Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  “What do you mean, what’s necessary? The money’s mine, according to this.”

  Belzer sighed, a slow, wheezing sound. It occurred to Gordon that he must be close to eighty. Like his father and Uncle Max, Belzer had lived his life among men with guns, but there was a gentle quality about him, quite different from Max’s taciturn coldness or Al Grossman’s hard-eyed machismo. He would have made a good lawyer, Gordon thought; the phrase “loyal fiduciary” came to mind.

  “It’s yours but it’s not yours, Velvel,” he said. “It’s there, but nobody’s handing it to you. You can see for yourself that it’s not the kind of thing you put through a probate court. Fifteen percent of the action on the Brooklyn docks, a third of the union operation, the Colombian business, the lottery tickets.… Even a lot of the legitimate stuff isn’t written down anyplace. For example, Max had half the Grace Hotel in Vegas with Luigi Spadafore, OK. But where is Max’s name? No place. That’s what I mean. It’s all there, but it’s not there. Max had it because he was Max. The lokshen didn’t fool with him because he knew where the bodies were buried. But you’re not Max. You want it, you gotta take it.”

  Gordon laughed. “Take it? You mean go to the mattresses? Bring in the hit men? Shoot it out with Luigi Spadafore and the Mafia? Jesus, Nate, you kidding or what? That kind of stuff doesn’t happen anymore—this is 1982. I’m a journalist, for Christ’s sake. I’ve got two Pulitzers. I had dinner last week with Arthur Schlesinger.”

  Belzer frowned, trying to place the name. “Arthur Schlesinger? I saw him on PBS. Little fellow with a bow tie. Listen, Velvel, you think the lokshen will hand over five hundred million bucks because you’ve been on Meet the Press? I want you to think about this. You don’t have to take the money. You make a good living right now, and when your father passes on you’ll get a few million. That’s plenty. Max knew that. He said to tell you he wouldn’t mind if you passed on the whole deal. It’s up to you.”

  “And what if I pass? What happens to the money then?”

  Belzer sighed again, and shrugged eloquently. “If you pass, there is no money,” he said. “It goes to Max’s partner, Luigi Spadafore. Some goes to the other Families. It goes to anyone willing to do what’s necessary to pick it up.”

  “How about Max’s own people?” asked Gordon. “I mean, some of them must be able to take it, or some of it.”

  Belzer laughed, a hollow sound. “Max’s people? You mean the alter kockers out there in the other room? You gotta be kidding. Most of them make pee-pee into bags these days. Half of them are in Florida, drooling over their gin-rummy hands. We got no people left, Velvel. Just Max, your father and me, and some bookkeepers. And a few dozen safety deposit boxes with a lot of insurance-type information.”

  “And half a billion bucks,” Gordon said.

  Belzer nodded slowly. “Yeah, and half a billion bucks.”

  “Listen, Nate, supposing I decide I want the money. What do I have to do? I mean, specifically?”

  The old man raised his hands in a palms-up gesture. “If you want me to say specifically, I have a few ideas,” he said. “You’d need to meet with Luigi Spadafore, and discuss things, try to come to an agreement. Basically you’d have to convince them that they need you, or that it would be dangerous for them to fight you. Either way, it won’t be easy, I promise you that.”

  For a moment, Gordon tried to imagine himself frightening a group of mafiosi. “I wouldn’t know how to begin, even—”

  “I know, I know,” said Belzer. “Look, Velvel, you remember that Godfather movie? First, Don Corleone had his oldest son in the business. Then he gets killed, and they bring in the young one, what’s-his-name—”

  “Michael,” Gordon said automatically.

  Suddenly Belzer’s voice became a hoarse whisper, an uncanny imitation of Marlon Brando. “Listen, Michael, after I’m gone, one of the captains is going to try to set up a meet. And that’ll be the traitor.” His voice returned to normal. “You think that’s Hollywood, but it’s real life. For them it’s a family business, the father passes it on to the son. They grow up knowing how to operate. But for us, it was a whole different thing. Our fathers were tailors, pushcart immigrants. Our kids are doctors, lawyers, journalists like you. For us, it was never a way of life, just a way to make a good living, maybe get a few of the finer things. You think Max ever dreamed he’d end up with five hundred million bucks? Who knew? Who prepared?”

