by Zev Chafets
“I’d like to go in to see him, if that’s all right,” said Shulman. “John, will you help me?” Leaning on Flanagan’s arm, he left the living room.
They found Gordon sprawled on his bed, with Morgan sitting nearby reading a copy of Jet magazine. “This is Jerry Shulman from Florida,” Flanagan said. “Morgan Threkeld, my friend and adviser, and you know Velvel.”
Threkeld’s hangover remedy had worked, but it had left Gordon a bit groggy. “Jerry who?” he asked Shulman thickly.
“Jerry Shulman,” said the old man. “I’m a friend of your father’s.”
“My father’s not here,” said Gordon. “He’s in the hospital.”
“I know,” said Shulman. “I called there from the airport, and they said we could stop by this morning for a short visit. I’d like to go with you if you don’t mind.”
“They told us no visitors,” said Gordon.
“One of the doctors there is the son of an old friend,” said Shulman blandly. “He’ll arrange it. Why don’t you take a shower and get dressed, and we’ll go over for a little while. And, John, if I could make a suggestion, maybe you should ask one or two of the boys to come along, just in case.”
Without a word, Flanagan picked up the phone and dialed Boatnay Threkeld. “Hey, Boatnay,” he said, “I need a favor.”
“John, where the hell are you?” demanded Threkeld. “I got half the damn police force looking for you.”
“Don’t worry about me, Officer,” he said airily. “I’m staying with friends. Listen, Boatnay, Gordon wants to go down to the hospital to see his old man, and he needs some protection. Could you send somebody to drive us over there?”
“Call a cab,” said Threkeld. “I’m not running a damn chauffeur service.”
“Look, Boatnay, drop the Kojak routine. This is my ass on the line, and I’m asking for help.” He heard the police captain sigh.
“All right, give me the address and I’ll take you down there myself. But I want some answers from you, John. I’m not playing.”
Suddenly Flanagan remembered Morgan Threkeld. “We’ll meet you on the corner of Sixty-fifth and Lex in forty minutes,” he said.
“Yeah, all right,” said Threkeld.
Flanagan put down the phone and turned to Shulman. “You wanted protection, I got us protection,” he said. When the old man said nothing, he added, “New York City police captain.”
Shulman made a low whistling sound, and Flanagan was gratified to see that he was impressed. “You’re not the only one with friends in this city,” he said.
There were police guards at the door of Al Grossman’s private room, but a nod from Threkeld was enough to get them to open the door. “I’ll wait out here with Boatnay,” Flanagan said to Gordon and Shulman.
They found Grossman lying under an oxygen tent. The shower and the drive downtown had sobered Gordon up, but he was still woozy, and the sight of the long tube sticking out of his father’s arm made him feel faint. “Hello, Pop,” he murmured.
“What the hell took you so long?” Grossman said in a surprisingly loud voice. “You been busy, or what?” Then the old man saw Shulman and his eyes went wide. “Jerry,” he said in a softer tone. “You’re a little late.”
“I’m sorry, Allie,” he said. “You were right, I should have come when you asked me. This is my fault.”
“Aw, the hell with it,” Grossman said. “I ain’t dead yet. Thanks to you. You were right about that bulletproof vest.”
“The doctors say you’ll be fine, Pop,” said Gordon.
“I stopped believing in doctors when Ben Casey went off the air,” said Grossman. “Look, Jerry, it was Spadafore got to me. You gotta stop him before he hits shmendrick, here. You talk to him. He didn’t listen to me, but he’ll listen to you.”
Shulman shook his head. “It’s too late for that,” he said. “We got a war on our hands now.”
Gordon saw his father’s face flush. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now,” he said. “Don’t worry, Pop, whatever it is, Flanagan and I can handle it. You just concentrate on getting better.”
“Handle it, my ass,” Grossman snapped. “You stay out of this—it ain’t your kind of situation.” He looked at Shulman. “Jerry, keep him out of it, OK? He’s a good kid. I’m putting him in your hands, Jerry.”
Shulman looked at his old friend for a long moment. “I don’t think I can do that, Allie,” he said. “There may be a way out of this, but we’re going to need Velvel and Flanagan.”
Grossman smiled under the oxygen tent. “You got a plan, then? I knew you’d come up with a plan.”
