The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  Manny had felt old this past year, with his company closed. These days, his biggest decision was whether to wear a green or red scarf.

  Often he thought about the way in which he’d been forced out. Sure, he could go over what it was like then with the other old-timers over cards. “Back in my day . . . ,” they would say. But his day had come too soon. He stewed and stewed until he felt ashamed he had not done all he could. That was why he had finally given the lighter to Morris. The one that had come off of his attacker. Not so much out of goodness as he claimed; the desire to see that person caught. To get back a piece of what they’d stolen from him.

  But because it gave him life. It made him feel connected again.

  After a year trying to pretend he still had a purpose in life, it made him feel alive.

  That afternoon, as he left, it was particularly raw out for early November. Another month and he and Helen would go to Miami. He waved to the doorman on his way out. “Gabe.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Gutman.”

  “Need anything while I’m out?” He always asked, though Gabe had never once requested a thing.

  “Maybe about ten more degrees, all I could ask for,” the doorman said, his hands in gloves.

  “I’ll see if I can work that out,” he said, and headed up to the corner.

  As he turned, behind him, he thought he saw a set of car lights go on.

  He crossed over Park on Seventy-fifth Street and then walked to Madison, past all the fancy town houses. There was one, he was told Theodore Roosevelt once lived in it. He glanced behind him. He thought he noticed the same car following, a big sedan, a Pontiac or something, creeping at a snail’s pace behind him. But he could be wrong. He’d been lost in his own thoughts. He’d told Helen this morning that he’d decided he finally had to stand up. He wasn’t going to be afraid anymore, and he felt good about it. He’d show these bastards in court, in the end.

  Maybe this would even give the Isidor Gutman name back its pride.

  Hands in his pockets, Manny waited for the light to change. The newspaper stand was just ahead. Maybe Freddie or Phil would be at the club today. Loudmouths, living in the past. The lot of them.

  But Manny Gutman was about to reclaim his future.

  Crossing the street, he heard the rumble of an engine picking up.

  He turned, shielding his eyes from the glare of the oncoming lights.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Morris was still at the office after seven when Ruthie called.

  “Morris, I have terrible news,” she said. “Helen Gutman called me. Manny was hit by a car on his way to his club tonight. He’s dead.”

  Dead? Morris felt the weight in his chest and sat down. Manny was his oldest friend in the business. “Did the driver stop?”

  “No, that’s the worst of it. Apparently he just kept on going. Oh, Morris, this is just terrible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” The sweats came over him and his stomach dove into a freefall. His mind raced to the only possible conclusion:

  It had to be connected. It had to be a response to what Manny had given him. The lighter he had taken from the thug who ransacked his business, which Morris had passed on to Irv. But how could they possibly know? Irv promised this would remain strictly confidential until they’d decided how to handle it. Who else knew? There had to be an informant up there. Morris’s head spun wildly. Which made him think about all the others he had lured in. Poor Manny. He’d suffered so much already. Only a week ago, Morris had convinced him to step out from his silence, to become a witness against these murderous thugs. If it was true, what Morris suspected, then this wasn’t some random act, but a retaliation, a way to keep him silent. Morris was as much a part of his death as them. He had as good as driven that car himself.

  “Where’s Helen?”

  “She’s home. Some of her family are there. She’s a complete mess, of course.”

  “I have to go up there.” He had to find out more.

  “Do you want me to come too?”

  “No. I want you to stay at home, Ruthie.” If they knew about Manny Gutman, then they likely knew about him too, and the people he’d been organizing to testify against them. And their families. “Stay with the kids. It’s important. I’ll call you.”

  “What do you mean, it’s important, Morris? What do you know about this? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “Nothing, Ruthie. Just wait to hear from me. That’s all.”

  In a daze, he closed the style book he’d been going through, planning out next season’s line, threw on his jacket and coat, and locked up the steel outer door. It was raining outside. Cold for November. He grabbed an umbrella at the gate and pushed the button for the elevator.

