by David Grand
“I’m sorry, Glory,” he said each time she hit him. “I don’t know what came over me. I really don’t,” he said, when Gloria tired herself out and Freddy’s face was red and gouged.
“What did I do to deserve that?” she cried, the tears running down her face. “All I’ve ever done is love you, the idiot I am.”
Freddy now retreated to the corner of the room and in the darkness felt the heat generating around his face. He fingered the cigarette burn on his cheek. Gloria just sobbed. “Why couldn’t you just love me back? Why couldn’t you? I would have loved you a hundred times more than Evelyn ever did.”
Freddy shook his head. “I don’t know I don’t . . . feel,” he tried to explain. “I just don’t feel anything anymore. I’m ironclad, Glory.”
“You need your head examined.”
“I don’t think an examination is going to help. Think it needs more than that.” Freddy lifted his naked body from the corner of the room and turned on the lights. He walked back to the bed and slowly sat himself down beside Gloria. She started to move away from him, then stopped when she saw the pained look on Freddy’s face and the damage she had just done to it. Freddy noticed that his hands had left thin blue marks on the delicate skin of Gloria’s throat. The sight of it scared him so much he wanted to throw himself out the window. He reached out to Gloria’s wet cheek and brushed away some of her tears. “I’m so sorry. I’m truly sorry.”
“I think you should leave now,” Gloria said with some resolve. She shook her head and looked at Freddy crossly. “No one does that to me, not even you.”
Freddy stood up and started getting dressed.
“I don’t want to see you again,” Gloria said. “Not never.”
“I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”
Gloria started sobbing.
Once Freddy had his coat and hat on, he removed a hundred dollars from his pocket and placed it on the hotel’s bureau.
“I don’t want your goddamn money,” Gloria said. “I ain’t your goddamn whore.”
“It isn’t like that,” Freddy said. “Just . . . just buy yourself something nice, something to remember me by.”
“What, like some brass knuckles?”
“Something like that, sure,” Freddy said. “Something nice, something to remember the good times before tonight.”
Freddy didn’t look at Gloria again and Gloria didn’t say anything more. Freddy walked out of the room and headed for the elevator. When he reached the lobby of the Biloxi, he covered his face up in his scarf and walked out onto the street, and as though he were walking toward the gallows, he started uptown.
The hulking disheveled figure of Stu Zawolsky stood outside the darkened entry of the Triple Mark when Freddy arrived at ten o’clock. The club was closed, but Freddy could smell the liquor on Stu from twenty feet away. The snow had stopped falling, and through the bright lights all around him Freddy could see patches of darkness opening in the sky as he looked up into Stu Zawolsky’s rosy pancake face. “Follow me,” Stu slurred to Freddy. Freddy followed the drunk Stu Zawolsky across town over the trodden path of sidewalk in the direction of the theater district, keeping his distance from the big man’s drunken bob and weave. Even with the storm, the burlesque houses and nightclubs were full; people were standing out on the street behind red velvet ropes waiting to make their way in. Freddy followed Zawolsky for two blocks to the entrance of the Revolver, a nightclub that advertised a floor show. Stu mightily pushed his way through the crowd inside the ropes, provoking a string of berating curses from men and women alike. Freddy followed him in his wake to the front entrance, where the man at the door nervously parted the ropes for Stu and stood aside. “He’s with me,” Zawolsky said without looking back, and the two of them made their way in. The Tiny Braggs Orchestra was swinging jungle music as the hostess led Stu and Freddy to one of the reserved tables by the stage. A chorus line of black dancers dressed in feathered bikinis three rows deep were coming to the end of a gyrating stomp onstage. When the number finished, when the trumpet players pulled their shiny gold homburgs away from their coronets for the last wa-wa, the women ran from the stage to be immediately replaced by a female dwarf dressed in a pink negligee: Binky the Ballerina, performing a striptease in toe shoes, dressed in belly dancing veils. She was skinny in all the right places and heavy in all the other right places, tall enough that she could extend and kick and leap, and graceful enough that it wasn’t a downright joke, even though it most certainly was. Stu Zawolsky got it. He got it well enough that he loudly guffawed and waved a few dollars at the dwarf to come sit on his lap. Stu Zawolsky, Freddy realized, wasn’t just drunk, he was plastered. With the dwarf on his lap, Zawolsky started squeezing one of the dwarf’s breasts with one hand and tweaking her nose with the other. Binky, in turn, gripped Stu Zawolsky’s cock tight through his pants, and the harder she squeezed, the harder Stu Zawolsky laughed. From the back of the room, Freddy could see the tuxedo-clad nightclub manager signal to the band to play it up. The band turned in Stu’s direction and played a heavy bass line, top hat, and whomped cat calls. Instantaneously, the dwarf was being man- handled by every man in the joint save Freddy; all who could get a grip on her were stuffing her negligee full of cash until she looked like a diminutive scarecrow.
