ONION
STREET
a Moe Prager Mystery
REED FARREL COLEMAN
F+W Media, Inc.
ALSO BY REED FARREL COLEMAN
Gun Church
Tower with Ken Bruen
Dylan Klein:
Life Goes Sleeping
Little Easter
They Don’t Play Stickball in Milwaukee
Joe Serpe:
Hose Monkey
The Fourth Victim
Moe Prager:
Walking the Perfect Square
Redemption Street
The James Deans
Soul Patch
Empty Ever After
Innocent Monster
Hurt Machine
Gulliver Dowd:
Dirty Work
Detective John Roe (ret):
Bronx Requiem
For Ben LeRoy
Table of Contents
ALSO BY REED FARREL COLEMAN
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE — DECEMBER 2012, BROOKLYN
CHAPTER ONE FEBRUARY 1967, BROOKLYN
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
EPILOGUE — DECEMBER 2012
Copyright
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank Ben LeRoy, David Hale Smith, and the late David Thompson for their faith in me.
A nod to Sara J. Henry, Ellen W. Schare, and Peter Spiegelman. As always, thanks to Judy B. But mostly to Rosanne, Kaitlin, and Dylan. Without them, none of this would be worth it.
“Look around the table. If you don’t see a sucker, get up, because you’re the sucker.”
— “Amarillo Slim” Preston, poker champ
PROLOGUE — DECEMBER 2012, BROOKLYN
Some men are born to die. Some, like Bobby Friedman, are just so full of life that you can’t imagine death will ever touch them. Even as I sat in front of his coffin and his rabbi told story after story of Bobby’s mischievous spirit and seemingly boundless generosity, I couldn’t quite accept the fact of his death. Like any of us who knew Bobby, I assumed he would be eighteen forever. During the worst of my treatments, when all I wanted to do was surrender to death, I’d sometimes amuse myself by thinking of the eulogy Bobby would have delivered at my funeral. Now here I was at his.
“What are you smiling at, Dad?” Sarah leaned over and whispered.
Although death had been so much on my mind over the months since my diagnosis, I wasn’t sure I could explain my smile in a way she’d have understood it. I wasn’t sure I understood it completely. Instead of answering, I winked and put my finger across my lips. Shhhhh!
I was done with my treatments for the time being, but the surgery and the chemo had left me a frail shell of my old self: ashen and skeletal. I tired easily and I was still too weak to be trusted behind the wheel of a car, so Sarah had come down from Vermont to take me to the funeral. She said she wanted to come visit anyway. We had things to discuss, she said. I didn’t like the sound of that. I dreaded the day she would ask me to move up to Vermont with Paul and her.
“Surely,” said the rabbi, “it is no wonder to any of us who loved Robert that, of all things, it was his heart to finally succumb. There is only so much in a man to give, but how many of us truly give everything we have? Even the most charitable among us hold back a little in reserve. Not our Robert. Wherever his journey takes him now, he will go there having held nothing back. God will look Robert in the eyes and be proud of his creation. I will miss him, I think, more than I could have imagined. I already do.”
Of course, only a few guys from our days at Brooklyn College had any notion of the genesis of Bobby’s generosity, and now I was the only one left. Crowded as the chapel was, there weren’t many faces familiar to me. None of the old gang was there: some already dead, most just gone. Dead or not, gone is gone. It’s what happens to friends: they fall away. Time erodes them into fine grains of powder carried by the wind to alien places to teach or to start up a business or to settle down or to just run away. Me, I’d never strayed too far from Coney Island, but I suppose we all had to kill time somewhere before, in the end, time killed us. In the scheme of things, it didn’t much matter where that time was spent.
I can’t say I was pleased with feeling as weak as I did. There aren’t a basketful of joys that come with stomach cancer — even when your oncologist says you seem free of it. At least my condition gave me an excuse not to get up and eulogize my old friend. For that I was grateful. Had I the strength to speak, I might have been tempted to reveal what it was that had driven Bobby’s generosity. The depth of Bobby’s guilt might have forced the rabbi to reassess his vision of Bobby’s meeting with the Almighty. But his secret was safe with me. Secrets were always safe with me. When I died, I wondered, would the weight of all those secrets hold me down, or would they vaporize in the flames with the rest of me? Surely fire would remove the burden of my secrets and sins. I hoped they would, but where had hoping ever gotten me? Where had hoping ever gotten anyone?
It was a brutal December afternoon — raw, misting, gray — the kind of New York winter’s day that inspired the suicidal soundtrack years of the Paul Simon songbook. Like shrapnel, the jagged-edged wind gouged holes through the exposed patches of my pale, papery skin, and rattled my bones before passing out the other side of me. Since the chemo, my body’s thermostat had been on the fritz. There were days I could not cool down. On others I could not get warm. Cancer had gotten me in touch with my reptilian ancestry. Soon I’d have to sun myself on rocks in the morning like an iguana. Better to be a live iguana on a rock in the sun, I thought, than to be as cold and dead as Bobby Friedman. When you get as close up to death as I had been, as I likely still was, you’ll do practically anything to keep yourself on the other side of the coffin lid … even pray.
