by Zev Chafets
People who knew Norm from his clinic, the temple or Weeping Rock Country Club considered him a solid, somewhat unimaginative guy; several times, at social functions, she had heard men wonder aloud what a great-looking girl like her saw in old Norm. Those were not the people who attended their private parties, however; if they had, they would have known a different Norm Friedman.
During their first years of marriage, Norm sometimes asked her in a kidding way if she ever thought about other guys. At first she denied it, but when she realized that he was disappointed, she confessed that she did, indeed, sometimes fantasize about making love to other men. “Like who?” he asked in a thick voice.
“Oh, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, I don’t know,” she said.
“How about someone we both know?” he asked.
She had ducked the question, but the next time he brought it up she said, “Marty Roth is cute.”
“Cute or sexy?”
“Well, sexy, I guess.”
“You think Pam is sexy, too?” he asked. They were naked in bed and she could feel that her husband’s feet were cold as ice.
“She’s got a great body,” Bev said.
“Maybe we should invite them over sometime,” he said. She paused. It wasn’t hard for her to imagine what he had in mind, and she was surprised to find that she wasn’t shocked. Bev had been raised to feel a connection between sex and sin, but she was also alive to the link between sin and excitement. “Maybe,” she said.
That weekend they sent the kids to her parents’. Marty and Pam brought a bottle of good French wine. Bev cooked rice pilaf. Norm supplied a bag of grass, an ounce of cocaine and a dozen little vials of laughing gas. By the end of dinner, everyone was stoned.
Norm went to the stereo and put on Sam Cooke’s Music for Sentimental Lovers. “Let’s dance,” he said, leading Bev into the living room. He pressed her close and she could feel his penis throbbing against her. After a moment, Pam and Marty joined them.
The song ended and another began. Norm took Pam in his arms, leaving Bev with Marty. She knew what would happen next and she felt so nervous and excited that she could barely swallow. She saw Pam grind her thin, athletic body against her husband. Marty saw it too. She felt his hand run down her back and rub her ass. This is it, she thought, and put her tongue in his ear.
That night with the Roths was the beginning of a long, secret portion of the Friedmans’ marriage. Outwardly they were a conventional suburban couple, and they derived a delicious satisfaction from their little deception. A few times they seduced other couples from the club. Occasionally they cruised the swingers bars in the city, often coming home with a girl to share or sometimes a young guy who made love to Bev in front of her husband—Norm wouldn’t touch other men, but he enjoyed watching. These sessions, once every few months, were enough to keep their sex life full of fantasy and heat.
And then Norm had dropped dead, not, as she sometimes feared, from sexual exertion, but in his office, peering at an X ray. At first she got calls from some of the couples they had played with, but she turned them down; without Norm, she would have felt like a sex toy, and she didn’t want that. She was only forty-one, still a beautiful young woman, but she spent her nights at home, and, after the kids went away to school, alone.
What she wanted was a new life, but it wasn’t easy in the couples world of Scarsdale. Since Norm’s death, she had had exactly three blind dates—a professor of biology at a junior college who spoke with a lisp, a friend’s cousin who came over with Shelley Berman records and laughed raucously at the punch lines, and a man with a huge head and tiny body who had opened his fly at the movies and tried to force her hand inside. When Al Grossman had picked her up at the mall that morning, she had been very ready indeed.
Compared with the others, Al was the prince of her dreams. He was surprisingly good in bed, had a gruff sense of humor she found diverting and was generous, although she didn’t need the gifts he brought. On the other hand, he didn’t talk much, especially about himself, and he rarely wanted to go anyplace except to some sports event. His idea of a great movie was Somebody Up There Likes Me. And, of course, Al was seventy; he wouldn’t be around forever.
She had been curious about Gordon ever since she had learned that he was Al’s son. Bev was no intellectual, but she read the papers and watched television, and she knew that William Gordon was one of the best-known journalists in America. Several times she had suggested inviting him over for dinner, but Grossman had always waved the idea away. At first she had been offended, supposing that he didn’t think she was interesting enough for his famous son, but she soon realized that the problem was with Grossman—he didn’t feel comfortable with Gordon.