  “Nate, I’m going to need some time to think about this,” Gordon said. “Who can I talk to about it?”

  “Talk? You can talk to anybody you want. We don’t have a code of silence or blood oaths or any of that goyim naches. But remember this—you talk to someone, he’s been talked to. He knows. And you can’t make him un-know, if you see what I mean. So I’d be careful.”

  “I still don’t understand why my father isn’t here,” Gordon said. “Doesn’t he know about Max’s will?”

  “He knows,” said Belzer, “and I gotta tell you, he doesn’t approve. He didn’t want to be here, I told you that.”

  “Why not?” asked Gordon. It occurred to him that his father might be jealous.

  “I can’t speak for your father, Velvel. You should talk to him yourself.” Belzer reached across the desk and gathered up the folder, sliding it into a drawer and locking it in one practiced motion. Clearly the meeting was over.

  “Nate, one more question. Supposing I decide to take the money, or some of it. Will you be there to help me? I wouldn’t even know how to find Spadafore, or what to say. And I still don’t have a real idea of how the money is tied up, or where.”

  Belzer put his hands flat on the desk and pushed himself out of the seat with a perceptible effort. Gordon stood too, and noticed that, despite the air conditioning, the seat of his pants was damp. “I’ll be around for a while,” he said, walking around the desk and taking Gordon’s elbow. “I’ll do what I can. But I’m an old man, Velvel; and this isn’t an old man’s game.”

  That night, almost exactly at nine, the buzzer rang and Jimmy, the night doorman, announced that Jupiter was in the lobby. Promptness was one of Jupiter’s virtues, formality one of her defenses. Although she had been to Gordon’s apartment a hundred times, she always insisted on being announced. It was, he knew, one of the many ways she had of keeping a small, hard distance between them.

  “Jupiter Evans?” he said to Jimmy. “Never heard of her.”

  The doorman laughed, as he always did. Once, after a rare visit from his father, a friend in the next building had told Gordon that he overheard Jimmy bragging to the neighboring doorman that Gordon was a connected guy. Since then, Gordon had made a point of exchanging Cagney-type wisecracks with the doorman.

  “She looks all right to me,” he said. “Should I send her up, boss?”

  Jupiter came in wearing a Yale sweatshirt, a pair of tight faded jeans and red high-top Converse All-Stars. And a thirty-five-thousand-dollar full-length mink. At the door she posed for a brief moment like a fashion model, one hip thrown out and lips puckered. Then, when she saw the hungry look on Gordon’s face, she gave him a chaste kiss on the lips, tossed her coat over a chair and plopped down on the couch.

  Gordon poured them each a Wild Turkey on the rocks—her first, his third. He had never lost hope, even after so many years, that he would someday say the magic words that would make her stop being what she always would be. The booze gave him a quicksilver optimism and the illusion of eloquence. It also dulled the pain. Sometimes he could get through an entire night pretending to be as detached and cool as she was; but this wasn’t going to be one of those times. Tonight he would reach out for her, and she would, with humor and exquisitely calibrated distance, say no. Tonight it would hurt. And so, tonight, he would be drunk.

  “I saw you on the news,” said Jupiter. “You looked very handsome in that black suit.” She let her gaze run over him, now back in jeans and a Wisconsin T-shirt. “I take it you’re out of mourning,” she added in a droll tone. “Think you’
re up to a steak and salad at Barney’s? My treat.”

  “I thought we’d order in Chinese. I want to talk to you about something.”

  A wary, weary look came over Jupiter’s face. “What’s on your agenda, William?” she asked.

  “Nothing special, really,” he said. Gordon still hadn’t decided whether to tell her about the will. He was tempted; Jupiter was shrewd about money and people, especially him. It made him uncomfortable to admit it, but she knew him better than anyone; she was the only person in the world who had seen him beg. On the other hand, he was afraid that she would find the story ridiculous, and him comical for taking it seriously. He decided not to decide; he would just talk, and see what came out.