“Let’s say I have an idea,” said Shulman. “Look, Allie, I’m going out now. You take a minute with Velvel. I’ll be waiting in the hall. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Grossman struggled to a sitting position. “I knew you’d come, Jerry,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”
Shulman walked slowly to the door and opened it with difficulty. “I’ll do what I can,” he said softly.
The door closed and Gordon found himself alone with his father. “Come ’ere, hotshot,” Grossman said. “I don’t feel like shouting all the way across the room.”
Gordon moved to the side of his father’s bed. The old man slid his free arm out from under the oxygen tent and took his son’s hand in a weak grip.
“Pop, honest to God, I’m sorry about all this,” Gordon said.
“Spilt milk, boychik,” said Grossman. “Just do me a favor and listen to Shulman. He’s the only chance you got. Promise me that you’ll listen to him and do what he says.”
Gordon nodded. “I’ll listen to him, I promise,” he said.
“Good. By the way, how’d the Knicks do last night?” he asked.
Gordon shrugged. “I’ll ask the nurse to bring you a paper,” he said.
A soft, faraway look came into Grossman’s eyes, and he pressed his son’s hand. “You know, I’ve always loved the Knicks,” he said. “They were always my team. A lot of times I’d sit in the Garden and give them a hard time when they screwed up, but I was proud of them, and I never stopped loving them. Know what I mean?”
Gordon felt a lump in his throat and swallowed hard. “I know what you mean, Pop,” he said. “I’ve always loved you, too.”
Boatnay Threkeld was gone when Gordon emerged from his father’s room. He found Shulman and Flanagan sitting in the visitors’ area. “Let’s get a cup of coffee in the cafeteria,” Shulman suggested.
They found a table near the back of the room, and Gordon brought over three cups of steaming coffee in Styrofoam cups. For the first time that morning, he noticed that Flanagan was in an uncharacteristically subdued mood. “Don’t worry, John,” he said. “It looks like my father’s going to be all right.”
“Yeah,” said Flanagan. “That’s great. Now we’ve got to start thinking about our next move. The way I see it, Luigi and that prick Sesti think they’ve got us on the run, which means that we need to counterattack, catch them off guard—”
“Wait a minute, chief,” said Gordon. “Jerry’s got an idea. I’d like to hear what it is.”
“Actually, it’s more like a premise,” Shulman said softly. “I think we need to examine the inner motivation of a man like Luigi Spadafore. He comes from a particular tradition—you might even say that he exemplifies that tradition—and there could be some leverage in that …”
“Inner motivation, tradition, my ass,” exploded Flanagan. “The man’s a Brooklyn greaser, I’ve been dealing with them all my life.” He glared at Shulman and then turned to Gordon. “Look, kid, no offense to pops, here, but we don’t need a lecture in Goombah Anthropology 101. We need to make some serious plans.”
“I’d like to continue,” Shulman said evenly. “It won’t take long, and, of course, the final decision is up to you.”
“Goddamn right,” said Flanagan. “Look, Shulman, I know your reputation. Everybody thinks you’re smarter than God. But this is New York, 1982, not 1932.
Your kind of brains went out with spats and the tommy gun—”
“Shut the fuck up, John,” said Gordon. “Mr. Shulman, I want to apologize for Flanagan. He’s been under a lot of pressure—we all have. Please, I’d like to hear what you’ve got to say.”
Unperturbed, Shulman placed a hand on Flanagan’s sleeve. Gordon could see the blue veins and the liver spots. “I think that John is right,” he said without rancor. “He’s put his finger precisely on the solution. This is New York, 1982. It’s your time, your city. My kind of thinking is out of date—and so is Luigi Spadafore’s.”
“Go on,” said Gordon. Flanagan, placated, remained silent.
“You see, until now, you’ve been playing according to Luigi Spadafore’s rules. Midnight dinners in Brooklyn—yes, your father told me about that—hit men, blood oaths, the whole Mafia mystique. As long as you go along, Spadafore will win. Because he’s a master of his game, and you’re not.”
“So, what we do is change the rules,” said Flanagan, interested in spite of himself.
“Exactly,” Shulman agreed. “You’re not criminals, you’re prominent citizens of an open society,” he said. “Nothing compels you to take Spadafore on frontally. Play the game on your turf, your way, and you can exploit your strengths against Spadafore’s weakness.”
