by Hesh Kestin
“The gavones.”
“Indeed.” Fritz said with some satisfaction, stretching the word into three syllables—in-dee-eed. Just hearing this made me agreeable—it was the mark of a natural-born litigator. I had no doubt Fritzi was great in a courtroom. A good trial lawyer has the ability to get a jury to participate, to make of the stranger an intimate and of the doubtful a distinct possibility. “Now, your oh-so-becoming modesty notwithstanding, it appears that you are indeed Mr. Cats’ heir apparent, a condition whose—”
“I am nobody’s heir apparent,” I said. “First Dolores and now you. Fritzi, I am a fucking college student who owes so many term papers I simply do not have time to oversee a major criminal enterprise. Is that absurd enough? Hey, I’d love to star in this movie, but you’ve got the wrong actor. Wherever all you people got this cockamamie idea, please shove it back up there past the hemorrhoids, okay?”
“Mr. Cats left a testament.”
“A testament?”
“A will.”
“A will?”
“In-dee-eed. An iron will, bullet-proof.” He smiled. “I drew it up myself.”
I thought: Let’s take this bullshit one turd at a time. “When?”
“Friday last.”
“I was with him all day. You were nowhere near him.”
“From twelve to one-thirty, dear boy, you weren’t.”
He was right. Just at noon I had gone out to get the papers—Shushan liked the New York Post, then the only liberal newspaper in town, and the one with the best sports section—and with them some milk chocolate from a European sweetshop on Madison at Fifty-Third, and a box of cigars from Nat Sherman’s in the garment center. Because I was feeling a bit cooped up in the suite at the Westbury, I walked it both ways. It was one of those odd November days that might have passed for spring, office workers carrying their suit jackets on their arms and secretaries eating their sandwiches leaning on parked cars or tipping their faces skyward to catch the errant rays of a dimming sun. “No accident, I suppose.”
“You suppo-ose correctly,” Fritzi said. “Should you wish to examine the document, I’ll have one messengered to the Westbury. You’ll find it in order.”
“Maybe, but you won’t find me at the Westbury. I’m going home to a nice hot shower in my fungal bathroom in my crummy apartment on down-market Eastern Parkway. However up-market, the Westbury is not where I reside, counselor.”
“I understand your reluctance to return to Mr. Cats’ home, given the tragic circumstances—but have you considered security?”
“Security.”
“Baldly stated, the Westbury is, however discretely, the twentieth-century equivalent of a castle-keep surrounded by walls six-foot thick, themselves surrounded by a moat filled with alligators.”
“Looked like a plain old hotel to me.”
“No one gets in, son, who shouldn’t.”
“Cohen and Kennedy got in.”
“Who?”
“The dicks.”
“Oh, them. Were they announced?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think they would have been allowed up if Mr. Cats deemed them inopportune visitors?” He paused. “You needn’t answer. There are always two desk clerks on duty, former NYPD. A switch at the front desk disables the elevators. Another locks the doors to the fire stairs. And the desk clerks are, however discretely, armed.”
“They looked like common, garden-variety desk clerks to me.”
“And well they should. I might add that Mr. Cats’ door is steel, nicely clad in mahogany, and thus impervious to all but the heaviest artillery. When you return to the suite you will no doubt be shown a number of similarly unique features.”
“I didn’t see anything but a three-room hotel suite.”
“I’m sure you will be enlightened. Now, considering that a person of Mr. Cats’ experience and considerable abilities had taken such precautions, do you think it wise to return to your hovel in Brooklyn where you may find yourself defenseless in the event of an unscheduled visit from certain persons?”
“Certain persons.”
Fritzi seemed to grow physically, to become palpably larger in the back seat, his torso not only broadening but deepening, so that his entire being projected itself toward me like the zoomed-in image on a movie screen. “Dear boy, do please listen carefully. In the past week your home has been invaded by three irritated brothers, on at least one occasion by their sister, by two representatives of our esteemed national police force and certainly would have been by our two friendly detectives—the delightful Kennedy and Cohen, do I have that right?—had they wished to, rather than their picking you up on the street.”
