by E. Groat
Mayor Harris’s acceptance of the good life, and his misguided idea that he had everything under control, was about to be tested. It was human nature that the most likely cause of a slipup was an inability to grasp reality. Smugness, laziness, lasciviousness, and greed had brought down many a man. Pitfalls abounded, and if Mayor Harris was not careful, he was about to find himself swallowed up by a crater. The wise man who said it was best to learn from other’s mistakes had Mayor Harris and his ilk in mind.
While the mayor partook of morally abject pleasure and carnal knowledge, tempting fate to the fullest, the cameras were rolling. How stupid can one get?
Chapter 13
A great epiphany overtook Zoe that evening. She had never learned a more significant lesson about not judging a book by its cover. Josh Lawton, after one meal and an evening of conversation, had made her a convert. She found herself a believer in the goodness of this man, convinced that his association with Beckman was only one of loyalty to a promise made to a dead man. She had pursued the discussion of Beckman. However, it was discretionary. Josh would not elaborate on his association with him, as it was not good business practice or ethics. He pointed this out to Zoe several times throughout the evening, and he finally managed to drop the subject by firmly stating he would not discuss Beckman further even if he must leave, no matter how lovely a dinner companion Zoe was. Taking this in good spirits, she vowed never to bring up his awful name again. From there, the subject turned to one another—likes, dislikes, plans for the future, favorite pastimes, and interests. When the evening was spent, one truly transformed lady left the restaurant, as did one very satisfied gentleman, convinced that his initial attraction was one of substance.
Zoe returned home before midnight to find Garth asleep on the couch, remote in hand the television silently hawking some product on an infomercial. It looked like all monsters had been dispatched, as there was no longer a marker in the Stephen King novel. Garth loved King, and all his bogeymen. It would be a pleasure to report that one more demon had been exorcised in the form of Josh Lawton. Leaving Garth’s sleep uninterrupted, she covered and kissed him. Sleep came easily to Zoe that night.
* * *
Josh was elated, and unable to sleep. He contemplated the evening, the woman, and the downtown project she was so clearly committed to, and was confronted with a monumental truth. He wanted Zoe and Garth to pull it off, and did not want to be obstacle to what was so obviously a noble cause.
“To hell with Beckman! What is this mysterious thing that ties me to this man?” These questions had gnawed at him before, of course, but they were simply fueled by aggravation, dislike, and frustration with the man. He never had a purpose for examining the validity of the questions. He had known Beckman since he was a child, as he had been one of his father’s clients for as long as Josh could remember. Beckman would sometimes join the family get-togethers and dinners. Josh had always abided Beckman’s wishes, and saw him through a number of questionable business arrangements, but ignored the tawdriness of them because of his promise.
Now he felt a right-and-wrong turmoil within himself because of this connection he felt toward Zoe and her commitment to this downtown project as a testament to her father. Would he not want the same for his own family? Obviously, the elder Erskine had a higher calling in mind than Beckman did for those burned-out and broken-down buildings. Josh made a decision. He had not seen his mother for several weeks, and it was about time for a visit. Maybe she could explain this family obligation from so many years ago. It was already early morning. He would take a quick nap, and make the hour-and-a-half drive to Suffolk County.
Josh’s mother Rachel lived in a well-appointed home. Not one of the great mansions the North Shore was known for, but nevertheless quite acceptable for the area. It was a 4500-square-foot English Tudor on a five-acre parcel. She lived by herself, but had help three times a week. When Josh phoned ahead, she was happy it was Susan’s day off, for she looked forward to making his favorite breakfast of three eggs over easy, rye toast, and bacon.
The big house came alive when her children were there, especially around the holidays. That was one of the main reasons she kept it. Josh had an older brother and two sisters, so she never found herself too lonely. Some of the kids and grandkids were always there visiting. Josh was the only bachelor of her brood. When he came to the door, she hugged him tightly and scolded him for not coming up sooner, then led him straight to the kitchen.
After polishing off three rashers of bacon, two patties of sausage, three eggs, and four dollar –sized pancakes, Josh was ready for a snooze. But over his third cup of coffee, he finally got to the point of his visit. His mother was unprepared for this purpose, and therefore took a few moments to think things through when asked about Beckman and her husband’s rather shady alliance to him. She was hoping the past would never affect her children. The association did of course come up before, but usually in a casual manner easily dismissed by one of the parents.
This time the question was focused, not to be misdirected or ignored. Josh was intent, and from his demeanor, would not be put off. Finally, she took a deep breath and began. It was not a long story, just painful, but one she was later glad to have finally told.
“Your father was an Englishman in German-occupied Austria, married to Jewess. Me. It was very difficult in those times, your father and I being together, shunned by both sides. We were very young, and I was pregnant with your brother Paul. During the occupation, I was not so lucky. Like millions of others, I was separated from your father, and destined for one of the camps. Just that simple — taken away in the middle of the day with no word by soldiers, while I was waiting for your father in a small café. We had failed to see the signs as Hitler’s continued stronghold over Germany and Europe tightened. It was too late for us. The German Reich had closed in, and there was no way out.
