by Al Zuckerman
“Izzie, this conversation is all crazy. You know I don’t want to make you angry.”
“Baloney. And you know it.”
One thing clear now though was that the Greek himself couldn’t be in the dirty stuff, or he’d never have dared infuriate Iz so.
“Izzie, if you don’t wish to believe me, what else can I say? I’m sorry.” And the metals trader abruptly was up on spindly legs and wending his way through the steam and out the door.
Grease tail. Iz had a yen to strangle him, broil him on a skewer like a shishkabob—Except that would not take away Iz’s real pain in the neck.
CHAPTER 11
Ernie Blomberg, panting, gasping, hung on the banister catching his breath, his temples throbbing, shooting pains in his legs. Goddamn Katz and his goddamn elevator, broken more often than it worked. So insane. Back during the War, no mechanics, no parts and the creaky old bird cage ran beautifully. Now this building bulged with tenants, producers, press agents, film distributors no one ever heard of, and was turning into a regular gold mine, while the service got lousier and lousier.
On the floor back of the door, mail lay scattered: big envelopes, scripts; thinner envelopes, actors’ photos and resumes—hopeless all of them. He knelt, knee joints aching, and plucked them all up, along with a letter from the March of Dimes, a pinkish envelope from New York State probably for tax money, and last, a white one with as return address, THE XANADU, embossed in blue and gold, and no stamp. Nothing written on it. Izzie Hargett’s pet hotel. Ernie swallowed, and ripped it open.
Unfolded, the gorgeously embossed paper had one line on it, typed. “Be outside Walgreen’s at noon, please. Watch for a taxi.” And no signature.
Ernie’s paunch constricted within. He sank into the armchair by the door, gasping again, imagining exploding cars. As if Ernie didn’t have curses enough of his own, now Hargett’s.
The hour before the meeting time raced by. Just before noon, he got all worried about the rent he owed. If he were to go outside now, while he was gone Katz might just try something. Like pile his furniture out on the sidewalk.
Ernie looked at his watch and pushed himself up to his feet. To a message from Izzie Hargett, you came, and on the button. But what could his old pal want from him?
Ernie was surprised. He’d expected he’d be picked up and taken somewhere where Iz would be. But right inside the cab was Hargett himself. Ernie first felt a glow of pleasure, but then right away was queasy again. For Hargett himself to be sitting here, this thing had to be too big.
Descending Broadway into the garment district, traffic was bumper to bumper. Ernie looked out at a drab new office building, the spot where the Empire Theatre had been, the first place Ernie had had a job. Gone now, and not a trace.
“So how’s the new show coming?” Iz began. “Saturday you didn’t tell me one word.”
Hargett was being friendly. Hiyo Silver, Ernie knew, was not the concern, despite the thirty Gs Iz had committed, ten already in as front money. Lost now.
Ernie came right out with, “I don’t think I’m goin to be able to get it up.”
“Jesus, that’s a pity. I’m sorry to hear that.”
But Iz did not go on to inquire, how much more do you need, and then talk about helping raise it—like in the old days. With his three units, a bigger piece than anyone’s except Olympia Records, Hargett had already gone his limit. Ernie knew it made no sense even to hint.
“You won’t take it the wrong way, I hope, if I don’t get involved in how much you’re shy; but right now I got some headaches of my own.”
Ernie had always revered Izzie. True, lately the reverence was tinged with jealously, but on the whole there was no man Ernie so admired, no man who’d begun where they both had and who now so controlled his own destiny. But now Hargett actually wanted something from him, a thing Ernie couldn’t remember happening since they were kids, and the Blomberg family had taken the pipsqueak greenhorn along to Rockaway Beach.
Suddenly a picture of Izzie’s ravaged car flashed in Ernie’s mind. His jaw froze. Nah, Hargett couldn’t imagine Ernie was connected with that. He couldn’t, could he? Then like a snowball in the face it hit him. Whatever Iz wanted had to be about that—for Ernie to help him in some way. Blomberg began to sweat, from his forehead, back, armpits, everywhere.
“Listen, Iz, you never heard Fred Hartstein’s music for the new show. Any night this week, if you’re free, I got some gorgeous singers, best medicine in the world for getting rid of headaches.”
