by Andrew Gross
“Oh Jesus, Harry,” Morris uttered, stretching the paper wide. A few passersby turned to look at him as they went by.
The victim, who was said to be a friend and hanger-on to several well-known crime associates, such as Louis Lepke and Mendy Weiss, had no known criminal history of his own. Speculation arose that his death was either a warning to the Lepke crime syndicate, sometimes known as Murder, Incorporated, or the notorious crime clan cleaning up an internal matter of its own.
Lepke’s syndicate was suspected of involvement in Tuesday’s brazen, bullet-riddled executions of the infamous mobster Dutch Schultz and three of his lieutenants at a popular restaurant in Newark, New Jersey, though it is not known if Rabishevsky played a role in those killings or what else might have prompted his execution. But sources close to the paper say the victim was suspected of having played a part in the Dutchman’s bloody murder, possibly as the getaway driver.
“Getaway driver?” Morris uttered out loud. He found a bench along the side of the park and sat down. Harry? Harry had no criminal involvement of his own. He was merely attracted to the easy life of these people, that’s all. The glamour and the approval they gave him. How they made him feel important. But getaway driver . . . ? For Dutch Schultz’s rubout. That was impossible.
Harry wouldn’t even know what to do around a gun but duck.
Morris kept his eyes fastened on the lurid photo, unable to accept that the face his eyes were boring into was his own brother’s. A cold sweat spread down his back. Morris had pushed him. Pushed Harry away. Sure as day, Morris’d sent him scurrying back to them. But Harry had made his own choice when he let Mendy Weiss back in his life. When he chose his old friends over his family. And Raab Brothers was in ruins because of what he’d done. He, Sol, Ruthie, Sammy—Harry’d taken them all down with him.
Morris thought back to the last time he had seen him. Across the street from their apartment building, maybe a year ago now. Surely hoping to mend things, his arm tentatively raised in a greeting, as Morris, barely acknowledging him, looked past him and ducked into a cab.
Morris closed his eyes and folded the paper under his arm. He had never given Harry the chance to explain.
He hailed a cab and sped uptown to his apartment. As soon as he opened the door, Ruthie threw her arms around him, tears filling her eyes. “You heard what happened?”
Morris showed her the newspaper.
“Sol just called. They’re saying he was part of the gang that executed that awful mobster, Dutch Schultz?”
“I know what they’re saying,” Morris said. On the ride uptown, he had read the article three times, each time finding it impossible to believe what he was reading, that he was seeing his brother’s face.
“He would have done anything for them, Ruthie. If Mendy Weiss said jump, he’d have jumped, right through that window. I know how you probably feel about this, but look at what he did to us.”
“By that point, he would have done anything for someone’s approval, Morris.”
“It’s not about approval, Ruthie. People don’t just get killed. There’s a reason.”
“He was your brother, Morris.”
“I know he was my brother.” Morris went over to the settee in the foyer and sat down.
“All he wanted was to prove himself to you. To be a man in your eyes. We pushed him to them, Morris, as surely as if we pulled that trigger ourselves. And look what they did. We’re as responsible for what happened as they are.”
“No.” Morris pulled her to him. “That’s not true. He’s the one who made his choice.” He put his head against her. “Mom has to know. She’ll take it hard.”
She had already buried one twin.
“I have to call Sol.” He stood and folded the paper. “And whatever you do, don’t let Sammy see this.”
After stopping off at their mom’s and leaving Ruthie and Sol’s wife Louise there with her, Morris and Sol went down to the morgue at Belleview to identify the body. A doctor met them and led them to a wall of refrigerated lockers. The room had the cold, antiseptic smell of disinfectant, making Morris wince.
They wheeled Harry out on a gurney. He looked fairly tranquil and composed, a sheet covering his torso. If he had a bad bone in his body, you couldn’t tell it from his placid complexion. To Morris, for all the guilt and conflict he knew his brother had felt, and for the violent end the papers said he had met, Harry looked as at peace as he had ever seen him. Sol gave a glance to Morris and nodded to the doctor. “That’s our brother.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, and made a motion to an aide to take the gurney away. Sol put out an arm to stop him. “Can you give us a second, Doc?”