“Is this a bad time?” Freddy asked as Stu let Binky go. Stu stood up to lord over Freddy; it was hard for Freddy not to notice that Stu’s cock was still erect in his pants. Both men looked down at it and then looked back at each other. Stu shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Heh,” and then with a drunken grin on his cauliflowered face, he adjusted his pants and fell back into his chair, snickering.
Freddy, thinking this might be the opportune time to act, slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and removed the money he owed Zawolsky. He reached across the table and stuffed the bills into Stu’s hand. Stu seemed sober for a second when he caught sight of the cash. He tilted a little to one side, licked his oversized fingers, and counted. When he was through—with a drunken eye trained on Freddy—he folded the bills in half and tucked them into a bulging money clip. “Nice doin’ business with you,” Stu slurred over the raucousness. “Now scram.”
Freddy, who wasn’t through with Stu yet, leaned over the table and placed his hand on Stu’s bowling-ball-sized shoulder. “I got another job for you,” he shouted into Stu’s ear.
“Better pay well,” Stu stammered, the stubble of his cheek scratching at Freddy’s freshly shaven face. “Because business is booming since Mann’s and Roth’s tickets got punched.”
“Tomorrow morning at eleven a.m., at three-nineteen West Eighty-third Street, bottom floor. . . . I want you to kill the guy that lives there.”
Stu pulled his head away from Freddy’s. He gave Freddy a lopsided grin. “I know that address,” Stu shouted, his head now rocking from side to side. “What are you trying to pull?”
“No one will be in the building other than me.”
Stu puffed up his cheeks and blew some sweet whiskey breath up Freddy’s nose.
“I want you to use a gun,” Freddy continued.
“You mean to tell me you’re hitting yourself?”
“If you take me down into the cellar, no one will hear a thing.”
“Go on,” Stu laughed, shrugging his shoulders.
“I want you to shoot six rounds into my face.”
Stu grimaced. “Why?”
“I got my reasons,” Freddy said.
Stu paused for effect. “Suit yourself.” His eyes rolled around in their sockets for a while. “Three hundred,” he said when they stopped and fixed on Freddy.
“Deal,” Freddy said.
“All the money up front this time.”
“Yeah,” Freddy said as he started reaching into his pocket, “sure.”
While Freddy’s hand was lodged in his pocket, Stu took hold of the back of Freddy’s head and pulled him close. “Now, this is how it goes: the second you hand me that money you’re reaching for, the deal
is done and there’s no turning back. You’re a dead man. Understood?”
“Understood,” Freddy said nervously.
“There will be no last words. Last words annoy the hell out of me. If you’ve got something to say, put it in writing.”
“Yeah, sure,” Freddy said.
As he had done this morning while giving orders, Stu looked into Freddy’s face, into his eyes, and took a moment. “You’re a brokenhearted son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
Freddy could feel tears coming on as the room erupted into pandemonium around him. “Yeah,” he said pathetically. “I just ain’t right anymore.”
Stu nodded his head solemnly.
Freddy felt strangely calmed by Stu’s observation. He reached into his pocket and stuffed the remainder of his cash into Stu’s oversized hand. “You’re a dead man,” Stu said coldly. “Try to find some peace.” Stu Zawolsky got up out of his seat and started across the room in the direction of Binky the Ballerina, who had taken up fifth position on top of a cocktail table.
