The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  “Can I have your pencil?” Morris asked Mr. Beck.

  “Of course.” The old marker pulled it out from behind his ear.

  Morris made a quick sketch of how the pieces fit on the side of the paper.

  “C’mon, boy, you’re not applying to Rembrandt for the position.” Mr. Kaufman tapped the table impatiently.

  Morris began to lay out the pieces.

  “Wait, why put the peplum there?” Mr. Kaufman interrupted him. “If you tuck it in here,” he shifted the pattern piece completely around, “we can save a few inches. See?”

  Morris looked at what he’d done. “You’re not cutting only one of this style, are you?” he asked.

  “One? Of course not? Two hundred is more like it,” Mr. Kaufman replied.

  “And the goods, they’re narrow, right, Mrs. K?”

  “They are.” Mrs. Kaufman took a measuring tape and spread it across the table. “Fifty-two inches.”

  “And pricey too, I bet?”

  “Very pricey.” Mrs. Kaufman nodded. “It’s silk. Over two dollars fifty per yard.”

  “Two dollars fifty, huh . . . So you see, if you lay it crosswise, like this . . .” Morris took the peplum piece and returned it to its original position, “I figure you can save about six inches. In the repeat. Six inches, times two hundred pieces . . . ? That’s close to forty yards, isn’t it, Mrs. K? At two dollars fifty a yard . . . ?” He looked at Mr. Kaufman. “That’s over a hundred bucks, by my count. Just on this one cut.”

  Mr. Beck looked at Mr. Kaufman with a glimmer of pride and satisfaction. “See, I told you.”

  Mr. Kaufman let out a grunt. He looked at Morris and scratched his chin, then turned to his wife and threw up his hands in exasperation. “All right, have him report here for the time being. No guarantees, mind you,” he said to Morris emphatically. “Mr. Beck, if you’d be so kind as to continue to instruct the boy until you are forced to leave.”

  “Yes, I could do that.”

  Grunting again, Mr. Kaufman shook his head and turned to go back upstairs.

  “Mr. Kaufman . . . ?” Morris said.

  “What now, boy? You got your chance.”

  “The job comes with a raise, don’t it?”

  “A raise? You’re lucky I didn’t fire you! You’re very brash, young man, have I ever told you that? Rose, please talk some sense into the lad. Someone has to.”

  “I only thought it’ll cost you an arm and a leg if you had to go and find someone from outside.” Morris shrugged.

  “You did, did you?” Mr. Kaufman said, giving him a glare that could melt ice if there was a bucket in front of them. “And are you paid to think such things?” Morris wasn’t sure if he was about to tell him to get out on the spot.

  “How about forty dollars a week,” Mrs. Kaufman said.

  “Forty dollars!” Mr. Kaufman’s eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead. “Rose, for God’s sake, he’s making ten now.”

  “The boy’s right,” Mrs. Kaufman said to her husband, “about if we had to look outside.”

  For someone Morris’s age, forty dollars was a king’s ransom. More than successful people twice his age were paid.

  “How does fifty sound?” Morris looked Mrs. Kaufman in the eye. “If you keep me in the position full time?”

  “Fifty!” Mr. Kaufman roared, and shook his head. “Have we all just gone insane?”

  Morris said, “Mr. Beck . . . ?”

  “I don’t like to get involved,” the marker maker said, “but fifty seems a reasonable wage to me, for such skills.”

  Mr. Kaufman looked at his wife, who still seemed to think it was the best deal they had. “All right, give the boy his fifty, Rose. And that’s if we keep him, you understand? And that’s a big if, son. Do you hear?”

  “Just one more thing,” Morris said, as Mr. Kaufman started up the stairs.

  He stopped. “What is it now? Do you want me to just hand you over the keys?”

  “I’m not a boy. I’m your marker maker now. For as long as I have the job.”

  Mr. Kaufman narrowed his eyes at him, then, like ice thawing, his hardened face softened into a smile. “Yes, you are, Morris Raab. That you are. See, Rose, I told you this would happen, didn’t I? Pretty soon, you’ll have the kid running the place.”