“Sure. You’ll have time at the funeral home.” The doctor shrugged. “But I don’t see why not.”
He and the orderly left the stark examining room. Morris and Sol just stood there, looking down at their brother.
“He looks pretty peaceful,” Morris said. “Considering.”
“That he does. How are you doing in there, Harry?” Sol leaned over and said. “Can you hear me somehow? We’re so sorry for you. I hope you didn’t feel a lot of pain. How’d you ever get involved in this thing, Harry? Is everything okay?” Harry’s eyes were closed and there was a soft, dull sheen on his face. The back of his head was shaved. They’d cleaned up the blood.
“Whatever you want to say, he didn’t have it easy, Morris. He spent his whole life torturing himself for what happened to Shemuel. Or feeling Mom blamed him. And she did. He was her favorite, you know?”
“Who?”
“Shemuel. We never discussed it, but it was true. You were too young to remember.”
“Shemuel’s been dead for thirty years, Sol. At some point you have to let it go. He made his choices. We worked hard to build that business up from the ground and he tore it down, like that, in one day. Maybe you can, but I can’t get past that.”
“Cut him a break, Morris. He’s dead. Whatever you want to say, he was ashamed even to be around us. For what he did. That’s the only reason he got involved with those guys. They didn’t judge him like he felt we judged him. Some things you just can’t let go.”
“I didn’t judge him,” Morris said. “He just never wanted to face up to being a man and moving past it.”
“You’re hard. He was still our brother, Morris.”
“You think he did this? What the papers are saying?”
Sol leaned over Harry and put a hand to his cheek. “It feels weird. Cold. I don’t know. It just doesn’t seem like him. If I was gonna kill someone, I wouldn’t exactly have used Harry. No offense, Harry. . . .” He smiled.
Morris smiled too. “Yeah, he wasn’t exactly Charles Lindbergh behind the wheel.”
The doctor cracked open the door again. “I’m afraid I need the room.”
Sol looked across to him and nodded. Then he took one last look at Harry. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry for how you had to live your life with all that shame. I’m sorry if you felt we all thought less of you. We loved you all the same. Even with . . . Even with what you did to us. I forgive you, Harry. You’re still my brother, and you didn’t deserve this.”
The doctor came over and took the sheet to drape across Harry’s face.
“Hold it a second.” Sol stopped the doctor from covering him. “Can you say that, Morris?”
“Can I say what?”
“That you forgive him. Can you forgive your own brother? Look at him.”
A lump formed in Morris’s throat. He looked down at Harry. The dull, grayish cast on his face. He remembered him years before at the Theatrical Club. All jokes and laughs. Mendy, Maxie. Buchalter. Surrounded by all the people he trusted, but who in the end, set him up and killed him. Morris was certain. Even back then Harry couldn’t get up and come over to them. Even then. Morris wiped a tear away.
“No,” he said. “I can’t. I can’t forgive him, Sol.” Morris glanced up at the doctor and nodded. He draped the sheet back over Harry’s eyes and whe
eled him toward the wall. “I’m sorry, Harry, but I can’t forgive you. But I can’t forgive them either. He trusted these bastards, Sol. And they just set him up and made him a patsy for something. They have an empty hole in their chests where their hearts should be. I can’t forgive him, not like you want, anyway. Not yet. But I can’t forgive them either. That’s the best you’ll get out of me now.”
Chapter Forty-Six
After the funeral, Mendy Weiss, Maxie Dannenberg, and Ike Lipschultz stopped in for a shivah call at Morris’s apartment. Buchalter and a bunch of the boys had sent flowers. Morris told Ruthie to dump them down the chute. Special Prosecutor Dewey’s office had sent a nice arrangement too.
“Meyn simpatye,” Mendy and the two others muttered to Bella with a kiss to each cheek. “Zeyer antshuldigt far deyn onver.” Very sorry for your loss. Mendy looked over at Morris, who was nursing a glass of scotch. “Excuse me,” he said to Morris’s mother, and came over.
