Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  When they stopped at a light the driver turned and said, “I can blow box, too. You believe this?” Gordon shook his head. “Watch,” said the cabbie. He inhaled some smoke, puckered his lips and exhaled, moving his head in a rectangular way. “See, the smoke box,” he said happily. “You don’t know this trick?”

  “I know the name of the capital of Albania,” said Gordon.

  “I know capital of Connecticut. Is Gartford,” said the driver. “My brother lives in Gartford. He teach me this trick. For single bars. To get girl’s attention.”

  Gordon looked at the cabbie’s license. His name was Jacob Gurashvili, a Georgian Jewish name. “Jacob, when did you leave Tiflis?” he said.

  “How you know I from Tiflis?”

  “A trick,” Gordon said. “Like the squares. You can use it to pick up girls.”

  “How I know where to say?” the driver asked grinning. He had a gold tooth in front, and his eyes were slightly crossed. He looked, Gordon thought, a little bit like a good-natured pirate. For a second, he was tempted to invite him into the studio and present him to Marty Bronstein as a visiting expert from the Soviet Union. For the first time that day, he smiled.

  The meter read $4.50. He handed Gurashvili a twenty. “Keep the change,” he said. “And just guess Tiflis. It usually works.”

  The cabbie regarded the bill with wonder. “Maybe I wait for you,” he said hopefully. “Private.”

  “I’ll be about an hour,” said Gordon.

  “One hour, one more twenty dollars bill,” said Gurashvili. “Off clock.” He gestured to the ticking meter and flashed Gordon a grin pregnant with complicity.

  “What the hell,” said Gordon. “Why not?” The paper would pay, after all. Besides, for some reason the thought of this cheerful, gold-toothed pirate waiting for him outside the studio reassured him.

  “Drive around, if you want,” he said. “Just be back by seven.”

  “I wait here,” said Gurashvili, pulling out a thermos and a well-worn copy of Penthouse. “Coffee break, U.S. style.”

  In the small studio, Gordon was greeted as an old friend by the receptionist. “The others are already here,” she said. “You know the way back to Marty’s office.”

  Marty Bronstein was the moderator of Wide World, a weekly foreign affairs show. An intense, balding man about Gordon’s age, Bronstein taught international relations at Columbia. His specialty was explaining the world in terms of American sports. Urgent international problems were always “fourth and goal,” world leaders either all-stars or bush-leaguers, bumbling diplomats “couldn’t hit a layup.” Recently, Gordon had heard him describe the pope as a “Vince Lombardi–like leader.”

  Gordon’s fellow panelists that evening were Amnon Noy, an Israeli professor on a sabbatical at NYU, and George Haladi, head of the Arab-American Human Rights Commission. Gordon had never met Noy, a slightly built, mild man with thinning sandy hair, but he knew Haladi from past encounters. He was an outgoing type with a loud voice and a mock humility that put Gordon off.

  “Well, it is the famous Mr. William Gordon,” said Haladi, shaking hands with a strong pumping motion. “Perhaps you can explain to a primitive Arab what it means to say that Yasir Arafat is a lifetime two thirty-five.”

  “Lifetime two thirty-five hitter,” corrected Bronstein. “It’s a baseball term meaning mediocrity.”

  “And what is the phrase for an excellent player?” asked Haladi.

  “Three hundred hitter,” said Gordon.

  “Not lifetime?”

  “Yeah, a lifetime three hundred hitter,” said Bronstein.

  “And who would you consider a lifetime three hundred hitter in our region, Professor Bronstein? Mr. Menachem Bee-gin?”

  “Naw, he’s a midget wrestler,” said Bronstein. “The Sky Lo Lo of the Middle East.”

  Gordon laughed. “Sky Lo Lo? I haven’t heard that name in years.”

  “The difference between your discipline and mine,” said Bronstein airily. “For you, only the contemporary matters; but for an academic, context is everything.”

  “I concur with you on Begin,” said Noy, entering the conversation for the first time. “He is, indeed, a small man. What we need is someone with vision, an Israeli Anwar Sadat.” He looked at Haladi for support, but the Arab snorted.

  “Sadat? A lifetime three hundred hitter with a very short lifetime,” Haladi said, grinning as he used the new expression.

