by Zev Chafets
“Well, you sure as hell can’t go home,” said Threkeld. “Besides, I want you where I can find you. This isn’t just your business anymore, it’s a mob hit, and I want to know what you know about it.”
“Right now I don’t know anything,” said Flanagan. “Give me a few hours and maybe I will. I’ll call you when I get where I’m going, let you know what I find out.”
There was a pause, and Flanagan knew that Boatnay was considering his options. “OK,” he said finally. “It’s a free country, you can go where you want. But, John, I’m warning you as a friend, there’s a limit to how far I can go with you on this. If you try to take things into your own hands, you’re gonna wind up with me on your ass, you understand?”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said Flanagan. “Oh, and, Boatnay—I didn’t want to say anything about this before, but I think you’re putting a little too much starch in the sheets.”
Flanagan hung up and began getting his clothes together. The stitches in his stomach still hurt, causing him to move slowly, but his mind was racing. Somebody had killed Mario and Pietro Spadafore. The same person had tried to kill him. And now a hit on Grossman. But who? The old man, Don Spadafore? Why would he murder his own sons? A rival Mafia Family? What interest would they have in Grossman and him? There was only one possible answer—Sesti. With the sons out of the way, he would take over when Luigi died. He must have put the blame for Mario and Pietro on Gordon and his old man. And on him. Carlo, you clever bastard, he thought; wait’ll I get my hands around your fucking Limey dago neck.
Flanagan dialed the apartment, and an old man’s voice answered. “This is John Flanagan,” he said. “I want to talk to Gordon.”
“He’s asleep,” said the voice. “Are you the guy came with Velvel to Max’s funeral? This is Abe Abramson talking.”
“Bad Abe! Yeah, I’m the one. Give me the address over there, I got to see Gordon right away.”
“Not so fast, wise guy,” said Abramson. “What’s the password?”
“Your mudda done it,” said Flanagan.
“Yeah, you’re the guy, all right,” said Abramson. “You want me to wake up Velvel?”
“First give me the address, I want to get going. Then wake him up. Tell him that somebody just shot his old man at Grand Central Station.”
“Shot what? Somebody shot Al?”
“That’s right, he’s in the hospital. Tell Gordon before he hears it on the radio, and then keep him there. Don’t let him go running out. I should get there in half an hour. Tell him I said not to make a move without me.”
“Wait a minute, what the hell are you talking about? Is Al all right? What hospital? Who shot him?”
“Not on the phone, OK? I’ll be there in half an hour and tell you everything I know. Just keep the lid on things.” Abramson heard the phone click.
“Was that Al who just called?” asked Harry Millman. He was sitting at a card table playing pinochle with Pupik Feinsilver, Sleepout Levine and Kasha. “You should of told him to bring over some broads.”
“No, it wasn’t Al,” said Abramson in a flat tone. “Al’s shot. Spadafore’s guys got him in Grand Central Station. He’s in the hospital.”
In the shocked silence, Abramson could hear Sleepout Levine’s dentures click, and Millman nervously shuffle the cards. Pupik Feinsilver was the first to speak. “Somebody’s got to tell Velvel,” he said. “Poor kid. First his girl, and now this.”
“Yeah, poor Velvel,” said Sleepout. He was already wondering what time the next plane to Florida was.
John Flanagan climbed out of the cab in front of the nondescript apartment building on Sixty-third. He looked up and down the street and saw no one. Satisfied, he squared the Borsalino on his head, and took the elevator up to the third floor.
Abe Abramson opened the door, and Flanagan saw the look of relief on the old man’s face. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Velvel ain’t taking the news too good. He’s in the bedroom.”
Beyond Abramson, Flanagan saw six dejected-looking old men sitting in the living room. The only one he recognized was Harry Millman. “I’m John Flanagan,” he said in a strong, confident tone. “I’m in charge now. First thing I’m going to do is talk to Velvel. Then I want to meet with all of you.” The old men looked at him vacantly and nodded; no one said a word.
He found Gordon lying facedown on the bed. “Kid, it’s me,” he said, putting an arm around Gordon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry as hell about your father.”
