Little Angel Street (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  Wig stood up on his wire crutches when he noticed Isaac at the door. And it hurt Isaac to watch Wiggy walk, twisting his torso as he stabbed the ground.

  “Wiggy, I’d like to borrow the Purple Gang.”

  “How’s that, bro’?”

  “To finish off Papa Cassidy and Judah Bellow and Jason Figgs.”

  “You’ll leave yourself an orphan.”

  But the Purple Gang couldn’t move on crutches. And Wig had Rita’s boy to raise. Why should he follow Isaac’s whims?

  The king returned to his bedroom. Someone would always be there to manipulate him. He couldn’t preserve a lousy matchbox. The whole planet would diminish with one less Emeric Gray. He had to have a portrait of that matchbox for his own meager eternity. He captured Joel Sidel with his easel and his cans of turpentine and drove him down to Fifty-sixth Street, where he set the easel up across from Emeric Gray.

  “Paint,” Isaac told him. “Paint.”

  “What?” Joel said, angling his beret over one eye.

  “The building, Papa. It’s a masterpiece.”

  “I don’t paint buildings.”

  Joel collapsed his easel and returned to the car.

  The king was forlorn. He drove his father back to Little Angel Street. Joel took off his chapeau and dangled it like a courtier. Suddenly the old man seemed radiant. Isaac couldn’t understand all that bliss until he turned around and discovered a bald lady in his dining room.

  “How are you, Madame Tolstoy?” Joel asked, kissing Margaret’s hand.

  “I was fine,” she said, “until I saw your son’s face.”

  “Isaac’s always like that. Gloomy.”

  The king’s gloom was his own business. He didn’t like the scenario. LeComte would lend out Anastasia and then recall her to the Montagne Noire … or deposit her with another brigand.

  “You can invite Madame Tolstoy to dinner, dad. I’ll warn the cook.”

  Margaret tossed a little blue booklet at Isaac, who recognized the eagle on the cover, with its olive branch in one talon and arrows in the other. He opened the booklet, saw a photo of Margaret without her wig. It was almost magical. LeComte had outfitted Margaret with an American passport. Nothing was phony, and everything was phony, with Frederic LeComte.

  “Margaret,” Isaac asked, like a begging boy, “how long can you stay?”

  “Somewhere between forever and half an hour … don’t ask me questions, Isaac.”

  The king heard a thump. Joel stood behind his easel. “A portrait,” he said.

  “Papa, not now.”

  “I insist. You and the lady.”

  “Isaac,” Margaret said, clutching the king’s arm. “Listen to your father. For once in your life.”

  Joel Sidel was already lost in a world of colors. He didn’t see Isaac or Margaret Tolstoy. He saw swirling plateaus, the shifting planes of a cheek.

  “Papa,” Isaac said.

  The king had a revelation. He was his father’s son, not Frederic’s fucking agent. LeComte couldn’t control him with a little blue booklet. Isaac had his bald bride, and he’d escape with her into some fifth or sixth dimension.

  “Margaret,” he whispered, “I love you.”

  What could she do about her dumb darling? The Devil’s microphones were all over the place. Margaret herself had planted one or two the last time she was at the mansion.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  “Margaret, I love you.”

  She fondled his chin in front of Joel. “Isaac, the walls have ears.”

  “I know.”

  And she kissed her dumb darling on the mouth. Why should it worry her where the Devil lived? She was on Little Angel Street with Isaac Sidel.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Isaac Sidel Novels

  Part One

  1

  It was open season. America was in the middle of a baseball war … and a wildcat strike. The players had their own private czar, J. Michael Storm, who was much more powerful than the commissioner and the presidents of both leagues. He would only talk to one guy. Isaac Sidel, the mayor of New York, had to become a middleman in a war he didn’t want. J. Michael would fly in from Houston, where he had his law firm, but he wouldn’t meet with Isaac at Gracie Mansion. He would ride up to Yankee Stadium with Sidel, sit with him in the owners’ box, look at the deserted playing field and start to crow.

  “Empty houses, Isaac, that’s what I see.”

  “And we’ll all be losers … come on, J. Michael, can’t I go to the owners with a proposition, let’s say a cap of ten million dollars?”