  “Another Joe DiMaggio,” said Bronstein. “Elegant, stylish, cut down in his prime by injuries.”

  “What’s the topic today?” asked Gordon.

  Bronstein flipped some papers onto his desk. “The usual. Peace process. Palestinian self-determination, Israeli security. George and Professor Noy will each present his side, and then you hit cleanup with some sage commentary.”

  “I could give the Israeli position just as easily,” said Haladi with a cynical grin, glancing at Noy. “I know it by heart. Never again!” he intoned dramatically, rolling his r. “No Palestinian state, no talks with the PLO, no, no, a thousand times no!”

  “Perhaps, then, I shall give the Palestinian position,” said Noy. He was a mild man, but clearly he had no intention of appearing to be a pushover. “B’dam, B’ruh, nev’deh Falestine,” he chanted. “This means, in Arabic, ‘With blood and spirit, we will redeem Palestine.’ It is what Mr. Halabi’s friends actually want—”

  “Never again, never, never, never, a thousand times never—” Halabi repeated loudly, banging his fist into his palm for emphasis.

  “B’dam, B’ruh, nev’deh Falestine,” chanted Noy, raising his clenched fists like a demonstrator. Both men repeated the phrases again and again, each unwilling to stop before the other.

  “On, Wisconsin, on, Wisconsin, run right through that line.…” Bronstein began to sing. “Get that ball clear round Chicago, touchdown sure this time.…” He turned to Gordon. “Come on, William, where’s your school spirit?”

  Gordon felt a sudden wave of nausea. Once again he saw the image of fish wrapped in a newspaper; it seemed to him that he could smell the faint odor of rotting carp.

  “You’d better call in a substitute, coach,” Gordon said grimly. “I’m out of here.” As he started down the hall, both panelists fell silent. Bronstein, face red with anger and surprise, chased after him, catching him by the shoulder.

  “What do you mean, ‘out of here’?” he screamed. “We’ve got a show to tape tonight.”

  “Get Howard Cosell,” said Gordon, shrugging off the moderator. “Get Bozo the clown. I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t just walk out on me like this,” said Bronstein. “You’re supposed to be a professional.”

  “A professional what?” asked Gordon. “Listen, Marty, wake up. Nobody watches these shows. Nobody gives a good goddamn about foreign affairs, even the foreigners. Hell, especially the foreigners. I’m getting out of the commentator business.”

  Bronstein’s anger was replaced by a look of concern. “William, are you upset about your uncle? Is that it?” Gordon gave him a sharp glance. “How do you know about my uncle?” he demanded.

  “It was in the paper,” he said. “Listen, you’re upset, that’s all. You shouldn’t even be here. Damn, I should have been more considerate, but I didn’t realize you were that close. I’ll try to get Mike Kramer. Tina,” he called to the secretary in the next room, “get me Mike Kramer, right away. Try him at home. I’ll call you tomorrow, William, maybe we can work something out for next week. It’s Ethiopia.” He said it in the tone of a man offering an irresistible temptation.

  “Ethiopia, Cambodia, what’s the difference?” said Gordon, opening the door. “After you hit Turkey, it’s all one big Chinatown anyway.”

  Gordon walked up Sixth Avenue. He felt disoriented, like someone coming out of a darkened movie theater into the sunlight. At the corner of Fifty-seventh he saw Gurashvili sitting in the cab. “You make quickie,” the Russian observed nervously. “Is still one more twenty dollars?”
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  “No problem,” said Gordon. “Take me up to Columbus and Seventy-ninth.”

  Reassured, the cabbie smiled. “A deal is a deal,” he pronounced, edging the taxi into the traffic on Broadway.

  At the corner of Sixty-fifth Gordon saw a group of black teenagers swagger down the street with ghetto blasters in their hands. Gurashvili saw them too and cursed in Georgian.

  “You don’t like blacks?” Gordon asked.

  “Pushtaks,” said Gurashvili. “Hooligans. One hit me on head for money. Next time I shoot. With this.” He opened his leather jacket and waved a Smith & Wesson service revolver.

  “You’d really shoot somebody?” asked Gordon. Gurashvili nodded emphatically. “I no let nobody take from me my money,” he said. “Is the American way, not?”

