“May I?” she said as she slid past him and took the seat to his right. “I’m Gail Dolan, and you are?”
This was Simon’s tenth concert, and up to now, no one had ever spoken to him. At first glance, he figured her to be about forty-five and well taken care of in a subtle sort of way. He liked what he saw.
“Eli Simon,” he said and awkwardly extended his right hand. A furtive peek at her hands disclosed no rings. “These recitals have been a big surprise for me. I live nearby, only a pleasant walk away. And you?”
“The same for me, but it’s a little bit of a walk to get here,” she said. “I live on West, just off William. I prefer smaller recitals like this rather than a full symphony orchestra, they’re much more relaxing. How about you?”
“It depends on what kind of month it’s been,” Eli said, “and this month has been tiresome.”
“Business?”
“Yes, business.”
“Do you mind if I ask you what kind of business?”
“No, not at all. I have a pawn shop on Quitman, just off Waverly.”
“Oh yes, I know it. Quite a big operation.”
The musicians had finished warming up, and were settling into their places on the presidium stage. Two were women. All six were obviously accomplished and the Mendelssohn Sonata was performed flawlessly. Eli and Gail were immediately drawn in. They waited until the applause ended before resuming eye contact.
“Wonderful, just wonderful,” Gail said. “It’s my first time with this Mendelssohn piece. I loved his Scottish Symphony. And his piano works, especially Capriccio Brillante.”
“Then you must love Schumann,” Eli said. “I never tire of his Symphony No. 1. And the way he mastered the piano. My favorites are Arabeske and his four-handed Scenes from a Ball.”
Eli could go on, but figured to do so he would only come across as a boring pedant. He didn’t know why, but Gail Dolan seemed to be someone special. It had been a long time since he had made any attempt to impress a woman, and he somehow knew that in this case only a subtle approach would work.
On their way out to the street, they stopped briefly in the lobby to check the schedule of upcoming events.
“Ahh, Franz Liszt, another Romantic,” Eli said. “A collection of his Symphonic Poems. Are you game?”
“Certainly.”
Reaching the sidewalk, there was a momentary awkwardness before Gail said, “It’s a beautiful spring evening. Just right for a stroll. Are you game?”
“Certainly,” Eli said. “May I walk you home?”
“Certainly,” a smiling Gail reciprocated.
It had been a long time since he had felt so much at ease with a woman. His cousin Isaac and his wife, Rachel, had three times invited him to dinner at their Manhattan apartment, thinly disguised attempts at matchmaking that were dismal failures. After the last failed attempt, Isaac walked him to the door and slipped a piece of paper into his jacket pocket.
“These two ladies are young and pretty and they’ve been around,” Isaac said, adding with a wink, “and they’re available, if you know what I mean.”
Eli gave it a try with both of them, only to reaffirm that empty sex had lost its appeal. Could it be possible that this woman walking beside him would fill the void?
He filled her in on what had happened during 1938, his final year in Berlin. He described in loving detail the accomplishments of his parents, and the veiled threat from Hoffman, his Nazi slob of a landlord, that sealed his decision to flee Germany.
“Now how about you?” Eli said. “I’ve been babbling on for blocks.”
“Well, to start, I’m a widow, have been for close to four years. That would be about the time you arrived here from Germany. I live alone, and like it that way. Oh sure, there’s been men, but nothing serious. For work I guess you could say I’ve been lucky. I run the upscale jewelry concession at Hahne’s.”
“Hahne’s, ‘the store with the friendly spirit,’” Eli said. “How did you pull that off?”
“My background,” Gail said. “My husband owned a very successful downtown jewelry store, Rossmore’s. It was strictly carriage trade goods. I closed it down after he died and moved all of the good stuff over to Hahne’s. I still don’t know if it was a coup, or if they felt sorry for me.”
“Why would they feel sorry for you?”
“Because of the way he died,” Gail said, seemingly reluctant to embellish her answer any further.
“Which was?”
