Elsinore

by Jerome Charyn

  “Figs told me I’m getting better,” Judith announced from her cot.

  Frog was terrified. He didn’t want her to get away.

  “You’re not supposed to talk. I’m your doctor when Figs isn’t here.”

  “Then why don’t you play doctor and undress me?”

  “You’re not strong enough,” Holden said.

  “I want a thorough examination. I demand it.”

  And he did undress her. He minded all her bruises and kissed her everywhere he could.

  And so they had a family together, with Ethan, Bronshtein, and the dogs. Figs would bring in food from Edgartown. Ethan would often cry in the middle of a meal. “They were good boys. They never deserted their dad.” He didn’t blame Holden. He stopped calling him the angel of death.

  Frog had some remorse about the two boys—he wished Paul hadn’t come at him with that shovel—but he was happier than he’d ever been. He was ready to renounce Aladdin and all his check-writing privileges. He’d become a carpenter and earn his keep. He’d have babies with little Judith. But he could feel a stab under his heart, as if his own ribs were telling him something.

  He heard the dogs bark, and Holden knew the idyll was over.

  Phippsy had arrived on the island with an ambulance and a small platoon. He didn’t even say “Hello, Sid.” He captured little Judith. She cried and begged, but his sheriffs carted her into the ambulance. Holden could have popped a couple of Sheriffs with his .22. But it wouldn’t have gotten Judith back. And Holden understood: the old man meant to kill him if he interfered.

  It was Ethan who was the bravest of them all.

  “Phippsy,” he said. “The girl is healing. Why don’t you leave her alone?”

  “And have her live with cockroaches?” said the billionaire. He didn’t have his cardigan. He had a long quilted coat. He turned to the furrier, who’d been silent with Phippsy in the house.

  “Come along, Sol. I don’t have much time.”

  The furrier looked at Holden and then he started to run. He reached the next field before the billionaire summoned his sheriffs. Kit Shea was with them. The sheriffs simply marched in the furrier’s tracks. They caught up with Bronshtein in that field of toilet bowls.

  Frog didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t take his eyes off that incredible chase. Bronshtein running, running to nowhere. The sheriffs punched him into the ground and delivered their coup de grace: two or three bullets that sounded like the wing-beats of a giant swan.

  Phippsy smiled. “How are you, Sid? Care for a ride back to civilization?”

  “I think I’ll stay here.”

  Phipps took off in his ambulance, with the sheriffs behind him, and Holden returned to the orange house.

  Marcus Reims

  20

  He had his own sort of stamp album. Frog collected the life of Bessie Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson (she had as many names as his dad) and her husband, King Edward, demoted to Duke of Windsor because he wouldn’t give up the woman he loved. Wallis Simpson was a divorcée. She had a long nose. And she wasn’t some great courtesan who could beguile a country. “David,” as the king liked to call himself, was the handsome one. He loved to ride horses. Women followed him everywhere. They wanted to marry David. They offered him diamonds and all the hot perfume between their legs. David wasn’t interested. He went into permanent exile with Mrs. Simpson. He wandered the world after marrying her in a French chateau. And for the rest of his life he was a walking fairy tale, the man who had nothing to do. Hitler offered to make him king of the new Nazi England, but he couldn’t conquer the Brits. And Holden didn’t believe for a second that David would ever have sat on a Nazi throne. The Duke wasn’t a turncoat. Frog wouldn’t have worn the socks of a traitor king.

  David died in 1972. He was buried at Frogmore, on royal grounds, near Windsor, the castle he couldn’t have. Wallis became more and more secluded. Her mind began to go. She was “alert only sporadically in her last years,” according to the obit Holden collected from the Times. He carried pieces about the Duke and Duchess in his wallet.

  And the day after Phippsy took Judith from him and had the furrier killed, Frog dreamt he was at an auction in a little grocery store on the island. The auctioneer was a shoe salesman from Edgartown. He had paraphernalia from the Duke and Duchess on display His handkerchiefs, his socks, his rings. Her crepe wedding gown in “Wallis blue,” her own handerchiefs, the baubles he’d given Wallis, emerald panthers and lions. Holden wouldn’t let anyone else bid. He kept writing out blank checks and hurling them at the auctioneer. And when he had no more checks to write, he howled and woke up from his dream.