  His mind flashed through how they possibly could have known.

  Dewey had sworn to Morris that it wasn’t like before. Back then, the police and even the city government had been infiltrated by the mob, giving them a heads-up when investigations were under way, selling the name of who was testifying against them. This time it was tight as a ship. But Morris knew, these people could always buy their way in. Money could buy anything. Or put a gun to someone’s head. Or threaten their family. Poor Manny . . . All he had wanted was to live out his life in peace. Go to Miami, Havana. Do a little gambling. See the Carmen Miranda shows. He’d already suffered enough. But Morris had lured him back in with the promise that they could actually do something this time. A promise he could not keep.

  And now . . . Standing in the hall, he felt his stomach churn. Now Manny was dead too. Helen was a widow. Morris jammed his finger against the button for the elevator. Where the hell was it? What was taking so long? He felt a rage sweep over him and he slammed his hand against the wall in anger and complicity. Goddammit, Manny. I’m sorry.

  The elevator door finally opened. He went in, pushed the button for the lobby. It was the service elevator, large enough for several trolleys of fabric to fit in. He felt sweats take hold of him. Guilt. Shame. It could have been anyone, he knew. Anyone. It could have been some hurrying cab, or some drunk behind the wheel, coming from a bar. He had to find out. It didn’t have to be Buchalter. But he knew the handwriting. Abe. Now Manny. They didn’t stop. If you stood up to them. They just kept on going. Hearing the floors pass by, he felt certain it had to be them.

  At the lobby, the elevator rattled to a stop, the door opened, and Morris rushed out.

  Directly into the path of two men. They seemed to be waiting for him. In overcoats, fedoras drawn down, their hands stuffed in their pockets. One had a thick nose and a mole on his cheek. The other . . .

  The other, he knew.

  And he knew he was in for trouble.

  It was Charles Workman.

  “Hello, Morris.” Workman’s eyes were dark and smiling. “I think I owe you one, don’t I? And I’m a man who always tries to pay his debts.”

  “I guess they let any scum in here.” Morris looked at him, bracing.

  The two rushed forward and took hold of him. Morris swung his umbrella, catching the one with the mole near his eye with the umbrella’s tip. He howled, putting a hand up to his face.

  Workman forced Morris back into the elevator. By that time his partner had recovered, a trail of blood streaming down his face. “You’re a fucking dead man,” he said.

  Morris tried to rip free, but Workman’s hand was out of his pocket and there was something shiny and flashing in it. Morris held his breath.

  “Gurrah said he wished he could be here himself,” Workman said. “But this’ll have to do.” He thrust out his hand and Morris felt a searing pain slice through his abdomen. The air went out of his lungs. His legs gave way. He tried to push his attackers off, even with the knife inside him, but then it was out again, a gleam of silver, blood on the blade.

  His blood.

  Workman thrust it into him again.

  Morris sagged against the elevator wall. He tried to grab onto Workman’s arm.

  “No one seems
to want you around anymore, Morris. Your nine lives seem to have run out.”

  He drew the blade back again.

  Morris knew another stab would send him to the floor, and he’d be done then, unable to fend them off. He summoned whatever strength he still had left before Workman pushed the knife in again, bull-like, and threw him to the side and tried to run out of the elevator, a flower of sticky blood spreading on his shirt. The guy with the mole struck him in the abdomen near the stab wounds, sending a lightning bolt of pain up Morris’s spine. He gasped and fell to the floor. He knew he had to get to his feet. If he could somehow get to the door and outside he had a chance, was all he was thinking. Fighting the pain, Morris tried to force himself out of the elevator. The guy with the mole grabbed onto his waist and threw him down. Morris kicked at him, pain lancing through him. The man was struggling to bring out his gun. Morris tried to scramble to his feet, just as Workman squared his knee into the center of Morris’s back, pinning him back onto the floor. He sucked in a breath that made him shudder with pain. But he had to fight through it. He pushed up. Workman kneed him back to the floor. Just get to your feet, Morris willed himself. To your feet.

