Palisades Park

by Alan Brennert

  This farewell party had become something of an annual tradition over the past four years, and Adele always looked forward to it; but tonight it just made her sad. She was going to miss these people, this place, for the next seven months. Increasingly it began to feel to her like these five months at Palisades were the only truly exciting part of her life. Toni and Jack were fast asleep at their grandparents’ house so their parents could stay as long as they liked, but after jitterbugging to Duke Ellington’s “It Don’t Mean a Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing),” Adele said she was tired and wanted to go home. They made their goodbyes to everyone, and were long gone by the time the party broke up in the wee hours of the morning, when the rumba contest finally ended in a draw, Minette Dobson among the winners.

  In the parking lot, Adele blurted, “Eddie—can I take dance lessons?”

  He looked at her in mild surprise. “You were doing just fine on the dance floor tonight.”

  “I mean professional dancing. You remember the Swift Sisters, from vaudeville? They’ve got a dance studio here in Cliffside Park. I thought I might take a few lessons—they say it helps an actor achieve grace and poise. Our bodies are our instruments, we need to keep them in tune.”

  Eddie had to smile at that. “How much do these lessons cost?”

  “Five dollars a week.”

  “Well, I think we can swing that,” he said. “Sure, why not?”

  Adele smiled and gave him a kiss. She was careful not to let it show, but there was a big brass band in her soul, striking up a show tune.

  * * *

  Toni and Jack returned to school the following week, and one of the subjects that would be greatly discussed in the coming school year was the upcoming World’s Fair in New York. There were already articles trumpeting its April opening in newspapers and magazines, and one of Miss Kaplan’s assignments for Jack’s first-grade class was to draw a picture of the fair’s “theme center,” the Trylon and Perisphere. The Perisphere was a white globe sitting next to a tall white obelisk reminiscent of the Washington Monument. This was, Miss Kaplan reasoned, a good opportunity for the first graders to learn the use of the compass (to draw the Perisphere) and the ruler (for the Trylon). Jack took the assignment very seriously, studying the newspaper pictures carefully, practicing with the compass to make a perfect circle.

  When he came home that day, Jack proudly showed his artwork to his father. “Daddy, Miss Kaplan says we’re gonna make a booklet about the fair and she’ll use my picture for the cover!” he told him breathlessly.

  Eddie looked at the drawing. He could see why Jack’s teacher had singled it out: it had been drawn with a steady hand, no wobbles in the circumference of the sphere, and a little shading gave a real sense of solidity to the structures. “Where’d you learn to draw like this, pal?” Eddie asked.

  “From reading the comic strips in the paper,” Jack replied. “’Specially Terry and the Pirates and Flash Gordon. I copied ’em over and over.”

  His grandmother, Rose, would have been proud. Eddie felt a twinge of guilt that she wasn’t here to see this, and a twinge of envy that he had never had a talent like this to display when he was a boy. He felt, in fact, a whole welter of emotions—but there was only one he intended to show his son. He’d be damned if he would do to Jack what Sergei had done to him.

  “That’s terrific, buddy,” he said with a big grin. “You’ve got real talent. Maybe someday you’ll have a comic strip of your own in the paper, huh?”

  Jack beamed at that. “You think so?”

  “Why not?” Eddie said. “You can be anything you want to be, Jack. And anything you want to be is okay by me.”

  6

  Edgewater, New Jersey, 1941

  EVENINGS AT THE STOPKA HOME, as in most homes in America, revolved around the welcoming voice of the radio—a tall, mahogany-veneer Philco console, standing solemn as a church organ in the corner, the family gathered round in secular congregation. On weekdays services began at 5:00 P.M., when Toni and Jack rushed inside to hear “Uncle Don” Carney spin stories of inimitable characters like Susan Baduzen and Willipus Wallipus (both Sr. and Jr.) on Newark’s WOR. Sundays at 5:30 P.M., Jack never missed an episode of that mysterious avenger of the airwaves, The Shadow; then after supper, the Stopkas all tuned in to The Jack Benny Show. Monday evenings brought Adele’s favorites, vaudevillians Burns & Allen; Eddie enjoyed the new swing music of Glenn Miller on his three-day-a-week program; while Toni and Jack faithfully followed the Adventures of Superman on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, as well as those of an aviator of another sort, Captain Midnight. And as the family sat there in the living room—Adele working on the household budget as Jack and Toni read comic books and Glenn Miller’s saxophone announced the stops of the “Chattanooga Choo-Choo”—Eddie thought of another train, of distant lights in passing homes, and it warmed him to know that one of those lights was now his, and his days of sleeping in side-door Pullmans were behind him.

