by Al Zuckerman
Late in February Izzie got unnerving news which he’d been half-expecting. A new offer, transmitted through a major bank, l’Union Bancaire de Suisse, had been received at the Silverberg office for the Hargett interests in a lengthy list of properties, mostly hotels, casinos, and racetracks. The racetrack mentions upset Iz most. In so strictly regulated an industry, his participations were a closely locked secret, fronted by dummy corporations and by blue-ribbon nominees who owned these corporations on paper. That the anonymous offerer had this information, not all of which even Silverberg had, came as a shock. And almost as overpowering were the monies specified, a minimum guarantee of ten million against a sliding scale based on gross receipts, which could eventuate in a total purchase price of as much as thirty-five or forty million dollars.
Most unnerving of all about the offer was its implicit affirmation that Carmen Scapellatti had been a red herring, at most a front. The real big boy, if this offer thing were serious, was turning out to be bigger than anyone Iz could even think of to suspect. Mulling this, he felt his heart pump faster. This time he’d direct the hunt himself; here was the kind of challenge that would galvanize him into becoming again the man he had been—if that were still possible. And if not, well. …
The day Iz slipped back into New York marked the end of an era. Joseph Stalin, no lover of the Jews, died from a heart attack. Iz took it to be a good omen.
In Bern, the Chief of the Bundes Anwaltschaft, Switzerland’s internal security force, was surprised to be called up by the Cuban Ambassador, but was pleased to be retained for a bit of independent consulting work: the amount of the advance fee stopped the Swiss official’s breath. The Chief of Police in Lausanne, headquarters city of the Union Bancaire, was eager too to accommodate so gracious a diplomat. The senior partner in the Geneva law firm which was counsel to the bank was similarly touched to the quick. Each one independently was asked the identical service and was assured an almost embarrassingly phenomenal emolument upon its completion. Required by a personal friend of the ambassador’s, who himself was acting of course in a wholly nonofficial capacity, was the name or names behind the offer for a certain list of properties which had been made by cable on February 28th to a Reuben Silverberg in New York, the cable seemingly emanating from the Union Bancaire, but with a signatory who didn’t seem to exist or whose name was perhaps a code for someone else.
In the days that followed, in mahogany-paneled luncheon clubs, in oriental-carpeted boardrooms in Lausanne, Zurich, Basel, Lugano, St. Gallen, Locarno and other Swiss cities, the Union’s directors and top officers one by one were discreetly buttonholed. Lesser executives of the Corporate Affairs Department were queried by people who happened to be old friends. Senior and junior clerks were approached in their homes, on street corners, bicycle paths, ice-skating ponds, and quietly threatened, unless they sneaked files out of their offices and lent them for a day or two. Which the frightened souls more than readily agreed to.
The net result of all this was nothing. Zero.
* * *
Why, Leroy wondered, was this meeting being held here in Mr. Blomberg’s ratty little office, of all places? Was it just because the place was not directly connected with the boss, off the beaten track, part of Mr. H.’s nonstop hopping around, which was how Hargett had been sleeping, working, everything, all through the spring and now through June, which was almost over too.
Leroy had too many markers and reconciliations to pore through, though, to use his time second-guessing something not truly worrisome and not his personal responsibility. When he had recuperated from that very close call in Washington, he’d decided despite the newly obvious dangers, to stick with Mr. H. And the boss had said, okay, jacked Leroy’s pay way up, and put him into a really heavyweight job, in full charge of short money and layoff insurance to New York, Jersey and Long Island numbers bankers. With the players pretty much all coloreds, and the bulk of the action inside their neighborhoods, Mr. H. had come to think that sooner or later local sharpsters would begin moving in on the banks, taking them over, and doing a better job too than the Italianers, who were starting to age, and who were whole worlds out of touch with the marks actually paying the freight. So a brother like Leroy, connected solid, ought to be able to carve himself out a real edge. Leroy for years had felt in his bones that someday Mr. H. would give him a crack at trying to run with something big; but this was more than he’d counted on—to start off with, anyway. Leroy had been glad glad glad, and also scared. The Maffetore, Adonis and Genovese bank operators, rough customers all, would, Leroy knew, be less than ecstatic with having to finance their notes and hand over their viggerish payments to a dinge. But Leroy had had to hand it to Mr. H. Those guys were doing it. And with the Cuban, Puerto Rican and the two all-colored banks, it was moving smooth. So the Boss’s head still was coming on with the jivey moves.
