Israel

by Fred Lawrence Feldman

  Right now it made no sense for Stefano to attempt to establish his own trucking business; Lansky would move to stop him. Like the other syndicate members, Stefano used Benny’s trucks, and a healthy portion of Benny’s profits were finding their way into Lansky’s coffers.

  But if Benny Talkin were Stefano de Fazio’s son-in-law, the Italian would take over as Benny’s feudal lord. Stefano would have the trucks and contacts he wanted as well as Lansky’s share of Benny’s profits. Benny knew this because he had wisely asked for Meyer’s blessing on his impending marriage, and while Lansky advised against an interfaith marriage, he did not forbid it. Lansky then proceeded to act as Mendy would have in arranging things with de Fazio. In exchange for Benny’s trucking business Stefano agreed to make his son-in-law a full partner in all of his holdings.

  As Benny drove up the winding driveway bordered with evergreens, he noticed that Dolores’ bright pink Hudson coupe was missing. Thank God she wasn’t home. Benny sighed to himself as he parked and walked up the cobblestone path to Stefano’s front door. He believed himself to be up to confronting an angry Stefano de Fazio, but he had no stomach just now for Dolores’ wrath.

  The door opened before Benny had a chance to ring the bell. “Come on in,” Gemstones Bucci said. Tony was dressed in golf clothes: brown knickers and a bright yellow sweater with a crimson argyle pattern across the front and back.

  Yellow was a bad choice for Tony, Benny couldn’t help thinking, it brought out his baldness and the slick sallowness of his homely features. Benny himself was wearing a three-piece suit of dark green worsted. His shirt was mint green Egyptian cotton and his silk tie was the color of ivy flecked with gold. His shoes were custom made two-tones, the color of strong tea with dark green saddles. Benny considered this to be his lucky outfit. The girls said the greens did something magical to his hazel eyes. Benny figured that it must be so, for so many had said the same thing.

  Tony Bucci led Benny through the movie-palace ambience of the big house. The flocked wallpaper, white rugs and red velvet draperies were all unchanged. As usual, Benny felt jarred as they passed from the eye-aching gaudiness of the main part of the house into Stefano’s somber mahogany-paneled study.

  Stefano was standing by the big window, gazing out at the bay. He turned, nodding to Benny. “Come see. Beautiful view today.”

  Benny dutifully moved to the window. The sunlight glittered on the mirror surface of the bay; gaudy boats bobbed in the water, tied to buoys like fat marshmallows.

  Benny felt Stefano’s hand on his shoulder. “How about a drink?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  “Atta boy. Tony,” Stefano called, “make us some of them—oh, hell, what were they called? You know, that new drink we had at the St. Regis.”

  “Red snappers they were called,” Tony said. “I gotta go downstairs for the stuff.”

  “Look at you, all dressed to the nines like you was going to work at some bank or something. It’s Saturday. You people don’t work on Saturday, right? You’re making me feel like a bum,” he laughed, gesturing at the ink stains across the front of his old white shirt and at his corduroy trousers, rubbed smooth at the knees and across the droopy seat. Stefano stroked his chin. “I ain’t even shaved today. Come on, at least take off that tie.”

  Benny demurred. “The tie is what makes it.”

  “Yeah, I guess. You got a lot of style, kid. Except of course for this mess with the women. Except for that, huh, kid?”

  Before Benny could reply Tony Bucci returned with a tray laden with a pitcher of tomato juice and spices. He went directly to Stefano’s well-stocked sideboard and began to mix the ingredients with vodka.

  “Wait’ll you try this,” Stefano boomed. “Maurice, the headwaiter at the St. Regis, told us it’s the latest thing in Paris.”

  Benny suppressed his smile. “They start serving those during the wee hours at the all-night joints in Harlem. They call ’em bloody marys.”

  “Hear that, Tony?” Stefano pouted. “And we thought we could impress Benny. Bloody marys, eh?” He chuckled. “No wonder they call ’em red snappers at the St. Regis. Can’t have no blood in a classy joint like that. Well, sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

  Benny settled himself into a leather armchair and balanced his glass on the brass-studded armrest while he lit a cigarette, flicking the match into the standing ashtray beside him. My lighter, he thought, Becky still has my lighter. Oh, Becky, how I miss you.

