by Andrew Gross
They held lunches at their apartment on Sunday afternoons, where the entire family gathered. Even Harry would drop in, though he continued his infatuation with his old friends and still declined Sol and Morris’s invitations to join the firm and begin a real career. He now lived in a small walk-up apartment on Lex and Twenty-third. Morris had a Packard; a boat he and Ruthie kept at a marina in Oyster Bay; more money than he could spend, though most of it he and Sol plowed back into Raab Brothers as it grew. When he held up his infant son, Morris thought back to the hardscrabble kid who had never backed down from fights on the Lower East Side; who had been picked on and beaten in the army; who had dutifully studied the marker maker at Majestic Garment Company and picked up a trade; and who was ashamed to even open his mouth in front of customers or show his obvious lack of education. He couldn’t believe the path his life had taken, all the good things that had come to him—most, he felt certain, because he had never just taken no for an answer and settled for what he knew in his heart was wrong: a vibrant woman like Ruthie, who would have been unattainable to a clumsy lug from the Lower East Side who had never read a book; a son, who would now not need a benefactor like Pip had to make his own way in life; a successful business and a comfortable home.
Yet, even in all his good fortune, Morris saw the business had begun to change.
The ILGWU, Amalgamated Needle Trade Workers, and the Fur Dressers Union, were all now squarely in Louis Buchalter’s palm. Word was that it was he who had gunned down Jacob Orgen on Norfolk Street—he and his crony Jacob “Gurrah” Shapiro. Morris’s industry friends who were unionized all complained that the union was squeezing them dry: their workers’ dues went up and they had to make good for it, or risk losing them to a more agreeable union shop. And they also had to make onerous payments—protection payments, everyone knew: protection from the union itself, which would make life hell for anyone who balked at them or refused to play along. The union’s strong-arm tactics would shut down a company at the slightest resistance, smashing expensive equipment, destroying valuable inventory, even causing physical harm to the owners, who were petrified to stand up to them. These were garment makers, not union crusaders. Who knew where the money they doled out to the unions went? Certainly not to the workers they claimed to represent. More likely, directly into the pockets of the mob. The very people who perpetuated this policy of intimidation. And anyone who stood up to them got hit, and hit hard. Not with picketing or work stoppages, or threats. But with blackjacks and lead pipes; with fire bombings and stink bombs that could render a warehouse full of merchandise not even worth the hangers the clothing was draped on.
What had happened to Abe Langer was talked about in every hushed conversation on the street. The unions were now all wrapped into one large directive, run by Louis Buchalter—who was known as Lepke now, a name that had become synonymous with murder and brutality—and his partner, Gurrah. And it made no difference to them who they crushed, extorted money from, or forced out of business, as they paid off the police or the district attorney’s office to look the other way. So far Morris had remained free of their attention. Maybe it was because their main factory was located three hours north in Ulster County, well out of view. Or maybe because Harry was still drinking pals with Mendy Weiss, now one of Buchalter’s chief lieutenants.
Or maybe it was simply that Lepke had always held a form of “tough-guy” admiration for Morris, who had stood up to him, even as a kid. But one by one, even the most stubborn holdouts caved in and agreed to let the unions in. It was either that or face the kind of retaliation that no one had the stomach or ability to stand up to and see their warehouses go up in smoke. Whatever the reason, Lepke let Morris alone and never came after him. If he did, he knew he’d be in for a fight.
At least until 1934. When, for Morris, the fight hit closer to home.
When he ran up to Manny Gutman’s factory and saw the devastation and viciousness Buchalter and Shapiro had unleashed.
And when staying on the sidelines was no longer possible.
Chapter Seventeen
His heart quickening, Morris stepped inside Rosie’s Cigar Shop in Brooklyn, where Buchalter and Shapiro’s headquarters was located in the back room. The goon in the check suit who had checked him out outside followed him in, a hand inside his jacket where clearly his gun was located, staying a few feet behind.
There was a tobacco counter, and a clerk behind it; Rosie, no doubt. A couple of legitimate customers buying cigarettes and cigars. Behind the counter, there were boxes and trays of White Owls, Phillies, and Josefinas, and a more expensive array of Cubans in their wooden boxes under lock and key.