Freddy continued to sit where he was. He thought of brushing away the tears on Gloria’s face just a short while ago. He saw her eyes weeping and he suddenly could feel the tears well up in his own eyes as he thought of this. And then he could feel the water run down his face. He realized at that moment how much he loved womankind, how he loved it so much, but that he didn’t know how to love it in a way that it would love him back. He felt so cold and vacant. He knew without this knowledge he was nothing, not even vapor.
An usher woke Sidney when the house lights came on, and he could hardly remember how he got there. He went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up as much as he could. It was coming on midnight. He had slept through the film twice. Still feeling Gloria on his mind, unable to get her off his mind, off his splitting head, he rode the train back uptown. The light in her window was lit and he was about to ring for her, but to his surprise, he found the door jarred open a little. He quietly walked upstairs and placed his ear to the wood and listened. He could hear himself breathing at first and then he could hear Gloria inside, sobbing, sobbing as if she were crying into a pillow. He could hear long painful sobs and groans, as if she were in so much pain her body was tight all over, her teeth clenched, her hands needing to grip something. The loud private groans made Sidney feel scared to move, made it so he was afraid she would hear him out there and feel the intrusion. Listening to these muffled noises, a swelling rose from his chest, into his throat. And then all of a sudden, Gloria cried out. The swelling he felt in his throat turned into a panic. He started to step away from the door, then stepped back, and knocked loudly.
“Glory?” He knocked some more. “Gloria? It’s Sidney. Open up.”
The crying stopped abruptly. “Sid?” she said, with an unsure voice. She nearly sounded pleased he was there. But then something changed. “Go away,” she said. “Not tonight, Sid.”
“Please, Glory,” Sid followed. “I hear you in there. I heard you in there.”
Gloria didn’t say anything. Sidney couldn’t hear her move or breathe. As he was about to say something more, she said, “It’s open.”
Sidney opened the door slowly and peeked his head in. Gloria was dressed in her robe, the collar turned up, and she was clutching it with her hand so obviously that she looked like she was hiding something. Her eyes were red and swollen and the hand that was holding her cigarette was shaking. He could tell from the way that she looked at him that she hadn’t seen the paper that evening. “Glory,” Sid said carefully, “what are you doing with your door open like this?” Sid walked in and shut the door behind him. Locked it. And he noticed that on the coffee table on which Gloria set out the chocolate-covered cherries for him when he came by there was a revolver and a box of ammunition. Gloria just looked at Sidney, and after looking at him with those swollen red eyes, those pathetic eyes, she let her hand fall from her robe, walked over to Sidney, and hugged him. The second she got her arms around him, she started crying again. Sidney could feel the warmth of her wet cheek against his ear, and he had an image in his mind of marks on her neck. Sidney walked Gloria over to the couch and sat her down, then, not wanting to let go of her, not ever wanting to let go of her, he gently pushed her away and again saw the blue-red marks on her neck and throat.
Gloria stopped crying and looked at the gun. “I was hoping he’d come by to talk,” she said.
“That’s why you left the doors open.” Sid could feel his sadness for Gloria turning into rage. She didn’t need to explain what he’d done to her. It was obvious. But Gloria told Sidney what had happened. She told him everything, and after listening, Sid walked to Gloria’s icebox and from the top of it grabbed the bottle of gin she kept there and started drinking again.
“Why is it you look so bad?” Gloria asked.
“Never mind that.”
Sid poured both of them a drink. They drank one drink together, and then Sid put Gloria into bed. He sat beside her until she fell asleep. When she fell asleep he brought the bottle into her room and spent the night in the chair, drinking from the bottle slowly until he fell asleep.