“You mean turn him in to the police?” asked Gordon.
Shulman shook his head. “That won’t help,” he said. “You have no evidence of anything. And even if you did, his people would still be able to get to you. No, what we need is a decisive victory, something to convince him to call off the war. And to do that we need to hit him where he’s most vulnerable. We need to strike at his pride.”
“Now I’ve heard everything,” Flanagan exploded. “You think that if we hurt Luigi’s feelings, he’ll give up and go home? Listen, Gordon, let’s get out of here—”
“John, you can go if you want to, but I’m staying,” said Gordon.
“I told you a long time ago that this was my deal, and you’d do it my way or not at all. That’s the way it is. If you can’t accept that, I’m sorry.”
“Fuck you, kid,” said Flanagan, rising to go. “You want to handle things your way, go right ahead. I’ll see you around.”
“Sit down, John,” said Shulman in an icy tone of command that froze Flanagan halfway out of his seat. “It’s time you calmed down and stopped being so touchy. Now, listen to me. When I say hit Spadafore’s pride, I don’t mean hurt his feelings. We’re talking about a man who’s spent a lifetime inventing himself as a Sicilian aristocrat. Threaten that and you’ve struck at his most vulnerable spot. It can be done, but not without you.”
“What do you need me for?” asked Flanagan, still half standing. “You’re the genius, you do it.”
“I’m a dying old man,” said Shulman mildly. “Tomorrow I’ll be on a plane back to Florida. I can give you advice, but you and Velvel will have to refine it into a plan, and execute it. Besides, you have the power, not I.”
“The power?” asked Gordon. “What power?”
“That’s obvious,” said Shulman, looking from Gordon to Flanagan. “The power of the press.”
Shulman spent the next two hours huddled with Gordon and Flanagan in the basement cafeteria, fleshing out a battle plan. Finally, exhausted, the old man asked to be taken back to the apartment. When they arrived, he found the men of the Mishpocha waiting nervously in the living room. He asked Gordon and Flanagan to wait in the bedroom while he said good-bye.
“I wish I could stay longer, but I’ve got to get back to Miami,” he told them.
“And leave us here?” demanded Sleepout Louie. “Jerry, we only stayed because we knew you were coming.”
“Velvel and Flanagan know what to do,” said Shulman. “We’ve worked out a plan.”
“No way,” protested Kasha Weintraub. “You go, we go. I’m not taking orders from these kids.”
“I want you all to stay here,” said Shulman in the same icy tone of command that he had used at the hospital. “And I want you to do exactly what Velvel and Flanagan say. They have my confidence. If you trust me, then you can trust them.”
“Velvel’s a nice boy, Jerry, but he’s a reporter. And this Flanagan guy’s a nut,” protested Zuckie.
“That’s exactly right,” said Shulman. “And that’s what’s going to win this war. Look, give them two days. Do exactly what they tell you, no matter how strange it seems. If you’re not convinced by then, you can come home. Will you do that for me?”
“Two days,” said Sleepout, looking at his watch. “Forty-eight hours, and then, good-bye Manhattan.”
After Shulman left, Flanagan called Kasha Weintraub into the bedroom. “Kasha, what do you know about credit cards?” he asked.
“What does Willie Shoemaker know about horses?”
“Do you think you could get me the American Express and Visa numbers for a guy named Carlo Sesti?”
“Visa I can get you right now,” he said. “I got a friend at the company. American Express will take me until tomorrow.”
In the meantime, Gordon dialed a Brooklyn phone number. It answered on the third ring and he heard a familiar voice.
“Jacob Gurashvili?”
“Is speaking in person.”
“This is William Gordon. I, ah, purchased something from you the other day?”
“Ah, Tiflis!” the cabbie exclaimed happily. “You need another merchandise?”
“I might,” said Gordon. “I was wondering, do you ever do any private driving?”
“You mean free?” asked Gurashvili cautiously.
“No, private. I want to hire you and your cab privately for a week. I’ll pay you one thousand dollars.”
“Where you want to go? California?”
“No, right here in the city. Is it a deal?”
“A deal,” said Gurashvili happily. “Good deal. Business is business.”
Gordon hung up and winked at Flanagan. “I got us a driver, chief,” he said.
“Yeah, and Kasha’s going to get Carlo’s card numbers. Looks like we’re ready to roll. Let’s go in and tell the troops.”
