Coney Island Avenue

by J. L. Abramo

  He looked around to see if anyone was listening to us, which would have been quite a feat, since there were maybe two other people in the restaurant and neither of them was within twenty feet of us. “There’s another diary,” he whispered.

  “So that’s what’s in the package.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how did all this come to you?”

  “I’ve got a lot of connections, Swann. That’s why you come to me for help.”

  “I come to you for help?”

  “Yeah. Three times. Remember?”

  “Okay, so why is this diary important now, eighty years after the fact? Who the hell cares about Starr Faithfull?”

  “There’s interest, okay. That’s all I’m gonna say and that’s all you gotta know. You in or out?”

  “I want a piece of your action, Goldblatt.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “You wouldn’t be doing this if it didn’t mean you weren’t getting something out of it. You make money I make money. That’s what friends do for friends.”

  “One percent.”

  I laughed.

  “Five percent.”

  I laughed harder.

  “Ten percent. But that’s it.”

  “Give me the damn envelope.”

  Just my luck, the next day the weather turned bad. Very bad. Okay, it was winter, first week in January, but what happened to the January thaw? It was raw. It was cold. It was windy. And it was depressing now that all the holiday lights across the city had been taken down. It was back to grim reality now, eleven months of it, and I didn’t like it one damn bit. Life was grim enough without having the lights turned out. To make matters worse, by the time I made it to Penn Station there was the whiff of snow in the air.

  I didn’t trust Goldblatt. It’s not that he’s a bad guy, it’s that he plays the angles. And the thing is, he’s not even that good at it. That’s why he’s not a lawyer anymore. He dipped his hand into his clients’ pockets once too often and got caught. But something told me he might be onto something here. A lost Starr Faithfull diary might be valuable, especially if it shed light on her death. Goldblatt wasn’t above a little blackmail, but who was left to blackmail? Would the families of anyone named in Starr’s diary care? Only if someone mentioned was very famous and revered. Someone like Joe Kennedy came to mind. But did anyone care anymore? Is there anyone left in the world who thinks Joe Kennedy was a good guy? It was possible Goldblatt had other fish to fry. I knew he had publishing and film connections, at least that’s what he’s told me. He claimed one of his childhood pals was this top Hollywood producer, another the head of some big-time publishing house. Maybe he was concocting a book or movie deal. Whatever it was, I was in for ten percent—plus a hundred-fifty and expenses—a day. I knocked off a C-note, just so he wouldn’t think I’m the money-hungry, hard-nosed, sonuvabitch rat bastard I’d like to be. So any way you sliced it, I would come out with something, and that’s the way I liked it.

  It was a fifty-plus minute ride on the LIRR out to Long Beach, the last stop on the line. I made a 7:10 train, which would give me plenty of time to grab a bite, then walk the three or four blocks to the boardwalk. The heavy commute was over so I pretty much had the train to myself, which suited me fine. I took out the heavy-duty manila envelope, locked in by wide strips of transparent tape, and examined it. It felt like there was money inside. And plenty of it by the thickness of the envelope. I wondered how Goldblatt got his hands on so much cash, including the wad he waved in my face. No matter how he did, I suspected there was something funny about it. But that wasn’t any of my business. My business was to pick up a package, hand over the envelope, and get back to my occasionally warm apartment in the East Village.

  I knew Long Beach, or at least a good part of it, like the back of my hand. My father, who took a permanent hike before I hit puberty, was born and raised there and that’s where his folks, my grandparents, lived until they died not long after he disappeared. My father didn’t talk much, but my grandmother loved to regale me with stories of the town’s checkered history.

  Around the turn of the last century, a real estate developer named William Reynolds, who was behind Coney Island’s Dreamland, the world’s largest amusement park, bought up a bunch of oceanfront property so he could build a boardwalk, homes, and hotels. As a publicity stunt, Reynolds arranged for a herd of elephants to march from Dreamland to Long Beach, supposedly to help raise funds to build the boardwalk. Reynolds touted the area as “the Riviera of the East,” and ordered every building he constructed to be built in an “eclectic Mediterranean style,” with white stucco walls and red tile roofs. The catch was that these homes could only be occupied by white, Anglo-Saxon Protestants.

