BANG! My body lurched forward, my head hitting the windshield. I could hear Jim swearing.
“Dammit! They're comin' after us!”
I was too stunned to ask who they were. BANG! The car behind us meant business. Suddenly, a vehicle coming from the opposite direction seemed to head straight towards us. As Jim slammed on the brakes, I could tell from the massive screeching, their car had stopped as well. Instantly, our car was flooded with their headlights, and all I could hear was Jim. “I'm not going to let anything happen to you, Miss Balakov, I swear to God…” he growled as I waited to die.
Car doors clicked open then slammed shut and before I could think, rough hands had grabbed me from my side and pulled me out from the front seat. Jim valiantly scrambled out of his side of the car and started to charge over to me, but there were just too many of them. In an instant, they had him on the ground, kicked into submission.
The twine they had tied over my wrists cut into my skin, the rough blindfold scratched my eyes, and from the different voice timbers, I surmised there must have been close to eight or ten men gathered around us. We were led over some pretty jagged terrain, and each time I stumbled I was lifted up by my armpits and pushed forward.
My breath was coming in short, jerky waves and suddenly, I thought of Tom, safe in his run-down quarters, patiently waiting for his protectors to take him out of harm's way and how, if by some miracle, I survived this, I would make everything right for Tony.
We were soon on more even ground, with lots of voices chanting. Our captors yanked off our masks, and when I saw the multitude of white sheets, I started to pee in my underwear. I could sense Jim a few feet away, puffing from anger and fear, but I couldn't utter a sound.
“What the hell do you want from us?” Jim croaked.
“You've been traveling with that nigger, haven't you, you Nigger Lover Yankees!” The leader snarled.
I found my voice. “We've been sent down by the President and First Lady!”
“Eleanor Roosevelt? That interfering bitch?” Several of them started snorting.
“What are you going to do to us?” barked Jim.
“Jist wait n' see, that's what we're gonna do. It seems you both need a little lesson in Southern hospitality!” More snickers.
From out of the pack, a man stepped forward holding a huge rope and my stomach wrenched. Flinging the thick coil up over a tree limb, he pulled the noose side towards him as two others grabbed Jim and dragged him, struggling, over to the tree.
I let out a wail. “Oh, God no!” gushed out before I closed my eyes and for the first time in a very long time, I said a whispered prayer.
Suddenly, explosive guffaws broke out and opening my eyes, I saw the noose had been removed and his hands untied. Someone untied mine as well.
“Just tell your Mrs. Roosevelt, you are not welcome. And take that nigger with you!” the leader gloated.
Back in D.C., I started to tell Eleanor my report would be succinct, that the lynching laws have got to be removed, but I never got the chance. Never looking directly at me, she informed me that FDR had decided, in order to be re-elected, he would do nothing about the South.
Letting myself into the Manhattan apartment, I expected to hear Rose's childlike snores, but was surprised not to see her anywhere. I undressed, brushed my teeth, and started to settle into my makeshift bed when I heard Tony gag then cough several times in the next room. Any second now I would hear Daria's impatient voice, but it never came. What was going on?
I found out the next day. “She's left me!” a bleary-eyed Tony moaned. “My wife left me for that damn Indian!”
“Joe? That sweet man who came here for Sunday dinners?”
“Yeah! Real sweet. He took my wife and daughter with him.”
“Where is she? Let me talk some sense into her.”
“I don't know. I don't know. Try Brooklyn. He once told me where he lived. I have the address written down somewhere around here. Got a letter from that goddamn wife of mine with a Brooklyn postmark on the envelope.”
“Well, don't worry, Tony, I'm here now.”
“And Adriana?”
“Yes?”
“I lost my job,” he choked.
I put my arms around him, rocking him like I had done so many times growing up together; only this time, there was nothing to blame, except his own demons. After an hour of searching through the trashed bedroom that Daria would have kept spotless, I finally found Joe's info. I tenderly put Tony back to bed, pulling the covers over him like Mama used to do, then via subway, made my way down to Brooklyn where I faced two chilly American Indian women, standing firm at their door.
