The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  “It is important,” Irv said. He leaned forward and hushed his voice lower. “We’re going after some really big fish, Morris. Meyer Lansky. Dutch Schultz. Luciano. All the big boys.”

  “You’ll put more Jews in the clink than I hear this guy Hitler’s doing back in Germany.” Morris snickered.

  Irv smiled, then he looked at Morris and threw out one more name. A name Morris knew well. “Lepke.”

  “Buchalter . . . ?” Morris’s eyes went wide.

  “I know you’ve had your run-ins with him. And I know you know what he’s up to these days. I mean, you’re in the trade. You’d have to know.”

  “I know.” Morris nodded. He rolled his spoon around in his coffee. “Good luck.”

  “His syndicate has taken over all the garment unions. He, his sidekick, Jacob Shapiro, and a bunch of violent thugs. So tell me, are you union, Morris?”

  Morris looked at his friend and shrugged. “Not yet, anyway. I might as well get out if we do.”

  “Well, I’m sure you know enough people who are. And who have experienced their shakedowns. We know he’s done some violent things, Morris. It’s just that . . . It would be good if maybe you knew someone, or even yourself, who might want to help us.”

  “Help you do what, Irv?”

  “Help us put him away. For good.”

  “Buchalter?” Morris smiled and took a sip of coffee. “Good luck. You wouldn’t be the first to try. I hope you got your life insurance up to date.” He took a bite of his pie. “Look, anyone I know, ain’t so happy with what’s going on. But they ain’t exactly stupid either. So this is why you asked me here? To get some names? To collect some information. Sure, I’m aware what’s going on. You’d have to either be dead or have your head in the sand not to be. Abe Langer was a friend of mine. And Manny Gutman and Monty Rosen, and David Rubin too.”

  “The reason I asked you here,” Irv said, leaning forward and putting down his fork, “was it would be helpful if we could get to talk with someone who might have something to say. Who’s faced this kind of intimidation.”

  “Is that what you lawyers call it, intimidation? Manny Gutman had his whole business destroyed and his face doused with acid. Abe Langer was thrown out of an eighth-story window in front of his whole office. So far, no one’s even lifted a finger in any investigation. Not the cops. Not the DA. How’s that for intimidation? So, sure, I know people. What is it you want to know? How the cops are all paid off and don’t lift a finger against him? How the DA’s office has Lepke’s own men inside it? How he throws more money around than the Chase National Bank to get tipped off or have cases put in the drawer? It wouldn’t surprise me if your own task force, despite the fancy name, is paid off just the same. Buchalter’s no dummy. He just sits back and pushes the buttons and collects the checks. Anyone who talks to you, trust me, they know their name will get out and they’ll be an empty seat at the Passover table if they open their trap.”

  “It’s not that way here, Morris.” Irv looked at him seriously. “You’re right, what you say. But now there’s new ways to go after them. New laws. Things called antitrust laws. They let you go after people who want to interfere with competition. Who want to impose a monopoly status in their business. Who pressure people into buying a certain way. Through their own cartels. Even unions. We don’t have to get them pulling a trigger anymore.”

  “I’ve heard Buchalter’s got this team of killers that goes around knocking people off for money. Murder, Incorporated, everyone calls it. Why don’t you nail him on that, if it’s so different now?”

  “Because there’s no witnesses to those kinds of crimes,” Irv said.

  “There’s plenty of witnesses, Irv. It’s just that anyone who would dare speak up usually doesn’t make it to the stand. So what makes it different with the garment unions?”

  “Because this is the new way, Morris. The way to nail him. And not on a single charge, so he’s back on the street in a year. On multiple charges. Dozens, even. He can’t intimidate witnesses in them all. All we need is just some people I can talk to.”