  He took a sip of his drink. “It’s good.” He nodded to Tony.

  “Be a cold day in August I can’t mix a drink better than some goddamned nigger in Harlem,” Tony declared.

  “I sent my wife shopping with Dolores,” Stefano began. “Maria and my daughter don’t know nothing about any of this, and as far as I’m concerned they never will. I don’t want Dolores holding nothing against you before the marriage. Get it?”

  “I’ve got to tell you something.” Benny had already rehearsed what he wanted to say. He would get it across to Stefano that this marriage would be a terrible mistake. There’d been so many women in his life. Benny had felt more or less the same vague fondness for them all, including Dolores. He’d truly believed that there was nothing more to feel for a woman, but then he met Becky. This marriage to Dolores had started out as a marriage of convenience, a business deal; such a marriage was no longer adequate now that he’d fallen in love with Becky.

  Of course he couldn’t tell Stefano he didn’t love his daughter. He had to be diplomatic.

  “Stefano, after what’s happened I wouldn’t blame you if you called off the wedding. I’m not good enough for Dolores,” Benny mourned.

  “You hear that?” Stefano asked Tony. “I told you he’s a good boy. Benny, you made a bad mistake, but it’s an understandable one. I was young myself once. I ain’t gonna hold this against you.”

  “Really, Stefano. Call it off. I’m not worthy—”

  Stefano smiled. “Let me explain something, kid. I mean, your father, may he rest in peace, hasn’t been around to show you the ropes. This whole marriage thing, it’s for the women, you know? They give you sons—daughters too, of course—but it’s the sons that count. Anyway, in exchange for bearing your children they expect a little security, so they invented marriage. Now, what a woman don’t know won’t hurt her. Just like the cops or the government. For instance, I got enough dough to live in a joint that’d make this place look like a garage, but I don’t need to attract attention to myself, right? I got Tony here to juggle my books so it looks like all my profits get plowed back into my businesses. I pay very little tax this way, Benny, and when the IRS comes snooping around they see that I live good, but not too good for what my books tell ’em. Get it? In other words, I’m discreet. In everything. That’s how you gotta be. Understand?”

  This was not going the way Benny had hoped. “Dolores should find herself a man worthy of her.”

  Stefano waved him quiet. “Bullshit. For one thing, there ain’t no man worthy of my daughter; for another thing, the fact that you’re so broken up about cheating on her makes you a saint compared to some guys I know. I’ll tell you the truth, Benny. 1 ain’t so mad at you for cheating on Dolores, ’cause what she don’t know can’t hurt her. I’m mad because of what you’ve done to poor Becky. I’ve known her since she was a little girl. She’s an innocent, Benny, and I hear you messed her up but good.”

  “I know that.”

  “She’ll get over it,” Stefano continued. “She’s got a lot of spunk.”

  “Maybe I’ll tell Dolores what’s happened,” Benny said, beginning to panic. “Let her make the decision—”

  “Shut up and listen to me,” Stefano said, his voice suddenly like steel. “This marriage is going to take place. Don’t give me no crap about honor and worthiness and love. None of that has anything to do with it. You know it and I know it. Even Meyer Lansky knows it. The only ones who don’t are my wife and my daughter. You made a business deal, Benny. You got to
keep it. Meyer can’t help you now. He wouldn’t try, and even if he did, I’d go to the syndicate and they’d vote Meyer down. A deal’s a deal. That’s the only way we can operate. Nobody has the right to go back on his word. Do you understand?”

  Benny stared at him. “You can’t force me to—”

  “You ever kill anybody?” Tony Bucci interrupted, his glasses flashing fire from the sunlight streaming in the window. “What I’m wondering is, you got any idea at all what you’re talking about when you use the word ‘force’?”

  “Lansky can’t protect you anymore,” Stefano repeated. “When he blessed this marriage he was giving you to me.”

  “What if I ran?”

  Stefano shrugged. “Go ahead. I don’t care. If that’s what you gotta do, then do it. Just make sure it’s far enough away so I don’t see you around no more. I’ll make up some kinda story to Dolores and to save face around town, and the syndicate will give me your trucks and routes to make it up to me. Lansky won’t like it, but he’ll go along to keep the peace. Like I said, kid, a deal’s a deal.”