When Al had asked her to let his son stay with her, she had tried hard not to show that she was elated. She saw possibilities—not necessarily romantic—in the arrangement: if she and Gordon became friends, he might welcome her into his world, a place, she imagined, of embassy parties and country homes full of famous, sophisticated people and clever talk. There she would find fun and laughter and men, unattached or detachable. She hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to seduce Gordon in order to win his friendship—she genuinely liked Al, and an affair with his son would be messy—but she was prepared to do it if necessary. She would do anything to get out of Scarsdale, the big silent house and the bleakly cheerful shopping malls.
Gordon had been a surprise. From what she had read and seen, she had been expecting a younger, more refined version of Al—a tough, confident man of the world. But he had showed up on her doorstep looking shaky and uncertain, like a little boy. Putting him in her son’s room, instead of the guest suite, had been a stroke of inspiration. So had the pajamas. She wanted to make Gordon feel warm and safe.
When her kids were little, Bev Friedman occasionally allowed them to stay home from school. Those days she turned into events, stocking up on goodies, cooking their favorite foods, allowing them to watch television until all hours and stroking their backs with gentle fingers. Her kids called this “making nice,” and she had loved doing it for them. During Gordon’s first three days with her, she had done the same for him. She enveloped him in a cloud of warm luxury, poured him drinks and fixed him delicious meals, encouraged him to tell her stories about his foreign adventures and listened with flattering attention. It wasn’t a disagreeable task; Gordon could be charming when he wasn’t feeling sorry for himself, and he was an excellent raconteur.
On their fourth morning together, Bev sensed a change. Gordon came to breakfast with an appetite, joked with her as if he were an old friend instead of a diffident house guest, and asked what they would do that day. She heard the “they” loud and clear; he was thinking about them together, as a couple.
“We’ve still got those W. C. Fields movies I rented,” she said. “We could watch those, have a film festival.”
“Just like in college,” Gordon said.
“You did that too?”
“Are you kidding? One semester that’s all I did. Yeah, let’s watch some flicks. Think it’s too early for popcorn?”
“Never too early for popcorn,” she laughed. “Since we’re skipping class, you want to get high?”
“High? On what?”
“I’ve got some grass,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and natural. “But I hate to smoke alone. I haven’t gotten high in a long time.”
“Me either,” said Gordon. “Yeah, what the hell.”
They sat on the sofa in the den, passing their second joint between them. Gordon stared at the movie, but Bev could tell he wasn’t really paying attention. When he thought she wasn’t looking he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Are you stoned?”
“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “How about you?”
“God, yes,” she laughed. “I’m completely wasted.”
“How does it make you feel?” he asked, looking at her directly for the first time. She giggl
ed and put down the joint. “The truth is, dope always makes me horny.”
There was a long silence. Gordon felt the sexual electricity in the air. He wanted Bev, and he was sure—almost sure—that she wanted him. But if he was wrong, it would be a disaster. He was stuck here with her and a misunderstanding would make things awkward. And, she might tell his father that he had tried to seduce her, making him appear ridiculous. It never occurred to Gordon to wonder how his father might feel about it.
Bev sensed his dilemma. This was the moment, she thought. She looked at Gordon and found that she really was horny. Her nipples were hard, and she felt wet and warm. “Will,” she said softly.
“What?” Gordon answered, his voice heavy with excitement. Bev got up and stood between his legs. Slowly, she kneeled in front of him and, unbuckling his Levi’s, took him in her mouth. She felt him run his hands through her curly hair, and heard him breathe, “Oh God.”
They spent the next two days making love, eating cheese and crackers in bed, smoking cigarettes and making up stories for each other about what they thought and didn’t think, felt and didn’t feel. They pretended they were stranded on a desert island, a place where Luigi Spadafore and Al Grossman, Jupiter Evans and the crushing loneliness of suburban widowhood didn’t exist. But it was precisely those things that fueled their lovemaking, making it an act of heated healing and forgetfulness.
