Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  She smiles. She’s a pretty kid, tall and thin like her mother, with the mischievous look of someone who doesn’t sit around waiting for things to happen.

  “Actually,” he tells her, “one of the guys I worked with was on TV before the Kefauver Committee.”

  Allie wrinkles her nose. “What’s that?”

  “Estes Kefauver was a senator who wanted to be president and went around the country holding hearings on TV to investigate organized crime.” The would-be president from Tennessee is dead now, as is J.J., who had his own few minutes of TV celebrity. Even the big mobster Frank Costello, who only allowed the cameras to show his hands while he testified, which made him seem all the more sinister—he’s dead too.

  “That sounds like pretty big stuff,” Allie says.

  “It was,” Ziggy tells her. “Those hearings were so popular they knocked Howdy Doody off the air for a while. You can look it up.”

  “Howdy Doody?” She wrinkles her nose.

  Ziggy searches for something she can relate to and settles for, “I guess you could say it was like Sesame Street.” But that’s enough about the past. “Anyway,” he says, “I’m impressed that you’re a horse rider. You’d never get me on one of those animals.”

  She laughs. “I’ll bet you wouldn’t say that once you were in the saddle. Actually, I used to feel the same way,” she says. “Then I heard this girl I know, Gayle, bragging about riding and I said to myself, if she can do it, so can I. Once I got on a horse it seemed as if I’d been doing it forever.”

  “Good for you,” Ziggy says, thinking that if his granddaughter had been around a hundred years ago in the old country, she’d probably have been one of those who pushed the idea of leaving for America. “Well, I’m impressed,” he tells her. “What about your brother? Does he ride?”

  “Are you kidding?” She shakes her head. “He can tell you all about the horse’s prehistoric ancestors, but riding a live one doesn’t interest him at all.” Then she quickly rushes to her brother’s defense. “He’s smart, though, really smart.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Ziggy says. “When I told him about my trip through the desert, he explained to me how the animals, cactus and other plants out there survive with almost no water. You could see how interested he was in that kind of stuff. To tell the truth, I think he’d have got a lot more out of that trip than I did,” he says.

  “Paul can seem like a bit of a geek,” Allie declares, “but he’s OK.”

  After she’s left, Ziggy ponders the mystery of his grandchildren’s heritage. Where did the little intellectual get his brains, where did his horse-riding sister get her courage? He can’t help wondering how those two are going to turn out; although even as he thinks it, he recognizes that there’s a good chance he isn’t going to be able to find out. The fact is, he realizes, all of us are caught up in the middle of a whole lot of stories and nobody gets a chance to see how all of them turn out. Hell, for that matter, who knows what Detroit’s going to be like fifty years from now?

  But, closer to home, he wonders about what’s in store for his son’s marriage. The Griller-in-Chief acts like a man who thinks he’s landed in heaven. He obviously loves his work, his family and most likely his wife as well. What’s going to happen to him if he has to face disruption in his household? But will he, necessarily? Is it possible that he and Gloria have worked out some sort of arrangement that goes beyond what was acceptable to Ziggy and his generation? Not for the first time, he feels a tug toward home, where things are simpler.

  When Lennie shows up in Burbank the next morning, he’s driving a shiny black Cadillac. Ziggy whistles. “I was expecting a boxy Checker with a roof light,” he says. “This is a pretty high class cab.” In fact, there’s no indication that the car’s for hire: not only is there no roof light, there’s no lettering on the door, no meter.

  “It’s really a special livery service for show business people,” Lennie explains. “We don’t just pick up anybody.” He’s wearing a dark suit that’s a little roomy on him and Ziggy can see a chauffeur’s cap on the front seat. “Most of my work is later in the day,” Lennie says. It strikes Ziggy that, even though Lennie no doubt has the papers to prove his legitimacy, he still looks like someone who’s impersonating a chauffeur.

  “How do you like your job?” Ziggy asks.

  Lennie shrugs. “It’s a job. At least I’m not likely to run into my cousin Morris out here.”

  “Is it OK if I sit in front?” Ziggy asks a moment later. “Or is that againt the rules?”

  “Be my guest,” Lennie says.

  Well, I’m traveling in style again, Ziggy thinks. He remembers how proud J.J. was of his Caddy, though J.J. would never have had a black one. White, he said, was a classy color, black was for hearses. So maybe this is exactly the car Ziggy should be going in to see Przybylski.

