by Peter Golden
Part III
9
South Orange, New Jersey
September 11, 1964
Rain was falling on the Friday morning we buried my grandmother, a cold autumn rain that slashed through the open sides of the lawn tent and sent streams of muddy water into her grave. Rabbi Adelberg, in a tan bucket hat with a red-and-blue ribbon, recited the Kaddish. As the pine box, resting on straps, disappeared into the ground next to my father, I began to cry again, feeling as if I were alone despite the two hundred people standing behind me.
Grief, Emma had observed after my parents died, is never what you imagine it will be. Beneath my sadness I was aware of a pure terror, an unshakable belief that I couldn’t go on without my grandmother—my one loving, reliable constant for as long as I could remember.
The shiva was an effective distraction even though Rollie and Birdman couldn’t make it, though they had come for the funeral. Rollie was in the middle of football season, and Birdman was organizing a conference at Yale to protest President Johnson’s bombing of North Vietnam. The house was packed with Emma’s friends and acquaintances from the synagogue and the store—apparently handing out free candy to kids forges an eternal bond—and teenagers who listened to my show. Eddie’s wife, Fiona, was in charge of the refreshments and booked the caterer. It was all done how Emma had wanted it. She had made the arrangements for her funeral, written out instructions for the days of mourning, and because I wouldn’t be twenty-one until January, appointed Eddie the executor of her will. He had told me about it, but I was in no mood to discuss it with him.
“Something on your mind, boyo?” He gave me the once-over like I was a welsher who owed him money.
“Nothing.” His look should’ve unnerved me, but I was too angry at him to be scared. Neither the South Orange police nor the detectives from the Essex County Prosecutor’s Office had any leads in Emma’s murder. The cash register hadn’t been touched, and no one along our commercial strip of Irvington Avenue had spotted anybody going in or out of Sweets. During my interviews with Officer Nelligan and the Essex County detective, I was afraid to mention the Abruzzis and the phones in the storage room, and I wasn’t asked about them. Once robbery was ruled out, the sole explanation for the shooting had to be connected to those phones, and I decided that after the shiva I’d talk to Eddie, and if he refused to tell the cops about his operation, then I would.
For the rest of the week—except for Yom Kippur when no one came by—I felt like a hostage in a noisy delicatessen. That last evening, after the house emptied out, I went for a walk to escape the odor of sour pickles and whitefish. At the corner, right before I turned toward the candy store, I glanced through a living room window and saw two children, a man, and a woman watching Rawhide on TV. Emma hated to miss that show, and I used to tease her that she had a crush on Clint Eastwood. A sob caught in my throat, and I went down Irvington Avenue past Beth El, the triangular-shaped wall of the sanctuary lit up for Friday-night services.
The only thing the cops knew about Emma’s final evening was that she had a ticket to a dinner at the synagogue, where a social worker who assisted concentration camp survivors was scheduled to speak. Emma, however, didn’t make it to Beth El, and getting shot didn’t account for her absence. The coroner said that my grandmother hadn’t been murdered until five or six in the morning.
I was cold, and cut over on Prospect Street back to Montague Place. I had to reopen Sweets, but I couldn’t picture working there without Emma, and then I remembered a conversation we had a couple of weeks after Beryl dumped me.
I was restocking the candy jars, and Emma was behind the soda fountain watching me.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
I knew she was referring to Beryl, but I wasn’t in the mood for any homespun wisdom, so I pretended not to hear her.
She said it again, louder. “It doesn’t matter.”
I was annoyed enough to answer. “Yeah, it does.”
“No, it don’t.”
“Fine. Then what matters?”
“That you’re alive, Mishka.”
“That’s it? That I’m alive?”
“That’s it. Dead people don’t have no fun.”
“You got a point,” I replied, wanting our discussion to end.
Emma flashed a triumphant smile. “I usually do.”
