The entire affair caused quite a stir in the community. The Daily News sent a reporter to interview Moshe at the cobbler shop. The last time Moshe had a story written about him was when he and his friend Max witnessed a gruesome murder when they were young boys in Krzywcza.
The article denounced Myron Blass as a small-time hoodlum, who murdered a respectable rabbi while they were both visiting Israel. Since the accused and the victim were U.S. citizens, Myron was extradited back home to stand trial for murder, and the rabbi’s body was returned to New York for burial.
Representing Myron in court was the criminal defense attorney Frank Lugano, who was well-known for representing famous Mafiosi. How Myron was able to hire such an effective lawyer was a mystery to Moshe. But for whatever the reason, it did the trick. After only a few hours of deliberation the jury found Myron Blass not guilty.
When the news was announced that the rabbi’s killer was not going to prison, Moshe’s customers wanted to know what happened.
“This is outrageous, Moshe, how does a murderer walk free?” he heard over and over.
All Moshe could reply was with a shrug of his shoulders and a deep frown.
It became difficult to get his work done and he ended up staying late into the night in order to catch up. After a few weeks of this, Moshe had enough and asked Leah if they could spend a day at the beach.
Of all the people who knew Moshe, Leah knew him the best. She had witnessed many versions of the man, but remained devoted and supportive, even with her recently failing eyesight that drained her enthusiasm for most things outside the home.
“Moshe, tell me what happened in Safed,” Leah said, adjusting her large straw hat that featured on its crown a bright-yellow plastic sunflower.
“Leah, I really don’t walk to talk about this now. Can I please relax?”
“So everyone gets an explanation, except for me?” she said, looking out into sea lapping the shore.
Moshe sighed. “No of course not, it’s just that I am exhausted.”
Leah lifted her sunglasses and gave him a look that needed no words. After forty years of marriage, Moshe knew when he needed to give in.
“Okay, just give me a minute.”
Leah smiled triumphantly. Moshe sheepishly smiled back. After all these years, he couldn’t resist her bright blue eyes, which were still just as beautiful as they were when they first met.
Her family immigrated from Romania to America in 1905, when she was just a year old. Leah was the youngest of ten children, five girls and five boys. Her father Benjamin loved Moshe from the first day he met him.
“This is the man you should marry,” he told his daughter.
“Your father never approved of anyone so quickly. Becky and Anna had hard times earning his blessings for their fiancés,” Leah’s mother, Sarah, told her.
That was when Moshe had the touch. No matter who it was, he had an ability to instill a calmness, even to the most agitated.
On one their first dates, Moshe was walking Leah home along Union Avenue when they came upon a disturbed homeless man screaming for anyone to listen how he had been screwed out of his family’s inheritance.
Passersby stared and seemed frightened at the man hovering next to his belongings packed into a metal shopping cart by the entrance to the elevated train station. Leah clutched Moshe’s arm as they passed. But then a strange thing happened. The man jumped in front of Moshe and Leah and pointed his finger inches from Moshe’s face.
“Why don’t you help me?” he pleaded.
Leah pulled at Moshe. “He’s crazy, keep walking.”
But Moshe stood still and looked into the man’s watery eyes. He placed his hands on the man’s shoulders, and said, “I understand.”
The man clutched Moshe in a tight hug and started to cry.
“Moshe, what are you doing?” Leah cried out.
“It’s okay, Leah,” Moshe said.
The man released Moshe and smiled. “Thank you,” he said, and sat down on the pavement, seemingly at ease.
Moshe opened his wallet, took out a ten dollar bill and handed it to the man.
“God bless you, sir,” he said.
As they walked away, Leah turned to look at the man who was still sitting on the pavement and was now cheerfully greeting people as they passed by.
“What happened back there?” she asked.
Moshe shrugged and said, “He just needed some attention.”
“No, that was more than attention. You did something to him,” Leah insisted.
“Come now, Leah, it’s all good,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
Leah looked at him and smiled.
“Moshe, are you listening to me?” Leah was saying loud enough for a couple sitting nearby to look over.
“I’m sorry. Yes, I am listening.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened in Safed?”
Moshe clutched the armrests of his beach chair and said, “I met this famous rabbi who knew I was tzaddik, even before I said a word to him.”
“How did he know?”
“He said that I was encircled with a field of energy.”
“A field of energy? Where? I don’t see it,” Leah said looking at Moshe from different angles.
Moshe flipped his hand at her. “Stop it, Leah.”
Leah smiled.
“After we spoke and I told him my story he said that to regain my connection to Hashem I would need to become an observant Jew. But later on, he changed his mind and said that no matter what I did, I was no longer tzaddik.”
“How is that possible?” Leah asked shaking her head.
“But things changed when Rabbi Shapira was shot.”
“What do you mean? What happened?”
“Right before Myron Blass barged into Aaron’s apartment, I fell ill. It was the same feeling I had just before Dad died.”
“Then he shot the rabbi,” Leah murmured.
Moshe lowered his voice to say, “He gave his life in order to save mine.”
“Oh my, Moshe,” Leah sighed.