  “You want to take some time to think about it, maybe?” Tony Bucci asked, licking his lips. “Personally, I ain’t got much use for you, but we could use them trucks.”

  “Yeah, think about it,” Stefano agreed. “But frankly, I don’t see a guy like you slinging hash in Chicago or somewhere.” He shrugged. “Say good-bye to them fancy suits and Cadillacs, right?”

  Benny slumped in his chair, knowing he was trapped. His choice was to marry Dolores or end up penniless somewhere far away. Stefano wouldn’t put out a contract on him, but he’d be as good as dead nevertheless. He’d have no money, no business, no home. Everything his father had built up would be lost.

  “Don’t take it so hard,” Stefano said soothingly. “You like Abe’s daughter? No problem. I’ll confess something to you, father-in-law to son-in-law. I got me a little apartment on the East Side with a chippie in it. Yeah, me, Stefano de Fazio.” He laughed. “She calls me Poppie.” He traced an hourglass figure in the air and smacked his lips. “She’s a blonde. She knows how to make a man feel good. You know what I’m saying?” He pondered it. “I’m talking about doing things a nice girl wouldn’t dream of. Personally, I don’t see Becky being that kind, but who’s to say? After all, she’s got a drunkard for a father.”

  Tony Bucci glanced at his watch. “They’ll be back soon, Stefano.”

  “Yeah. You take off now, Benny. Call me in a couple of days and let me know how you want to play it.”

  Tony stood up to escort Benny downstairs and out to his car. “A word to the wise,” he whispered to Benny as the latter started up the Cadillac. “Meyer don’t know about any of this and I wouldn’t tell him if I were you. You wanna stay on his good side, don’t mention how you’re thinking of letting him down.”

  Tony Bucci watched Benny drive off and returned to the house, where he found Stefano downstairs in the kitchen, washing the glassware that had been used for their drinks.

  “That wife of mine would want to know who’d been here with us if she saw three glasses,” Stefano muttered good-naturedly. “Dewey ain’t got snoops as good as Maria.”

  “Want me to do that?” Tony asked.

  “Nah, my hands are already wet.”

  Tony nodded but stood by uneasily; it didn’t seem right that his boss should be washing dishes. “I hope that Yid does cut and run,” he offered experimentally, not sure where Stefano really stood on the matter.

  “I don’t,” Stefano replied as he sponged out the pitcher. “The trucks are worth plenty, but not as much as Benny.”

  “I don’t get it,” Tony scowled. “You’re talking like you want a Yid for a son-in-law.”

  Stefano shrugged. “All my other daughters married Italians, so I can take it if Dolores has her heart set on that guy.”

  “It galls me that he’s coming in as a full partner.”

  Stefano continued to rinse the glasses. “Hey, my sons are in as partners, too, but so are you. You got nothing to fear from Benny. He’s a baby. You heard it yourself. Lansky has always taken care of him. He’s been in a couple of fist fights and that’s it. He’s never made his bones and he never will. He can’t kill nobody.”

  “But a Jew—”

  “Jews and Italians have worked together since Rothstein.”

  “This ain’t just work, this is marriage. What about your grandchildren?”

  “They’ll be raised in the church.”

  “Does Benny know that?”

  Stefano shrugged. “He’ll know when I tell him. Don’t worry, Benny will be a help to us. He works hard. That business didn’t thrive all by itself. Benny built up what Lansky and Siegel threw Mendy Talkin’s way. And then there’s politics to be considered.”

  Bucci scratched at his slick scalp, totally confounded.

  “You ever read Shakespeare?” Stefano finished rinsing the last glass and wiped his hands on his worn corduroys. “I know you haven’t. You only read accounting books, God love you.”

  “Get to the part where you explain why we need a Yid in the family,” Tony implored.