  “No salary cap. It’s a form of slavery.”

  “Slavery at ten million a year? That’s sixty-one thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight dollars and forty fucking cents per game.”

  “Stop throwing numbers. It’s the principle of the thing. I can’t negotiate when the price tag’s been rigged.”

  “Crybaby,” Isaac said. “Didn’t you demand a minimum wage?”

  “That’s different. A boy could crack his arm and never play again. He’s got to have a nest egg.”

  Isaac started to pace like a wild animal in the owners’ box. He was the landlord here. The Yankees rented from him. “J., you’re not leaving the premises until I get a commitment from you.”

  J. Michael Storm started to laugh. “Are you going to glock me?” he said, pointing to the big black gun in Isaac’s pants.

  “I’ll do worse than that. I’ll throw you out the window.”

  “I’d come bouncing right off the grass.”

  He was a student radical at Columbia when Isaac met him twenty years ago; the son of kindergarten teachers, he’d come up from the South to play Raskolnikov in the big city. Isaac had been his own kind of Raskolnikov, a young chief in the First Deputy’s office who seemed more comfortable around Mafia dons than his own captains. He’d kept J. Michael out of jail, debated with him at student societies, talked about Plato and Karl Marx. When J. Michael and his Ho Chi Minh Club seized the president’s office at Low Library, held the president hostage for half a day, it was Isaac who went into Low, talked to the Ho Chi Minhs and freed the president, who wouldn’t press charges against any of the radicals.

  “J., the Bronx is gonna die. It can’t survive without the Yanks. This stadium is the last fucking lubrication that’s left in the whole South Bronx. Should I tell you the income it brings in? I’m not talking ticket sales. I’m talking about the little shops along Jerome Avenue, the parking lot people, the hot-dog vendors …”

  “Isaac, you’re breaking my heart.”

  “What happened to the son of Ho?”

  “I left him inside my graduation gown. Isaac, I represent a couple hundred millionaires. None of them was born with a silver spoon in his ass. They’re homeboys, like you and me. And they’re not gonna starve. They can wait out every single owner in organized baseball. And if the going’s rough, I can get them fat contracts to play ball in Japan.”

  “Yeah, more and more gaijins on the Yokohama Giants.”

  Marvin Hatter, the Yankees’ president, came into the box. “Can I get you boys anything? Champagne and wild strawberries?”

  “You’re not supposed to spy on us, Marve,” J. Michael said. “I can have the courts haul you out of here.”

  “This is my ball club, Mr. Storm. You and the mayor are guests.”

  “Wrong. You rent from Isaac … now get the fuck out of here, Marve.”

  The Yankees’ president disappeared from the box, helpless against this whirlwind, who suddenly dropped his head inside his hands. “Isaac, I’m losing my little girl.” His wife, Clarice, had moved to Manhattan with their daughter, a twelve-year-old beauty named Marianna Storm. Isaac was very fond of the girl, who would visit him at Gracie Mansion.

  “You’re her father. Take her to lunch.”

  “I can’t. Clarice has poisoned her against me.”

  “I won’t mediate between you and Clarice. I have a baseball war on my hands.”

 
“But you could sneak me into your club.”

  “What club, J. Michael? The Ho Chi Minhs?”

  “That fucking cultural enrichment program—Magician, or something.”

  “Merlin, you mean.”

  Isaac was always rushing into other people’s terrains. He couldn’t build his own board of education, and so he started a satellite, a school away from school, where kids from the worst bombed-out areas of the Bronx could meet little wizards from the gold coast of Manhattan and Brooklyn Heights. But he couldn’t tell who the real wizards were, who was enriching whom, the ghetto kids or the gold coasters. Isaac had recruited Marianna Storm, who sat in her tower on Sutton Place South and had never even been to the Bronx.

  “J.,” Isaac said, “I can’t sneak you in. It wouldn’t be ethical. I’d betray Marianna’s trust if I let her own dad start to dog her.”

  J. Michael took out an enormous checkbook from a pocket under his heart and scribbled a check for fifty thousand dollars, payable to “Merlin/Isaac Sidel.” Isaac stared at the piece of paper and pulled out his Glock. “You have the right to remain silent …”

  “What the fuck are you doing, Sidel?”

