by Lenox Parker
“What are you doing here?”
It was Mo, presumably. What the hell am I getting into? There isn’t a soul in sight. I don’t know this guy. He could be a fucking murderer, and may have been one back when my dad knew him. My heart raced and I had trouble spitting out the simple words that I needed to in order to defuse the situation.
His grip was tighter on my arm and he raised his voice. “Who are you? You better be fucking lost, girlie.”
I took a deep breath. “My name is Jessica Plotkin. You knew my father, Karol, I think—are you Mo?” I said feebly. I am unused to being scared. I haven’t been one of those journalists on the front of a warzone, and my exposes haven’t exactly probed into the underworld. The most dangerous situation I was in was getting stuck in the airport at Phuket before the torrential storms in Southeast Asia when I was doing a story on girls’ secondary education in Cambodia.
“He’s dead?”
Those words seemed to snap us both out of my fear and his suspicion.
“No, my dad? No, he’s not dead—”
“Then why’d you say ‘you knew’ him? You made is sound like he’s dead—”
“No, I’m sorry, it’s just that it is my understanding that you guys haven’t been in touch in years, so it would have been weird to say you know him, because, well, really, you probably don’t.”
He looked at me quizzically.
“Sorry, this wasn’t the right timing, I had a whole different speech prepared—”
“Let me get this straight, Punch is not dead; you’re his daughter you said?”
“Yeah, I’m here because I wanted to talk to you about—”
“How is Punch?” he smiled and instead of gripping my arm like he was going to break it off, he grasped both my arms and stood me in front of him to inspect me. “You look like him! Same nose!”
He obviously didn’t know that I’ve been conscientious of my nose for years so it wasn’t the way to my heart.
“He’s good, he’s, uh, lost his leg and rolls around in the chair quite nicely now. Diabetes. He lives in New Jersey and retired a couple years ago from AT&T.” How could I summarize my dad’s past 50 years (especially when I’ve only been around for 30) to this guy?
“His leg? Wow, I can’t get over that. Punch was so athletic. He kicked my ass all the time over on the courts,” pointing in the direction, of Brighton Beach where they used to all play pickup basketball. “He OK otherwise, though? Hey I’d love to see him—”
“He’s fine, yeah, and he’d like to get together, too—Howard Kessler is here and also wants to get together, but I’ll let you guys chat about that.”
“What? What is all this going on? Howie’s back? I was just thinking about that guy,” he sounded confused and I guess it was all too much at once. Whatever he thought I was doing spying on him, plus the blasts from the past, it seemed like his head was spinning. He wasn’t wearing shoes.
“You have a few minutes?” He asked. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I’m sorry for jumping on you like that, it must’ve scared you a little. You wouldn’t believe the people out here--” he trailed off but I knew that he’s got people after him. You don’t act like that, live on a boat, and come running barefoot after people on the dock, if you’re an innocent bystander.
We walked over to a diner across the street for a coffee.
“I’d like to write a story about you guys, and Howard. I was hoping to get your thoughts, memories, experiences. Raw, unbiased, as you remember them. Are you up for that?” I asked bluntly. I didn’t want to insinuate anything about Howard, and how I didn’t like what I thought he might be up to.
“What kind of story? I mean, I don’t know what your dad has told you about me, but I don’t exactly want any spotlight on me.”
“No, of course, I understand. If you’d like to remain anonymous, that’s fine, I think I can work with that. It’s the recollections that are important. Above all, I want to be truthful.”
I can’t believe I said that. It was like Journalism 101. And, frankly, I’m not so sure I wanted to be truthful, but I had no idea of the background between Mo and Howard, or between any of the gang, so I tread lightly.
“Lemme think about it. I’m a busy guy, you know, I own that health club over there.”
I could see his full-of-shitness and was a little disappointed he thought I would buy it. I was straddling a fine line: a journalist and a subject’s daughter. I had to be a little more flexible than I ordinarily would have been.
“Well, I came all the way out here hoping at least to get a little background on your relationship with Howard back when you were young, and the last time you were in touch with him, you know, some basic stuff.”
“You don’t have a microphone or anything, a recorder, right?”
“No, not this time. I mean, not for this project. I recognize the sensitivities. You can attribute when and where you want. I just ask you one thing in return: that you don’t tell Howard about this in any form at all whatsoever.”
He put his cup down and glared at me. I was scared again. I got the confidence to confront him on my terms, and he then squashed me without words. Jesus, this guy is powerful. Why am I doing this story, again? If I feel like I’m in over my head before the interviews even begin, I should go back to covering NPR stories on woodcarving artists’ communes in Wyoming.
“What the fuck are you doing? Who do you think you are?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
I stared back at him for the longest few seconds in the history of time. I felt my body temperature rise to the point I thought my ears would combust. The whole story is a bust if Howard finds out about it. This thing could go down the drain before I even put pen to paper.
“Eh, I’m only kidding. Lighten up, will ya? How about some blintzes? This joint makes great blintzes.” And he motioned for the waitress.
Chapter 15
Jessica Meets Frank
“Mr. Russo, please?” I asked the woman on the phone. I thought this was his cellphone, but a receptionist answered so I asked for him.