Al Grossman’s phone call from Florida broke the spell. “What do we tell him?” she asked Gordon.
“What do you think we should tell him?”
“Nothing, right now,” she said. She wanted to be sure she had the son before losing the father.
“I think you’re right,” said Gordon, afraid of antagonizing the old man just when he needed him most.
“We don’t want to hurt him,” they said to each other.
CHAPTER 22
On Tuesday, Al Grossman returned from Miami. Bev and Gordon woke up early, made love in the shower and then ate breakfast. “I’m going into the city,” she said. “I don’t want to be here when your father comes.”
Grossman arrived at noon, accompanied by three elderly men whom Gordon vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. “Velvel, you remember Zuckie, don’t you?” said his father, gesturing toward a heavyset old guy with dentures and a beard. “And you saw Harry at the funeral.” Gordon recalled him, all right—Handsome Harry, the one with the tan who had killed those guys in Detroit. “I don’t believe you know Louie Levine.”
“Call me Sleepout,” said Levine, a small man with a pockmarked face, prominent nose and huge hands that hung from long, thin arms.
“Sleepout?”
“Louie never liked to go home very much,” said his father in a dry tone. The others, including Levine, laughed.
“Velvel, get your things. I got us a place in town. These old bastards are your new roommates.”
“You play pinochle?” Zucker asked. Gordon shook his head. “OK, we’ll learn you, won’t we, Harry?” he said with a sly grin. “By the time we get done learning you the game, you’ll be a regular Cincinnati Kid.”
“I saw that,” said Harry. “Edward G. Robinson played the old man. Remember him in Scarface? They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”
“Wasn’t it poker?” asked Gordon. “I mean, in The Cincinnati Kid?”
“We don’t play poker when we’re on the job,” said Levine. “It leads to hard feelings.”
“It’s one of the first things you learn,” said Millman.
“And no craps,” said Levine, pinching Zucker’s cheek. The others laughed again; apparently it was an old joke.
They reminded Gordon of foreign correspondents on a big story, full of good humor and adrenaline. By contrast, he felt constrained and sour. When he had agreed to put himself in his father’s hands, it had never occurred to him that he would wind up being guarded by a bunch of characters out of Guys and Dolls.
“Enough shmoozing, let’s get the show on the road,” growled Grossman. “We got things to do and people to see.”
They drove into the city, Gordon wedged between Zucker and Sleepout Levine in the backseat, Millman in front with Grossman. At Sixty-third and Second they pulled to the curb. Zucker and Millman climbed out of the car, but Levine put a restraining hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Let them check the street first,” he said. Up the block, under a green awning, Gordon saw an old man in an overcoat and fedora look their way and nod. Levine tapped him on the arm. “All clear,” he said.
The apartment was on the third floor in the rear. “It should be a walk-up, according to Hoyle,” Sleepout said as they crowded into the elevator. “This way you gotta watch the stairs and the elevator.”
“Yeah, OK, but I didn’t want you guys dropping dead on me,” said Grossman.
“Very thoughtful,” said Zucker, but Levine was not appeased. “You do it, you do it right,” he muttered.
The apartment was a dark, stuffy two-bedroom flat with plastic slipcovers on heavy old-fashioned furniture and cheap reproductions on the yellowing walls of snowy landscapes and apple-cheeked children. The aroma of boiled meat and stewed vegetables permeated the place.
“Very haimish,” said Zuckie, looking around approvingly.
Gordon wandered into a small bedroom, where he found a man in a white sleeveless undershirt squinting through bifocals as he oiled an old-fashioned-looking revolver. He ran a small cloth through the long barrel and whistled under his breath. Gordon recognized the song: “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?”
“Hi,” he said, feeling like an intruder. “I’m William Gordon.”
“Velvel!” said the man, rising slowly as if his back hurt. “I remember you from when you were a pisher. Kasha Weintraub.”
