by Zev Chafets
Pietro leaned forward and looked intently into her eyes. “I know who you are,” he said. “I know you.” Those were the words that Claudette Lawton had said to her at camp, near the lake. Jupiter felt light-headed, a bit dizzy. For a moment it seemed to her that Pietro was Claudette reincarnated in a man’s body.
“Would you like to go to my place?” Jupiter asked suddenly, not even trying to hide the sudden urgency she felt. She had to find out right now about Pietro: whether she was simply responding to his charm and technique, or if her attraction was more profound. “We could have a drink, or, well, we could make love.”
Pietro smiled—it was the most disarming, gentle smile she had seen in her life. “We’ve been making love all afternoon,” he said, and Jupiter had to admit that, yes, that was just what she and Pietro Spadafore had been doing.
CHAPTER 18
When Gordon saw his father sitting in his usual rear booth in the Emerald Isle, he was so relieved that tears sprang to his eyes. Thank God he’s here, he thought; he’ll know what to do.
“Dad,” he blurted out, “they stabbed Flanagan.”
“I heard,” said the old man. “On the radio, coming in.”
“He’s going to pull through, though,” said Gordon. “I talked to Rosen at the paper, and he said that he’s going to be OK. Apparently the knife missed his heart by an inch or so.”
His father said nothing, and his face remained expressionless. “Dad, it was Spadafore who set this up,” Gordon continued. “I went out there today to pay a condolence call, and Sesti told me that he thinks we had Mario killed. He practically said that they were going to take revenge.”
“Yeah, I figured it was Spadafore,” said Grossman.
“And?”
“And I was right. I wouldn’t want to be the goombah who messed up the hit, I’ll tell you that.”
“That’s all you’ve got to say? I’m telling you that they tried to kill Flanagan and they want to get me too, and you’re feeling sorry for some Mafia guy you don’t even know?”
“It was just a figure of speech, Velvel. What the hell do you want me to say? I warned you, goddammit. We sat right here, in this booth, and I told you to keep away from Spadafore. I told you he was poison, but you’re a hotshot, you know everything.”
“OK, you were right,” said Gordon. “You want me to kiss your ass, fine. But right now I’m in trouble. I need your help, Dad. Don’t make me beg for it.”
“Last time we talked you called me a bastard for helping you, if you remember.”
“That was different,” said Gordon, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I was talking about interfering with my career. This is a matter of life and death. Jesus, listen to me, I sound like a soap opera, only it’s not, it’s real. There could be guys out there right now, waiting for me.”
“Yeah, and I could get caught in the cross fire, ever think of that?”
Gordon stared at him. The thought that he was endangering his father had never entered his mind. Grossman saw it in his son’s eyes. “How old are you, anyway? Forty-one, forty-two?” he demanded gruffly. “You got important friends, you go to dinner at the White House. Why don’t you get Ronald Reagan to give you a hand? Get him shot.”
Gordon squeezed his fingers together until the knuckles were white. He longed to reach across the table and grab his father by the throat and choke the arrogant meanness out of him. “You’re not going to help, fuck you,” said Gordon. “I’ll fight these guys myself.” He rose to go, but Grossman signaled with a nod of his head for him to remain seated.
“If you want my help, Velvel, from now on we do things my way. You send me out to Katmandu, wherever, I’d probably screw up, spell the names all wrong. But this ain’t South America, boychik, it’s New York, and Luigi Spadafore ain’t some Hottentot. So, you want me in, I’m in, but I run the show. Deal?”
Gordon could feel the heat rising in his cheeks. All his life he had resisted this domineering man, and now, in the prime of his adult life, he was turning himself into his father’s little boy again. But there was no choice, really; no one else to go to. “OK,” he said thickly.
“OK, what?”
“OK, goddammit, it’s a deal.”
“Fine,” said Grossman. “Now, first thing, I want you to tell me what’s happened. I want to know everything, every little detail. Don’t leave anything out. You can take your time; I already sold the Rangers tickets.”
