by Andrew Gross
“All right.” Mendy nodded.
“We won’t be needing a table after all,” Charles Workman said to the bartender, getting up. “And by the way, if I were you, I’d get down.”
It took a second for the man to comprehend just what Workman meant, then the bartender’s eyes stretched as wide as if he’d just received a fifty-dollar tip, and with a glance at the maître d’ up front, he dipped below the bar.
Workman ducked his face beneath his hat and headed toward the back after Schultz. At the table, something must have been funny, because Berman and Landau burst out in laughter, and, distracted, didn’t notice Workman as he went by. Mendy, following, put his hand inside his jacket and grabbed hold of the Smith & Wesson.
He and Workman shared a last glance and then Charlie went inside the men’s room after Schultz as Mendy walked up to Schultz’s table and took out his gun.
“Hey, Abe,” Mendy said cheerily, as the corpulent bodyguard chugged down a swallow of water. Landau’s wide-eyed gulp indicated he knew what was going on, and there was nothing he could do. He coughed out the water, just as Mendy put a bullet into the bodyguard’s throat and another into his chest. Blood spurted all over the steak he was eating, a spray of water coming out of his mouth.
At the same moment, three loud pops came from inside the bathroom.
Lulu Rosenkrantz, a giant of a man, leaped up, fumbling inside his jacket for his gun. Mendy squeezed off two into him as well. He fell back against the wall, blood smearing the restaurant’s faded wallpaper. Otto Berman was the least threat. He likely wasn’t even carrying. With the other two down, Mendy put two through the startled accountant’s white napkin. His eyes went wide and his face pitched forward onto his steak.
Workman came back out, nodding quickly to Mendy that the job was done. Abe Landau had managed to get up and find his gun. He thrust out his arm, squeezing shots off wildly. Diners dove for the floor with horrified screams, ducking under their tables.
Mendy threw his gun down and dug out his backup. He and Workman just stood there, arms extended, firing.
Outside, Harry’s heart was rat-tat-tatting like a jazz drummer playing an endless solo. He sat glued to the wheel, focused on the steak house’s front door. Mendy and Workman had been inside an awfully long time. He started to think maybe they were just in there to talk. Maybe that’s all this was—a sit-down of some kind. Like Mendy had said. Sure, he was full of shit about it all being just a ride in the country. He guessed he knew that going in. For a grand.
But that still didn’t mean they were actually here to kill someone.
Especially the one person he knew who happened to be residing next door these days at the Hotel St. Francis—the most feared mobster in the country.
Any moment he didn’t hear gunfire was a good one, Harry assured himself, swallowing.
In the rearview mirror, he suddenly saw headlights advancing in his direction. Shit. As the lights came closer, Harry’s eyes grew wide as he realized what it was. A fucking Newark police car. Coming down the street. What was it doing here? His heart began to inch up his throat.
Following it, a bead of sweat wormed down Harry’s neck and inside his collar. What should he do? Just sit here? Pray it just went by? He’d done nothing wrong to attract attention. Sitting here, with his engine running, he could just be waiting for someone inside. And as long as it was quiet in there, they’d be none the wiser. They couldn’t exactly tell what he was here for just from looking at him.
Or could they?
Harry’s tongue felt dry as sandpaper. Why a cop car now? Of all the times. Why . . . ?
It advanced down the street at a snail’s pace, maybe checking out the cars. The Palace was a known hangout. They probably even knew Schultz was inside. By this point, Harry was so scared he could barely breathe. He sat there, his foot bobbing, ready to hit the gas with everything he had. He couldn’t let go of the wheel. He just watched in the side mirror, sweat inching down his cheek, as the car drew closer and closer. He felt like just gunning the gas and taking a powder. But if he did, he knew he was as good as dead when Mendy and Workman came out. No, he had to just sit tight where he was and pray they went by. He had to summon the nerve. His throat was coarse as sand. He swallowed.
Then he thought, what if the policeman stopped and asked what he was doing here? Just waiting for my friends inside, Officer, he would say. They couldn’t be suspicious of that.
