Chapter 31
Jack’s strong hands helped out Moshe with one skill that was getting harder as he aged—the cutting of the leather soles into shape.
Except for the beginning years with his father, Pincus, Moshe always worked alone. Now that Jack was assisting him he no longer worried if he needed to run an errand or even just use the bathroom during business hours. Jack was reliable and brought a cheerful attitude toward each day.
Jack told Moshe that he came from a small town outside of Austin, Texas, called Johnson City.
“You have any family?” Moshe asked.
“Both my parents died in a fire when I was thirteen. Pretty much I lived on my own for about ten years. I got a job working on a horse ranch. That’s why I have a feel for the leather. They had me repairing saddles. Then last year a friend of mine was heading to New York City for a job interview and asked me if I wanted to tag along. I dabbled a bit as an artist and thought maybe I could be discovered. But the real reason was, I had nothing better to do, so I went.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went back home, and I decided to stay. My art was not as good as I hoped for and with no money, things spiraled down quickly, and I ended up living on the streets. Eventually, I made it up to St. James Park, where you found me.”
“Well, you got a second chance, Jack. My wife thinks I lost my mind hiring you and renting out my basement. Don’t make me regret it.”
“I promise you, I won’t, Moshe,” Jack said.
“You’re looking good, now that you’re cleaned up,” Moshe said.
Jack ran his fingers through his blond hair and looked down at his new clothes and smiled. “I feel good, Moshe. Thank you.”
Just then, the front door opened and in walked Gray.
“Good afternoon, Moshe,” Gray said.
“It’s good to see you, Gray. How can I be of service?” Moshe asked.
“Have you hired an assistant?” Gray asked, seeing Jack behind the counter sweeping the floor.
“This is Jack McCoy. Jack, this is Gray.”
Jack walked over and shook Gray’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
“Moshe, could you spare a few minutes and visit with Mr. Lieberman?”
“Let me guess. He wants to meet with me right now.”
Gray smiled and opened the front door for Moshe.
“Very well, Jack, you’re in charge. I’ll be back shortly.”
“I got it covered. Don’t worry, Moshe.”
Moshe looked at Jack and nodded. “Let’s go, Gray.”
When they reached the doors to the Paradise Theater, Gray said, “I have a few things to do. I’ll catch up with you later, Moshe. Just head upstairs. Mr. Lieberman is waiting for you.”
Moshe nodded and headed inside.
“Good afternoon Moshe,” Agnes said as he walked in.
“Hello, Agnes, how are you?” Moshe asked.
“I’m well. Go right in, he’s waiting for you.”
“Ah, Moshe, thank you for coming. Please come in. Can I get you something to drink? Perhaps a schnapps?” Arnold said, pointing to the glass bottle sitting on the small bar nestled in between bookshelves.
“Sure, why not.”
Arnold walked over, picked up a glass, and held it to the light. He shook his head and grabbed a cloth napkin, polishing away a few spots. “That’s better.”
He poured two drinks and handed one to Moshe.
“L’chaim,” they toasted.
“There are a few new developments I want to tell you about,” Arnold said, sitting on the chair next to Moshe.
“What’s is it?”
“I was doing some digging in the police archives and I came across this transcript of a conversation between Solomon and Myron,” he said handing the pages to Moshe.
Moshe put on his reading glasses and read the document. He looked up to Arnold and said, “I don’t understand what this is?”
“It’s a conversation between Solomon and Myron. Apparently Solomon is a prophetic dreamer. He can foresee future events in his dreams.”
Moshe stroked his chin. “That’s hard to believe.”
“Think about it, Moshe. How did Myron know to find us in Safed?”
“Are you saying that Solomon foresaw our trip in his dream?”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?” Arnold said.
Moshe nodded slowly. “You’re right, there’s no other explanation. So now what? Is there a way to stop Solomon from dreaming?”
Arnold stood up, looked out the window at the traffic below on the Grand Concourse and said, “No I don’t think so, but at least it’s something.”
“I suppose,” Moshe said rising from his chair.
“Wait, Moshe, there is one more thing. There is a rumor circulating around City Hall that Mickey Coppola is grooming Myron Blass to run for mayor in next year’s election.”
“That’s crazy. The guy who tried to murder me is going to run for Mayor of New York City?”
“I agree, it’s ludicrous. But what if it’s true, and he actually wins. What then?”
“Arnold, I really don’t know. Can we discuss this another time? I need to go back to work.”
“How’s it going with that Jack person?” Leah asked.
Moshe was drying the dishes with his back toward Leah.
“He’s good with his hands and remembers to smile at the customers. I’d say that’s a good start.”
“How much rent is he paying?”
Moshe put down the damp dish cloth and turned to face his wife. “Leah, he has no money. Let him work for a while, then he will pay us twenty-five dollars per week.”
“That’s it? You can’t rent anything as nice as we have for that cheap.”
“Okay, but we never rent it out anyway, so it’s all found money.”
“I don’t like it, Moshe. I’m telling you now, this won’t end up well,” she said.
“It will be fine, Leah. Stop worrying. I’m going to bed,” Moshe said, leaving Leah sitting alone in the kitchen.
