The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel

by Dorothy Uhnak

  It was Benny Herskel, guerrilla fighter, intelligence general, negotiator, who responded in a sharp, don’t-try-to-kid-me tone. “Okay, kid. We’re here. You’re here. What do you want from us?”

  Danny held his hand up in a reassuring, calming gesture. “I want to tell you about my last talk with Willie Paycek—Willie Peace—just before he died.”

  “Skip that. What do you want from us?”

  Megan broke in. “What do you want to tell us, Danny?”

  “First, I think I’d better tell you about my relationship with my mother. It is relevant to what I want to say. What you’ve read in Willie’s manuscript—yeah, most of it is true about us. My mom and the kids.” His voice filled with warmth and affection. “But what Willie missed was that my mother never once, in her entire life, ever let one of her kids go hungry or homeless or unloved. I was the oldest and the only kid, until she had the five kids from her Mexican marriage. I was, I guess you could say, her confidant. And her collaborator, when necessary.”

  “What Willie wrote was true? Your mother set you up with those wealthy women and—”

  “Yes, Charley. That was true, all right. And you know what? We never harmed anybody. The rich ladies paid for their pleasure. And my family survived. My mom even took care of the girls who came to live with us. She protected them. But that’s another story.”

  “What did your mother tell you about your father?” Megan asked directly.

  “My mother told me what Willie never knew or even suspected. Oh, yes, I know. Any one of you could be my father.”

  “She told you that?” Megan, who knew so much about the human condition and relationships, was still surprised at what she did not know.

  “When I was a little kid, we’d see you on television, Bishop O’Brien. My mother would put her hands on my shoulders and say, ‘Listen carefully to what he says. He is a good man. A holy man. Someday he might be Pope.’” Danny paused for a moment, then said, “And she told me there was a possibility that you were my father.”

  They watched him closely as he spoke to each one.

  “Dante, when you were elected to Congress and then to the Senate, my mother said you might one day be President. And that you might be my father.”

  Megan interrupted. “And how did that make you feel?” She burst into laughter. “Wow, a real shrink-question. Sorry.”

  Danny Williams looked at Megan with genuine affection, as though she were the only other person in the room. The men never changed expression; they were frozen into their own concerns.

  “It made me feel very strange, Megan. And special, I guess. When Ben was in Israel leading missions—when one of your capers was made into a TV movie, my mother and I watched and she predicted you would be a very important man. Maybe Prime Minister. And—” he shrugged—“she said you might be my father.”

  “You knew all that, growing up?”

  “Yes, Dr. Magee, I knew that all my life. And Charley, my mother cut out pictures of you from the newspapers every time you rescued someone from a fire. ‘Snuffy O’Brien,’ she’d say. ‘A very brave man … who knows?’”

  There it was, all out in the open, and no one knew what to say. Danny swallowed some Scotch, put the glass down, and leaned against a table, his arms folded over his chest.

  “I’d like to tell you now about my last conversation with Willie.” He paused, measured them, and watched for the impact. “Willie Paycek, my father.”

  “You mean Willie and your mother …”

  Danny shook his head. “No, Ben. Never. Willie was my legal father. His name was on my birth certificate. But my mother told me it was impossible, and she never lied to me. What I did, in the last few months, was to accept Willie Paycek as my true father.”

  “Did I miss something here?” Ben demanded.

  “Danny, what? What is it you want to tell us?”

  “Willie Paycek was the only one who knew of my existence. It was because of me that he had his chance in life. Got to Hollywood. Was in place to do what he wanted with his life. Yet he abandoned us without a second look. Until it suited his purpose to keep tabs on us. On me.”

  Dante said, “Danny. I should have known. I should have—”

  “Okay, maybe. But Willie did know. Let me tell you about my last conversation with Willie. When he was dying. Willie, with all the things he knew about all of us, or made up, really didn’t know about any of you others. That each of you might be my biological father.” Danny stopped speaking, then added softly, “So I told him.”

  “But why? What was the point?” Ben wanted to know.

  “Danny, what else did you tell Willie as he was dying?” Megan asked.

  Danny Williams grinned. “If I tell you that I closed a final circle, will you know what I mean?”

  Carefully, thoughtfully, Megan said, “Maybe.”

  “You lost me, kiddo,” Ben said.

  “Then listen. I told Willie two things before he was to take his fatal injection to ease himself into death. First, that each of you could be my father—so he missed a good bet. Think what he could have done with that information. He asked me if I would add that to his autobiography.”

  Danny paused, staring straight ahead, not seeing anyone in the room with him. He saw only Willie and his death-face.

  “I asked him, ‘What autobiography are we talking about, Willie?’”

  “What do you mean, Danny?”