“Ernie, I put in into every one of your hits and all your turkeys, never listened to the music, or to the words. So suddenly now I should start?” Then he gently patted Ernie’s knee. “But look, get hold of yourself. You’re pale as dishwater. Nothing bad is going to happen. With me, haven’t you always been okay?”
Ernie watched him turn back, look out the rear window. They’d cut east through an uncrowded street in the twenties. Iz had to be looking to see if they were being followed. Nothing bad, hunh?
“So here’s the thing, Ernie. I need for you to find me an actor.”
Ernie’s lips felt dry, chapped even. He licked them, and tried to fathom what Hargett could be talking about. Abruptly he bounced forward, his gut crushing down almost to his toes. They’d hit a canyonlike pothole. For a moment he thought he might throw up.
“A guy,” Hargett calmly continued, “who looks like me, as close a resemblance as possible.”
“For a play, a movie?”
“For real, Ernie, to be around, go places, and kind of look like he’s me. I’ll pay him well. And you, Ernie. Think you can do it?”
Blomberg in his mind was already racing through the Players Guide. At least the guy wouldn’t have to wind live snakes around his neck. And actors by and large were so hungry, most would snap at this. And the bit of cash would get Katz off his back, with maybe enough thrown in for an option on a new show, straight play this time, a small comedy.
“You got someone in mind?” Iz inquired almost anxiously, “Or are you gonna have to do some digging?”
CHAPTER 12
So drab looking an exterior, Linda thought, the glass storefront, the letters on the overhead sign weatherbeaten, gold paint faded, worn off in spots. Would the inside be as run down? She was no stranger, God knows, to elegant restaurants; but the Chambord, which she’d heard of only recently up at Barnard as the best for French food, was one place she’d never been to. Her pop turned his nose up at anything with a sauce on it. His idea of good eating was a thick, juicy steak.
At the door, about to reach for the massive brass knob, she hesitated, then turned away and continued quickly up Third Avenue. Scott had been unhesitating last night on the phone from Hanover. “Don’t go, sweetie, please. Listen to me, she’s my mother and I know her. Stay away.” Linda’s own mother, who still kept the West End Avenue apartment where Linda and David generally came for weekends, had been more emphatic yet. “You go, and I warn you, you’re looking for trouble, begging for it.” And Hannah then had become tender, pleading, “Be good to yourself, have lunch up at school.” And her pop, Linda knew, if she’d told him about Naomi Kremish’s invitation, would have forbidden her absolutely. None of them, though, had heard the lady on the phone, almost pathetic, so halting, so remorseful about Saturday, desperate to be forgiven, to try and start over, so she and her son’s future wife could be friends. Linda had felt sorry for her. And the woman was and always would be Scott’s mother. So if it were possible that she did really want to make peace, bury all that awfulness, well, wasn’t it worth a try? For one thing, it wouldn’t be quite right at the wedding if Scott’s own mother refused to come. No, she owed it to him, Linda felt, to make this effort, not that he’d asked for it—just the opposite actually.
And if today’s luncheon turned out, well, messy, Linda could always walk out, couldn’t she? Yet the memory of Mrs. Kremish’s blazing hate echoed and reechoed in her mind: “You cannot marry into that family. … They’re covered
with blood! Blood BLOOD!”
Several doors down the avenue, in front of a store displaying antique brass andirons, wood carriers, and plate glass firescreens, Linda stopped, uncertain, torn. A brisk autumn wind blew at her legs, lapped at the bottom of her coat, chilled her inside. Then resolutely she turned back, walking head-on into the sooty gusts. All right, Mrs. Kremish could scream her head off, throw knives. Scott was worth it. He was worth more—everything. God, please, he had to be.
The lunch was served by waiters who were craftsmen, meticulous as diamond-cutters, wiping a single fleck of sauce off the edge of a plate so that nothing would mar the porcelain rim’s framing of the artfully presented caneton à l’orange. The crystal chandeliers sparkled, the thick silverware gleamed, little bouquets of fresh flowers added festivity to the snowy white tables. The naturalness of the luxury here suggested a vision of how exquisitely well-ordered and genial the world could be.