“You got a lotta fucking nerve coming up here,” Morris said.
“Harry was our friend too,” Mendy said. “Trust me, we find out who did this . . .”
“Shouldn’t be so hard. You shouldn’t have to look too far.”
“Morris, listen, you think this was our work, you’d be dead wrong,” he said. “We want to find out same as you.”
“You burnt our business down.”
“That was business, Morris. You knew the risk. If I recall, it was me who told you not to piss off the boss. But this isn’t the time.”
“No, it’s not. But tell me, Mendy, did Harry play a part in that killing? Like the papers say?”
Mendy didn’t blink. “Don’t ask me stuff like that, Morris.”
“I’ve known you a long time, Mendy, and you’d lie to your own mother if it would save you a buck. Did Harry drive the car that night, like they’re saying, with what happened to Dutch Schultz?”
“You know I can’t talk about business, Morris,” Mendy said.
“Go fuck yourself,” Morris said, “and you can tell your boss too.”
“I’m gonna put that down to the situation,” Mendy said, grabbing his hat. He eyed his cronies. “I think it’s time we go.”
People were looking over. Ruthie came up. She took Morris by the arm. “Morris, come over here, my aunt Iris would like to meet you. . . .”
Morris turned to Mendy. “I find out that’s the case, that you did suck him in, you and I are gonna have some things to discuss, Mendy. And it won’t matter how far back we go. You understand? He was your friend. But he wasn’t like you. He had something. In here . . . ,” Morris tapped his chest, “something you hadn’t covered over yet. He was your friend? You fucking used him for a laugh and then you put a bullet in the back of his head. Guys like you, you don’t have friends, Mendy.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Raab, if we caused any unrest,” Mendy said. “You have our respects.”
“Thank you,” Ruthie said. “But maybe it’s best that . . .”
“We’re leaving.” Mendy nudged Maxie and Ike who muttered again, “We’re very sorry, missus. . . .”
Morris gave Mendy a look. They both knew what was in it.
They’d crossed a line. Both of them. Buchalter too.
And there was no turning back from it.
Chapter Forty-Seven
At the funeral, the rabbi who had presided asked, What does it mean to be a good man?
After, Morris sat at the bar at the Hotel Chesterfield, nursing a scotch.
Did it simply mean love of God? If so, Harry didn’t measure up on that one, the rabbi joked.
Or to do good deeds? Performing mitzvos, or observing the commandments? Or to live with tzedaka, righteousness. Perform acts of charity. Or any of a hundred ways the Torah would describe it.
Seen this way, Morris fell short too.
Harry was about as far away from tzedaka as a man could be.
He was weak. He couldn’t be counted on. He built nothing of his life. When he was needed most, he wasn’t there. He was no mensch—a decent, honest person who could be trusted. He spent his days around bad types.
But he was gentle. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. Morris only had to watch him playing with Samuel to see that. It was as if he saw his twin reborn in that boy. And he had a good heart.
And Sol was right, he had shouldered the burden of his brother’s death his entire life, along with his mother’s sorrow at the loss.
Morris could not see how he would knowingly take part in a rubout, especially of Dutch Schultz. He wouldn’t kill anyone.
These people had used him. Used him for something. They chewed him up and spit him out on the sidewalk like a wad of spent tobacco.
What does it mean to be a good man?
Morris felt a hand on his shoulder and he looked around. “Irv.” His old friend took a seat next to him. “Listen, thanks for coming the other night.”
“Of course. I’m really sorry you have to go through all this.”
“How about a rye?” Morris asked. The bartender came up to them.
“Wish I could, but I have to get back to the office.” Irv waved him off. “We’ve got a lot of big doings going on.”
“So, you find out anything for me? On Harry.”
“Look . . .” Irv leaned closer and said in a low voice, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but some of our sources on the street confirm that it was Harry who drove the getaway car, just like the papers are alleging.”