  “Dante, what you read in his manuscript about his last meeting with his father, the conversation that was Willie’s payoff to his abusive old man—well, that was my payoff to Willie. I told him his autobiography would never be published. In fact”—he gestured around the room—“you have the only copies. And I’ve got the tapes in my briefcase, for you to do whatever you want with. I told Willie that as a writer, I was working on his biography right alongside the work I was doing for him on his autobiography. And as his biographer, it was up to me to decide what to include, what to exclude. I told him that the night on Snake Hill never happened. Not with any kids involved, anyway. Just his old man and Stachiew. The only mention of all of you was by way of suggesting that maybe Ryer Avenue was some unique kind of background for a bunch of kids. A great neighborhood: turned out a future Senator, maybe even a President; an Israeli general and rep to the UN who might become Prime Minister; a priest who might one day be the first American Pope. And his brother, who was so affected by what he saw in the concentration camps that he converted to his mother’s religion and spent his life saving lives as the hero of his city. Finally, a very special girl who grew up against the times and became not only a psychiatrist and a teacher, a wife and mother, but a spokesperson—is that the right word?—for women.”

  For a moment they could not absorb what he had just told them. It didn’t compute. It didn’t connect with the turmoil they had been feeling since receiving Willie’s manuscript.

  Ben, the strongest, toughest realist, asked him, “What do you want from us, Danny?”

  Very quietly, looking from one of them to another, Danny Williams said, “Absolutely nothing. I don’t want anything from any of you.”

  “You don’t even want to know who’s your father?” Megan asked.

  Danny smiled. “Willie was. And I left him the same deathbed gift he gave his father. And that was the end of it for me. In no other way can I ever identify with him. I learned certain things from him, and from all of you. Yes, I wonder which one of you is my father. Of course I do. But you see, it doesn’t matter. I can’t deal with it anymore. I want to be free of Willie and all of you. So I gave him, as my father, exactly what he gave his father before me.” He stared directly at Megan, who saw the tears shimmering in his dark eyes. “Circle closed.”

  Megan nodded, but then asked him, “Why did you want all of us to know about this? You gave us the manuscript, Danny. You didn’t have to do that. You could have kept it between you and Willie.”

  Finally there was a flash of anger. “I’m not your patient, Megan, and I’m n
ot into deep soul-searching. Let’s just say I wanted all of you to know certain things about me. Maybe about yourselves and each other.”

  There was a diminishing uneasiness in the room. No one looked at anyone, as though each were having his or her private thoughts.

  “One more thing,” Danny said. “About my mother. Whatever else she was—and none of that is anyone’s business—she was and is a terrific mother. Right now she’s settling in at Willie’s villa with a couple of her grandkids and little Mischa, who will finally get a taste of mothering that he’s never had in his life. Willie was wrong about Mischa. He’s gonna live a long and happy life.”

  Ben Herskel laughed. “Jesus, did you tell Willie about that?”

  “I wish I had, but I didn’t think of it until after he was dead.”

  “It’s a little spooky, isn’t it?” Megan said. “This apartment was once Willie’s, and now his home will be your mother’s.”

  “Life is spooky,” Danny said. He turned toward his briefcase and dug out the tapes, which he tossed on Dante’s desk. Then he reached into it once more, and took out a fairly thick manuscript. “I only have one extra copy, so, Dante, if you want to read it and then pass it on to the others …”

  Dante opened it and read the title page. The Biography of My Father, Willie Peace, by Danny William Paycek.

  Dante turned the next page and read the dedication. His mouth dropped open and he handed it back to Danny. “You read it, Danny.”

  Danny Williams nodded, then read, “To the Ryer Avenue Gang, with my admiration at how far they all have traveled. From their spiritual son, Danny Williams.”

  Finally they all left, except Megan and Dante. She collected the glasses, and he dumped the leftover snacks into a wastebasket.

  “So. What do you think?” Dante asked her.

  “I don’t know. I guess life can really be as strange as all the case histories I’ve studied and all the stories I’ve listened to.” She shook her head and whistled, then said, “Wow, Dante. Whadda ya think about the kid?”

  “Wouldn’t it be something, Megan? I mean, he does look like me, right? Whoever’s son he is, he seems to be a real piece of work, doesn’t he?”

  “How could he miss? He’s got Ryer Avenue in his gene pool.”

  “You know, Megan, I’ve been doing so much thinking these last few days. About when we were kids. Do you realize, if it hadn’t snowed that night, during Christmas vacation, and if we hadn’t all been on Snake Hill, maybe Willie would have turned out differently? Maybe he wouldn’t have been obsessed with all of us; maybe he would have concentrated on his own life, getting himself straightened out without all that hatred and vindictiveness. Maybe, if he’d used his energies better … maybe …”

  Megan interrupted quietly. “Maybe it would have been different for him if we’d all been able to love Willie.”

  But it had snowed that night.

  And they hadn’t been able to love Willie.

  And he’d died hearing a son’s vengeance burning into his brain. As had his father before him.

  EPILOGUE

  ON SATURDAY, DECEMBER 28, 1935, AT APPROXIMATELY 10:25 P.M., Walter Stachiew raised his right hand to his bloodied head. He felt the cold, thick wetness and squinted as he brought the hand before his eyes.

  Them little rotten bastards, what the hell did they hit him with, anyway? He moved his legs, and his feet slipped on the snow. He knew them, all of them, he’d fix them good. They really think they could do this to him and then just leave him there and run away? Well, they was wrong, because he knew all of them.