“Why do I feel like an open book?” I asked.
“Because you are a bookish sort, I should say, and that is the metaphor that would naturally come to mind, isn’t it? Now tell me this. If any of these persons wished to return, could they not?”
“The sister gave me back her key.”
“Marveloso, Russ. And how many keys are there? And who has them? And, frankly, who needs a key? You’ve got windows—”
“With bars.”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. And a door with one of those pathetic steel braces. Do you really think either would withstand the efforts of the FBI or certain others to enter if they had it in mind to do so?”
“And why would they have it in mind?”
Fritzi let go a massive shrug that sent a mild tremor through the vehicle, like a soft wave in calm waters that makes a swimmer turn to the horizon to see what larger surprises may be in store. “Because, my lad, your very existence is pissing a great many people off. Note how quickly the brothers Callinan contacted the district attorney’s office when it became clear Shushan Cats was no longer a threat—they seem to feel aggrieved that you visited a certain church. Then there are the federal authorities. And certain persons of an Italianate persuasion. Dear boy, you have become a rather important piece in the jigsaw puzzle that is the underside of this glorious city. Did I mention the will?”
“You did, Fritzi. But a will is a one-way document, isn’t it? If you died and left me this limousine, I wouldn’t have to accept it, would I? In the same way, assuming there is such a will, I am not bound by it.” I looked at him. God, he was big. “But as Shushan’s lawyer you are bound to hand out property to those beneficiaries who are interested in receiving it. That’s what an executor does, isn’t it?”
“It is,” the big man said, “But I am not.”
“You are not what?” This had become tiring. My stomach was indicating it wanted something other than pizza, and not too much later. I could get a hot dog and sauerkraut in Times Square, and a beer. The drinking age in New York was then still eighteen. I couldn’t vote of course, but I could drink. Today an eighteen-year-old can vote, but can’t drink.
“I am not the executor of Shushan Cats’ will.”
“Who is—his sister?”
“She is a significant beneficiary.”
“Oh, no,” I said.
“Indee-eed,” Fritzi said, sighing heavily. “The executor is one Russell Newhouse.”
“Not me.”
“Please, Russell. It hardly matters whether you honor the role or not, whether you accept the limousine as it were. The fact is, certain persons in this city would as likely accept your inheriting the mantle of Shushan Cats as they would vote Republican or eat white bread with mayonnaise. Like it or not, these people are your competitors. They may also be termed your enemies.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want the limousine. Now, if you don’t mind unlocking it—”
For answer Fritzi whispered again into the tiny phone. A front door opened and slammed shut.
“This is not serious, Fritzi,” I said. “This is a joke.”
“Indee-eed,” he said. “But one you had best consider taking seriously. Like it or not, willy-nilly you have been chosen for a role you probably do not want—”
“No fucking probably.”
/> “And which you almost certainly feel is not precisely your line of work.”
The street-side door opened and the chauffeur—I couldn’t see his face, only the bottom two thirds of a dark-gray uniform and one gray twill sleeve—handed the attorney a copy of the Daily Mirror. I looked at my watch. It was just eleven. Fritzi scanned the front page. Then he handed it to me.
“You look rather good in print,” he said. “Myself, I always come out somewhat strenuously obese.”
There I was, entering the federal building only an hour or so earlier, my hands cuffed behind me, and accompanied on either side by Kennedy and Cohen. A circular inset showed the smiling face of Fritz von Zeppelin, probably a file-photo. I hadn’t seen the photographer, but probably I had missed a lot of details, having just been helped out of a police car, cuffed, and not expecting a news photographer might be tucked behind one of the massive limestone pillars that framed the entrance. From the angle that’s where he would have been. I read the headline aloud:
SPRUNG BY MOB MOUTHPIECE
KID CRIME BOSS
MEETS THE LAW
DA: NEXT STOP, GANG WAR
“Fritzi,” I said, “Would you mind dropping me at the Westbury?”
