The Head of the House

by Al Zuckerman

  Suddenly everyone was up on his feet. Shrieks of, “Come on! Go! Catch it!” swelled to a roar. People in the row ahead were waving their arms, and the players down on the field seemed to be scrambling everywhere and nowhere. Then he saw the ball, arcing high, spiraling forward into Dartmouth yardage. An Orange and Black receiver alone and in the clear streaked toward it. Then out of nowhere, or so it seemed, a green-jerseyed runner appeared, overtaking the Princeton man, leaping up, arms strained to the sky, managing to bat the ball bobblingly into his hands, reverse directions, and race off with it.

  “That’s him, Daddy, that’s him!” Linda was jumping up and down like a three-year-old, and shrieking, “Go, Scott, go. You can do it. Go on!”

  Across the field, thousands in the Dartmouth stands were as delirious as Linda, while around Iz, pleas of, “Stop him! Get him! Grab him! Come on, Princeton!” yelped forth here and there; but most of the crowd stood quiet, long-faced. Meanwhile Scott Kremish, the interceptor, darting behind blockers, dodging and slipping through would-be tacklers, was nearing Princeton’s ten yard line, when finally an Orange-and-Black pursuer edged him out of bounds. Dismay showed openly on people’s faces, but not in Iz’s row.

  Linda Hargett in a green beret, pummeling her fists together, was overbubbling, “Wasn’t that terrific! Oh Daddy, wasn’t he marvelous! Mr. Kremish, aren’t you proud?” Her brown eyes shining, she hugged her father and kissed him, and then pushed past Iz and did the same to Scott’s father.

  Iz basked in her outpouring of loving exuberance. In all his life he could never remember jumping up and down about anything. It was good taking pleasure in her doing it. He felt a pang of jealousy, though, at her caring so for young Kremish. But that—wasn’t that as it should be? And bless her, she had chosen well. The boy was bright, built, gutsy, Jewish, a family with legitimate money, connections—Linda had done better than he’d ever dreamed she could.

  If nothing queered it for her.

  But what could? His name (much less, his picture) hadn’t appeared in print in almost twenty years. The people who knew about him were but a handful; and which of them would let out even a whisper? If Kremish’s inquiries, which of course had come to his attention, had yielded anything worth anything—would the man be sitting right next to Iz, and be coming to the kids’ engagement party after the game?

  Enjoy, he told himself. Iz squeezed Linda to him.

  Then he looked around, spotting his younger sister Rhea, way back of them, maybe fifteen rows. Strange, if someone were to think about it, that Iz had so many friends and relations all here and all so scattered. But there was little reason why Kremish or anyone else should think about it.

  Off to the right in the next section, Iz spotted a shock of silver-gray hair rising up in waves from a ruddy forehead. Interesting how that tiered shock had become a trademark, a political cartoonists’ emblem for Keohane. Dan seemed happier as a Senator than he’d ever been as Governor, but Iz thought of those Albany days with warmth and had longings sometimes for his friend to be back up in the Governor’s chair. Iz did feel pleased to see Keohane now, especially with all the trouble Kefauver had begun causing. Senator Keohane earned vastly more of course through investments with Iz than from any Federal paycheck, but Iz all the same was the first to understand the delicacy of Dan’s position. And when it came to Dan’s staying on in office, getting reelected, that had become more crucial to Iz than to Keohane himself.

  Over the years, Dan, as he’d climbed the political ladder, had been invaluable in a thousand ways: with draft deferments, immigration visas, special passports, tax items; but it had been during Keohane’s last stint as Governor that the years and years of Iz’s strawberries had paid off—and in spades. Sally Pirone’s pardon, the trickiest coup Iz ever had engineered, had removed the boss of bosses from Dannemora to Rome four thousand miles away, and at the same time effectively completed the transfer of Sally Happy’s authority among the Sicilians to Izzie Hargett.

  And all this with no noise, nothing public. Sure, the papers had used the pardon as front page stuff for a day or two; but Dan had had Washington, as a justification for the pardon, hint at Pirone’s wartime services—a military secret. Izzie, as far as the public was concerned, didn’t exist—which was perfect.