Gordon raised himself on one elbow. Flanagan could see from his swollen eyes that he had been crying, and smell from his breath that he was drunk.
“Jesus, John,” Gordon mumbled. “They’re killing everybody. I can’t believe it’s happening, right here in New York. It’s like a nightmare. How could things have gotten so out of control?”
Flanagan was tempted to slap Gordon across the face. He loved those scenes in the movies where the combat veteran snaps the young kid out of his battle shock with one quick blow. But Gordon looked too beaten to respond. Flanagan realized that he would have to keep him away from the troops while he rallied them; there would be time to bring him around later.
“Listen, kid, your father’s going to be OK,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go see him in the hospital. Honest, everything’s going to be all right now. I can handle it.”
“My father said you were a warrior,” Gordon mumbled.
“Did he?” asked Flanagan, delighted. “Well, your old man was right. We’re going to kick the shit out of these humps, I promise you.”
Gordon grinned weakly and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when it’s over, chief,” he said, and fell back into a drunken sleep.
Before going back into the living room, Flanagan looked at himself closely in the mirror. He was a warrior, by God. You’re fucked, Sesti, he said to himself. Your ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.
Flanagan knew he needed a plan. Taking on the whole mob was out of the question, but somehow he had to think of a way to get to Spadafore and Sesti. He had no doubt that he’d come up with something, but whatever it was, he’d need help. Right now, his only allies were the frightened old men sitting in the living room. Somehow, he’d have to shore up their morale.
Flanagan strode into the living room. “The only guy here I know is Bad Abe,” he said in a strong voice. “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.” One by one, formally and a bit shyly, they mumbled their names. No one, he noticed, used his nickname. Even Sleepout referred to himself as Louis Levine. Flanagan knew who they were, although he gave no sign of recognition; Grossman had gathered quite a group.
“I’m John Flanagan,” he said when they had finished. “You can call me Mad Dog.” The old men raised their eyebrows and shrugged at one another, unsure of how to react to the tall goy in the hat.
“Right now I’m the proudest guy in New York,” Flanagan continued. “Why am I proud? Because I’ve just been introduced to the goddamndest collection of tough guys in the history of this city. Kasha Weinstein. Zuckie Zucker. Indian Joe Lapidus. Pupik Feinsilver. Sleepout Louie Levine. Bad Abe Abramson. And Handsome Harry Millman. This is the goddamn Hall of Fame here,” he said, letting his voice rise to a near shout. “A lineup of legends. Fucking superstars. It will be an honor to lead you men into battle.”
Feinsilver coughed. “Look, Mr. Flanagan, it’s nice of you to say so and all, but there ain’t gonna be no battle. We’re going home.”
“Yeah,” said Levine. “No offense, but we ain’t never heard of you. We was hired by Al to do a job, and Al’s not here now. That’s that.”
“You were hired by Al to protect his son,” said Flanagan.
“It’s no good, Mr. Flanagan—”
“Mad Dog.”
“Yeah, Mad Dog,” said Weinberg in an ironic tone. “We were only kidding ourselves. A bunch of old men, up against the Spadafores? Forget it. We don’t have a chance and neither does Velvel. The best thing he can do is make a run for it. Th
at’s my opinion.” Most of the others nodded in agreement, but Flanagan noticed that Indian Joe and Millman looked grim.
“How about it, Handsome Harry,” said Flanagan. “You too old to fight?”
“Goddammit, I never punked out in my life,” said Millman.
“Me neither,” said Indian Joe. He turned to Weinberg. “You should speak for yourself, Kasha. Not everybody here is yellow.”
“I’m not yellow, I’m sensible,” said Weinberg in a hurt tone. “We got nothing, no plan, no leader except this character, nothing. How the hell we gonna fight Spadafore?”
The phone rang, and Abramson picked it up. The others fell silent, afraid of more bad news. They saw a look of astonishment come over Bad Abe’s face.
“Who is it?” asked Flanagan, annoyed that the momentum of his pep talk had been interrupted.
Abramson put his hand over the receiver. “It’s Jerry Shulman,” he said in a thick whisper. “He heard about Al on the radio. He says he’ll be here tomorrow.”
