Inherit the Mob

by Zev Chafets

  Their first meeting was on the corner of Canal Street and East Broadway, when they were both twelve. Shulman sold the New York World on that corner; one day Grossman showed up with a stack of Posts. “This is my corner from now on, kid,” he told Shulman.

  “There’s enough room to go around,” said Shulman. “Besides, nobody can own a corner.”

  Grossman knocked Shulman’s papers on the street. “You wanna make something of it?” he challenged.

  “Nah,” said Shulman. “I don’t feel like fighting over a corner. If it’s that important to you, there are other corners.”

  Grossman was infuriated by Shulman’s blasé attitude, as if the little kike in raggedy clothes sold newspapers as a hobby. “I’m gonna kick your ass for you,” he said.

  “I won’t let you do that,” said Jerry Shulman. “I’ll move to another corner, but you can’t kick my ass.”

  Grossman set down his papers and charged. Shulman sidestepped and tripped him into the gutter. Several grown-ups passing by laughed, but nobody tried to break it up. Grossman got back on his feet and leaped at the newsboy, who backed away, forcing him off balance again. “What are you, some kind of a jujitsu guy?” Grossman asked through clenched teeth. “I’ll show you jujitsu.” He picked up the lid from a garbage can and heaved it at Shulman, who blocked it with a forearm. By now a large crowd had gathered and they were cheering the boys on.

  “Let’s quit,” said Shulman. “There’s no point in putting on a free show for these people.”

  “I’m gonna kick your ass,” Al Grossman said, although for some reason he felt like crying.

  Suddenly Shulman turned to the crowd. “You want to see us fight,” he yelled, “you gotta pay.” He took off his cap and circulated among the men on the corner, who grudgingly tossed in a few pennies or a nickel. Al Grossman stood there waiting, unsure of what to do.

  “Winner take all?” Shulman asked.

  “Yeah,” said Grossman, trying to regain some of his attitude. “Come ’ere, kid, I’ll break your neck.”

  Shulman walked toward him. Suddenly Grossman was on the ground, and the crowd spun above him. He struggled to regain his feet, and when he did, Shulman knocked him unconscious.

  Al woke up a few minutes later. Shulman had propped him up, half sitting, against a brick wall, and was back on the corner hawking papers. Grossman rose groggily. “My brother’s Max Grossman,” he said. “He’s gonna come down here and kill you.” Max already had a reputation in the neighborhood as a hood, but Shulman seemed totally unimpressed. “If you tell on me, he’ll laugh at you,” he said, and Grossman realized that he was right. He stood on the corner, fists clenched, not knowing what to do next. Shulman reached into his pocket and took out a handful of coins. “Here,” he said. “This is from the fight. You earned it.”

  “You hit me with a sucker punch,” said Al Grossman. “I’ll kick your ass next time.”

  Shulman looked at him evenly with warm brown eyes. “You can’t,” he said flatly.

  Grossman saw Shulman around the neighborhood from time to time, but they never fought again. One day, when he was seventeen, he walked into the Cream of New York Deli and found Shulman sitting with his brother, Max, and Al Axelrod. They treated Shulman with respect, he noticed jealously—more like a contemporary of theirs than of his.

  They were talking business, and Max ignored his younger brother. “You’re going to need somebody to go with you,” he told Shulman. “You can’t do this alone.”

  “How about him?” Shulman said, gesturing toward Al.

  “Him? He’s a kid.”

  Shulman turned to Grossman. “How about it?” he said. “You want to take a truck ride with me to Michigan?”

  They spent three days on the road, transporting a load of stolen radios and appliances to a dealer in Detroit. By the time they got back to New York, Jerry Shulman was Al Grossman’s best friend.

  It was an unequal friendship. Shulman was more like an older brother, someone Al came to with problems or asked for advice. He admired Shulman’s quiet competence, his intelligence and his courage. He had class, never raised his voice or started trouble. For Max and Al and the other neighborhood wise guys, crime was a way of life; for Shulman, it was a boost out of the Lower East Side. On Hester Street there were two kinds of kids—good boys, who studied hard, helped their fathers and dreamed of being doctors; and wise guys, who carried guns and talked about becoming millionaires. Alone among the kids in the neighborhood, Jerry Shulman was accepted by both crowds, sometimes serving as an ambassador between them.