  Chapter Seven

  On his twentieth birthday, Harry Rabishevsky saw his reflection in the jewelry shop window.

  He was wearing the plaid wool suit his mother had bought for him just the other day to find a job, with a new black bow tie and a Panama straw hat, for which Harry had forked over pretty much every nickel he had in the world. He didn’t look at all like the penniless waif who had grown up on Cherry Street, without a dime to his name. But more like a young man with a skip in his step, one going places in life. He felt people taking note of him as he passed on the street. Women smiled. Men in similar suits, maybe on their lunch hours or heading to or from important meetings, gave him respectful nods. Though the truth was he hadn’t held a paying job for a while now, having been fired from Garfinkle’s Dry Goods for showing up late twice, and as a hawker at the Midnight nightclub for letting people cut the line, gratis.

  But, inspecting himself in the window, straightening his tie and feeling a throbbing in his chest, today he was a man on the rise.

  Maybe not quite in the way his brothers Sol and Morris might look at it. Someone with a real career, with an office to go to every day and a regular check coming in. Those kinds of ventures hadn’t panned out quite so well for Harry just yet.

  And maybe his mother would still look at him the way she always did, hiding a frown of scorn or shame she did her best to hide. Mr. Upside-Down. Those words always sent a shameful tremor through him and brought back that day on Essex Street they all had long tried to bury. It certainly wasn’t the way she would say, “My youngest, Morris, he’s learning the garment trade.” With pride. Or, “My Sollie, he’s the smartest of all of them. What a whiz with the numbers he is.”

  Still, it was better than she speak aloud of the blame he knew she had always carried for him in her heart, for taking away from her the thing she loved most in the world. Everyone knew Shemuel had been her favorite. And that no matter how much Harry had coming in, or whatever heights he might rise to, that would always be the way she would look at him. He would never live it down.

  It was true, he hadn’t done as well in school as Sol, and didn’t have the same fire in his belly and determination to succeed as Morris. And that sometimes he forgot to come home when he said he would and pitch in with things, and never had enough money to help out with the rent or food. His latest job at the pool hall had garnered him a new circle of friends. Maybe not the kind of friends Momma or Sol or Morris might have been impressed with. But still, people who wanted to get ahead as much as they did, just in a different way. Mendy Weiss and Maxie Dannenberg had taken a liking to him. Mendy was older, twenty-four, a real prince of a guy if you were on his good side—which Harry apparently was—but clearly not someone you wanted to mess with if you weren’t. Harry had seen him beat a man who owed him money to a bloody pulp; the memory of it still made him cringe.

  Still, Mendy was good fun to be around and generous with them all, and it made Harry feel good to be part of his crew, even if they mostly just let him run for coffee or deliver an envelope here and there to the big bosses, which he assumed were filled with cash. Mendy and his guys earned their living doing what they had to. Maybe rolling a few unsuspecting rubes flush with their paychecks, or providing protection for a few gambling operations on the streets, or even cracking a head or two if word came down from the bosses that someone needed a lesson taught. But no one really ever got hurt. Harry always promised himself he would draw the line if someone ever did. But he was pretty sure, hanging out with him, that wasn’t Mendy’s style.

  And that’s what he would say to Sol and Morris when his brothers sat him down and asked him who he was spending time with in life, or what his plans were. “This i
s no life for you, Harry. You’ve got your mother worried sick.”

  “C’mon, Sol,” Harry would say, “they’re just pals, that’s all. Mendy’s just small potatoes. He’s not exactly Legs Diamond,” speaking of the flamboyant bootlegger, bodyguard for the famous Arnold Rothstein, “or any of those guys.”

  “Then let them buy you a beer, if they’re just pals,” Morris would say. And Harry had to admit, his little brother really had a fire in his belly when it came to advancement. Sixteen, and already earning more than a successful person twice his age. Sure, there were times Harry was a little jealous. His little brother seemed to catch all the breaks. And he really didn’t like being compared to him. But the way Harry looked at it was that it just hadn’t worked out for him yet. Maybe the daily grind simply wasn’t his way. But he still would genuinely like to earn some money.