Instinctively, Gordon organized his story into a news report, giving a full, concise account of the events of the past two weeks. At every turn he could see how his greed and his inability to control Flanagan had led to disaster. “I just don’t understand John,” Gordon said. “I mean, he’s always been a wild man, but never like this. That stunt with the cake, threatening Spadafore—it’s like he was looking to start a war or something.”
“Now you’re talking, boychik; that’s exactly what he was trying to do.”
“But why? Flanagan knows we wouldn’t have a chance. Two reporters against the Spadafore Family? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Why?” said Grossman. “I’ll tell you why. Because your buddy Flanagan is a burnt-out alcoholic Irishman who probably can’t get a hard-on anymore.”
“Dad, I don’t think that ethnic generalizations—”
“Who’s generalizing? You think I don’t know about generalizations. Jews are supposed to be smart, and look at you. I got nothing against Irishers who drink. The bars are full of sweet old guys with watery eyes playing darts and singing Toorah Loorah Loorah. But your pal Flanagan ain’t one of them. He’s got a death wish. Look, Velvel, I seen this plenty of times before. You ever hear of Ben Siegal?”
“You mean Buggsy Siegal?”
His father nodded. “Ben Siegal was just about the best operator in this city. He and Lansky began to run together around the same time Max got started. We were friends, all the Yidden—Lepke, Gurrah Shapira, even Dutch Schultz, although personally I thought he was an asshole. We helped each other out.”
Gordon realized that this was the first time he had ever heard his father explicitly discuss his underworld connections. For a moment, his professional curiosity overcame his fear.
“What kinds of things were you into?” he asked.
“Never mind that, we’re talking about Ben Siegal,” said his father. “He was always crazy—you don’t get a nickname like Buggsy for nothing—but it was a smart craziness, cautious. If Ben said he was going to rob a convoy in broad daylight, you could be sure that he already knew how many guns were aboard, what was the police protection, everything. In other words, he did things that sounded crazy but weren’t really so crazy when you looked closer.
“The thing is, Ben was a cowboy. He needed the excitement. Broads, booze, opium, betting, you name it, Ben was there. But there’s a catch—the older you get, the less that stuff does for you, except to give you the clap or screw up your liver. After a while, the only thing that still got him going was danger.”
“I thought Buggsy Siegal founded Las Vegas,” said Gordon.
“Yeah. He didn’t found it, there was already a town out there full of hayseeds, but Ben set up the first casino. He was a smart cookie. Until he started skimming. He was stealing from his partners—Lansky, Max, Genovese, Luigi Spadafore. Why, ’cause he needed the dough? Get outa here, Ben Siegal was a rich man. He did it for kicks, for thrills, so he could still get a hard-on. You think he didn’t know what would happen? He hadda know, he was around these guys all his life. But he didn’t care anymore. He was like a junkie.”
“So they shot him,” said Gordon.
“How old’s your buddy Flanagan?” asked Grossman.
“Forty-seven. Six years older than me,” said Gordon.
“There you are,” said Grossman. “See, Velvel, this ain’t a matter of ethnic generalizations. This business is like pro sports, you judge a guy by how he performs. Max had been the commissioner of baseball, Jackie Robinson would have been in
the majors in 1920. Flanagan is a type. He’s going down in flames, like a Jap kamikaze pilot during the war. You happened to be on board when he decided to plow into the battleship.”
“I gave him the keys to the plane,” said Gordon. “This never would have happened if I hadn’t got involved with Spadafore. I take the blame for that.”
“Spilled milk now,” said Grossman. “They know how soon Flanagan’s going to be back on his feet?”
“Rosen said about two weeks. Why?”
“Because we’re going to need him, that’s why.”
“Need him? You just got done saying how dangerous he is.”
“Yeah, under normal conditions. But things could get rough now, and Flanagan is a warrior. I want him with us.”
“You’re planning to fight Spadafore? Come on, Dad, you know we wouldn’t have a chance. We’ve got to find a way to convince him to call this off.”
“Velvel, you ever hear of NATO?”
