by Andrew Gross
“Lulu Rosenkrantz was there?” Gurrah interrupted with a shake of his head. “Too bad. I always liked the guy.”
How Mendy had heard two or three shots coming from the men’s room and how he’d then shot Berman, Landau, and Rosenkrantz, dead on, multiple times. “Charlie came back out and we both continued firing.”
If Workman was dead, Buchalter wasn’t sure how he wanted things to play out. If the Dutchman died, the Feds would be looking Louis’s way for the murder. If he remained alive, it would start a war. Either way, he had a bad report to bring to the commission who had ordered the hit. This kind of screw-up was bad for business. Up to now, he’d always handled things cleanly. That was why when they needed something done, they said, “Go to Lepke.” Someone would definitely have to pay.
No, Schultz just had to die, he decided. That was paramount. He looked at Gurrah. He’d already begun thinking. Maybe they had to make another move against him while he was in the hospital.
“So what do we do?” Mendy asked, his tie loosened, his collar wide, a film of sweat on his brow.
“I make a rule for you, Mendy.” Buchalter pointed at him. “You don’t have to be thinking about that part. You just keep praying Charlie turns up. That’s all.”
An hour passed. Then two. It wound into four. They kept the radio on. Schultz and his crew were still at Newark General, all in critical condition.
Suddenly they heard commotion coming from the shop outside. The door to their offices opened.
Charles Workman stepped inside.
Mendy bolted up as if he was looking at a ghost.
“You filthy coward,” Workman said, and went over and grabbed Mendy by the collar. “You fucking left me.”
“You never came out, Charlie,” Mendy said, putting up his arms. “There were shots. We didn’t know what happened. We waited as long as we could.”
“As long as you could? I coulda been fucking killed in there. Abe Landau came out after me and I was out of ammo. He had six shots in him but he was able to do it. You, you just took off.”
“We didn’t take off, Charlie. You never came out! Anyway, I’m just happy to see you alive.”
“No help from you.” Workman put him down and glared at him.
“So how the hell did you get back here?” Buchalter asked.
“I walked. Crossed half of fucking New Jersey. That area all belongs to the Dutchman. Anyone found me, without ammo, I was as good as dead. I hopped a ferry across the river, a tram over the bridge, and walked half of Brooklyn here. This ain’t right, Louis.” He jabbed a finger at Mendy. “You took a powder. You don’t leave a man on a job. I’ve been doing this too long. You gotta pay.”
“I tried to tell him to stay,” Mendy said, looking at Buchalter, seeing he was in a real bind. “But Harry, he got scared and hit the pedal. By the time I knew what was happening we were three blocks away. We couldn’t go back.”
“I thought just a moment ago you said he did fine?” Gurrah looked at him.
“He did fine. Up until then. It just got a little crazy. We heard bullets left and right.” He turned to Workman. “And you never came out. How’re we supposed to know if you were shot or what . . . ?”
Workman said to Buchalter, “I don’t care. It’s a rule. You don’t drive off. Someone’s gotta pay.”
“We’ll get into that later,” Buchalter said. “Right now, we have bigger problems.”
Workman poured himself a drink from the bottle of rye. “What problems?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“How could I hear anything? I been lugging my ass all over Jersey and Brooklyn the past four hours.”
“Schultz ain’t dead.”
“What do you mean, he ain’t dead? I hit him three times. Dead on.”
“Well, you shoulda hit him five times,” Buchalter said. “He’s at the hospital. And according to the reports, very much alive. If he lives, you know what’s the story then? We got a war on our hands.”
“If I hit him five times I’d have nothing left to walk back in that restaurant with. Anyway, relax. He’ll be dead by tonight. Trust me.”
“How can you be so sure?” Buchalter asked. “You a doctor in your spare time too, Charlie?”
“I don’t need to be no doctor. I shot him with rusted bullets. Just in case I couldn’t get a clean shot. Trust me, if the bullets didn’t do the job, the infection he’s gonna get from them will. Landau and Lulu too.”