“Harry?” Morris leaned back and shook his head. “My brother may have sold us out, Irv, but he didn’t have the balls or the lack of conscience to get involved in something like that.”
“Maybe he needed the money.”
Morris thought about it. He knew Bella was helping him out. Maybe Sol was too. How much could he have made, polishing the wood in a pool hall? Still . . . “So why would they have killed him?”
“The word on the street is, Harry was given up. By one of their own. The guy’s rumored to have been one of the shooters. Maybe it was to keep the peace. Either way, you know where it comes from.”
“Buchalter,” Morris said.
“The fish stinks from the head.” Irv nodded. “So have you had a chance to think it over? What we asked? Can we count on you, Morris?”
Morris took a sip of his drink. “The rabbi the other day, at the funeral, he told this story. ‘A famous rabbi said to a student, “You must repent one day before your death.” “How do you possibly know what day you will die?” one of his followers asked. “You don’t,” the rabbi answered. “So better to start today, since you may die tomorrow.” ’ ”
“What do you have to repent for?” Irv looked at Morris and asked.
“Me? I don’t know. But I’m thinking maybe Harry felt he did.” Morris looked at Irv. His own face said he was wrestling with it too. “So tell your boss, I’m in. All the way. For whatever he needs of me.”
Irv smiled widely. “That’s great, Morris. Welcome to the good guys.”
“Good guys, huh?” He finished his drink. “We’ll see. Just let me know what you need me to do.”
PART FOUR
UNDER MANHATTAN BRIDGE
Chapter Forty-Eight
Morris would start off the conversation with something like, “Meet me for coffee. I need to talk to you about something.”
It got deeper from there.
He went to see three people in the industry whom he knew had faced strong-armed repercussions from the union. Two were clothing manufacturers and one was a fur trimmer who had been pressured to join the directive. Sid Berlin had a budget coat firm; his rabbit fur collars were initially dressed at a nickel apiece. Soon it was raised to eight cents, then ten. When he refused to continue, the union thugs came up to his place with lead pipes and smashed his cutting tables and sewing machines. When he succumbed and raised his prices, his business fell by a third.
Hy Dresher made couture dresses. He was known as the “dresser to the stars.” Theater and movie stars wore
them; his clothes were only in the toniest stores like Bergdorf Goodman, Bonwit Teller, and Saks. He told Morris a similar tale. He received intimidating phone calls and was told that his offices would be stink-bombed if he didn’t comply. His workers were threatened and his deliveries hijacked, right off the street. Two of his fabric suppliers were met by armed thugs. Everyone knew Lepke and Gurrah supplied the muscle.
David Mittleman was a furrier who stopped using the directive when he was notified that his prices would increase, effective immediately. When he went back to his existing suppliers, he began to receive threatening phone calls. First at the office, then at home. Two of his delivery trucks were stopped and stench bombs were hurled inside, his inventory ruined. When he still wouldn’t agree, he was clubbed in the stairway to his offices and sent to the hospital with a fractured knee and three broken ribs.
“I want you to listen to me,” Morris said to them. “We have to end this. It will just take a few of us to stand up, and I’ll be at the front of the line. I just want you to talk to Dewey’s operation. You can make up your own minds.”
“I want to rid the business of these bastards same as you,” was the usual reply. “But all they’re gonna do is toss a few slammers in jail and then run for public office. And we’ll still be here. And the bigwigs, they’ll still run the union. And who’s gonna stand up for us then?”
“It’s different now,” Morris would answer. “There are things called ‘restraint of trade’ laws. I can’t fully explain it, but they can nail them on running a monopoly and price fixing. And not just the muscle—the guys in charge. Lepke. Gurrah. Just talk to them. It’ll all be done in secret. No one will ever know.”
“If word gets out, Morris, we’ll be dead.”
“Then I’ll be dead with you,” Morris said. “But if we don’t fix this, in terms of our businesses, we already have one foot in the grave.”
He asked each who their union rep was, who would know if they weren’t complying. They all had the same answer.
Cy Haddad.
