by Lenox Parker
I do feel bad about Petey. One of my guys got him the job at the airport and I knew it wasn’t quite above board, but figured he couldn’t get hurt—quite frankly, I thought he was too stupid to pull anything off. Next thing I know the kid’s coming home with wads of cash and the occasional crate of MP3 players or some goddamned thing. He’s not smart enough to keep this going, I keep telling him. I hope he doesn’t get too greedy. Once the feds start sniffing around here again, I’m done. Too much in my past—I don’t want them connecting any dots.
With my kids all messed up I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where I came from and what I could have done differently to help my kids grow up better. I don’t articulate my thoughts well; I never communicated well with any members of my family. That shouldn’t be a reason for them to be such deviants. What do I know, anyway.
“Petey, would you get up and fix that goddamned ATV on the front lawn for chrissake. It’s been there for weeks. Can’t you get the thing going? I’m having people over tonight. We look like a white trash neighborhood with shit out on the lawn. Just fix the goddamned thing and get it the hell outta here.”
“Get off my back, Dad, will you relax? You’re like Mussolini over here with the orders. What’s with you lately?” he said effortlessly, without even looking up from his video game.
“Aren’t you too old to be playing games on the TV anyway?”
Deirdre walked in at that moment and immediately came to Petey’s defense.
“He’s just relaxing, Frank, take it easy. He’s entitled.”
“Entitled? Entitled? Get a goddamned job and you’ll be entitled. You’re too old for this shit. Get the fuck out of here before I haul your ass out of the house altogether.”
“Jezus! Frank, Take it easy! Leave him alone!”
All the while, Petey’s engrossed in his TV game and doesn’t even bother to engage. This is how he is all the time, always has been.
“Look, I’m just trying to take back my goddamned house that I work my ass off to keep. It’s like the prisoners are running the jail here.”
“Nice, Frank, they’re your kids and you’re calling them prisoners. And you wonder why they behave like animals.”
Deirdre was probably on to something there, but over 20 years and four kids later, what the hell was I going to do about it now? They’re all adults, I’m getting old, she’s getting fat, and they’re running us down. As I yelled to her to order enough food for 8 people from D’Angelos, she walked back in and looked at me funny.
“You go around yelling at everybody and humiliating your kids, and now you’re buying everyone dinner on the night you know they’re all going to be out?”
Though I wanted to take credit for buying everyone dinner, it wasn’t my intention.
“No, tonight the guys are coming by and we’re watching a couple of Howie’s movies.”
“Again? Didn’t you just go over to Bobby’s last week and do the same thing? What the hell do you guys do, jerk each other off? Jesus, Frank, you’re pathetic.”
“Oh yeah? Your ass is getting fatter by the minute, Dee, so you might want to do something about that.”
“Fuck off. Have a nice night with your pathetic friends.”
It’s true, me and the guys watch Howie Kessler movies as often as possible. We have theme nights for his movies. We skip the faggy musicals though; I don’t know what the fuck he was thinking then.
Howie was my best friend growing up. The lot of us ran around together, but me and Howie were the tightest. We lived right next door to each other. We had it rough as kids, poor as hell. But we had the run of the neighborhood for as long as I could remember. As kids we used to throw rocks from the rooftop of my building to anyone we didn’t know. Then when we got older, we patrolled the block with baseball bats, certifying our territory. Every block had it, we were no different. But me and Howie used to beat the shit out of anyone who tried to steal our girls, our bike, or our territory.
Then came Art and Punch. Because we all lived on the same couple of blocks, we became our own gang, of sorts. It worked out; we each had our own friends and backgrounds—and for the gang, we each had our own skills. Art was great with the numbers and he was our money bag when we needed it. Punch was our planner and schemed the best ways to get girls, stake out territory, and rip off guys at the pool hall. They were also the biggest, so we needed them.