Leroy strained to concentrate on his columns of accounts; but now Mr. H. and Blomberg had begun raising their voices—pigs, butchers, Bolsheviks, Nazis!—about the rioting going on East Germany, Blomberg pounding out reasons why it had to spread all through Eastern Europe, finishing the Russians, Mr. H. positive the Soviets would exterminate Germans, Poles, anybody before the Russians ever would let any of them break free.
Leroy checked his watch. Any minute Mr. Kremish would be arriving. But why? Leroy couldn’t recall Kremish’s name having been mentioned even once in all these months since Scott’s death.
Leroy had to get the paperwork done. Thumbing the I.O.U.’s, flipping them one by one, he began punching numbers on Blomberg’s old hand-levered adding machine, an antique practically. The total that the rickety gismo clicked out seemed about right.
About to start on a second bundle of slips, suddenly Leroy imagined Linda, right here across the desk, smiling. A pang went through him. Christ, could—Linda couldn’t be any part of why this Kremish man was coming around, could she? No, that was crazy, impossible. Hell, what could that dead boy’s father care about her now? And what chance he knew anything, so long as Mr. H. himself didn’t? Leroy was sweating now, all the way to his fingertips. What with the daydreaming and night-dreaming about Linda, his copping off two whole afternoons being with her, and worst, the worry creeping in, around, and on top of every spare minute, he’d lost ground this week. And Leroy knew there was damn little chance—none really at all—his consoling her and fondling her would stop at that.
Leroy’s sharp head, his street-trained, Hargett-trained mind was warning with loudspeakers, flashing lights, sirens; haul ass the hell away from her, hands off, leave her be, and right this second too, and from now on, and for keeps. So why why WHY didn’t he, couldn’t he? Rita Hayworth she damn well wasn’t, or Aphrodite, or Lena Horne. So what in hell was it? Could it be a kind of greed, a lusting for Mr. H.’s mantle? But then would he be so exhilarated, goddamn transported from just touching her, hearing her Jewishy Barnard voice?
A knock, a soft tap really. Leroy opened the door. It took a minute for him to recognize Mr. Kremish. So thin now, hair turned all white; and a younger man with him, dark-bearded and with blazing eyes.
Iz rose to greet them. “Come in, come in.” He became unaccustomedly hearty. “Reb Grodno, good to see you too.” Disregarding Kremish’s aloofness, Iz reached for his visitor’s hand.
The bereaved conglomerateur returned Iz’s grasp firmly, as did Grodno, but neither caller spoke a word, which unsettled Iz.
Ernie Blomberg, as he’d earlier agreed to do, excused himself and slipped out. He posted himself in the neighbor’s office near the elevator and stairwell, in case anyone worrisome slipped past the hawks downstairs.
Iz led Kremish and his associate into the inner office, filled largely by Blomberg’s momento-strewn desk, a relic of more prosperous times, as were the bright posters for bygone shows, the autographed photos, the blown-up and framed critics’ reviews.
Iz motioned them to the leather settee; the fuzzy stuffing poked through some cracks. “Not exactly the most comfortab
le place, I know,” Iz acknowledged apologetically, “but. …”
“It’s okay. That’s the least, really.”
The hatred Iz was prepared for wasn’t coming out. Stand-offishness for sure, but effort too, some warmth, sympathy, something. Iz had felt it in that handshake. And that effort probably was at the bottom of why they’d come. Which was WHY? Hang on. Patience.
Iz forced a smile. “Those good reports lately about your business, I got to hand it to you.”
“Your business,” Kremish softly corrected.
There was hate then, along with this better thing, whatever it was. “All right,” Hargett shrugged, “You can see it that way; but to me Dynamic still is yours. I’m—I see myself as another investor. But is that why you’ve come here?”