The next morning Moshe awoke and went into to kitchen to brew himself a pot of coffee. As he scooped the grinds into the percolator basket, he recalled a dream he had just before waking. It was unusual because unlike most dreams, he could remember this one vividly.
He was working in the cobbler shop when Gray walked in.
“Come with me, Moshe,” Gray instructed.
“Not now, Gray, I’m busy,” he said, pointing to piles of shoes haphazardly scattered on the shop floor.
“You must come now, Moshe.”
Moshe followed Gray out the front door of the cobbler’s shop and was suddenly in a bar.
“Where are we?” Moshe asked.
“I need to show you something,” said Gray.
Gray pointed to another table where an old man was sitting.
“Who is that?” Moshe asked.
“That’s Solomon Blass.”
Moshe looked at the man. “Myron’s father?”
“Yes, he is the rasha. You must destroy him,” Gray said.
“Destroy him? What do you mean?”
“You will destroy him here— In your dreams.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The power of this rasha is in his dream state. This is where you must take the fight.”
“Why are you here, Gray?”
“To show you the way. But you must perform the act.”
“What act?”
“To destroy the rasha.”
Moshe poured himself a mug of coffee and considered his disturbing dream. Why was Gray telling him to destroy Solomon in his dreams, of all places?
He sat down at the breakfast table, stared out the window, sipped at his coffee and wondered how his life and Solomon’s had suddenly became intertwined. First was Solomon’s awareness about his trip to Safed and now this dream.
Moshe’s hands started to shake, spilling some coffee. He put the mug down, closed his eyes and massaged his forehea
d. What dark tunnel had he entered? Would there be a flicker of light that he could follow, or was this a cavernous black hole with no way out?
Chapter 32
The taxi ride from City Island to the Grand Concourse took about forty-five minutes. Solomon used his cane to help himself out of the back of the cab and stood before the cobbler shop.
“Wait for me. I won’t be long,” he instructed the cabbie through the open window.
The cabbie nodded and kept the meter running.
Solomon opened the door and saw a young man with blond hair. “Are you the cobbler?”
“No, sir. I am a helper. Can I help you, sir?”
“Where’s the cobbler?”
“Moshe just stepped out for a minute. He should be back soon. Would you like to wait for him?”
Solomon clenched his lips in frustration but resigned himself, sitting in the lone chair by the front window and waiting for the cobbler. He looked across the street at the marquee of the Loew’s Paradise Theater. Playing was the Alfred Hitchcock thriller Psycho, starring Janet Leigh. Solomon seldom went to the movies, but this one he might actually make an effort to go see, he thought.
Just then, Moshe walked in.
“Moshe, this gentleman has been waiting to see you,” Jack said.
Solomon pushed himself up with his cane and stood before Moshe. He was several inches taller than the cobbler.
“How can I be of service?” Moshe asked.
“My name is Solomon Blass.”
Moshe said nothing, but gave a frightened stare that pleased Solomon.
“Do you know who I am?” Solomon asked.
“You’re Solomon Blass. Why are you here?”
“I want to talk to you about your father, Moshe.”
“My father? What about him?”
“Your father, Pincus Potasznik, murdered my friend, Leo Gorpatsch.”
Moshe drew back, blinked slowly and said, “Leo Gorpatsch was your friend?”
“We grew up together in Poland. By the time I immigrated to America he was already gunned down by your father.”
“Leo Gorpatsch was a gangster and got what he deserved,” Moshe said sternly.
Solomon wagged his finger at Moshe and said, “Your father never paid for his crime.”
“My father’s dead.”
“Then the son must pay for his father’s misdeeds.”
“Is that why your son tried to kill me?”
“Consider that just a warning, Moshe.”
“Are you threatening me, Solomon? I have a witness.” Moshe said, pointing to Jack who was watching the interaction.
Solomon looked at Jack, and then back at Moshe and said, “Watch yourself, cobbler. I’m not a man to trifle with, and tell your councilman-friend that he needs to back off, or he too will feel my wrath.”
“I think it’s time for you to leave,” Moshe said.
Solomon held his cane out like a sword for a moment, before placing its tip back on the floor, walking out the door, and back into the waiting taxi. “Take me back to City Island,” he said.
During the ride Solomon smiled, thinking about the fear expressed in the cobbler’s eyes as well as the surprise when he named his father as Leo Gorpatsch’s killer.
Solomon knew that his threat of telling Moshe that he must pay for his father’s crime was an idle one, but it worked in shaking Moshe up.
Later that evening, after his nightcap at Charlie’s and on his short walk back home, Solomon found himself thinking again about Moshe the Cobbler. Despite the fact that he had managed to frighten Moshe, and despite the fact that as a man, Moshe was certainly not a threat, as a tzaddik he could be something else entirely. Solomon knew that tzaddikim demonstrated their divine ability only through the will of Hashem, so, naturally, Moshe would not have displayed any outward physical or verbal aggression toward Solomon during their encounter. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of much greater power under other circumstances. Solomon had hoped that his visit would have confirmed that indeed Moshe was one of the thirty-six. But in a way, he already knew, especially after what Myron had told him.