  But anyway, that was all changing for him now, in his new suit and new way of looking at things.

  At least, as of yesterday.

  Mendy’s crew hadn’t given him any real jobs to do yet. The real jobs went to guys who were a lot tougher, who didn’t mind using their fists, and that was fine with him. He didn’t quite have the heart for it when it came to that sort of thing. He wasn’t a fighter like his brother Morris, and he wouldn’t know what to do with a gun if you put one in his hand. Down the line, if he could be relied upon, they might let him run a pool hall or manage one of their speakeasies uptown. That would mean real money coming in. He just had to prove that they could trust him.

  “So Harry . . .” Mendy had sat him down next to him at the pool hall yesterday with a slap on the thigh. “I think it’s time you put a few bucks in your pocket.”

  “Sure.” Harry looked at him, excited. “That would be great, Mendy. How much we talking about?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” There was a glint of opportunity in his boss’s eyes. “Say, thirty bucks.”

  “Thirty bucks!”

  “All right, fifty, then,” Mendy said, grinning.

  Harry’s chest always expanded with pride whenever Mendy took the time to talk to him, but fifty dollars . . . Fifty bucks was as much as Morris brought in in a week. “I don’t have to kill someone, do I, Mendy?” He grinned back.

  “Kill someone . . . !” Mendy laughed and nudged Harry in the ribs. “You hear this guy . . .” He turned to Maxie Dannenberg. “In fact, all you have to do for it is something completely legit. Just start up a conversation with a girl. A pretty one. You can do that in your sleep, right, Harry?”

  “Sure, Mendy,” Harry replied. “Who is she?”

  “Just meet us tomorrow across from Sheffler’s down on Canal. Just before noon. You know them, right?”

  “You mean the jewelers?” Everyone knew it. Right on the corner. Sheffler’s was one of the poshest shops on the Lower East Side.

  “That’s the one.”

  Fifty bucks. Harry was almost salivating. And just for starting a conversation. He could turn thirty over to his mother. She and his brothers would be over the moon. And he’d still have a wad for himself. “Sure. I’ll be there. Noon, huh? Anything else, Mendy?”

  “Oh, one thing. Just come in your very best outfit, kid. That is, if you have one.”

  So there he was, straightening his tie in the jewelry store’s window, feeling his stomach churn just a bit, as only the very best people could even afford to shop in such a place. He and Mendy had gone over the plan. As Harry stepped inside, he heard the jingle of the door chimes, and started looking around the displays.

  “Can I help you?” A store clerk came up to him. She was pretty as a picture and young, early twenties, possibly Mr. Sheffler’s own daughter, the one Mendy had been talking about. She smiled at Harry as if he belonged there.

  “I’m looking to buy a ring,” he told her, playing out the part by leaning over a display. “For my girl. We’re getting married. Nothing too fancy, but . . .”

  “Well first, my congratulations.” The salesgirl beamed, eyes bright as opals. “I don’t know how much you’re looking to spend, but these diamond chips over here might be a good option. May I show them to you?”

  She led him to a display cabinet on the far side of the store. The rings inside were shimmering and beautiful. The kinds of rings he saw only on the fingers of the fanciest people. Harry caught himself thinking that he would love to buy one for his girl one day. Truth was, he’d love to even have a girl. And this one looked awfully cute.

  “Gee, they are nice.” Harry leaned down to take a closer look. “Say, what about this one, maybe?”

  He pointed to a gold band with a small diamond on top. Harry couldn’t even afford the box it came in, much less what was inside. She took out the ring he’d indicated and polished it up with a cloth. “It’s two hundred fifty dollars,” she said, “but it’s one of our nicest, I think,” holding it up for him to see. “Don’t you?”

  Two hundred fifty dollars. The price might have been two thousand. “Yes, you’re right.” He nodded. “It is a beauty.”

  “I could put it on for you, if you’d like to see?”

  “Could you? That would be swell.”

  It was ten after twelve now. Canal Street was bustling. The busiest time of day. People on their lunch hours, hundreds of pushcarts, and honking traffic.

  The store clerk smiled and slipped it over her ring finger and put it out for Harry to see. “I think she’ll love it. What do you think?”