One step outside the funeral home, and Sarah balked at our going to the cemetery. She wouldn’t let me go, and I let her not let me.
“New Carmens for onion rings and thick shakes?” she asked. “My treat.”
My hair had started growing back. A sign of recovery, some said, but my appetite hadn’t gotten the memo. Just the thought of onion rings and thick shakes in the same zip code made me gag. It didn’t stop me from saying yes to Sarah’s offer. New Carmens was a restaurant — a diner, really — at the bent elbow of Sheepshead Bay Road in Brooklyn. New Carmens had been our special place, Sarah’s and mine: a place where a father could go to celebrate his little girl’s perfect report card or to discu
ss her broken teenage heart. It was also the place where, a few years back, we’d taken our first tentative steps toward reconciliation in the wake of her mother’s death.
She ate. I watched her eat. It was all I could do not to turn green at the smells in the place, but at least it was warm and the holes the wind had cut through me were healing nicely. Sarah was unusually quiet, and that scared me some. I could see she was building up her nerve to have that little talk with me. Then she looked up at me.
“Dad …”
Oy gevalt, I thought, here it comes. I had rehearsed my reaction in my head a hundred times over the last twenty-four hours and now the moment of truth was at hand. No, kiddo, I’m not ready to give up the business with Uncle Aaron and move to Vermont with you guys. I’m still getting my legs back under me and all my doctors are here. Besides, Pam has been coming down a lot and we’re in a good place.
“Dad,” she repeated. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us lately.”
My body clenched. “What about us?”
“You know, I don’t think you ever told me why you became a cop in the first place.”
I nearly keeled over with relief. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about, why I quit college and became a cop?”
“To start with, yeah, Dad. And why are you smiling like that? That’s the same goofy smile you had on your face when the rabbi was talking.”
“It’s because, in his way, Bobby Friedman was responsible for changing the course of my life. Without him, I don’t suppose I would have become a cop, or met your mother and we wouldn’t have had you.”
“How’s that?”
“You really want to know?”
Her face went utterly serious. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“Okay, kiddo. Take me back to my condo and we’ll talk. It’s gonna take a while.”
• • •
When we got back to my place, I poured myself a glass of an excellent Rhone. Sarah stared out the window as the skies fully darkened over Sheepshead Bay.
“Should you be drinking?” she asked, looking back at me.
I shrugged my shoulders. “No, but living through cancer, chemo, and surgery gives you a different perspective on shoulds and shouldn’ts. You want a glass?”
“No, thanks.”
“Are you sure? It’s a 1990 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Not today. I don’t feel like it.”
“Did my daughter just turn down a glass of one of the best red wines of the twentieth century? I already survived cancer, don’t gimme a heart attack.”
“That’s not funny, Dad.”
“Sorry.” I stood next to her and put my arm across her shoulders. “So, what’s up? You seem so serious today. You miss the old neighborhood?”
“It’s not that,” she said.
The gray mist that had dominated the day evolved into a pelting, icy rain. Gusting winds bent the trees over like cranky old men forced to touch their toes. The ferocity of the storm destroyed the reflective oily sheen that usually floated on the surface of the bay, making the water seem particularly cold and lifeless.
“Then what’s the matter, kiddo?”
She ignored the question. “You were gonna tell me about Bobby Friedman and how you came to be a cop, remember?”
“Okay, wait here.”
I retreated into my bedroom and dug deep into my closet to find the galvanized metal box that held the file I was looking for. Slowly thumbing through the file, I hesitated, realizing that this might not be as good an idea as it had seemed earlier. But I was committed. Removing a few old strips of newspaper clippings held together with a single paper clip, I put the rest of the file back in the box. I had only looked at these articles one other time since cutting them out of the papers over forty years ago. The narrow strips of print were like me: yellowed, delicate, fragile, on the verge of turning to dust. I laid them down on the coffee table in front of Sarah. “Read these. It’s sort of where the answer to your question begins.”
From Daily News, December 11, 1966
Detail of Coney Island Bombing
Gary Phillips
For the first time since a car exploded on West 19th Street in Coney Island on December 6, the police have released details about the investigation. The two bodies discovered in the wreckage have been positively identified as Martin Lavitz of Mill Basin and Samantha Hope of Gravesend. Both were students at Brooklyn College. The car, a 1965 Chevrolet Impala, was registered to Miss Hope.
Questions have swirled around the case since several unconfirmed reports surfaced that the blast was too powerful to have been the result of a gas tank mishap. Witnesses to the early morning blast reported hearing an enormous explosion and said they saw a huge fireball rising several hundred feet into the sky.
“I ain’t seen nothing like it since Korea,” said John Washington, a subway motorman who had stopped at nearby Nathan’s for a hot dog. “Shrapnel was falling every which way. It was just like Pusan all over again.”
Police spokesperson Lawrence Light stated, “It was definitely a bomb. We think that they intended to plant the device in or near the draft board offices in the Shore Theater building across from Nathan’s Famous. Our bomb squad thinks the explosive device simply detonated prematurely, killing both Lavitz and Hope.” The bomb itself was apparently very powerful, but not sophisticated. The police refused to release details on the type of explosives used in its construction.