“Yes, Rose is with us, but she's out right now. Don't you worry about her. She's safer with us than she is with her father,” a heavily beaded woman in American street garb informed me haughtily.
“I need to talk to Daria immediately. Is she out with Rose?”
The two women passed a look. “Well, no,” the second one said.
“What does that mean?”
There was a slight pause. Then, “Daria's at a dance marathon with Joe to make a lot of money.”
“What?”
The first woman drew herself up. “That's right. They're going to make plenty of money, more money than you could ever dream of.”
“Where are they? I demand to know.”
The second woman had kinder eyes. “They're in New Jersey,” she murmured and scribbling on a piece of paper, handed me the address. I ignored the first woman's furious look and charging out of their building, headed for the first train I could get.
When I saw Joe and Daria on the dance floor, I wanted to throw up. What the hell were they thinking? How pathetic they both looked, tangled up in each other's arms in such an undignified pose. And what a trashy group of people in the audience. Why, there were bookies and probably a prostitute or two sitting in my section alone!
She didn't want to return with me, that much was painfully clear, but I knew how to work her guilt. That was the one thing I could count on with Daria, her Irish-Catholic-woman-must-be-loyal-to-her-husband-at-all-costs guilt. It worked, and as I led her away at the close of the night, exhausted, beaten down, and foiled by greedy competitors, I refused to listen to Joe's protests. Tony was uppermost in my mind.
By the time we had gathered up Rose from a third Indian and returned to Manhattan, a full day and night had come and gone. I was spent, but satisfied. My brother would be so relieved. I turned a blind eye to Daria's constant tears and Rose staying in her corner. In time, we'd fix everything.
A month later, I had serious doubts. My salary alone wasn't sufficient and although I never saw Tony actively pursuing employment, he still insisted Daria not work. As for my sister-in-law, her delicate beauty was all but lost, and finding her crying over the sink one morning, my heart softened.
“What's the matter?” I asked, half knowing the answer.
“I went to Brooklyn yesterday while Rose was in school, to see Joe. But the three women who had been so nice to me before told me he'd disappeared forever, he did. Up to Canada where I can never be getting to him they said, cold as ice.”
“Why'd you do that to yourself? What's the point?”
Her haunted face said it all.
That night I had a serious talk with Tony. Hours it took, all about our childhood, our problems, how life could be grand, only if you tried hard enough. I assumed he wouldn't be buying any of it but a week later, dressed in a suit and tie, he announced he was going to look for work. The three of us watched him go out the door, whistling, light on his feet, and I could just feel the apartment air lightening.
He became a changed man, with a new high-steeler job and each day after work, instead of making the bar rounds, he came straight home to be with his family. Daria's love-lost face remained sad and Rose still had her compulsions, but I was relieved at the lack of agitation.
I jotted down more notes about racism in America for Eleanor, but my heart really wasn't
into it; instead, I decided to go back to writing some articles on my own. Daria, Rose, and I went to the movies every weekend, and because he didn't drink up or womanize away all his good salary, Tony took us all out to dinner every two weeks. I didn't hear much lovemaking in the next room but I was satisfied that at least there was no more heavy stress, just plain living.
“Come on, Sis. Let's go out for lunch this Saturday, just you and me,” Tony winked.
“Sure. What brought this on?”
“I just think it's time we were alone together, like old times, you know?”
I did know and the rest of the week, I was surprised at how much I looked forward to our upcoming time together. I told Daria about it, and she nodded; calm, peaceful, enigmatic. Rose looked up from her corner and smiled.
“That's nice, Auntie,” she said before returning to her fixations.
