The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  “Will do.”

  The gate opened and they drove down the dark pier, passing stacked towers of containers and trestles. Morris could smell the river, oily and dark. Near the end of the pier, Burns pulled the car up and stopped. “This is as far as I go. I’m not comfortable anymore.”

  “All right,” Workman said, “let us off here. Why don’t you wait outside the gate, Jack, in case anyone gets ideas? You remember what it was like to be a cop, don’t you? C’mon, Morris.” He jabbed him with the gun. “End of the ride.”

  Mendy came around and opened the door. He took Morris by the collar and dragged him out of the backseat, onto the pier. Morris sucked in a breath against the pain.

  “Come on, get up now.” Charles Workman prodded him with his shoe. “This woulda been a whole lot easier on all of us if you’d just let me do the job back there.”

  “C’mon, Morris,” Mendy said. “Up and at ’em.” He yanked him to his feet.

  The policeman swung the car around and cracked his window. “I’ll see you boys outside then. Have a good night, Mr. Raab. I’m sorry it’s worked out for you like this. Me, I would’ve just taken the message back in your warehouse and not rocked the boat.”

  Morris wiped the blood off his lip. “Go to hell.”

  “Don’t you be judging me now, lad. If I were you, I’d use the time to prepare to meet your maker. Get on with your work now, boys. You can be sure you won’t be disturbed.” The police car drove off, leaving Morris, Mendy, and Workman on the dark pier.

  Workman dug the gun into Morris’s back. “Start walking.”

  “Where?”

  “Where do you think, Morris? The Bronx? Ebbets Field? Straight ahead, smart guy.” He waved his gun toward the far end of the pier.

  There were crates and trellises everywhere, the lights of the Lower Manhattan skyline looming behind them. He could shout all he wanted, Morris knew, scream bloody hell; out here, no one would hear a thing. He walked. Across the river a Rheingold beer sign blinked in neon yellow script. The span of the dark bridge loomed above them. The occasional lights of cars heading to and from Brooklyn twinkled in the heavy night.

  “We used to swim off these docks, remember?” Morris said to Mendy as he walked to the edge of the pier.

  “That we did, Morris.”

  Morris looked north to the next pier, maybe a quarter mile away. It was once the Fourth Street pier, he recalled, where as kids they would play. The pier was dark now, a trawler moored, barely a light on it. Morris said, “I used to make it all the way over to that pier over there without even coming up for air. We called it Little Dublin back then. All Irish and Italian.”

  “Probably still is,” Mendy laughed, nudging him with his gun, “ ’cept they’re in the dockworkers union now.”

  Workman pointed. “You see those crates. Stop over there.” He pushed Morris toward them. A slick, slanting rain began to beat into Morris’s face.

  “Coulda picked a prettier night to do this,” Mendy chuffed.

  Morris shrugged. “All the same to me.”

  Workman stopped behind a stack of containers near the tip of the pier. “Here.”

  Out on the river, a horn sounded. A barge coasted by, dark and silent. Morris contemplated screaming for help, but the breeze was coming in against him. No one would hear. No one would hear ten feet away, let alone hundreds out on the water.

  There was a heavy chain rolled up on the dock.

  Workman began to uncurl it. “Boss wants no trace of you. You know, we ordered up a wheelbarrow full of cement, you being such a big shot and all, but this was quicker. You won’t take no offense, I hope?” Workman brought the chain over to Morris and wrapped a loop around his shoulders. “Mendy, boss said it’s your fuckup, so it’s yours to do.”

  Morris turned to Mendy, who was still holding his gun on him. “Your fuckup? What did he mean by that?”

  “Nothing,” Mendy said. “Just business. Let’s get on with it.”

  “Oh, go ahead and tell him, Mendy,” Workman said. “Who’s he gonna tell? The fish? He deserves to know. I think Mendy’s got a message for you.”

  “What message?” Morris looked at him. Anger rose up in him. Rain pelted him in the face. “You’re talking about Harry?”

  “Harry? Nah. Charlie’s just being a prick, that’s all.”

  “What happened to him, Mendy? You can tell me. What’s the difference, anyway?”