  But along with music, laughter, and adventure, the radio also carried the voices of newsmen like Edward R. Murrow and Gabriel Heatter, delivering grim bulletins as the lengthening shadow over Europe claimed one country after another: Czechoslovakia, Poland, Holland, Belgium, Norway, France, Hungary, Romania. Radio brought the whistle of German bombs above England, and their fatal concussion, straight into Eddie’s living room. This presentiment of war could even be seen on the gaudy covers of his children’s comic books, on which the red, white, and blue figure of Captain America slugged it out with Adolf Hitler, while the Human Torch and Sub-Mariner enthusiastically burned and sank Japanese submarines. America may not have been in this war yet, but its four-color heroes clearly already were.

  Despite the cozy assurances by President Roosevelt in his “fireside chats” that the United States would remain neutral, defense spending ramped up, and in September of 1940, FDR instituted the nation’s first peacetime draft. Like every other man in the country between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, Eddie had to register with the Selective Service. Inductees were chosen by lottery and so far, luckily, Eddie’s number had not come up. Even if it did, as a father of two he was likely to get a deferment. Palisades Park had already lost its first employee to the military: Joe Gans, of the office staff, had been drafted even before the park opened for the 1941 season. The same people whose livings were often made on the spin of a wheel of fortune now found those livelihoods, and lives, determined by a similar game of chance. And there was nothing to be done about it but go about the business of daily life as if there were a future in it.

  Certainly that was true for Johnny “Duke” DeNoia, who surprised many of his onetime associates by opening his own business—not at Palisades, but about as close to it as he could get. Johnny had become the proprietor of Duke’s Clam Bar, a restaurant specializing in fine Italian cuisine and fresh seafood; Dick Bennett, with his nightclub experience, also had a hand in the operation. Fittingly, Duke’s was located at 783 Palisade Avenue, directly opposite the main entrance to Palisades Amusement Park. It was hardly the only restaurant on that block: right next door was the 785 Club, a restaurant and cocktail bar that advertised a complete meal and dinner show for three bucks a head. Other close neighbors were the Palisades Bar & Restaurant and the popular Joe’s Restaurant, aka Joe’s Elbow Room. Duke’s exterior wasn’t very prepossessing—just a drab redbrick facade—and Eddie was skeptical that it would be able to compete shoulder-to-shoulder with three more established eateries.

  But inside it was luxuriously appointed in Italian Provincial, with red leather booths lining the left-hand side of the restaurant and a long, well-stocked bar on the right. And the food was excellent: clams casino, veal marsala, shrimp linguine, and spaghetti and meatballs that would have done credit to Duke’s old favorite, Tarantino’s. Duke’s Clam Bar—later known simply as Duke’s Restaurant—quickly became a thriving business.

  Eddie’s first visit was a lunch in the company of Bunty Hill, both working an off-season construction jo
b in Fort Lee. As they walked into Duke’s—eyes adjusting to the subdued lighting as if they were divers descending into a grotto—they were greeted by a smiling Dick Bennett: “Two for lunch, gentlemen? Frankly you look like a pair of unsavory characters to me, but if you grease my palm sufficiently I may be able to find you a seat.”

  Bunty dug into his pocket and planted a dime in Dick’s hand. “Here you go, my boy, show us to your best table.”

  “You amusement people are cheap sons of bitches, aren’t you?” Dick said. They laughed as he escorted them to a very nice, secluded booth in the corner—en route pausing to say hello to Chief Borrell, sitting at another booth and tucking into a plate of manicotti in a rich tomato cream sauce.