Saturday turned out to be a glorious day. The early spring sky was clear and the air, after a burst of rain, smelled fresher than usual. Tony had picked out a fancy restaurant inside the new Waldorf Astoria on Fifth Avenue for our dining pleasure and although I worried over the cost, I loved his proud stance, his dapper look, his arm linked through mine as we walked along, so I said nothing. Inside, as we sat across from one another at our table, I was transported back to earlier times, when Papa would take us all out to dinner and he and Mama would flash smiles at one another when they thought we weren't looking.
Outside the restaurant the air had turned somewhat colder, but with my right hand in Tony's coat, my left in my own pocket, I was feeling plenty warm. We crossed the street, chatting about Detroit and old times, what it was like for him to first meet Daria, how beautiful and innocent she was, how proud he was of how she handled Papa the first night she met him. He even talked about Rose, how he knew he had neglected her but he was going to make it all up to her. I had never had seen him so happy.
“Oh, my God!” I suddenly stopped.
“What? What?”
“I forgot my scarf in the restaurant. Oh, dear…”
“No problem. Stay put and I'll get it for you.”
I watched him dash across the street in his topcoat, black shoes, suit and tie, never looking more handsome. Then, glancing upward, I drew a deep breath, and letting it out through my mouth, smiled at the cooling air turning it into smoky puffs.
He exited the restaurant and gave a wave with my scarf. I giggled and signaled him over, chuckling at my forgetfulness. As he stepped off the curb he looked so much like a young Papa, and it occurred to me how different things might have been if only Papa had had more peace in his life. I closed my eyes and reminisced, blocking out the sounds of New York and not opening them until a loud thud popped them wide open, just in time to witness a taxi flip my brother up into the air and catapult him ten yards away onto the ground—broken, lifeless.
Chapter 15: O, What a Tangled Web We Weave
“Okay ladies, I'm assuming you brought Pete's disk with you, right? My secretary can make a quick copy so we'll both have one.” As Shannon handed over the floppy, he continued. “I'm sure what's on it is what he and I had discussed, although there may be some other things he didn't mention.”
“Is it really true about Julius, the club owner?” Sonia started in.
“You mean his Mafia connections? Absolutely.” There was a lull. He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, the New York District Attorney has been investigating him, along with others.”
“So what's Julius' connection?” Shannon was breathing hard.
“Turns out Julius has known Johnny Fortunado, from the Fortunado crime family, since they were kids and they've kept in touch over the years, so when Julius started this club, this…” He looked down at his notes.
“The Sugar Pie Club!” They chorused.
“Yeah, the Sugar Pie Club. Anyway, Pete found some evidence that there may be major money laundering by the Fortunado family going on in there.”
“Really? How was Pete involved?” Shannon choked.
“Well, he told me how one night he had to go back to Julius' office to ask him about something, but no one was there.” He lit a cigarette. “He said he noticed that on Julius' desk there were two bags, a larger one with the giant logo Sugar Pie Club on it, and another smaller unmarked white one.”
“I don't get the significance of this,” Sonia offered.
“Well, the way laundering money works is that you start with a place like this club, a place that brings in thousands of dollars a night, right?”
They both nodded.
“Meantime, you have an illegal company, such as the kind the Fortunado family runs, that chips in a much smaller amount, say six thousand dollars, along with the regular cash for the night. Bingo! The whole bag gets deposited in the bank the next day and the dirty money gets laundered. It's now legitimate, or, as they say, clean. Anyway, Julius ran into Pete inside his office and the very next night, he mentioned the empty till to you all.”
Sonia piped up. “Is Steve connected to this as well?”
Will nodded. “Yeah, Pete seems to think he's most probably connected and that's why as their new manager, he's been able to move the group so far so fast. It was something he was researching when they arrested him.”
“So that's why he was so busy on the computer and didn't want to tell me anything,” Shannon muttered, wiping her eyes with her index finger.
“Go on, Will, tell us more,” said Sonia, reaching for Shannon's hand.
