by Andrew Gross
“Shake the hand of the man who shook the hand of the man who shook the hand of the Babe,” he said again.
Sammy laughed.
Tomorrow, they’d have to make their decision. Morris reflected on his life. He could’ve been on the street selling papers if Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman hadn’t taken him in and seen something in him, and given him a chance. He’d always heard people talk about how much luck was a part of where you ended up in life, or how much was due to character. How much you actually brought to your own fate yourself. Morris was generally never much interested in such conversations, but right now, it seemed important to him, as it became clear, holding his son, how whatever he had achieved in life, whatever mattered, had come to him because he had taken the decisive step. He had studied Mr. Beck for two years, and at fifteen years old told Mr. and Mrs. Kaufman he was ready to handle his job. When they finally had to sell their company, at twenty-three years old Morris had opened his own business and convinced Sol to come along. When he took his samples to see Muriel Mossman, as inexperienced as someone could be on their first sales call, it was he who had tossed them over her partition while others just waited in line. No one else would ever have dared. And he had pursued Ruthie when he was nothing but an uneducated lug full of plans but with nothing to show for them, when a woman like that was but an unattainable dream for someone like him.
Raab Brothers—it was the one constant in his life. The one thing he knew, like he knew there were five fingers on each hand. The one thing they could count on. If he signed that contract, the company wouldn’t be his anymore. Oh, his name might still be on the articles of incorporation, and he and Sol might still sign the checks; he might even decide who they would sell to and who they wouldn’t.
But they would own it. Lepke, Gurrah. Even Cy Haddad. The union. They’d be calling the shots. And if he continued to fight them … He tickled Sammy on the ribs and made him laugh. If he fought them he might not be around to see his boy ever go to school. They were squeezing him because he had stood up to them so publicly. If they squashed them, they’d squash everyone. He and Sol, they would be working as hard as they were now, but for free. What choice was left for them? To go to the Dewey commission? To Irv? What could he really tell him? That three of Buchalter’s henchmen had tried to damage his inventory? That wouldn’t be enough to put Workman away for a week, let alone put the pressure on Buchalter. And it would bring the mob down on him with a force he could never fight back against.
Anyway, Morris wasn’t the kind of man who ran to the cops or anyone else to solve his problems for him. Manny Gutman had said, Whatever you do next, it’s gonna be the most important step of your life. “I only know how to do this one thing,” Morris had told him. This one thing. And he knew that well. He might not be book smart, but he’d still amassed a lot of learning in life, and this business, this was what he knew. He tossed Sammy up in his arms and caught him. “Shake the hand of the man who shook the hand of the man who shook the hand of…” He caught himself. Emotion rushed into his eyes. His son laughed. He threw him up in the air again.
What truly mattered—that was what he had only begun to understand.
“Everything all right in there?” Ruthie called from the kitchen.
“Everything’s fine,” Morris called back.
All fine.
What he had to do, he understood, was somehow trust that the things that had taken him this far in life were the same things he could trust now. In Sammy’s playful eyes, he saw a glimmer of what would be one day. What Morris would pass on to him. One day his son would want to know, what kind of man was his father? What did he stand for? What did he believe in? What would his legacy be?
That he was a man who had stood apart? Or put his principles aside, and played the game like everyone else?
Morris had never been one who was able to say things very clearly. What came out of his mouth was still sometimes rough, garbled. But he still felt them. Deep in his heart, in his soul, he felt things just as fiercely as if he could say the words as elegantly as Ruthie or Irv.
Raab Brothers was his life.
“Up with the Babe!” he said to Sammy, tossing him high. In his baseball pajamas and tiny Yankee cap, the number three sewn on his back. “I saw him play a few times. Did you know that? I took your mother once. It was our third date. I remember it clear as if it happened yesterday.” He flicked the bill down over Sammy’s eyes. “He hit two that day.”
“What are you two doing?” Ruthie said, coming out with a tray of chicken and a salad.