Flanagan had no idea who Jerry Shulman was, but he could tell from Abe’s urgent tone, and the amazed looks on the faces of the others, that he was someone special. Flanagan scowled; this was his show and he wasn’t in the mood for intruders. “Tell him we’re not receiving visitors,” he said loudly.
Abramson ignored him. “Sure, Jerry,” he said into the mouth-piece. “They’re all here.… Tomorrow at eleven?… I’ll tell them.… God bless you, Jerry. Good-bye.”
He hung up and everyone began speaking at once. Abramson held his hand up for silence.
“Jerry said to ask you all to stay until he gets here,” he said. “He says we owe it to Al.”
“Christ, I thought he was dead,” said Harry Millman in a dreamy voice. “Jerry Shulman …”
“Jerry’ll know what to do,” said Zuckie. “Jerry always knew what to do.”
“I still say we don’t have a chance,” said Weinberg. “Shulman’s as old as the rest of us. With or without him, taking on Spadafore is suicide.”
“Suicide my ass,” snorted Millman. “What are we doing down in Florida? I’d a hell of a lot rather go out fighting like a man than wind up in the Hebrew Home for the Aged with oatmeal dribbling out of my nose. Besides, we got Jerry now.”
The others nodded; resentfully, Flanagan saw that Shulman’s name was magic. Well, he thought, if you can’t fight them, join them.
“Goddammit, with Jerry Shulman here, how can we lose?” he demanded in a strong voice. He would find out later who Shulman was and what he wanted; right now, he had no other card to play. “I’m not gonna let Jerry come all the way up here to find a bunch of quitters. Every man here has to decide right now. Either you stay, same deal as before, or you leave, no hard feelings. Harry?”
“I’m in,” said Millman.
“Me, too,” said Indian Joe. “Harry’s right, I got nothing waiting for me in Miami.”
“Count me in,” said Abramson. “Allie would have done the same for me.”
“You’re sure Shulman’s coming?” asked Zucker.
“That’s what he said,” Abramson said.
Zucker nodded. “OK, then. You got me.”
“You’re all nuts,” said Weintraub. “You don’t have a chance.”
“Goddammit, Kasha, you yellow momser, shut up,” snapped Millman.
“How about it, Kasha?” asked Flanagan, staring directly into Weintraub’s eyes. “Yes or no?”
Weintraub looked at the faces of the others and sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “You only live once, what the hell.”
“What about you, Sleepout?” said Flanagan.
“Did Jerry say he had a plan?” asked Levine. Abramson shook his head. “He just said to wait.”
“Jerry Shulman says to wait, I wait,” said Levine.
“That’s it, then,” said Flanagan. “Everybody’s in.”
“In that case, we might as well eat,” said Pupik Feinsilver. “How about some latkes? I could whip some up in a jiffy.”
“Great idea,” said Flanagan. He went to a side table, poured himself a double shot of Seagram’s and raised his glass. “To the men of the Mishpocha,” he said grandly. “All for one, and one for all. Today we eat latkes; tomorrow, we conquer the world.”
CHAPTER 26
The first thing Flanagan did after dinner was to call Mike Collins, a retired crime reporter from the Trib. He and Collins were old drinking buddies. “Who’s Jerry Shulman?” he asked.
“Jerry Shulman,” Collins said in a fond tone. “Where’d you come up with that name?”
“I’m working on an organized crime piece, and somebody mentioned him. What can you tell me about him, Mike?”
“Last I heard, he was down in Florida, dying of cancer,” said Collins. Although he was retired, Collins liked to keep up; occasionally he and Flanagan met in a midtown bar and swapped stories.
“I’m more interested in his past,” said Flanagan. “I hear he was connected with Max Grossman.”
“You hear right,” said Collins. “He’s been retired for years, though. Teaches history in a college, if you can believe that.”
“A professor? Is he smart?”
Collins cleared his throat. “Jerry Shulman is the smartest guy I ever met,” he said.
“Smarter than Max, or Lansky or, I dunno, Luigi Spadafore?” asked Flanagan, trying to sound offhand.
“Smarter than Henry Kissinger,” said Collins with a finality that dismayed Flanagan. “Hell of a lot more trustworthy, too.”