“Who’s calling, please?” she asked.
“This is Jessica Plotkin, the daughter of an old friend of his, Karol.”
The line sounded like it went dead for a moment. I stopped to look at my phone to see if we were still connected.
“Hello?” I asked.
After some shushing and the apparent sound of a hand covering the phone, Frank answered the phone. It sounded like he was in bed.
“Yeah, hullo?”
I straightened up to not sound like I was suspicious that he was sleeping with his secretary in the middle of the day, and she answered his cell like she would have his office phone. But I didn’t know enough about the guy to make that assumption. I just like imagining.
“Hi, Mr. Russo? This is Jessica Plotkin, I believe my father had let you know I’d be calling? To talk about, um, Howard Kessler?”
“Oh, of course, honey, sure. Right—”
“I can call back another time; or come meet you at your convenience. I can understand if now is not a good time,” I said, hoping he would agree, since I could tell by his voice that he was laying down.
“Uh, maybe, I’m in the middle of something now—”
I didn’t want him to have to explain any more. If he was this bad at lying at home, I would be amazed at how his wife stays around, unless she’s out doing the same thing.
“Why don’t we meet tomorrow afternoon? Can you come to Brooklyn around 3 in the afternoon? Cristofo Colombus Bakery on 18th Avenue. ”
“Sure, that sounds great. I love cannoli.”
I was looking forward to the cannoli, but not so much in meeting this guy.
My dad said that Frank was Howard’s loyal soldier. I didn’t know what that meant. I thought it was better for me to go into this without as much context as my father would have been able to provide, since I didn’t want to write it with his perspective. But I needed a little background,
just to connect some of the dots.
We met and he was a gracious host, at a bakery he seemed to own—when I pointed out what I wanted in the case, he walked back and retrieved it himself. He helped himself to the espresso machine and made me the best cappuccino I’ve ever had; and for himself an espresso.
“So, honey, what are we talking about?” he said as he smiled, looked down at me, and seemed a bit smug.
“First, I want to thank you for all this and for taking the time. I know you’re busy with your work.”
“Eh, I’m hitting that age now where they don’t let me go out on the sites as much as I used to, so taking the time during the day isn’t a big deal. Fire away.”
“Since Howard’s back in town, I just wanted to get your initial thoughts. I’m writing a piece on Howard and would like to keep it as much in draft form until I have something as polished as possible before I let anyone else know about it, so—”
He sat forward in his chair and put down his espresso. The clang of the cup against the saucer caused the little spoon to jump off it onto the marble table, making a louder noise than I expected. I’m not sure if it was deliberate.
“You should know that I don’t talk to journalists. I mean, I have avoided the questions about my own life and the people I know for years because of certain, uh—”
“Sensitivities?” I finished the sentence for him. I hate when people struggle for words and I know what they’re trying to say.
“Yes, that’s a good term for it. I’m glad you understand.”
“I won’t pry into those areas, then, sir, I am just interested in your relationship with Howard then and now; and in getting some context into what you guys used to do back then.”
Not really, but at least that was a good enough introduction to try to make him feel comfortable. I learned my lessons from Mo.
“Howard and me were best friends. Closer than anyone. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Howie and me grew up together since we were kids. Really young. Lived next door to each other. We looked out for each other. He had too many parents, I had none. We were out on the streets hustling for money as early as I could remember. We stole bikes, balls, jackets, whatever we could get our hands on. We had no one guiding us to do good or bad.
“For me, the worst memories--Howie always got the girls, I got his seconds.”
“And the best?”
“He’s Howie Kessler, it was all good.”
That’s when I knew I wasn’t getting the truth out of this guy as easily as getting a cannoli.
If I could just get everyone together, I could document the dynamic, the reunion, the emotion, and it could be really compelling. But so far Art’s schedule has proved difficult to accommodate; and with all this time going by, Howard is just hanging around my dad’s house like a piece of furniture. I can’t tell if he’s depressed, or just waiting. Waiting for what? My dad doesn’t seem to mind so much. They each now have their routines; Howard even helps my dad out with his physical therapy. It’s really nice, actually. But it’s been two weeks. What the hell are this guy’s plans?
Finally, we hear from Art.
Chapter 16
Art
Admittedly, I’ve been avoiding the Howie situation for weeks now. At first I was curious—it was such a novelty I couldn’t stay away. I don’t have much else going on in my life besides Major League Baseball. My partner, Yuri, and I are like passing ships in the night and with all my travelling, we hardly spend any time together. I almost feel like giving up on renewing any relationship with either of my kids, who seem more and more estranged every day. I’ve realized it’s not my relationship with Yuri that repulses them, it’s everything about me.
So when the call from Punch came, I jumped at the opportunity to cultivate some warmth and connections. I wanted to resurface my own identity again, now that I’m in my 60s. I’ve been lost for a long time and I thought that Howie, Punch, and the other guys could fill that void.
It wasn’t just talking to my therapist that dissuaded me from attempting to pursue this route to self-healing. It was one phone call with Punch’s daughter, a writer.
“Well it’s great to meet you over the phone. Punch has told me about you over the years. You know we get together about once or twice a year to catch up.”
