Myron rubbed his forehead, wishing he was not so drunk.
“Oh, and one more thing. That cobbler who your dad has been obsessed with. The one who you tried killing in Israel.”
“Moshe?”
“Yeah, Moshe the Cobbler. He’s no longer a problem,” Mickey said closing the door behind him.
Myron stumbled out of bed minutes before his alarm clock engaged its annoying ring. He had hardly slept, having woken up every few minutes to check the time. He showered, dressed and finished his coffee before Benjamin pulled the Caddie up front.
“Good morning, sir. Where are we heading?”
“City Hall, Ben. Today’s a big day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Myron gazed out the window. There was so much to sort out from the previous evening. It was apparent that any lustful idea of dating Niko was over. Mickey’s threats were not to be taken lightly. At least he was given a second chance. Perhaps Mickey thought he had a real shot of beating Mayor Douglas, and putting up with his bluster was worth the aggravation.
Benjamin interrupted Myron’s thoughts. “Hey, boss, did you get a chance to see the Daily News this morning?”
“Not yet, why?”
Benjamin swung his arm over the front seat and handed the folded paper to Myron. “Check out page nine. It’s about that cobbler.”
Myron reached forward and took the paper. He remembered what Mickey told him about Moshe the Cobbler no longer being a problem.
He turned to page nine and read the headline:
Gangland Style Shooting at Cobbler Shop
Yesterday afternoon, on a busy afternoon on the Grand Concourse in the Bronx, an unknown assailant entered a cobbler shop and shot at close range, Jack McCoy, an employee of the cobbler, Moshe Potasznik.
Mr. Potasznik, who had had fate on his side, stepped out for a few minutes when the incident took place. According to Mr. Potasznik, the assailant thought the victim was him, not his assistant, Jack McCoy. Police detectives are investigating the murder.
“Damn,” Myron said.
“That’s something, huh, boss?”
“It looks like Moshe the Cobbler has a guardian angel,” Myron said, looking out the window as the car sped south on the Major Deegan Highway, toward City Hall.
Chapter 38
Arnold’s telephone conversation with Myron the day after the mayor had asked him to look into Myron’s intentions had confirmed his and the mayor’s fears that Myron was indeed running for mayor.
“Do you seriously think you have a chance against Mayor Douglas?” Arnold had asked.
“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is that Mickey Coppola believes I can.”
“Well good luck to you, Myron,” Arnold had said, and then hung up.
Arnold knew that the mayor could outdebate Myron on the issues of the day important to New Yorkers with his eyes closed. But the problem was that voters kept their eyes open, and the outward appearance between the three hundred pound mayor, in contrast to the fit, trim, and good looking contender was dramatic.
“He’ll get the female vote for sure,” the mayor said, as they watched the news broadcast of Myron Blass’ announcement that he was running for mayor.
“Women vote on issues too, Mayor,” Arnold reminded him.
“People vote on who they like more, and who wouldn’t like him?”
“I know quite a few people who don’t. But you’re right, we mustn’t take anything for granted,” Arnold said.
The mayor shrugged, took a puff from his stub of a cigar, blew the smoke up to the towering ceiling of his grand office and said, “What the hell happened yesterday with that shooting? I understand you walked in on it.”
“We almost did. Moshe and I missed it by a few minutes.”
“Is it true that the gunman thought he was shooting the cobbler?”
“That’s what Jack McCoy said right before he died. It was quite upsetting watching the poor man pass,” Arnold said, slowly shaking his head.
“I’m sorry you had to see that, Arnold. Any idea who the shooter was?”
“No, but I have no doubt it was one of Coppola’s goons.”
The mayor pushed his large body out of his sagging and aching chair. He stood by the window and looked out onto the park in front of City Hall. He ran his fingers through his hair and scratched the back of his head.
“It took me thirty years to get here, Arnold. I started out just like you, a councilman. I paid my dues to the political machine here in the city, and this unqualified nobody thinks he could challenge me? And on top of that, how in the world would anyone vote for a murderer?” the mayor brooded.