  “What do I think? I think it’s the most beautiful ring in the world,” Harry said.

  Almost as pretty as the salesgirl’s eyes.

  Suddenly he heard the sound of glass shattering. Across the store, two men, their hats angled down, handkerchiefs over their faces, had come in and smashed through the display cabinet in the window and were stuffing their bags.

  The salesgirl screamed. “Papa! Papa! We’re being robbed!”

  They reached inside the cabinet with gloves, scooping up bracelets and necklaces—diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. Though their faces were covered, Harry knew exactly who they were.

  From the back room, an older man ran out, crying, “Thief! Thief!”

  But by that time, Mendy and Maxie had already gotten as much as they could carry and pushed the old man down against the cabinet.

  In seconds, they were out of the store.

  “Papa, are you all right?” The pretty salesgirl hurried over and kneeled over him.

  “Yes,” he said, holding his head. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re hurt, Papa!”

  Harry ran over to see about him too.

  “Police! Call the police!” the owner called out. “Sarah, help me up.” He struggled to his feet and ran outside, trying to get a fix on the fleeing thieves, who by now had melded into the sea of noonday traffic on Canal Street.

  “Papa, you’re bleeding.” The salesgirl gasped. A trickle of blood was running down the side of her father’s face, where it must have struck the cabinet.

  Suddenly whistles were blowing outside.

  “Maybe I oughta come back another time,” Harry said with an awkward shrug. “I didn’t get much of a look at them anyway, so I wouldn’t be much help. I’m awfully sorry.”

  “Come back, I know what you’re doing, young man.” The girl’s father glared. “I know what’s going on. Stop!”

  Harry ducked out of the store, hunching his shoulders, and turned down the busy street, in the other direction. In seconds he was just another speck in the crowd. At the corner he stopped. His heart was racing. He couldn’t make it stop. He caught his breath and looked back. The shop owner was directing two policemen down the block after Maxie and Mendy—the other direction.

  But by now, they were long gone.

  Sweat wound its way down Harry’s neck. He told his heart to calm. But then he realized he’d just made fifty bucks. And who really got hurt? Just a scratch and a little blood. And old man Sheffler likely had dozens more where those bracelets and necklaces had come from. He didn’t like the idea that h
e’d had to lie to that cute salesgirl, though. She was truly a doll, the kind of gal he’d like to find for himself.

  But he’d be able to hand his mother more cash than ever before. Even Sol and Morris would have to be impressed. He’d explain it by saying a little luck had come his way at the tables.

  On Broome, he stopped and caught his reflection in the window of a bakery. He was pale as a ghost, still drenched in sweat.

  To anyone else, though, he had the look of a man on the rise.

  Chapter Eight

  By the time he had turned twenty, Morris was pretty much running the place.

  Mr. Kaufman, who was in his midsixties, had developed a hacking cough and was told he had to spend the winters out West. Soon, winter became spring and autumn too.

  By that time, no one in the company knew the operation better than Morris. He had become a trusted marker maker and oversaw the entire sewing floor. After that first winter, Mrs. Kaufman went out West along with her husband and put Morris fully in charge. No one had earned the Kaufmans’ trust more.

  Which meant overseeing the entire manufacturing operation. Over thirty cutters, sewers, sample makers, and pressers. And demanding the same level of quality and construction, always Mr. Kaufman’s rule number one, so he had to know the entire operation as well as any of them. It became Morris’s rule too. He also learned how to calculate the material requirements of a style and make sure any remaining inventories were fully utilized, and he scrutinized the daily books well past closing time to make sure every sewer was paid for whatever work they had produced. As part of that, he came up with the idea that the manufacturing process would be far more streamlined and efficient if it was organized into separate “sections,” each devoted to an individual part of the manufacturing operation, say the setting of a sleeve or a pocket, or the pleating of a skirt, which made all the sewers learn their specific jobs better and earn more money. In fact, Morris’s nose was in every part of the business, except for sales. Sales, he just didn’t have the confidence for right now. His speech still betrayed that he was right off of the streets, and he often felt embarrassed in the company of people with more education.