  “Did Max leave you a lot of money?” she asked, as if she had read his mind. Jupiter could do that. Sometimes they would be drinking together in a bar and she would casually nod toward a woman at a distant table and say, “She’s one,” meaning a lesbian. Invariably, it was someone Gordon had noticed and wondered about. Before meeting Jupiter he had rarely thought about lesbians; now they seemed to be everywhere.

  “Uh, that depends on what you mean by a lot of money,” he said. “Its all sort of up in the air right now. But let’s say he did leave me a lot. Would that make a difference?”

  “To you or to me?” she asked, smiling.

  “To you.”

  “That would depend on how much it was,” she said, still smiling, but paying attention, too. “I’ve always wanted to own a big boat. Could you buy me a big boat?”

  “Let’s say I bought you a big boat. Would you marry me?”

  “We’ve been through this before,” she said. “You forget Mexico already? Marriage isn’t the solution to your problem or mine, you know that.”

  “Kesef yanes akel,” Gordon said. “That means ‘money solves everything.’ My aunt Ida says that.”

  “Your aunt Ida is an old Jewish lady with emphysema and vulgar jewelry,” said Jupiter in a tight, cruel tone. “If you’re going to quote from the sages of your people, pick somebody a little more profound.”

  “OK, as Moses said to Pharaoh, fuck you,” Gordon said. He got up to pour himself another drink and came back with the bottle. Jupiter held out her glass for a refill, and then put a placating hand on his arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But you know I don’t like playing pretend with you. It hurts us both too much.”

  “Listen,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “You want a big boat or don’t you want a big boat?”

  “Goddamn it, you know what I want,” she said. “I want a baby. I want to be normal. I want to go home and be by myself.” Jupiter was on her feet, already pulling on the mink. Gordon grabbed a sleeve and she lost her balance, falling back onto the couch. He leaned over and held her hard by the shoulders. Their faces were close enough for him to see the flecks of yellow in her brown eyes.

  “I can give you a baby,” he said, hoping that this time, the magic words would come and open the gates. “I can give you a normal life, and a boat, and any goddamn thing you want. I can—”

  “You can give me another drink, sugah,” she said, affecting a Southern accent. Gordon cursed inwardly; the magic words weren’t about to open anything that night. He kissed her gently on the cheek, the way he always did after one of these scenes, like a man smoothing the sheets of a rumpled bed.

  “I like you when you’re sweet, Will,” she said. “Be sweet tonight, and let’s not drive each other crazy.”

  “How big a boat?” Jupiter asked, wiping the juice of her second nineteen-dollar hamburger off her lips.

  Barney’s was full that night and, as usual, people were staring at Jupiter Evans. She ignored them, and for most of the meal she pretty much ignored Gordon as well, devouring the burgers with a carnivorous concentration that belied her quiche-and-mineral-water image.

  “You eat like a linebacker,” Gordon said.

  “I eat like a healthy growing girl. How big a boat?”

  “Let me ask you a question. How much did you earn last year?”

  She paused, fork in midair, considering. “With the money for the movie, and counting past royalties for TV stuff and so on, pretty close to five million dollars,” she said. Although she tried to keep her voice level, Gordon detected a note of pride; there was more than a little carnivore in Jupiter when it came to money, too.

  “Well, let me put it this way,” he said. “Potentially, what my uncle left me, the interest on it alone is about ten times that.”

  “What!” she said, loud enough for the people at nearby tables to turn and look.

  “Yeah, you figure it out, you’re good with numbers. Four, five hundred million at, say, eight percent. Most of it tax-free. I guess it comes to more than fifty million when you think of it that way.”

  “This is a joke, right? Your uncle couldn’t have been that rich.” Jupiter had stopped eating and her brown eyes shone. Plainly she was fascinated. Incongruously, Gordon recalled Kissinger’s old line about power being an aphrodisiac, and felt a swelling in his crotch. Next time I see Henry I’ll tell him I got a hard-on because of him, Gordon thought.

  “Rich, richer, richest,” he said to Jupiter, feeling optimistic again. “Crime pays, it turns out.”

  “Five hundred million dollars,” she said, turning the phrase slowly on her tongue. “Just thinking about it gives me a chill. You really could give me a big boat, couldn’t you?”