There were also two round tables with a couple of men sitting around them in pressed, light-colored suits and fancy shoes. One of them Morris was already acquainted with.
“Mendy.” Morris nodded. “Seems you’ve moved up in the world.”
Mendy Weiss sat leaning with his leg crossed, sporting a pair of shiny black-and-white wingtips. Morris had heard he was working for Buchalter now. “Just making a living, Morris,” he said, pushing back his Panama hat. “How about you? This your usual cigar joint? You’re certainly a long way from Cherry Street yourself.”
“I’m here to see Mr. Buchalter.” Morris said.
“Mr. Buchalter . . . I’m afraid Mr. Buchalter’s not around,” Mendy said with a disappointed grunt. “That’s too bad, I’m sure he’d be sad to miss your visit. What’s your business, if I can ask?”
“My business is with him,” Morris said bluntly, “if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure. It’s okay with me.” Mendy shrugged. “Just asking.”
The heavyset guy sitting next to Mendy with the handkerchief in his breast pocket looked up with the dimmest glint of amusement. “And who the fuck are yous anyway—if it’s okay with you, of course?”
“Relax, just an old friend, Arnie.” Mendy calmed him. “We all kind of grew up on the same street. So how’s Harry, Morris? I don’t see him around like I used to. We got him a job at The Green Parrot. Down on Eighth. It seems to take up all of his time these days.”
“You’ll have to ask him. You probably see him more than me,” Morris said.
“I don’t know, I don’t get around that way so much no more.”
Morris looked him up and down, at the loud tie and conspicuous shoes, the uniform shouting the nature of his trade. “Woulda fooled me.”
Mendy gave him back a dry, nasal laugh and got up and stretched, like he’d been in the seat all day. He nodded to the goon who had followed Morris in that everything was okay. “Lemme check if Mr. Buchalter has come back in without me knowing. Just to be sure . . .” He went through a door at the rear of the shop.
The heavyset goon with the handkerchief in his pocket said, “Help yourself to a White Owl while you’re waiting, buddy. On the house.”
“Thanks,” Morris said. “But I buy my own.”
“Suit yourself, pal.” He smiled.
Mendy came back out and held open the back room door. “Your lucky day, Morris. I just managed to catch him as he was on his way out. Come on in.”
“Here, Arnie,” Morris said to the heavyset gangster, taking a Montecristo out of his breast pocket and leaving it on the table. “Try one of mine.”
Before he went through the door, Mendy stopped him and patted him down. “Sorry, Morris, just a formality. You understand.”
“I don’t even own a gun, Mendy.”
“You can never be too sure.” He held open the door. “That’s what Happy Freidman said to Legs Diamond, and he ended up with seven holes in him. Okay,” he said, satisfied. “Go on in.”
The back room was smoky and dark, lit only by table lamps that cast shadows everywhere. He saw the big guy, Gurrah, with his large nose that looked like it had been broken at least a dozen times and his sunken eyes, slouching at a table with a deck of cards in front of him, dealing solitaire. He gazed up at Morris as if trying to decide if he was an old friend or an old enemy.
&n
bsp; Leaning against a wall was a medium-built man with thick black hair and bushy brows. Morris knew him as Charles Workman. A known stick man. Talk was, he was one of the three who gunned down Little Augie, the others being Gurrah and Buchalter. He was wearing a shoulder holster and no sport jacket.
“Of course, I’m in for Morris Raab!” Louis Buchalter stood up and put out a hand. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I’m sorry you had to go through the tenth degree.” He was dressed in a dark check suit with a straw hat on the table in front of him, his bow tie precisely tied and a half-smoked cigar in an ashtray. He still had that chummy, affable smile, his cheek puffed out like a wad of tobacco was stuffed inside, though the edges around his face seemed to have hardened in line with the kinds of more serious business he was engaged in now.
Morris hadn’t seen him since the night he met Ruthie at the Theatrical Club, six years ago. “Mr. Buchalter.” They shook hands. The gangster motioned for Morris to take a seat.
“I’ll stand if that’s okay.”