Chapter 37
Just before eleven o’clock, Benny Rudolph was sitting in his black sedan on the Ninety-fifth Street Barkley ferry landing. A sign was posted on a guardrail: Closed Due to Weather Conditions. A snow-heavy ferry was nevertheless idling at port, chugging steam. As Benny waited, a few cars pulled up, read the sign, and turned back. On the seat beside him was a copy of the Globe’s extra. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, he was so pleased to see the photographs of Dubrov, Collins, Klempt, and Sid Lardner, all damned as the villains in Boris Lardner’s murder; he was pleased to see Victor cleared of the crime, Sam Rapaport given his due, Shortz implicated; he was especially pleased to see himself cast as a hero in the shadows, as a man unjustly convicted getting even with those who had done him wrong.
However, as he sat there waiting to take care of his last order of business, he started to feel his conscience working on him. He was haunted by thoughts of Victor’s father and the other men who had died in Long Meadow, thoughts of Waters and Capp unjustly accused of crimes they hadn’t committed. He had wanted his revenge so bad, he had convinced himself that setting Katrina Lowenstein and Shlomo Feldman on Freddy Stillman, that planting the dynamite inside Waters and Capp’s shack, that turning Paulie Sendak and Walter Ribe against their union, were acceptable costs of his vengeance. Only now that he had what he wanted, he wanted just as much to reverse the course of events; he wanted to even the odds for those whose lives didn’t deserve to be destroyed. The only problem was that like so many of these people, he himself had been taking part in a plot he couldn’t see clearly in his mind.
When Benny saw a taxi appear at the ferry landing, he grabbed his revolver, got out of his car, and started waving his free hand at the driver. He dragged his feet through the snow with the car’s headlights shining in his eyes, and walked around to the passenger door. He wiped away some frost and looked into the dark compartment. The passenger was screaming at the cabby with his arms gesturing fury. Benny pulled open the door and pointed his gun at the man in the backseat. “Come with me, Mr. Brilovsky,” Benny ordered.
“Who are you?” Arthur Brilovsky insisted, turning to the driver. “What’s the meaning of this?”
“I’ll take it from here,” Benny said to the cabby.
The cabby didn’t say anything. His face was in shadow, his eyes staring back cold from the rearview mirror.
“Let’s go, Mr. Brilovsky,” Benny said as he reached into the car. He took Brilovsky by the arm and pulled him and a black briefcase out into the snow.
“Who are you?” Brilovsky insisted again as the cab turned around and headed away from the docks.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get to that,” Benny said as he pushed Brilovsky between the shoulder blades. “Just walk and take a breather beside the car.” When Brilovsky was up against Benny’s car, Benny patted down Brilovsky’s coat, reached underneath, and
patted him down again. He opened the briefcase and found thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Get behind the wheel,” Benny said.
Benny watched Brilovsky step into the car, then lifted the ferry’s guardrail with the briefcase. With the guardrail open, he walked over to the passenger door and took a seat with his gun aimed at Brilovsky’s head. “Drive on,” Benny said, handing Brilovsky the keys.
Given the circumstances, after his initial outburst, Arthur Brilovsky was unusually calm. He turned the engine over with a steady hand and drove onto the ferry. His lack of emotion, his cool resignation, interested Benny.
When Brilovsky had parked the car, Benny reached over and removed the key from the ignition. The ferryman appeared from a stairwell, closed the guardrail, and walked back up to the helm.
“What’s this all about?” Brilovsky asked Benny in a collected tone of voice.
“That’s what I want to know from you.”
Brilovsky turned in his seat and looked at Benny. “I don’t understand.”
“You see, Mr. Brilovsky, I been running a lot of bloody errands around town on behalf of a lot of people, and I want to know why exactly.”
“Who are you?”
“The name’s Rudolph. Benny Rudolph.”
Brilovsky shook his head as though he were at a loss.
“No, I don’t expect you would know who I am.” Benny pressed his lips together and pinched his heavy brow so that it folded around the upper part of his thick nose. He handed Brilovsky the Globe extra, turned to the page with the part of the story about Benny.
Brilovsky took the paper and started reading in the dim light. “What do you want from me?” he asked with his eyes on the paper.
“What I want is to know what you know. Everything you know. Everything about you that’s important to know. See, I got part of this picture in my head about the fall of a union, dead gangsters, disgraced politicians . . . but I’d like the rest of it, and quick.”