  When Reynolds’s company went bankrupt, these restrictions were lifted and the town began to attract wealthy businessmen and entertainers, many of whom my grandmother claimed to have seen at a theater Reynolds built called Castles by the Sea, which boasted the largest dance floor in the world, intended to showcase the talents of the famous hoofers, Vernon and Irene Castle. Later, in the forties, she claimed to have seen the likes of Zero Mostel, Mae West, and Jose Ferrer perform, while other notables, including Jack Dempsey, Cab Calloway, Bogart, Valentino, Flo Ziegfeld, Cagney, Clara Bow, and John Barry-more, resided in Long Beach. Later, the town was home to Billy Crystal, Joan Jett, Derek Jeter, and the infamous “Long Island Lolita,” Amy Fisher.

  But there was another, much darker side to Long Beach, one my grandfather, a local cop who supposedly picked up extra cash doing errands for the mob, was far more familiar with. In the early twenties, the legendary prohibition agents, Izzy and Moe, raided the Nassau Hotel and arrested three men for bootlegging. Police corruption ran rampant, to the point where an uncooperative mayor was shot by a police officer. In 1930, five Long Beach police officers were charged with offering a bribe to a U.S. Coast Guard office to allow liquor to be offloaded.

  By the fifties, Long Beach had turned from a resort area to a bedroom community. The rundown boardwalk hotels turned into homes for welfare recipients and the elderly. A decade later, the town devolved into a drug haven, as kids from other towns in Long Island flocked to Long Beach to score dope.

  Over the last couple of decades the town had undergone a renaissance. Most of the drug dealers had been run out of town and in summer the boardwalk and beach became a magnet to those who couldn’t afford the Hamptons or Fire Island.

  By the time the train arrived at the Long Beach station, the weather had changed and not for the better. A storm had blown in from the southwest and the bitter wind was whipping around large, wet flakes of snow that stung my face and battered my eyes. It was just after eight o’clock, and I could have waited in the warm, inviting station, but I was hungry so I crossed the boulevard and took shelter in the Five Guys burger joint on the corner.

  I ordered a cheeseburger, fries, and a diet Coke, because when I die I want it to be a result of artificial substances in my body. The place was empty and I chose a table by the window. As I ate, I watched the streets and sidewalk fill with snow, wondering what the hell I was doing out there. I thought seriously about packing it in and heading back to the city, but ultimately dismissed that idea. It wasn’t loyalty to Goldblatt that kept me there. I’ve long since given up the idea of being loyal to anyone or anything. Why should I? It only adds to the risk of disappointment. Instead, it was curiosity. I wanted to see this thing through, if only so I could figure out what was the twisted little scheme Goldblatt had hatched.

  I looked at my watch. A quarter to nine. I waited five more minutes. I didn’t want to be the first one to show up, preferring instead to have the advantage of seeing who was waiting for me.

  I patted the inside pocket of my peacoat to make sure the envelope was there, buttoned up, turned up the collar, pulled my wool watch cap over my ears, and headed out into the storm, a lone figure in blue set out against the blanket of white, which covered the streets, shrubbery, lampposts, and h
ouses. I wished I’d worn something more substantial on my feet, because my socks, exposed to the elements, were already damp and I knew it wasn’t going to get any better.

  I headed down Edwards Avenue toward the boardwalk, and for every three steps I took the wind blew me back one. I crossed Olive, then Beech, then Penn, till I finally reached Broadway. Only one block left. The only sound I could hear was the crunching noise my shoes made in the newly fallen snow and the howling wind. Before crossing the street, I looked back and my eyes traced the footsteps I’d imprinted in the snow. By morning, my footprints would be gone and the snow would have turned a shade of black unknown to nature.

