The Last Brother

by Andrew Gross

  “That’s all it was, huh?” He gazed at her. “But now I feel it even more.”

  She took his hand and smiled too, her eyes flooding. She brushed a tear off her cheek. “For a while I didn’t know if you were going to pull through.”

  “Takes more than a bullet and a couple of stab wounds to put me away.” He tried to laugh. The pain hit him. He winced.

  “Are you all right, Morris?”

  He smiled, letting his eyes wash over her. “Now I am.”

  “Anyway, it was two. Two bullets. One went through your side and the other they had to take out of your thigh. Not to mention the ruptured spleen. From the stab wounds.”

  He nodded.

  “And two fractured ribs.”

  “Like I said.” Then he shut his eyes a second and nodded solemnly. He tried to recall what had happened.

  “You just can’t keep fighting all by yourself, Morris. . . .” She wrapped his hand in hers and squeezed. “You just can’t. I can’t believe I almost lost you.”

  He thought about telling her how close it had actually been. How they had jumped him in the lobby and he wouldn’t have even made it out to the street if old Buck hadn’t stuck in his head. Morris would put a whole lot more than a dollar in his palm next time.

  And then the fight underwater with Mendy as he tried to free himself from the chains. In the end he thought it best to just not say anything. Ruthie was strong and independent, but right now, even he knew that was a story for another day.

  “I still feel terrible about Manny,” he said.

  “I do too.”

  “Have they found out anything more?”

  She shook her head. “Whoever hit him has never been found.”

  “I got him killed, Ruthie. I was the one who pushed him to testify.”

  “He was a grown man, Morris. He made his own decisions.”

  Tsaddikim, Morris recalled. Thirty-six good men. Those were his reasons.

  For a while, they didn’t say anything. She took his hand and rested her head on his stomach. “Anyway, you just take it easy now. There’ll be enough time to talk about that later.”

  Sol came in. He smiled. Morris gave him a sheepish wave. Sol said, “Anna and Bessie are outside. We took Mom home. She hadn’t slept in two days.”

  Morris nodded.

  “I’ll go see to them,” Ruthie said. “I’ll see you in a while, okay?”

  “Ruthie,” Morris called after her as she was at the door. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks?” She looked at him quizzically. “For what?”

  “For forgiving me,” Morris said.

  She smiled.

  Sol came up to the bed. He put a hand on Morris’s shoulder and sniffed a laugh. “Ich zol azoy vissen fun tsoris. . . .” he muttered. I should only have half the trouble you cause for me. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “So you keep saying, Sol. But don’t make me cry.”

  Sol waited for the door to fully close so that they were alone. “Anything you want to talk about?”

  “It was Mendy, Sol. I put a chain around his neck and left him there, under the pier. It was him who killed Harry.”

  “Mendy?”

  “They suckered him into driving the getaway car on the Dutch Schultz thing, and when they drove off with Charlie Workman still inside, I guess someone had to pay. He didn’t do it, Sol.”

  “He didn’t do what?”

  “The fire. It wasn’t him who let them into our place. It was Leo.”

  “Leo . . . ?”

  “Mendy told me. I guess he didn’t like that Harry was taking his job. He let them in.” Morris closed his eyes. “I threw him out of our lives and it wasn’t even him.”

  Sol took in a deep breath through his nostrils. “He still shouldn’t have left though.”

  “No, he should never have left. Gimme some water?” Morris glanced toward a pitcher on his night table.

  Sol poured some into a glass and tilted it toward Morris’s lips. Morris’s throat was parched. He put his head back down. “Mendy said to me, before we went into the drink, that Harry said, ‘You tell Morris, I didn’t do it.’ Those were his last words. I sent him back to them, Sol. This never would have happened if I hadn’t been such a stubborn fool.”

  “You are a stubborn fool. But it’s not the time for that now. You’re safe. Your wife wants her husband back. Your kids deserve a father.” He squeezed Morris’s arm and grinned. “So you can still swim it, huh? They found you all the way over on the Fourth Street pier.”