“That would help you feel better about yourself, wouldn’t it, if you could help me?”
Iz’s gut tightened. If Kremish really didn’t want anything from him, then could this have something to do with—Switzerland? No, Iz didn’t want to ask that. “How’s your Missus doing?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Home now?”
“Soon. At least that’s what they tell me. But with these sanitarium doctors, who can really know?”
“She’ll come back. Naomi is a strong woman.”
“She loved her son.”
Iz exchanged a glance with Leroy who sat in a little chair by the door. The black boy’s lips were pursed. Leroy too, Iz sensed, was feeling the strain.
“So, Reb Grodno,” Iz changed the subject, “what’s new in the inner realms?”
The adept smiled, and imperceptibly there came a brightening in the room, as if he had it in him to generate a whole new warmth, an unearthly power. He spoke. “In the inner realms everything is new, radiantly new. …” There was a music to his speech. “And at one and the same time, things there are unchanging, eternal, blazing with purifying flames, but not being consumed. Some day perhaps, if the desire overwhelms you, I shall try to conduct you into them.”
Iz felt oddly awed. “I would like that.”
“First though, I think there are—the outer realms.”
Kremish caught Iz’s puzzled look, and said, “He means me.”
“And you, can I ask what you mean?”
Kremish grimaced, as if feeling a pain. “I thought I would never have to see you again.”
“You can leave.”
Kremish, lips pressed together, shook his head, signifying that he couldn’t.
“You have to see me?” Iz asked.
Still grimacing, Leo nodded. “It’s a duty. I’m a human being.”
“What do you mean, a duty?”
Leo snorted. “I thought I had known everything: women, goddesses, fantastic deals, victories, and disappointments too. But about one thing I was a baby. I knew nothing, until I met you—about evil. And now everywhere, all the time, it follows me, you follow me—like death.”
Iz controlled himself. “You’d better tell me what the problem is.”
“It’s awful.”
“What’s happened to you?”
“To you.”
“Something about Dynamic?”
“No. Your—your David.”
That was what he’d heard. But Kremish, what could he have to do with. … Iz felt like screaming, bashing the man. Quietly, drum-taut, he asked, “What about David?”
Kremish’s mouth opened, but couldn’t seem to form words. He lowered his eyes.
“What about him?” Iz spat.
“Somebody . . . kidnapped him.”
Kidnapped. Iz had heard that too, no mistake, no point in making the man repeat it. He felt suddenly drained, numbed.
Leroy spoke up. “How you mean, somebody?”
“On the phone, a voice.” Kremish shrugged morosely. “I told him he was crazy, insane, a madman. And besides, why call me? This is not my son. So then he said, if I didn’t myself come personally and give to you this message, they would kill the boy.”
Leroy’s mouth dropped open.
“What—what message?” Iz asked, his mind springing back into action, honing in on the essence.
“It’s a contract. They will send it to you. You have to sign it, or,” Kremish swallowed and then continued, “or forget your son.”
Iz shut his eyes. He had to think, quiet the fury pounding through him. “What else? Nothing about money?”
“He didn’t say about that. I don’t know.”
Iz had just talked with David, long distance, two-three days ago. David had admitted he was lonely, a little anyway, but also excited as hell, getting into a whole new world down there. A U.S. officer now, a reserve Navy ensign. Iz remembered the commissioning ceremony at Princeton, how great the boy had looked standing there in gleaming white, gold on his hat and shoulders. Now he was in Portsmouth, Virginia, the Navy yard, where his fleet ammo ship was getting its engines worked on. Kidnapped? A U.S. officer? So queer. Yet this was for real, Iz knew it. And the hoister could only be one person, that same Swiss bank maniac.
“So what next, what’d this voice say I’m supposed to do next?”
“I’m supposed to report what you say, if you’ll sign.”
“I’ll sign, sure, every check in my checkbook, every piece of paper in the world. But if anything happens to David, you can tell that guy I’ll be signing with blood—their blood.”
“Mr. Hargett, please, I—I’m now only the errand boy.”