“Well, Pete and I looked up this Julius and found out he had been accused of racketeering way back when, but it didn't stick. He got himself a high-priced lawyer.”
Shannon grew steely. “Can't we force Julius to drop the case now that we know who he is?”
“We'll need more evidence, for leverage, but I do know people who can lean on him.”
“Who?”
“Ah, Shannon, I don't think you really want to know that,” he said as he got up. Just before they left the room, he placed a hand on each one's shoulder. “Listen, ladies, not a word to anyone, right?”
They both nodded solemnly, but it wasn't until they got into the elevator that Shannon turned to Sonia. “That means Mike, Sonia. Particularly Mike.”
Sonia flinched. “You're not saying Mike is dirty, are you?”
Shannon gave an exaggerated shrug and as they started their descent, Sonia thought of Adriana being warned not to tell Mrs. Washburn that her husband was not going out to work every day dressed up, but only to sit on a ledge.
Entering the Sugar Pie Club the next night, Sonia reflected on how different everything looked. People seemed frenetic, driven, lonely, the bartenders didn't look so happy from their tips, the smiles on the cocktail waitresses didn't really ring true, and now, watching Mike with Steve, she scrutinized their every gesture and how often they conferred with each other. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so she started casing Steve and Julius. There, she caught something. While the band was stationing themselves behind the curtains, she noticed Julius pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handing it to Steve. They were trying to be subtle, but her now hawk-like eyes didn't miss a beat.
During the band's first break, she noticed how much Mike obviously revered his new buddy. He followed Steve around, laughing, joking with him to the exclusion of the others, and somehow she was reminded of her great aunt Adriana witnessing Eleanor's and Lorena Hick's friendship.
By the end of the night, Mike was sweaty, played out, and already switching from pot to coke. After two quick snorts, he was totally revived.
He swaggered towards Sonia, sticky in his black leather pants and opened black shirt. “Hey, you look good tonight, girl.” Drawing her to him, he muttered, “You're the one, Babe,” and swooped in for a long kiss. But he tasted different, and it took all her mental energy not to feel like Daria, with Tony's drunken lips covering hers.
At their next meeting, Harry came with at least ten case studies, filled with descriptions of obsessive inner
thoughts she herself had grown accustomed to.
“Interesting, no?” he asked, leaning back, watching her carefully.
“Yes, it is.” She signaled the waitress. Without looking at Harry, she ordered another two glasses, and when they arrived, she moved one towards him and downed hers like lemonade. “You know, my research had a lot to do with sexuality and OCD.” She glanced at his face. It definitely registered interest.
“And?”
“And it points out that many people with OCD find sex distasteful, too messy, too unsanitary, you know?”
He nodded, waiting.
“Anyway, here is my paper on all of this. But I have trouble believing it.”
“How's that?” He picked up his second glass.
“Well, I know I have a bit of OCD, and that's definitely not my problem. My desk may be neat, but it doesn't affect me that way. I guess I'm more like Howard Hughes.”
He laughed, then turned surprisingly serious. “How does it affect you?”
She was beginning to feel deliciously numb. “I think I use sex as a complete release. Fast, hard, without much thinking. Anyway, that seems to work for me.” She thought of Mike.
“It does, does it?” He didn't sound convinced.
“Well, what about you?” she huffed.
His sigh was long, deliberate. “I believe in slow, sensuous love-making, where every part of the body is cherished.”
She sat back, staring at his mouth. Suddenly, she snapped to. “To each his own,” was her only comment, wondering why he was smiling at her flushed face.
Nearing the Sugar Pie Club, Sonia pulled up the collar of her coat against the stinging cold and passed by the same limo she had seen before. She continued further, then stopped, turned, and watched, as two men with black, greased-back hair, hands the size of her thighs, and shiny black suits reflecting a soft glow from the streetlights, got out of the black car. “What creeps!” she shuddered as she entered the club.
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