  Despite the illumination of a streetlight in front of me, I could barely make out the wooden ramp leading to the boardwalk. I crossed Broadway, then made my way up the ramp. The whistling wind and the roaring of the waves drowned out all thoughts other than wondering how long I would have to wait under these god-awful conditions. A chill ran up my back and I pressed my arms closer to my body and lowered my head, as if to use it as a battering ram against the wind.

  The boardwalk, bustling in the summer with joggers, bikers, and bikinied beachgoers, was empty. The hut was about seventy-five yards to my left. I squinted through the veil of falling snow in an attempt to see if anyone was waiting there. No one. I glanced at my watch. It was a few minutes past nine. Was this all a wild goose chase? Did the person I was supposed to meet have better sense than me and decide to blow it off?

  I cursed Goldblatt, then myself, for taking this ridiculous job as I headed toward the hut, my hands jammed deep in my pockets. Maybe I should have brought a gun, if only I’d owned one. Why should I? That’s not the kind of work I do. I used to own one, but that ended badly. Now, I leave that sort of thing up to the heroes, a group I most definitely do not belong to. I am not a character out of a novel or the movies. I do not look for trouble. I avoid conflict whenever I can. Boxing great Joe Louis once said about his opponent Billy Conn, “he can run but he can’t hide.” I can run and I can hide, and under the right circumstances I am capable of both at the same time. But keeping my hands in my pockets might make someone believe I was packing and that might give me a much needed edge.

  About fifty feet from the hut, I veered right, toward the oceanfront railing. With both hands on the rail, I looked out toward the ocean, west then east, to see if anyone was on the beach, then bent over the rail and peered over and down, to see if anyone was hiding under the boardwalk. There was no one I could see, which didn’t mean someone wasn’t there, hidden in the shadows. But if so it would take a while for them to reach me, enough time for me to run and then hide.

  I reached the wooden hut, which was boarded up for the winter, and rapped on the side.

  “Hey, anyone in there?” I called out, loud enough to slice through the roaring surf and surging wind.

  Nothing.

  I checked my watch. Quarter past nine. I’d give it till nine-twenty then I was out of there.

  Suddenly, the wind died down a bit, a breather, so to speak, giving me a little more visibility. I didn’t need it. Not a soul around. To my left, about a hundred yards away, there was a series of high-rises, but in front of me and to my immediate right, there was nothing but a parking area and land waiting to be used for new co-ops or condos. I felt like I was at the end of the world. I thought about Starr Faithfull, as I looked out toward the ocean. On a ship. Fell or pushed. Floating up on shore. It was a good story. Knowing Goldblatt, whatever he was paying for would probably be worth it to him, which now meant to me, too.

  I looked back at my watch. Time was up.

  I patted the envelope in my pocket. Once I was back on the train I’d open it and take out what I was due. I wasn’t about to trust Goldblatt to pay me when there were no results. The hell with him and his crazy deal, whatever it was. I was going home.

  I got to the bottom of the ramp and was headed toward Broadway, when I heard a crunching sound behind me. Before I could turn around, I felt a sharp pain in my side, in the vicinity of my kidney. Someone had punched me. Hard. And then another one. I lost my balance and fell to one knee, gasping for breath, instinctively raising my right arm to protect myself from another blow.

  “Stay down,” a raspy voice ordered.

  “Whatever you say,” I said, raising both arms up in submission. I looked up. The guy was a giant. Or at least he looked that way from where I was. He was wearing an overcoat, a muffler, and a fedora, like he was someone out of the forties.

  Another, much smaller, slimmer figure moved out from under the ramp and stood beside the giant.

  “That’s some punch you’ve got there,” I managed, holding my side, trying to regain some of the breath that had abandoned me. My first thought was that he’d done some boxing. I didn’t take it any further.

  “I guess I’m supposed to thank you for the compliment,” he said, with a growl.

  “Look, I’m just a delivery boy. You’ve got something for me; I’ve got something for you. Am I right?”