“If he’s so smart, how come I never heard of him, then?”
“You just answered your own question, John,” said Collins.
Flanagan hung up, feeling angry and a little intimidated. Goddammit, he thought, this is my operation. He felt Pupik Feinsilver’s latkes rumble in his stomach and thought of Morgan Threkeld. Morgan could help keep an eye on Shulman; he could also prevent them all from dying of food poisoning. He picked up the phone and dialed the club in Harlem.
“M.T., here with thee,” Morgan Threkeld whispered in his Isaac Hayes voice. Obviously he had been expecting a woman.
“Morgan, it’s John,” Flanagan said. “I need your help. Do you think you could get away for a few days, come downtown and cook for me and some friends?”
The old man chuckled. “What’s the matter, John Flanagan, you turnin’ green from the bean cuisine of Big Arlene?”
“I’m not at Boatnay’s anymore,” Flanagan replied. “I’m holed up with seven old Jewish hoods, and I need a combination cook and chief of staff. You game?”
“Does a cat have a tail? Yass, Morgan will be there, just hold the chair. By the way, does Captain Threkeld know about this venture in community living?”
“No, and don’t say anything to him about it. I don’t want to get him involved.”
“You very thoughtful for a tall white man, John Flanagan. Who’s running your intelligence-gathering operation?”
“No one right now. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I thought you might be interested to know that Captain Bernard Threkeld has put himself in charge of the investigation into the shooting of one Albert Grossman.”
“Oh, shit,” said Flanagan. “Look, maybe you better not come down here, after all.”
“Naw, it’s cool. Boatnay don’t mess in my business and I don’t mess in his. Onliest thing is, I can’t be getting involved in any er, ah, illicit activities.”
“I just need you to cook and help me plan. And to keep up the morale of the troops. Nothing on the street.”
“In that case, as the little hand said to the big hand, see you in one hour’s time.”
The next morning, Flanagan arose early and found the tiny apartment bustling with activity. Pupik was in the kitchen preparing a spread of bagels and lox, pickled herring and Bloody Marys. Morgan Threkeld sat on the side of Gordon’s bed, helping the reporter work on his hangover with a homemade recipe of black coffee laced with rum, honey and garlic. Handsome Harry ran an old-fashioned stand-up
vacuum cleaner over the living room rug, and hollered at Kasha Weintraub to take out the trash. The others, faces covered with lather, jostled one another in front of the mirror in the cramped bathroom, or whistled as they spit-shined their shoes. By a quarter to eleven, the flat looked like a marine barracks on inspection day, and the septuagenarian men of the Mishpocha sat fidgeting in the living room, like schoolboys awaiting the visit of a beloved headmaster.
Precisely at eleven the doorbell rang. Abe Abramson rushed to answer it, and a moment later reappeared in the living room accompanied by a frail-looking, breathless old man. “It’s Jerry,” Abramson announced grandly, and then pointed to the others. “Jerry, look who’s here.”
Slowly, Shulman moved from one man to the next. They rose and shook his hand with great formality, displaying none of their normal banter. Shulman said a quiet word or two to each man, eliciting pleased, bashful reactions.
When Shulman reached Flanagan, the Irishman remained in his chair. Even seated, he was almost as tall as the old man, whom he regarded warily.
“Jerry, this is John Flanagan, Velvel’s friend,” said Abramson.
“Pleased to meet you, John,” he said, offering a surprisingly strong hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Flanagan blinked in surprise, and then regained his composure. “Yeah? From who?” he asked skeptically.
“From Al, down in Florida,” said Shulman mildly, ignoring Flanagan’s tone.
“He says to call him Mad Dog,” said Kasha Weintraub with a mocking grin, pointing a thumb at Flanagan. The others chuckled, but Shulman’s expression remained serious. “From what Al told me about him, the name fits,” he remarked in a respectful tone. The men looked at one another with raised eyebrows, and Flanagan felt himself relaxing. Shulman was all right; maybe they could do business after all.
“Where’s Velvel?” asked the old man. “I expected him to be here.”
“He’s a little under the weather this morning,” said Flanagan. “Nothing serious. He’s in the bedroom.”