  “I told you at the shivah, Morris, I don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Oh come on,” Workman said. “You’re a big guy, Mendy. The guy’s about to go in the drink. You can own up to it.” He’d picked up about six feet of heavy chain and, kneeling, started to wrap it loosely around Morris’s ankles.

  Morris kept his legs as wide as he could. He looked at Mendy. “You were there, weren’t you?”

  “There?” Workman chortled amusedly. “I’d say he was there.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Charlie,” Mendy said.

  “I knew it was you, Mendy.” Morris glared, his anger surging through him. “You piece of shit, I knew Harry didn’t have it in him, however you suckered him into doing what he did. And you killed him, right?”

  Mendy didn’t answer.

  “You killed him.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly have fun doing it,” he finally snapped. “I always liked Harry. But it was either him or me, so what choice was there.”

  “Him or you? What do you mean?”

  “Go on, Mendy, tell him.” Workman fed the end of a length of chain around Morris’s waist. “Who’s he gonna blab it to, anyway, the fucking carp?”

  “Fuck you, Charlie.” Mendy glared, rain pouring off the brim of his hat. “I screwed up, that’s all. Charlie here thinks I ran out on him on the job. So someone had to pay.”

  “The Schultz job . . . ?”

  “You know damn well what we’re talking about, Morris. It was in every headline in the country.”

  “So you let him take the hit for you?” Morris stared Mendy in the face. “Your pal. The guy you grew up with. The guy who would have done anything for you. What’d you do, tell him you were gonna take him out for a beer, and put a bullet in the back of his head?”

  “Something like that.” Workman grinned. “Now . . .”

  Mendy wiped the rain off his face. “Well, I guess you were right about something, Morris. People like me, we don’t have any friends. Anyway, he said something, for what it’s worth. At the end. To you. You might as well hear it.”

  “What?”

  “He said, ‘Tell Morris, I didn’t do it.’ I didn’t do it. Those were the last words he uttered.” He laughed bitterly. “Whaddya think he might be talking about, Morris?”

  Anger lit through Morris’s veins. In seconds Mendy was going to pull the trigger and Morris would be pushed in to sink to the bottom of the East River. No one would ever know his fate. He no longer felt pain anywhere. Just rage. And a helplessness that he could do nothing about it. “You pulled the fucking trigger, didn’t you?” He kept his eyes fixed on Mendy.

  Mendy was silent.

  “You pulled the trigger, you piece of shit?”

  “Yeah, I pulled the fucking trigger. Or one of my men did. But you sent him back to us, Morris. You pushed him out. So where the hell could he go? He came to us. ‘Tell Morris, I didn’t do it.’ Right as we dropped him, Morris. That’s all he had to say. Trust me, he was a lot more ashamed in front of you than he was angry at me for doing it. He knew what it was about. So how does that make you feel? Not such a big shot now, right?”

  Workman looped the chain loosely around Morris one more time. Then the gangster brought it back up to wrap around Morris’s shoulder.

  “So, tell me, Mendy, did he do it?” Morris asked. “Did he let your boys in that night? When you torched the warehouse. I know you called him. I know he went out with you.”

  “Did he do it?” Mendy chuckled in his face. “You poor sap, you don’t even know, do you? You had the fucki
ng warehouse manager who was being pushed out of his job. Leo, or something. He let us in.”

  “Leo?”

  “We just needed Harry out of the way, that’s all. So I took him to the fights. He was always a sucker for the fights.”

  Morris looked at him. For the first time, tears fell down his face, mixing with the rain. Harry didn’t do it. That’s what he’d said at the end. When his friend had put a gun to the back of his head and he must’ve known what was happening. The person he trusted most, taking him down. Tell Morris, I didn’t do it. Maybe he should die. Morris swallowed, a weight in his own chest pulling him, even stronger than the chains.

  “Anyway, enough talk now,” Workman said. “Let’s get on with it, Mendy. I’ll fix the rest after.”

  Mendy brought his gun up to Morris’s chest. Morris looked him in the eye.

  “Whatsamatter, Mendy.” Morris smiled. “You can do it to my brother, but not to me?”