  He pulled himself into a sitting position, his knees up, his hands on either side of his head. They musta whacked him with a steel bar or something. A shovel, yeah, they hit him with his shovel, whatta bunch a’ little bastards. He didn’t need no shovel to fix them. He just had to catch his breath. Maybe get another drink.

  Yeah. His pal, Stanley, would help him with the price. Yeah. Stan was mad at him about something or other, but they was always mad about something or other.

  Stan was still inside, probably, still drinking inside, so that’s what he’d do, go find Stan, and Stan would buy him a whiskey or two. That was what he really needed.

  He pulled himself up to his knees, but he felt terrible with the cold and the headache, so he decided to just sit down and wait there for a minute. He reached out. There was his shovel. Yeah. He could make maybe a coupla bucks, shovel some snow for somebody, and then he would buy Stan a drink or two. Maybe. Maybe not.

  He looked up. “Whadda ya think, Stan, ya wanna treat me first, then I pay, you pay, huh?”

  Stanley Paycek stood over him. He seemed to be swaying. Ah, fuck it. Walter realized he musta used up all his money for himself, to get himself drunk. There’d be no money left to buy a drink for him. Some friend.

  “Why you no treat me, Stan, you sumavabitch, you?”

  Stanley Paycek remembered what he had come to do. He reached down and picked up the shovel and stood over Walter.

  He knew he was mad at Walter. He knew he’d said he’d clobber him with his own shovel. He just couldn’t remember why, but what the hell.

  “You no good bastard, Walter, ya know? I’m gonna kill you, ya know?”

  Walter lunged for his friend’s feet, but fell flat. He tried to grab Paycek’s legs, but Stan moved back slightly. He looked up right into Stanley’s face and cursed.

  Stan was saying something. Something. Some curse words. He remembered the handle of the shovel jammed against his throat.

  Stan lifted the heavy shovel high over his head and brought it crashing down right on Walter’s face. Walter felt his body fall back, then forward as he tried to rise. He lifted a hand behind him and tried to tell Stanley something, but he didn’t know what. He felt the next blow, a numbing cold crack on the back of his skull.

  He never felt any of the other blows that killed him.

  A Biography of Dorothy Uhnak

  Dorothy Uhnak (1930–2006) was the bestselling, award-winning author of nine novels and one work of nonfiction.

  Uhnak was born in New York City, where she attended the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Before she turned to writing, Uhnak spent fourteen years as a detective with the New York City Transit Police Department, where she was decorated for bravery twice. Her memoir, Policewoman (1964), chronicles her career in law enforcement, and was written while she was still on the force.

  The Bait (1968), Uhnak’s first novel, won the Edgar Award for Best First Mystery Novel, and introduced NYPD detective Christie Opara, who appeared in Uhnak’s next two novels, The Witness (1969) and The Ledger (1970). All three novels were adapted for television and eventually became the series “Get Christie Love!” starring Teresa Graves. Uhnak followed the Opara trilogy with Law and Order (1973)—a novel about three generations of Irish American police officers—which earned critical praise and was considered her breakout novel. Next came The Investigation (1977), another blockbuster. Both of these were also adapted for television.

  Uhnak has been credited with paving the way for authors such as Sue Grafton, Sara Paretsky, Patricia Cornwell, and many others who write crime novels and police procedurals with strong heroines. Additionally, she was hailed by George N. Dove as “an experimental writer who … tried new approaches with each undertaking.” Her books have been translated into fifteen languages. Uhnak died on Long Island in 2006.

  Dorothy Uhnak, around age one.

  Uhnak, age four, holding a childhood pet.

  A teenage Uhnak pictured with Mildred Goldstein, her only sister. Throughout her youth, Uhnak enjoyed doing odd jobs at the 46th Precinct station house on Ryer Avenue in the Bronx, near her family’s home.

  Sixteen-year-old Uhnak at the beach, around 1946.

  Uhnak, age twenty-four, poses with her husband Anthony “Tony” Uhnak. (Photo courtesy of Harold Ellis.)

  A feature on Uhnak in the American Electric Power Company’s CURRENT magazine, following the release of her second bo
ok, The Bait. “It’s been a fantastic year,” Uhnak said. The Bait went on to win a 1969 Edgar Award.

  Uhnak with Police Chief Thomas O’Rourke, in a photo taken during the ceremony promoting her to detective in the New York City Transit Police Department. Uhnak would keep this title for fourteen years.

  Uhnak poses in front of Scottish wards at the 1964 World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows, Queens—one of the largest world’s fairs to ever be held in the United States.

  Uhnak pictured with her husband, Anthony; mother, Josephine Goldstein; and daughter, Tracy.

  Uhnak with her daughter, Tracy, and husband, Anthony.

  Uhnak and her mother, Josephine, at her daughter’s wedding in 1987.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1993 by Dorothy Uhnak

  Cover design by Neal Heacox

  978-1-4804-6100-0

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.