  Shulman was the first person Grossman knew personally who attended college. He went to NYU and studied, of all things, American history. He also supervised Max’s numbers operation. When he graduated, Max gave him a new Packard as a gift.

  After the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor, Al, who was by then working full time for his brother, received a medical discharge. Shulman refused a similar offer and joined the marines. He came home in 1945 with a Silver Star, a Purple Heart and the same softly self-confident manner he had before the war. He went back to school and earned a master’s degree in history. To pay for it, he worked for Max as an organizer in the garment union.

  During those years, Al and Shulman frequently hung out together. Although he was working and going to school, Shulman found the time to go up to Yankee Stadium for a ball game or to join Al at Jones Beach with a case of cold beer and a couple of girls. He never bragged about his wartime experiences or flaunted his education. He spoke quietly and sensibly, although Al knew that in dealing with the garment workers he did what needed to be done.

  One day in the spring of 1948, Shulman came by the Cream of New York and announced that he was going to Israel to fight. At first Al tried to dissuade him, but Shulman wouldn’t be talked out of it. “It’s the right thing for me to do,” he said.

  “I suppose you think I ought to go, too,” Al said, but Shulman shook his head.

  “If you don’t feel like it’s your fight, you shouldn’t get into it,” he said.

  “How come everything is your fight?” Grossman flared. “Who appointed you the avenging angel?”

  “It’s not like that, Allie,” he said, laying his hand on his friend’s cheek, a tender gesture that only Jerry Shulman could have gotten away with. “It’s just the kind of time we’re living in, that’s all. Don’t worry, I came back last time, I’ll come back this time.”

  Shulman did come back, although it took him six years. After the war he completed a doctorate in history at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and married an Israeli girl named Dina. When he brought her to New York, in 1954, Max greeted them at the airport with a new Cadillac and the keys to a duplex on Park Avenue.

  For the next three years, Jerry Shulman was the only gangster in the United States with a Ph.D. During those years he undertook special assignments for Max Grossman, who kept him far away from anything dangerous. Once, when Al Grossman tried to involve Shulman in a diamond-smuggling operation, Max had vetoed the idea. “Smugglers are a dime a dozen,” he told his younger brother. “Jerry’s too valuable to waste. He knows how to talk to people.”

  In 1957, after the heads of the Mafia were rounded up at Appalachia and the McClellan Committee began looking into Max Grossman’s affairs, Jerry Shulman quit for good. He moved his wife, Dina, and their four children to Florida, where he got a job teaching history at the University of Miami. As far as Al knew, he had been legitimate since then, but he never turned his back on his old friends. Whenever Max Grossman came to Miami, he was always invited to dinner, and often he and Shulman spent evenings together. His association with Jerry Shulman, whom he naturally and affectionately called “Professor,” was a source of pride.

  After Shulman moved to Miami, Al Grossman found it hard to spend time with him. He made Grossman feel crude and ignorant. Whenever he was around Shulman, Al dropped his wise-guy routine but he had nothing to replace it with. Gradually he let the friendship fade, but never lost his
sense of admiration, almost awe, for his boyhood rival.

  Now he stood on Shulman’s front porch, wondering whether Shulman would be willing to come back with him to New York. The others, trapped in boring lives and staring death in the face, had been pushovers; as Weintraub had said, they were players looking for one last roll. But Shulman was a different story; and the appeal to him would have to be different.

  The door opened and Grossman found himself staring into the face of a frail, emaciated old man; Jerry Shulman, he could see, was very sick. His even features seemed pinched, and the straight hair, once brown, was entirely white. Only the soft, intelligent brown eyes looked the same.

  The old man took Al’s hand in a weak grip. “Hello, Allie,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Come in and sit down.”

  “Hello, Jerry, how’ve you been?”

  Shulman chuckled. “I’ve been better, I suppose. I’m dying. You look great.”

  Grossman cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Ah, you’ll live forever,” he said.