  Eddie and Bunty ordered lasagna and a steak, respectively, and two beers that came in tall, slender, conical glasses with a large head of foam, European style. Eddie excused himself to go to the men’s room, heading to the rear of the bar and a big steel door along the back wall. But a heavyset guy in a sharp suit slid off a barstool like a lizard off a rock, positioned himself between Eddie and the door, and said, “The john’s over there, pal,” helpfully pointing out the men’s room, a little farther down.

  “Oh. Sure. Thanks.”

  When Eddie returned to the booth, Bunty, nursing his beer, said quietly, “Take a look across the room. But make it casual, okay? Third booth on the left. And keep your voice low.”

  Eddie followed Bunty’s gaze and saw two men in business suits, neither of whom made any particular impression on him.

  “Yeah?” he said, drawing a blank. “So what? Who are they?”

  Bunty said in that soft tone of his, “Shame on you, Eddie—I thought you were a man who liked to read his newspapers. You don’t recognize the infamous Moretti brothers—Salvatore and Willie?”

  The second name sounded a faint alarm in Eddie’s memory. “Willie Moretti … isn’t he the guy—”

  “Voice low. 1931. He was booked for the murder of a stoolie named William Brady. Somehow the charges never stuck, even though before he died Brady ID’d Moretti as one of the men who gunned him down.”

  “Jesus. He doesn’t look like much.”

  “He could kill you with a spoon. And if that’s not enough to make you piss your pants, check out the booth next to him.”

  Eddie followed his gaze and saw a beefy but bland-looking man, also in his forties, chatting with Dick Bennett, who had stopped by his table.

  “Tommy Lucchese,” Bunty said. “Underboss of the Gagliano crime family. He’s supposed to be in charge of the family’s interests in Jersey.”

  Eddie noted, “He and Dick are sure jawboning like old friends.”

  “No shit. Dick’s a bookmaker, didn’t you know that?”

  “No. But I knew he liked the ponies.” Eddie glanced over at Chief Borrell, calmly eating his manicotti while sitting ten feet away from three of the most notorious mobsters in New Jersey. “What the hell is the Chief doing here? He doesn’t seem bothered by the company he’s keeping.”

  Bunty snorted. “Borrell’s bought and paid for. He might as well still have a price tag on him.”

  Eddie felt disappointed, and embarrassed that he hadn’t figured this out for himself.

  Bunty took a bite of steak, chewing before speaking. “The food here’s good—this is an excellent cut of beef,” he said finally. “But I think, in the long view, eating here could be bad for your health.”

  They talked baseball for the rest of their meal, but when they asked for their check they received instead a visit from the proprietor himself, Johnny Duke. “Hey, Ten Foot,” he said warmly, “good to see you. Bunty, how’s the pool? You gettin’ any pussy?”

  “I get my share,” Bunty said with a smile.

  “He gets my share too,” Eddie said, “me being married.”

  “Hey, that’s never stopped me,” Duke said. “Listen, lunch is on the house, okay? I just want to ask one favor of my pal Bunty here.”

  Eddie felt a chill. Bunty didn’t show any of the distress he must have been feeling, just asked, “Sure, what is it?”

  Duke leaned in and said, “Send me over some of your leftover pussy—for old times’ sake.” He laughed, slapping Bunty on the back, and Bunty and Eddie laughed, with some relief, along with him.

  They could not get out of the restaurant fast enough for Eddie. Once they were in his car, he keyed the ignition and turned onto Palisade Avenue.

  “I feel like such a goddamn idiot,” Eddie said. “Here I thought the Chief was such a nice guy.”

  “He is, mostly. Hell, I met Albert Anastasia once—seemed like the nicest fella you could ever meet. He didn’t have a business card that read ‘Murder, Incorporated.’ These mooks are all charming as hell—right up until they stick a muzzle in your mouth and provide you with some nice air-conditioning in your head.”

  Eddie winced. “So who else at the park is with the mob?”

  “I hear Borrell’s cousin Patsy, who runs the miniature golf game, rents offices to some bookie, but that’s all I know of. Palisades is a pretty clean operation. Borrell got his concessions as payment for services done, but nothing shady, just helping out with traffic, zoning laws, stuff like that.”