  “Arresting you. I’m a public servant, J. You can’t start bribing me in my own town.”

  “I made a contribution to your little club … and how can you arrest me? You’re only the fucking mayor.”

  “I have all the powers of a constable,” Isaac said. He put his gun back inside his pants and tore up the check with a tiny groan. Merlin was bankrupt, and Isaac was desperate for cash, but he couldn’t allow J. Michael to compromise him, create his own power base inside Merlin.

  The players’ czar suddenly lost all interest in Sidel. He had a television date downtown. Could he drop the mayor off somewhere? Isaac decided to remain in the Bronx.

  “You’re a disappointment to me, J. I preferred that kid with the mustache in the president’s office.”

  “And you should have let me go to jail. Because I’m not giving you the Bronx. The Yankees can join the dinosaurs’ league. This stadium is dead.”

  “Why, J.?”

  “Because I’m a son of a bitch … adios.”

  J. Michael dug a Yankee cap out of his pocket, unfolded it, put it on his skull, winked, and left Isaac all alone in the wilds of Yankee Stadium, he who’d grown up with DiMaggio and Charlie “King Kong” Keller, and the Dutchman, Tommy Henrich, could feel them through the glass, see them in their phantom positions, the Yankees of fifty years ago. He’d been a Giant fan, but he couldn’t afford sentimental attachments. He had to save the Bronx.

  He walked out of that deserted bowl, through the players’ gate, which a guard opened for him, visited with the shopkeepers along Jerome Avenue, most of whom already had black ribbons in their windows. They were mourning the Yanks and marking their own inability to survive.

  “Hang on,” Isaac said, “we’ll find a way.”

  He walked deeper into the Bronx, entered a crack-house full of nine-year-old kids, their fingers and lips all burnt from the hot pipes in their hands.

  “You gonna light up with us, pappy?” their leader said. “It’ll cost you fifteen.”

  “Why fifteen?” Isaac asked, looking at their grim and greedy faces.

  “Because you have to lease our pipe and pay for protection.”

  Isaac began to cry. How could he help such ferocious capitalists?

  “Ah, nobody’s gonna rob you, grandpa,” they said, pitying this polar bear who’d wandered into their den. Then they saw the Glock in his pants. They took out enormous butcher knives that they kept under a blanket. They could hardly swing the knives, which shivered in their hands.

  “You tryin’ to steal our works?”

  “Ah, have a heart,” Isaac said and walked out of that little cave in the Bronx …

  He returned to Gracie Mansion. Marianna Storm was in the kitchen, baking cookies for Isaac. She’d come uptown to visit him after school, the most devoted member of Merlin, a blond beauty with sea green eyes.

  “I was with your dad this afternoon,” Isaac said.

  “I know.”

  “He wouldn’t talk baseball. He offered to finance Merlin if I could help him get to see you.”

  “And what did you tell him, Isaac?”

  “To scratch himself. I started to read him his rights … nobody bribes me. But how could I arrest the players’ representative? We’d never end the strike. That still doesn’t explain why you won’t see him.”

  “Isaac, don’t be brutal. He hired somebody to kill Clarice.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Isaac said. “J. Michael loves you. He wouldn’t make his own little girl into an orphan.”

  “He could console himself,” Marianna said. “He’d have mama’s millions.”

  “The man has millions of his own.”

  “Not anymore. Daddy has expensive tastes. I’m richer than he is at the moment.”

  “But why didn’t your mother go to the police?”

  “She doesn’t like cops. And she doesn’t want them to meddle in family business.”

  “But she could have come to me. I’ll break J. Michael’s legs.”

  “That’s what she’s afraid of. You’re much too emotional. She’ll cut Daddy to ribbons with her team of lawyers.”

  “I don’t care. You can’t hire a hitter in my town and get away with it.”

  “Isaac, it happens every day.” She put on a pair of insulated gloves and guided the cookie pan out of the oven. They were from Marianna’s private recipe. Mocha chip, with walnuts. She’d bake them in batches of a hundred, but Isaac could never get enough. He wouldn’t share them with his deputies, only with the baker herself.

