Redemption Street

by Reed Farrel Coleman

“Sally knows. Don’t you, Sally?”

  Even before Sam finished his question, Sally the barmaid was reaching under the counter. The bottle she placed on the bar was an exquisite cut-glass decanter. For effect she let the deep-amber liquid inside settle before pouring two snifter-fulls.

  Sam winked. “You like cognac?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “This,” he said, raising his glass as I raised mine, “is more than okay, totty. L’chaim!”

  He was right. It was more than okay. As with the car and the cigar, Sam had a taste for the finer things in life, very fine things.

  “Mr. Roth tells me you were big once.”

  I thought I was paying him a compliment, but the cut-glass cognac turned to battery acid in his mouth.

  “He did, Mr. Roth? I was big, but in a small way. Lenny Bruce with the foul mouth, he was a big hero for free speech. Pity poor Lenny, the tragic, drug-crazed genius. Some genius, phooey! Didn’t you know the great hero of the ACLU worked up here, telling the same stupid dirty jokes Cro-Magnon man told? Redd Foxx had the filthiest mouth I ever heard. He made me blush. He got a TV show and as many weeks in Vegas as he wanted. Me, I got the Swan Song. That sound big to you?”

  “Depends, I guess.”

  “On what?” he hissed, beckoning Sally for a second glass. “If you’re comparing me with some nebish from Minsk-Pinsk, then I was big.”

  “Sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to bring up a bad subject.”

  “You’re forgiven. Now have another drink.”

  It wasn’t presented as an option.

  There was a premeditated shift in subject away from Sam Gutterman’s past career. We talked a little about my years on the job in Coney Island. He asked me if it was tough being a Jewish cop. I told him I never really thought about it. I wasn’t born to it like the Irish, but it had its moments. We talked about Katy and Sarah, I showed him their pictures. He thought Sarah was beautiful—”Thank God, she looks like your wife!”—and made lustful remarks about Katy. I would have expected nothing less. I told him about the wine shop, about Aaron.

  “What, no doctors or lawyers? Your mother must be spinning.”

  “My sister Miriam’s married to a doctor.”

  “Good, now I’m sure you’re a real Jew. First, with the police work, I was beginning to have my doubts.”

  Eventually, we got around to talking about Arthur Rosen and my amorphous quest in the Catskill Mountains. I wondered if Sam remembered either Karen or Andrea.

  “Not really, sorry,” he apologized, not bothering to wait for Sally to pour himself another cognac. “I worked up here for so many years, saw so many girls pass through the hotels I worked at, I wouldn’t remember them. If I knew they were going to die, maybe I would have made an effort to remember.”

  I accepted his apology on behalf of the Rosen and Cotter families and suggested we get back to the Swan Song. I was tired and a little light-headed, because of the cigar more than the brandy. Sam was amenable. He even paid the bill and the tip, a rather too generous tip at that. But, hey, like I said, who was I to judge what a man, especially an old man, did with his money?

  “Nice tip,” I said as we walked back to his Caddy.

  “Yeah, she used to work for me, Sally, when she was a kid. She—” He cut himself off. “She’s just a nice girl.”

  I took his word for it. We weren’t two blocks away from Hanrahan’s when I felt myself drifting into sleep. Maybe it was Louis Prima’s lullaby, but the sleep was an unpleasant one. Something was nagging me, something I couldn’t put my finger on. No big deal, I thought, wishing Sam good night. I figured to go straight upstairs and let the nagging begin again. But without Louis Prima to rock me to bed, sleep came peacefully.

  Chapter Nine

  December 1st

  Though it sounded like an air-raid siren, I knew it was only the phone, and, having once dropped the receiver on my forehead, I was very careful to get a firm grip before bringing it to my ear.

  “Yeah.”

  It was Katy. “Moe, my dad’s in the hospital.” Talk about a surge of mixed emotions. But in spite of a strong desire to click my heels, I knew I had to be sympathetic for Katy’s sake. Regardless of how I felt or what I knew, Katy loved her father very much. If anything, circumstances had brought them closer together.

  “Okay, okay, what’s wrong?”