  Morris put down his fork and took a sip of his coffee. “You know I know this joke, Irv. Maybe you heard it? ‘Apple pie and coffee, please.’ Someone’s just off the boat, and those are the only words in English he knows. So every time he goes to eat he orders the very same thing. Apple pie and coffee. Till one day he’s so sick of it he can’t order it anymore, and he goes to his cousin, who he’s staying with, to teach him something else. So the cousin says, ‘Pastrami sandwich with mustard and a water.’ The guy practices it over and over till he’s got it down and then he goes to the restaurant. ‘Pastrami sandwich with mustard and a glass of water.’ The same waitress he always has comes up to him. ‘Pastrami sandwich, please, with mustard, and water,’ the guy says. The waitress looks back and goes, ‘White or rye?’ The guy doesn’t have a clue what to say back, so he just shrugs and goes, ‘Apple pie and coffee, please.’ You know that joke, Irv.”

  “I think we all know that joke, Morris. Or those people.”

  “Yeah, I guess we do.”

  Morris let his thoughts shift to Manny Gutman. His friend was barely out of the hospital. No way he would put him in further danger, even if Manny could be twisted somehow to testify against Louis Lepke. Or any of Manny’s friends, for that matter, which Morris knew, they would not. Most of them were just as terrified and had long capitulated with the union to stay in business and remain alive, buying syndicate or not. Morris himself was one of the last holdouts. He looked at Irv, whose eyes were fixed on him, waiting. “Truth is, I don’t think I know anybody, Irv.”

  “No one?” Irv’s eyes suggested disbelief.

  Morris took another sip of coffee and shook his head. “No.”

  “What about you . . . ?”

  “Me? I haven’t had any issues, myself.” Morris shrugged and then smiled. “With, how do you call it, intimidation? Nothing direct. Only what I’ve been told.”

  Irv nodded, and blew a disappointed blast of air from his nostrils. He placed his fork back on his empty plate. “I just want you to know, it’ll be different this time around, Morris. You have my word. These people have broken federal laws. They’ve stood in the way of open competition. They’ve created monopolies. These are offenses we can pin them to. Put them away on. All we need is a few people not afraid to talk.”

  “Well, good luck finding them, Irv.” Morris drained the last of his coffee. “If I run into one, I’ll be sure and let you know.”

  They sat in silence for a while. Then Irv said, “So you’re not union. How come they’ve given you a pass so far?”

  “I don’t know. . . . Buchalter seems to have this crazy respect for me, how I stood up to him a couple of times. You know how a bully always backs down when he’s confronted face-to-face. Or maybe it’s Harry. He still hangs around with the lot of them. Whatever it is, I think it’s coming to an end. We’re growing too large. We can’t hide under the surface anymore. But I have a feeling that’s all changing.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Morris dug in his pocket for his wallet. “The truth . . . ? I really don’t know.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Look, I hate to break up the party, but I told Ruthie I’d be home half an hour ago. She puts out a nice meal for me. And here I already had dessert.”

  “I understand.” Irv reached into his pocket. “Say hello for me, would you?”

  “Sure.” Morris went for some money.

  “On me.” Irv waved him off. He threw a few bills on the table. “On the city, actually. Think of what I said. I promise, it’s different this time. And don’t be so sure that a bully always backs down. Sometimes when they’re backed into a corner, they just come out, swinging harder. And then we’ve all seen what happens.”

  Morris said, “I’ll keep that in mind. Listen, I’ve got a car outside.” He’d instructed his driver to hold up around the corner. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “I’m still in Brooklyn,�
� Irv said. “The F train works just fine. But thanks.”

  They got up, put on their hats, and went outside through the revolving door. At the same time, coming into the restaurant was a large man with deep, sunken eyes in a homburg, followed closely by two other men.

  On the street, Irv turned and watched them go inside.

  “You know who that is?” Irv asked.

  Morris stared back after the man. He shook his head.

  “That’s Dutch Schultz.” Irv turned up his collar. “I guess crooks like cheesecake too.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  When it began, it began the way Morris had always expected.

  A man came up to the office and asked to meet with him and Sol. He was dressed in a wrinkled suit, rumpled hat, and scuffed brown shoes. He had a short gray mustache, and the feel of someone who could relate to the people behind the machines. Morris had seen union front men before.

