by Zev Chafets
“Me? How?”
“I got the idea that you and Bev got to be on good terms while I was away,” Grossman said. “She’s a good-looking broad, you’re a nice young guy …”
Suddenly Gordon saw the whole picture. It was the Pulitzer Prize all over again, his old man trying to arrange his life. He waited for the angry lump to rise in his throat, but to his surprise, there was only a warm feeling of affection. Jewish fathers, he thought with an inward sigh; they never quit, but they only want what’s best for their kids.
“Listen, Pop,” he said. “Bev Friedman’s a nice woman, but she’s your friend, not mine. Besides, I’m leaving in two weeks. I asked the paper to send me back overseas.” Sure-footed in Beirut and Baghdad, Gordon felt out of his depth in Brooklyn. He knew that Flanagan would try to drag him into his new life, and he had had enough of the world of the Spadafores.
“Overseas, eh?” grunted Grossman. “Well, it’s your life. Listen, boychik, I don’t feel so hot. Ask Nancy the nurse to come over, I want to head back to the hospital.”
“Sure, Pop,” said Gordon. He signaled to the nurse, who put down her glass and hurried to Grossman.
“Let’s go, honey,” he said, running his thick hand down the outside of her thigh. “I’m getting tired, and I want a sponge bath.”
“Your dad’s a devil,” Nancy giggled, wheeling the chair in the direction of the door.
“Take good care of him,” Gordon called after her. “I’ll be by tomorrow to see you, Pop.”
“You do that, boychik,” called Grossman over his shoulder, “I’ll be looking for you.”
The heavy door closed behind them, and Grossman slumped in his chair, a smile on his face. In the lobby, near a bank of pay phones, he told Nancy to stop and dial a number for him. It began with an L.A. area code—213. After the third ring, he heard a familiar voice.
“Bev, it’s Al,” he said.
“Al, where are you? I just called the hospital and they said you went out.”
“Yeah, I’m over at the Waldorf, at Velvel’s going-away party,” he said.
“Going-away party?” Grossman could hear the surprise in her voice. “What do you mean, going away?”
“He decided to go back overseas. The Middle East or some damn place. I think he’s trying to get over that broad of his, the les. Didn’t he tell you?”
“I haven’t spoken to him,” she said in a tight voice. “Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure, he just told me,” Grossman said. “Listen, that trouble we had? It’s all taken care of. I’m heading down to Florida for a month or so, gonna stay at Harry Millman’s place, near Miami. Wanna join me?”
Grossman heard the pause, so brief as to be all but indiscernible. He could guess at the disappointment in that pause, but it didn’t bother him. All’s fair in love and war, he thought to himself; that, and age before beauty. It wasn’t Shulman’s kind of wisdom, but what the hell.
“Of course I’ll come,” Bev said brightly. “And Al … I can’t wait to see you.”
On the way back to the hospital in the front seat of Nancy’s Saab, Grossman took five one-hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to her.
“I guess it went all right, huh, Mr. Grossman,” she said.
“Yeah,” said Grossman, flipping on the radio to look for the Knicks game. “You’re a hell of an actress, honey. You ever play Century City, don’t forget to look us up.”
“… So there’s the deal,” said Flanagan, looking at the rapt faces of the old men and at Gordon. “It’s up to you—you want in, you’re in, same as the last time. Anybody wants to leave, well”—he patted his pocket—“your money’s right here, and God bless you.”
“Now wait a minute,” said Pupik Feinsilver. “Let me get this straight. You want us to appear in a movie?”
“Not appear in a movie—star in a TV docudrama,” said Flanagan. ‘The Glory That Was Hester Street’ is the working title, although that could change. Like I said, it’ll be a documentary, about your life and times.”
“For this you need young actors,” said Harry Millman. “For example, I could see what’s-his-name, Robert Redford, playing me.”
“Redford’s a goy,” protested Feinsilver.
“He’s half Jewish,” said Millman, “same as Cary Grant. Besides, so what, this is show biz.”
“How about Jack Nicholson as me,” yelled Kasha Weintraub.
“Yeah, and I could be Steve McQueen,” hollered Zuckie.
“McQueen’s dead, shmuck,” said Sleepout Louie.
“Dead? When did that happen?”
Suddenly the air was thick with the names of movie stars past and present. Flanagan listened for a moment, and then held up his hand for silence.
“You guys are missing the point,” he said. “This isn’t about then, it’s about now. I’m talking HBO, a two-hour film showing you lovable gents to the American public. You know, people have the wrong idea about gangsters. This way, we can set the record straight.”
“And after the movie, what?” asked Feinsilver.
“The sky’s the limit,” said Flanagan. “A regular network show, guest shots on Johnny, Mishpocha T-shirts. By the time I’m finished with you guys, they’ll be putting up statues in Central Park.”
“Speaking of statues, how about the statue of limitations?” asked Indian Joe.
“Good question,” said Flanagan. “I’ll refer it to our attorney.”
“Since when do we have an attorney?” asked Feinsilver.