  But there were some men of course who knew the Hargett operation well and who had to be, Iz sensed, dreaming of knocking him off and taking over. Five years since Pirone had shipped over, a long time for quiet in the business.

  Leroy, the only colored face among the thousands all around, smiled back at Iz from the row behind, and Iz felt reassured. The boy was dynamite—sharp as a whip, muscles like steel, always ready; so that before too many years, when the blacks began taking over the business, as Iz felt one day they would, Iz would, if he were around then still, have an angle.

  Leroy, who’d grown up practically under Iz’s nose, the son of his long-time housekeeper, was stationed closest; but Iz, now that the crowd had settled back onto the benches, could spot a few of the others, also here to make sure nothing unpleasant happened. Which was why, too—for his guests’ safety and his, as well as to preserve everyone’s anonymity—Iz had dispersed his people at this stadium.

  He spied Cuban Ambassador Castilan in the section to the right, and further down the same row, Evangelidos “Pete” Psyllos, the bony Greek owner of a super-respectable Wall Street metals futures firm. Pete with Izzie organized small, discreet syndicates that bought up old ships, particularly oil tankers. Psyllos also had introduced Iz to art collecting, to casino ventures in Lebanon, Monaco, and Morocco—all of which were working out. And Iz enjoyed being with the guy, which was less the case with many of his old-time associates. Pete, Iz observed, looked bored, but Iz realized that he himself might be too if he didn’t have a son and a prospective son-in-law in that game down there.

  He was jolted, Linda squeezing herself excitedly to him, him to her, half-rising from the bench and pulling him up with her. Down on the field, time-out. So what was this?

  Linda then swiveled around to Leroy while gesticulating toward the gridiron crowing, “They’re sending David in. Look.”

  Iz felt anxious and at the same time excited. The boy was second string, and Iz had not expected (despite everyone’s assurances to the contrary) that David would get to play. But there he was, number forty-three, one of three who’d trotted out, now flexing and crouching into a linebacking defense position. Short, squat-looking compared to most of the others, but the kid had bounce, a lot of energy. David just might do something—knock down a few Dartmouths like they were bowling pins, like Iz had once done with those Irishers in the school-yard.

  David, Iz lately had come to think, was more and more in some ways like himself—assertive, taking on opponents regardless of size. As a boy, David had mostly been a headache; getting booted out of schools, driving his mother up the wall with backtalk, abusiveness too, even turning his back on Iz—when David first came to understand who his father was. Iz, remembering himself as a child, his intense feeling for his family, his desperate striving to do well, had blamed America’s too easy ways, the boy’s being spoiled, Hannah’s failure as a mother.

  Iz, who’d succeeded in most everything he’d tried, by the time David was eleven had given up on making the marriage work. And he’d figured with the son too that he was destined to fail. With Hannah, breaking up at first had made him feel guilty—a guilt that gnawed at him despite his trying to salve his conscience with a princely alimony. But the breakneck pace of his work eventually had obliterated the guilt; and then, no longer having to cope with her, attempt to satisfy her—what a relief! He had not been destined, he’d decided, to be a married man—though he felt fondly toward Hannah still, and in fact today was looking forward to seeing her and sharing this happy occasion with her.

  But during the years of David’s growing up, the boy’s problems had rankled Izzie continuously. His heir, the man to carry on his name—Iz badly wanted his son to “become something”
; and yet Iz had felt powerless to do much more than console himself with the knowledge that his friends had similar headaches with their kids. He’d consoled himself with history too. Big men generally seemed to beget children not worthy of their fathers—like Roosevelt’s.

  And then there’d been a miracle of sorts. A school in Connecticut, a teacher there, the game of football, a coach, David’s maturing—Iz didn’t know which one or what combination of these had wrought the change, but from age sixteen on, David had been okay—with studying, his behavior, even phoning his father once a week. And now waiting for the play to resume, Iz felt his heart swelling with pride in the boy.