“Then there was…” he paused and looked at to the sea. “It’s hard to explain. All I can say is that I felt a connection.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was on the ground with the rabbi’s head resting on my lap. He was moaning in agonizing pain and clutching his chest where the bullet entered. Blood was seeping out in between his fingers and puddling around him. I was stroking his hair when it happened. It was as if my fingertips sent an electrical charge into the rabbi’s soul. His pain seemed to just melt away. His eyes and face relaxed, and then it was over. He passed.”
“What do you mean an electrical charge. Where did it come from?”
Moshe smiled, stood up from his beach chair, and leaned over to give Leah a soft kiss on her cheek. “It was from Hashem.”
Chapter 25
Arnold felt his heart pound hard against his rib cage as he scaled the City Hall steps. He had been in the same room as Mayor Douglas before, but this was going to be the first time they would meet privately, face to face. The scandal of the Myron Blass acquittal for the murder of Rabbi Shapira sent a chill throughout the entire city and the mayor wanted to know what Arnold knew about it.
During the subway ride to lower Manhattan Arnold rehashed what occurred on his trip to Safed. There was no way he could tell the mayor everything about it. How would an Irishman understand the Jewish mystical world of Kabbalah? He figured what would be of the most concern was not the reason why they went to Safed, but how in the world did Myron Blass get Mickey Coppola’s attorney to represent him and beat the murder charge.
Arnold, on the other hand, was not so surprised. He knew what Myron Blass was capable of. His brief sports book relationship gave him an insight into the man, but he never thought he would be capable of murder.
All in all, he felt good about his sudden rise of relevance in the world of New York City politics. Arnold knew that the mayor would be impress
ed with his firsthand knowledge of the newly formed relationship between the Blasses and the Copollas.
After sitting in the mayor’s reception room for nearly an hour he was shown in. As he stepped into the office, the first thing Arnold saw was the tremendous desk floating in the middle of the room, like a battleship occupying a small harbor. Sitting behind the desk was the three-hundred-plus pound mayor, who seemed in scale with his oversized furniture.
“Arnold, so good to see you again. Please come in and take a seat,” the mayor said.
Arnold sat down facing the imposing desk and adjusted himself to sit up taller just to see over the stacks of books and folders blocking his view of the mayor.
“No, not there. Come, Arnold, let’s talk,” he said, standing up, and gesturing to the sofa pushed up against the wall on the other side of the room.
“Tell me what you know about this upstart Myron Blass. How the hell did he get Frank Lugano to represent him?” the mayor asked.
Arnold nodded. “That’s a good question, sir. Myron and his father Solomon have kept their businesses in the Bronx. As you know, Frank Lugano is Mickey Coppola’s attorney. It looks like there may be a new relationship between these two families.”
“What do you know about the father? I hear he’s an old man living on City Island.”
“Yes, he just turned ninety. But I wouldn’t discount his abilities because of his age. I know both the father and the son, and without the skills of Solomon, Myron is nothing but a smalltime gangster.”
“Arnold, I would like for you to keep an eye on them, and report to me directly about their activities. Especially now, if they are hooking up with Mickey Coppola.”
On the subway ride back up to the Bronx Arnold wondered where all of this was headed. Solomon had apparently made a deal with the Coppola crime family, which resulted in Myron beating the murder charge. This would be considered a significant favor and Mickey would expect something equally grand in return.
But if they were indeed working together, the results could have devastating consequences for law and order in the city. Could the only counterbalance to their power be the cobbler? And even after Moshe’s epiphany in Safed, would he have the ability to fight a crime machine like the Coppolas?
As the train rose from the tunnel to the elevated platform, the sunlight beamed through the smut-covered windows and shone upon Arnold’s face. He leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, taking in its warmth.
Things were moving quickly. He imagined a simmering cauldron and with each passing day a new potent ingredient was dropped in, bringing it to a near boil. Arnold took a dose of pride in knowing that he played a role in creating this brew, but he also prayed that he wouldn’t one day regret it.
Chapter 26
Myron tapped his foot nervously as his driver Benjamin sped down the Major Deegan highway. This would be his first meeting with Mickey Coppola. A few times he caught a glimpse of the notorious mobster sitting in the gallery as a spectator at his murder trial. He knew that the jurors saw him too. Every time Frank Lugano addressed the jury, Myron marveled at the sudden shift in people’s reaction. An elderly woman avoided eye contact with Lugano when he spoke, probably hoping that she would disappear. There was this young man, perhaps in his twenties, whose face turned several shades whiter as if his life was being threatened at gunpoint each time Frank Lugano approached the jury.
There were several rumored stories of jury tampering at previous trials, where the Coppolas had an interest in the outcome. But so far, nothing was ever proven. That was because just the sight of the infamous gangster Mickey Coppola frightened people enough, without the need of making actual personal threats.
Benjamin parked the Cadillac in front of Antonio’s, an Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. Nothing Mickey did was done without reason and selecting a restaurant in the Bronx did not go unnoticed by Myron. Perhaps this was his way of showing Myron his intention of taking control of his territory.