Gordon gave him a surprised look. “NATO? What about it?”
“What’s the point of NATO? Deterrence, right? I know we can’t beat the Spadafores in a fight, but you deal with a guy like Luigi, you need some deterrence. Otherwise, he’s a wolf and you’re a lamb chop.”
“And Flanagan is our deterrence?” asked Gordon with a twinge of envy. In a fight his father wanted Flanagan, not him. “What am I going to be doing while all this is going on?”
“For now, you’re getting out of sight. I got a lady friend out in Scarsdale, Bev Friedman. She’s got a big house and she’s all alone. I want you to go there right now. Don’t stop to pick up anything at your place, whatever you need she’ll go out and get for you. You get there, stay in the house. No shopping in the mall, no drives around town, not even a walk. Stay put.”
“Does your friend know what this is all about?” Gordon asked.
“No details, and don’t discuss any with her. Another thing, you got any pals on the police force?”
Gordon shook his head. “Flanagan’s got a friend, a captain named Threkeld. Why?”
“Good, get in touch with Threkeld, use a pay phone. See if he can get some off-duty cops to guard Flanagan. I’ll take care of the bill, whatever it is.”
“How long do I have to stay in hiding?” asked Gordon.
His father shrugged. “A week, two weeks. Maybe longer. I’ll let you know.”
“Let me know? Where will you be?”
Grossman smiled. “Me? I’m going to Florida.”
CHAPTER 19
It was dark when Gordon drove up to Beverly Friedman’s big Colonial house on Harvest Drive. He parked in the circular driveway and rang the bell. “Who is it?” a voice called from the other side of the door.
“William Gordon,” he said, feeling foolish. “My father is Albert Grossman.”
The door swung open and Gordon saw a woman about his age in a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt that outlined her nipples. A blue band held her curly hair off her forehead, and she was barefoot.
“Hi,” he said. “I think your mother is expecting me.”
“I doubt it,” said the woman. “My mother’s been dead for nine years.” She laughed at the confusion on Gordon’s face. “I’m Bev Friedman,” she said, extending her hand. “I’ve been waiting for you. Please, come in.”
Gordon followed her into the spacious living room. “Can I get you something to eat?” she asked. “I didn’t know if you’d be hungry or not, but I’ve got a steak I could toss onto the broiler.”
“No, thanks,” said Gordon. “I’m not really hungry.”
“How about some coffee, then? Or a drink?”
“Bourbon, if you have any,” said Gordon. “Or Scotch.”
“One bourbon coming right up,” she said brightly. “On the rocks?” Gordon nodded. “You sit down and make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.”
Gordon inspected the records near the stereo. Jackie Wilson’s Greatest Hits, Aretha Franklin Live at the Fillmore West, The Best of Van Morrison. He tried to imagine his father with Bev Friedman. Did they go out to nightclubs? Was he keeping her? What did they look like in bed together? Christ, he thought, this girl is my father’s mistress.
Bev returned with two glasses. “Music?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“You like Bruce Springsteen?” Gordon nodded, and she hit a button on the tape deck. “The River,” she said. “It’s my favorite album.” She sat cross-legged on the semicircular couch. Gordon sat at the other end.
“I’m really sorry about all this inconvenience,” he said.
“Are you kidding?” she laughed. “I love having a celebrity for a house guest. I’ve heard so much about you from your father that I feel like I know you, but otherwise I’d probably be too intimidated to talk.”
“Intimidated?” said Gordon. “If anyone’s intimidating, it’s my father, not me.”
“Al? He’s a pushover,” she said.
“A real pussycat,” said Gordon. “Have you, ah, known each other long?”
“For a while,” she said. “We met at the mall. I’ve wanted to have you out to the house for dinner, but according to your father you’re always away somewhere, or busy. You must have a fascinating life, adventures, famous people, it seems so exciting.”
“It’s like anything else, you get used to it,” said Gordon. “Most famous people are dull when you get to know them.”