  “You’re not to talk to Mom about the hit man, Isaac, do you promise?”

  “How can I promise something like that?”

  “Isaac, what if I stopped baking you cookies?”

  “I’d be a very unhappy man. But …”

  “I’ll keep you informed,” she said, putting on her coat.

  “Where are you going? We haven’t had our coffee yet.”

  “I’m not supposed to drink coffee. I’m twelve years old. The caffeine will give me palpitations.”

  “Then why do you keep begging me for a cup?”

  “Because I like to get my way … I’m late for my aikido class, if you have to know.”

  “Aikido,” Isaac said, jealous that this little girl had her own martial-arts master … and a wooden sword which she kept in a cotton scabbard that she carried under her arm. She pecked Isaac on the cheek and ran out of the mansion with her sword. Isaac was miserable. He couldn’t have Marianna’s company and he couldn’t save the Bronx. He gobbled all the cookies like a gluttonous bear. The cookies were his consolation prize. And he trudged up the stairs to his bedroom with the worst bellyache in his life.

  2

  He had a million things to do in the morning. Isaac sneaked downstairs at dawn and made his own cappuccino. He couldn’t function without the smell of coffee beans and burnt milk. His deputies arrived before eight, and Isaac had none of Marianna’s cookies to offer them. They convened in the living room, while Harvey, the mayor’s valet, brewed a pot of American coffee and prepared scrambled eggs in a silver chafing dish. The budget director was there with Martha Dime, Corporation Counsel (the City’s own lawyer); Victor Sanchez, who was in charge of the Bronx Sheriff’s Office; Nicholas Bright, first deputy mayor, who oversaw the City for Isaac Sidel, ran it day by day; Candida Cortez, deputy mayor for finance, who planned the City’s economic strategies and watched over its bank accounts; and they all tasted Harvey’s scrambled eggs. The mayor had a chef, but she was mediocre, and Isaac had put Mathilde in charge of the laundry room. He didn’t have the capacity to fire people. He simply rotated them, had them become pieces in his own elaborate game of musical chairs.

  The last musical chair arrived late. Rebecca Karp, eminence grise of the Sidel administration, and the least popular mayor New York had ever ha
d. Sidel wouldn’t make a move without her. He’d served as police commissioner under Becky Karp, had slept with her—City pols nicknamed them “Isis and Osiris,” the sister and brother act—and he let her keep one of the back bedrooms. But Rebecca seldom slept at the mansion. She didn’t want to spoil Isaac’s popularity, play the bad sister.

  Isaac had asked them here to help him stop the hemorrhaging of the Bronx. Queens could survive with a dead ballpark; it had its own film studio, its own golf links and tennis lawns, its own bread factories and airports, its own electricity plant, its own racetrack; the Bronx had Yankee Stadium.

  “Fucking Robert Moses,” Isaac muttered. Moses, New York’s master builder, had split the Bronx in two, ploughed across entire neighborhoods to put up an expressway in the 1950s along the borough’s spine, and everything east of the expressway had begun to rot and die.

  “Isaac,” Rebecca hissed, with coffee swirling between her teeth. “Don’t give me your funeral face. We can’t undo what Moses has done.”

  “And should I listen to the bankers, Rebecca darling, and say, ‘Forget about El Bronx. It’s filled with Latinos on welfare, crack babies, infants with AIDS.’”

  “Isaac,” Rebecca said, “where are the bankers? Shouldn’t they be with us?”

  “I didn’t invite them.”

  “And where’s Billy the Kid?”

  Billy the Kid was governor of New York, and chairman of the Financial Control Board, which sat like a bird of prey over New York City. Isaac was also on that board, but Billy ruled it. Billy the Kid was making a run for the White House, and he didn’t want to be saddled with a sick borough. El Bronx couldn’t generate any money for his campaign chest. Its voters were unpredictable. They were liable to go against Billy and get into a Republican mood.

  “I won’t have him eating eggs at my table. Billy’s no friend of baseball. He’d love to prolong the strike. He’ll step in at the last moment and play the angel who pleaded with J. Michael to end the war.”

  “But Isaac,” said Candida Cortez, “we can’t save the Bronx without the bankers and Billy the Kid.”