“Well, he’s been acquitted. But I do agree with you, the whole thing is absurd. Even the Republican leadership is nervous about him. But his poll numbers are high. People believe he’s a visionary. He’s had remarkable business success,” Arnold said.
“How does he do it, Arnold? He seems to know things before they happen.” The mayor tapped his cigar into an oversized, nearly full ashtray on his desk and continued, “Like that land deal at Locust Point last year. He bought those properties months before the Throgs Neck Bridge deal was even announced.”
Arnold now knew how this was done and wondered if this would be a good time to share his knowledge about Solomon and his dreams. After all, it was the mayor who gave him access to the police archives where he and Agnes discovered the surveillance document. Perhaps the mayor could be convinced of wiretapping the phones, and they could be caught in the act. But in the act of what? After all, it wasn’t a crime to have a dream.
Chapter 39
“Moshe, all I have to say is thank god you hired that poor homeless man, otherwise it would be your burial we would be going to,” Leah said from the passenger seat.
“Leah, please, we are going to Jack’s funeral. He’s dead because of me,” Moshe said, as he turned into the Saint Raymond’s Cemetery entrance.
He looked into the rearview mirror and saw Arnold’s car following him in. The ceremony would be a small gathering of Moshe, Leah, Arnold and Agnes. Moshe arranged and paid for the burial, as well as for a priest to say a few words.
“It’s the least I can do,” Moshe added. “Show some respect.”
After Jack McCoy was buried, Moshe walked with Arnold back to the cars while Leah and Agnes chatted a few feet behind them.
“I read in the paper about Myron running for mayor. Does he have a shot?” Moshe asked.
“Actually, the polls show him ahead by a few points,” Arnold said.
Moshe shook his head. “I don’t get it. What do people see in him?”
“You have a biased opinion. He did try to kill you,” Arnold said, with a sarcastic smile.
“They’ve tried twice now, and you know what they say, third time is the charm.”
“I’ve spoken to the mayor about getting you police protection, but he thinks it wouldn’t look good politically. You know, since he’s running against Myron.”
“Seriously, Arnold? Leah is already a nervous wreck as it is,” Moshe said.
“I know, Moshe. But it seems that Myron and Solomon have this impenetrable ring of protection around them, and now with Mickey involved, everything becomes more problematic.”
“Arnold, when we first met you recruited me to fight a rasha. Since then I picked up a few enemies along the way, not to mention the attempts on my life.”
“I know, Moshe, and I’m sorry things have gotten out of control. But we must find a way to stop them. With Solomon’s foresight and Mickey’s muscle in the hands of Myron as mayor, our city is doomed.”
“So what do we do, Arnold? Move to Florida? Actually, Leah would like that,” Moshe added, with a chuckle.
“I wish it was so easy. But there is no running away from this evil. It will grow larger if we don’t find a way to stop it now. Think of your children, Moshe, and your grandchildren.”
Moshe nodded. “I understand, but no matter what you say, I have no special po
wers. I’m a cobbler with a gift of touch that helps people upon their passing.”
“Then why are people trying to kill you, Moshe?”
Moshe nodded slowly and said, “Good question, Arnold.”
Chapter 40
Myron sat on a long sofa in between two of Mickey’s top lieutenants, Sal and Vinnie, watching the humiliating dressing down of Joey Catalano. Myron had just learned that Joey was the idiot who shot Jack McCoy, thinking he was Moshe the Cobbler.
Myron was able to commiserate with Joey’s blunder. After all, he too had missed the same target back in Safed, and shot the rabbi by mistake, instead of the cobbler. But Joey’s fate was apparently not going to have the same outcome as his.
Joey sat in a wooden chair, his arms bound behind his back, and looked up to Mickey who was pacing the floor around him.
“Tell me again what happened,” Mickey barked at Joey.