  “A lot of them Shakespeare plays have got to do with a bunch of royalty running around to see who’s gonna be top dog while the king’s away. That’s like the situation now with Luciano in jail. Meyer Lansky is definitely a duke. What he says goes because Luciano backs him. I’m only one of the earls or whatever. My word doesn’t cut it unless Meyer backs me. Now, the way I’m seeing it, Lansky and me are like two houses of royalty about to be joined together through marriage. What Lansky has to gain from this escapes me, but we do very good. Through Benny we get links to both Lansky and Bugsy Siegel out west. We also get closer to Luciano by being closer to Lansky.”

  “And the trucks,” Gemstones chortled. “Don’t forget them. There’s a war coming, Stefano. Don’t forget how good we did with our warehouses during the last war.”

  Stefano, nodding agreement, crossed the kitchen to open the refrigerator. “Maria’s got some roast chicken in here from last night. How about a snack?”

  Chapter 34

  New York

  That same Saturday Becky told her father that Malden’s was closed half a day for inventory and the cashiers did not have to report to work until two-thirty that afternoon. She left Cherry Street at two o’clock with a shopping bag under her arm.

  She’d told her father a white lie. She did not did not have to go to work at all that day. Instead she took the subway to the Upper West Side and emerged at Sherman Square.

  In the shopping bag was Benny Talkin’s jacket. She’d come uptown to return it to him. His apartment in the Dorilton was just steps away at Seventy-first and Broadway. Becky headed that way but then faltered. Returning the jacket with a note pinned to the lapel suggesting to Benny that they be friends had seemed like a good idea, but now that the moment had come, Becky lost her nerve.

  She reversed her direction and wandered uptown along Broadway. As she walked she let the excitement of this part of the city wash over her, momentarily banishing her turmoil over Benny.

  Becky had always enjoyed wandering the Upper West Side. Her favorite tour took her past the Astor, the Evelyn and finally the Apthorp, at which point she left Broadway to head east toward Central Park. Becky would pass Mount Neboh synagogue, its Byzantine dome and roughened exterior suggesting that it had been standing there far longer than twelve years.

  Becky considered its newness something to crow about. A magnificent synagogue in a well-to-do section of the city the Jews claimed for themselves. How wonderful to leave Hester and Orchard and Cherry streets far behind and wander here, along the majestic wide avenues.

  She continued all the way to Central Park West. Becky was wearing her smartest day dress and drawing nods and smiles from passersby as she turned their heads with her bright eyes and shiny dark shoulder-length tresses swinging in the soft breeze. On such a day her dreams swelled to fill the flawlessly blue sky.

  She would become
a buyer in a major department store like Macy’s or Gimbels or Pickman’s in Herald Square. Oh, what a marvelous job being a buyer was. There was travel, even to places like Paris, and an expense account and the opportunity to meet marvelous gentlemen who would invite her to intimate candlelit dinners in the dining cars of streamlined trains.

  There would be a good salary, of course, enough for fine clothes, car and an apartment in one of those marvelous buildings identified by glamorous name, not nondescript street number. Perhaps her rooms would have a window high above Central Park. She would gaze out at the majestic landscape and the fire escapes and rank alleyways of the Lower East Side would be memory of days long past.

  Often had Becky strolled this area, pretending her dream had come true, that before her at last was the delicious task of choosing the building in which she wished to live. It was during such a stroll that a lost soul came up to her and asked for directions—actually asked her, confident that she would know because she looked like just the sort of woman who belonged here.

  Someday, Becky vowed, I will get here someday.

  Suddenly she realized she was once again close to Benny’s address. The jacket in the crumpled Malden’s shopping bag was a weight dragging her down to dismal reality. She had not so much as a salesgirl’s job at a real department store. She was just a cashier at a five-and-dime, and a part-time cashier at that.

  Becky felt trapped. She desperately wanted the offered supervisor’s job, but it seemed that there was no way to turn her dreams into reality without disobeying her father, and how could she do that? She loved her father; besides, she knew full well that in his old eyes she was a partner in the store.

  Becky was her father’s only real happiness in life. Their time together in the store was a sorry imitation of what Abe had at one time believed he would enjoy, but it was all he had, and he wholeheartedly tried to make the most of it. How could Becky make her father give up the store? He couldn’t run it alone and wouldn’t run it with Danny. The dilapidated building on Cherry Street was her father’s entire world. Giving it up would break his heart, even if selling did give him enough money to live comfortably for the rest of his life.