by Andrew Gross
“You see that boiler over there.…” Each floor had a steam boiler of its own that produced forced heat in the winter. “You can see how it just blew. Look at that valve. The fire, you can see how it just swallowed up those bolts of fabric over there and made a beeline for the warehouse.”
“That fabric wasn’t there earlier,” Morris said. Cotton, wool—anything that would go up fast. He pointed to a material storage area. “We keep it over there.”
“That I can’t contest,” the fireman said. “I can only account for what I see. You can see the damage it did for yourself.”
“You’re saying this was an accident?” Morris looked at him angrily. “I can smell the gasoline they poured on them. Those clothes were doused in it.”
“Gasoline, you’re saying?” The lieutenant sniffed in twice. “I’m not as sure. You smell it, Captain?” He turned to the police investigator. Burns shrugged. “No, I’m afraid it’s a boiler explosion in my book. That’s how I have to put it down. You think people came in here to do harm? I don’t see any sign of forced entry. Anyway, the door to the warehouse area wasn’t even ajar. The lieutenant here talked to the guard you had stationed outside.”
“Fine boy, McGuire,” the police captain said. “I knew his father on the force. We also spoke to the building’s caretaker. Both of them claim they saw no one going in or out. Unless it was someone on the inside, if that’s what you’re alleging? You might want to take a look at your own staff. Most times, that’s what it breaks down to be. No, I have to agree with Lieutenant Cade here. A boiler mishap, that’s my read. Common today. We’re lucky the whole building didn’t go up.”
The two men looked at Morris, flatly, as if Morris wasn’t seeing something that they saw clearly. They were probably both in Buchalter’s palm. Morris saw it in the fireman’s phony sympathetic and fixed blue eyes. Sure, he’d seen this many times before. He’d likely been paid off on each one to write it up as an accident of some kind.
Cade shrugged. “You can appeal any findings, of course. Feel free to bring in your own experts. Anything we do here is merely preliminary. But what will it get you? A lot of red tape is all, I’m afraid.”
“You realize that what you’re alleging may well put us out of business?” Sol said accusingly.
“Well, it’ll just drag it on at a big cost. But it’s something you must decide. Do you agree, Captain Burns?”
“I’m afraid so.” The police captain shrugged. “That’s the way it is with city hall.”
The fire lieutenant walked away, instructing his crew to wrap things up.
Morris said to Sol, “You spoke to that guard we hired?”
“He says he went across the street to the bar just to take a leak and when he came back he spotted smoke upstairs. It was him who called it in.”
“And he didn’t see anyone go in or out?”
“You’re free to talk with him if you like.”
“He’s lying, Sol. Or they got to him too. Just like these guys. And what about Silvio?” The night caretaker.
“In his office in the basement, the whole time.”
Morris looked at him, anger coursing through his veins. “You know this is a fucking setup, don’t you?”
“I know it is, Morris. But it is what it is.”
Their gazes drifted over to Harry.
Morris said, “It was his responsibility to make sure the place was secure. I went over it with him, step by step. No one heard the alarm, the doors were not broken through, so whoever did this, they either had a key or they were let in. Take your pick. Either way, you know he’s involved, Sol.”
Their brother was leaning on his elbows at his desk, his face damp with sweat, his head in his hands.
He stood up nervously when they came over to him. “It was locked, Morris, when I left. I swear. And I only was going to run out and get a bite. I double-checked the doors myself, just like you said. On my life. You said to set the alarm and I did. I don’t know how this happened.”
“Sol said he called you later and you weren’t here.”
Harry grew pale, fidgeting. “All right, I left at eight fifteen after picking the Ayres order. You know I wouldn’t let you down.”
“You left for where?”
Harry pressed his lips together and ran a hand through his slicked black hair. “I don’t know, Morris. Just out.”
“Out, Harry…?” Morris continued to press. “Out, where?” You didn’t have to be a police detective to see that he was keeping something to himself.
“I locked the doors. I put on the alarm. There was a guard outside. The place was buttoned up.”