  “They think he had a stroke, but they’re not sure yet.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In intensive—”

  “No, kiddo, what hospital?”

  “Mary Immaculate Medical Center.”

  “Where are you?” I wondered, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep.

  “Home.”

  “All right. Ask Cindy or Miriam to watch Sarah. I’ll head straight to the hospital from here and meet you there later. Take your time driving up. I’ll look after your mom until you get there, understand? We don’t want to get anybody else hurt.”

  “I understand. I …” She began sobbing.

  “Okay, I love you. Everything will be fine. Somehow I don’t see a little thing like a stroke doing your dad in. He’s too fucking stubborn for that.”

  That stopped her crying, at least for the moment. “What about your case?”

  “What about it? Family comes first. I love you. Remember, take your time.”

  I threw my clothes together, made myself as presentable as I could in five minutes, and set out to find Sam, Mr. Roth, and a pot of bad coffee. For once I got lucky and found all three in the dining room. I went for the coffee first. Sam invited himself to sit down at my table. I noticed Mr. Roth standing to come over, but when he spotted Sam he changed his mind.

  “I had fun last night. We gotta do it again before you go,” Sam said, patting me on the shoulder.

  “Listen, Sam, I’ve got to leave for a few days. My father-in-law had a stroke.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Don’t be. It couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow. I’m just worried about my wife and my mother-in-law.”

  “I wouldn’t wanna be on your shit list, bubeleh.”

  “You’d have to work pretty hard to take his spot on that list. He’s a real piece of work.”

  “I can tell by the tone of your voice and the fact that you’re drinking my coffee without gagging. Can I do anything?”

  “Thanks, Sam. Do you think I could get my room back when things settle down?”

  “The old farts are going back to Boca in two days. Don’t worry, you’ll have your pick of rooms. Take care of yourself.” The old comic stood up to go. “And don’t sweat your bill. We’ll have time to settle our accounts when you come back.”

  As soon as Sam left, Mr. Roth appeared.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Moe. Is something wrong? You look a little out of kilter. Did Sam say something to—”

  “No, Mr. Roth, it’s got nothing to do with Sam.”

  I explained again about my father-in-law. He, like Sam before him, was taken aback by the strength of my distaste for Francis Maloney Sr. It was simply that I had to keep a lid on my feelings around Katy and the family. I guess, when I got the opportunity to express the way I truly felt, I just sort of boiled over. But something was bothering Mr. Roth beyond my lack of enthusiasm for my father-in-law’s recovery.

  “When are you gonna be back?” he wondered.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m leaving in two days. I’m fond of you, Mr. Moe,” he confessed. “I would hate to not see you before I leave.”

  “I like you, too, Mr. Roth, very much. You remind me of my dad, only without the baggage.”

  He smiled, but rather sadly. “We all got baggage. You just haven’t lifted mine. You’ve been toting your dad’s around so long, you don’t realize it’s probably not as heavy as you think.”

  Mr. Roth was right, of course. I promised to try and get back before he left, if only to say goodbye. He liked that, but he had an expression on his face I recognized from before.
The day he had knocked on my car window with his cane he had worn such a face. There was something he wanted to tell me, but he needed me to prompt him. If things were different, I might’ve spent the time playing twenty questions. If, if, if … A man, even a man in his thirties, could choke on all the ifs in his life. I wished Mr. Roth a safe trip home if we missed one another. There was that word again. Whoever Sam had work on the hood of my car was wasting his talents as a cook or porter. No sign remained of the impromptu campfire, and the flat black that covered the area was painted on far more skillfully than I’d managed. I’d have to lay a big tip on him when I got back.

  Why did it always have to snow on travel day? Just when I hit the highway, the white stuff started falling in a thick, blinding sheet. But snow must have been in the forecast, because half the Department of Transportation fleet was already plowing and sanding. I tucked myself in among a squadron of their yellow-and-blue trucks and let them escort me halfway to the hospital. I worried that Katy would not have the same good fortune and that her ride was likely to be more dangerous.

