by Neil Gordon
“Peretz. Take me to the police.”
The man answered calmly, without turning. “Essie Rosenthal said to take you elsewhere.”
He leaned forward, raising his voice. “I do not want them murdered.”
Peretz kept driving, his eyes darting from one side of the street to the other, and answered in a conversational tone: “That so? Why not?”
“For every reason. You know why.”
Now Peretz turned in his seat, slowing somewhat, to look directly at Nicky. “No, I don’t.”
“Those are dangerous people.”
“Are they?” In quarter profile to Nicky, his face turning back to the windshield, the man smiled. “I think they’re stupid people.”
He looked at Nicky again, driving: “Be a big boy. I think you know we don’t have a hell of a lot of options. What do you say?”
And now Nicky was very scared, more scared than he could remember ever being before in his life. Or perhaps fear was not the word, but dread. Fear, after all, may have driven him to do something. And yet he did not move, but sat feeling each second pass as a discrete moment of horror, slowly realizing that he was not even going to try to stop this thing, whatever it was. That he did not want to stop it. And with that realization came a horror even stronger. And then he heard himself talking.
“Okay.”
5.
The decision made, the atmosphere in the van changed entirely. For a short time, however, they continued to drive, as if nothing were different. Finally, at the end of a long street running next to warehouses, Peretz accelerated sharply, distancing himself from the Nova, then turned a corner and, just as sharply, braked. As the van slowed, the man in the passenger seat turned back, opened the side door, and the two men in leather jackets slipped out of the moving car, pushing the door closed behind them. Nicky saw them entering the doorway of a warehouse, and then the Nova turned the corner behind them, flooding the street with light. Still driving slowly, as if to give the Nova time to catch up, Peretz continued down the street for a time, next to the warehouse, then turned through an open gate in a storm fence surrounding what appeared to be a factory parking lot.
Now, in front of the van, Nicky could see water and the lights of Manhattan across the harbor. As if rehearsed, the Nova drew in behind them, and the van stopped. For a moment, nothing happened; then the doors of the Nova opened in unison.
Nicky tensed, wanting suddenly to crouch on the floor, but none of the men moved, nor did the two occupants of the Nova appear, and slowly Nicky realized that they were crouching behind the open doors of their car. He knelt, straining his neck to look behind, while the windows of each open door rolled down, then two gunshots sounded and the back window of the van suddenly showed a ragged design of cracks around a small hole. Nicky ducked.
But when he looked up again, he saw that perhaps Peretz had been right about these men.
Perhaps they were stupid.
Because behind the Nova the two men in leather jackets were approaching from a doorway in the warehouse, each cradling something in his arms like a small baby.
And before Nicky had time to think again, there were two short bursts of gunfire and, one by one, the two men from the Nova fell sideways onto the ground next to their car.
He watched them, lying on the tarmac in a strange fetal position, his heart huge. Behind, standing straight now, Peretz’s men were approaching the corpses, one each; and each, in a movement impossible not to recognize, placed a coup de grâce in the corpses’ temples. Then, still moving calmly, they searched the Nova.
When they entered the van again, with the sliding door open, Peretz drove in a wide curve next to the water, and each of the leather-jacketed men tossed their guns, wood-stocked shotguns with stumpy barrels, over the edge of the dock, then peeled off surgeon’s gloves and tossed those too. Then, still driving slowly, they left the parking lot, pausing briefly for one man to descend and lock the gates behind them, and they drew off into the little streets.
Now the man in the passenger seat was talking again, into the little tape recorder, and as they pulled away from the factory parking lot, Nicky, his heart calming, could hear that his accented speech was in fact English. “Entering the Navy Yard, two cars, ATP116 and Hoodie 75. Adams Street, light on, fourth floor, number 205. Park Street, red light. Tillary Street, moving east from Court. Male black, six foot, green parka. Police at intersection, NY 12, Seventy-sixth Precinct. Jay Street, going south . . .”
Driving scrupulously, Peretz piloted the van south, then east, deep into, Nicky guessed, Brooklyn. Slowly, he realized that the one with the tape recorder was documenting possible witnesses. He wondered what that would be good for if they were caught.
Still, the tension in the car melted away, and the four men began to talk softly, in Yiddish. Apparently he, Nicky, was the subject of the conversation, for in time one of the big men who had performed the murders turned to him and said in a curious tone: “So you’re a friend of Mr. Rosenthal?”
Nicky hesitated, lighting a cigarette. “Of Allison’s.” Surprised at how normal his voice sounded.
“Oh? Where from?”
Nicky paused. Then he said, “College.”
“No kidding?” That seemed all the explanation the man needed, and disregarding Nicky, he made a comment in Yiddish, apparently a joke, because the others started laughing quietly. When they stopped, Nicky addressed a question to the big one.
“Where do you all know Allison from?”
For a moment Nicky thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, briefly: “The shtetl, before she turned goyish.”
From the front seat, Peretz, still laughing, said: “Look who’s talking. Menachem here has a Ph.D. from Stanford.”
“That right?” Looking curiously at the man, Nicky asked, “In what?”