“Infection . . .” Buchalter looked at Gurrah with a widening grin. “You wasted your talents, Charlie. You should be teaching at Harvard.”
Workman said, “I promise he won’t last the day. But that still doesn’t satisfy my wrong.” He scowled at Mendy balefully.
“One thing at a time,” Buchalter said. “The Dutchman first.”
Charles Workman turned out to be right about Schultz. He died later that day of complications from gunshot wounds.
As did Landau, Rosenkrantz, and Berman, shortly after.
Then it was on to the matter of Charles Workman’s restitution.
Chapter Forty-Three
Three days later, at a restaurant in Brooklyn, Albert Anastasia, Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro, and Louis Buchalter listened to Workman and Mendy hash out what had happened.
“It ain’t kosher,” Workman said. “You don’t take a powder on your partner in the middle of a hit. I was left alone. Without no gun. In very hostile territory. If any of the Dutchman’s men had run into me, I’d be on a slab at the morgue next to them instead of in front of you. And that would be very bad for the whole organization,” he looked up at the three members of the committee, “if I was traced back to any of you.”
“You didn’t come out,” Mendy said in defense. “We did wait. As long as we could.”
“How long?” Gurrah questioned.
“I don’t know, a minute maybe. Maybe more. There was tons of shooting inside. When you didn’t follow me out, we thought you were dead.”
“You still don’t leave,” Albert Anastasia said, “unless you know for sure.”
“I don’t leave, there could be cops down our backs. Then where would we be? You tell me, Louis, Jacob. This ain’t my first job. How long do you stay?” Mendy was clearly nervous. It was he who had hired the driver. It was up to him to play it by the book. His eyes appealed to his three bosses, but their faces didn’t give him much reason for relief. He knew that the penalty for leaving his partner there to get shot was death too.
“I told him to wait,” Mendy said, suddenly changing his stripes.
Albert Anastasia questioned, “Who?”
“The driver. Harry. The guy just took off. I did my best to get him to stop. What should I have done,” Mendy appealed to Buchalter and Gurrah, “shoot him too?”
“You left me there to rot,” Workman said. “No way I’d have done the same for you.”
“So who was this driver?” Albert Anastasia looked around.
“Someone named Harry Rabishevsky.”
“And who found him?”
“I found him,” Mendy said, swallowing guiltily. “He works for me.”
“He works for you. . . .” Anastasia glanced over at Buchalter. “He ever do a job like this before . . . ?
“Look.” Mendy stood up, a quiver of desperation cracking his voice. “Maybe I made a mistake with him. You wanted the job done quick and my usual people weren’t around. He’s not used to a lot of shooting. He just got spooked and hit the gas. I told him to stop, Charlie’s still in there.” Mendy turned to Workman. “I know I have to own up for bringing him on.”
“All I’ll say is he seemed fine to me when we went in,” Workman said with a skeptical glare.
“First, you said he did good,” Gurrah said to Mendy, “now, it’s he got spooked and hit the gas. Which is it, Mendy?”
“I was just trying to cover up for him.” Mendy looked across at his jurors. “He’s a good guy. You all know Harry.”
“Yeah, we know Harry,” Buchalter said. �
��That’s the problem. He should never have been on the job.”
“Well, someone has to pay, that’s for certain.” Anastasia tapped his beefy index finger on the table. “Otherwise, we become a laughingstock. We gotta show, we do this kind of work, we mean business.”
Mendy nodded. He had sweat stains on the back of his jacket. He saw this could go very badly for him. Badly indeed. “Look, you know me too, Louis,” he appealed. “And I’ve done a lot to deserve your confidence.”
Mendy and Charlie were asked to step out. They sat, uncomfortably, at opposite ends of the bar while the three bosses met among themselves and deliberated Mendy’s fate. In half an hour, which seemed an eternity to Mendy, Gurrah stepped out and asked them back in.
Mendy took in a deep breath.
“So here’s the thing,” Albert Anastasia said, “we all agree, someone’s gotta pay. Mendy, none of us believe you’re being entirely truthful with us. It’s entirely possible you told him to drive. This Harry guy . . . Charlie said he wouldn’t make a move without you telling him to.”