“Bright lad,” he said as we took off uptown. “But you’ll have to be brighter sooner. I know you will be. Shushan Cats would not have picked an imbecile.”
18.
How had I not noticed the desk clerks? Both had my father’s flat, disappointed ex-copper’s expression, like racehorses reduced to pulling a cart, and gray-flannel suit jackets that fit too loose on one side and too tight on the other—these were not the kind of men who had suits custom made for a shoulder holster. Both had closely cropped gray hair, one with a clipped yellow-tinged mustache that spoke of nicotine and vanity, the other half-glasses on a ribbon around a fleshy neck that spilled over the collar of his white shirt. To my surprise they greeted me like a beloved guest newly returned to take up residency. Both came out from behind the desk and pumped my hand.
“So good to see you back, Mr. Newhouse,” Yellow Mustache said.
Fleshy Neck picked this up. “Mr. Newhouse, I just want you to know, on behalf of the entire staff, that anything you need, day or night, you just have to pick up the phone. We’re all broke up about Mr. Cats, a wonderful man and a great boss. Me personally, when I had a little trouble with alcohol, Mr. Cats himself drove me to rehab upstate, a three-hour drive, and paid for everything, and when I got out two months later he was there and drove me back and the next day I had my old job waiting and a raise if I stayed on the wagon. A prince of a human being.”
“The whole staff, everybody, it’s like we lost a father.”
“He was a lot younger than you,” I said.
“So are you, sir, but irregardless he treated us like his own children,” Yellow Mustache answered. “You can’t understand how broke up we are, everybody. Always a smile, always a joke. A job like this, anywhere else you’re more or less a piece of shit, excuse the language, but with Mr. Cats everyone was individual.”
“I’m going to miss him too,” I said.
“You got baggage, sir?” Yellow Mustache asked.
“Mr. Newhouse’s things will be along later,” Fritzi said.
“Yes, sir,” Yellow Mustache said.
“We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Newhouse,” Fleshy Neck said. “Don’t you worry about nothing.”
If there is anything that is a cause for worry, it’s the admonition not to. Riding up in the elevator with Fritzi—he took up most of the space—I had the feeling I should know more about what I shouldn’t be worrying about. But I didn’t ask. I figured Fritzi was doing his part of the job. And I was right, because Justo Ocero had the other part. He opened the door even before we reached it and kissed me on both cheeks. No one had done that to me before. For some reason it seemed appropriate, though this might merely have reflected my taste—and education—in films: Jean-Luc Goddard’s Breathless, François Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player, Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura and Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita. Though somehow I understood Justo’s kisses were different, I wouldn’t know how different—as reflected in the movies, at least—until years later, when I saw The Godfather. Now I was merely somewhat embarrassed and oddly comforted. Outside of sex, kisses were alien to me: I couldn’t remember my mother’s, and the closest my father had come to this kind of intimacy had been a firm handshake, a fake clip on the jaw and a discrete “Attaboy.”
“Ironic,” Justo said. “One day Shushan is mourning for his mother, now we’re mourning for him.”
“We’re not mourning until we know for sure,” I said.
“He’s right, Ocero,” Fritzi said. “See that. He’s making decisions already.”
I looked at him. Fritzi was right, but I was only thinking of what I knew and didn’t. There was no body, not yet. Maybe I’d call a rabbi and ask what to do: vaguely I recalled the case of Israeli submariners whose vessel disappeared without a trace—the rabbis had had to deal with the sticky question of whether the crewmen’s wives could remarry. Here there was no wife, at least not that I knew of, but there remained the question of status. Can we mourn when we don’t know for sure? Does there come a time when death is presumed? Whatever that time, it was clearly too early. “It’s a question,” I said. “And I don’t have the answer. But we’re going to look very foolish if we sit down to mourn and Shushan Cats walks in with a tray of cold cuts.”