10
On Monday, I brought the bundles of newspapers into the candy store at five forty-five, and by eight, after the first wave of customers, I felt as if I’d put in a twelve-hour shift. Some of it was being at Sweets without my grandmother, but mainly I was anxious waiting for Eddie to show up so I could let him know that one of us was going to tell the cops about those phones.
“Morning,” Eddie said, taking a seat at the soda fountain. “Can I get a vanilla Coke?”
I was fuming and afraid as I stirred his drink, and he said, “Emma used to keep the radio on.”
The radio was by the blender, and I spun the dial to WABC as the Beatles broke into the chorus of “She Loves You.”
“No Sinatra?”
“I’m modernizing.”
Mr. Beer Barrel rolled in and went to the storage room, then came to the counter and said to Eddie, “Door’s locked.”
I said, “It’s closed. Till further notice.”
Beer Barrel gaped at me as if I was speaking Babylonian. He had the face of a boxer, and not an especially skillful one. Scar tissue had erased most of his eyebrows, and his ears looked like a puppy had used them for chew toys.
“Eddie, this kid get stupid gradual or has it come on recent?”
“Michael’s been working on it for a while. Why don’t you wait in the car, Gerald?”
“I got to stay here and make some calls.”
I inched my hand over to the scissors I’d positioned below the syrup dispensers. “Go grow some eyebrows.”
Gerald, displeased by my suggestion, stepped toward the counter. Eddie stuck out his arm like a crossing guard, moving him backward, and when he was gone, said, “What’s with you?”
“Some piece of shit murdered Emma.”
“And you figure Gerald was involved?”
“The phones—”
Eddie sipped his vanilla Coke. “Those are Abruzzi phones, and anyone knowing that wouldn’t have the balls to shoot your grandmother here. That’s why I’m concerned. About you.”
“Me? Why me?”
“Somebody aces Emma, nothing gets taken, and no other stores get hit. It don’t add up. Maybe the shooter does an encore, ya understand?”
My mouth was dry. “Why would anyone want to kill Emma?”
“I’m trying to find out—me and some other guys. For now, I got Gerald and a pal of his watching your house at night.”
“Really? I didn’t see them.”
“You ain’t supposed to. But they can’t watch you forever. You need to go on a vacation till this gets taken care of.”
“What about the store? My house?”
“I’ll handle that. And you inherited plenty of dough. We’ll go over that later.”
A woman was standing at the register. Eddie glanced at her and, lowering his voice, said, “I got something cooking. You be at my place at four thirty. And unlock the storage room. Gerald’s coming in. With his pal. They’ll close up for you. Got it?”
Before I could answer, Eddie said, “Go wait on your customer.”
* * *
Walking to Radel Terrace on a brilliant September afternoon, it seemed inconceivable that I could be in danger until I recalled Emma in her blood-soaked blouse. A maroon Thunderbird I didn’t recognize was in the O’Rourkes’ driveway. I rang the bell and Eddie came to the door and led me up a carpeted stairway, through a den, and out onto a roof deck with a view of Underhill Field. Julian Rose, tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a muddy-patterned tweed sport coat, was leaning on the railing, watching the Columbia football team doing jumping jacks on the grass.
Julian turned. “Hi, Michael. It’s
terrible about Emma. What a lady. I apologize for not getting to see you before now.”
“I understand, Mr. Rose.” He’d been sitting shiva for his wife and daughter, who were killed by a drunk driver on Labor Day. I’d gone to the funeral with Emma. She’d known Julian ever since my father had been his accountant. He used to pop into Sweets to chew the fat with Eddie and Emma. The stories of Julian Rose and Longy Zwillman during Prohibition were part of New Jersey folklore, and Julian was Eddie’s closest friend, so I didn’t question whether he’d been a tough guy. It wasn’t obvious, though, since he looked like Cary Grant, as my mother liked to point out to my father, and was as soft-spoken as a librarian.
I was wondering why Julian was there when the doorbell chimed, and Eddie went down and returned with a guy who reminded me of my high -school chemistry teacher—lanky, with a buzz cut the color of a tarnished nickel and the bland expression of someone who studied the periodic table for fun.
