by Lenox Parker
I just couldn’t deal with this after a day like I’ve had. It was too much. I felt like a movie on that channel my wife watches during the day where all the women cry.
I tried to get some resolve and clear my head a little, so I packed up the truck and drove upstate to do some fishing at the cabin. I mean, what do I need this shit for? My best friend – my last friend – calling me after 50 years and a whole career of fame and in the movies and all, it’s off. It’s just off. Something’s off about the whole thing. And Punch? How the hell is he in touch with Punch? I haven’t heard from that guy in years, either. He left us almost as quickly as Howie did, tearing out of Brooklyn to go to college. It was unheard of in those days for one of us to go to college. And we had no idea he was planning it. Like Howie, he just up and left.
So with the quiet weekend ahead away from the calamity of my family back home, and the ride up the Thruway past the trees turning colors, I think can finally think straight. If I call Howie back, I’ll have nothing to say. I have nothing to offer. What, are we going to talk about the Yankees? Are we going to talk about his movies, each of which I’ve seen at least 3 times?
I haven’t really changed since we were kids. I still get in trouble and do a little skimming here and there. I’m still a bit of an asshole. I’m no brain surgeon, either. I like my Italian food and that’s about it. I like fishing up here in the country, but I like my flat screen TV and digital cable. I like football, baseball, and a little basketball. I follow New York teams, except the Mets. I still fool around on the side. I read the Post every day because it has the best sports section and I’m not interested in anything else other newspapers have. So like I said, no different than in high school, except I have less hair and a bigger belly. I stopped smoking, after the lung cancer scare about 10 years ago.
I like to pretend that if Howie came back, we’d be friends again, but that we’d be cruising around Bensonhurst in his Escalade and living the high life instead of shacked up in tenements like we were as kids. But I’m being realistic and there’s no hope of that now. We’re old, different people with a whole lot of shit in between us now.
** *
I woke up today and thought about my decision last night not to call Howie. I think I’ll call Howie.
“Yeah, hi, I’m calling for Howie? Is this—”
“Who is this?” the voice on the other line asked.
“It’s Frank Russo, who the hell is this?”
“Frankie? Oh Frankie! I can’t believe it! It’s me, Punch.”
“Holy shit, Punch Plotkin! How many years has it been? My god, this is incredible, you know?”
“Yeah, I’m—how are you? How are you?” he asked.
“Me? I’m good. I’m over here—I’m up in the country, upstate, at my cabin fishing this weekend.”
I thought that was a nice place to start. I hadn’t expected to get Punch on the line first. I didn’t think about Punch at all, to be honest, because my memories were dominated by Howie and though I knew he mentioned he was with Punch in the phone message, I really didn’t give it a thought, because it didn’t make much sense.
Now I really couldn’t figure out what was going on.
We talked for a while, about our kids, about the Yankees, and Art at the helm now, the reunion he attended a few weeks back. It was nice talking to Punch, I remember what a good guy he was back in the day and how he was always there to listen to the crap we each had to deal with.
“So how did you get back in touch with Howie?” I asked him. He paused before answering, like he was trying to choose the right words.
“He called me up. He didn’t leave a message. I guess someone out on the coast who knew my daughter, an ex-boyfriend, ran into Howie and gave him my cellphone number. Anyway, long story short, I told Art and we called him back together. We got him on the phone, and he had already planned on coming out here,” he said, changing his tone. “He’s staying here. Been here about a week now.”
“He’s staying at your house? In Jersey?” I just couldn’t get over it. Why wouldn’t Howie Kessler be at one of those fancy joints in the city? The guy can’t possibly be broke again, he’s got to be sitting on millions.
“Yeah, he’s here. A fine houseguest, I suppose. He’s out now, does a lot of jogging. He’s in great shape, by the way. I don’t know what you’re up to, but this guy runs like he’s 21.”