  “Yeah, but I had to come up twice. For air.”

  “Still . . . Not bad. Though it seems a waste of a pretty nice wool coat to me.”

  He gave Morris another sip of water, then put the glass back. “The rest of the family would like to see you.”

  “Sure. Send them in.”

  “Just so you know, they’ve stationed a guard outside. Oh, and there’s a couple of people from the city with badges on who’d like to talk with you too.”

  He took them all through it. Workman and the guy with the mole in the lobby. Mendy. The corrupt police captain, Burns. He said that they’d find a body still wrapped in a chain underneath Pier Six. He had said he would only speak with a detective that Special Prosecutor Dewey sent. The special prosecutor actually came up to see him that first day. After the two detectives took down his story, he asked Dewey if he would remain behind. “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Morris said to him. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  The next afternoon, Irv came by to visit.

  He seemed unsettled, and shaken. “When I asked you to get involved, Morris, I didn’t mean quite like this,” he said, forcing a weak smile. He put his hat on the chair.

  Morris smiled back.

  “You’ll be happy to know, we’ve picked up Charles Workman and we got him dead to rights. Oh, and your police buddy, Burns. He denies everything, of course. But he’s got a history that goes back twenty years.”

  “Can you get him a message from me?”

  “A message? Maybe. I have some friends on the force.”

  “Tell him I said it’s time to think about meeting his maker, Jackie-boy?”

  Irv looked back quizzically.

  “He’ll know what I mean. So what about Buchalter?”

  “There are things brewing on that. Big things. I can’t talk about them now.”

  “Good.” Buchalter had ordered the hit, of course. And likely the hit on Manny too.

  Irv stepped up to him. “You really had me worried, Morris. I couldn’t have lived if we had lost you. You need anything in here?”

  “Long as that guard stays on duty out there, they’re taking pretty good care of me.”

  “Trust me, Dewey wouldn’t let him leave if an earthquake hit the building. He handpicked the men himself. You can’t even get down the wing unless you’re a doctor or family.”

  Irv squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve done good work, Morris. The whole thing’s going to bust right open. You rest up though. I’ll stop back in a couple of days. You know, I couldn’t have slept with myself if you didn’t make it.” Irv picked his hat up off the chair and went to the door.

  “Irv.”

  His friend turned. “Yes.”

  “You know you have a leak in the department, right?”

  “A leak? What makes you say that?”

  Morris shrugged. “Me, there coulda been a dozen people who knew I was trying to round people up. But Manny . . . that lighter . . . there were only a handful who knew about that.”

  Irv looked back, his mind ratcheting through what Morris might be saying to him. “I’m truly sorry about your friend Manny. I met him a couple of times. We’re looking into it, and if it’s connected in any way, heads will roll.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about a couple of things. . . .” Morris leaned himself up.

  “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself, Morris. What?”

  “On the pier. As I was passing out. You�
�d think my mind would’ve been on maybe never seeing Ruthie again. Or my kids. But it was on something else. You remember how we used to swim off those piers?”

  “You mostly.” Irv grinned. “I just jumped in and tried not to get pushed around.”

  “Well, I recalled something, lying there. You remember when you started going to that new school in Irving Place but you needed someone to get you through the Irish and Italian neighborhoods?”

  “Of course. You took your life in your hands back then. Not like now. Why . . . ?”

  “And then you found someone. A yiddisher, remember? You remember what you said about him?”

  “I barely remember anything back then, Morris. That was twenty years ago. Look, I’ll stop back up and—”

  “I know it was twenty years ago, Irv. But what you said was—I recall it like yesterday—this guy we found, he’s even tougher than the Italians or the micks. He’d come back from some reform school upstate and had formed his own outfit. Who was that guy, Irv? You must remember his name?”

  “Jeez, Morris. Abe or something. I think he got pinched and ended up in jail. I mean, who can go back that far? We were kids.”

  “I know we were kids, Irv. But you had to pay him for over four years, so I thought you might recall. Abe, huh? And then I recalled something else. Which has bugged me to this day.”