  “I’m still learning my way around the streets here,” Lennie says when he’s behind the wheel. “I was glad when you said you only wanted to go to Pasadena. It’s pretty easy to get to.”

  “Good.” Ziggy takes a long drag on the cigarette he’s just lit. He’s surprisingly nervous about this venture, but then, he can’t help remembering Linda’s description of Edward Prince’s lucrative empire of the dead. He’s glad Lennie has a dark suit on, since his presence might be able to lend him a little borrowed elevation. The best he’s been able to come up with from his own traveling wardrobe is a clean white shirt and a pair of pressed brown pants. “Your agent says he got you a place to live,” he says. “How is it?”

  Lennie keeps his eyes on the road. “It’s true that motel where I spent a couple of nights was a zoo,” he says. “In the space of a few hours I got opportunities to become a drug runner, a roadie and part of a threesome, none of which were particularly appealing. Given the weight of the other two participants, I guess you’d more accurately call it a fivesome. I mean, Meat Loaf and Mama Cass would have been more than welcome there. I know Mama Cass is dead but I’m not sure that would have been a problem with that particular ensemble. Anyway, when Sam tells me about this place he’s found for me, I’m ecstatic. Sure, he says it’s in a canyon. I figure out here that’s just a fancy name for a street but no, this is a real canyon with hills and trees and empty spaces, coyotes even, and, for all I know, packs of ravenous wolves roaming the wilds—you’ve got to believe that was my first thought after Charlie Manson. When I lock the door at night, I’m sure not opening it until the sun comes up. I mean, I never heard of the guy who’s in rehab who lived there before me, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s someone from the cast of Grizzly Adams. Then of course, there are all kinds of signs warning about fires, so I’m lying awake at night thinking the choice might come down to staying inside and getting roasted or running outside and taking my chances with the wolves. As my uncle Bernie used to say, “Oy vey, for this I left Russia?”

  While Lennie rattles on Ziggy tries to get himself mentally ready for his meeting with little Eddie Przybylski. Like his father, Eddie kept his distance from the numbers, so there’s not a lot of small talk that Ziggy has available to break the ice. Still, you’d think the man would have to be cordial to a visitor from the old neighborhood. It irritates Ziggy that he should be so concerned about holding up his end of this encounter. After all, he reminds himself, he’s just paying a call on an undertaker, not an actual prince. Still, he wishes he had his favorite houndstooth jacket from the old days, maybe a Hathaway shirt with the ruby cuff links and a silk tie, the whole outfit topped by his pearl gray Dobbs hat.

  “This has got to be it,” Lennie says after a while. “Didn’t I see this place in Gone With the Wind?” Ziggy looks up to see a stately building with tall white columns set on a slight rise amid a handsome array of shrubs and small trees. A curving driveway leads to a portcullis, but a sign directs the visitor to a parking lot in the rear. The sign, like the one that identifies the place as “Prince Funeral Homes,” is discreet and tasteful, even a little intimidating.

  “OK,
” Ziggy takes a last puff on his cigarette, “let’s do this thing.”

  Lennie pulls the car into the parking lot and once again Ziggy’s grateful he’s arriving in a Cadillac. “Why don’t you come along with me?” he says, more than ever banking on the status that Lennie’s dark suit might convey.

  When he pushes open the heavy door, Ziggy’s greeted by refrigerated air that’s faintly flavored with a floral scent. The expensive spaces before them, bathed in muted light, convey a sense of hush, as if he and Lennie are entering a church. They haven’t taken a dozen steps across the thick plumcolored carpeting, though, before they’re greeted by a thin blond young man dressed in gray.

  “Can I help you?” he asks softly.

  “We’d like to see Mr. . . .” Ziggy almost says “Przybylski” but catches himself, ”Prince.”

  “Is this something I can help you with?” the man smiles thinly. “As you might imagine, Mr. Prince is very busy.” Cordial as his tone may be, he’s giving the two of them the intense scrutiny of somebody who’s ready to call Security the instant he sees something that strikes him as fishy. That’s not surprising, Ziggy thinks, given the allegations made about Prince in the press. How does he know his visitors aren’t reporters?