“Hello, Mr. Weintraub,” said Gordon. “It’s been a long time.”
“Call me Kasha,” he said. “You wanna bunk with us? Joe Lapidus is staying in here and Abe Abramson. This is the best room, believe me. Zuckie snores like a bastard.”
“Where do we all sleep?” asked Gordon. There were two cots and a narrow bed in the room.
“It’s a two on, two off,” said Weintraub. “But you’re not part of the rotation, so you get the bed. We take turns on the cots.”
“I’d like to take a shift along with everybody else,” said Gordon, but Weintraub shook his head. “That’s not the way it’s done,” he said. “You’re the body, we’re the bodyguards.”
“I’d still like to take a turn,” said Gordon. “It would give me something to do.”
“It’s up to your father,” said Weintraub, “but I don’t think he’ll go for it. There’s a right way to do things and a wrong way. Maybe some of these young punks—no offense, Velvel, I mean some of your younger wise guys—they don’t know how it’s supposed to be. But your true pros from the old school, it’s our second nature. Just stick with Uncle Kasha, you’ll learn the ropes in no time.”
“How many of you are there?” Gordon asked.
“Seven,” said Weintraub. “That was Joe Lapidus you passed downstairs, we call him Indian Joe. Pupik Feinsilver and Abe Abramson are in the kitchen, I think.”
“Why do you call him Indian Joe?” asked Gordon. “He didn’t look like an Indian to me.”
“Naw, he’s a Galitzianer,” said Weintraub. “He got Indian Joe because he had this habit of scalping guys.”
“You mean like tickets, at the ballpark?”
Weintraub chuckled. “Naw, the real thing.” He made a cutting gesture. “Like you see in the movies. Only I guess you don’t see too much of that anymore. They don’t make so many Westerns nowadays, and if they do, the Indians are the good guys.”
“He actually scalped people?” asked Gordon, incredulous.
“They were dead first, though,” said Weintraub. “Why don’t you go in the kitchen, say hello to Pupik and Abe. They’ve been waiting to see you.”
Gordon found the two old men sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of Jennie Grossinger’s Cookbook. Kitchen
utensils, many of them still in their plastic wrappers, were strewn around, and several large pots stood on the counter. When he came in, they looked up and smiled shyly.
“You like Jewish food?” asked Feinsilver. He was a small, round-shouldered man with a fringe of gray hair and bifocals perched on a button nose. “We’re thinking about making kugel.”
“I don’t think we got the right-sized baking pan for kugel,” said Abramson. His hooked nose and drooping white mustache reminded Gordon of the fierce, sad-looking old Turks he had seen in Istanbul.
“We could use two smaller pans,” said Feinsilver. “Or we could make the kugel as a side dish, and cook the roast.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier just to order in something?” asked Gordon.
“Naw, cooking’s half the fun,” said Feinsilver. “Besides, what can you order in? A pizza? Chinese? For this kind of work, you need something that sticks to the ribs.”
“How about sending somebody over to the Carnegie?” Gordon asked. “They’ve got Jewish food over there. It’ll be my treat.”
“Why spend the money when you can cook yourself?” asked Feinsilver reasonably. “Believe me, I’ve cooked for more than eight before, plenty of times. Once, in the old days, I fixed a whole Pesach seder, the works. You remember that, Abe?”
Abramson smacked his lips, and Gordon heard his dentures clack. “Yeah, just like Mama used to make. Pupik is a great cook, believe you me.”
“You guys had a seder during a war?” asked Gordon. He was pretty sure they were putting him on, but Feinsilver looked serious. “Of course a seder. A holiday’s a holiday.”
“Here you are, Velvel,” said Al Grossman, walking into the kitchen. “You meet everybody? Good. I’m going out for a while, I’ll be back by five, six o’clock. In the meantime, just sit tight. There’s color TV in the living room, anybody wants to watch, but make sure you keep it down in here. I don’t want the neighbors complaining.”
“Hey, Al,” said Abramson. “You think you gotta tell us that?”