  He couldn’t.

  “So how you feeling now, Morris,” Workman chided him, “still your lucky day?” He jabbed Morris in the side again through his heavy coat, the pain shooting all the way down to his toes. Morris’s heavy wool coat and sport jacket had probably kept the knife from going in all the way, but the next one, Workman would likely twist it all the way up to his gut. Morris spun around and wrapped his hands around the killer’s wrist, slowly inching the blade away from him. Fending off the other assailant’s gun hand with his legs.

  He could only hold out so long.

  He heard the gun go off. He cringed and smelled the acrid scent of either burned fabric or flesh and held his breath. The guy with the mole was tangled up with him, the muzzle against Morris’s coat, but somehow the shot had gone wild. A searing burn sliced through his side, no more than a glancing blow, but the next one, he knew, would be deadly. He kicked the man off of him and tried to wrestle the gun away in a desperate clinch. Workman came back with the knife. If the killer freed his fingers and pulled the trigger again, that would be all there was.

  Suddenly, behind them, the front doors opened. “What’s going on in there?” someone yelled. “Sweet Lord, is that you, Mr. Raab?”

  It was Buck, the vagrant who lived on the street outside. Whose hand Morris had put a dollar in most days as he left for the night.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” Workman shouted.

  “I’m gonna call the police,” he said. “There’s a car up the block.”

  The two assailants distracted, Morris kicked himself free. The attackers couldn’t exactly murder someone with someone else looking on. They didn’t know who Buck was. He could be the night manager for all they knew. Someone they’d have to take care of afterward if they went on.

  Morris forced himself up and stumbled toward the door. Almost in reach of it, he heard the crack of a gun, two of them, and a searing pain ran through his thigh. He lunged for the front door, sure he was about to feel another one in his back and that would be it.

  “Buck, get out of here,” he said, and pushed the vagrant back outside. “Run.” Morris put a hand to his abdomen. Blood spilled all over his palm. He could feel it damp and sticking against his shirt. There were drops of it on the floor. And his leg was deadened.

  The two men had gotten up and were coming after him.

  Doubled over, he staggered out onto Thirty-sixth Street. What was packed during the day with workers and salesmen was pretty much a graveyard now. Morris knew, if the two caught up to him on the street, alone, they’d shoot him right there on the pavement.

  Down the block, Morris spotted a blue-and-white police car, just like Buck had said. It was parked about thirty yards down the street toward Broadway. He hobbled toward it—crouched over, sucking back the pain, his hand pressing the hole in his gut, blood leaking out of him. A cold rain slanted into his face.

  Behind him, Workman and his partner came out of the lobby and headed after him.

  He didn’t know if he could make it to the car. He looked back again. The two were catching up to him, walking briskly, concealing the guns in their coats, maybe ten yards behind.

  Morris’s fear was that the police car would drive off before he reached it. He tried to scream, but nothing came out. He could barely suck in a breath. What he should have done, he knew, was head across the street into O’Malley’s pub. They couldn’t follow him in there. He put up his hand to signal to the cops. Another ten yards. He glanced behind again. Workman and his partner had stopped. Thank God, they were afraid to go any farther. Morris ran the last six or eight steps and slammed his hand against the passenger’s side window. “I need help! I’m stabbed,” he shouted. “These two men are trying to kill me.” He stood, his knees buckling, against the side of the car, gasping both in pain and alarm as the gangsters just stood there watching him, rain pelting him, the flow of blood matting on his side.

  Behind him, instead of beating it out of there, Workman merely seemed to smile.

  The passenger’s window of the police car rolled down. Morris shouted again, “I need help. I’ve been stabbed.”

  “That so?”

  To his shock, instead of a cop appearing, a gun came out the window.

  “You look like you could use a ride, Morris. Why don’t you come on in?”