Sources indicate that both Miss Hope and Mr. Lavitz were known to be affiliated with many campus radical groups and were part of the growing anti-war movement. Ronald Epstein, head of the Students Against Fascism at Brooklyn College, said, “Marty and Samantha are martyrs. They are just the first casualties in a long battle against the military industrial complex’s meat grinder war machine. Vietnam is a little war now, but it won’t be for long.” Others who knew both victims were shocked by the news.
Sarah finished reading the first article and placed it back down on the table. “I guess those were very different times.”
“Believe me, kiddo, you’ve got no idea. Sometimes, when I think back to those days, I can’t even imagine I lived through them.”
“But what’s this got to do with Bobby Friedman and you becoming a cop?”
“Almost everything.”
CHAPTER ONE
FEBRUARY 1967, BROOKLYN
Bobby was smiling that night I bailed him out of the Brooklyn House of Detention, or as it was more affectionately known in the County of Kings, the Brooklyn Tombs. He was smiling, but things were different. He had changed. I’d known him since I was six years old and he’d always been blessed with a thick layer of woe-proof skin and slippery shoulders off which trouble would run like rain-water. Just recently, though, his skin didn’t seem quite so thick nor his shoulders as slippery. Maybe it wasn’t Bobby who had changed, but the world had changed around him, and even he’d been powerless to resist its momentum. Listen to me, sounding like I know what I’m talking about. What did I know about the world, anyway? I was just an unambitious schmuck from Coney Island, bumming around Brooklyn College looking for a lifeline. Everything I knew about the world, really knew about the world, I had learned on a stickball or basketball court or on the sand beneath the boardwalk.
Bobby Friedman was a happy son of a bitch — quick to smile, slow to anger. The thing about him I could never figure out was how he turned out that way. He certainly didn’t get his take-life-as-it-comes attitude from his parents. Hard-boiled, old-school communists, his folks were about as warm and cuddly as a box of steel wool. His mom was a cold fish who’d spent her childhood on a kibbutz in British-occupied Palestine, but she was Blanche Dubois compared to Bobby’s dad, a tough monkey who’d fought in the Spanish Civil War as an eighteen-year-old and had been a union organizer for the last three decades. Bobby used to joke that his mom’s favorite lullaby was “The Internationale” and that “Free the Rosenbergs” had been his first full sentence. Needless to say, the guys in the neighborhood d
idn’t hang out much at Chateau Friedman. My pal Eddie Lane used to call their stuffy, oppressive little apartment in Brighton Beach “the gulag.” It was kind of hard to cozy up to people who used words like liberal and progressive as faint damns, and who held nothing but contempt for our parents. As off-putting as their condescension toward our parents’ bourgeois aspirations might have been, it was nothing compared to the contempt they had for their own son’s cheery and entrepreneurial nature.
Don’t misunderstand: Bobby could recite the ABCs of communism, and even believed a lot of what had been drummed into his head since he popped out of the womb. He had joined Students for a Democratic Society before it became fashionable, and was a top-notch recruiter for the cause. He was a charming alchemist, a guy who could organize a protest rally out of thin air. Bobby Friedman was also the poster boy for cognitive dissonance — even if he could tell you what kind of cigars Castro preferred or explain the minutiae of the Kremlin’s latest Five-Year Plan, Bobby would always be more Lenny Bruce than Lenin, more Groucho than Karl Marx. And there was something else: Bobby Friedman liked money. He liked it a lot. He liked to spend it. More than that, he liked making it.
He was a hustler. He always had an angle, even when we were kids. For instance, he was great at flipping baseball cards. Instead of hoarding them all, he’d sell the duplicates of the prized cards, like the Mickey Mantle rookie card, to the highest bidder. He understood long- and short-term investment before the rest of us understood that we didn’t come from the cabbage patch. Bobby seemed to know where he was going and what the world held in store for him. The future that stretched out before me like a vast desert was, to Bobby, an oasis. He was a man with a plan. I admired that about him.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at Bobby’s smile that night at the Tombs. I was, though, maybe for the first time since we’d sat next to each other in Mrs. Goldberg’s kindergarten class. I was surprised because not only had he chained himself to a police paddy wagon and been dragged along Bedford Avenue for a hundred yards, but because the demonstration was about, among other things, the vicious lies the press and police had spread about Samantha Hope. Bobby’d been dating Samantha Hope for almost a year before the explosion. He had seemed totally smitten by her from the moment they met. I’d been more than a little smitten myself. I suppose all of us guys were. Who wouldn’t have been? She was a Brooklyn Jewish boy’s wet dream: a golden blonde shiksa goddess with crystal blue eyes, creamy skin, chiseled cheekbones, and legs up to here. Forget that she was an older woman — by two years — worldly, at least compared to us, and savvy about all sorts of things, but especially politics, drugs, even sports.
Onion Street (Moe Prager Mystery) Page 1