  “Where did you get the gun?” Gordon asked. Gurashvili grinned, his gold tooth flashing under the streetlights. “In New York City, there is everything. Hamburger with works? Hamburger with works. Water mattress? OK, water mattress. Pistol? Pistol. This is all you need.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together.

  “Could you get me one of those?” Gordon asked, surprising himself by the question. He had fired a pistol before, but never owned one. It was a reporter’s conceit—the unarmed observer is untouchable. But after today’s lunch with Carlo Sesti, he no longer felt certain of his neutral status.

  “I give you this if you want,” said Gurashvili. “One hundred and seventy-five dollars and no cents. Wholesale price.”

  What the hell, thought Gordon. “OK. It’s a deal,” he said.

  “Good deal,” said Gurashvili. “Business is business.”

  Gurashvili parked his taxi in front of Gordon’s building, and Jimmy the doorman came out to open the door. “I got a message for you, boss,” he said in his Cagney voice. “From a certain dame.”

  “Jupiter?”

  “Yeah, she stopped by in a cab maybe half an hour ago. Said to tell you she couldn’t make it tonight. She’ll call in the morning.”

  “Was she alone?” Gordon asked, feeling foolish, but unable to restrain himself.

  “Naw, she had another chick with her.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Keep an eye on this cab for a few minutes, will you?”

  “Sure thing, boss,” said Jimmy.

  When they entered the apartment, Gurashvili gave an admiring whistle. “This real beautiful pad,” he said.

  “Have a seat,” said Gordon, motioning in the direction of the living room. “I’ll be right back.” He went into his bedroom and opened the small wall safe where he kept papers, his passport and a thousand dollars in cash. He counted out $175 and put the rest back, twirling the combination lock. When he came out of the bedroom he found Gurashvili at the window, looking down at the museum.

  “Here,” said Gordon, handing Gurashvili the bills. The cabbie looked at them for a moment before placing them carefully in his wallet. Then he removed the pistol and handed it, butt first, to Gordon.

  “Is it loaded?” he asked, taking it gingerly.

  “Six bullets,” said Gurashvili. “If you want more, I can get. Also, automatic pistol. Also, Uzi machine gun.”

  “What are you, an arms dealer?” asked Gordon. Gurashvili shrugged modestly.

  “What about the license for this one?” Gordon asked. “Isn’t it registered to you?”

  “Is unregistered,” said the cabbie. “Is …”—he searched for the phrase—“is privately owned and operated.” Gurashvili grinned widely, happy with his command of English.

  “Do you have time for a drink?” Gordon asked. Gurashvili looked at his watch, a gold Rolex. “Sure,” he said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Is that thing real?” asked Gordon, pouring two glasses of bourbon. “The watch, is it a real Rolex?”

  “Certainly real,” said the driver. “You want watch, I get you watch. Six hundred dollars and no cents.”

  “Not right now,” said Gordon. He raised his glass. “L’chaim,” he said.

  Gurashvili looked surprised. “How you know I am a Jewish?” he asked.

  “Another wild guess,” said Gordon.

  “Ah, you notice this,” said Gurashvili, pointing to a gold six-pointed star that hung on his hairy chest from a chain. “Is Mogen David, very good for tips.” He leaned toward Gordon, and lowered his voice. “In New York is very many Jewish.”

  Gordon recognized the confidential tone from a thousand off-the-record briefings with government officials. It was the sound of the obvious repackaged as classified information. How have I stood it all these years? he asked himself. Suddenly the revolver weighed heavily in his hand, and he felt exhausted.

  “Thanks for the gun,” he said, taking the now empty glass from Gurashvili. “Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

  The driver reached for his wallet again and took out a small engraved card: Jacob Gurashvili, import/export/transport. There was a Brooklyn phone number at the bottom. “You need something, call for quick home delivery,” he said. “Like Culligan man on TV.”

  “Right,” said Gordon, moving Gurashvili toward the door. In the hallway the cabbie pointed an index finger at Gordon. “Tiflis,” he said. “Tonight I try. Tiflis.” He grinned once more, his dental work flashing. “Hey, honey, you are from Tiflis, I bet. And then …” He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, and ran the index finger of his other hand through it. “America the beautiful,” he sighed, and walked down the hall toward the elevator.