  Holding the gun to his face was Mendy Weiss.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Morris turned and sank back against the car. His body was numb and empty. There was no point in running.

  Mendy hopped out and opened the rear door. The cop behind the wheel spun around. Morris recognized him instantly. It was the prick captain who had been there at the warehouse fire. Burns. It was no big surprise, just a confirmation he didn’t need. Morris had known the moment he heard him back up the lieutenant that he was Lepke’s man.

  In a second, Morris was flung face-first onto the cop car’s backseat. His abdomen was on fire. Charles Workman squeezed in after him, digging his gun into Morris’s ribs. “Make a wrong move, Morris, and it ends right here. Hop in, Mendy.” Mendy climbed back in the front.

  “Start her up,” Charles Workman instructed the driver.

  “I don’t like this, Charlie. I don’t like this at all,” the captain said.

  “Just drive, Jack. You know where. You’re not paid to like it or not. It’s a little late for any pangs of conscience.”

  Grimacing, the police captain started up the engine.

  Mendy turned back. “I told you to back off, Morris. We gave you every chance.”

  “Go fuck yourself, Mendy.” Morris spun his head around.

  Workman dug his gun deep into Morris’s gut. Morris gasped. “You got the urge to fight it out, Morris, we can always end it right here.”

  “You do that, you can clean up the car,” Burns looked around and said.

  “You know where to send your complaints, Jackie-boy. You just drive.”

  Every time Morris took in a breath, he winced in pain. As he lay there, the gun in his side, the blocks going by as the police car sped downtown, his thoughts flashed to Ruthie, Sam, and Lucy. He wondered if they would ever know what had happened to him. If he would disappear. Or if they’d find him, like Harry, behind some garbage dump, tomorrow’s headline in the Mirror. That was the hardest part. That he would never see them again. That Lucy would never even know him. “Where are you taking me?” he asked. The rain continued and he heard the windshield wiper squeak on the glass.

  “Don’t give too much thought to that, Morris,” Workman sniffed. “You must’ve pissed enough people off that no one wants there to be any sign of you from now on.”

  The car turned right, heading south, and soon, a couple of quick turns more, it picked up speed. Eventually they were on bumpy cobblestones, which meant to Morris they were on East Street, heading s
outh. At some point, Morris lifted his head and saw the dark, hulking shape of the Williamsburg Bridge go by.

  “I said, get down.” Workman pressed the gun in deeper.

  Morris realized there was no way out now. He was bleeding inside his shirt from the knife. The bullet in his thigh was just a glancing blow. But the next one surely wouldn’t be.

  “How do we get over there?” Burns asked.

  “Get off under the Manhattan Bridge. Stay along the river.”

  It was clear what they were going to do with him now. Morris saw it. What did Workman say? No one wants there to be any sign of you. The river was just a stone’s throw away. They pulled off and wrapped around along the piers. Dark wharfs lined the shore. Warehouses interspersed with tenements. The bridge rose high above them, a massive dark shadow, like the hull of an enormous black ship. They were going to dump him there. In the East River. Where he swam as a kid.

  That was going to be his resting place.

  “Over there. You see Pier 36. Easton-Marley Freight,” Mendy said, pointing.

  “I don’t like this,” Burns said. “There’s a guard.”

  “Of course there’s a guard. Don’t worry, it’s been arranged. You’re a cop, aren’t you? Just tell ’em you’re here about a possible theft. They’re expecting us.”

  The policeman pulled up to the gate. He glanced back at Workman nervously and rolled down his window. “Someone called about a theft here.”

  “Yeah, theft . . .” The man at the gate sniffed. “All the way to the end. Go on in.”

  “Call the police! They’re gonna kill me,” Morris shouted.

  “Yell all you want,” Workman said. “No one gives a shit about you here. Anyway, good one, Morris,” he chortled, considering the vehicle they were riding in. “Call the police.”

  “How ’bout you go and catch a smoke,” Mendy leaned over to the guard and said. “Twenty minutes should be enough.”