  “Get it done, sweetheart,” Workman said. “If you’re too much of a woman to pull the trigger, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

  “I can pull it.” Mendy waved the gun at Workman. “Sorry, Morris.”

  He hesitated one more second, then brought the gun back, steadying it at Morris’s chest.

  That was when Morris lunged forward, crashing into Mendy like a bull busting through a fence. The force sent them both toppling off the edge of the pier, and they fell, an eight-foot drop into the cold, black water. The gun went off. Morris felt a hot jolt sear into his side.

  They went under.

  In his heavy coat and with the chain draped around him, Morris gulped a lungful of air into his lungs as he was pulled down. He still held on to Mendy, who tried to break free of his grip and pull the trigger. But Morris latched onto the gun and elbowed Mendy in the face, trying to wrench it free. The chain was looped around his shoulders and ankles, but there was a gap from Morris having kept his legs apart, and he was able to kick his ankles free. Still, it continued to drag them both to the bottom.

  Air bubbles leaked from Mendy’s mouth, rising rapidly. They were about eight feet under now, the water dark and murky. Mendy squeezed off another shot, but it missed Morris narrowly, Morris forcing Mendy’s hand back and mashing his arm against one of the wood pylons securing the pier. Mendy’s other arm thrashed wildly as he tried to kick free and get himself back to the surface.

  Morris continued to hold on to him.

  Twenty seconds elapsed. Morris kept hammering Mendy’s gun against the pier. Somehow Mendy managed to twist his hand free, and wrestled the gun in front of Morris’s face with an expression that read, it’s over now, and squeezed on the trigger. But the gun harmlessly clicked and clicked.

  Jammed.

  Mendy’s lungs began to give out. The gun fell out of his hand. Morris continued to hold onto him, shrugging the chain off his shoulder. Thirty seconds. Mendy kicked frantically, trying to wrench himself free, but Morris’s coat and the chain wrapped around him continued to weigh them both down. Morris held on.

  Forty seconds now.

  Mendy’s eyes grew wide with panic. Morris just kept him there, staring into the face of the man who had killed his brother. It didn’t matter whether they both died. You know what he said, before I dropped him? All sense of time disappeared. Close to a minute had now elapsed. Mendy’s cheeks were puffed out now, trying to hold on to every breath, and his eyes showed fear and alarm.

  Above them, Workman tried to maneuver himself around the side of the dock and get off a shot—at either of them, at this point he didn’t care—but they were under far too deep.

  Slowly Mendy’s lungs began to empty. He thrashed his legs, desperately trying to kick Morris off with the last of his strength, but his efforts only used up more oxygen and he began to weaken. His eyes were almost begging now, no longer fierce and explosive. Just afraid. With one hand, Morris pinned him against the pylon, and with the other, unlooped a length of chain from around his own shoulders and, a mask of panic emerging on Mendy’s face, Morris looped the chain around the gangster’s neck and then around the crossbeam supporting the pier. Eyes wide, Mendy violently shook his head, letting in more water. Kicking desperately.

  Morris felt his own oxygen start to deplete.

  With his free hand he unwrapped the rest of the chain from around his own neck. Morris had been under a long time as well, over a minute now. His own lungs began to burn.

  Mendy’s grip suddenly went limp, his eyes wide. Suddenly there was no longer struggle or panic in them, just a kind of helplessness, then surrender, and an acceptance of his fate. Then just calm.

  His mouth parted and his eyes were fixed. He stared into Morris’s face.

  His own lungs bursting now, Morris wriggled out of his coat and sent himself upward. He maneuvered along the side of the pier to the far end and broke the surface, gasping and heaving, sucking needed air into his lungs. His side felt like it was on fire. He put a hand to it and there was blood on it, diluted by the water. He felt his own strength fading. Somehow he had to get out of here.

  On the dock, Workman heard him break the surface and rushed around the side, craning over the edge, trying to get an angle. “Is that you, Mendy?” When there was no reply, he pointed his gun and squeezed the trigger, two, three times, aiming at Morris’s coat floating on the surface. Bullets disappeared in the black, lapping tide.