But what if the shooting started just as the cops approached him? What then?
Oh God . . .
It was only seconds, though it felt closer to an hour. Finally the police car pulled up parallel with him, Harry not even acknowledging it, keeping his eyes straight ahead. For a second he was sure it was going to stop and the cop inside would roll down his window and ask why he was sitting there with his motor running, and no matter what Harry said, he’d put it all together. His heart came to a stop. Either that or Mendy and Workman would start shooting at that very moment, and Harry wouldn’t know what to do.
But to his great relief, the police car continued slowly on, passing him. It made its way deliberately to the corner, stopping there for another moment, staying so long, Harry was screaming inside: Can’t you just go on? Go on! Please, turn. Go. Finally the car did turn. He continued to sit there, dry-mouthed, counting slowly to ten. Out loud. Taking breaths between each number. Then he paused silently for a full five seconds until he continued. Until he was sure the car had gone.
He blew out his cheeks with an audible sigh of relief.
His shirt was fully soaked.
It had now been a full five minutes that Mendy and Workman had been inside, and he’d heard nothing. Yes, maybe they were just here to talk. Maybe Mendy hadn’t been kidding. He was always such a kidder, Harry knew. Maybe they were all just sitting around a table right now, while Harry was sweating. With a drink. Workman, Mendy, and that other person—Harry didn’t even want to utter his name—shooting the breeze, laughing, and—
Suddenly he heard a barrage of gunshots coming from inside.
So many shots, he couldn’t count them. They wouldn’t stop coming.
He started to breathe heavily and his shirt was encased in sweat. He pumped the gas, over and over, ready for them to dart out. C’mon, Mendy, come on. More shots. Come out now. Please.
Two people on the street started running.
He sat there like Mendy had ordered, but then he prayed that the first people out that door would be Mendy and Workman, and not someone who worked for Dutch Schultz.
To Mendy, Otto Berman looked dead at the table. Lulu Rosenkrantz had collapsed against the wall, clutching his chest. Mendy had put rounds into Abe Landau several times, but the guy was somehow still moving, fumbling for his gun.
Workman just stood there, continuing to fire: Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam.
“Let’s go,” Mendy yelled. He was now out of bullets in his backup. The job was done and they’d both better get the hell out of there.
In a crouch, he darted toward the entrance.
Most of the patrons had either taken cover beneath their tables or dashed behind the bar. The few women in the place were screaming holy hell.
Workman stepped closer to Rosenkrantz and kept unloading. Somehow the big man still hadn’t fully gone down, and his body was just taking hits. Mendy sprinted out the door. Outside, he ducked into the backseat of the Plymouth, which was running, Harry at the wheel. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“Where’s Charlie?” Harry shouted.
“He’s coming now.”
Harry gunned the gas, expecting to see him any second. No one came out. “He’s coming, when . . . ?” Harry screamed. Every second stretched out like an eternity and he could hear more shots inside. What was going on in there?
He feared the cops who had just passed by would hear all the ruckus and come back around. There were passersby on the street who, startled by all the shooting, had ducked behind a vehicle across from him. A part of Harry was k
ind of thrilled that they might think him involved. “We’ve got to get out of here, Mendy!”
“He was right behind me.”
Still more firing.
Then silence. They waited a beat. “C’mon, Charlie . . . ,” Mendy said under his breath.
Nothing.
“Fuck!” Mendy shouted, shaking his head.
Harry turned around. “There’s a cop car not far away, Mendy. He passed by a minute or two ago while you were inside. They might hear. Where the hell is he?”
Mendy was growing rattled too. “I don’t know!”
They waited, a count of five. Still, no sign of him. But every second they remained it grew more and more dangerous for them to stay. What if Charlie had been killed? And one of Schultz’s henchmen burst out the door, firing? They couldn’t just stay there. He had no gun, and Mendy was likely empty. They’d be sitting ducks. Mendy remained fixed on the door. “Give it five more seconds.” Five seconds that to Harry felt like twenty. Where the hell was he? Sooner or later, the cops were going to come. They had to get out of there.