“Can’t a guy just horse around with his son?” Morris said, faking umbrage. He put Sammy on his lap. She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat next to him. He put his arm around her.
“Something’s wrong?” She kept at him. “I can tell, Morris.”
He smiled. “What could be wrong?”
That was a beautiful day, was all he was thinking. The two of them. At Yankee Stadium. A row behind the dugout. The sky as blue as her eyes. He remembered the polka-dot dress she wore with a wide straw hat.
That day, he’d felt like the most important man in the whole world, next to the prettiest girl in the park. He knew he would marry her from the moment he’d gone up and asked her to dance.
The Babe hit two.
* * *
The next morning, he met Sol for coffee before work.
Morris tried to gauge from his brother where they stood. “So…?”
His older brother stared back at him. “You’re looking at me like I got a hairpiece off-kilter or something.…”
“I’m asking if you’re still up for signing that document?”
Morris waited while Sol put two sugars in his coffee and stirred in some milk.
“We both know, we sign that letter, we can take six, eight percent right out of our bottom line. That’s all we make now. We raise our prices, maybe we can hide it for a while. Till our customers catch on.”
“And maybe we can’t raise our prices. Maybe the market says no,” Morris said.
“Maybe it does. But the fact remains, we’re no longer working for us, Morris. We have partners now. Partners who don’t give a shit whether we do well in business or not, so long as we pay them.…”
“So what are you proposing?” Morris looked at him with a sparkle of surprise lighting his eyes.
Sol stirred his coffee. Then he looked at his brother with kind of a sage smile. “You remember when I came and got you and drove you back home that day, from Fort Slocum, after you enlisted. When your army unit was about to ship out?”
“I remember.”
“You probably thought I felt some kind of anger toward you at taking you back, ’cause I was always like the parent telling you what was right and what was wrong.”
Morris smiled. “You didn’t say a word till we were back across the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“Maybe so. But when I heard what you’d done, taking on those petselehs in your unit, and never once even telling us about it, it wasn’t anger I felt toward you. I just couldn’t say it then. It was pride. God-honest pride, that I had the toughest little brother in the whole world, a whole lot tougher than me. And you know why? Because he wasn’t afraid to stand up when things got tough. For himself. For all of us. And I remember thinking then, driving, when am I gonna be able to stand up for him?”
“That so,” Morris said, with a surprised grin. “I always thought you felt I was the dumbest SOB on the Lower East Side.”
“Maybe you were. But I learned something from you nonetheless. That some things are worth fighting for and not giving up on so easy. Some lines you just have to cross, even when everything says that you can’t. So if we have to close up shop because of this, we close.…” Sol put down his coffee. “But my fifty percent says, and I must be crazy to even think this, I’m damn well not gonna let those goons make that decision for me.” He smiled. “I don’t need to be spending my whole day and half the night stuck with you if I can’t at least make a little money
out of it.”
Morris stared at his brother and curled back a smile. “You’ll see, Sol, we’ll make a little money out of it yet.”
“It may be on our deathbeds, but…” Sol smiled too. Then he grew serious. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”
Morris nodded. It wouldn’t be easy, and yes, it would bring all hellfire down on them.
Sol said, “I’m not a fighter, Morris. You know that.”
“That’s okay. I can do that enough for two.”
“You’d better, then. L’chaim.” He raised his coffee cup.
“L’chaim.” Morris clinked it back. He smiled. “Say a bracha for us.” A prayer. “And Sollie…”
“What?” his brother said. He stirred his coffee, brooding.
Morris winked. “I like spending time with you too.”
Chapter Thirty-One
After a long lunch at Sardi’s, at which he celebrated one of the truly sweet victories of his career, Cy Haddad was back at his desk, feet up, hands behind his head, having decided he wasn’t going to do much for the rest of the day.
The two gin and tonics he’d had at lunch didn’t exactly put a lid on that feeling.