  He went downstairs and had corn flakes with Ethan. There wasn’t any milk in the house, and they had to eat the corn flakes dry. Their chewing sounded like little explosions at the end of the earth.

  “Ethan, why didn’t Phippsy bump you when he had the chance? You harbored Bronshtein. You were holding his girl.”

  “I was his tutor,” Ethan said. “Phippsy wouldn’t forget that.”

  “Come on, he knew all along where Judith was. First I thought it was Dr. Figs, that Figs had told him. But it wasn’t Figs. He knew. That’s why he let Paul Abruzzi put on a big show. He’d never rely on Abruzzi, not an old Pinkerton like him. He knew exactly where Bronshtein would go. And I was his little arrow. I got there first and did my business. Ethan, you sold out your own fucking boys.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did. You let them die. And I’ll tell you another thing. You’re the Marcus Reims who killed Kronstadt. It had to be you. No one else in the gang would have touched her. You were angry. She’d been your girl. And the cantor didn’t take her to Seattle. She was your territory again … What happened; Ethan? Did you hit her a little too hard? Were you drunk?”

  “I was as sober as a man eating corn flakes with little Sid.”

  “I’ll bet you were. But Hirsch signed her away when he left her with you. It was like a death warrant.”

  “You’d make a wonderful lawyer, Sid. I like the way you present a case. I was seething. I demolished a few of my own boys, but it wasn’t the same thing. I never loved Kronstadt. She was an uptown tart. But I’m a man of principles. I wanted her back. She wouldn’t have me. She only wanted the little gentleman from Milwaukee. That was Hirsch’s title. ‘The little gentleman.’ I followed her home, strangled her, beat her until my arms were all blue. And then I ran from that city of synagogues.”

  “And Hirsch bumped another Marcus Reims.”

  “The best boy I had. It was compensation. I mean, the cantor was justified. He had to take from me.”

  “But he wouldn’t kill his own tutor.”

  “Not over Kronstadt. Phippsy wasn’t a fool.”

  “You ran to Rhode Island and you’ve had a relationship with the cantor ever since.”

  “Spasmodic, I’d say. Phippsy had his foundation. He met with kings. He couldn’t afford to be seen with the Cardinales. But we did piecework for him. Got rid of pests. Minot never liked him. But Minot never liked anybody, not even his dogs.”

  “And when you got into trouble with the federal prosecutors, it was Howard who fixed it.”

  “Yes. He was the fixer. We had a house in Chappy. We agreed to disappear. The bargain was that we couldn’t step off the island. We had to sit on all the change we had. It was some piece of change. But it calmed the boys, having all this money around. They felt they had a future. And then he comes here with his bumper and starts to bleed us. The boys wanted revenge. We took Bronshtein’s million. And Minot beat the daughter, but he didn’t go all the way. Not like Kronstadt.”

  “And you knew Howard would come for her.”

  “We had to teach him a lesson. He was taking my boys for granted. I couldn’t allow that. I’m their papa.”

  “And where do I fit?”

  “Eat your corn flakes,” Ethan said.

  “What’s my future?”

  “You don’t have one.”

 
“Are you going to pop me while I’m in bed?”

  “Me? Never. I’m fond of you, little Sid. But you’ll never leave this island. You know too much. You saw Bronshtein suffer. You got close to Bibo in Bilbao. You might make a government witness.”

  “And if I’d gone into the ambulance with Howard, would that have been the end?”

  “No. The daughter was there. He would have delivered you in one piece. But I figure he’s left two or three of his henchmen on the island.”

  “Westies like Kit Shea.”

  “Yes, Kitty’s one of a kind. Always been loyal to Howard.”

  “Will they come in through the window?”

  “No. They’ll wait for you outside. I’m still a baron. They wouldn’t violate my hearth.”

  “And you’ll help them?” Frog asked.

  “I wouldn’t lift a pinky for Shea. But you’re on your own, little Sid.”

  “Fair enough,” Holden said. He finished his corn flakes and went up to his room in the attic. He could catch the fields of junk from his window … and the white sea. He couldn’t forget Bronshtein and the futility of his fat feet. Phipps shouldn’t have exposed him to that. He cleaned his .22, found Paul’s shovel, and strode into the flattened wilderness.