  “What’s that, Morris?” Irv’s expression changed. He glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting my mother in Brooklyn in an hour. She sends her best, by the way.”

  “That’s nice. Tell her thanks. But I was thinking about that night at the Theatrical Club in Harlem. The night I met Ruthie . . .”

  “I wore that evening suit that was two sizes too big for me. She was part of those girls. From Columbia and Skidmore.”

  “Later on, you remember who came up to the table?”

  “Not sure I do.” Irv’s tone grew taut, no longer patient.

  “Louis Buchalter,” Morris said.

  Irv nodded. He tapped his index finger against his hat.

  “He was being his usual prick self. Ruthie and I turned down an invitation to go to his table. But as he was leaving he said something I always wanted to ask you about. I could never figure it out. At least, till now . . .”

  “At least till now . . .” Irv’s look had hardened. “I’m not sure I like where this is leading, Morris.”

  “It’s leading everywhere, Irv. It all keeps coming back to there. You know what I mean? With Manny dead, I just started thinking. He acted like he knew you, Irv. Buchalter. You remember what he said?”

  “No. I don’t remember, Morris. What did he say?”

  Morris looked at him. “He called you, Counselor, Irv. Counselor. As he said good-bye.”

  “Counselor . . . ?” Irv looked back at him, uneasily, the gears of his brain churning to stay ahead of where this was going. “I’m not sure I like what you’re—”

  “Just how would he know that, Irv?” Morris continued to stare at him. “That you were studying law. He wouldn’t, of course. Unless you did know him. I got to thinking . . . unless he was the one who gave you protection all those years. Just tell me if I’m off base, here, and I’ll stop. Was he?”

  “Was he what?” Irv stared. His voice had gotten thin.

  “Was he the one who gave you protection, Irv? Back then. I think I deserve an answer.”

  Irv stood there, air leaking through his nostrils, his cheeks sagging, the steady whoosh of the mechanical pump the only sound.

  Then he let a breath out that had been inside him twenty years.

  “I’m only going to tell you this once, Morris, and if it ever comes up again I’ll throw a libel suit on you so large it’ll take down your new business as well. I’ve done a lot of good in this job. I’ve put people who deserved it in jail. As an ADA, I stood up for people who had no one else to defend them. I’m not going to let myself feel ashamed. Whatever I do.

  “But you have no idea what it was like for me back then. Always being the weak one. Afraid. The pudgy little bookworm who always had his head in his studies. Not like you, Morris. You were always able. And strong. You didn’t even have to think twice when it came to standing up for yourself, no matter how tough someone was.”

  “Your bookworm habits got you where you are in life, Irv. Look at you.”

  “The only sliver of respect I had in life, Morris, was being your friend. And that’s what made it even worse. You remember that big scholarship to Brooklyn Law I received? We had that big celebration?”

  “Yes.”

  “Without that, I would have been working behind the counter in some bakery on Delancey Street. Or selling shoes somewhere, saying my whole life, ‘I came within an inch of going to law school.’ You want to know where that money came from? There was no scholarship. You understand?”

  Morris stared at him.

  “So yes, Louis was that person. He’s always been that person to me. You always said you’d do whatever you had to do to get out, and me—I did what I had to do too.

  “But here’s the thing . . . I put a lot of bad people away. In the balance, I’ve done a lot more good than bad. And I never, ever meant to put you in any harm, Morris. On that, I swear. That was a part of it between him and me, from early on.”

  “What do you mean, that was a part of it, Irv?”

  “Why do you think he let you get by with so much, Morris? Because of your brother? Harry? Your brother shined their shoes. Or because you’re such a tough guy? Anyone else, you would have been in some garbage can ten years ago. I’m sorry, Morris, but I’ve been your friend a lot more than you’ll ever know.”

  Morris just looked at him.