“He was murdered. It was Saturday night, two men shot him down just before closing, then grabbed four or five trays of diamonds and jewels, stuffed them in their pockets and then ran like hell. I saw it all from the back of the store. They never saw me, and I’m convinced that if they had, they would have killed me too.”
Eli searched for the right words, but came up empty. Anything he said would be banal and insulting. He decided to give it a try.
“Did they get the two killers?”
“Oh yes, it didn’t take long. Shot down a few days later when they were cornered in a North Ward parking lot. No loot though. Word was that it was in Richie the Boot Boiardo’s safe in Vittorio’s Castle.”
“So they were mobsters.”
“The police thought so, but there was no way of proving it.”
“Family? Friends? Anyone at all you could lean on?”
“Yes, there were condolences from everyone. But to tell you the truth, Eli, I just wanted to be alone. So they left me alone.”
By this time they reached the corner of High and William. “Look Eli, my apartment is just down the block, you don’t have to walk me to the door….”
“Okay, no need to go on, but I do want to see you again. What do you say?”
“I say sure.”
“I’m glad, you name the time and place.”
“Next Friday, five o’clock, the Pine Room at Hahne’s. They treat me like a princess, we’ll get great service and a great table. See you then.”
That night was the start of what would become Eli’s happiest year in America, almost twelve months to the day it was a bewitching phantasmagoria that blended hope, dreams, illusion and finally love. It took a month for Eli to get up the nerve to ask her to bed in his apartment at the Lido. Their lovemaking was never imposed, always soft and sharing. His music collection was put to good use. Gail was a good cook and insisted on doing the shopping.
They never missed a concert at Fuld Hall and made four trips to Manhattan for matinees at the Met. They shared bread crumbs with the pigeons on Sunday morning, took the Stanton Island Ferry, viewed the Manhattan skyline from the Statue of Liberty, and were the oddest couple to attend the Ash Wednesday ceremony at St. Mark’s.
“Why not, you’re inquisitive about everything. Everyone knows how we Catholics love sack cloth and ashes. You’ll see how we do it now, just use your imagination.”
Eli watched from their pew as Gail squeezed into the aisle, and joined a long procession winding its way to the altar rail where a tall young priest used his thumb to brush their foreheads with ashes.
“No sack cloth, but we still have the ashes,” Gail said as they left the church. “But you get the idea.”
They had six obligatory dinners with Isaac and Rachel, three at the Weinstein apartment, and three at Rockefeller Center after movies at Radio City Music Hall. Five visits to Montclaire netted three lunches and two dinners at various restaurants. Gail had warned him what to expect. Eli never saw the inside of the Dolan home.
He was impressed by the size of her jewelry concession at Hahne’s, surprised when he had to discover for himself that she had two full time female employees. Gail twice visited his pawn shop, never passing judgment.
It was on a Friday afternoon that Eli decided that they should celebrate their one year anniversary. He would surprise Gail at closing time. They hadn’t spoken since Tuesday and it would be nice if they could share the shopping on the way to his apartment. He took his usual route through the store and came
up short when he saw that all the lights at Gail’s jewelry concession were off.
“Why no lights? What’s going on?” he said out loud to disinterested passersby.
A floor walker came over. “I’m sorry sir, but hadn’t you heard?”
“Heard what? What are you talking about?”
“Gail’s dead. Struck by a hit and run driver as she was crossing Broad Street. The man was drunk, crashed into a light pole after hitting her.”
“When did this happen?”
“Wednesday at noon. She had just gone out to get some fresh air.”
My Gail dead. It can’t be. Run down in the street by a drunken swine. The thought of it was like a hard punch to the stomach. He came close to vomiting. He found it impossible to speak. His grief turned to rage and hatred. His knees began to buckle. He fought for balance when two steadying hands grasped his shoulders.
“I’ve got you. Steady now,” the floorwalker said. “Take some deep breaths.”
A sympathetic crowd had gathered around them. The few who recognized him offered empty condolences. He gave them nothing in return.