  “And a baby,” he said. For the first time in three years, Gordon felt as if he might have a real chance with Jupiter Evans. He had suddenly discovered the magic words.

  He awoke early the next morning, but not early enough to find Jupiter still in his bed. There was only a hastily scrawled note: “Had to go. Early exercise class. You were wonderful last night. Call you later. Love, J.”

  Gordon had a high-quality Wild Turkey 101 hangover, but the adrenaline in his body was offsetting it nicely. She loves me, he thought. For my money, OK, but what the hell’s money for if not to buy happiness? Now all I have to do is find a way to keep the dough from a group of bloodthirsty Sicilian murderers and I’m all set.

  At seven-thirty he called his father’s number. The old man picked it up on the second ring and barked “Grossman.” Gordon pictured him sitting at the breakfast table with a cup of coffee, a toasted bagel with cream cheese and the sports page. “Grossman,” he said in reply. “How did the Knicks do?”

  “Won by eleven,” said the old man happily. “Beat the spread by three, which is how I went. I think I’ll use the dough to plant some trees for Max in Israel.” He laughed, and Gordon could almost smell the stale cigars and cream cheese on his breath.

  “You’re getting sentimental in your old age, Pop.”

  “Nah, Max would have done the same for me,” he said. “What’s a brother for, after all? Whataya want, Velvel, I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “You know about Uncle Max’s will, Pop?”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said. Gordon waited for more, but there was only silence.

  “ ‘Yeah, I know’? Your only son inherits half a—”

  “Shut up, Velvel!” Grossman exploded. “What the hell’s wrong with you, for crying out loud?”

  “Pop, what’s the matter—”

  “The telephone, you shmendrick. You got something to say to me, meet me where we had lunch last time. You remember? Twelve o’clock, sharp. All right?”

  The phone rang while Gordon was in the shower. Hoping it was Jupiter, he stumbled out, wrapped in a towel, and caught it on the sixth ring. It was Flanagan.

  “Top of the morning to you, boychik,” he said in a carefree tone. It was too early for him to sound like that, Gordon thought; he must be just getting home.

  “What’s on your mind, chief?” he asked.

  “Thought we might go over together, later on,” Flanagan said,

  “Go over together where?” asked Gordon.

  “To Ida’s. The shivah. Its a weeklong period of mourning
in case you didn’t know,” he said.

  “Ida’s probably on her way to Vegas.”

  “Vegas! She wouldn’t do that; Max isn’t even cold yet,” he protested. He seemed genuinely shocked.

  “Listen, Flanagan, do you fuck with a rubber?”

  “Yeah, when need be. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Catholics aren’t supposed to fuck with a rubber. Jews aren’t supposed to go to Vegas after their husband’s funeral. But nobody’s perfect. It’s an irreverent world.”

  “OK, so Ida’s in Vegas. Why don’t you come by the paper, we can go around the corner for a drink and talk.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Flanagan. “I want to hear what Nathan Belzer told you.”

  “How do you know what he told me?”

  “I don’t. But I saw your face when you came out yesterday, boychik. You know what you reminded me of? Of the way you looked in Saigon when you got the cables.”

  Until that moment Gordon hadn’t decided whether or not to tell Flanagan about his uncle’s will, but now he realized that he would. He had to tell someone besides Jupiter; it was too good a story to keep. “OK, I’ll meet you at three,” he said. “How will I recognize you?”

  Flanagan laughed at their old gag. “I’ll be the Catholic wearing the rubber,” he said.

  CHAPTER 4

  Gordon spotted the top of his father’s head as soon as he walked into the Emerald Isle. Grossman was sitting in a rear booth, wearing a gray tweed sport coat over a black turtleneck, bending over the Sporting News.

  The small restaurant was crowded with the usual mix of workmen in flannel shirts and jeans drinking lunch at the bar and junior TV types from nearby ABC kibbitzing in the booths. On the way to the table he heard the name Reggie twice, and Peter three times.

  Gordon had never met Reggie Jackson, but he vividly recalled his last encounter with Peter Jennings. They had been having dinner together at the American Colony Hotel in Jerusalem when Jennings was summoned to the phone. It was New York calling to inform him that he had just been voted one of America’s ten best-dressed men.