“Taft,” Julian said and, after they exchanged a fast, back-slapping hug, the man extended his hand to me. His arms were too long for his charcoal suit coat.
“I’m Taft Mifflin. And you must be Mikhail Dainov, the Mad Russian.”
We shook. He didn’t strike me as a regular listener. “My real name—”
“Michael Daniels, I know. I work for the Four Freedoms Radio Committee. I’ve been friends with Julian since we served together in the war. We were talking a while back, and he told me that the kids around here are huge fans of your show.”
According to a profile I’d read of Julian in the Newark Evening News, he’d fought in Europe during World War II as a member of the Office of Strategic Services, and the OSS was a forerunner of the Central Intelligence Agency. I was attempting to think up a shrewd way to ask Taft if he was a spy when he said, “Four Freedoms Radio broadcasts programs into the Soviet Union, and I help manage the station.”
“Like Voice of America? I’ve heard about Willis Conover and his jazz show.”
“VOA operates under the U.S. Information Agency. We’re a private company. Several months ago, we decided we needed a rock and roll program, and our New York office heard about you speaking Russian on the air and started taping you off the towers, then flew the tapes to our headquarters in Munich, and we’ve been broadcasting them in Russia.”
“That’s legal?”
He raised his hands, palms up. “Don’t complain. You’re a big hit there.”
“How do you know?”
“Teenagers write letters to Munich, we interview Russian tourists in Europe, and we analyze that information and estimate your market penetration. So last week I was talking to Julian—he told me about your grandmother, I’m sorry about that, Michael—and he said you needed to get out of town.”
“That’s Eddie’s opinion,” I said.
“Because it’s the truth, boyo. Listen to what the man has to say.”
Taft continued, “I’m offering you a deejay spot in Munich. You’ll have a producer to handle the technical stuff. All you’ll have to do is write out the playlist and talk. And Munich’s terrific. Plenty of eager fräuleins. We’ll put you up in a hotel, and you’ll make five hundred a month. You’ll have a blast on that kind of money in Germany. What do you say?”
Eddie said, “He says he’ll take it.”
“I do?”
Eddie gave me one of his colder glares.
Taft placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “I’m sure this is difficult for you, Michael. I’ve been trying to find out what I can.”
“Why?”
“Julian told me he was friends with your grandmother, and I wanted to see if I could come up with a lead for the police. In my line of work, you get to know people who know people, and it helps that we’re required to do a background check on potential employees, so during your check, some things came up about your grandmother. You feel like answering a few questions?”
I nodded.
“Any idea why your grandmother applied for a tourist visa in August to the Soviet Union?”
“She was born in Russia.”
“In a town in the western Ukraine, according to what she wrote on her visa application. But that town no longer exists. Stalin worked it over, and the Nazis finished the job. Did you ever meet a relative with the last name Adaskina?”
“I never met any relatives. Why?”
“That was your grandmother’s maiden name. Why’d she go to Europe every year?”
I replied, “I don’t know. Because she liked to vacation there?”
Taft smiled. “That makes sense. Did she ever say anything about being in a concentration camp?”
“Never. Why would she? Was my grandmother in a camp?”
Taft shrugged. “No record of it, but I saw a note somewhere, maybe on some old immigration paperwork. Forget it. The immigration guys processed a lot of people after the war who didn’t speak English, and they made plenty of mistakes. Tell me. Between the stamps on her passport and the record of the purchases she paid duty on, we can tell that your grandmother spent time in Geneva, Munich, and Paris. Do you know why?”
“All I know is she bought me and my parents presents from her trips.”
Taft was looking at the Rolex on my wrist, the one with the red and blue bezel marked with white numerals 2 through 22.
“Is that one of her presents?”
“It was hers.” I’d had the bracelet resized and wore it now instead of the Explorer model that Emma had bought me—a way to keep her close, I suppose.