“Where, Harry? You were supposed to be here. Sol said he tried to reach you earlier. Where were you?”
Harry swallowed and finally let out a breath. “All right, I went to the fights. At the Garden.”
“The fights? I left you at six o’clock. You never mentioned going to the fights. You were going to pull the L. S. Ayres order, that’s all. Where’d you suddenly get tickets?”
“What does it really matter how I got tickets? Someone called.”
“Who, Harry? Who called? Who were you at the fights with?”
“Look, I know I screwed up, Morris. I realize that. But I didn’t let anyone in. I swear. And I locked the door, like you said. I give you my word.”
“Your word. Look around the place, Harry—your word isn’t carrying a lot of weight with me right now. I want to know who called you. Who were you at the fights with?”
“All right. But it’s not what it seems,” Harry said, starting to perspire. “I was with Mendy. He called, just as I was getting ready to run out and grab something to eat. He asked if I wanted to join him at the Garden. He had ringside tickets, Morris, and it was that fighter we like, Lennie Cohen. Everything seemed safe. I just couldn’t pass it up.”
“What time did you try to reach him, Sol?” Morris looked at Harry accusingly.
“All right, all right … Afterwards, we might have had a beer or two. Just to hash around old times. Nothing more, I swear. I haven’t even seen him since I came to work here, honest to God. But you have to believe me, I didn’t let him in, Morris. I locked up like you said. I swear it on little Sammy, Morris, you know I love that kid and wouldn’t—”
“Don’t you use my son to try and get out of what you did.” Morris grabbed him by the collar.
Sol pulled them apart, cautioning, “Morris…”
Harry was stammering now, his nerves taking over, his eyes flitting between Harry and Sol. “I only meant it’s ’cause I love him, Morris. Tell him, Sol. So you know I would never wish him harm.”
“I know you love him, Harry.” Sol shrugged. “But I’m sorry, I can’t help you here.”
“I told you you had to make a choice,” Morris said, his voice carrying across the floor. A few of the firefighters, mopping up, turned around. “This was our business, Harry. Our business. That we built up from nothing with the dirt under our fingers. While you danced around with a bunch of bootleggers and killers…”
“I know it’s your business, Morris. And I wouldn’t do anything to hurt it.” Tears flashed in his eyes.
Morris jabbed a finger in his chest. “Someone let them in, Harry. They didn’t break in, they walked in. Who? Someone opened the door and said, Here, make yourself at home. Here’s the boiler. Burn the fucking place down. While you’re at it, move those bolts of fabric over there to accelerate the flames. And you just happened to be with Mendy Weiss when it was all going down.”
Sol put a hand on Morris’s shoulder. “Morris.”
“You’re a snake, Harry.” Morris let him fall back against the desk. “You’ve got no backbone. I’m sorry about what happened to you as a boy. With Shemuel. I know it’s haunted you your whole life. But you’re your own person now. And this is on you. You’re empty to me now. You’re not part of us here anymore, whatever’s left. Pick up your things and get out. And that goes for our home too. I don’t want you there on Sundays. I do
n’t want to see you with my son.”
“Morris,” Harry said, pleading. “I love that kid. And he loves me.”
“I don’t want to even hear your fucking name again if I can help it. You’re dead to me from now on, Harry. You understand?”
Tears welled up in Harry’s eyes. He tried to stammer back some kind of response, but in the end all he could do was nod, accepting it like he always knew it would come to this in the end, and shrug his shoulders with resignation. “Yeah, I got it, Morris. I do.”
“Give me your key.”
Harry let out a breath and looked to Sol.
“Harry, give me the fucking key,” Morris said, “or so help me God, I’ll put my fist down your throat and tear it out of you.”
Harry nodded and dug into his pocket and pulled out a key ring, unscrewed the one he was looking for, and pulled off the key that went to the Raab Brothers back door.
He put it on the desk.
“I’m telling you, Morris, whether you want to believe me or not, I don’t know how they got in. Okay, maybe they did sucker me out. But when I left, the place was locked up, tight as a drum. You can hold it against me all you want, for the rest of my life if you have to, but it wasn’t me that let them in.”