“Since this morning,” said Flanagan. “I’m pleased to announce that Mishpocha Films has retained the services of one of New York’s finest lawyers, ex–police captain Bernard Threkeld.”
“Boatnay?” said Morgan. “Boatnay gonna be your lawyer?”
“It’s a day of surprises,” Flanagan said merrily. “Don’t worry, Morgan, this deal is strictly legit. Besides, I need someone I can trust.”
“John Flanagan, you one amazing white man,” said Morgan. “OK, in that case, count me in. Onliest thing, who am I supposed to play—Buggsy Siegal?”
“Nope, you play yourself, just like everybody else. Interracial is in this year—look at The Cosby Show.”
Slowly, Bad Abe Abramson rose from his seat. He cleared his throat, and the others fell silent. “Give the boys and me five minutes to talk this over,” he said.
“Sure,” said Flanagan. “I want a word with Gordon anyway. We’ll take a walk, be back in a few.”
“How about it, Velvel, are you in?” asked Levine.
Gordon shook his head. “I’m a foreign correspondent, not a movie star,” he said. “I’m going back overseas.”
As soon as they were outside, Gordon turned to Flanagan. “Jesus, John. Do these guys know that they’re gonna be working for Spadafore?”
“Not for Spadafore, for me,” said Flanagan. “Mishpocha Films, Inc., is an independent company. My arrangement with Luigi is between me and him; it doesn’t concern them.”
“Until the next gang war, or the next grand jury. I thought you loved these old guys, John. You can really be a prick sometimes.”
“I do love ’em,” said Flanagan with a grin. “Not that this is about me loving them, but since you bring it up, OK. They need five minutes to decide? Bullshit, they don’t need five seconds. They’re in there right now jumping up and down. I’m keeping the gang together, giving them something to live for.”
“And yourself.”
Flanagan nodded. “That’s right. And myself. But this is about more than having fun now. Spadafore’s all alone—no sons, no Sesti, just me. When the old bastard croaks, we’ll have a real shot at taking over the business.”
“You will, maybe; I’ve had enough. Look, we were lucky to get out of it this time, but I’m not pushing it. I’m sorry, you’re on your own, John, but that’s the way it is. I told you the other night I was going back to the paper, and I meant it.”
“Yeah,” said Flanagan with a grin. “You told me, and I t
old Luigi. Funny, he got it right away, and he doesn’t even have a Pulitzer.”
“Got what?” asked Gordon.
“That you’re my protection. You know how, in the movies, when the good guy’s got something on the bad guy, and if anything happens to him, a letter with all the information automatically goes to the cops? Well, you’re my letter. Something happens to me, you get Luigi.”
“What?”
“In the paper. Shit, that’s the only thing he’s afraid of these days anyway. I, ah, told him that was the reason you were going back.”
Gordon stared at the grinning Flanagan. “I don’t believe this,” he said finally. “You’re using me to threaten Luigi Spadafore. And you did it without even telling me.”
“I just told you,” said Flanagan. “Look, you were ready to risk your ass for twenty percent of some foreign operation from Carlo Sesti. Well, I’m offering you a better deal—twenty percent of everything. And you don’t have to lift a finger, just be yourself. Besides, you’ll be in Beirut. What’s the problem?”
Gordon paused, considering. No matter what he told Spadafore, the old man would never believe him. And, over the past few weeks, he had revised his opinion of Flanagan. With Boatnay and the old buzzards in the other room, he just might pull it off. The way he saw it, he had no choice. “Twenty-five percent and it’s a deal,” he said, extending his hand.
“Twenty-five percent it is,” said Flanagan, taking Gordon’s hand in his and pulling him into a bear hug. “You’re a made man of the Mishpocha now, Velvel—your uncle Max would have been proud.”
For a moment Gordon struggled against the hug. Then, without really intending to, he threw his arms around Flanagan’s narrow back, pulled him close and kissed him on the cheek.
“Hey,” said Flanagan, “What the hell was that for?”
“For you, chief,” said Gordon. “You mind?”
“Mind, hell,” said Flanagan with a grin. “I’m a sucker for a happy ending.”
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO
LEORA NIR,
WITH GRATITUDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my agent, Esther Newberg of ICM, for her help and support, my friends Danny Sanderson and Arthur and Harriet Samuelson for their encouragement and editorial advice, and, finally, my editor, David Rosenthal, for his invaluable contribution on this book.
ALSO BY ZEV CHAFETS
Double Vision
Heroes and Hustlers, Hard Hats and Holy Men
Members of the Tribe
Devil’s Night: And Other True Tales of Detroit
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Zev Chafets was born in Pontiac, Michigan, and moved to Israel at the age of twenty in 1967. He is the author of Double Vision, Heroes and Hustlers, Hard Hats and Holy Men, Members of the Tribe, and Devil’s Night: And Other True Tales of Detroit. Inherit the Mob is his first novel. Chafets is currently the editor of The Jerusalem Report and lives in Tel Aviv.