  “Now, there’s a sobering thought,” said Shulman. Grossman looked around the book-lined living room, searching for something to say. “You read all these books, Professor?”

  Shulman shrugged. “In my line of work, you pick up a lot of books. For some reason people think it’s an appropriate gift. That set of the Britannica over there came from Max, as a matter of fact. Someday he’ll probably be in there.”

  “Max? In the encyclopedia?” The thought amused Grossman and he smiled.

  “Sure, Max was a historical figure,” said Shulman.

  “My boy, Velvel, has an Irish friend who said the same thing,” said Grossman. “Somehow I can’t picture it.”

  “Well, no man is a hero to his valet,” said Shulman and frowned. “Or,” he quickly added, “to his brother. How is Velvel? I see his stuff in Foreign Affairs from time to time, and of course on television.”

  “Velvel’s in trouble, Jerry. That’s why I’m down here.”

  “What kind of trouble? I thought he was back in New York.”

  “You don’t think you can get in trouble in New York? You been down here too long.”

  Shulman laughed. “You’re probably right,” he said. His face turned serious. “Tell me what kind of trouble Velvel’s in,” he said.

  Shulman listened to Grossman’s account with an intense, concerned expression. When Grossman came to the part about the death threat and Flanagan’s stabbing, he winced and shook his head. “It’s hard to believe that Luigi Spadafore would do something like that,” he said. “Of course it’s been years since I’ve seen him, but even so, it doesn’t sound like him.”

  “People change as they get older,” said Grossman. “Anyway, that’s the story. Now you know.”

  “I don’t understand Velvel. How could he have gotten involved in something like this?”

  Al sensed Jerry Shulman’s implication; it was his fault for letting his son get into this mess. “I warned him, Jerry, but you know how, ah, attractive the life can be. They waved big bucks at him and he bit. After all, you’re a smart guy too, and you weren’t exactly a saint when you were Velvel’s age.”

  Shulman smiled faintly. “Touché, Al. Anyway, what brings you down here? Shouldn’t you be back in New York with Velvel?”

  “I’ve got him holed up with a friend,” said Grossman. “Until I can get some protection for him. There’s nobody left in the city, the guys are all down here.”

  “The guys?” asked Shulman, puzzled. “What guys?”

  “Harry Millman, Zuckie, Weintraub, Indian Joe—”

  “My God, I didn’t even know Indian Joe was still alive,” said Shulman. “Come to think of it, I didn’t know any of them were still around. But what good can they do you? I mean, Indian Joe must be seventy-five, and the others are pushing seventy.”

  “Seventy’s not so old anymore,” said Grossman. “Harry Millman looks like Bill Tilden. Weintraub—he’s a rabbi now if you can believe that—is in good shape. Most of them are.”

  “Maybe for seventy-year-olds, but I assume that Spadafore’s people are a little younger. Doesn’t sound like much of a fight.”

  “That’s just the point. Who could I get in New York to buck Spadafore? Anybody with any brains would know what the odds are, and even if I could find some guys, Spadafore could get to them. I’d be left with the psychos, and that’s all I need. No, the most important thing is guys who know how to handle themselves, and I can count on their loyalty. We’re not talking about a real war here; I’m pretty sure Spadafore doesn’t want that. I just need a few guns and some time.”

  “You think you can talk him around?” asked Shulman. His voice was weak, and Grossman could see him growing tired.

  “That’s the problem,” Grossman admitted. “Spadafore has no respect for me, he never had. You know that as well as I do. To him I was always Max’s kid brother; he never took me serious—ah, seriously. Neither did Max, for that matter. You were more like his brother than me.”

  “Aw, Allie—” Shulman began, but Grossman cut him off.

  “Let’s not bullshit each other, Jerry,” he said. “Maybe Millman and Zuckie and the others thought I was the crown prince, but you knew the score. I’m out of my league when it comes to dealing with Luigi Spadafore and I know it.”

  “You’ve always underestimated yourself, Allie,” said Shulman. “You’ll handle Spadafore all right.”

