by Bill Sage
They kissed, holding hands. Then they talked for a long time about the wedding, who they’d invite, and where it would be. Later, she said her father would be happy to hear that they were finally getting married. He’d always liked Al, but it bothered him he wouldn’t marry his daughter.
Al apologized for not having a ring. Said he’d buy one soon and make it official. They agreed to keep their engagement to themselves until he gave it to her.
Since her house was larger, they thought they’d live there. She lived closer to the ocean and had recently remodeled the bathrooms and kitchen and bought a new bed and other furniture for the master bedroom.
“I know you’ll want Jake to be your best man, but you know how he is. Always busy, running all over the country doing his business. You think you should ask Ron or Carlos?”
“You’re right about Jake. But he’s the only one it could ever be. He’s made me promise many times. Said it’d be his honor. And you don’t ever want to get Jake mad at you.”
“Of course, you’re right. I want to have him too. I was just thinking. You know, with his schedule.” She paused a moment. “You’ll have to call him and let him know.”
“I will. He told me he’d drop everything.”
“That sounds like him.”
“And besides, if Jake’s my best man, we won’t need to hire security.”
9
Detroit, Michigan - 1983
LATER THAT SAME DAY BUT THREE TIME zones away in Detroit, Jake was eating dinner at Gertner’s, his dad’s delicatessen.
It was in the evening and he was by himself. He sat at a table against the wall, close to the small office in the back. Was eating a corned beef sandwich, potato salad, and drinking a Stroh’s beer.
Jake’s father Mike was an early member of the Purple Gang, brought in by Harry Fleisher. Mike opened the delicatessen when Jake was eight, shortly after the end of World War II. After the Veterans Club opened across the street a year and half later, Gertner’s became an even more favorite place for Purples to grab a sandwich and talk shop.
The usual wiseguys, Purples, and bookies were in there tonight. Eating sandwiches, gossiping, but mainly making deals.
Jake was wearing a gray crewneck sweater and a three-quarter length black, leather jacket. It had loops for a belt, but he’d thrown the belt away years ago. After taking his last bite, he shoved his plate to the side and took swallows of beer.
A few minutes later, Mike came out of the back, carrying a tub of potato salad. As he was putting it behind the counter he swept the restaurant to check out who was there.
After nodding at two guys sitting in a booth, he walked over to Jake’s table, sat down. “Cold night. Can’t wait to get the hell out of here,” he said, looking out the large front window.
“Been like that the whole week.”
Mike ran his hand across his chin as he studied Jake for a few seconds.
Jake saw Mike looking at him. Here comes some of his shit.
“You don’t look so good. Something up?” Mike said, looking concerned.
“Whaddaya talking about? Just because I ate one of your fuckin’ corned beef sandwiches?”
“I can tell something’s wrong. What’s going on?”
“I knew I shouldn’t have come in here.”
“Okay, keep it to yourself. I don’t give a shit.”
Up front at the register, Chick Eisner was paying his bill when he spotted Mike and Jake. He figured he’d come over and say hello, so he walked to their table. “How you guys doing? Thought I’d come over. Say hello.”
Jake didn’t turn around, hated Eisner. Mike looked up and glared at him. “We’re busy right now,” he said in a dismissive voice.
“No problem. Just…I’m just leaving anyway.” Eisner buttoned his overcoat and went for the door.
Mike asked, “Have any plans for tonight?”
“Yeah, thinking of going to Lilly’s.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mike said, nodding. “Haven’t been there in a while. Say hello to Sheila for me.”
“I didn’t know they let old fucks in there.”
Mike laughed. “They do if they got bigger cocks than their sons.”
The waiter took Jake’s plates and wiped off the table. Jake downed the last of his Stroh’s and ordered another.
Jake said, “Going to LA in a couple days.”
“Got something going there?”
“Yeah, but not what you think.”
“Is that what’s bothering you?”
“You never fuckin’ give up, do you?”
“Have a kid and find out.”
“Not if he’ll turn out like me,” Jake said, putting on a fake serious face.
Mike chuckled. “Don’t look at me. I had nothing to do with it.” Then after waiting a moment, Mike asked, “So why you going?”
“It’s something I need to take care of. Can’t talk about it right now.”
“Whatever you say,” Mike said, grimacing. Then he sat back and slowly glanced over the room, nodding once at Moe Balansoff, the insurance salesman.
They sat in silence for a short while.
After four minutes, Mike said, “Gonna see Al?”
“Sure. Every time.”
“Tell him I said hello.”
“Yeah. He asks about you.”
“Who’d ever believe he’d be a judge.”
“A lot of people,” Jake said in a sharp tone.
“Yeah, he was always the talker, the schemer.”
Jake nodded affirmatively.
“Anything you need done while you’re gone?” Mike asked.
“Yeah, you beat me to the punch. I was gonna ask you. I’ll need you to take care of some shit for me. I’ll be gone maybe a month or so.”
“Sounds serious.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Not again!
“Jake, I’m not worried.”