Workman had to have been shot. He wasn’t coming.
“Okay, drive!” Mendy finally shouted, slamming the door.
“We can’t just leave him, Mendy.”
“I said, drive!” Mendy shouted again. “Get moving. Something must have happened. Now!”
Harry wasn’t sure what to do, and waited one last beat to five, fixed on the door. Come on, Charlie. . . . He put the car in gear.
“I said fucking drive, Harry!” Mendy pointed his gun at Harry’s head. “Or so help me I’ll pull you out of that seat and drive the fucking thing myself.”
Harry hit the gas. The Plymouth lurched forward. As he pulled away, he kept his eyes peeled on the canopy in the rearview mirror. He slowed one final second before he turned the corner.
Nothing.
He swerved and drove away.
“Something must have fucking happened.” Mendy shook his head. “I told him we had to leave. He just kept firing.”
They turned two streets down and headed back to Broad Street in the direction of the turnpike.
“Who was it?” Harry asked, glancing back nervously.
“Don’t go too fast. I don’t want a fucking cop to pull us over.”
“Who was it, Mendy? Who did you guys just kill?” He drove down Broad, and thought about looping back one more time to see if Workman had come out. But it was too late now. And Mendy would have shot him.
“It was Dutch Schultz, right, wasn’t it?”
Mendy said, “Just drive.”
“It was Schultz, wasn’t it, Mendy. Tell me! You just killed Dutch Schultz.” Harry headed toward the highway, keeping a steadying foot on the gas.
“Yeah, it was Schultz,” Mendy finally said. A smile crept onto his puffy face. “You’re gonna be famous, kid. It’ll be in all the papers.”
Harry’s heart was beating so fast he thought it would burst through his chest. By morning, every paper in the country would have the headline: Dutch Schultz Gunned Down in Newark. And he’d been the getaway driver. On a hit on the most feared mobster in all New York.
“What the hell did you get me into, Mendy?”
“Relax, kid, you just earned yourself a grand.”
“You can keep it. I don’t want your grand!”
He drove, retracing their steps back to the tunnel. But his mind strayed, to back in front of that restaurant. To that passerby, the one ducked behind a car across from him, crouched down. Their eyes had met and the guy must have thought, That driver there, in the car, behind the wheel, he’s a real button man. He was one of the crew that took out the Dutchman.
And for the first time that night, Harry smiled.
Chapter Forty-One
Inside the Palace Chop House, Abe Landau had somehow kept returning fire at Charles Workman. No matter how many bullets Workman had put into the fat SOB, he wouldn’t die. And that moose, Rosenkrantz, he wouldn’t stay the fuck down either. They were writhing and trying to reload, blood leaking all over them. They both must have been hit five or six times.
Workman knew he had to make a run for it. Mendy could only wait so long. But he was pinned down behind a table which he had turned upright to avoid being hit, dishes and tableware crashing to the floor. And now even his backup gun was empty. Abe Landau was struggling to pull himself up to his feet. The police could be here any second.
“That you, Charlie?” Landau called out. He extended his arm and fired twice in Workman’s direction.
Workman crouched, making himself as small as he could. The bullets went right over his head. Then he thought, the hell with it, and made a dash for the front entrance. Landau pulled himself up, his legs wobbly, barely supporting him, clutching his side, and continued shooting. Somehow the shots missed.
Workman burst through the front door and onto East Park Street, set to dive into the car.
It wasn’t there.
Not in front of the joint. Or across the street. Where someone was crouching behind a car. Or down the block. He looked around helplessly.
Those fuckers . . . They’d left him there.
“Fuck you, Mendy!” he shouted, looking helplessly down the empty street.
He knew he couldn’t stay there. There had been dozens of shots. The cops would be there any time. He turned and headed down East Park. He was in Newark. In hostile territory. The Dutchman’s territory. Who knows, even the cops might be on Schultz’s payroll here.
