Pius Lanzetta pulls out a small notebook and pencil from his breast pocket. He licks the end of the pencil. “Fine. Let’s figure out the details. Mamma’s got supper waiting, and we don’t want to keep Mamma waiting. Capice? How much product you think you can move? What kind of overhead percentage you looking at?”
Eddie grins. Finally, a deal. I did it.
A handshake and a bottle of good red wine later, and the deal is struck.
Driving back to the Ritz, Eddie stares out the window at the passing streets. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, not seeing the glowing store windows and dazzling marquee lights. Reality is beginning to dampen his euphoria.
“Mickey’s gonna lose it when he hears you cut a deal with the Lanzetta brothers,” Porter says, hands on the steering wheel and eyes straight ahead.
“Shaddap. I’m thinking.” Eddie snaps at the back of Porter’s head. I’m thinking I gotta make sure that Mickey don’t find out. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt me. Eddie chuckles at the joke.
“What’s that, Boss?”
“I’m thinking I need to swing by my place and pick up Bette. I’m starved. It’s a night we should be celebrating. And then maybe the Cadix. That hot band still there?”
“Sure, Boss. Maybe Mickey will be, too. You can fill him in on the deal ya cooked up tonight.”
It ain’t likely that Mickey will be there, but better safe than sorry. “Changed my mind, Porter. Drop me at home, but don’t wait. You know dames. It might take her a while to get ready.”
“That ain’t what I heard,” Porter mutters under his breath.
“What’s that?”
“Nuthin, Boss. Just clearing my throat. Have a bit of a cold coming on.”
Yeah, I bet. Watch your back, punk. Your days may be numbered. If I can’t get respect from you or the others loyal to Mickey, I’ll go find me my own guys. Change is coming, Porter. Get used to it.
Chapter 26
I t’s a beautiful March day. Maggie strolls down the sidewalk, a spring to her step. It is a welcome break from the office. And Ron, if I’m being honest. I’m walking on eggshells the whole time he’s around. Do I love him? As much as Jack? If Ron asks me to, can I step aside and give him the firm? Reaching the coffee shop that she’s arranged to meet Joe Kelly at, she pulls on the door handle. Nothing. Still debating her love life, she stares at the door, confused. It’s mid-morning. Surely they’re open by now?
Taped to the door is a sign announcing that they’re closed until further notice. Peering through the plate glass door, Maggie sees that the place has a hurriedly emptied look, like a decision to close a lifetime of work was made, and everyone just got up and left, turning out the lights.
“That’s too bad. I liked this place.” Joe says behind her.
“Hello, Joe. A sign of the times, I guess.”
“Yes, more and more common I’m afraid. There’s another place across the street. And it looks like it’s still open. Let’s go there.”
“Thanks for meeting me, Joe. Like I said on the phone, I’ve got a personal question for you. Nothing about police work,” Maggie says, settling into the booth. A waitress hurries over and pours them coffee. Paying customers are getting few and far between.
“Are you kidding me? On a day like today, it’s grand to get away from the desk. So, what’s up? I’m curious.”
“I’m trying to track down the location of a place called Bandits’ Cemetery. Have you ever heard of it?”
“Of course I’ve heard of it. Most coppers have. Whenever one of the bad guys goes missing, we say they’re taking a nap in Bandits’ Cemetery. But I haven’t a clue where it is, or if it’s even real. There’s always stories, like the stories of pirates’ buried treasure. Everybody has a theory, but nobody really knows. How come you want to know?”
“I came across a mention of it, and a friend of mine would like to try and find it.”
“That’ll be a tough one. The stories have been around forever. So much of Philadelphia’s landscape has changed in the last fifty years, let alone going back further than that; new construction, new roads, canals dug along streambeds, and then those eventually filled in with culverts and storm sewers. If there ever was a cemetery, it’s probably paved over by now.”
“You have any ideas of where I might look?”
“You could try the library. They have old maps. There might be something on one of them. And there’s the historical society. One of them old codgers might have more information. And if you find out anything, you gotta promise to tell me. I can imagine the stir if I announced that I knew where Bandits’ Cemetery was.”
“Ha ha. I’ll be sure to do that, Joe. I’ll draw you a pirate map with ‘X’ to mark the spot.”
* * * *
The conversation around Maggie’s dinner table later that night is grim. Dick’s daily recounting of the newspaper stories he’s working on always seem to be about those that have been crushed by the depression, about bankruptcies, about crime and violence. And the nature of the violence is changing. Where once it was random, between bootleggers, now there is petty crime and desperation everywhere. The shock of sudden poverty is a terrible thing.
Archie does nothing to lighten the atmosphere. He has always basked in the misfortunates of others. The economic depression merely gives him more fodder for his misery.
Maggie picks up her knife and fork. “All this doom and gloom is not good for digestion. Surely there is something else we can talk about. Is there no good news going on in the world?”
“The Municipal Auditorium is opening tomorrow,” Dick says.
Maggie smiles gratefully. “You see. I knew there would be something positive happening. I’ve watched it being built. By the University. It really is huge.”