Jake pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “Here’s a list of things I need you to do while I’m gone. They’re not that bad, shouldn’t be a problem.” He paused, looking at Mike for a few seconds. “I’ll contact you when I’m there, give you my phone number.”
“Sure thing. Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, smiling at his son.
“Thanks, dad. I’ll tell you about it later.”
10
TWO DAYS LATER, JAKE GERTNER had Izzy Levine drive him to the Detroit Metropolitan Airport. Izzy parked in front of the United Airlines terminal.
Jake opened the door of Izzy’s white Cadillac and got out. Then bending down he said, “Don’t forget to mail the fuckin’ package to the Marriott. In Irvine.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”
“You better,” Jake said glowering at him. “See you in a month or so.” He slammed the car door and entered the terminal.
Flying was no fun for Jake. He hated airports, the waiting, and standing in lines. But most of all, flying through the sky with only air keeping you up freaked him out.
Yet he knew he had to suck it up and just do it.
His seat was on the aisle near the middle of the plane. A middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap sat in front of him. A woman in a tight turtleneck sweater sat on his right.
By the time the flight was half way to Orange County, California, Jake was smoldering. It was hard for him to sit still. Although he knew he shouldn’t let it bother him, it kept driving him crazy.
As he fidgeted, the turtleneck sweater lady glanced at him once or twice. Jake ignored her.
When Jake couldn’t hold his temper back any longer, he let go and slammed his meaty palm into the seat in front of him. That drove the baseball cap guy’s head and body forward.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jake said.
The enraged man spun around, intent on tearing into the person who’d banged his seat. But when he saw Jake scowling at him, he quickly changed his mind and wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Maybe you’d be more comfortable if you moved yo
ur seat up a little. Why don’t you give that a try?”
When the man complied, Jake said, “Enjoy the flight.”
The turtleneck sweater woman turned to Jake and smiled. He pretended he didn’t see her. That didn’t stop her from trying again. She gently placed her hand on his right arm. “My name is Celia.”
Turning toward her, Jake looked her directly in the eyes. Then as he arched back in his seat and gazed at her, he said, “Hi sweetheart. The name’s Jake. Nice to meet ya.”
Jake tightened his seat belt an inch more as the plane dropped its flaps and came in for a landing at John Wayne Airport in Orange County. Even before the plane stopped, most passengers squeezed themselves into the aisle and shuffled toward the exit.
Jake and Celia sat in their seats, waiting and talking.
When the last two or three people were near the door, Jake slowly rose, removed his black leather carry-on bag from the overhead compartment then he grabbed Celia’s.
They both went to the front and exited the plane.
After snagging her luggage from the carousal and saying goodbye, Jake got his and went outside. Then he hailed a taxi and rode to his hotel in Irvine.
Entering his room, he dropped his suitcase on the floor and went straight for the telephone. He dialed a Los Angeles phone number.
“Hack” David Rosenberg, one of the old 12th Street Gang members, answered the phone in his gravelly voice.
“I’m here,” Jake said in a voice mocking Hack’s.
“You’re an asshole.”
“Who isn’t?”
“You at the Marriott?”
“Yeah.”
“When you gonna see Al?”
“Need to wait. Gotta see Claudio first, then I’ll call him.”
“Whaddaya think?”
“Hard to tell. I don’t know what’s gonna happen, what he’ll do.”
“You know Al better than me, but I don’t think he’ll let you down.”
“This is different.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s gonna be tough for him.”
“I wish there was another way. I mean…”
“Jake, there’s no other way. You know that. Remember, you can count on me and Ben to help. Anything you want. I mean that.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Good luck. Let me know.”
“I’ll call you,” Jake said. He hung up the phone and chuckled. That prick sounds worse than ever.
Jake picked up his carry-on and took out a bottle of Rittenhouse Rye. Put it on the marble-top table next to a large plaid chair. Opened the drapes on the sliding glass door, grabbed a water glass, and then slumped into the chair.
He sat there looking down at the cars in the parking lot and the office buildings below. Thinking that even if Al Roth agreed to help him, that was just the beginning. For Jake’s plan to work, Al had to come up with a strategy to get Mangano out of jail so Jake could whack him. Otherwise, Jake would be in deep shit.
But he wasn’t worried. If Al said he’d do it, he’d get it done. He’d cooked up ideas for them in the past.
Once was when they were eleven years old and wanted to get picked to be ushers at Briggs Stadium, where the Detroit Tigers and Lions played.
After taking an early morning bus ride to the stadium, they had to stand below the loading dock for hours in rain, snow, and icy cold winds until an Irish guy came out and started picking kids to be ushers.
He wore a Tiger’s ball cap and always had a large mug of coffee in one hand and a Lucky Strike in the other.
Al and Jake called him “Pete.”
Either Pete would pick one of them and the other guy took the bus home or neither one would get in.
Al told Jake he’d come up with an idea for getting them both picked every time. He said the answer was in a brown paper bag he carried with him. But for it to work, they both had to get picked.
They kept trying until one day they both made it inside. Before going to their sections, they waited near the metal door where Pete was talking to another employee.