  Grossman shook his head. “That’s why I came to see you,” he said. “I thought that you, well, you could come up, just for a day or two, and talk to him. He always respected you, just like he did Max. You could convince him that the whole thing is a mistake, that Velvel had nothing to do with Mario—”

  Shulman began to cough, his eyes watering and his slender body jerking back and forth. “I’m sorry, Allie, you see how it is with me,” he said.

  “Just for a day, Jerry,” he said. “I never asked you for a thing—”

  “Except my corner,” Shulman said.

  “Yeah, except your corner, and I didn’t get that. I’m not gonna say you owe me one—you don’t owe me a thing. But I’m gonna tell you something I couldn’t say to another person; I’m scared for my boy, Jerry. He’s counting on me to fight for him, and I don’t know how. Except to ask you for help.”

  Shulman sighed and Grossman heard the phelgm rattle in his chest. He stared into space for a long time. Finally he focused his brown eyes on Grossman. “It’s too late, Allie,” he said. “I just don’t have the strength for what you want. I’d never make it back from New York.” Shulman saw the disappointment and fear on his old friend’s face. “Listen, even if I don’t talk to Luigi myself, we could work out some strategy together. I’ve got an idea or two. Let me rest on this, come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more. We’ll come up with something, don’t worry.”

  Grossman stood. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. “In the meantime, think hard, Jerry. Velvel’s life depends on it.”

  CHAPTER 21

  That night Grossman called Bev. “How’s my favorite baby-sitter?” he asked.

  “Just fine,” she replied in a bright voice. “I miss you, though.”

  “Glad to hear it. Can I talk to Velvel?”

  She passed the receiver to Gordon. “Dad? How’s it going down there?”

  “Good. You been staying in the house?”

  “Yeah.”

  Grossman had expected Gordon to complain about being cooped up. “No cabin fever?”

  “It’s all right,” said Gordon neutrally. “When are you coming back?”

  “Day after tomorrow. How’s Flanagan?”

  “Much better. I talked to him today.”

  “Didn’t I tell you not to use the phone?” said his father gruffly. “Well, what the hell. When’s he coming out?”

  “Tomorrow. He’s going to stay with that friend I mentioned to you.”

  “That’s fine. You got the number at his place?”

  “I got it. You find wh
at you were looking for down there?”

  “Yeah, everything’s under control. Lemme talk to Bev again.”

  “Dad, what about—”

  “No more questions, boychik. I’ll give you the full report when I get back. Gimme Bev for a minute.”

  She came back on the line. “You and Velvel getting along all right?” he asked.

  “We’re having a ball,” she said.

  “That a fact? Well, I’ll be back day after tomorrow, so don’t get too attached to him. Anything you want from down here?”

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m all set.”

  Bev spent the day after Gordon arrived at her house at Temple Beth Shalom, where she supervised the most successful bazaar in the history of the sisterhood—eleven thousand dollars raised for charity and, everyone agreed, a lot of fun, too. She sent Madge Thalstein to the bank to deposit the money, called Rabbi Simon to report on the results and then bought three ounces of Northern California grass from Clarence the janitor.

  On the way home she stopped at the butcher shop and picked up a four-pound sirloin wrapped in pork fat and bound by an intricate web of string. Down the street, at Moran’s, she bought a head of lettuce, vegetables, popcorn, a bag of potato chips, a round of Gouda cheese, a wedge of Roquefort, two dozen assorted chocolate bars, a fudge cake, an apple pie, a case of Miller High Life, six bottles of Cabernet and three fifths of Wild Turkey 101. “Having a party?” the checkout girl asked.

  From Moran’s she drove to Brooks Brothers in the mall, where she picked out half a dozen striped button-down shirts, two cashmere sweaters, three pairs of prewashed straight-leg Levi’s, white deck shoes, sweat socks and a dozen pairs of colored bikini underpants. The sweaters and the underpants were her gifts to Gordon.

  Heading home, she popped Eric Clapton into the tape deck and sang along. The shopping spree reminded her of the days when she used to buy clothes for her kids and refreshments for the parties that she and her husband Norm threw on the weekends. In those days, though, it had been Norm who bought the dope.