  CHAPTER 7

  Luigi Spadafore sat in a large easy chair in the study of his Bensonhurst brownstone, idly spinning a globe that rested on an ivory end table. It was a custom-made globe, inlaid with two tiny diamonds—one set on Sicily, the other on New York—given to him by Carlo Sesti as a sign of respect. Spadafore had deeply appreciated the gesture. Almost alone among the men of the younger generation, Sesti seemed to understand and embody the values that Spadafore had cherished all his life—respect for tradition, elegant manners, loyalty, ruthless cunning and a finely calibrated sense of protocol.

  Spadafore’s own two sons were, by comparison, disappointments. Mario, past forty, was a sour, thick-bodied fellow with bad skin and strawlike hair, which he combed straight back over his skull like an old man. From boyhood, he had been exposed to the finest things—opera, theater, the great books, things that Spadafore himself considered necessary for a truly civilized man. Mario had eaten exquisitely prepared Italian meals from embossed china, ridden horses at the family ranch in Arizona, traveled to Europe with tutors. And all of this effort had produced an oaf, a man with no conversation or culture save the idiotic television programs he discussed at the dinner table. Mario dressed like an insurance salesman, drank beer out of cans and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, played gin rummy for small stakes and, Spadafore suspected, cheated. His one virtue was that he was a hard worker, well acquainted with the family business. But it pained Spadafore to know that his far-flung empire, carefully and sometimes brutally acquired over the course of a lifetime, would go to such a dolt.

  Of the second son, Pietro, who called himself Peter, there was even less to be proud of. The boy had no good qualities, except for exceptional beauty. He refused to settle down; at thirty-four he was still “dating,” an American custom that Don Spadafore considered demeaning for teenagers and, for an adult male, demented. Pietro called the women he squired around town “foxes,” did exercises like an athlete and listened to rock ’n’ roll music on a Walkman. On one occasion, Spadafore had walked in on the boy, stark naked save for the earphones, dancing alone in front of a full-length mirror in his bedroom. Pietro had seen his father’s reflection, laughed and said, “Well, you caught me, Pop.” Even now, it was a memory that made the old man wince.

  Like Mario, Pietro worked in the family business, but he had no head for it. He seemed unable to understand the simplest transactions, and, worse, far worse, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Don Spadafore knew that he discussed family affairs wi
th his girlfriends. Once he had been forced to silence a young woman who had learned too much. It had been an unpleasant experience, made more so by the boy’s seeming indifference to her sudden disappearance. Don Spadafore used violence when necessary—it was a part of his upbringing—but he tried to contain it within his own world. Although he had imposed the death sentence, he had done so with regret; it was far too harsh a penalty for a woman whose only crime had been listening to the prattle of his childish son.

  No, his true spiritual heir was Carlo Sesti, and for the past several years he had been depressed by the knowledge that Carlo would eventually have to be eliminated. Spadafore intended to pass his business on to his sons. Despite the fact that he despised them, it was tradition, they were his blood; Sesti, for all his fine qualities, was not. Spadafore knew that as long as he remained alive, Sesti would serve him loyally, but once he was gone, the consigliere would swallow Mario and Pietro like sardines. And this he could not allow.

  Sesti, the Don knew, was aware of the problem. The two men had discussed the question of succession several times in the past, and always Sesti had pledged to help the boys carry on. But the very fact that he made such a pledge indicated that the consigliere’s contempt for Mario and Pietro matched the Don’s. Sesti was a sophisticated man, and he understood Spadafore and his traditions. He knew that the Don would protect his sons; and he also knew that they had to be protected, first and foremost, from himself. Spadafore had consoled himself with the certainty that Sesti would understand the deep pain that this would cause the Don, and forgive him.

  But Spadafore had underestimated his consigliere. One night, several months before, as Max Grossman lay dying in his hospital bed, Sesti had approached Spadafore with a plan so Machiavellian, so subtle and yet so simple, that the Don had been almost overcome with admiration.

  That meeting had taken place in the Don’s study. The two men had spoken Italian that night. Spadafore was vain about his eloquence in the language of Dante, and admired Sesti’s grasp of it as well. Usually they conversed in English, or in Sicilian dialect; pure Italian they saved for particularly portentous occasions.