When the other guy left, Al and Jake approached Pete. After Al introduced himself and Jake, Al pulled a half-pint bottle of Kessler whiskey out of the paper bag and handed it to Pete. “This is from my brother and me. We want to be your friends.”
Delighted, Pete held the bottle in his hands, admiring it with a broad smile on his face.
“It’s important for our family we make a few bucks ushering. For us, it’s not just watching the game,” Al said. “Our mother needs what we make.”
Pete’s smile broke out into a laugh. “Al and Jake, the brothers.” Patting Al’s head, he said, “Come early and stand in front.”
Jake smiled remembering that time years ago. It would be good to see his old friend again.
Jake called room service for ice cubes. Then he took off his shoes and filled a glass half way with rye.
Took a sip.
Sitting in the plaid chair waiting for the ice, his thoughts went to Al. What was his problem? Al said it had something to do with what happened in Munich.
Some asshole’s trying to shake him down.
The only time Jake remembered talking about Munich was just after he and Al had gotten out of the army. Jake was trying to break into the Detroit mob and started hanging out with a few guys his father set him up with. That’s when he blabbed the story.
But that was over twenty years ago.
Minutes later, a bellboy brought in a bucket of ice and placed it on a small table near the door. When he saw Jake glaring at him, he quickly spun around and left without waiting for a tip.
Jake chuckled to himself. He’d seen that reaction many times before.
For some people, you’d never guess what they did for a living. Not Jake. He was 6’3”, had a powerfully built upper body, a thick neck, and a slightly smashed nose. His mere presence radiated an air of darkness and imminent violence.
His dark stares could be unnerving. Even Hack and Ben had to turn away sometimes.
He got up and brought the ice bucket over to the marble table. Dropped three ice cubes in his glass and took a long swallow.
11
JUDGE ROTH’S BAILIFF JON APPROACHED a lawyer as he was about to sit in the front row. “Sorry sir, those seats are reserved for the press.”
“Okay, I didn’t know.” The lawyer then took a seat in a middle row.
The reporter from The Orange County Register was sitting in the press row. A female reporter from the Los Angeles Times sat next to him. “Looks like state prison to me,” she said in a hushed voice.
Nodding his head in agreement, the Register reporter said, “Yeah, but I understand from my sources there could be a chance for probation and some time in the county.”
Two local TV reporters came in and sat in the press row, joining the others.
The Orange County District Attorney, Cecil Hitchens, quietly entered the courtroom and sat in the back row. When Jon saw him come in, he went back to Judge Roth’s chambers. “Hitchens and some press people are here. Register and LA Times. The Channel-Two guy.”
“Okay that’ll make it more fun.”
As Jon stepped to go out the door, Roth stopped him. “Jon, let me know if Ward comes in.”
“Yes, boss.” He returned to the courtroom.
Kevin Ryan sat at the counsel table, wearing a dark blue suit and a black and red repp tie. Sat quietly with a worried look on his face.
One of the last persons to enter was Steve Ward. He sat near the back. Jon saw him sitting down, but Judy had already buzzed Roth and he was entering the courtroom.
Seeing Roth, Jon called out, “Come to order. Court is in session.”
Judge Roth walked into the courtroom, carrying the court file and a Penal Code book with a green bookmarker sticking out of it. He took the bench.
“This is the sentencing hearing for Kevin Ryan,” Roth said. “I’ve read the probation report, the court file, and fifty-six letters of support, including one from Congress
man Hamilton. Have I missed anything?”
Lawyers from both sides answered, “No, Your Honor.”
“The probation report recommends the lower term in state prison. Although the report mentions some mitigating factors, the probation department emphasizes the seriousness of the charges and preserving public trust.”
Before he could be restrained, an elderly man, wearing a pink blazer and an open collar white shirt, leapt from his seat. “He needs to pay for what he’s done. We trusted him and he’s disgraced our community,” the man shouted. Roth’s bailiff Jon quickly escorted him out of the courtroom.
Judy was in the middle of writing something on the docket. Startled by the outburst, she shot back in her chair, knocking a paperclip box off her desk. Recovering, she looked up at Roth and smiled. He smiled back, shaking his head.
When Jon returned, Judge Roth said, “I hope that’s the end of our excitement for today.” He paused and looked at the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your thoughts to yourself.”
Jon scanned the audience, an intimidating scowl on his face. He ended up looking at Roth, who nodded and continued with the sentencing hearing.
Roth heard arguments from both sides on what they thought the sentence should be. The prosecution called for state prison as recommended in the probation report. The defense said the only fair sentence for a first offense was probation and community service.
With a solemn look on his face, Judge Roth said, “This is a very serious case. The public needs to know there are consequences for bribing public officials and rigging bids and that influential people will be punished just the same as everyone else.”
The district attorney nodded and looked over at his trial deputies, who were concentrating on Roth.
“But on the other hand, Mr. Ryan has been a generous and productive citizen. Many good people stand behind him. And he’s never even had a traffic ticket,” Roth said. “There are significant actors of mitigation that could indicate granting probation. Those are things I have to consider.”