  Mary Immaculate was a busy medical center that had grown up around an old maternity hospital. Its architecture suffered from a lack of planning and too many hands in the pot. As the county grew, so had Mary Immaculate. It sort of looked like a designer showcase of the ugliest possible contrasting architecture. I’m almost certain one section of the place was designed by the guy who was responsible for the Old Rotterdam Town Hall.

  My mother-in-law was pacing a furrow in the green linoleum of the smoking lounge. She fell somewhat awkwardly into my arms, her lit cigarette breaking in half against my shoulder and tumbling to the floor. She wasn’t really crying, and she wasn’t really not crying. I can’t do justice to the sound she was making. There was something feral about it, something that harkened back to the cave. It was equal parts anger and grief. Katy had lost two brothers, but her morn had lost two sons, one, at least, forever. I couldn’t conceive of what she was feeling at the prospect of losing her husband.

  “Moe, I … I …” She kept trying to speak.

  “It’s okay, Ma. I’m here, and Katy will be here soon. We’ll make sure everything’s taken care of. Tell me what happened.”

  We walked down to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee that neither of us drank.

  Apparently, Francis had been having his usual glass of whiskey in the living room, watching the tube. “I thought I heard something fall,” my mother-in-law explained. “I came running in, ready to rip Francis’ head off for getting whiskey on the carpet. But when I came in, the glass was on the floor and Francis was struggling to get up out of his recliner. He was trying to say something, but … no words, he had no words. Then he collapsed and I couldn’t wake him.”

  The doctors were running tests, she said, but they were pretty certain it was a stroke of some kind. I concurred, for all my opinion was worth. I tried telling her consoling stories of relatives who weren’t half as stubborn or tough as Francis who’d come through this sort of thing without a hitch. She wasn’t buying, not yet. This was all too new and frightening. She asked me if I would go speak to the doctor for her. I’d understand him better, ask smarter questions.

  “His name is Dr. Cohen, Dr. David Cohen,” my mother-in-law was quick to tell me.

  “Half the kids on my block were named David Cohen, Ma.” I laughed. “But don’t worry, I’ll get the information out of him.”

  Sitting there across from my mother-in-law, I was aware that Arthur Rosen had lately been sitting on my shoulder.

  Although the last week of my life had been about him, I’d been able to push his presence away, to abstract him. I can’t say why I should have been thinking of him at that moment, but I was, and I suddenly had an idea I wanted to try out if and when I got back up to Old Rotterdam.

  Waiting at the nurses’ station outside of ICU, I actually started wondering if I would know Dr. Cohen when he eventually answered his page. I had my answer soon enough. I’d never met the man.

  “You’re the son-in-law,” Cohen said, after a perfunctory shake of my hand.

  “Among other things, yes. I’m the son-in-law.”

  He wasn’t in the mood for witty repartee and buried his face in the steel-jacketed chart.

  “Your father-in-law’s had a mild stroke. He’s now fully conscious, and we’re moving him out of ICU as soon as we can clear a bed for him on the floor. Will there be anything else?”

  “How long has it been?” I asked.

  That confused him. “How long has it been since what?”

  “Since you had your bedside manner removed. Was it a painful operation?”

  “Look, Mr…. Mr. Prager, I’m a—”

  “No, Doc, you look. I’m not in the mood for the ‘I’m a busy man’ speech you use on the goyim. I don’t view doctors named Cohen as the Second Coming, understand? So now take a minute and explain what you mean by a mild stroke. What’s his prognosis? Will there be any lingering effects? You know, minor stuff like that, that the family really wants to know but is too afraid to ask.”

  Dr. Cohen was not used to being addressed in such a manner and almost told me so before thinking it through. Though I never once raised my voice, he got that I was dead serious and was apt to make his life unpleasant if he wasn’t forthcoming. So His Majesty deigned to give me five minutes of his time.

  There wasn’t that much to tell, really. He called what my father-in-law suffered a TIA, a transient ischemic attack. The brain scan didn’t show any major damage. He would suffer some temporary weakness on his right side and aphasia, a loss of speech. Eventually, his strength and speech would return. Most of the time, he assured me, patients who suffered TIAs didn’t even require therapy. I thanked him and apologized. He didn’t exactly kiss me on the lips, but he seemed relieved to be done with me.