Mo was the guy everybody loved the most, but couldn’t get close to enough to know what he was going to do next. As I remember it, most of the reasons why we ever got in fights was because of something Mo said or did. He instigated, he disappeared, he endeared everybody because he was such a smooth talker. Mo always had problems with the drugs, though. Howie tried desperately to help him with that, even when we were young. It killed Howie that Mo was so messed up much of the time. I think I resented Mo for taking up so much of Howie’s time—time that he and I should have been spending together doing the things we loved to do when we were younger.
We all put some money together each month from our hustling at the pool hall to rent a room, our club room, from a mean ex-boxer who had extra space in his candy store basement. We did everything in there and just having it was our source of pride. One day, after playing cards for hours, Mo looked up and said we needed a juke box. He said that a club room wasn’t really a club room unless there was a juke box. Howie agreed and said we could get girls in there if we have a juke box. We could barely scrape together enough money for the rent, so there was no way we were buying a juke box. Meanwhile Joey Klein, the boxer and candy store owner, recently complained that his rival candy store a few blocks away got a new juke box and that it was attracting his customers and hurting his business. Mo planned for us to hit the candy store the next night after closing. Howie stole Joey’s dolly, Punch, Art and I broke into Mrs. Grossman’s candy store, stole the juke box, and the five of us rolled it on Joey’s dolly back to our club room. Joey never knew we had it in there since he was nearly deaf from taking too many punches.
So I watch Howie’s movies now. I’ve watched his career ever since he left Brooklyn. We didn’t hear from him for a few years after he left, but he wrote a few letters when he was in the Navy and sent pictures of Los Angeles once he moved out there permanently. I meant to go out there. But soon after we all split up, I got married and stayed back here. I know that if I could see Howie again, we would be tight as ever, as if no time ever went by, since 1963.
** *
“And we are getting reports that the postponement of the shooting for Donnie Birken’s new project which was being billed as the next Apocalypse Now is due to a switch in leading men. My sources are telling me that Howard Kessler is no longer on this film and we will report back as soon as more information becomes available on this developing story. This is Rena White in Hollywood. Michelle, back to you.”
“Thank you Rena. Here at the studio our sources are telling us that Howard Kessler hasn’t been seen around town in several weeks, and calls to his manager and agent, Alan Shiner, went unreturned. Darren, what do you think of this? Where is Howard Kessler? And why isn’t he shooting what could be his next big blockbuster with Donnie Birken?”
“Well, Michelle, I don’t think it looks good for Howard to remain absent during this speculation. I don’t know why his team hasn’t come out with a statement about the film or his whereabouts. Frankly, this is all looking quite suspicious. We will continue to follow this story. And now on to other news: The new reality television series—”
“Dad. DAD. Yo, DAAAAAAA!!” Dario yelled from the couch.
“What? Can’t you get your ass up and speak like you’re not in the Grand fucking Canyon?” I said as I walked into the den.
“Listen, Howie’s missing in L.A. It was just on TV.”
“Go back, can you rewind it?” I said.
I watched the piece on Howie and wondered what the hell was going on. I hope he’s alright.
“You should call him up, Dad, after
all these years he’d probably like to hear from you.”
I went back to my newspaper and didn’t think about Howie until later that night. My goddamned kids give me agita and I haven’t been sleeping for hours at a time. So in between the anxiety of keeping my business afloat as I try to extract myself from certain relationships that only mean more trouble; and how the fuck I’m going to afford my car insurance and Dario’s drug rehab, I sat up in bed and tried to think about why we lost touch. There had to be a reason. May be the first time in all these years I’ve stopped to think about those days and why we never kept in touch. I suppose I thought that one day back then I’d hear from him—but it never came. I never knew how to get in touch; ever since he left for the Navy I just waited for him to write to me. So now I thought, nearly 50 years later and no contact from Howie, my best friend growing up, why would he just leave us? And why didn’t the rest of us stay in closer touch, either?