But Menachem apparently didn’t care to discuss it. Briefly, he said: “Philosophy of religion.” He turned away, lighting a cigarette himself, and then turned back with a strangely friendly smile.
“But my postdoc work was more important.”
“Oh yeah? Where was that?”
“University of East Beirut. Shatila campus.”
Nicky said nothing while the others laughed.
In time, Peretz began stopping the van, letting off two of his men, one after the other, at different locations. When only the three of them—Peretz, Menachem, and Nicky—were left, they stopped at last in front of an apartment block and went through the ornate and shabby lobby of the prewar building and into an apartment where, at a large dining room table in a room bordered by file cabinets, they sat. Only now did Nicky think to check his watch, and found it to be midnight. After perhaps a quarter hour, Nicky heard the elevator doors opening in the corridor, then footsteps, and then a key in the front-door lock. Calmly, Peretz withdrew a gun from his breast pocket and sat with it leveled at the door. It opened, and Allison came in.
There was a brief discussion among the three, a discussion that quickly grew heated. Alley left the two men talking to go down a hallway, then returned with a thick wad of money in her hand. They argued for a moment more, then, as quickly as the argument had flared up, it died. Ignoring the pile of bills, now sitting in the middle of the table, the men rose, Peretz heading immediately to the door, Menachem pausing to turn to Nicky and say, “ B’hatzlacha , pal. Good luck. Whoever the fuck you are.”
Then they were gone. Alley, still standing, turned her face to Nicky, and he saw for the first time the deep lines of fatigue on her cheeks. They regarded each other while outside, and far away, a siren passed. Then she moved to the light switch, turned off the lights, and, holding Nicky again by the hand, led him through a set of doors into another room.
Here, street lamps dimly illuminated what Nicky gradually saw to be a living room from another age: heavy furniture covered with sheets, an oak coffee table, bronze lamps with silk shades. Alley pulled the sheet from a couch and they sat, watching each other again. After a moment, Alley shifted,
pulling her legs up on the couch, and lowering her head onto his chest. At the same time, she pulled the sheet up and around them both. He felt her shivering, and put his hands, gingerly, around her shoulders. For a long time, silence. When he spoke, he found himself whispering.
“Where are we?”
She answered, too, in a whisper. “My grandparents’ apartment.”
“What were you arguing about?”
“I wanted them to take some money and leave the country. They said they didn’t need to.”
“Who won?”
“They did.”
A pause. Then she said, tonelessly and still whispering: “I knew they were going to do it.”
Nicky answered immediately. “I know.”
“Did you see?”
“Yes.” He paused, and she shifted her head under his to look at his face. Now his palm was on her brow.
She nodded.
“Those guys thought they were helping your father.” She nodded again, and took his hand from her shoulder and held it, under the sheet, against her breast. “I know. Listen now. There’s a plane to L.A. tomorrow morning at six. From Newark. I booked you.”
“So what do we do?”
“We wait here. I’ll take you to the airport in a few hours.”
“And then?”
“Then you go home and get better. And when I tell you to, you have Diamond file suit.”
It was as if they were an old married couple, returning to the frayed arena of an ever-repeating argument. With a sigh, he told her, “You’ll be arrested immediately.”
“I know that.”
“What good will that do?”
“Don’t think about that.” There was exhaustion in her voice. “Just promise me, Nicky.”
Instead of answering, he asked another question. “How did you know I was looking for the videotape?”
“Your interview in Paris with Peleg was taped. My father had a transcript in his safe.”
“Did you read it?”
“No. Just a glance. That told me all I needed to know. Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“How did you find Peleg?”
Nicky paused, a long moment, before answering. Then:
“The same way I found Hourani, Alley. Your brother told me.”
Eyes absolutely blank, she absorbed the news. “When?”
“First in the spring of ’92, first time. In New Haven. Then he called me again, in early June. I . . .” He fell silent now, and watched her, as if seeking a clue from her expression for what he should say. When she gave him nothing, he went on. “Why didn’t you read the transcript?”
She nearly spat the answer. “I don’t care about that shit. I didn’t need to.”
“Well, Peleg told me he didn’t have a copy of the tape. He told me what happened in it, but he couldn’t be a witness. He was too disreputable, no one would believe him. He told me that you had witnessed, but that you wouldn’t help. But he told me your brother might.”
“Pauly wasn’t there.” Again, there was no tone in her voice, and no expression in his eyes.
“Peleg says he was. Off camera. He says your brother walked into the room through some maid’s door from the kitchen.”
This made her, literally, flinch as she absorbed it, like a blow to the body.
“Go on.”
“Peleg said your brother would help me. I asked why, but he said I wouldn’t understand, because I wasn’t Jewish. So they recorded the whole damn conversation, did they?”
“Yes.”
“I see.” Nicky thought for a moment, his eyes abstracting. “I got Peleg killed, didn’t I?”
“Yes. What happened next?”
“I went to Martha’s Vineyard to find your brother. It was late June. And when I got there, I found out about his . . . suicide.”