“Eh, they have trainers out there in California. I mean, Howie’s got people he can hire to do all that stuff. What are his plans, anyway?”
“Well, he wants us all to get together, first, and then—”
“Who, us? You me and him? And Art?”
“I think he also wants to track down Mo.”
Now there’s someone I haven’t thought about in ages, either. I didn’t even know if Mo was still alive. The guy could be dead 30 years for all I know. Last I heard was through my lawyer, and I had to sign some papers stating I wouldn’t be in Mo’s presence because of some prosecution agreement or something. We were both messed up with some raunchy people.
“You know if Mo’s, uh, uh—” I asked Punch.
“What, alive? I have no idea. He showed up at one of the reunions so many years ago wired and drunk and he was a mess. He brought a hooker. Years ago it would have been funny, but it was just bad news.”
“I don’t know if I know how to get in touch with him. I heard he had quite the drug business. You know we aren’t supposed to even talk to each other because of a legal thing from years back. I doubt it’s still in effect, but who knows,” I said, wondering if the friction between us then would have any effect today. I don’t even remember what the hell went wrong back then.
“No kidding? What happened between you?”
“It wasn’t between us, it was between the people we were working for. When Mo was a court reporter downtown, he was stealing information and selling it to the mob. I was under threat of indictment if I didn’t speak up about some of the things I was involved in. No one knows, still, really, though I’m not sure much of it matters anymore, but it could be, you know, sensitive. I don’t know.”
“Well, we’ll just have to look him up somehow and see what’s what,” Punch said. He continued, “Look, I don’t exactly know what Howie expects, or why the fuck he’s even here.”
He caught me by surprise. I perked up.
“I mean, this guy comes floating in after all these years, eats my goddamned coffee cake and drinks green liquid from the blender he makes with god only knows what, and lounges around here like we’ve been roommates for the past 50 years. What the hell am I supposed to make of this?”
“Jesus, Punch, why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“I don’t know, I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’m in this goddamned wheelchair and I get moody sometimes. But I don’t know what’s next here,” he said, sounding resigned and exasperated.
“Ok, then, sounds like I’ll make a trip in and we’ll get together. I haven’t talked to him yet, you know, but you have my cell so have him give me a call when he can. Like I said I’m up in the country this weekend so all I’m doing is fishing and sleeping. I have a court date with one of my fuck-up kids next week but otherwise I’m around, so we can meet out at your place, or my place, or the Spumoni Gardens, whatever’s good.”
Chapter 13
Howie Calls Alan
It had been weeks since Howie was in touch with anyone on the circuit back in L.A. He didn’t even keep in touch with the news and hadn’t picked up a Variety or Hollywood Reporter. He just wasn’t interested. He had other things planned. He wanted to let Alan know about his revelations while he was on his cross-country trip, get his thoughts, and move forward. Over the years, Howard rarely made a big move without running it by Alan first—not that he was looking for Alan’s approval, but out of respect, he didn’t want to surprise him.
“Hiya, buddy, I’m just checking in to let you know I haven’t gone off a cliff,” Howard said.
“Well it’s great to hear from you, it really is, I’m so pleased you finally got off your high horse and called me, you fuck,” Alan replied, with love.
“ Yeah, I know. Hey, listen, I’ve been thinking a lot—I’m in New Jersey now—”
“What? You’re where?”
“New Jersey, I made a cross-country road trip. I stopped in all the Midwest states, or something like that, drove alone, in just two and a half days. It was interesting. I did a lot of thinking—”
“I’ll say.”
“Yeah, well, ok, here’s the thing, see, I’m tracking down some of my old buddies, from back in the day and I’m going to do a movie about it. I’m going to write a script. I’m going to direct it. Produce it. Everything. This will be my magnum opus, Alan, and you’ll be with me all the way.”
“Jesus, Howie, I mean, this is all a surprise. I’m still stuck on you driving out of L.A., how did you even manage that?” Alan asked, not sarcastically.