  Then Iz felt concerned. Where would David go after this college? Iz with part of himself longed for the boy to come and stand at his side, help his pop run the businesses, help keep the voracious partners content and in line—which was getting harder for Iz. David would need toughening, nerves like steel—and even then it might be more than the boy could handle. Someone who didn’t know the operation could imagine that the hotels, race tracks, casinoes, could be passed on if Iz were to step down or be forced down; but that’s all it’d be, imagining. In a pinch, the ton of deeds, contracts and other lawyer papers wouldn’t amount to beans. Iz called the shots, he knew, not because he owned the most shares, but because of a lifetime spent building influence in a few places. The structure he’d created was as fragile as a multilayered spiderweb, and as labyrinthine; and for someone new, even his own son, it could be as treacherous as for a fly alighting on that web.

  So another part of Iz said, no. Better Iz should struggle on alone, relinquish this or that deal when the pressure got too heavy, and let David go his own way—which the boy probably would prefer, and in fact might insist on. The classmates here would make nice enough lives, peddling stocks and bonds, or IBM machines. So why not David too?

  Which made sense, but it galled. It went against Iz to give up things, especially the big things, that he’d spent a lifetime putting together. So then, if not David, couldn’t there be, maybe, another sort of son? …

  Iz was jarred again by a roar and people rising, everyone around. Linda was jumping up and down like a windup toy. Everywhere maniacs shrieking, “No, stop him! Come on, Tigers, get him! Get him, for Chrissake!” Linda’s bouncing intensified.

  Down on the field, a muddied Dartmouth runner, arms flailing, was sprinting toward a wide-open Princeton goal line. Hard upon him were clusters of pursuers and defenders. The Orange and Blacks giving chase mostly were being canceled out by Big Green blockers. A pair of Princetons, though, had broken through and were closing in. Iz couldn’t quite discern the ball carrier’s number. Given Linda’s frenzy, though, it was a sure bet it was Scott.

  The Princetonian closest to the Dartmouth runner, straining to get his hands on Kremish and bring him down, was David. Iz had begun sweating.

  Suddenly David in an extraordinary burst of speed lunged for his future brother-in-law, grabbing his waist or pants or seeming to, while at the same time the Dartmouth footballer whirled himself into a dizzying three-hundred-sixty-degree circle, straight-armed the tackler, and in a wholly continuous motion, never breaking his rhythm, kept on running.

  Looking at David sprawled on the sod, Iz felt as if he himself had been knocked down and trampled on. He sank slowly to his seat.

  The hubbub across the field was thunderous. All around Iz on the Princeton side, pleas and bellowings to “Stop that bastard! Get him! Kill him!” rent the air.

  The second Tiger pursuer, almost apace now with the ball toter, flew forward, caroming against the tiring Dartmouth runner’s knees, and they both fell to the sod. Too late, though. Kremish had toppled athwart the goal line, the ball clearly over it.

  Dartmouth cheerleaders began back-flipping like circus tumblers run amuck. The Big Green band appeared to be tooting away full blast: drums, cymbals, the works; but not a note could be heard above the bedlam of yells, horns, whistles and other earsplittings.

  Linda who’d delightedly hugged and kissed her father and future father-in-law, turned backward, skipped up onto her bench, and sprang at Leroy, kissing him too with a great smack square on the lips.

  Iz reached to yank Linda back into her seat. He was annoyed. She was embarrassing him. God bless America, yeah, but still his daughter doesn’t kiss a Leroy—in public yet. But his tugging her was gentle. Linda, after all, soon would be marrying the right boy.

  CHAPTER 4

  Izzie tore the scrap of paper in half, in quarters, and again until it was shredlets dribbling through his fingers. He’d read the note once through quickly, but the words, “Sorry, cannot attend. Snoops. Every good wish. Uncle,” still burned.

  So what, nisht geferlakh! Iz tried to dismiss the unexpected turn-down.

  Kremish alongside noticed nothing, nor did Linda, and usually she could intuit her pop’s feelings. Hargett, like everyone around, appeared absorbed by Princeton’s closing-minute desperate attempts to score.

  What snoop? Some sportswriter? Who to be so afraid of?