Flanagan and Gordon strode into the living room. “Let it be noted that the great war between the Spadafore Family and the Mishpocha began today, December eleventh, at six-forty-five P.M.,” Flanagan intoned, looking dramatically at his watch. “Now, with your permission, Don Velvel here will put you in the picture.”
Briefly, Gordon outlined the plan, based on Shulman’s original premise, with embellishments by Flanagan. When he was finished, seven pairs of watery old eyes gleamed with admiration. “I been in this racket all my life, and I ain’t never heard nothing like this,” said Pupik Feinsilver, speaking for everyone else.
The next morning, armed with Carlo Sesti’s credit card numbers, the members of the Mishpocha fanned out to public phones all over the neighborhood. Each had a copy of the yellow pages and thirty dollars in quarters. Between eleven in the morning and two-thirty in the afternoon, they ordered 419 large pepperoni pizzas from 281 pizza parlors throughout the city. The address and time of delivery were all the same—Luigi Spadafore’s mansion at 4:00 P.M.
Flanagan himself scanned the yellow pages for businesses that advertised same-day service. He ordered sixteen collections of doowop records, twenty-one bouquets of flowers, three male strippers and a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. All were sent to Luigi Spadafore and charged to Carlo Sesti.
Next, Flanagan called a friend at the Daily News. “Mike, this is John Flanagan. Yeah, you heard right. I left the Trib. The cheap bastards wouldn’t take care of my hospitalization. Listen, I got a great story for you. You know Luigi Spadafore? Yeah, that’s right, the Mafia guy. Well, he’s holding a New York championship pizza-eating contest out at his house today in Brooklyn.… I don’t know why, maybe it’s like Columbo, when he did that Italian Anti-Defamation thing, you know, for the PR … Yeah, I know, it is an incredible story. The address? Yeah, I got it right her
e.…”
At four o’clock, when the first of the delivery vans began pulling up alongside Luigi Spadafore’s mansion, they were greeted by five TV news crews, a dozen press photographers and reporters from every newspaper and wire service in the city. Jacob Gurashvili was there too, equipped with a speaker system that blared the Dean Martin rendition of “That’s Amore” over and over.
Spadafore’s guards tried to move the cameras away from the mansion, and scuffles broke out between the reporters and the hoods. Enraged delivery men, their vans caught in a colossal traffic jam, joined the fray, and within a few minutes, half a dozen squad cars, sirens screaming, arrived to restore order. The camera crews turned their attention to the melee, forcing the hoods to flee, hats over their faces, into the large brownstone.
Luigi Spadafore sat in his heavy armchair and looked out the window with uncomprehending eyes at the chaos in front of his house. The phone rang, and his private secretary buzzed.
“Someone named Mad Dog Flanagan,” he said.
Spadafore picked up the phone. “Hi, Luigi,” said a voice he recognized instantly. “What’s new?”
“I should have known you were behind this,” he muttered.
“Yeah, Flanagan’s back. Tell that to your consigliere. Flanagan’s back and you’re going down. I’m coming out there and burn your mansion to the ground. I’m gonna rape your women and slaughter your cattle. I’m gonna crucify you on a telephone poll, you disgusting greaseball. I’m gonna—” Flanagan heard the click and smiled to himself. “Temper, temper, Luigi,” he said.
At six, Flanagan gathered the Mishpocha in front of the TV set in the living room. Gordon remained closeted in one of the bedrooms, where he had spent the entire day. The aroma of Morgan Threkeld’s fried chicken and biscuits wafted out from the kitchen.
“This afternoon, a quiet Brooklyn neighborhood became the scene of what police are calling the Bensonhurst Pizza Riot,” intoned anchorman Jack LeDuff. “The riot broke out when an angry mob of pizza delivery persons gathered in front of the mansion of reputed crime lord Luigi Spadafore, who, they say, ordered more than four hundred pies and then refused delivery.” A picture of Spadafore flashed on the screen. “Police believe that the mass order may have been a hoax, but investigators are not ruling out the possibility that Spadafore himself ordered the pizzas to create a diversion in front of his home. No motive is yet known, and Spadafore refused to comment. Maybe tomorrow, Luigi will order a few hundred cases of beer, to wash down the pizza. Over to you, Linda …”