  “Talk about what?” Morris asked, stepping out from the sample room where they put together their design prototypes.

  The man looked around, craning his neck here and there, seemingly to get a sense for their operation. He said to Morris, “Your brother’s your partner, isn’t he?”

  “What’s he got to do with it?”

  “Just that maybe it would be best if he came in and joined us as well.”

  Morris found Sol down in the receiving department and they went in the glass-enclosed room they used as a showroom and closed the door behind them, though Morris already knew what the scruffily dressed man was there to say.

  “Certain parties want to know if you’ve given any thought to unionizing your operation?” the man said.

  “Certain parties . . . ?”

  “That’s right. They feel like they’ve given you ample time to establish yourselves and now it’s time to talk turkey.” He reached into his breast pocket and slid his card across the table. Seymour Haddad. Field Administrator. Amalgamated Needle Trade and the International Fur Dressers Protective. “They’ve asked me to go over the details. Call me Cy.”

  Morris, pushing across an ashtray for his cigarette, nodded warily. “All right, Cy.”

  Union organizers were always sniffing around their offices. Most of the firms had caved in by these days, willingly or not, so he and Sol stood out as an opportunity for them, though it was no secret in the trade how opposed Sol and Morris were. As he talked, Cy Haddad kept glancing around, looking through the glass, clearly trying to size up their operation. From his vest, he took a small notepad and jotted something down. “You mind . . . ? My memory isn’t what it once was. . . .” He smiled amiably.

  “We have given thought to it,” Morris took a look at Sol and answered. “And I’m afraid my brother and I, we’re not interested.”

  “Not interested . . . ?” the union man said, with a hint of amusement.

  “You can see, we’re not a big outfit here. Whatever we do, we have to keep a finger on our costs. Otherwise there’s no purpose for us to remain in business. You understand? Our only advantage is coming up with what the upper-class women want to wear, and making it at a price. For the rest of the women out there. We lose that, we might as well close the doors. And, unless you can guarantee my workers a better deal than they already get from us, we don’t see the point of talking.”

  “The point of talking . . . Well, I guess there is no point.” Cy Haddad shrugged, giving Morris a sage smile. “Other than, in the view of certain parties, whether you want to remain a going concern or not.”

  The threat hung in the air and Morris stared back at him. Then he glanced at Sol. He had to hold himself back from telling Cy Haddad to get the fuck out of his place.

  Instead he said, “I guess we’re prepared to take our chances. As it is, I think you’d find we take care of our workers just fine, and that’s what you’re concerned about, isn’t it, the welfare of our workers? Feel free to ask them. I can’t imagine they’d be so eager to change. And now if you don’t mind . . . ?” Morris stood up. “I think I’m needed back in the design department.”

  “And I’m sure you do just that, Mr. Raab,” Cy Haddad went on, ignoring him, not moving an inch. “If you wouldn’t mind humoring me a moment more and sitting back down. It’s funny how everyone feels that way. At the start. ‘Our workers are our friends. We take care of them. They’ve been with us since our first day in business. It’s one big happy family here.’ Still, what we believe is that it’s up to the employees to determine what’s in their interest. Not you. So how many people do you have, if you don’t mind me asking? Between the warehouse and the sewing department?” The organizer went to the glass and craned his neck. There was the usual chatter of sewing machines in operation, six or seven sewers behind them, the hiss of a steam press, someone draping fabric on a body form, and two cutters working at the tables.

  “Around fifteen,” Sol said. “It’s basically just our sample room here. Most of the production we contract out.”

  “I see. And in the warehouse? Downstairs?” The union man scribbled something on his pad.

  The guy had probably been scoping them out for a week, getting his facts right, before he ventured up.

  “In the warehouse . . . another eight or so, in shipping and receiving. Maybe we put on a couple more in peak season.”

  Cy Haddad just nodded, jotting down the figures in his pad with a small, worn-down pencil. Then he looked up and smiled, without betraying the bomb he was about to drop on them next. “And that’s not including the operation up in Kingston, I assume?”