Eddie said, “And she was still wearing the Rolex when Michael found her. And no money was missing from the register.”
“Interesting,” Taft said. “May I see the watch?”
I held out my left arm.
Taft stared at my wrist. “This big red hand, not the one for minutes or hours, the arrow that shows another time zone. Did you reset it so it’s six hours ahead of us?”
“No. Emma must have.”
“Any reason she’d be keeping track of the time in Europe?”
I shrugged and considered telling him that Emma was always glancing at the watch even though there were two clocks in the store, but I was scared, and I wondered, for one crazy moment, if Emma could have been a spy.
“On her trips, your grandmother always stopped in Nice.”
“Where’s Nice?”
“In the South of France.”
“She didn’t talk about her travels.”
“Sorry about the questions, Michael. I’ll keep asking around and let you know if I come up with anything that’ll help the investigation. I noticed from your background check that you have a passport.”
“I do.” Last summer, after Emma was done with her vacation, Rollie, Birdman, and I had planned to fly to Italy and visit Rollie’s cousins in Siracusa. Rollie got mono instead.
“Good. It’ll take me forty-eight hours to get the arrangements squared away. Our New York office will call you.”
I thanked him, because I’d been taught to be polite, but if Taft Mifflin was the manager of a radio station, I was the king of Siam.
As Julian and Taft went downstairs, Eddie turned to me and said, “Don’t look so glum. You’ll have some fun over there, we’ll find out what happened here, and in a couple months, this’ll all be behind you. C’mon, Fiona’s got bingo at the church. Let’s go to Alex Eng, and I’ll tell you about the will.”
At dinner, Eddie said that my father had been optimistic when he told my mother that he’d hit the million-dollar mark. Most of his net worth was the result of a temporary jump in the stock market. He had left about 70 percent of that amount with his life insurance, and Emma had invested most of it in bonds and blue-chip stocks that paid a nice dividend.
Somewhere between Eddie’s mentioning that my approximate annual income would be twenty-six grand, more than enough for me to get by, and that I’d inherit all the money when I was thirty, my attention wandered and, not for the first time, I wondered if Eddie had been more to Emma than a casu
al friend. Thinking about my grandmother in that way didn’t improve my appetite, and I put down my spare rib.
“Not hungry?” Eddie asked.
Unsure how to ask him such a personal question, I poured tea into my cup.
“Spit it out, boyo.”
I avoided his eyes by staring at the dish of duck sauce. “Why did Emma put you in charge of her estate? You and her, you were friends, but why would she—”
“Jesus, I don’t know whether to laugh or crack you one.”
“Do I get a choice?”
Eddie laughed. “Yeah, you could get yourself a girlfriend like I keep saying so you’d have other things to think about. But listen, Michael.”
Extending his hand across the booth, Eddie tapped me under the chin. I looked up.
“You figure your grandmother had an easy life? Losing her son, working at the candy store, taking care of you?”
“I guess not.”
“You’re damn right not. And did you ever hear her complain?”
“No.”
“Me either. And I admired her. So when she asked me to be her executor, I was flattered. And even if she didn’t ask, I would’ve looked after you. You’re a good boy—when you’re not dreaming up stupid questions. So I promised Emma, and I ain’t breaking that promise. Which is why you’re going to Munich until I know you’ll be safe here.”
I had been on the fence about going to Germany. Maybe if Beryl was still around, I would’ve argued with Eddie, but there was nothing to keep me at home. Whatever Eddie’s relationship with my grandmother—and I mostly believed him—he was too fond of her to lie about my needing to get out of South Orange. Besides, the idea of something new was exciting. If my radio gig in Munich dragged on past New Year’s, maybe Rollie and Birdman could visit, and we could travel around Europe. Meanwhile, Eddie would take care of the bastard who shot Emma, and then I could come home.
The next two days passed in a blur. I did a final show at WSOV, telling the audience that I was off on an adventure and promising to speak to them again soon.