“No I’m serious, Alan, this is what I want to do. I’m doing this thing. Are you with me? I mean, we can do it, right?”
“Let’s break this down. You’re writing a script? First, what is the story about? Have you ever written before?”
“It’s about our gang, what we used to do, and then about how one guy becomes an actor, like me, heads out to Hollywood and makes it big, then comes back decades later to see the decrepitude of what he left, and the whole thing, you know.”
“Sounds alright, you gotta do something about the ending, I mean, something’s got to happen. Something good, you know? We’re still Hollywood, after all.”
“Yeah, yeah, I can do that. I don’t have it all together now. I’m staying with a guy out here in Jersey and I’m meeting up with some of the other guys. I’ll have a storyline together.”
“You want me to get a writer? I mean, you haven’t written before. A ghost-writer. The guy who wrote the Vietnam thing you were in years ago, he’s good. Expensive, but he’ll write it and you put your name on it. We can go that route.”
“I don’t know. I want to do this myself. I want this thing to be my own, you know.”
“Ok, we’ll see then, you work it out and let me know where you are. I can get you help, is all, so don’t muddle through this. You know, no one writes these things alone, except writers.”
Howard would do the project on his own. He’s had people holding his hand and treating him like a child. He needed to embark on his own creative project to reinvent his identity in Hollywood.
He came back into the house after making the call out in Punch’s back yard. Adele was in the kitchen reading the Star Ledger at the table. She sits on the edge of her chair as if she’s about to pop up at any moment, but that’s just how she reads the paper at the breakfast table. Howard peered in through the screen door and observed the kitchen. Everything was neatly in its place, not a speck of grime—the countertops and appliances scrubbed. But none of the appliances or cabinetry had been updated in at least 25 years, or longer. The shine was scrubbed off the metal. The dish towels and plastic tablecover contained designs and colors—green, brown, orange flowers—that hadn’t been in fashion since the late 1970s. There was a cabinet mounted on the wall of trinkets. The kitchen wall clock ticks, but not in unison with the other ticking clocks throughout the house, so the combination of ticking tones creates a din.
Howard stepped inside and smiled at Adele as he walked slowly by her into the dining room. Hands clasped behind his back, he stepped sideways between the table and the mirror-lined hutch that holds the displayed plates and glassware. The dining room is cramped. He stepped back and squinted to imagine entertaining in there with people seated around the table.
He walked through to the living room where the walls were covered in a shiny patterned wall covering. It was so ugly he was glad there were framed photos nearly floor to ceiling. He glanced at the photos, but didn’t really care so much about them. Photos of other people’s families didn’t make any sense to Howard. He walked down the short stairs to the den. This was a split level home, so the layouts are all nearly identical. The homes were all built in the 1970s, so Howard had never been inside one. He was on sets built to look like interiors, with little sets of stairs everywhere.
He sat down in the den on the reading chair adjacent to Punch, who had dozed off moments earlier. He wondered if this is the life he would have had if he hadn’t taken the path he did. He wasn’t sure if he was actually envious, but there was a serenity and a calmness that he hadn’t ever experienced before staying with the Plotkins.
Howard sat and enjoyed the light streaming in to the den that morning, and skipped getting the Daily Racing Form or watching the news. He didn’t talk; he only listened to the quiet, and the ticking of the clocks.
Chapter 14
Jessica, the Writer
“Can I call him, then, Dad, directly, I mean?” I asked my dad.
“Honey, he’s busy, he’s a busy guy. The next commissioner of baseball is a busy guy.”
“So you don’t want me to talk to him? Because I thought you were onboard with this project.”
“No, it’s ok to talk to him, go ahead, talk to him. I’m just telling you he’s a very busy guy. I don’t know if you’ll even be able to get in touch with him.”