  Morris stared back bluntly. His eyes went over to Sol’s.

  “The operation in Kingston,” Sol explained, “is not exactly ours. The fact is, it belongs to an outfit called Hudson Manufacturing. They’re a jobber we occasionally farm work out to. Right now, I have to admit, that work’s pretty steady, so you’re liable to see much of our production in there if you pay a visit.”

  “We already have.” Cy Haddad smiled. “And though you may have some predilection against how we operate, Mr. Rabishevsky, let’s not pretend we’re all idiots, shall we?” The labor organizer tossed his pad on the table. “It’s common knowledge Hudson Manufacturing is wholly owned by you and your brother. Alois Ross, the president and general manger on record—do I have the right name?—is, I believe, the husband of one of your floor managers here in New York. Both of your names are attached to the lease as guarantors. If you like, I can produce a copy of the check from your account at the Chase National Bank on Thirty-fourth Street just a block or two away, which went for the down payment to buy the assets of the previous business there.”

  Jesus, just who do they have on their payroll? Morris asked himself.

  “We pay them a good wage,” Morris said defiantly. There was no point in pushing against what was obvious anymore. “They get the best piece rate in the business, morning and afternoon breaks, and a two-week vacation. Which is more than most in the union can say. We even keep them on in our slow season instead of laying them off, regardless of the work. If we didn’t come in there, the place would have shut down two years ago, just like what happened to the previous owners you tried to organize, and then you’d have a hundred more workers on handouts, instead of behind a machine. Besides, I’m not sure the Amalgamated Needle Trade Workers or International Fur Dressers even have a chapter up in Ulster County, so I’m not even sure it’s in your jurisdiction.”

  “As an arm’s-length subsidiary of Raab Brothers Manufacturing,” the organizer looked back at him, “which is what we, and I’m pretty sure any court in New York would see it as, I’m afraid you’re on thin ice on that one, Mr. Raab. It falls under the heading of ‘accretion,’ which you may want to familiarize yourself with. And unless you’re prepared to drag the matter out forever in court, after we do make the effort to organize there, I’m not sure you really want to get into a legal battle over jurisdiction anyway. Not that we let details like that interfere with the lawful rights of workers everywhere to improve their position
in life.”

  “Take a hike.” Morris got up and went to the door.

  “Gentlemen, I’m giving you notice of our intention to engage your workforce up there to the end of a vote of accepting the Amalgamated Needle Trade workers as their rightful representative. And in your offices here as well. Again, how many did you say you have on payroll?” Haddad consulted his notes.

  Neither Morris nor Sol answered.

  “Around thirty, I think you said,” the organizer scratched at his mustache. “More, in season.”

  “You can finish your count on the street.” Morris glared at him. He held the door open. “Sorry if we don’t show you out.”

  “Now, now . . .” Haddad put up a hand. “I don’t need to remind you, gentlemen, that the right of workers to organize into a union and to form such a union has long been decided in the courts and is fully protected by federal law. Any interference, under the recently passed National Labor Relations Act, would not be looked at kindly by us, by the press, or by the courts.”

  “I think what my brother meant,” Sol tried to smooth it out, “is that we’d be happy to explore the conversation, though not right at this point in time.”

  “What I meant,” Morris said, glaring at the man, “was to continue your count out in the street and go fuck yourself, Mr. Haddad. Buchalter sent you, didn’t he?”

  Cy Haddad blinked. “Sorry?”

  “Lepke? Gurrah? This came from them, right? They gave you the word to come up here and harass us, right?”

  “I work for the Amalgamated Needle Trade Workers and Fur Dressers Union, Mr. Raab, and I’m not aware of anyone in our offices by either of those names. Besides, I thought I made it clear, lawful organization is not harassment in any form. It’s protected by federal law.”

  “And so is me not throwing you out the window like you did to Abe Langer . . . Protected by the law. But let me ask you, just for argument’s sake, what’s your base labor rate?” Morris pressed.