Behind him, the front door of the restaurant burst open. To Workman’s disbelief, Abe Landau, staggering like a wounded bull, came out. He spotted Workman down the street and, bright red blotches dotting his chest, he turned and pointed his gun at him. He grinned.
Standing there, Workman was a sitting duck.
One shot fired wildly into the air. Landau almost lost his balance. He kept pulling on the trigger, once, twice, three times, until Workman could hear only useless clicks. He was out too. He threw the empty gun on the street and took a step toward Workman. The guy must have seven bullets in him, Workman thought in disbelief. Go down. Then Landau wobbled sideways, losing his footing, and fell into the trash cans with a deafening crash.
This time he stayed down.
Workman gave out a laugh. How fucking lucky could he be? They’d done it—they’d iced Dutch Schultz. Iced his whole gang. But now he had to make it back to Brooklyn. Before the rest of Schultz’s men or any cops who were on his payroll got on his trail.
He turned and took off at the corner. He couldn’t believe Mendy and that weasel Harry had just left him there. What a bunch of cowards.
Well, they’d have one helluva surprise waiting for them back in Brooklyn.
Chapter Forty-Two
At 2:00 A.M. at his headquarters in the back of the cigar store in Brooklyn, Louis Buchalter wasn’t a happy man.
Somehow, Dutch Schultz had survived.
At least, so far, that’s what the press was claiming. They said he had two bullets in his chest and abdomen and was at Newark General, talking up a bloody storm. Babbling.
Somehow that crazy fuck was going to make it, Buchalter lamented. And he would know who had done this to him.
Buchalter would have to report to the commission later that day.
Still, that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to kill someone that moment.
Mendy Weiss had made it back to the shop around midnight. At first he was giddy. They’d done it. They’d iced Dutch Schultz.
“Not according to the news,” Gurrah informed him. “He’s still alive.”
“Alive?” Mendy chortled, disbelieving. “That’s impossible.”
“Giraffes tap-dancing at Carnegie Hall are impossible. Schultz is still alive.”
“So where’s Charlie?” Buchalter asked.
“Charlie didn’t make it.” Mendy shook his head.
“What do you mean Charlie didn’t make it?” Buchalter got up out of his chair.
It didn’t take a fucking p
olice chief to know Workman was a part of Buchalter’s organization. If his body was found at the scene, you wouldn’t have to be Rembrandt to put that picture together.
“We were waiting in the car. There were a ton of shots in there,” Mendy said. “He never came out, Louis. At some point, we had to go.”
“You had to go . . . ?” Buchalter looked at him, ire coming into his face. “You’re saying you left him in there?”
“He never came out, boss. We waited. We had to get out of there. We heard all kinds of shots. Something must’ve happened.”
“You’re damned right something fucking happened,” Buchalter said, his eyes aflame. This was an even bigger problem than the Dutchman alive. Now he had to answer to Luciano. Schultz still had friends. Powerful ones. If he lived, he could point the finger at whoever had done this. And if Charlie was found in there, that was proof enough. This could start a war.
“Who was the driver?” Louis asked Mendy.
“Some guy I picked up. He did fine.”
“I asked you who the fucking driver was, you tell me,” Buchalter glared at Mendy and asked again.
“Harry.” Mendy shrugged, clearing his throat.
“Harry?” Buchalter squinted in disbelief. “Harry Rabishevsky?”
“You wanted it done quick, Louis. My usual guy was in Detroit. He did just fine.”
“He did fine. . . . You come back with Charlie, he did just fine. You just better hope that bastard fucking dies, Mendy.” He jabbed his finger at him. “You just better hope.”
Mendy sat down, suddenly a sheen of sweat all over his face.
“Here.” Gurrah handed him a handkerchief and placed a bottle of rye in front of him. “Pour yourself a drink. And go through how it happened.”
Mendy took them through it step by step. How they went in and sat at the bar. How Workman went into the bathroom after Schultz, and Mendy had taken the table. Berman, Landau, and Lulu Rosenkrantz eating steaks.