I had decided one day last week when I came over to Dad’s house and Howie was on his phone in the back yard, furtively. I didn’t like it. I don’t like the guy. I don’t see why my folks are buying this, but I can’t convince them otherwise and Howie is truly an absolute charmer. I didn’t know what his intentions were with my parents; I didn’t really care about the other guys but I didn’t want my dad getting hurt. This thing was so weird already. I mean, there’s one of the most successful (but admittedly on the downside of his career) celebrities sleeping on my father’s couch in Englewood, New Jersey.
“Ok, I’ll start with Art but also work on interviewing someone else while he takes his time to get back to me, how does that sound?”
“Fine, it’s fine, whatever you want, you’re the writer.”
I hate when he does that.
I thought I would start with Mo, anyway, since he seemed to be the mystery that everyone was really interested in; and from how my dad describes him, he was really the smartest out of the gang, so his perspective on Howie is probably the most interesting. I’m trying not to project and turn this into fiction, but I want to make a brutally honest and comprehensive account of Howard Kessler—through the eyes of his childhood friends—as I can.
Mo is also the one that no one knows how to get in touch with.
One phone call to a friend at the D.A.’s office and I had a couple of phone numbers and a work address. I drove out to Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn on a sunny Thursday morning. I had never been there. Dad was never interested in taking us back to where he grew up, and having spent my formative years in Bergen County, I didn’t make it to Brooklyn with the exception of the hipster clubs in Williamsburg and frou frou restaurants on Smith Street in Carroll Gardens…another world away from Brighton Beach, Bensonhurst, Coney Island and Sheepshead Bay.
Mo’s work address listed a large health club. It is a freestanding building right off Emmons Avenue with a huge yellow neon sign, and floor-to-ceiling windows on its three floors. I walked in and asked the receptionist where I can find Mo. She looked at me like I had ten heads.
“Does he work here anymore?” I asked.
“I don’t know what you mean—he doesn’t work here, he owns here. He doesn’t come in probably next week though.”
“Can you tell me where I can find him now?”
“That bad, huh? I can give you a cell number, I can’t tell you where he is though. He’s usually good about answering his messages.”
As she was writing down the number on a card, I couldn’t figure out what she meant by her comment. Sometimes people just say weird things so I didn’t think about it much. But it was something to catalogue for when I do meet him.
“You’re looking to find Mo?”
“Yes, that’d be great.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m just the daughter of an old friend of his and was hoping to speak with him about some news,” I answered, not thinking that what I was doing could have been construed as illicit in any way.
“If you go out to the harbor, past the charter boats, you’ll see a couple of house boats. The one with the blue and white flag is Mo’s.”
“Really? A boat? That’s great—thanks so much, I really appreciate it. Can I tell him you gave me the info?”
“Please don’t do that, I’m not on his favorites list right now.”
I didn’t delve further, even though I wanted to, I wasn’t writing a story about Mo, I was writing a piece about Howard and needed Mo’s experience and perspective. But there were certainly enough details already that made me think I’m writing the wrong story.
I kept the car where it was and walked through the damp morning air to the harbor. I found the boat that the woman had mentioned, but I had no idea how to board it. There was no doorbell or anything, and it was just attached by a couple of ropes. I stood there for a few minutes wondering if I should just jump on.
As I walked closer to gauge the distance of the jump, I saw someone walking around inside through the windows. I stepped back a moment to watch him. This has to be Mo. He has his shirt off and is holding a cigarette and a take-out cup of coffee in one hand and his phone to his ear in the other. He looks pissed. I can’t hear anything because of the water slapping against the boats and the pier and the wind across the harbor. In his animation yelling into the phone, he spills his coffee and fumbles with the cigarette, the now half-empty cup, and the phone, still arguing verbally and physically.
I stood and watched for a few more moments just voyeuristically without having any intention of boarding the boat to speak with him at this point. I’ll come back. I turned to walk back to the car. A few steps down the pier someone grabbed my arm and swung me around. I didn’t even hear him coming.