If there was one thing he enjoyed about his job, beyond the day-to-day complaints and worker grievances he was always dragged into, and the tedious labor regulations he had to enforce, it was bringing some puffed-up potz who thought he was bigger than the union to his knees. Someone who thought Haddad had sold out in life, and made no secret about telling him that to his face. Sure, he once had dreams, like anyone did. About helping people who were without rights. Who were disadvantaged and without a voice. He had watched his old man toil in a livery factory on Wooster Street, never making enough to buy his kids real coats for the winter. The embers of the Triangle Shirtwaist fire had made dreamers out of many of them back then.
But over twenty years things had changed. It was no longer like that now. And he just didn’t have the balls or the caring to fight it anymore. So maybe he had sold out, Cy thought. Maybe that voice inside him did jab at him before sleep every night. But why should he have to live like his father had? Never as much as a ten-dollar bill under his mattress. What did a labor organizer make? Not even enough to buy a nice car. Cy had a fucking boat in a marina! Why should these owners have all the rights, or their workers?
He deserved his share too.
But watching someone like Morris Raab brought down to size—someone who had mocked him, who had wanted to toss Haddad out of his shop—that’s what made his own capitulation in life all the more tolerable. Enjoyable, in fact.
All that other stuff, well, that was long ago.…
“Mr. Haddad.” The receptionist brought back the envelope he’d been expecting, delivered by messenger.
Cy looked it over. It pleased him to see the Raab Brothers’ return address. He knew exactly what was inside.
Not just a contract, but their complete capitulation to the deal.
Cy had even squeezed them by the balls a little harder than he’d had to. Buchalter had told him a year and a half on the Kingston plant. He’d gotten them down to one.
No, now they were about to be like partners.
That pisher Raab would never throw him out of his place again.
“Get Mr. Goldman on the phone for me, Suzanne,” he called to his secretary. He’d affix his name on it, representing the union, then send it along to his boss. Once it was countersigned and made official, Morris Raab and his brother would as much as be working for him!
He took out the letter and wet his index finger. He picked up the fancy fountain pen one of his clients had given him, the one he used for just such pleasurable occasions.
He flipped straight to the signing page.
A lump knotted in his chest. His stomach turned. The lines for the two signatures he was expecting to see were just a blank.
Not exactly a blank. There was something written there, which Haddad let his eyes roll over, feeling the saliva in his mouth turn to acid, partially in rage, and, if he had to admit it—in a place deep inside he thought he had lost touch with—partially in admiration too. And a wave of sadness. Sadness because maybe secretly he still admired men like that. Men like he wished he was. Who he might have been once. But now that was all moot anyway. They weren’t going to be around that much longer. They were as good as dead.
Written on the last page, in big bold print where their signatures should have been, were three words, in Yiddish, which Haddad still knew enough of to understand: Kack zich oys.
Go shit on yourselves.
Chapter Thirty-Two
For the next several nights, Morris, Sol, and Leo, their warehouse manager, slept at the office on mattresses, guns by their sides. The cage doors to the warehouse were locked shut. They let the workers in each morning at seven thirty and back out at six at night. It was October and the warehouse racks were crammed with newly received inventory. Two-thirds of their year’s revenue would be shipped in the next two weeks.
Once or twice each night, a clattering noise would be heard that woke them all with a start and made them spring for their guns. Either a rumble from the hallway outside or the elevator arriving suddenly would send them scrambling to their feet, sweat trickling down their faces, waiting for the doors to open, guns and lead pipes raised.
But it always turned out to be nothing more than the boiler rumbling unexpectedly or Silvio, the building’s night caretaker, making his rounds. Then Sol would laugh, the kind of nervous chuckle that comes from a disaster averted, blowing a relieved blast of air from his cheeks, or Leo would pat his heart as it regained its normal rhythm.
“I’m not exactly cut out for this kind of work,” Sol would say, holding the Smith &Wesson Morris had shown him how to use.