“Only if you’re famous, too,” she said. “Then you get to be blasé. Your father told me you’re friendly with Jupiter Evans. I think she’s wonderful. What’s she like? I mean personally. That is, if you don’t mind talking about her.”
“She’s just the girl next door,” said Gordon, and laughed. “I don’t want to keep you from whatever you’re doing. Don’t feel you have to entertain me or anything.”
“I’ll show you your room,” she said. “It’s my son Arthur’s room really, but he’s away at school. You can freshen up, and if you feel like it, come back upstairs and we can talk, or watch a movie. I rented some videos, just in case.”
“Did my father tell you why I’m staying with you?” Gordon asked.
“Not really. He said you were working on something and needed to get out of town. That didn’t sound like the real reason to me—I mean, after all, you must have better places to get away to than this. But it doesn’t really matter. I love having company, and if Al thinks it’s important, well …” She shrugged and Gordon saw her breasts swell together for a moment.
“I think I’d like to take a shower, if you don’t mind,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”
“Sure,” she said, leading Gordon down carpeted stairs to a boy’s room decorated with football posters and college banners. Bev gave him some towels and a pair of her son’s pajamas. The towels were soft and fluffy, and the pajamas smelled slightly of laundry powder.
“I’m afraid I won’t be around tomorrow,” she said. “The Temple sisterhood is having a bazaar, and I’m in charge, if you can believe that. But I’ll be back around five. I didn’t do any special shopping because I didn’t know what you’d want, but I’ll stop tomorrow on the way home. What kind of things do you like to eat?”
“Please, don’t fuss on account of me. I can heat something up or—”
“Don’t be silly, I love to cook. It’ll be fun. How about roast beef? There’s a great butcher in town. And I can make us a nice salad, maybe baked potatoes.”
“Sounds wonderful,” he said.
“And you need some clothes, right? There’s a Brooks Brothers at the mall.”
“I’ll go over tomorrow and get whatever I need,” said Gordon, but Bev shook her head. “Your father said not to let you out of the house.” She smiled. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll pick it up.”
“All I need are some shirts and underwear, socks and sneakers,” said Gordon. “And a couple pairs of jeans. The shirts are sixteen-thirty-three, and the pants are a thirty-four waist.”
“Any particular ki
nd of jeans?”
“I’ll trust your judgment,” Gordon said, feeling foolish.
“OK, I’ll get Levi’s,” she said. “You don’t look like a designer-jean type. By the way, Al calls you Velvel. Is that what you like to be called? I mean, as long as we’re living together.” She laughed, not quite hiding her embarrassment.
“Call me Will,” said Gordon. The name just slipped out. It was Jupiter’s name for him.
“OK, Will. You take a shower and get some rest. If you want anything, the refrigerator’s stocked, pretty much. I wind up throwing out half the stuff I buy, but when you’ve had kids, an empty refrigerator seems depressing. So help yourself, and feel at home.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” said Gordon.
“Don’t,” she said. “I love having a man around the house again.”
Gordon took a shower and put on the pajamas. Usually he slept in his underpants, but for some reason the pajamas fit his mood that night. He climbed into the soft queen-sized bed and closed his eyes; he couldn’t remember when he had been more tired. He wondered where Jupiter had been the past few days, and decided to call her the next day.
Just before dropping off, he thought about Bev Friedman—her almond eyes, her slight overbite, the arch of her bare feet, the tight jeans stretched across her small rear. She looked warm and juicy, like ripe fruit. Gordon hugged the pillow and felt his eyelids grow heavy, falling off to sleep thinking about his father’s woman.
CHAPTER 20
Al Grossman sat on the bench alongside a tennis court in the Century City complex and watched Harry Millman lob yellow balls over the net to a grandmother with a Billy Jean King headband and legs that looked like a relief map of the Mississippi River and its tributaries. Millman stroked the balls effortlessly, and ran the baseline with short, energetic strides, barely sweating. Grossman saw him in his little white tennis shorts and T-shirt with the alligator on the pocket and recalled a younger, less elegant Harry Millman, bashing a rubber spaldeen with a broomstick on Hester Street.