  Morris dove back under. He heard two more shots as bullets streaked through his coat. Without surfacing, he pushed away from the dock and swam. He kicked until his lungs ached again and his side and right thigh throbbed with pain. This time he came up out of Workman’s range. He saw him still on the pier, searching the black water, unsure where Morris was. He went back under, swimming toward the Fourth Street pier, just as he had done as a kid. He moved further and further away. When his strength was on the verge of giving out, he ducked his head up from under the tide, sucked in a deep breath, and saw the new pier, now just yards in front of him. He ducked back under and swam for it, virtually out of breath, bleeding, almost unable to move his arms another stroke, and with a final, exhausted grasp, latched his fingers onto the pier. If they hadn’t make contact he might have gone under for good. He gasped. On the far side of the pier, he located a wooden ladder affixed to it and, straining, using every fiber of strength he had left, pulled himself up. He was completely spent, his lower body deadened. Nothing hurt anymore—he was numb all over. He collapsed as soon as he was on top, gasping loudly, gulping heavy breaths into his lungs, only the feeling of blood leaking out of him convincing him he was still alive. He had no thought of getting away. Even if Workman found him. He didn’t have the strength to stand. He’d lost a lot of blood. It occurred to him he might still die here.

  And if he did, Morris thought, if that happened, that was okay. In the end, maybe he didn’t deserve to survive. Harry hadn’t. Or Manny. He realized now what he had done, and tears fell down his cheeks mixed with rain. He had cast his brother away, wrongly, and it had cost Harry his life. Morris felt the blood ebb out of him. Mixed with grief, shame.

  Dying, it wasn’t that hard. They had managed it.

  Ruthie . . . He saw a pretty face take shape in front of him. You were the best thing ever to happen to me.

  “You okay, sir?”

  Morris opened his eyes. A black man, likely a night watchman, knelt over him. Looking almost amazed that this hulk who had crawled out of the water was somehow alive.

  “Call the police,” Morris said, gasping. “I’ve been shot.”

  “Okay, okay. You just wait there, all right,” the man said, putting out his palms to Morris to reassure him. “I’ll be back in a jiffy, you hear. You just wait there.” He ran off.

  “Wait!” Morris called after him. Using every bit of strength he had left, he rolled onto his side and pulled out his wallet from his sodden pants. “Not the police.” He searched around in his wallet and took out a card. It was soaked, like everything on him, but the name and number were still visible. “Call
him.” Morris handed the watchman the card. He breathed heavily. “Tell him you have Morris Raab.”

  “Who?”

  “Morris Raab.”

  The guy ran off. Morris lay his head back on the pier. He felt the irrepressible urge to sleep. He used to play here. The only way they could get cool in the summer. The rain had lightened on his face. He looked up. From behind a passing cloud, the bright orb of the moon was trying to push its way through. He drew in a breath that told him he was going to live.

  The card belonged to Special Prosecutor Thomas Dewey.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Morris heard a whoosh and a groan. Another whoosh and a groan.

  He opened his eyes.

  An oxygen tube and an IV line were affixed to him. As he’d felt himself passing out on the pier before help came and the medics reached him, he hadn’t known if he would ever wake up again.

  “Hey there,” a familiar voice said happily. A scent he knew was close by—apricot—and a sweet image came into focus next to him.

  He smiled. “I was sure I would never see you again,” he said, his mouth coarse as sandpaper.

  Ruthie smiled too. She squeezed his hand. Her eyes glistened with gratefulness and happiness. “For a while, me either.”

  “How long have I been out?” He glanced around, getting a sense of where he was. A large, single room. Flowers against the wall. Lots of flowers.

  “Two days.” Her eyes glistened with tears. “The doctors weren’t sure you would even make it. Oh, Morris . . .” She rested her head on his chest and squeezed him. He knew without her saying a word what she wanted to say.

  “You know I love you more than anything and I knew what I was getting when I married you,” she shook her head, “but this has got to end, Morris Raab. I need you. We all need you.”

  He rubbed his hand softly against her face and smiled. “You know, when I saw you in that club, I thought you were the most beautiful thing in the world. I don’t know how you even let me into your life.”

  “You were light on your feet. Remember?”