I do remember one thing. Art used to run numbers for some guys, but he also started taking bets on his own so he could earn more money. This guy knew sports and how to bet better than anyone I ever knew, including guys in the mob. But he had to be careful to keep his game quiet so his bread-and-butter didn’t find another kid to take his place. Howie’s brother, Sammy, owed Art’s guys a lot of money and of course—like any degenerate gambler—thought that he could make it back by putting more money out there. Art took his bet, reluctantly, and against my opinion. When the horse lost the race or the team lost the game, whichever it was, Art needed to collect. When Sammy didn’t pay, Art went to Howie. Howie told Art that he shouldn’t have taken the bet. So where does this leave Art? With two pissed off bosses about to put the screws on.
To be honest, I don’t know what I would have done if I had been in Art’s shoes. Sammy wasn’t a particularly likable guy and was such a loser that his fiancée stood him up at City Hall. Art went to the bosses and explained that he took Sammy’s bet on the side. Art played it more shifty than I had even expected him to, and portrayed it in such a way that it was the only side bet he took even though it wasn’t. Howie couldn’t help but feel that Art sold Sammy out, for his own self-preservation.
Art and Howie obviously never got over that one.
I thought a lot about those days for the next few nights. I can’t honestly say we really ever helped each other out all that much. Our group started to splinter before we even got out of high school. I never graduated and went right to work for my uncle in building the pavilion and other projects related to the 1964/65 World’s Fair in Queens, and only came around the club room occasionally. We did shoot pool often, but once I started working, I had money coming in and didn’t need all the pool hustling and fights that ensued.
That wasn’t it, and I’m sure there were more fissures over those years than I care to remember. I did love Howie, though. He always looked out for me, and I didn’t care that he started hanging around with a different bunch of guys later on. Things have always got to change a little, or else you go a little crazy.
I never went to the reunions because half the guys I hung around with didn’t graduate and probably aren’t even on the alumni mailing lists. Once upon a time I would have liked to hear about what some of the guys were doing, but now we’re just old. It’s been too long. I just don’t care; I have my own troubles. I’d still love to see Howie.
Chapter 9
Mo
“Baby you still do it for me. You are still the greatest baby anyone could have in the sack,” I said to Sheila, my ex-wife, as she turned over in the bed and lit a cigarette, not bothering to cover her body with the sheet. What 62 year old woman does that?
We couldn’t stay married. I couldn’t be married. It worked out fine for the both of us, since she went off and married one of the richest guys in New York. And he’s one of my biggest customers.
“Hon, I gotta get back, I hope you don’t mind. Richie gets worried; and I still have to stop at Loehmann’s before they close,” Sheila said, putting out the cigarette in her Scotch glass, devoid of Scotch but with melting ice cubes. “You’ll give me the stuff, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’m flush this week. Good timing for you.”
“You’re not in trouble again, right? I mean, what are you talking about, flush?” Sheila knew me and my business well. She knew who I did business with. It’s partly why she left me.
“I’m fine, everything’s good. We’re good.” I tried to tell myself that, but I knew that by tomorrow night I’d have to come up with more money than I’ve handled in months and I had no plan to do it. “Are you going to make me rob you, again, though?”
“No! For chrissake, Mo, I’ll leave you the money. Jesus, you know, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
That was Sheila’s favorite line, for years. Then she had a heart attack 8 years ago. She still says it, as if nothing happened, but it’s just not funny anymore.
“I need more,” I said, hoping she would understand the subtext.
“Hon, I told you I don’t have time—Loehmann’s closes at 6 tonight and—oh, wait, you need more what, money?”
“Jimmy’s guys are coming by tomorrow night.”
“What did you do? Are you stealing from them? You stupid fool, are you stealing from Jimmy Butler?”
“No, I borrowed and this is like a margin call. Richie understands that.”
“You fucking idiot. I know what a fucking margin call is, Mo. How much? No, forget it, I don’t want to know. Do you want me to call Richie?”
I didn’t want her to call Richie. I hoped she had access to the money herself. I knew she didn’t, but hoped anyway.