  The silence that follows the man’s offer is filled with the soft sweep of stringed instruments coming from hidden speakers.

  “Actually,” Ziggy says, “this is a social call. I’m here from Detroit for a very brief visit and I used to know Mr. Prince there. I understand that he’s a very busy man but I’d just like to say hello. And what did you say your name was?” he asks.

  “I’m Peter Crane,” the man obliges. “Mr. Prince’s personal assistant.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Crane.” He gives the man his name. “I’d really appreciate five minutes with Mr. Prince,” he says.

  When Crane moves off, Lennie glances toward what looks like an antique table holding a tasteful and undoubtedly costly arrangement of flowers. “This is like a country club for the dead,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I popped into one of those chapels and saw somebody laid out in tennis whites. I bet they even frown on noisy mourning here.”

  “It’s pretty spiffy, all right.” Ziggy’s trying to take in what seem like acres of softly lit corridors. How many chapels does this place have? he wonders. The old man’s parlor back in Detroit was nothing like this. Whether or not little Eddie’s being bankrolled by the mob, it certainly has to take a lot of money to run this kind of operation. And if there are branches, that would just multiply the expenses.

  Peter Crane is with them again, smiling less guardedly now. “Fortunately, Mr. Prince just does happen to have a few minutes,” he says. “Follow me.”

  “I’ll wait here,” Lennie says, which gets Crane’s attention.

  “OK,” Ziggy says, “I’ll be back soon.”

  “Please make yourself at home,” Crane tells Lennie. “There’s coffee in the hospitality room.” He nods slightly, indicating the direction. “I’ll be right out to help you if you need anything more.”

  Ziggy follows the man down a corridor past a half-dozen chapels. He hears some murmurs from within, but elegant oriental screens keep the deceased as well as their mourners discreetly out of sight. From what he manages to see, the funeral home is quite ecumenical, with none of the crucifixes and pictures of the Virgin Mary or the Sacred Heart you’d find in the place in Detroit. At the end of the corridor Crane gives a soft rap on a paneled wooden door and steps back. “Just walk in,” he motions with his hand.

  The first thing that bugs Ziggy is that Eddie Przybylski hasn’t bothered to come out to greet him. Instead, he’s sitting behind an imposing desk of dark, polished wood that’s big enough for a helicopter to land on, set so far back in the room that his visitor has to cross twenty feet of carpeting to reach him. It’s only when Ziggy’s arrived within a pace or two of the desk that Eddie gets up and throws out both hands, like some tuxedoed crooner on TV who’s finishing his number on a high note.

  “Ziggy,” he says, standing there with his head to one side. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  The performance is totally fake, since nothing in their past relationship would justify that much enthusiasm, but Ziggy assumes that in his line of work Eddie must have had a lot of practice being insincere. Then too, everything about this encounter seems staged. It’s obvious that Mr. Prince wants his visitors to spend a few seconds making their way to him so they’ll have time to take in the expensive furnishings and the art on the walls. Little Eddie certainly isn’t trying to create the impression that he’s just plain folks. Ziggy has no idea how Przybylski’s son has been able to pay for all this, but he can’t believe it’s just the result of smart business practices.

  After holding his pose for a couple of seconds, Eddie comes out from behind the desk and extends his hand. When Ziggy takes it, Eddie puts an arm on his visitor’s shoulder and directs him to a chair. “Sit, sit,” he urges. “Please.” What he thinks of Ziggy’s bargain basement outfit he doesn’t say, but when he settles back into his own chair behind the desk, he fusses a bit with his cuffs, bringing the gold links forward, then he leans back with a smile. “How’s the old neighborhood?” he asks.

  “Pretty much gone to hell, to tell the truth,” Ziggy says. As if you didn’t know, he thinks. The man seated across from him is Eddie Przybylski, all right, a bit older but a lot smoother-looking. Tall, thin and tan, in his tailored gray suit, he reminds Ziggy of a lizard, a very self-satisfied lizard. Every move he makes shows how much he enjoys playing the role of Edward Prince.

  Having heard the news about his old neighborhood, Eddie observes a few seconds of respectful silence, nodding his head solemnly. “It’s tragic,” he says at last, his voice dropping, “what’s happened to that city.” After a couple more beats, though, his frown unwrinkles and he brightens. “By the way, can I get you anything? A cigar?” He brings his hand forward again, sneaking a look at his watch. He has his father’s small mouth and when it’s closed it resembles a coin slot—for dimes, nothing bigger.