“That’s what I saw.” Workman turned to Mendy and shrugged.
Mendy’s eyes were dark and hollow. He knew he was in trouble.
“But it’s your crew, Louis.” The Italian turned to Buchalter. “So you choose. Just make it quick, whoever it is. So people know we back up our business.”
Buchalter nodded and looked at Mendy.
“Louis, please . . . ,” Mendy begged. “We did the job. I’ve proved myself to you over a lot of years.”
“Yes, you have, Mendy. But you know what I think? I think you fucked up.” Buchalter pointed accusingly. “I can’t say what I would have done, I wasn’t there. Still, between the two of you, I have to say, you’re far more valuable to me than Harry.”
Mendy let out a breath, feeling the sweat on his back start to cool.
“Just as long as it’s someone,” Anastasia said.
“You okay with this, Charlie?”
Workman thought it over a second, then shrugged. “Long as someone pays. Just don’t count on me to do any more jobs with you so quick.” He glared at Mendy.
“Okay, then.” Anastasia crushed out his cigar and stood up. “You guys make up as friends. I got a babe waiting for me.”
“You’re closest to him,” Buchalter said to Mendy.
Mendy nodded with flattened lips and blew out a deep breath through his nostrils. “I’ve known him since we were kids back on Cherry Street.”
“You’re right, he’s a nice guy. Everybody likes Harry.” Buchalter got up. “I remember that night at the Theatrical Club. He knows how to make you laugh.” He shook hands with Anastasia and put on his hat. “It’s your mess, Mendy, you clean it up.”
“Yes, boss.” Seeing the meeting was over, Mendy went to the door with relief.
“And Mendy . . .” He turned. “You’re a lucky sonovabitch, you know that, right? Anyone else, we’d be talking about you here.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“So Harry, a few of the guys want to show their appreciation,” Mendy said over the phone. “About the other night.”
“What about Charlie?” Harry asked. He was happy to hear Workman was okay, but nervous about how it might’ve made him look, since he’d been the one behind the wheel. “I heard he was mighty ticked off.”
“Charlie? Water under the bridge. Things like that happen in the big leagues. But, big picture, the Dutchman’s dead. That’s all that matters. So whaddya say you come on out to Dov’s tonight?” Dov’s was a bar in Bensonhurst where Lepke’s crew hung out from time to time. “Say, around eight. Come on around the back. We got a little celebration planned in the back room. A bunch of the guys’ll be there.”
“I got work, Mendy.”
“Hell with work, you know how big this is for us? I’ll get Bert to cover.”
“I guess,” Harry said after a pause. “As long as you’re sure there’s no hard feelings? You did tell him it was you who pushed me to leave?”
“Look, if there’s anyone Charlie should be mad at, it’s me, right? Trust me, no hard feelings at all. Right as rain.”
So Harry put Bert in charge of the pool hall and took the tram across the Brooklyn Bridge. He walked the eight blocks in the rain to Ocean Avenue, where Dov’s was situated, in a two-story brick building on a quiet corner.
On the way, he thought about how he had tried to make a go of it straight, but it just hadn’t worked out for him. It always seemed like the deck was stacked against him. Maybe this was his place. He felt like an outcast to the family. He knew he had disappointed them, his brothers. He’d always felt different. Going all the way back to Essex Street, and the thing they never talked about. Which he played over and over a thousand times in his head.
But these guys, they’d never judged him. They’d never looked at him with shame or accusation. He never felt like an outcast here. So maybe it was right that this was where he’d ended up. He had helped knock off Dutch Schultz. People would be telling the story for years. He might as well join the celebration.
Maybe this was his family now.
Outside Dov’s he tipped his hat to a young couple passing by.
Dutch Schultz, huh?
Maybe his star was on the rise after all.
He tried the door, but it was locked. Odd, and the lights were dimmed inside. But Mendy had said it was a private celebration. In the back room. Maybe they closed the place. He had said to come around the back.
So Harry went through the alley to the back entrance. A couple of cars were parked there.