  The dogs were in the far field. They wouldn’t have been silent with Westies around, unless Kit had drugged them or supplied his own treasure of meat. He couldn’t stop thinking of that Duchess who died alone. A crazy song ran inside Holden’s head. I danced with the woman who danced with the man who stole Wallis Simpson’s pants.

  He stumbled upon one of the dogs, lying with its belly slit. It was like stepping on a path of bloody stones as Holden followed the trail from dog to dog. Kitty had clubbed them with his famous broom handle and cut their bellies open, so they couldn’t bark or crawl to Sidney Holden. He felt bereaved without Minot’s dogs, oddly orphaned.

  Then he heard the Westies. Their laughter jumped across the fields like a loud clap. The Westies shouldn’t have revealed themselves with Holden in the neighborhood. He followed the invisible cord their laughing made. Kit and his comrade from Bilbao were sitting among the weather vanes, playing poker for pennies.

  Holden marched up to them with the shovel in his hands and cracked their skulls. It meant no more to him than a sneeze. He’d become a wild man on Chappaquiddick. Ah, but they shouldn’t have taken such pleasure in slaughtering the old furrier. Someone had to sing kaddish for Bronshtein. And there was no other cantor on the island.

  But it still puzzled Frog. Kit wasn’t a slacker. He’d followed Holden into the heart of Bilbao. He wouldn’t have parked himself in a field like that, exposed himself to the elements and Sidney Holden, unless he were waiting for a signal of some kind. It was a pop. Kit was waiting for Ethan’s Webley to go off. Ethan was supposed to kill the Frog. And the Westies would come into the house, finish Ethan and the corn flakes, and the circle would complete itself. Howard would be home free. No more Ethan, no more Frog, no more Marcus Reims to remember him by.

  Frog didn’t return to the house. He had no real grievance against the old man. And what more could he discover? He abandoned his car. He didn’t know how many more Westies were on the island. And he’d rather they didn’t take target practice on a moving Plymouth. He ran across the fields. He loped around a deserted country club because it could have been a haven for Westies. He arrived at the Chappaquiddick ferry. Figs must have let the ferryman out of Frog’s trunk. Al stood at the wheel with a hat to hide whatever swelling he had from Frog’s sock in the head. The ferryman wasn’t alone. He was chatting with two Westies. And Frog didn’t feel like a shoot-out on the little green ferry.

  He tossed his shovel into the water. He took off his shoes and jumped into the channel. The dark dead water had deceived him. The currents were swift under the unbroken skin. Twenty minutes of furious paddling left him inside the sink. The currents kept pulling him back to the Chappaquiddick shore. Finally Frog got off the island. He managed to swim two hundred feet.

  He was the colossus of Martha’s Vineyard, a colossus without shoes. He trundled through Edgartown in his bare feet and knocked on Figs’ door. Figs seemed uncertain about letting the fugitive in.

  “Find someone else, Holden.”

  “There is no one else.”

  And Holden crept into the house. Figs gave him, a blanket to wear and some woolen socks.

  “I knew you’d bring trouble,” Figs said. “I told you. I’m out of the business.”

  “So am I.”

  “It’s that damn bootlegger, Howard Phipps. I’ve seen it happen before. He’s turned on you. You’re on his death list.”

  “Looks like it,” Holden said.

  “You don’t have a Chinaman’s chance.”

  “I’d have to agree.”

  “He gets dependent on a person, grows to regret it, and it fills him with rage … Your dad was a little more clever. He kept his distance.”

  “Dr. Figs, he had a heart attack in a whorehouse and fell down the stairs.”

  “But it was a natural death.”

  “Yes and no. Phippsy devoured him, from the inside.”

  “Holden, what do you intend to do?”

  “Hurt the son of a bitch.”

  21

  He felt like a kid in the custody of an old bank robber. Figs gave the orders in Edgartown. Holden sat in the house. He kept thinking of Kronstadt, the woman who was so ambiguous she was barely allowed a first name. Frog imagined her with a long nose, like the Duchess of Windsor. And suddenly he had the shakes. Kronstadt had also died without her duke. She’d gone into a Manhattan of renegades, fell in love with Marcus Reims, the cantor who had a funny idea of religious services.

  “Frieda,” he said.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nothing, Doctor. I was just giving some woman a name.”

  “No one’s called Frieda anymore. I haven’t met any Friedas in a long time … The old man’s gonna kill you. You know that. Once he puts his mind to something, that’s it. I have to get you out of here, Holden. You’re dangerous company.”