Beads of sweat rolled off Joey’s forehead, even though Myron felt a chill in the room.
“Um, I don’t know, boss. I walked into the shop, and there he was, working on shoes in the back. How am I supposed to know he was the wrong cobbler?” Joey said.
“You’re a fucking idiot. You ask the man, are you Moshe the Cobbler?” Myron said.
“Oh, yea, right. I-I-I guess I could have,” Joey stuttered nervously.
Mickey turned to the men sitting on the sofa. “Sal, you and Vinnie get rid of this fucking moron. I’m done with him.”
Sal and Vinnie stood up, grabbed Joey by his arms, his hands still tied, and escorted him out of the office.
“Please, Mickey, have some mercy. I have two small children, and a wife,” Joey pleaded.
“Shut him up, I don’t want people hearing him barking in the neighborhood,” Mickey said, closing the door as they left.
Myron squirmed nervously on the sofa. He gathered enough nerve to ask, “What’s going to happen to him?”
“Don’t worry about it, Myron. Now let’s talk about the campaign. How are things going?”
“Pretty well, but can you tell me why you tried to kill Moshe? You know the police will suspect me.”
“They can try. There were no witnesses, no proof. Plus you have an alibi,” Mickey said, lighting up a cigar.
Myron tried to remember where he was that afternoon when Joey shot Jack McCoy. Then he pointed at Mickey and said, “I was campaigning in Queens.”
“That’s right, and there were plenty of the news media covering you.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Myron said.
“So stop worrying.”
“But can you at least tell me why, Mickey?”
“Why do I want Moshe dead?”
Myron nodded.
“I’m trying to tie up your loose ends. If you’re going to be mayor we can’t have these old problems, whatever they may be, hanging over your head.”
“I don’t think Moshe the Cobbler is a loose end.”
“Then why did you try to kill him in Israel?” Mickey asked.
Myron paused a moment before answering. He certainly couldn’t tell him that his father thought Moshe to be this so-called tzaddik and a threat to his life. Instead he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t know. I guess it was poor judgment.”
“Poor judgment? I doubt that. Whatever the reason was, Myron, and you don’t have to tell me why you wanted the cobbler dead, just know that you have options,” Mickey said with a satisfied smirk.
Myron wondered if Mickey was going to kill Joey, or if it was just a farce in order to intimidate him. Whatever it was, he was finally able to exhale and relax once he was back in his car and heading to his campaign office.
When he walked in his assistant told him that his father was waiting for him inside. Myron opened the door and greeted his father.
“Ah, you’re finally here,” Solomon said.
“Sorry, Pops, I was with Mickey.”
Solomon lifted his body out of the chair and looked out through the glass wall of Myron’s office onto the campaign staff milling about. This was the first time Solomon visited his son’s new Myron for Mayor campaign office in midtown Manhattan.
Myron had been operating out of this location for several weeks and wanted his dad to see the impressive operation. But the news that Myron shared obviously disturbed Solomon. Furrowing his forehead and rubbing the back of his neck, he asked, “Did he say why he tried to kill the cobbler?”
“He said something about tying up my loose ends.”
“No, he mustn’t touch him,” Solomon insisted wagging a finger.
Myron turned to face his dad. “Why, Pops?”
“I’ve been having this recurring visitor in my dreams lately. He says his name is Gray,” Solomon said.
“Who is Gray?” Myron asked, sitting on the front edge of his desk.
“He’s a messenger, sent from the tzaddik.”
“Moshe is sending a messenger called Gray in your dreams?” Myron asked.
Solomon looked up and nodded. Myron noticed his father’s hands shaking; he gripped his thighs, trying to control them. Myron had never seen Solomon this frightened before.
“In my dream, I was young, maybe twelve years old and living in the Great Synagogue of Warsaw. I was standing alone in the dark sanctuary where a few flickering candles offered a bit of light in the cavernous space. Then he appeared from nothingness. His shape formed before my eyes. It was Gray, and he was as clear as you are standing before me now. I reached out touched his arm, like I’m touching yours.”