And she soon found she could talk easily with Mrs. Kremish about things her own parents didn’t know existed. Like Jean Anouilh. Linda adored him, was writing a paper for Twentieth Century French Lit, the main point of which was to show how his version of Antigone had greater meaning for people today than Sophocles’ supposedly timeless masterpiece. And Scott’s mother, who was no French teacher or drama professor or anything like that, actually drew out all the strands of Linda’s thesis, complimented her on the suppleness of her reasoning, but explained why the ancient classic, from her point of view, was nonetheless greater.
Until today it had been Mrs. Kremish’s poise and chic that Linda had most admired. With the discovery that this former Miss Minnesota also knew theatre, literature, the lady seemed almost magnificent, as Linda hoped one day to become. By the time dessert was served, Linda felt good through and through. What had happened only last Saturday seemed years ago, a dimly remembered bad dream.
Sipping the café filtre, Mrs. Kremish encouragingly blurted out, “You really do love Scott, don’t you, Linda?”
She nodded, somehow too shy to do more.
“You nod eloquently. And I see it too in your eyes, your pauses. And I do understand.” Naomi’s smile was warm. “I love him too, you know.”
Linda, glowing and at the same time groping for how to respond, stammered, “I guess he wouldn’t be so marvelous, if you hadn’t put so much into him.”
“More and more,” Naomi beamed, “I see why Scott chose you.”
—Linda was blushing— “I hope to God I have a son, and I can do as well for him as you have.”
“You will, I think. But there’s a price. It’s not just a matter of putting aside your own things, but there are some rough battles, and they go on for years and years. It’s odd, you know. Nearly every woman in the world manages to bring up a child or two or three, so you’d think there couldn’t be anything so hard about it, right?”
“After Scott’s been twenty-one years with me,” Linda grinned, “I only pray he’ll still be as terrific as he is now.”
“If that depended only on the two of you, I’m sure there’d be no problems.”
Linda felt suddenly uneasy, blood pumping quicker, stomach knotting. Looking hard at Naomi, she perceived that beneath the stylish mauve cloche, the subtly applied makeup, Scott’s mother’s eyes were puffy, bloodshot, tortured, as if she hadn’t slept in days. So now for the bad stuff. Numbly Linda waited.
“Saturday I was absurd, a caricature, I know,” Naomi continued gently, humbly. “Since then, I’ve been thinking, a lot, about my raving, and you, Scott, your plans—which is why I had to see you today.”
Linda kept her mouth closed, to stop her lips from trembling.
“It’s clear to me now that loving my son as you do, you too must want what’s best for him. …”
Linda hardly heard her words.
“. . . And if you can summon up the strength to be honest, to see things as really they are, you and I, I know,” Naomi seemed almost begging now, “will see eye to eye.”
Linda imagined herself sliding under the table and vanishing. Why wasn’t she leaving?
“You know Scott’s plans better than I, Harvard Law probably, then some day politics. Think how he’d be ripped apart, devastated, if a Kefauver or McCarthy or anyone like that were to, well. … This is an ugly time, and sooner or later he almost surely would be smeared.”
“You mean, because of my father.”
Mrs. Kremish nodded, sorrowfully.
Linda surprised herself. She quietly exploded. “No one smears my father, or anyone connected with him. No one would dare, no senator, nobody!”
Naomi looked stunned, her weary eyes widening. Then she lowered her gaze, staring down at the table.
“Linda, this is not a nice thing to bring up now, but we both know someone is dead serious about doing something rather worse to your father.”
Linda, short of breath suddenly, sucked in air. Retorts flew through her mind: gutter language curses, insults, pleas for understanding.
“Another accident,” Naomi drove on, “could involve Scott too.”
Leave me alone! That couldn’t happen. It won’t, Linda felt like screaming. My pop won’t let it! Except, how could Mrs. Kremish be expected to believe her, and understand?
“You’re not answering me. Can I assume that means you agree?”
All Linda could do was shake her head, and shudder.
Naomi pressed her lips together, moistening them. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to say more than I already have. But you’re forcing me, you know. Look, I’m not speaking just for myself. If Scott marries you, it’ll be because he feels forced to. …”
God, what a filthy lie. It had to be a lie. Why hadn’t she listened to Scott? Why had she come?
“. . . But he would never tell you that. He’s too good, too much a gentleman.”