“Nelson Beckman and your father were schoolmates and later had a small business association. Beckman was always the young entrepreneur, even in Germany at that time. His father was a high-ranking German official who managed to save me from the camps. I was torn from two sisters and my mother, literally, as we stood in front of a boxcar for shipment.”
Josh saw his mother’s face grow ashen as she hesitated, but she continued. “Through Beckman’s assistance, we migrated to the States. Beckman assured us he would be contacting us for assistance when he was in need. Young Beckman did see the writing on the wall for Hitler. That’s it, end of story.”
Rachel’s unfolding of that time period was short. She was unable to fully relay the horrors she had known. “Shortly after we reached New York, your brother Paul was born, the first of the Lawtons to be born an American citizen.”
Josh digested all this. It was surreal, so far removed from anything he had ever known. He had always lived in a cocoon of love, warmth, and security. His mind was playing old movies from his childhood. Nazi storm troopers, Gestapo, searching trains and basements, rooting out Jews in bombed-out buildings where fire and smoke mixed in the blackness of night. Gary Cooper, Marlene Dietrich, Franchot Tone. Those were actors, but this was real. His mind reeled in black-and-white slow motion. His mother poured him a fresh cup of coffee, disturbing his thought process. He looked up at her, beautiful at sixty-eight. Josh arose from his chair and hugged her for a long time, never to fully understand the life she had been through.
She disengaged herself from him and said in a matter-of-fact fashion, “It was a lifetime ago, in another world. It was something your father and I thought not necessary to discuss with our children. Life has been good to us for many years. As for Beckman, he came over shortly after the war, looked us up, and used his favor to your father as leverage. Very subtle, but useful to him. There is no doubt he did save our lives. Your father hated Beckman too, but dealt with him out of pure gratitude. You do what you have to, son. After almost fifty years, it should not fall on your shoulders. It was unfair of your father to ask it of you.”
“We
ll Josh,” he thought, “you got what you came for.” He hugged and kissed his mother gently as she walked him to the door. As the door opened, he pulled his coat around him. There was still a dampness and chill in the March air, he thought, but perhaps it was the story his mother had just told him that made him shudder. At any rate, he would be glad when spring came.
As he stepped into the car, his mother called out, “We’ll never speak of this again, Josh.” Joshua Willard Lawton turned toward her and nodded his accord.
Chapter 14
The night fell fast and hard for Mayor James Harris. He was fitful and clammy, unable to sleep, and his skin crawled. It may have been the result of overindulgence the previous night, but this was a first for him. He felt eyes on him from every direction. The hasty note from his wife announcing a visit to her mother unnerved him. He was directed not to call, as she needed some time to herself and would talk to him by week’s end. Maybe she was getting wise to all his midnight shenanigans; maybe he should tone it down. After all, he needed a faithful and loving wife for his new office of mayor.
“Maybe, maybe, maybe I should blow her head off for treating me like this,” he thought. “The bitch knows my position.”
It was one in the morning, but he had yet to register one wink of sleep, and those eyes kept following him. He paced fretfully to the living room and poured himself a Courvoisier.
“Ah…” he said as he checked the clarity and deep, rich color in the glass. “White man’s drink. Sure as hell beats drinkin’ Thunderbird back in St. Louis on Goodfellow Avenue.” He positioned himself deep in a comfortable chair and turned on his music of choice. Sweet and low jazz.
Those eyes, damn those eyes—he kept feeling he was being watched. As he laid back and dozed, beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. One…two…three, the sweat slowly trickled down to the corners of his eyes. It trickled down his armpits, and down the small of his back. He was bathed in it now. He awoke to a knife at his throat.
“Lord, Lord, ain’t no nigger ever had a knife that big!” he thought in his terror. “Bugs, oh my God, big bugs! Lord! Bugs, my black ass! Scorpions!”
Sweat poured over him. His nose, ears, and upper lip glistened with the stuff in the softly lit room. Black hands, black faces, black eyes peering through black coverings, now whirling about him.
“Still, I must stay still,” he thought. “Black-covered faces to whirl with those eyes. My God, those black eyes.” Bodies swathed in black sheets were coming at him now. He must breathe, must move, breathe. A silent scream engulfed his being, and he swooned to deep, dark places.
He awoke, and it was not a nightmare. It was fear—deep, raw, black-eyed fear. And when the morning came, his instructions were clear. With his hand trembling, he read the letter, which was finely scrolled in bold print on heavy vellum paper. He reread it three times before the realization set in as to whom the letter was referring: The path must be made clear for Garth Avery, Mr. Harris. Do we understand each other?
“Well, hell yes, Mr. Avery. Anything for you.” Harris said it loud enough for anyone to hear. He would throw rose petals in his path, accompanied by a brass band, if that’s what Avery wanted. He nervously peered around the room. When he heard no response, he ran up the stairs to the shower. He could not help but notice his own stench.
* * *
Minister Riza Kamal Pahlevi was back in town. He slept well that night. He always slept well, assured that many of life’s little problems were resolved. Praise be to Allah, and to mankind’s resourcefulness.