“You’ll want to attend the funeral,” the floorwalker said. “Her family has made all the arrangements. There will be a requiem mass at their parish in Montclaire next Tuesday at ten. Visitations begin tomorrow at the Carlisle Funeral Home. We’ll all try to make it.”
Eli stared silently at the tall young man in his well-tailored brown suit, adorned with a white carnation in the lapel, and a tri-tip handkerchief protruding from its pocket. He turned, choked down a sob and barely restrained himself from putting his fist through the glass front of a jewelry case.
A funeral parlor visitation and requiem mass would be abominations, and he wanted no part of them.
The sun was setting as Simon stepped into his office and walked to his cluttered desk. He switched on the desk lamp and he was about to record the day’s receipts in the ledger when he heard the small bell attached to the front door jingle.
“Oy, now what,” he sighed and went to see who it was at this relatively late hour. A tall, slender Negro was standing at the counter and introduced himself.
“Blessings to you, Mr. Eli Simon from Father Divine. My name is John Travers, but my friends know me as Righteous Reckoning.” He reached out his hand.
With his white, long sleeve shirt, black bowtie and matching white pants, he could easily be mistaken for a Good Humor man.
Simon doubted that he was here to sell him ice cream.
“Nice to meet you,” Simon said, shaking the man’s hand.
The man briefly eyeballed the contents of the two glass display cases that took up most of the space in the small store. “Many sad stories,” he said. “Bet you’ve heard them all, many times over.”
“What can I do for you?” Simon said, ignoring his comment. “Please take a seat.”
“Thank you,” Righteous Reckoning said. “I believe in getting right to the point. We understand you have some mighty fine bikes for sell.”
“I do, and you’re here at the right time. I just got in an Army surplus bike. It’s just like new. Are you interested?”
“Can I see it first?”
“Of course. I’ll bring it right out.”
Simon appeared wheeling the bike to the front. It was olive green with “Property U.S. Government” stenciled on its handlebars, equipped with a canvas tool bag, and a headlight on the front fender.
“Looks like a fine vehicle,” Righteous Reckoning said, after giving the tires a squeeze. “Might need a new paint job though. Don’t want too many questions about where it comes from.”
Simon nodded. “That’s not a problem, for the right price that is.”
“Ah, right to the point. You’re a man of business. Are you aware of Father Divine’s standing in this fair city?”
“Sure. I’ve seen his parades, read about him in the paper and all his soup kitchens. Why?”
“Father Divine feels it is his mission to support local business. You have a fine reputation among his followers for your honesty. When they are feeling the pinch, they come to you with their worldy possessions and you give them a fair price. The bike, I’d say it’s worth fifteen dollars.”
“I was thinking more like twenty-five. I’m sure you can handle that amount.”
“No problem at all. But that’s not the only reason I’m here.”
“What else do you have in mind?”
“It’s simple. Many of Father’s followers donate their valuables to support his mission. What if he gave you first pick of these items? Could be some serious money in the long run. All it would take is for you to donate this here bike.”
“I’m not saying no, and I’m not saying yes,” Simon said. “How do I know that these donations are worth anything?”
“Sure ‘nuff.” Righteous reached into his pocket, pulled out a lady’s hat pin and put it on the counter. “Here’s an example of the kind of valuables we get as donations.”
Simon examined it. It had several small garnets set in what appeared to be a silver plated setting. He knew he could sell it for a good price.
“How would it work?” Simon said.
“We get word to you where and when we receive donations. You take what you want.”
“For how long?”
“Let’s say ‘bout six months or so. God’s got no timeclock.”
“Well, Mister, if the rest of the items are like this, you’ve got a deal.” He handed it back.
“Oh, keep it, my brother. A little gift of good faith.”
“When do you need the bike?”
“A tall white boy will be stopping by tomorrow afternoon to pick it up. His name is Richie. He needs it for a paper route.”
“It’ll be ready.”
The men stood and shook hands.
“Nice doing business with you, Brother Simon,” the black man said, and then with a patronizing smile added, “We’ve had our eye on you for a while now. No promises, but I think we’ll have some big things in store for you. Have a good evening. We’ll be in touch.”