“Sure, Harry.” Morris turned away as Harry grabbed his jacket and went through the iron gate. He stood there, took one look back with a resigned exhalation, and went down the stairs.
Sol picked up the key and put it in his pocket. “He’s our brother, Morris.”
“Not anymore.”
Sol sucked in a breath and looked at his brother with sad, beaten eyes. “You’re going to need to make a police statement,” he said. “Harry might have to testify as well.”
It took a second for what Sol had said to sink in. “What do you mean, me…?”
“You, Morris.” Sol looked at him rsignedly and shook his head. “I’m done too.”
“What do you mean you’re done?”
“Just what I said. Whatever happens now, I think I’ve been done for some time.”
“Sol, come on…,” Morris said. He felt his insides sink like a weight. “We can rebuild. I’m not going to let this totally sink us.”
“I’m just not a fighter, Morris. Not like you. You rebuild. Me, we both know I was never really cut out for this work from the start.” He put a hand on Morris’s shoulder. “I’m done, Morris. I’ll help you through whatever settlements there are. Then I’m out.”
Sol shuffled away, and Morris stood there gazing at the smoking, soaked warehouse, their dreams gone up with it. Sol had been with him since the very first order they’d received.
Morris peered out the iron-gated door after Harry.
He was gone and the door closed.
Morris heard the rattle as the door shut tightly and Sol headed down the stairs. Raab Brothers, which a day ago contained dreams enough for all of them, had lost two partners that night.
Chapter Thirty-Six
So I started out all over again, this time on my own. Our inventory wasn’t worth a dime. Our unshipped orders were canceled. Our factors called in all our debt. I had nothing to offer them, nothing but my word.
Which in the end did turn out to be worth something.
We had to shut down Raab Brothers, of course, and the plant up in Kingston. We let a hundred workers go, including the handful of Manny Gutman’s sewers we had taken on. All of which broke my heart. In a night we had gone from a company on its way up to one in shambles. With as many people with claims against us as we had customers. But I struck a deal with my factors. I promised them I’d pay them back a hundred cents on the dollar for every dollar we owed if they staked me in a new venture going forward. I didn’t want to be in the coat business any longer. It was primarily one season and it was always a challenge to keep the manufacturing operation busy and the cash flow steady over a full year. For a while, I’d been thinking about maybe getting into the dress business. The ’20s had ushered in new styles of shorter, more stylish dresses, and that’s what women seemed to want these days. And the dress business had three seasons—spring, summer, fall—not just one, and therefore a constant flow of orders I could borrow against. So after Sol and I disposed of what was left, he went on to something else and I started from scratch again. I used the same philosophy as we had with Raab Brothers, knocking off the fancy styles I saw in all the department store windows and manufacturing them at a more affordable price. Many of my friends gave me a shot. Instead of taking pleasure at our misfortune, they all pitched in to help me back up. I guess they secretly liked the way I’d stood up to Lepke and the union, even though it had left me close to broke. The factors loaned me. The fabric people advanced me piece goods. Even the stores came through for me, an order at a time.
Those first signs of support meant as much to me as when Muriel Mossman gave me my first orders all those years ago.
It was a tough time for the family though. Sol and I remained close. He helped me close up Raab Brothers, but there was almost nothing to parcel out, as the factors came in and gobbled up everything worth anything that they could put their hands on. After a while Sol took a new job—a safe and steady one, like he always said he wanted—as the manager of a printing company. He joked, “Can’t exactly be over the hill at thirty-eight, can I?” He even got some catalog work in the garment trade.