“Always the renegade, huh, Morris? My sources tell me life’s been good to you. That you’re a big man now. In your field.”
“I’m getting by,” Morris said. “Not quite like you though.”
“Me . . . ?” Buchalter looked around and shrugged. “Forget all the fancy headlines, we scratch out a living any way we can. Jacob . . .” Buchalter leaned back and turned to the hulking Gurrah, who was flipping a card, “you remember our old friend Morris Raab, don’t you?”
“I remember I almost turned him upside down and shook the small change out of him,” the hulking gangster said. “But that was a long time back.” He grinned, showing his gray, uneven teeth. “You look like you’re doing well. You got any change on you now, Mr. Raab?”
“Not enough to make it worthwhile,” Morris said.
“Anyway, he’s gotten too big, even for you, Jacob. I think today you’d have to use all your natural charm on him. So what brings you all the way out to our neck of the world?” Buchalter sat up and straightened his tie. “It can’t be you’ve run out of Macanudos.”
“I’m here about Manny Gutman,” Morris said.
“Gutman . . . ?” Buchalter wiped his mouth, leaned back, and looked to someone at another table. “Am I supposed to know that name?”
“The Isidor Gutman Fur Company,” Morris said. “A bunch of your goons here tore his place apart earlier today and doused his face with acid.”
“Acid? That’s surely no fun, I can assure you of that. And what, if I might ask, is your particular interest in this man?”
“My particular interest is that he’s a friend.”
“A friend, huh . . . ? Well, it wasn’t my boys.” Buchalter shook his head. “I can assure you of that. Maybe union boys. They can get pretty nasty when they feel they have a point to make. But my boys . . . we’re all strictly business now. Right, fellas . . . ? Why don’t we send him a nice bouquet of flowers?” He snapped his fingers at the man he’d consulted earlier. “And a bottle of rye. A friend of Morris Raab is a friend of mine. Courtesy of the International Fur Dressers Protective.”
“Guess it was the same with Abe Langer too?” Morris stared at Buchalter directly. “Maybe you should send him a bouquet.”
“Abe Langer? Now I do recall hearing there was someone named Langer who took a tumble from a window somewhere.” The lightness drained from Buchalter’s face. “He was looking for the complaints department, I was told, and seemed to get on the wrong elevator. Accidents can happen anywhere. You wouldn’t want to say it was any more, would you, Morris? Surely not here. Some of my boys might take that the wrong way.”
“I know it was your men who did it, Buchalter.” Morris glared at him. And then around the room.
Buchalter nodded patiently and then tapped on his cigar. “From what I heard, this Langer was making a lot of threats he couldn’t back up, and didn’t know how to keep his trap shut. And given what’s going on in your particular industry, he seems to have made the wrong bet. At least that’s what I’ve heard.” The gangster looked back up at him. “Know what I’m saying?”
“I think you more than heard.” Morris looked back at him. “I’m pretty sure it was your men who did it. No one at the International Fur Dressers union would pick their nose without talking to you first.”
“I think you overstate my influence, Morris.” A plume of cigar smoke wafted between Morris and Buchalter. “You know you’ve pushed me more than once, and I hope you know, if I didn’t like you, I might take what you’re saying in an inamicable way. Which could be bad for you, as people who have made that list tend not to show up for work the next day. Or the day after that.”
“I wouldn’t be quite that dumb, would I?”
“I don’t know, would you, Morris? That remains to be fully seen. But you are pushing your luck about one thing. The union, which some of my men do fieldwork for, is a completely independently run enterprise. It exists only to improve and better represent the cause of the workers to make sure they are fairly compensated for their contribution by their stakeholders. Stakeholders like yourself, Morris. And in proper working conditions. Still, when it comes to day-to-day operations, I have nothing to do with it. Now, do you have another reason for being here, other than to darken my mood, which was high in the sky until you happened in here?”
“I’m here to ask you to call it quits.” Morris kept his gaze locked on him. “You’ve got what you wanted. Control. Money coming in. Money off our backs. Things get any worse, you’ll end up in a war. And that’s good for no one.”