Chapter 15
Tommy made the fifteen grand, as he had proof for Harry before the week was out. He had Harris on video, doing all sorts of things little boys shouldn’t be doing, plus an initialed muffler that belonged to Harris. He was so high on coke that he wouldn’t have missed his feet. After leaving word for Harry to meet him at Rudies later that evening with cash, Tommy ran a few errands and made copies of the videos at his own home studio. Tommy had all the bells and whistles — the latest in surveillance, recording, photography, and lighting. Tommy took no chances, lest any of his merchandise fall into the wrong hands. There were no subcontractors for Tommy; he did it all. He kept his own library of copies, both to keep any situation under control and for his own personal pleasure.
Harry showed around ten-thirty, made his way to the bar as he did the week before, and found Tommy. Brief greetings were spoken, and the exchange was made.
“If that’s not what you need, let me know,” Tommy said. He never stiffed any of his contacts or clientele. They always got what they paid for. An exchange of glances said the obvious — Mayor Harris’s goose was cooked politically should these videos end up in the wrong hands. The next morning, Josh Lawton would have the leverage Beckman needed to bring about the end of the downtown project.
Harry cocked his ear to the offending music in the background, looked at Tommy, and suggested that next time they find a new meeting place.
“Personally,” Harry grumbled, “I prefer Sinatra.”
He stuffed the large brown envelope under his arm, and was gone. Deeply breathing the night air, Harry reflected on what a stinking job this was, to hold a man’s life and career in his hands. Well, it was obscene, but he deserved it. Harry took comfort in this observation, even pleasure when he thought about what a sleazeball Mayor Harris really was. His conscience exonerated, Harry hailed a cab, secure in the fact his job was complete.
Chapter 16
“My God! My God! My God!” With eyes wide open, Josh’s face blanched. “Turn it back. Turn it back.”
He was referring to the video that Harry had just played him. Harry had arrived at Josh’s office about eight, and they both settled back with Starbucks espresso and jelly doughnuts that Harry brought for the viewing of this first-run edition.
“Stop it there.” Josh’s eyes became riveted on a figure early in the video. “Harry, do you know who that is?”
Looking closely, Harry answered in his laconic way. “Yeah, Josh. Mr. Slumlord USA. A baby froze to death in one of his buildings a couple of winters ago, remember?”
“Yes, Harry, I remember. I represented him. He walked, because we proved the mother’s neglect.”
The appearance of Beckman on this video was purely coincidental. Tommy always filmed the arrival of his guest on any given day, as they arrived at their appointed times and were escorted to their designated rooms. On this particular day, Tommy had three individuals invited to one of his little shindigs. Beckman, Harris, and a visiting corporate executive from Houston. The video showed the arrivals of all three, and then the monitor switched to their individual rooms. So essentially, there were three different videos on the same day, with the same beginning. Josh was dumbfounded to see Beckman at the beginning of this one.
“Does your friend have any more on Beckman?” Josh asked. “Can you get a hold of it?”
Harry seemed a bit perplexed. “Well yeah, sure. I think so Josh, but isn’t Harris the guy you’re interested in?”
“Yes Harry, you got it right. It’s just that I’m interested in Beckman as much as Harris, if not more. Go on, play the rest.” The video was no surprise to either of these men; they had both seen this type of thing before. Harris did not disappoint. There was enough to wreck a man’s life, career, and marriage.
When the recording had ended, Josh picked up the conversation about Beckman’s activities.
“Do you know what this is gonna cost you, Josh?” Harry asked. “You are already in over twenty g’s, plus expenses and fees. How far do you want to go with this thing? My contact is good, and since you’re footing the bill, you know he’s not cheap.”
“What the hell, Harry, go the distance. I think I have a lot at stake here. Besides, I’m not a cheap pettifogger to be dallied with.” Josh was feeling euphoric after the discovery of Beckman on video; it could mean a lot to him. After all these years, perhaps it was Beckman’s turn to be beholden. Or he could just call it even and have Beckman out of his lif
e.
“Okay Josh, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try and get back to you before the day is out.”
“Hey Harry, when was the last time you and I had a drink together?”
“Long time.”
“You up for a good dinner tonight? Say Rembrandts? I’m buying.”
“Look Josh, I’ve given up drinking and smoking, not good eating. That means I’m not into haute cuisine at any French restaurant. How about a steak at Perry’s, and you’re still buying?”
“Good enough, meet you there at seven. I’m depending on you to have that video by tonight, no matter what the cost.”
“If I need cash?”
“Same as always, call Sandy at the bank, and your money will be there. See you at seven.”
Harry hastened out the door, contemplating the word “pettifogger.”
Chapter 17
Nothing dampened Josh’s spirits the rest of the day, as he sailed through work that had piled up over the past two weeks. By the end of the day, his desk was clear and he was looking forward to the evening, hoping Harry’s day had gone as well as his had.
Harry’s day, however, had not gone as easily. Finding Tommy in broad daylight was not an easy task. His search came to an end about four, when he located him in a cavernous, dark club somewhere in Times Square — a place where he had initially met Tommy several years back. Then, as now, he was in the middle of some “big deal.”