No, he tells me everything! But at the same time a chill of doubt had begun creeping through her.
“Look, even if that explosion had never happened, your father is bound to be subpoenaed by the Kefauver Committee.”
No! President Roosevelt had promised, because Pop was a hero in a way, in the War. Which was none of her business. So her running-at-the-mouth was nothing but. … Yet how could Linda ever deal with it? “As far as I know,” her voice was flat, calm even, “I don’t think Scott sees all this the way you do.”
“No, maybe not. But if he doesn’t now”—Naomi’s voice had turned colder, harder—“he will soon. And by that time it could be too late.”
Linda shuddered inwardly. No! Because at the very worst, even if Scott ever did have to give up law, there were a million other careers. …
“And Scott’s not the only one in my family you endanger. You think we’re rich. And to all appearances, we are. But actually my husband is heavily in debt. Unless a certain complicated deal goes through, a merging with a Canadian company as well as a huge Wall Street borrowing, unless there’s no snag, we’ll be ruined. And your father’s name, I’m terribly afraid, could be such a snag.”
“My father’s a great man!” Linda answered as loudly as she dared, the need to contain herself suddenly gone. “And I won’t listen to any more of your insinuations about him. He’s good to people, and generous, and he has more friends than anyone; and if he should get into trouble, and that could happen to anyone, he’d never let it hurt Scott or Mr. Kremish.” She started to rise.
The older woman reached over, took Linda’s wrist and held it for what seemed like an hour before she pleaded, “Linda, you do see what I’m talking about.”
No, no, NO! But what chilled, gnawed, rankled, was that Linda did see, sort of. She felt drained, slightly dizzy, the floor dropping away beneath her—doomed.
“How much,” Naomi implored, “do you really know about your father?”
Linda felt herself withdrawing her consciousness, so as to lessen the pain in the back of her head. But the awful question still clung to her. She’d heard innuendoes about Pop as long as she could remember. Why? She�
�d had glimmers, yet always felt too afraid to ask.
“See, there’s only one way this can be resolved, and that’s—that is. …” And Mrs. Kremish faltered, put her hand up to her forehead.
She looked so pained, Linda observed.
“If—if you stay away, force yourself not to see Scott, ever again. …”
Linda suddenly saw stars, blood red stars, her own face dimly in the background, but her face belonged to a dead person.
“It’s a lot to ask, I know. But you must promise that’s what you’ll do.”
Impossible. How could she—not see Scott? Yet Linda felt so doomed. …
CHAPTER 13
Iz knew his tahteh never missed a day in shul, that the old man prided himself on being vital to the minyan—it wasn’t easy to find the ten men required for prayer—but at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday, Iz had not expected to go looking for pop in a synagogue.
On the outside, the place reminded Iz of the Harlem shulkeh where more than twenty years before he’d been married. This little Congregation “Gates of Prayer” was of course newer, its tan and cinnamon bricks only slightly tinged with soot. Like most of the Bronx, the place looked as if it hadn’t existed before the twenties.
The outer and inner doors, to his surprise, were oiled, and Iz entered noiselessly. The darkish, narrow chapel was lit by the waning sun’s rays through two grimy windows at the far end on either side of the holy ark over which glowed the tiny Perpetual Light, and by a thick wax memorial candle flickering at the cantor’s desk.
Unnoticed, he watched his pop, seventy-four years old now, bent over, carefully, lovingly sweeping the bima, the railed platform a few feet down from the holy ark.
What a little lonely nothing of a man, Iz sighed to himself, a collector of dust. Except for fathering four kids, struggling to provide for himself and them, and surviving a lot of years, there wasn’t much the old guy could chalk up for himself. When his number got called, he’d be leaving not a mark that he’d stamped on this earth. But the world’d be leaving plenty of knocks on him: a bent spine from lugging pianos; gruesome scars, a crushed spirit from being kicked in the head by Jew-hating Cossacks, by the pettiest government clerks, by bosses, by his own wife’s brother who’d worked him like a dray horse, by his she-wolf of a second wife who to this day sent him scurrying on errands, by the con-artist tenants in the apartment house Iz had given him, and probably here in his own shul too by his fellow worshippers. Why else would he be the one sweeping up?