Simon followed the man as he left the store and locked the door behind him. He flipped over the OPEN sign in the window to CLOSED.
Even the schvartes know how to work an angle in this town, he thought. It could mean some easy money for me, but damn if I don’t feel trapped. First Zwillman’s filth crammed down my throat by that smirking little thug, and now who knows what’s in store for me. I don’t need another Kurt Hoffman in my life.
The morning after he told his parents about the paper route, Richie was cutting across the intersection of Broome and Kinney on his way to Frank Marsucci’s grimy office. He saw that the door to the circulation office was open, took three deep breaths, and walked in.
The office was a dump. The floor and a long wooden table were littered with undelivered newspapers, some still in bundles. A man was at the rear of the office, his legs extended over a battered wooden desk, as he focused on cleaning his fingernails with a small pocket knife. His unshaven face added at least a decade to his twenty-two years. He was short and muscular, with the dark, crooked features of a guy well-equipped to bully a bunch of kids. He shifted his gaze to the door where Richie stood uncertain what to do next.
“Want something kid?”
“Mr. Marsucci?”
“Yeah.”
“I was told I was next in line to get a paper route.”
“You got a name?”
“Richie Maxwell.”
Marsucci slowly swung his legs down from the desk, stood up, folded his pocket knife, dropped it into his front pants pocket, and opened the top desk drawer. He took out a ledger.
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re next in line.”
Richie breathed easier.
“But I don’t take no bullshit. You’re on time every day or you’re out. You do collections on Saturday and bring them here. You got a bike?”
“Yes, sir. When do I start?”
“Meet me here at fiv
e tomorrow morning. You’ll ride with me tomorrow and Sunday in my car to learn the route. Monday you’re on your own. Don’t be late.”
“Thank you, Mr. Marsucci. See you tomorrow.”
You’ve got to hand it to those three niggers, using Father Divine as a shill. Sweet set-up, Marsucci thought. But they ain’t fooling no one. Been playing the bug for months now and really moving out. Even sweet little Milly next door is writing policy for them. And now they’re cramming a snot-nosed numbers runner down my throat. They’re crazy if they think I don’t want in, and they’ll find that out pretty god damn fast.
Marsucci retrieved the knife from his pocket, thumbed out the smallest blade and resumed work on his fingernails. It all began with yet another one of his fuck-ups. They saved his ass when he got wrong side up with a Boiardo pimp down on Broad. With a general Army discharge “under other than honorable conditions,” and no mustering-out pay, he was flat broke when he hit the streets. All because the MPs discovered that Army hospital linens and blankets were disappearing from their warehouse, and ending up at hotels in and around Cherbourg, France. Sgt. Marsucci, the warehouse dispatcher, was the prime suspect. They had the goods on him, but couldn’t prove it. So they dropped the case and shipped him home.
Downtown Newark offered opportunities galore for a guy like Marsucci. He had to get started fast. True to his nature, he fucked up again. There were plenty of hot broads to choose from, so it came natural to him to pick the wrong ones. He tapped into two of Boiardo’s whores. It was a rare bit of luck that John Travers, alias Righteous Reckoning, Buck Barton, alias Darn Good Disciple, and Wilber Fontaine, alias God’s Tall Timber, were working the downtown scene that night.
They’d arrived in Newark two weeks earlier, fresh from being run out of Atlanta by the cops. They had been playing the bug from a three chair barbershop and running a backroom policy parlor until a rare police crackdown padlocked their operations. Streetwise, their names on long police sheets, they knew the rules never changed from town-to-town. You had to find the crooked cops on the take, and in Newark, you didn’t have to look very far. In less than a week, they had a get together with Captain Tony Gordo. A few days later they had just left Swifty’s Bar and Grill when they stumbled on Gordo, in plain clothes, pounding the hell out of Marsucci in an alley while two other goons held him. Gordo recognized the three blacks and motioned the other two cops to release the semi-conscious Marsucci.
Father Divine's Bikes Page 7