  “So yes, maybe I have given him a nod from time to time when the heat got too close. Does that make me a bad guy? Can you ever not do more good, even when you do something bad? I admit, there are times I look at myself in the mirror and the whole thing makes me retch. Other times, I think, it’s just part of the job. He’s given me names too. But I’ve never thrown a case, and I never meant to put you in any danger, Morris. God’s honest truth. And no one’s happier than me to see you here, okay, and we’re still gonna get Lepke. So what damage has it really done, in the end?”

  “Damage?” Morris looked at him. “Manny. There’s the damage, Irv.”

  Irv squeezed his hat and went to the door. “You were always my friend, Morris. You protected me when we were young. And I’ve protected you. You just never knew.”

  He left, holding open the door for Ruthie to go back in. “He’s looking swell,” he said, and gave her a hug.

  “What was that about?” she said.

  Morris was left with the whooshing of the breathing pump. “Nothing.”

  It was nine P.M. and visiting hours were over. Ruthie finally went home. Morris was resting. He heard a knock on the door. “It’s open.”

  Thomas Dewey stepped in. In a gray double-breasted suit, collar pin, and striped blue tie.

  “Mr. Dewey.”

  “How’re you doing, Mr. Raab? I hear you’re making excellent progress.” The special prosecutor came over to his bed. “Not many people get to go through what you did and live to tell about it.”

  “I’m a lucky man.”

  “You diminish yourself, son. With what you’ve accomplished.”

  “No, trust me, I was lucky.”

  The special prosecutor looked around the room. “I was going to bring you some flowers. But I didn’t think you were the flower kind of guy. Though as I look around, I see you’ve already received your share.”

  “You get shot . . .” Morris grinned, “all of a sudden you have friends you didn’t know you had.”

  “And ‘a man is who his friends are,’ isn’t that right? Where did I hear that before? Twain, perhaps.”

  “Dickens, I think,” Morris corrected him. “A Christmas Carol.”

  “Dickens?” The special prosecutor screwed up his eyes and smiled. “At all times you continue to surprise me, Mr. Raab. In any c
ase, instead of flowers I brought you something else. Something I believe you’ll like much more.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Indictments. Charles Workman. Louis Buchalter. Jacob Shapiro. Seymour ‘Cy’ Haddad. Not only on their illegal union activities; there’s now a murder rap we can nail them on too. I promise, they’re all going to be off the streets for a very long time, if not for good.”

  A feeling of vindication pulsed through Morris warmly. “That’s great.”

  “Oh, and two others you may not know, but who I think you’ll be happy to hear about. Leon Burmeister and Leopold ‘Fuzzy’ Cantor? Have you heard of them?”

  Morris shook his head.

  “They were the two who tossed Abraham Langer out the Amalgamated Needle Trade Union building.”

  Morris closed his eyes. A wave of emotion built up inside.

  He smiled.

  “Oh, and you’ll be happy to know that police captain, Jack Burns, has been chirping like a parakeet to save his own skin. See, you’re looking better already, Mr. Raab. Though you certainly do have your share of wires attached to you.”

  Morris pulled up his bedsheet. He removed a small black box with a wire coming from it that was hidden there. “I think this one actually belongs to you. The doctors couldn’t figure out just what the hell it was doing anyway.” He handed it to Dewey.

  “It was doing the public good. I’m sorry, Morris. I know that was a hard thing for you to do.”

  “I think you’ll be pleased with what’s on there. So what’s going to happen to him?”

  “He’ll likely be arrested. Depending on what’s here. Who knows, he might be able to cop a plea himself. He might well know something worth trading. If . . .” Dewey’s mustache edged into a smile, “he can find himself a good lawyer.”

  “He’s my oldest friend in the world. I’ve known him since we were kids.”

  “If what’s on this is what I think is on it, he also kept a cold-hearted killer one step ahead of the law for many years. A lot more people ended up dead because of that, Mr. Raab. Very nearly you as well. That’s the way I’d look at it.”

  Dewey wrapped the microphone wire around the recorder and placed it in his coat pocket. He went to the door. “There’s nothing easy about this kind of work, Mr. Raab. I know how hard this was for you to do. A friend is a friend.”