  This is one smug asshole, Ziggy thinks. “No, thanks,” he says. “Mind if I have a cigarette?”

  “Not at all,” Eddie says, though the ashtray on the desk, a gigantic piece of what looks like crystal, is immaculate.

  Ziggy lights up and sends a cloud of smoke in Eddie’s direction. For a moment he just watches the smoke; the tobacco has relaxed him. “I had a hard time finding you,” he says. “I didn’t know about the name change.”

  Eddie sighs. “A business necessity pure and simple,” he declares. “You can imagine how well ‘Pr-, Prz-, Pryzybylski’ would play out here.” He draws the word out with a comic stammer, as if it were being pronounced by someone unfamiliar with Polish. Eddie’s eyes are a soft blue, and for an instant you could almost believe he regrets having dropped those extra syllables from his name, just as it’s possible that someone who didn’t know him might believe Eddie actually gives a shit about what happened to Detroit. At the same time, though, the faintest flicker of irony shows itself in those eyes, as if it wouldn’t displease him at all for you to know that he’s bullshitting, just as long as you acknowledge that it’s pretty high quality bullshitting.

  “You seem to be doing well,” Ziggy tells him. “The name change must have worked.”

  “Yes, we’ve had some success.” Eddie raps on the table. “Some of that’s luck, good timing, I suppose. Yeah, I’m a lucky man.”

  “Don’t be so modest,” Ziggy insists. “It’s impressive, coming into an area like this where there must be plenty of established businesses. It’s got to be hard for an outsider to make a dent.” He flicks some ash into the clean ashtray.

  Eddie’s made his hands into a steeple on the desk. He nods thoughtfully, basking in the celebration of his triumph.

  “It’s even more impressive,” Ziggy says, “that you seem to have made a lot more than just a dent. I mean, I understand you have a string of places like th
is.” He takes another drag. “I suppose that, like every business, you’ve got to have a talent for getting to know the right people. And that is a talent.”

  Once more Eddie beams, his small mouth curved into a smirk.

  That smirk gets to Ziggy. It has a sharp edge, like one of those small, curved knives used for cutting linoleum, and he draws hard on the cigarette, pulls the smoke in deeply before exhaling, then crushes the several remaining inches in the ashtray. He came in here determined to keep his cool, at least till he’d got the information he wants, but he’s already had all he can take of this guy. “It’s too bad,” he says, “that some people might get the wrong idea about your success. I understand some of them have even gone so far as to call you the Prince of Darkness.”

  For a second or two Eddie’s at a loss for words. He sits there a few feet from Ziggy, motionless, his eyes unguarded, like someone caught in a compromising act by a photographer, frozen, blinded for a moment by the surprise of the flashbulb; and in that instant Ziggy can glimpse an unmistakable animal fear. Then all at once Eddie’s face turns hard, his mouth tightens and his eyes go ice-cold. Jesus, Ziggy realizes, that was stupid of me. Across from him, Eddie has become composed now. He sinks back slowly against his padded chair, his frown shading toward a sneer.

  “Success breeds envy,” he says at last. Then, after a pause, “Envy breeds lies.” He laughs out loud. “Nobody’s proved a thing about me.” A couple of seconds later, he adds, “I’d imagine that you, of all people, would be able to appreciate that.”

  Ziggy’s blood is boiling; he wishes he hadn’t put out that smoke and looks longingly at the bent cigarette lying amid the ashes in the gigantic ashtray. The thought strikes him that, for all his shortcomings, the elder Przybylski had a hell of a lot more class than his son. What’s happened to little Eddie out here? Back in Detroit he was a nobody. People had to pay him attention because he stood to inherit his father’s business. Otherwise, he was just somebody else in a dark suit who spoke softly as he led you toward the most expensive casket. But who could guess that under that bland exterior there lurked the smug egotist who’s sitting a few feet away? Still, even though the man is insufferable, Ziggy realizes that his own temper has got him into trouble, and not for the first time. He reminds himself that he didn’t come here to pass judgment on Eddie Przybylski; his business, whatever it is, is with his father. He’s going to have to backtrack pretty quickly.