“Don’t worry, when the time comes, you will be,” Morris said, “when there’s something to protect. I’m just sorry to drag you into this.”
Sol, who had never stopped going to shul regularly and who read the Torah every day, would simply smile at Morris. “You know, the Pirkei Avot tells us it is not our responsibility to finish the work of perfecting the world, but we are not free to desist from it either. You’d know that, if you ever went back to shul.”
“Yeah, well, thanks for not desisting,” Morris would say back, laying his gun down and climbing back on the mattress. “When they come.”
But they didn’t come. Not just yet. The attack against them they were all preparing for never materialized. There was no reply from Cy Haddad. Or Buchalter. According to all the newspapers, Buchalter had far deeper problems to worry about. The special commission under Thomas Dewey was coming down hard on him and his crony, Dutch Schultz. The gangsters’ various headquarters were being raided by Federal agents and bins of records seized. The Feds were now able to tap into phone lines, and no one knew who was listening. Mob foot soldiers were being slapped with subpoenas and charges, trying to squeeze them to turn on their bosses. Everyone was looking at their own organization and trying to lie low. Maybe the worst had passed.
At some point, Sol went home for a night, then, when nothing happened, Morris did as well. Harry, who was slowly taking over the role of warehouse manager, took Leo’s place. They knew they couldn’t keep protecting themselves in this way forever. The outer doors to the warehouse floor were secure—they were iron, heavily reinforced, bolted from the inside. It would take a cannon to get through them. They even hired an off-duty policeman to stand guard at night outside the building. Morris or Sol never failed to take responsibility for locking up for the night, to make sure the gates were secure and the alarm, a loud clanging bell which could be heard a block away, was set.
One night Sol’s son was ill and he had to rush home. Morris had promised to go to a trade association dinner; he’d committed to making a short speech about a colleague who was being honored. Harry said he’d lock up the place himself. It was the height of their season and their warehouse was filled to the rafters with new stock to b
e delivered over the coming weeks. More than half their year’s revenue was hanging on those racks. And a good part of that went to pay back their factors, who had extended them operating funds against their orders.
“Go ahead, Morris, don’t worry,” Harry assured him. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’ve got to make sure the outer door is secure.” Morris finally relented. “See…?” He rattled the latticed metal window and shook the door to show how it didn’t budge. “And double-check the alarm is set.”
“Stop worrying.” Harry patted Morris on the shoulder. “I’ve locked up my places a thousand times over the years. I know what has to be done. So go to your meeting. Leo’ll be here with me. We’re going to get a head start on pulling the L. S. Ayres and Carson’s order. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay. I’ll check back after dinner.”
Harry said, “You worry too much, Morris. We’ll be fine here. Do what you have to do. Go on.”
“All right, then,” Morris said, putting on his coat and hat. He was unable to feel just right. At the door he looked back and smiled with a wistful shake of his head. “Ayres and Carson’s, huh…? There’s two names I never thought I’d hear come out of your mouth.” He and Sol loved how Harry had taken to his new responsibilities. “I’m at the Lambs Club, if there’s any problems. Just pick up the phone and call.”
“Enjoy your evening, Morris.” Harry waved him out.
For the next two hours, Harry, Leo, and a couple of warehouse workers who had stayed on pulled the two large orders for shipment and transferred them to the front racks, where they would be packed up in boxes in the morning. Anyone could see Harry had taken to the work and taken even stronger to the connection of working side by side with his brothers. He knew he might not have been blessed with the sharpest mind in the world or the most ambition. But what he did have now was a place in life. For the first time he felt he was actually building something, not just dallying around without purpose, without a plan. He knew he had a long way to go before he was ready to be trusted to actually run something, but the trust they had showed in him thus far, even letting him stay that night with all that was going on, was worth the thousand drinks he’d been bought at Mendy’s establishments or the hundred-dollar bills stuffed in his breast pocket by his old cronies.