Harry, I wasn’t sure how or what he was doing then. Truth was, I didn’t care. He made his choice: He had sold us out. Once, I thought I saw him across West End Avenue as I was on my way to work. Our eyes met for a second, and I was sure he was about to cross the street and come over to me. But he only took a step and stopped. And I just got into my car and drove off. I looked at him in the rearview mirror as I drove away. He looked like a man trying to cross a wide stream who didn’t know what his next step should be. There was no room in my heart to forgive him. Sunday afternoons at the apartment were different in those days. Sol and his family came up less. Our son missed his uncle Harry and we told him that sometimes families just got into fights, though I know Ruthie took him out to meet Harry more than once when I wasn’t around. I didn’t care how Harry got by. My mother was angry at me for dividing the family. “It’s always your pride,” she said. “You always need to prove you’re the big man, so be one, Morris.” “I can’t,” I said. I told her he’d made his choice. “I’m not talking about his choice.” She looked me in the eyes. “I’m talking about you, Morris. And this Buchalter person. You brought it on.” I heard Harry and Mom saw each other once in a while as well, when I wasn’t around.
Starting over, money was tight again for us. All of the flashy cars and fancy nights out were now a thing of the past. I had to pay the rent out of what money I’d been able to put away, and while I had some, it wouldn’t last forever.
1935. That year, we had another child. A girl. We named her Lucy. Lucy Frieda Raab, after Ruthie’s favorite aunt, so I named the new dress firm after her: Lucy Fredericks.
It had a bit of a ring to it, no?
Those days, the union left me alone. Why not? They’d already broken me. I was small potatoes now. Who cared if I was starting over on my own at a tenth the size? And anyway, they had their own issues to deal with. Dewey’s task force, which was finally gaining steam, was all over them like glue to paper.
The task force was all over Dutch Schultz too, closing down his restaurant-protection racket, threatening his lucrative numbers business, trying him on charges of tax evasion, not once, but twice. After his second trial, it was like Dewey had a personal vendetta against the man. Every paper in the country carried the headline. NOTORIOUS MOBSTER DUTCH SHULTZ, ACQUITTED. And a picture of him, surrounded by the poor, local fools he had bought off who had eagerly set him free.
Still, his luck couldn’t last much longer. The government had it in for him. He couldn’t make a call without fear of it being wiretapped. People in his organization began to face their own indictments and turned on him. And Lepke … He was next on Dewey’
s list. They were nabbing lower-level henchmen and trying to turn them against their bosses. But unlike with Schultz, every time they got close to Buchalter, he always seemed to be one step ahead. He always knew how to reach a turncoat informant before he made it to testify at trial. Like he knew what was coming. Mobsters were scared then, trying to stay out of the headlines. And I was only a tiny pisher now. Not worth their time. I took a small space in a building on Thirty-sixth Street. All I started with was a sample room with a pattern maker and three sewers from my old firm. What we sold, we shipped right out of the back room. It was a whole different game now. There were three seasons a year so everything moved quickly. I began to pull myself off the ground. We contracted out all of our production. I didn’t take out a dime, until I finally paid every factor back a hundred cents on the dollar on what I owed them.
But for every person in the coat business, there were a hundred in the rag trade. A lot more competition. I didn’t know if I could make a go of it or not. For a while, it was order to order.
Then one day I got a call from Abe Zincas, the buyer at Interstate stores. “Style 8102. Color navy, Morris. Got any around?”
“8102?” I didn’t even know the style by number. It wasn’t one of our better sellers. I had to look at the sketch. It was a little nautical number, with a navy-and-white-trim bib in front. I said, “Let me look at the stock sheet. Why?”
“Because it’s sold twelve out of twelve in the first week. You got a clicker, baby!” A clicker was something you couldn’t keep in stock. “I’d take a hundred if you had ’em in stock.”
Three weeks later I had his hundred. And a thousand more ready to ship. The manufacturers had to hold them. I didn’t even have a warehouse to put them in.
8102.
After that, I was a dress man forever.
It brought me back to life.
But it also brought the hammer of the union back down on me.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“I wish you had called me, Morris.” Irv sat next to Morris at the bar at 21 Club, eight months after he’d been in his new business. It had been a long time since they’d spoken. “I heard you had some trouble. I tried to reach out to you. Maybe I could have helped. But you never returned my calls.”