“The Democrats are trying to get their next national convention there,” Dick says.
“That would be good for the city, all those tourist dollars. But Philly’s never been known as a place friendly to Democrats,” Archie says.
Dick nods. “I guess that’s why they want to meet here. Fly the flag in enemy territory.” He snags the last bun out from under Tommy’s hand. Tommy gives him a grin.
“There’s more in the kitchen,” Maggie says, sending Tommy to fill the empty basket.
Maggie pauses, her cutlery poised. “I have a question for you both. A friend of mine is looking for Bandits’ Cemetery. Have you heard of it, or know where it is?”
Dick shakes his head. “An old wives’ tale. It doesn’t exist.”
Archie shakes his head. “No, you’re wrong, Dick. Of course it exists. Where else would the outcasts bury their dead? Shunned by their families and by society, it’s not like they’d be welcomed in a regular parish or congregation. No, it exists. But its location is a secret. Known only to bandits.”
Dick rolls his eyes. “Really, Archie. A secret burial ground. In your dreams.”
Archie snaps back. “For a writer you have a very limited imagination.”
“I didn’t mean to start an argument,” Maggie says.
Tommy returns with the basket of buns. “If only bandits know where it is, why don’t you ask Mickey Duffy?” Tommy says, sliding back into his chair.
“Mickey? That’s an interesting idea. He might know more; the story passed down from bandit leader to bandit leader.” Maggie is intrigued with the idea.
Dick passes Tommy the butter. “Maggie, don’t tell me you’re really looking for this place. It’s a myth, a legend. Why do you want to find it?”
“It’s for a friend,” she says dismissively. “No matter.”
“Well, if you do find it, be sure to let me know, alright? I’d love to be able to bring that scoop into the newsroom.”
Chapter 27
M arshall Street is alive with commerce, echoing memories of open air markets from the old country. Push carts and stalls crowd the streets; customers fingering the merchandise, merchants bartering for the best deal, a babble of tongues spreading news and gossip. Merchants s
hare the same energy. Everyone wants to make a living.
Nestled in this bustling street is the Bloom household, one of the leaders in the local Jewish community. When they immigrated to Philadelphia, the Bloom parents brought with them an ingrained adherence to the Jewish law called pikuach nefesh. In Deuteronomy, it is stated “I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Choose life that you and your offspring may live.”
The goal of the Bloom family, like everyone else on Marshall Street, is life. When Ezra and Rachel stepped off the boat, and found their place in Philly, they didn’t have the clairvoyance to see the quality of the years ahead, but they knew it would be better than those they had left behind. America was the rich, fertile soil they could sink roots into. Those roots: generations of Jewish traditions, the simple pleasures in family, earning a living, practicing religion freely, and expressing ideas, were the ties that bound them to their daily rigors.
The focus on family, religion, and work provides security, safety, and spirit for the Blooms. Ezra and Rachel’s dream is that their children, and their children’s children to the tenth generation, will understand how they had marched through time and trouble to make life worthwhile.
Growing up on that street and in that home, Sadie learned that tateh, her father, was king. Her mother, mameh, may mete out the punishment, but father decides. She grew up understanding her parents’ concrete expectations—her brothers would learn to pray in synagogue while she and her sisters would maintain the observances and customs in the home.
Outside the kitchen window, Sadie can hear the bustle and cacophony of the Marshall Street bazar. Sighing, she looks up from her ironing to gaze at the outside world.
“The matchmaker is coming this afternoon. Be pretty, eh?” her mother says, crossing the kitchen to give her cheek a pinch. “Too pale. You need more color.” Rachel mutters, and returns to her soup on the stove.
Sadie rolls her eyes. “Mameh, I told you. No matchmaker. I’ll find my own husband.”
Rachel tuts and sputters at Sadie. She shakes the wooden spoon she’s been using to stir the soup.
“Like you know what makes a good husband. With your books and your movies. That Evie Feldman put these ideas into your head? No matchmaker, ha! Your papa and I know what’s best for you.”
Ezra, dusting off the matzo meal from his hands, comes into the kitchen. The Bloom bakery is on the first floor of the building and the Bloom family, including Sadie’s grandparents, live on the next two floors above.
“Smells good, Rachel. Busy downstairs today. With Passover coming, everyone wants special. The cases are full of sponge cakes, flourless chocolate cakes, and our special matzo fudgy brownies.”
“Make sure to use lots of chocolate in the brownies, Ezra. It will help cover the taste of the matzo,” Rachel says, ladling his soup into a bowl.
“Ha. You should see Epstein down the street. He should sell his cakes for doorstops. The secret is grinding the matzo meal. Makes it more delicate. Better for cakes and desserts.”
Ezra sits at the table, and Rachel puts a bowl of soup and a crusty piece of bread in front of him. “Enjoy. This is the last of the bread, and the crumbs. After you eat, all the bread will be done and no more crumbs will be in my house until after Passover. We do the looking after lunch and then start the cleaning, the bedikat chametz, at sundown.”
