen and returned with a shiny challah in a silver bread basket and asked me if I would say the blessing. I dug into my memory bank and managed to remember it.

  Barbara took my hand and recited it along with me.

  I heard a clattering against the windows. It had begun to rain. I felt safe and sound and very contented.

  Call me a softy. Go ahead, I can take it.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  There were a number of books about Arturo Toscanini that I consulted before writing this novel. Among them were Joseph Horowitz, Understanding Toscanini (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1987), Samuel Chotzinoff, Toscanini: An Intimate Portrait (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1956), and Samuel Antek, This Was Toscanini (Zurich: Müiler, 1963).

  For a general background into the lives of Meyer Lan-sky and Lucky Luciano, I used Dennis Eisenberg, Uri Dan, and Eli Landau, Meyer Lansky, Mogul of the Mob (New York: Paddington Press, 1979), and Sid Feder and Joachim Joesten, The Luciano Story (New York: McKay Publishing, 1954).

  Invaluable for its descriptions of Las Vegas at the dawn of the 1950s was A. J. Liebling’s article, “Our Footloose Correspondents: Action in the Desert,” published in the May 18, 1950, issue of The New Yorker.

  I would also like to thank the bassist David Walter, once a member of the NBC Symphony, for sharing his memories of Toscanini and of the orchestra’s 1950 crosscountry tour.

  —A.B.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a
work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2001 by Andrew Bergman

  This edition published in 2012 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media

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