“Yes! That’s right! I’m just now putting the names to the faces, so to speak, so it’s all coming together for me,” she said, sounding enthusiastic about the call, though I still wasn’t sure what the intended purpose was. I had only spoken with Punch for a few minutes a couple of weeks ago when he called me to tell me how bizarre it was to have Howie staying at the house.
“So what can I do for you? Your father tells me you’re interested in writing a story about Howie?”
“Well, yes, not really, I’m a journalist and I’m putting together some facts for a story about Howard’s return to Brooklyn, you know, with his leaving Hollywood and all.”
“Ah-ha. It is interesting, I think! I’m not really in the business so I don’t know much about Hollywood. In fact, had your father and I not pursued Howie’s call a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have even known about him leaving Hollywood,” which wasn’t true, since Yuri is sadly addicted to People magazine and would have no doubt mentioned it to me if I hadn’t first.
“I know you’re really busy and have a demanding schedule with your travelling. But is there some time soon I can come meet you and we can talk about some questions I have about you, Howie, and the gang back then?”
“Sure, I think we can manage something. I’ll put you on with my assistant in a sec so you can work out with him when works best. I’m in town for the next week or so and it should work out fine.”
“Oh that’s wonderful, thank you so much, I promise this won’t be a waste of your time. I—there’s a lot I’d like to learn about you, and with Howie at my dad’s house, you know, it’s been hard to get a real 360 on the guy.”
I knew at this point she had an angle. My very first instinct was of defense. But I thought for just a moment, what am I defending? I’ve been working with journalists for a good portion of my career. I know what they do. I know that there is never anything you can tell them which will appear as unblemished as you had intended it. So generally, my distrust is relatively high, so I am guarded. But this was one of my oldest friends’ daughters, and I sensed a tension in her tone that wasn’t the professional tension of a hardened journalist getting to a story. She was out to protect her father. After all, here’s a Hollywood star living in her father’s house, with no apparent objectives. Apparent.
Jessica met me at my office and we went for a late lunch around the corner at Naples 45, a frequent stop for baseballers at the north end of Grand Central Station. Her interest in the game or business of baseball was nil, so I didn’t waste time on a tour.
“How on Earth does your father, a die-hard Yankees fan, not train you to follow baseball?” I had to ask, before we got started.
“Eh, I just couldn’t sit still for that long to follow a game. I collected the cards because my brother did, but I was into writing and journalism, the arts, very early on. My dad never pressed me. As long as I did well in school, he was happy!”
“That makes enough sense I suppose. Well, then, what can I tell you?”
“Do you know what Howie is doing here now?”
I was a little shocked at her forthright question. I didn’t know how to answer it, since, if she was as good a writer as I thought she may be, however I answered it was going to frame the whole conversation.
“I don’t know. When we spoke on the phone a couple of weeks ago he sounded like he was just fed up with Hollywood and yearned for a trip home. You know, we’re all getting older, in our 60s now, and I suppose there’s a little soul-searching happening. I have no idea about his career now, though I guess it’s still going strong. Fewer tough-guy roles, but that thing he was in last year, the war movie, was perfect for him.
“Why do you
think he’s here?” I asked, probing for her temperature on this whole deal.
“I have no idea,” she seemed annoyed. “It’s given me a great story to write, I think, but I can’t get a handle. He’s charming, sweet, generous, and yet at the same time I feel like he’s planning something. I don’t know. I just don’t want, you know, it’s my dad—”
“No, I hear you. It’s a valid concern. The whole thing’s a little weird.”
“You know, I talked to Mo, and have his story, and to Frank,” she seemed to be opening up to me less as a journalist and more as a concerned party. I’m not sure I had anything to offer in the way of mitigating.
“Really? Wow, you’ve hit the ground running. What are those guys up to? Eh, I’m sure I’ll find out when we get together – do you have any details on that?”
We spoke for a good hour and then I had to get back to the office for a conference call.
I think Howie is planning something, so now although I’d like to bow out and excuse myself from whatever festivities are planned, my curiosity is getting the best of me. And for the sake of my good friend, Punch, I’d like to ensure things don’t go off the rails.
Chapter 17
The Gang
They finally all agreed to a date and a time. The place was easy to agree on—The Peking Duck House on Mott Street, one of New York’s great Chinese restaurants. Punch was unsure if Jessica could be there and she was anxious to record the reunion, but at the same time acknowledged the desire of the gang to stay intimate. Two days before they were slated to meet, Alan called Howard to confirm with him that he didn’t want any media to meet him at the restaurant. He recommended that the publicist brief Howard in the event someone at the restaurant called paparazzi and the press during the dinner.
“I don’t need that crap anymore, don’t you see? I’m starting on a new venture and if the press come meet me, then fine, I can handle it. I feel like I’m working for myself now. No studios to answer to,” Howard said.
“Don’t make me remind you, but Lew has to finalize that with the studio. Don’t jump the gun,” Alan gently nudged Howard. Lew is Howard’s lawyer and wasn’t happy about the recent contract action by the studio in axing Howard, so he was chomping at the bit to get back to them with some demands.