Nicky stopped talking, and they watched each other’s eyes. And only after a long time of suspension did Alley say:
“Jesus, Nicky. You were on the island in 1992?”
“Yes.”
She leaned toward him now and let her head rest on his chest. “Oh, God, I wish I’d known you then.”
Time passed. When she sat up again, presenting him her face, she had been crying. She wiped her nose on her sleeve, and then spoke.
“Well. I have the tape. So you get what you want after all.”
“Except I don’t want it anymore.”
That made her, nearly, smile. “Isn’t that funny?”
“Let me see it.”
“No way.” She shook her head, once, sniffing. “Don’t even ask. Not until Diamond files suit.”
“And when does Diamond file suit?”
“When I tell you so.”
“Then you give me the tape?”
“Yes.”
“Original?”
“Yes.”
Nicky thought, watching her. “And how do I tell a judge I got it?”
She watched him now through the darkness. Then she licked her lips, and took a deep breath, talking as she exhaled.
“It’ll be mailed to you. FedEx. From Dee—David. Dennis. The prosecuting attorney.”
6.
Nicky’s mouth opened. “What, that guy? Why the fuck would he want to do that?”
She spoke automatically now, delivering the lie as she thought it. “He needs it leaked. It makes his case against my father.”
He said nothing for a moment. Then: “Your father’ll never set foot in this country again.”
“Focus, Nicky. You’ll force Eastbrook to resign before he’s even inaugurated. For Christ sake, I am giving you the resignation of a U.S. senator, a fanatic rightist. What’d you call him? A ‘radical enemy of democracy’— right? This is the sweetest thing to happen to the American Left since Watergate. You’ll have fifty-year-olds in ponytails popping champagne from Woodstock to Berkeley. You are looking at a piece of American history.”
“I don’t give a fuck about Eastbrook. I care about you.”
“Then do what I say.”
She watched him carefully as he spoke. And to her surprise, he spoke in a sad voice.
“This is really what you want to do?”
And she, too, answered in a different tone than she meant. “It really is.”
He looked up to the ceiling, and it occurred to her that throughout the conversation, his hand had stayed on her breast. She moved it now, lifting her shirt and placing it against her skin.
“And me? I go back to L.A.? And pretend I never met you?”
“We’ll talk every day. When it’s over . . . when it’s over, you can tell me the story of your life or something. If . . . if you still want to.”
“I don’t understand. You’re in jail, your father’s stuck with a bigger crime than ever.”
“But you get to off Eastbrook.”
“Yeah? What did I do to deserve to be the sole beneficiary of this whole mess?”
She shrugged. “Nicky. Come on. At the end of the line, someone has to get what they want. This time, it’s your turn.”
She let him wonder what she was referring to: Eastbrook or her bed. Then she leaned forward over his chest.
“Nicky. Please.”
“What are you up to, Alley?”
She answered quickly. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What do you think I’m up to?”
He thought now, for a long time. Then he said: “I don’t know.”
“Guess.”
“I can’t. I only know two things about it. Not enough.”
“What are they?”
“It’s illegal, and it’s immoral.”
“No. No.” Hissing at him in the darkness: “It’s something beautiful. It’s justice.”
Nicky paused, thinking. Then he spoke slowly. “And that’s reason enough for how ugly it is?”
She answered immediately, in a surprised tone. “Yes. Yes, of course it is.”
Not looking at her, he nodded, as
if having just that moment decided. “Okay.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Okay, I’m going to do what you tell me.”
“And exactly what I tell you?”
“Yes.”
And now she lowered her head completely—onto his chest, onto the chest of this small man lying on her grandparents’ couch in their Borough Park apartment at two in the morning; she lowered her head to his chest and hid her face, blushing, with a sudden access of gratitude.
Of amazement.
They slept. Briefly, for the darkness left of the night. They woke, together, at four, and left the apartment for the street, cold in the last hour before dawn.
The highways to the airport were nearly deserted; Alley drove silently, with one hand, her other lightly in Nicky’s palm.
At the airport, she saw him to his gate. They kissed, their eyes level, and she let her hands travel once up and down his back, under his leather jacket.
“Alley.” His voice against her ear as she held him.
“Yes, Nicky.”
“When I went to the Vineyard, in ’92? The papers said your brother had committed suicide. Why did you say he was murdered?”
She lied before she could think about it. “I didn’t mean that, Nicky. Not literally. My brother was a complicated person. He was very brilliant, and very beautiful. But he was gay. He had HIV, and his boyfriend had full-blown AIDS. That’s why he killed himself. It had nothing to do with you.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know, I know.”
“Alley, one more thing.”
“Yes.”
“What did Peleg mean, I wouldn’t understand your brother because I wasn’t Jewish?”
That made her laugh, humorlessly. “Did your father ever try to send you back to where he was from?”
“Montenegro? If I tried to go, he’d have disowned me. My middle name is Jefferson, for Christ sake. My father’s the most American Yugoslavian known to man.”
She laughed again. “Peleg was right. You wouldn’t understand. Now go get your plane.”
Then he was gone, and she was walking back through the terminal to her car, feeling more exhausted than she could remember ever feeling in her life.