  “And Borrell brought in Bennett.” Eddie’s jaw clenched at the thought. “I played on that guy’s baseball team, for Chrissake.”

  “And you will again,” Bunty said pointedly. “You don’t want to be his pal, Eddie, but I wouldn’t give him the cold shoulder, either. Guys like him are a fact of life around here—but you can be friendly around ’em without being friends. That’s where Borrell crossed the line … if he even knew the line existed in the first place.

  “Me, I’d rather just eat a good honest hot dog at Hiram’s,” Bunty declared, “than go back to that cozy little establishment.”

  * * *

  In early May the park opened to good business, announced by the dazzle of new searchlights positioned on the edge of the cliffs: crisscrossing beams of light raking the clouds, their reflections casting a series of shifting, luminous ripples, like a moire pattern, on the surface of the Hudson River.

  But there was a far different light show being presented in the skies above London, as word came that on May 10, the latest Nazi bombing raid had reduced Parliament’s House of Commons to a pile of rubble.

  On June 20, “Uncle Don” Carney began twice-weekly broadcasts of his radio show from Palisades, urging his listeners (among them Toni and Jack, thrilled to be in his audience at the park) to sing along to his theme song:

  Hibbity gits, hot-sah ring bo ree! Skibonia skippity hi lo dee!

  Hony ko doatz with an ala ka zon! Sing this song with your Uncle Don!

  Two days later, on June 22, Nazi Germany treacherously broke its nonaggression treaty with Russia and invaded the Soviet Union.

  Public relations stunts staged by the always-inventive Bert Nevins included a beauty contest devoted to women who wore glasses (covered by all the newsreels) and a Diaper Derby that saw batteries of babies racing (well, crawling, anyway) to be the first to cross the finish line.

  And on August 26, in Madison Square Garden, Palisades’ own Gus Lesnevich battled Tami Mauriello to win the title of World Light Heavyweight Champion. There to cheer him on was his new wife, nineteen-year-old Georgiana Frances Dobson, whom he had wed on June 8.

  It was disquieting to Eddie, this jarring contrast between the bright, cheery atmosphere inside Palisades and the slowly darkening world outside it. As calliope music played and diapered babies crawled in derbies, bombs fell on the other side of the world, which no longer seemed so comfortably distant.

  For ten-year-old Toni, though, the war in Europe was about as real as that invasion from Mars on the radio a few years ago. The only thing that mattered was that it was summer and she was at Palisades and back at the pool she loved. Even more thrillingly—as August brought Gus Lesnevich a world championship, it would also bring Toni her own champion.

  * * *

  Adele w
as feeling pretty chipper these days herself. After her talk with Eddie in the parking lot, the next day she enrolled in the Swift Sisters School of Dance in Cliffside Park. Helen and Mae Swift had been dancers in vaudeville, often sharing a bill with Ginger Rogers (whom Helen resembled a bit), Burns & Allen, and Milton Berle. They retired and opened their dance studio in 1931, teaching “Toe, Tap, and Acrobatic” dancing.

  Adele knew she was a little old to be studying dance, but all she aspired to learn was some tap dancing and a good soft shoe, something that might land her a part in one of Minette’s shows. It took a year of lessons before Adele was brave enough to try out for her, and she was surprised to discover how thrilling it was, just going out on an audition again. Slipping into her black dance leotard and stockings, she was pleased, when she surveyed herself in the mirror, at the way they accentuated her curves—hell, pleased that the curves were still there. She took the train into Manhattan, her heart pumping as she entered the theater on Forty-second Street. She stripped off her outer clothing and stood waiting in the wings with other girls—most of whom, she noted grimly, were truly girls, and not an old lady of thirty.

  Minette sat in the audience with the show’s producer as Adele, nearly dizzy with fear and exhilaration, went on. Somehow she managed to get through her tap routine without incident, though not without discomfort: dancing in high heels was murder on your feet. She was no Ginger Rogers, she knew, but she didn’t miss a beat either, and if her movements weren’t quite as fluid and assured as some of the other dancers, at the end she was pleased that she’d managed to acquit herself honorably and not embarrass Minette—whose parting smile at her seemed warm and genuine.