  “I could leave right now. You’ve done enough for me.”

  “You’d be dead in five minutes.”

  Figs had a network of his own, the remnants of some Mafia that had been bumped out of place, a forgotten family that could be called back into motion by Figs.

  Two young men arrived in Salvation Army uniforms, the grandsons of a retired warlord. They had uniforms for Holden and Figs, blue on blue. Holden smiled. It was the nearest he’d ever been to his dad. A soldier of sorts, with black bone buttons and blue epaulets.

  The four of them got into a car and drove onto the Vineyard ferry. Holden didn’t have a fake mustache. But he had the absent stare of some devotee. He was a zealot in his uniform, a converter of souls. None of Phipps’ sheriffs would have made him.

  “Holden,” Figs said once they were on the mainland. “You ought to try the Far West. I have connections in Vegas. But I’d recommend Oregon. A man can lose himself in the north woods.”

  “I’ve been there,” Holden said. “The eagles are too big. They could scratch your eyes out … I’m still better off in Manhattan.”

  “You’re just crazy about islands, that’s all.”

  The young men drove him into Manhattan. They let Frog off near the fur district.

  “We could find you a pad,” Figs said. “All it would take is a phone call.”

  “You’ve done enough. I’d write you a check, but I’m not sure it’s worth anything.”

  “Go on,” Figs said. “I wouldn’t take money from a soldier.”

  The young men laughed. And Holden edged into the city like an invisible man.

  He had a few safe houses, but he couldn’t trust them. Anything Frog had ever touched was tainted now. He wasn’t forlorn. He’d loved Mrs. Howard. He’d loved the twig. He’d loved Fay. He’d hated his dad and loved him a little. He’d loved his own tailor, who was a spy for Bruno Schatz. He loved the can
tor’s little girl. He wasn’t forlorn. Lots of things could happen to a man who was supposed to die.

  He wasn’t concerned about shelter. Frog had to get his own feel of the streets. He had to occupy Manhattan again, even if his home was Chappaquiddick. He missed the salt air, the field of toilet bowls, and his dead dogs. He sailed across the city in his usual quota of cabs and arrived at Morton Katz’s golden-age club. Two sheriffs were guarding the door. They laughed at Frog in his service cap. “Hey soldier, how’s life?”

  He went inside the Esterhazy Houses and approached Katz’s dorm with some kind of dread. He couldn’t locate the little president of Hester Street Hungarian. Katz wasn’t in the game room or the community chapel. No one could account for him. And Frog had to wonder if Katz had disappeared for life, one more casualty of the Kronstadt case.…

  Frog walked to Hester Street and found the little president in his office at the shul.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sid Holden.”

  “You’re not Holden. You’re one of Hirsch’s tricksters. And I wouldn’t tell you where Holden is even if I knew.”

  “Morton, look at me.”

  “You think I’m a dunce? Hirsch has a whole acting studio behind him. He can manufacture faces and coats.”

  “Look at me.”

  “I’m looking.” And the little president started to cry. “If you are Holden, then please run. Because Hirsch has hoodlums everywhere … but what are you doing in such an awful coat?”

  “Have they hurt you?”

  “Give me a definition of ‘hurt.’ A man came. He sat down near my bed. Nothing rough. A distinguished man with white hair. Like Walter Pidgeon. He said: ‘You never saw Holden. You never met Holden. You never talked to Holden.’ And he left. But I recognized him. He’s in the papers a lot.”

  “Paul Abruzzi.”

  “Yes. The district attorney of Queens. And if such a man is on Hirsch’s side, Hirsch can do whatever he wants. That’s when I moved into the synagogue. But his voice comes through the walls. I can’t forget how sweet it was. He’s right. I am his choirboy. I always was. I never recovered from Hirsch. It was like having a terrible knock on the head. What a melodic line! He never dramatized, like the other cantors. He never wore his hair long. He didn’t pretend to be some King David. He was Hirsch. His robes were linen, not silk. He hardly had a beard. He was song, pure song, without the coloratura of lesser cantors. Hirsch wouldn’t entertain. He pleaded for our lives. He spoke for every sinner in the shul. That’s what killed me. A bandit like him had God’s ear … still does. And we have to crawl like mice. Holden, get out of here.”