  Iz looked off to the right. Keohane was still there staring down at the field. Rabbit-hearted Irisher! Pay him the moon, angle to up and up him, and what have you got? . . . Yeah, what you deserve. Boost a beerbelly into the Senate, and bim-bom-boom, he still doesn’t change into Saint Patrick. Not that Iz would miss Keohane’s blather at the party. But the honor of showing Kremish and his nose-in-the-air crowd that Linda’s family held up their side just as big—for that, Dan would have been the McCoy. A United States Senator, an uncle practically to the bride, would have made up for, well, the small nasties there’d always be.

  Then it hit him, the real reason for that note: Kefauver. New York, Chicago, Detroit, everywhere nervous. So Dan would be too. They were playing twenty million TV sets, Silverberg’d said, and getting the whole country excited as a cat at a mouse show. Not much chance a Senator would get subpoenaed, but then what other Senator had handed a pardon to Sally Pirone? Old Dan was bound to be sweating. Guys with brass guts were.

  Hargett swung around and looked up at the press section, glassed in and stretching the whole length of the field almost. Jesus, duck soup for a spy glass up there. And if he and Dan were to get lensed together, Keohane as Senator would be wiped out, no good to himself or Iz or the million stiffs who’d voted for him.

  But still the thing galled. Keohane should be coming. A buddy for thirty years, since they’d fought as kids in the schoolyard. And now, of all times, when Iz was operating almost a hundred percent legit.

  People in scattered ones and twos were hurrying up the aisles, leaving. Smart. They’d get out before the mob, avoid the crush. The rapt expression on Linda’s face, though, and on Kremish’s, told him to save his breath. There’d be no budging till the clock ran out.

  He felt so itchy, pent-up aggravated. A beer can from behind rolled down, clunking under the empty seat next to him. Nine bucks for the seat Naomi Kremish wasn’t sitting in, that grated still too. The woman could have ten head colds plus inflamed bunions and still not fade on her son’s engagement—if she went along with it. Bitch! Well, with time, he’d find a way so Mrs. Kremish would see things different. He smiled. Wooing someone, it’d been a while since he’d had to. It could be kicks. Except, oi, with a female her age, you couldn’t ever be too sure.

  A muffled gunshot! What, why? Then Linda hugging and kissing him, and he knew the game was over. The Princeton rooters all around were rising, but staying put, not leaving. Then they all started singing, which explained why, also waving handkerchiefs out from their chests. Across the field, the Dartmouths were prancing, embracing, jumping onto the players. Linda slipped away. Not much doubt about who she was headed to.

  Iz, inching out with the crowd, reexamined the two rebuffs, trying to be cool. Feh, in a day or two he’d be off in Havana, and business would pack his mind.

  But Linda and Scott, and David too, how much more such dreck would they have to take, and keep taking! Today’s nonsense would get forgot
ten fast; but what if this stuff made for real headaches? Scott next year was lined up for Columbia Law School. Some day he might be up for a judge. Being married to Linda Hargett, might that turn him into a target, get him crucified? “The sins of the fathers shall I visit upon the children until the third and fourth generation.” At each word the rebbe-teacher with the tobacco-stained teeth, Iz remembered, had prodded him with the pointer. He’d been four or five years old then, in a world that had been annihilated. …

  Stop, he told himself. First of all, he wasn’t such a sinner. And if he were, there still was no God. And second, such trouble was no real trouble. At Scott’s age, after all, he himself hadn’t a tenth, a hundredth of the boy’s advantages. Iz at twenty-one had had to face killer hijackers. No, this should be a day only for merrymaking.

  Iz’s Buick was first in line, inches from the stadium’s main gate, where parking was strictly forbidden to all but chiefs of state. Princeton alumni eighty years old or more, or donors of millions. The Hargett sedan had attained its privileged position through Iz’s having trained his men in the efficaciousness of gratuities.

  The crowds were such, though, that it would be a while before even his car could begin to move. So he and Kremish agreed to enjoy the air and walk the few blocks to the reception. Harry would wait and then bring the car. Leroy fell into step behind them, and discreetly behind him walked two boys belonging to Dukey Maffetore, who years ago had been Pirone’s personal muscle and who now controlled restaurants, trucking firms, and numbers lotteries in lower Manhattan and was a serious investor with Iz.