To his surprise, Mendy was there. With Oscar Hammerschmitt. He always liked Oscar. They called him “Heels” because he knew how to tap dance.
“Hey, whaddya know,” Mendy came up with a wide grin, “the man of the hour.”
“Hey, Mendy. Oscar.” Harry was surprised that they were waiting for him outside.
“Harry.” Oscar gave him a wave of hello in return. “How’s it cookin’?”
“So what do you say we go in?” Mendy went to the back door. “A bunch of the guys were asking where you were. This new situation promises to be a very good one for the organization.”
“What situation?”
“What situation?” Mendy slapped him on the shoulder. “With the Dutchman gone.”
“I didn’t see any lights on,” Harry said, looking through the window.
“We closed the place, champ. They’re all in the back room, waiting. C’mon.” Mendy opened the door. “After you, sport.”
Harry went in ahead of them. He’d been in the back room several times. He’d drunk a lot of whiskey there during Prohibition, and sometimes there were even girls, though almost everyone in the group, save him, was married. Of course, that never stopped anyone from enjoying themselves.
He expected to hear the usual wave of noise and raucous laughter when he opened the door. When these guys got together you could always count on it being a loud time. But in fact, it was eerily quiet. And as Harry stepped inside, it still looked like the lights weren’t even on.
To his surprise, the room was completely empty.
“What’s going on, Mendy?” He stood there for a moment trying to figure out if this was a joke, until he realized what was happening.
“Sorry, Harry. Nothing personal,” was all he heard behind him.
“Tell Morris I didn’t do it,” was all Harry said. “He’ll understand.”
“I will, sport. I sure will.”
He closed his eyes.
Oscar put a gun to the back of Harry’s head and pulled the trigger.
Harry dropped where he stood.
He never felt more than a wave of darkness washing over the light. Lying in his own blood, he looked up and a face somehow came to him.
He looked quite the same and even had on the same shabby clothes he was wearing the last time Harry saw him. In the street, turning back, with that same wide grin, relishing his moment of triumph, before the rumble of hooves swept over h
im.
“Hi, Shemuel.”
“Hi, Harry. Where you been?”
His brother held out his hand, but this time didn’t impishly pull it away as Harry reached for it. Instead he wrapped it around Harry’s shoulders, with a smile both welcoming and forgiving—forgiveness, how badly Harry had always wanted to feel that all these years—as he led him toward the light, elbowing him amiably. “By the way, you owe me five zuzim.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Morris grabbed the early edition of The Daily Mirror on his way home from work.
The newsstand hawker shouted, “Gangland killing! Gangland killing! Read it here!” as the crowd on Thirty-eighth and Broadway rushed by.
Morris plunked down a dollar, which included ninety-five cents for the newsboy, folded the paper under his arm, and walked in the October chill the twenty blocks up to Central Park. His mind was stuck on a work matter he’d faced earlier, a bolt of fabric he had rejected on a style he needed out the door in two weeks. On Fifty-ninth Street and the park he put out his hand for a cab and unfurled the paper. As his eyes hit the front page, Morris felt a weight in his stomach drop in freefall and his legs almost collapse.
In an oversized photo under the bold headline, IT’S BEEN NICE TO KNOW YA, HARRY, was his brother—eyes shut, a trickle of blood oozing from his mouth, crumpled against a waste bin.
Morris’s heart came to a stop. “Oh my God, Harry!”
Focusing in on the blank, expressionless face, unable to pull himself away, Morris pushed back the elevator falling in his chest, trying to make sure.
But he knew. As soon as his eyes fixed on it. There was no mistake. Propped up, an arm twisted beneath his side, like a drunk who’d slept it off on the street.
Feeling like his heart was sliced in half like a slab of meat, Morris turned from the bustling street to read the article:
The body of Harry Rabishevsky, manager of a Manhattan pool hall and a bit player in the Lepke-Shapiro crime ring, was found earlier, left on a Brooklyn pier, a popular dumping ground for mob victims, dead from a single gunshot wound to the back of the head.