  He turned to the figure beside him, who was wearing jeans and a gray hoodie under a black leather jacket that was at least two sizes too large. By the build, I figured it was either a boy or a woman, but I couldn’t quite tell which.

  “Who are you?” asked the smaller person, whose high voice tipped me off to her gender.

  “Henry Swann. I was hired by Goldblatt to make the exchange.”

  “Why didn’t he do it himself?” asked the big man.

  “Because he’s a fuckin’ coward,” the woman answered.

  The big man laughed. The woman shot him a look and he sobered up.

  “You’ve got the envelope?” she asked.

  “You’ve got the package?” I said.

  “It looks to me like you’re in no position to bargain. Sidney here,” her hands in her pockets, she nodded in his direction, “could just take it from you.”

  “That would be robbery.”

  “Yes. It would. You gonna call the cops on us?”

  “If you just gave me what I came for it would be a simple business exchange. Look, my pants are getting soaked. Mind if I get up?”

  She nodded. I stood. I still couldn’t catch my breath and the pain had me listing to one side.

  “Search him, Sidney.”

  I raised my hands. “You won’t find a weapon, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” she said.

  “Open your coat,” Sidney ordered.

  “It’s friggin’ cold out here, Sidney.”

  He raised his hand. “Just fuckin’ open the coat or I’ll open it for you.”

  I could tell he meant business, so I opened the coat, spreading apart the sides. He patted me down.

  “See. Nothing. And nothing up my sleeves, either,” I added, sliding my hands down the sleeves of my coat.

  Sidney spotted the envelope in my coat pocket and pulled it out. “This it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He handed it over to the woman.

  “Now what about what I’m supposed to bring back in exchange?”

  She ripped open the envelope. It was filled with cash, and lots of it. Just like I thought. She unzipped her jacket halfway, stuck the envelope in, then zipped it back up.

  “You’re not going to give me anything, are you?”

  “Nothing but a message for Goldblatt.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell him the next time he tries to fuck with people he should think twice. Oh, and you can also tell him that payback’s a bitch.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You seem to be a smart guy, Mr. Swann, you figure it out.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to be a disgruntled former client of his, would you?”

  “Goldblatt has disgruntled clients? What a surprise,” she said, waving the envelope in the air. “Sidney, did you know that Goldblatt has disgruntled clients? Clients he stole money from?”

  “News to
me,” said Sidney, without cracking a smile.

  “You mind telling me how much is in there?” I asked.

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “You’d be surprised what he doesn’t tell me. I’m just his dumbass errand boy. But I’ve got to tell you, whoever came up with that Starr Faithfull story really knew how to bait the hook. I’ve got to hand it to you. And you know something, I couldn’t care less what you’re doing to him.”

  “Isn’t he a friend of yours?”

  “We’re acquaintances who use each other when the occasion arises. He uses me and I use him. But I see that isn’t going to work out this time around. For either of us.”

  She closed the envelope and stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket.

  “I think we’re finished here, Sidney. I’m just sorry Goldblatt didn’t come here himself. We wanted to give him some interest on his money.”

  “I could give this dude one more shot…you know, interest. For the scumbag.”

  “No. I think we got what we came for.”

  “So, just out of curiosity, how much did you take him for?” I asked.

  She smiled. “Let’s say it was a lot more than he took from me. How about chalking it up to earning interest on my investment. I’m sorry you got into this, Mr. Swann, but that’s life, I guess.”

  “Yes, it is.” I would have sighed if I could have managed it.

  “Especially mine.”

  Sidney and the woman disappeared under the boardwalk and I and my aching ribs headed back to the train station.

  I should have been pissed, but I wasn’t. Sure, I probably wasn’t going to get paid, but the look on Goldblatt’s face when I told him what happened might be a lot better than a lost one hundred fifty dollars and the cost of a round-trip ticket to Long Beach.

  2

  SHAKE, RATTLE, AND ROLL

  “So, listen, I got an idea. I been thinkin’ about it a while now. You and me, we should team up and go into business together.”