“I don’t know what it was, Pops, but just after the rabbi fell to the floor he was in obvious pain. We all saw it. Moshe then knelt down and comforted him. The agony seemed to disappear upon his touch. The rabbi was truly at peace for a few moments, before he passed.”
Okay, so he had the power of an empath, Solomon thought. But that was hardly an existential threat to him, and regardless, he was pleased he finally got to meet the man.
Solomon headed straight for his bedroom. Perhaps a dream tonight would enlighten him.
He taught himself when he was in his twenties to keep a journal next to his bed and immediately record his dreams, or they would fade quickly if he waited too long. After a while, he became lucid, where he knew he was dreaming and was able to force himself to wake up in order to write down his dreams.
This worked beautifully for years and made him and his son wealthy men. But something went wrong on the Giant’s football game. This never happened before and was most troubling for Solomon.
Results from games didn’t come to him like reading a score in the newspaper the next day. A visitor would come to him in his dream and show him something.
The last visitor was a man dressed in all gray. In his dream they were sitting together at the Giant’s game, and Solomon saw the scoreboard showing the score of 21-20, with no time left on the clock. He woke himself at that moment and wrote the score down. But it was wrong, and he needed to know why.
That night he dreamt of the gray man standing on his front porch.
“Who are you?” Solomon asked.
“I am Gray,” he said, with darkness surrounding the stranger, making it difficult to distinguish the man among the shadows.
“It was you who showed me the wrong score,” Solomon said.
“I needed your attention.”
“Why are you here?”
“I have been looking for you.” His voice blended with the swirling winds.
“Why?” Solomon asked, again.
“To make things right,” Gray said. His image vaporized into the shadows.
Solomon woke himself. His hands were shaking as he wrote down the ominous words spoken by the visitor named Gray.
Chapter 33
Myron had not been this excited in years. Tonight he was going to the Stork Club on Fifty-Eighth Street in Manhattan. He had heard the stories of the movie stars, celebrities and the wealthy who frequented the infamous nightclub. Famous couples like Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz, Marilyn Monroe and Joe DiMaggio, Nancy and Ronald Reagan were frequently seen patronizing the establishment.
But he couldn’t care less if he met someone famous tonight. He was going to see Niko. Since their meeting at her father’s estate he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
He looked at himself in the mirror, wondering if he could keep up with this twentysomething-year-old beauty. He had just turned forty-five, but people said he looked younger. He imagined himself with Niko in a rapturous embrace, tearing off each other’s clothes, sweaty bodies intermingled, giving in to their passions.
He instructed his driver Benjamin to open his car door when the black Cadillac Coupe de Ville arrived. As they pulled up, Myron could see people gathering at the entrance to catch a glimpse of a celebrity entering the club.
Of course, no one noticed Myron as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. He shrugged and thought, Perhaps when I run for mayor, I’ll be recognized.
The entrance to the Stork Club reminded Myron of a foyer of a grand mansion on Fifth Avenue, where he was once a dinner guest. After he dropped his overcoat at the coat check, he walked over to the podium where people were gathered asking the hostess for a table.
Myron waited by the podium for his turn. When the hostess returned, Myron saw to his delight that it was Niko.
When she saw Myron, her eyes sparkled in delight.
“Myron, what a surp
rise,” Niko said with a smile that would melt the coldest heart.
She was wearing a tight fitting black cocktail dress that hugged her curves and ended just above her knees. Myron felt a surge of warmth sweep through his body.
“You’re looking elegant,” Myron said, trying to tone down his excitement.
“Thank you, Myron. I love your suit,” Niko said, stroking the suede of his jacket across his chest.
“What time do you get off work?” Myron leaned in to whisper.
“At eleven. Will you wait for me?”
“Sure, I’ll wait.”
“Come, I’ll give you a table,” she said, leading him through the crowded floor of the nightclub. “Here’s a nice table. I’ll pop over when I can, to see how you’re doing.”
“Thank you, Niko.”
Myron sat down at the small table and watched Niko return to the front. She looked back and gave him a smile that caused Myron to kick the table and knock the candle to the floor. He clumsily picked it up and noticed a clump of wax dripped on to one of his alligator shoes.
“Dammit,” he said, just as a cocktail waitress approached.
“Good evening, sir, my name is Gina. Can I get you a drink?”
Myron sat back up, took a breath to compose himself and said, “Yes, please. Scotch on the rocks.”
Myron looked at his watch. It was still another hour until Niko was free. She stopped by twice to say hello, and even though each visit lasted only seconds, it was like a fix for a drug addict, keeping his carnal desires in a constant boil.
Then disaster struck. Decked out in a black silk Italian suit, surrounded by an entourage of large, muscular men, was Mickey Coppola. He was strutting his confident attitude down the center of the club when he spotted Myron.
“Myron Blass, is that you?” Mickey bellowed.
“Good evening, Mickey,” Myron said, his heart now pounding in fear instead of lust.
“This is a surprise. Come join me at my table,” he said, sweeping his arm.
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