“I may just get out of town for a while,” I said, half under my breath.
“You dumb fuck, they’ll find you. Do you want them to blow up your goddamned boat again? Why do you do this? Why can’t you just manage the club and be done with it?”
“Because you and Richie wouldn’t have your coke if all I did was manage the club, that’s why, Sheila, so don’t give me that shit about quitting the business. I’m doing fine.”
We did our business and Sheila wrote me a check to cash for $9,999. I didn’t tell her that it was just a fraction of what I owed, but I was grateful for it anyway.
I co-own a health club in Sheepshead Bay. Nearly all my customers are also my coke customers, so it works out. I know a lot of people, and more people know me. Things don’t always go as smooth as they should. People don’t pay. The good thing is that the contract on the health club membership agreement they unwittingly sign requires hefty up-front fees, their credit card numbers, and consent to garnish when appropriate. So when someone doesn’t pay for their package and they don’t show up on the treadmill, we charge one or more of their credit cards. Of course this doesn’t always work, people cancel their cards or they’re already maxxed out. If some asshole has the balls to try and screw me out of my money, I have a pretty successful track record of making them pay up. I’ve learned over the years who the types are who try to skip out. It’s not because they don’t have the money, but they owe so much around town that inevitably one of us is going to fall on their list of priorities. It’s my job to make sure I stay on the top of their pile. Most often, just a little scare will put the money back in my pocket. It rarely takes more than that these days. A baseball bat is hardly even needed any longer. Sometimes just showing up at their office or home—usually on Sundays when the kids are home—works like a charm.
It hasn’t always been this easy. Back in the day I handled a lot more money and enjoyed the packages just as much as my clientele. I got in over my head a few times. There were some misunderstandings. I didn’t take the business as seriously as I should have. I lost everything to some very bad guys.
I’ve done my time. Two 18-month stints in the can, but that was long ago. Coming out was the hardest part. No one trusts you when you’ve been in prison. You have to prove yourself all over again. I was in my early 50’s when I was convi
cted for the first time. It’s not easy in there. Putting the business and my life back together after the second time, a year later, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I don’t worry much about getting caught any longer. I play a much cleaner game now than I did years ago. It was inevitable back then, I was sloppy and someone snitched. I should have seen it coming.
I’m only in trouble now because I spread things out a little too thin and I just have to step up collections. No skimming anymore. I know what I’m doing. I’m 66 years old, for chrissake. I’m in the best shape of my life, I fuck like crazy, I got no other attachments and the money’s good.
Brooklyn, for me, is the center of the world. It all begins here and it all ends here. I don’t need anything else. I have my own Chinatown, right up on 65th Street and 8th Avenue. I have the beach, the boardwalk, the rides, the girls in short skirts on Coney Island. I got fishing here in Sheepshead Bay and I live on my boat. I got Russian nightclubs with the best vodka and hookers on Earth in Brighton Beach. I got golf in Dyker Heights. I got discount shopping on Fulton Street. I got what little family is left who still talk to me in Boro Park. I don’t ever need to leave this place—not for nothing.
I decided to go out and have a drink and figure out what the fuck I was going to do about the rest of the $51,000 I needed to come up with by tomorrow. I went down to Benny’s place and sat down at the far end of the bar, where I could see anyone coming in the door, and ordered a whiskey.
Benny poured it and leaned into me over the bar.
“You know Jimmy’s guys came looking for you.”
“When?” I wasn’t worried, since my last conversation we agreed tomorrow night I’d bring the dough over to his place in Bay Ridge.
“Earlier today,” Benny whispered, looking around as if there were anyone in the bar at that time of day who would be listening.
“They just come in to make themselves known, they’re not going to do anything to me. I have until tomorrow, anyway.”
“Awright, if you say so,” he said as he drew back, shaking his head. Still with his arm on the bar, he turned away and looked up at the television. “I gotta get one of those flat-screens in here. This thing is a piece of shit.”