“It seems silly to pretend we’re only looking for crumbs when we will actually be cleaning the linen closets and the attic this afternoon. It’s not like biblical times. Houses are bigger now. Why not just say that the house is going to take longer than a few hours at sundown to do a solid cleaning?” Sadie says.
Her mother tuts into the soup. “Young people have no sense of tradition. It says we don’t clean until sundown so we don’t clean until sundown.”
“But we are cleaning, Mameh. You’ll make me take out all the linens, shake them, and refold them and then wash the cupboard before I put them back. That’s cleaning.”
“No. We’re looking. Cleaning doesn’t happen until sundown.”
Ezra looks from mother to daughter and gives the smallest of eye rolls. “Your food is like oil to the lamp,” Ezra says, lifting his spoon.
Sadie puts down her iron and squares her shoulders. This is a rare moment when she has her parents to herself.
“Tateh, Mameh. Please sit. I have something to say.”
“What is it, bubula? You’re not nervous about the matchmaker, are you? I told you, Papa and I will make a good choice,” Rachel says from the stove.
“Please, Mameh. Sit. It’s not about the matchmaker. Well, not directly anyway.”
Wiping her hands on her apron, Rachel sits. Ezra catches her eye, and she shrugs. Ezra puts down his spoon.
“Tateh. Mameh. I wanted to tell you. Well, before now I should have told you. I’m sorry I waited so long. Sooner would have been better, I guess.”
“Sadie, just say. Stop thinking whether bagels from Kulikov are bigger than bagels from Lemberg,” her mother says.
Sadie turns from her mother to address her father. “I won’t need the matchmaker, Tateh. I’ve met someone. We want your blessing.”
“What? What crazy talk is this?” demands Rachel. “Who do you know? How do you meet someone? What is this talk of blessing? Papa and I do not know this boy. Impossible.” Rachel gets up and starts stirring the soup again, the spoon churning through the broth and vegetables.
“It will not happen. Now finish your ironing and get ready for the matchmaker,” Ezra says, picking up his spoon again.
“I’m going to have a baby.”
Rachel turns, clutching her heart, her eyes wide. She staggers over to the table and collapses into her chair. Ezra’s face goes purple. He slams his hands down on the table, soup spilling over the sides of the bowl.
He rises slowly, gripping the back of the chair. Sadie cowers, her father looming over her, hand raised to strike her. Sadie’s mother, Rachel, grabs the enraged man’s hand. “Ezra, stop.”
“A baby, Rachel. You hear? Our tokhter, she has shamed us. That nafka, she’s nothing but a koorvah. She is dirt. She and that mamzer bastard growing in her belly are no family of mine.” Ezra’s face is scarlet. He stands there, fists clenched, chest heaving. “Who? Who would do this to our family?”
Rachel tugs at his arm. “Ezra, please. Sit. Stop shouting. The neighbors will hear, and talk. The less they know the better. A bunch of yentes and kibitzers.” Rachel glares at her daughter who has brought this grief into their home.
Ezra throws his hands in the air. “This is your fault, Rachel. Always with the ribbons and the easy ways. You let her run wild. No rules for our Sadie. Feh.” He sits heavily.
“Any chance we can make a marriage?” Rachel asks.
Sadie, face wet with tears, shakes her head. “He isn’t Jewish.”
Her father is on his feet, roaring again. “A dirty sheigetz?”
Rachel covers her face in her hands. “Oh Sadie, oy vey iz mir. How could you?”
“Mameh,” Sadie cries, reaching for her.
Rachel shrinks back. “Don’t you touch me. You with the sheigetz baby in your belly. You are filthy, unclean,” Rachel says, the disgust on her face a slap to Sadie.
“No. no. no,” Ezra moans.
“Tateh,” she cries, reaching for her father. He grabs both her hands and stares at her.
“No,” he yells, throwing her hands away. “My daughter with a bastard child. You koorvah.” He spits on the floor. “Enough.” His voice booms. “I want you out of this house.”
Sadie looks from her father to her mother.
Rachel nods, grim. “Yes. Pack your bag and go. Before your sisters come home. Oy, what will your bubbeh say?”
“This will rip out her heart.” Ezra stands and turns away from Sadie, arms crossed, face closed. “I have no daughter.”
Shocked, Sadie looks from her father’s rigid back to her mother who is huddled, sobbing.
“Tateh? Mameh?”
Rachel raises her head. Sadie searches her face, looking for support, forgiveness, a softness. Her mother’s face is hard. “You heard your father. No daughter of ours would have done this thing.” She grimaces. “Go.” Rising, she stands beside Ezra, her back to Sadie.
Sobbing, Sadie stumbles from the room.
* * * *
The pounding on the door, the doorbell’s ceaseless ringing, echo through Henry’s empty house. It’s taken Sadie all day to get here. A trolley, a train, a long walk. She sinks to the step, exhausted, her father’s shouts, the ugly words, still ringing in her ears. Next to her feet is a small battered valise that holds everything that she could fit from her old life.
Come at the King Page 12