Myron clasped his father’s hand and said, “Pops, it’s okay.”
“I looked into his eyes and saw a horizon, miles away. He was drawing me into it and I felt helpless. Do not harm the tzaddik,” he said.
I asked Gray, “Why do you protect him?”
“He is the hand of Hashem.”
“I don’t need to listen to you. You can’t do anything to me.”
“I saw Gray fade into smoke that swirled and evaporated into the cavernous ceiling of the sanctuary. His voice faded with these words, ‘You have been warned, Solomon’.”
Solomon broke eye contact with Myron and looked away.
“Pops, are you all right? Let me take you home.”
Solomon stood up and grabbed Myron by the shoulders. “Promise that no harm will come to the cobbler, Myron.”
Myron pulled his father in and hugged him and whispered into his ear, “I promise, Pops.”
“And make sure you tell that ganef, Mickey, not to touch him.”
“I will, Pops, I will.”
“Good, now take me home.”
Myron sat alone in the back seat as Benjamin drove him home after dropping off Solomon. Now that his father was so out of sorts, what if his dreams, which were the most reliable source of information he knew of, were becoming unreliable? This was not what he was hoping for. If he was elected mayor, having his father’s foresight would allow him to wield power like never before. Where would he be without it?
In the meantime, he promised his father not to harm the cobbler, but he had no control over Mickey. Maybe with voting only weeks away he could at least convince the mob boss that they should deal with the cobbler after election day.
Chapter 41
Arnold stood at the podium and looked out upon the full house. The only other time his theater had been filled to capacity was during the premiere of The Ten Commandments four years earlier when the actor John Derek, who played Joshua in the film, made a live in-person appearance as part of a nationwide promotional campaign.
But tonight’s event was not a movie premiere, it was a campaign rally for the reelection bid of Nathan Douglas for Mayor of New York City. Arnold caught the attention of the band leader to bring the music to a close and began his introductions.
As the crowd took their seats Arnold scanned the dignitaries in the first row. Sitting alongside the Police Commissioner was the former mayor, several City Council members from other districts, and Moshe the Cobbler.
&n
bsp; Arnold smiled when he made eye contact with the cobbler. Moshe offered a thumbs up, and a warm smile in return.
Arnold’s eyes then caught sight of two men sitting directly behind Moshe. It was Myron and Solomon Blass. I should have known they would be here, he thought, as a fresh wave of nervousness churned his stomach.
Arnold looked offstage and saw the mayor looking poised while waiting for his introduction.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Arnold Lieberman, City Councilman for the Sixteenth District,” Arnold began, to a spattering of polite applause.
After introducing a few of the minor politicians in attendance, Arnold began his speech about the mayor.
“I have known my friend Nathan Douglas for over twenty years. He began his political career as a Councilman in Manhattan’s Fourth District. In the past three and a half years as mayor of our city, we have seen a resurgence in the city’s economic growth unlike any of his predecessors before him. Under his administration, crime is at an all-time low and he has provided the leadership in raising the educational standards in our public school system.
“Yet, there are still many challenges still facing us. That is why we need to reelect Nathan Douglas for another term. We’ve heard plenty of bluster and lies from the challenger Myron Blass, who by the way, is sitting in the second row, ladies and gentlemen,” Arnold said, pointing.
Myron turned his head around at the audience who were casting hateful glares. Arnold smirked at his spontaneous humiliation of the opponent.
“This man murdered a friend of mine, right before my eyes, yet here he sits a free man, challenging the most honorable man I know, Nathan Douglas. We must make sure that we work hard to reelect the man with more integrity on his little finger then this crook, Myron Blass,” Arnold said with an outstretched arm, wagging a pointed finger at Myron.
Myron stood up to a cacophony of boos and hisses. He leaned over and helped his father stand, and they made their way up the center aisle. Solomon, with his cane, followed behind his son.
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