“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen, Mr. Newhouse,” Fritzi said.
“Regardless, we’ll wait,” I said.
“Okay,” Justo said. “But how long?”
“I’ll find out,” I said. “Meanwhile, it looks like I’m moving in. So I’ll need my stuff.”
“No prob,” Justo said. “Ira-Myra’s is already at your place getting some clothes, and I figured you’ll need your school things, typewriter, books. Anything else you need, he’ll call in before he leaves.”
“Ira-Myra’s has a key to my apartment?”
“Chinga,” Justo said. “If Ira can’t get in we been paying him too much for too long. Meantime, I called Miguel and he’s coming up to take measurements.”
“For what, a coffin—who’s Miguel?”
“Mr. Cats’ tailor. Does real nice work. You ever seen Shushan Cats looking anything less than pressed? Only the best material, and class-A work. Tiny stitches. You can’t even see them without a lens. Used to be with Dunhill. Also he can get any kind of fabric, stuff you don’t usually see. God bless his soul, Shushan liked this special kind of wool, vicuña, comes from some kind of llama? From what Shushan says, you can’t even get it legally any more. Miguel has some kind of connection. Very light. You’ll love the stuff. Shoes we got a guy makes them up in a week. Cordovan. It’s made from a horse’s beyond, if you’ll believe that. Fits like a mitten and takes a great shine. Shushan, he was a dresser, God protect him.”
“I don’t need shoes.”
For answer both looked down at what I was wearing, a pair of Frye boots so ancient their color was scuff.
Fritzi coughed. “In this line of work, dress speaks for itself.”
“Yeah,” Justo said. “Like Shushan used to say, Think Yiddish, dress British. A shame you’re taller, otherwise you could just wear Shushan’s suits. It’s a fortune in suits. Only the best.”
It turns out that despite my height—at five-eleven I was four inches taller—I could indeed wear Shushan’s suits. In the next half hour Miguel, a pot-bellied Dominican who arrived with a frayed yellow tape measure around his neck, a sample case of fabrics and a catalogue of suit styles, proved this to me by opening up the hems on three pair of Shushan’s trousers and the sleeves on three matching jackets. Room service sent up an ironing board. The tailor went to work.
“Shirts, you’re way too long for Shushan’s sleeves,” Justo said. “I’ll call Brooks. White okay? Later on Miguel can make some up that fit great, but for the moment Brooks will
do, if that’s okay. You got a shoe size?”
“Ten,” I said. At least I was going to get some clothes out of this. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’m just as willing to sit here in my underwear until this blows over.” Anyway, I thought, this is a great place to write four term papers back to back: One on the “operatic structure” of Huckleberry Finn, one on the Polish roots of Joseph Conrad’s use of the English language in Heart of Darkness, one on innovation in Euripedes and the only tricky one, a comparison of de Toqueville’s Democracy in America and his later work L’Ancien Régime et la Révolution—I’d read neither, and the latter was in French. Almost welcoming the enforced isolation, I walked into the room I had slept in earlier. It was not the same room. There was no bed in it. It was now full of exercise equipment, the best available at the time: a treadmill, free weights and a bench, and a stationary bicycle. In the far corner were boxing gloves, a jump rope, a light bag and a big heavy one hanging like a pendulous icon from the ceiling. “What happened to my bed?”
Justo and Fritzi had followed me in. “You got Shushan’s,” Justo said.
“No way,” I said. “If he’s dead I’m not sleeping in his bed. If he isn’t I’m not sleeping in his bed. I’ll take the other room.”
“That’s Esther’s,” Justo said.
“Esther—Terri—doesn’t live here.”
The lawyer spoke. “A codicil in the testament. I quote: ‘Esther Cats shall have her room in perpetuity.’”
I considered it might be nice to have her visit. “Isn’t there some other place?”
“Shushan would want you to have his room,” Justo said. “He’d also want you to have upstairs.”
“Upstairs? There’s an upstairs?”
“Oh, yeah,” Justo said.