  I relayed this information to my mother-in-law and explained that Dr. Cohen would probably be more cooperative in the future. She didn’t ask why. Maybe she assumed Dr. Cohen and I had exchanged secret tribal handshakes. I told her to go home and get some sleep, that we didn’t need her ending up in the hospital, too. She didn’t argue the point. She was exhausted, but hadn’t realized just how exhausted until she heard the positive prognosis. I promised to keep her informed if anything changed, and that either Katy or I would come pick her up later so she could visit Francis.

  She gave me a strong Italian hug and held my face between her palms. “You’re a good man, Moses, a good son-in-law. We’re lucky to have you.”

  I was pretty certain her husband would have a dissenting opinion, but her love and approval were important to me. “Thanks, Ma. Now get outta here. Go!” I gave her a twenty to more than cover the five-minute ride back to her house. “There’s a cab stand right out front.”

  I half hoped Katy had gotten frustrated by the traffic and snow and turned back home to Brooklyn. Hoping was all I could do. Actually, I knew better. She wouldn’t let anything short of a roadblock stop her, and I guess that’s what worried me. Until she arrived I had nothing better to do than go back to the cafeteria. I left word at the nurses’ station as to where I’d be and asked to be paged when Francis was moved into his room.

  Sitting alone at the orange Formica table, actually sipping my coffee this time, I tried piecing together the last week of my life in a way that made sense. What I concluded was that I’d been more bored with my life than I’d known. It took mad Arthur Rosen to jostle me enough so I could see it. It was like having your leg fall asleep while you’re watching TV. You’re sort of aware it’s asleep, but you don’t feel the pain until you stand up. My life was like that. Arthur Rosen had made me stand up, and when I did I realized more than just my leg was asleep.

  Maybe R. B. Carter’s trying to buy me off had rubbed me the wrong way, and maybe I did feel the slightest bit guilty over how I’d treated Arthur Rosen when he came to beg my help, but when I went looking for Arthur I wasn’t looking to make amends, not really. I was looking for a purpose. If Rosen h
adn’t written my name on his wall and hanged himself, I might still be looking. I doubt he could have talked me into taking the case. What case? Who was I fooling? There was no case, just a disturbed man’s grief and denial. I was making it up as I went along. Arthur’s suicide had provided a cloak of guilt under which I could freely operate. Eventually, I’d have to go back to restocking Pinot Noir, but for now I was flying.

  A pleasant-faced old woman in a candy-striper uniform tapped me on the shoulder. “Mr. Prager … That’s who you are, isn’t it?”

  “The last time I checked.”

  “The ICU nurse asked me to come down and tell you that your father-in-law’s been moved to Room 344.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No thanks necessary, that’s what we’re here for. Now, when you leave the cafeteria, walk past the chapel, turn left, and take the far elevator up to the third floor. Make a left out of the elevator and a left at the lounge, and you’ll be on his hall. I hope everything turns out well.”

  There he was, his thick, short body laid out like a cadaver. Maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. He didn’t realize it was me, and his eyes lit up when I came into the room. The light went out soon enough. It wasn’t pronounced, but the right side of his face drooped like a wax mask that had gotten a little too close to a hot lamp.

  “You had a stroke,” I said, pulling a chair around to face him. “The doctor says you’ll probably have a full recovery. The weakness on your right side will go away, and you should regain your speech. I sent Ma home to get some rest, and Katy’ll be here in a little while.”

  Oddly, I felt myself smiling at him. I don’t know, maybe for the first time since I met him, I was the cat and not the prey. It didn’t last. Droopy face and all, he smiled back. I went out to call my mother-in-law. When I got back he was still giving me the Mona Lisa. I think I was fantasizing about his funeral when he tried speaking.

  “‘atch hout ‘ut ‘ou ‘sh ‘or,” he gurgled, almost laughing. “‘atch hout ‘ut ‘ou ‘sh ‘or.”

  I tugged my ear. “Sounds like … Charades, what fun.”