Iz’s fury cooled. He began nodding his head, slowly, absently. “I wish I knew what I was.”
Kremish looked away, shuddering.
Iz turned to the mystic. “And you, Rebbe, can you make sense of this?”
“No. But all things are, you know, provided for and inscribed.”
“And something like this, how is it inscribed?”
Grodno furrowed his brow, thought for a moment, then answered, “The Infinite One speaks, for an example, through his prophet Isaiah, and He tells us, ‘And I will punish the world for their evil, and the wicked for their iniquity; and I will cause the arrogancy of the proud to cease, and will lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.’”
Creep, was he implying. … “And I’m the wicked?”
“All of us are.”
“But you’re saying, it’s God who’s doing this to me.”
“Yes, and no. What He does, after all, is beyond all comprehension.”
Superstitious dreck, why was he wasting breath on this joker? Iz’s head hurt, and again he shut his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Hargett,” he heard Kremish whisper consolingly.
Iz saw David out on the football field, Palmer Stadium, chasing the ball carrier, wildly, desperately. So eager to be a champion, All-American, and the poor kid just couldn’t be. God, Iz loved him—not so much as Linda maybe, but a lot.
Iz reopened his eyes. “You hate me?” he abruptly asked.
Kremish shrugged in admission, but added, “This I wouldn’t wish on you.”
Iz turned to the young adept. “Rebbe, you can tell your God, I have no regrets about my life.” But he knew that he did. And that also there was no turning back from what now had to be done.
CHAPTER 2
Linda nuzzled against Leroy’s chest. She tugged at his arm sprawled over her, pulling it tighter against her shoulder, pressing it down on herself, to hide herself and her fear inside of him. She yearned to share his unswerving belief that her pop could handle this thing, that David would not be hurt, and would come back good as he was. Pressing Leroy’s forearm hard against her teeth, she prayed, please, please, please, don’t let David, silly David, be hurt. …
A minute ago, or five (Linda had lost track of time) she’d been kissing him, growing more and more excited, wondering if soon they’d be tugging at one another’s clothes, and at the same time feeling amazed—at herself for having been able to turn to him and at life for putting him right here with her. Then they’d lain quietly for a time, caressing, talking, and she’d happily burst
out about David’s letter, David’s excitement about his ship, the incredible complexity of its machinery, his worry about giving orders to enlisted men who were older and who knew so much more about their jobs than he did. Then Leroy had told her. …
Chunky David, silly David, with his dumbo college-boy white buck shoes, breakfast time always buried in the sports section, weekend afternoons glued to the Dodgers on T.V., with his raucous voice and his gabbiness at the table. But now all that seemed nice, beautiful, necessary. And he might no longer be alive? No! No, no, no, she mustn’t even think that.
Linda had an urge to spring up off the sofa and run a million miles away from this horror, from—oh God, Poppa. She felt a pang of guilt. But it was dangerous to be related to him, to be too near to him. Scott, beautiful Scott, and now David—and what about poor Harry Klauber?
But it was Scott’s face and strong arms suddenly that haunted her. How long since she’d thought of him? A few days, a week maybe. Her chest began aching with the old pain. She thought she’d buried it, hoped so much that she had—now wondered if she ever could.
She felt so torn, wanting to love Leroy without this pain, and love her father too. And Poppa might be in danger too, terrible danger. And there was no way she could help him.
Her urge to rush out to Idlewild and fly away became overwhelming. And it wouldn’t be fleeing only from Poppa. It’d also have to be from everyone. Leroy too? Couldn’t he come with her, somewhere where they’d live in Gauguin paintings, swim off pink beaches, eat coconuts right off the trees, and be safe?
She couldn’t think how to begin talking about this, though, because in her heart she sensed Leroy wouldn’t want to come. If he were scared too, then not much chance he’d be working out well for her pop. And Leroy, she’d heard, was working out well, which meant he, like Poppa, had to be—different.
She cringed, and edged away from him.
It felt close, stifling here in her mother’s (used to be her parents’) living room. The city was sweltering, the summer’s first heat wave. Yet at the same time Linda felt chilled.