“A war.” Buchalter chuckled. “A war with whom, Morris?” He had that chummy grin again, but behind it lurked an icy, determined ire. His eyes fixed on Morris without blinking. “With most people we have pretty good relations. With you maybe?”
“Not me, Mr. Buchalter. I don’t want no war.”
“That’s good to hear. Because a war with you, Morris . . .” Buchalter tapped his cigar and sniffed. “That would be a pretty short war. The union is only there to promote goodwill and better conditions for the people who have no means or voice to speak up, say against people like you, Morris. We don’t share the fruits of their labor with them. But we don’t want a war, as you say, do we, boys?”
Shapiro flipped over a card and shook his head. “Not me. I don’t want no war.”
“What about you, Murray?” Buchalter asked a heavyset guy with a pockmarked face in the back.
“War? Nope. Not me,” he said.
“Or you, Charlie?”
“Me neither, boss. No conflict at all.” Charles Workman shrugged and shook his head. “That only puts a strain right here.” He tapped his chest. “Right in the ticker.”
“See, no one here is looking for any war. Only to make sure everything with our workers runs smoothly. There are a lot of people out there who would characterize that wrongly. But while we’re on that subject, Morris,” Buchalter looked up and wagged his index finger in the air, “remind me, quick, are you a union shop these days?”
“I’m not,” Morris said, “and I’d sooner shut my doors before I would be.”
“You’d sooner shut your doors, eh . . . ? Hear that, boys, we’re talking to a man of genuine principle here. Someone who takes care of his people paternalistically. We’ve all heard that before.”
Gurrah Shapiro nodded. “Very hard to find these days, indeed.”
“You know, you’re lucky I somehow like you, Morris. Otherwise . . .” Buchalter flicked an ash into the ashtray and shook his head with amusement. “You’d fucking shut your doors . . . Y’know you and your brother have a way of making me laugh. Speaking of which, how is that boy these days? Haven’t seen him around much.” He snapped his fingers. “I forget his name?”
“Harry,” Gurrah reminded him.
“Yeah, Harry,” Buchalter said. “Lot of laughs, Harry. Just like you, he knows how to weave a good story.”
“We got him working over at The Green Parrot, Mr. Buchalter,�
�� Mendy Weiss, who was still at the door, said.
“The Green Parrot.” Buchalter nodded. “Yeah, now I remember, that’s where I’ve seen him. Say, isn’t that where Izzy Cohen got shot?”
“And Hy Danzer, I recall as well,” Mendy said. “No telling.”
“Rough spot, The Green Parrot. Hard to guarantee anyone goes in comes out alive. Tussles break out most every night.”
“I’m thinking that sounds like you’re the one making a threat now,” Morris said.
“I don’t make threats, Morris.” Buchalter tapped his finger on the table and looked up. “You, of all people, should know that. I’m just thinking we ought to find a safer place for your brother. Purely for his own interests, of course. Put that down, Ike. . . .” He leaned back and gestured to the man with the pad. “Now, anything else? If not, me and the boys, we ought to get back to making a living. Ask Rosie about some Cohibas on the way out. I’ll see we work out a good price.”
“Thanks. But I buy my own, if it’s all the same.”
“And why not? You’re a big shot now. Still, since you came all the way out, we’d just like to show some appreciation.”
As Morris passed one of the tables on his way out, he stopped and stared at the heavyset man he’d heard called Leon. “You know, people up at the Amalgamated Needle Workers Union, the day Abe Langer died, said one of the guys who grabbed him was named Leon. . . .”
The heavyset man stared back at him and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know about that. Leon’s a common name.”
“Not that common.” Morris headed out.
“I gonna make a rule for you, Morris Raab,” Buchalter called after him, “and if I were you, I’d pay attention. Know where the line is, you understand? ’Cause some lines you just can’t cross. ’Cause if you do, nothing in the world can save you, Morris. Or your brother. You want to close your doors so badly, I can make that happen, you hear me? ’Cause sooner or later, Morris, everyone’s luck runs out.”
Mendy took Morris outside, and as the door closed behind them, Mendy said, “I wouldn’t be standing up to Mr. Buchalter that way, if I were you, Morris.”