Sitting outside were two of Mickey’s men. They were smoking cigarettes and playing cards on a small table barely large enough for the game with an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts.
Benjamin quickly jumped out of the car and opened Myron’s door. Myron led with his expensive, and just polished shoes as he exited his car. He took a moment to stand and let the two goons playing cards take in his magnificence. Certainly they would be impressed with his suede suit and polished alligator shoes. But they hardly paid him attention, except for a brief glance and a friendly nod. He returned the wisp of an acknowledgment and entered the restaurant.
“Mr. Blass, you’re here. Please, come and join us,” a voice rang out as soon as Myron stepped inside.
Myron needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmed interior of Antonio’s. Walking towards him was Mickey Coppola with an outstretched hand.
“Thanks for coming,” Mickey said, shaking Myron’s hand.
“My pleasure,” Myron said, removing his fedora and gently stroking his bald head.
Mickey took a step back, spread his arms out wide and said, “You are looking very dapper. I love the suit, and will you look at those shoes! Are they alligator?”
“Indeed they are,” Myron said, lifting his foot a few inches in the air to allow his pants to fall back for a better view. He can’t be that bad—he noticed my shoes, Mickey thought.
“I’m impressed. Come, let’s eat. Do you know Antonio? He makes the best eggplant parmigiana in the city.”
Standing behind Mickey was a large man wearing a white apron, stained with shades of red tomato sauce. “It’s nice to meet you,” Antonio said, thrusting out his beefy paw.
“Come, let’s start with wine,” Mickey said, gesturing to the round table covered with a white table cloth.
With both men seated, Antonio poured red wine from a carafe.
“Have you ever had wine from Montepulciano?” Antonio asked.
“Can’t say that I have,” Myron said tasting the wine.
The two men watched as Myron sipped.
“Delicious,” he said, placing the glass down.
“If you will excuse me, I’ll prepare your lunch,” Antonio said.
Mickey leaned in and said, “I own the place now. Antonio had a little trouble, so I helped him out.”
“You own Antonio’s?” Myron asked.
“It’s a good place for us to do our business.”
“I suppose so,” Myron said, looking at the empty restaurant.
“There’s a room in the back if privacy is needed,” Mickey said with a wink.
As the two men enjoyed the wine, Myron felt it was a good time to share his father’s dream. “I want you to know that my father and I are grateful for Mr. Lugano’s brilliant defense. Who knows where I could have been without it.”
“Sitting in the electric chair,” Mickey said, gulping down some wine.
“Yeah, right,” he said and took a sip of wine to ease his nerves. “So, as a thank you, I have some information to share with you that could prove… um, lucrative.”
Mickey lit a cigar and motioned with his hand for Myron to continue.
His father had a dream a few days ago about a police raid on a brothel in lower Manhattan. While this was not Mickey Coppola’s territory, he knew that this was useful information to put into his hands.
“He’ll know what to do with it,” Solomon assured his son.
When Myron shared that in a few days a brothel on Houston Street would be raided, Mickey asked, “How do you know this?”
“We just do. I assume you will know how to capitalize upon it,” Myron said.
Mickey took a puff on his cigar and exhaled, allowing the smoke to rise above the table and hang for a moment before evaporating. Then he said, “Indeed I do, Myron. Indeed I do.”
Chapter 27
Even with the day at the beach with Leah, Moshe had a hard time letting go of the Myron Blass acquittal. His customers even remarked that he was curt, which was out of
character for the always pleasant Moshe the Cobbler. But the outcome of the trial was too much for him. How could the jury, after hearing from Arnold and himself as eyewitnesses, still believe Myron’s attorney that the shooting was accidental? He was so angry that he closed the shop an hour early. He needed to cool off and thought a walk in St. James Park would help.
Once in the park, he calmed down. The sun was nearly setting, but there were at least thirty more minutes of daylight. With both hands clasped behind his back and his eyeglasses hanging off a cord around his neck and swinging back and forth, Moshe walked the pathways encircling the park.
There was so much to make sense of. He recognized the dangers of someone like Myron Blass. He had seen evil like this before when he was much younger. It was back in Krzywcza during the war when Captain Berbecki led the Russian army into their synagogue and demanded to take Rabbi Shapira into custody. Moshe stepped forward and offered that the captain take himself instead. Moments after Moshe was taken, orders were given to line up the wounded Jewish soldiers outside against the synagogue wall, where they were shot dead by firing squad. Later that same day, his mother Clara had to give of herself sexually to the Russian captain in order to secure her son’s release.
Moshe had no idea where this was headed, and certainly no idea how it would all end. No longer was he just a cobbler hoping to retire to Florida in a few years. Now he was a weapon against evil, which he thought was so bizarre that he dared not speak about it to his wife, or to his two daughters.
Moshe sat down on a bench and watched a few young boys kick a ball across the field. Dusk was turning to night, and the boys were being called for by their mother to come along, as it was time to go home for dinner.
As Moshe turned to see where the voice was coming from he noticed a man lying under some bushes. It looked as though he was going to sleep there for the night. Moshe rose from the bench, climbed over the railing that separated the walkway from the foliage, and approached the man.
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