Button Man

by Andrew Gross

  Come the seventh race, we were talking about leaving and heading back to the city when Ruthie pointed at the racing form and said, “Look, there’s a horse in the next race named Sammy! Sammy’s Siren. Our son is Samuel,” she said to Alice Leavis. “And he has this police car he plays with. He’s always making a siren noise. We should stay and bet on him, Morris.”

  “He’s twenty to one,” Reg Leavis said, looking at the racing form. “It says he’s won only once, and on a wet track. It seems he prefers the mud.”

  “Well, I’ve got a hundred that says he’s a winner today,” I said loudly, and peeled off a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Morris!” Ruthie looked at me reprovingly. “My husband’s always trying to be such a show-off,” she said to Alice with a flustered smile.

  “I’m not trying to be a show-off,” I said back to her. “I mean, if a guy can’t even bet on his own boy, who can he bet on? We should just pack up and leave now.” I glanced at Reg for support. “You agree?”

  “I’m in for twenty myself,” Leavis said as well, “though I think this colt Fire Island is the one to bet on in this race. His odds are down to three to one.”

  “All right, all bets are in,” I declared. “Let me get the runner.” Back then, in the private boxes, bet runners placed the wagers for the bigger patrons, so they didn’t have to go up and fight the crowds at the windows. “If we win, we’re all going to Delmonico’s for dinner. On me!”

  I was looking around for the runner when I heard someone call out my name. “Morris Raab!”

  Louis Buchalter came up to me, wearing a white sport coat and straw hat. He and two others were passing by our box. His union was all over me these days, harassing our workers, snooping around our facilities. He was about the last person I wanted to see. Especially in front of the ladies.

  “Mr. Buchalter.” I acknowledged him grudgingly.

  “This must be your wife. We’ve had the pleasure once, if you recall,” he said. He put out his hand and he and Ruthie shook.

  “Of course I remember, Mr. Buchalter,” Ruthie said. I’d talked to her about him from time to time, about what was going on. “How are you?”

  “As well as could be. Meet my friend Arthur,” Buchalter said. I’d seen the face somewhere: pale complexion, drooped, melancholy eyes. A thin, crooked mouth that didn’t seem so eager to smile. “But his friends just call him Dutch.”

  I remembered I’d seen him once before—with Irv at Lindy’s. Dutch Schultz was one of the most feared crime bosses in the city. I realized I was shaking hands that had probably pulled the trigger on dozens of murders. “Mr. Schultz.”

  He had just come off of two well-documented tax evasion trials, the last where it was said he literally bought off an entire upstate New York town, where the trial had been moved. The papers said it had made Thomas Dewey so mad, he said he wouldn’t have a restful night of sleep until he put him in a cell in Sing Sing for good and turned the key himself.

  His shake was kind of limp and sweaty. “Mr. Raab.”

  “And this is his friend, Otto Berman.” Buchalter motioned to the slight, balding man with the high forehead, trailing them. “Otto’s not so social, but he’s a mathematical genius,” Buchalter said. “Give him your birthday and he’ll tell you how many days you’ve been alive, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Care to test it out, Mrs. Raab?”

  “I’m not sure a lady cares to reveal that sort of information, Mr. Buchalter, but why not? April 10, 1904, Mr. Berman. Be my guest.”

  The dark little man barely scratched his nose, and came back quickly. “Nine thousand, four hundred and ninety-four,” he announced.

  “How’s that, Mrs. Raab?” Dutch Schultz chuckled. “Make you feel old?”

  “And how do we know he’s right,” Ruthie questioned.

  “He’s always right,” the Dutchman said. “Trust me, you can take it to the bank.”

  “Three hundred sixty-five times twenty-six. Plus four leap years,” Berman explained. “You can do the math later if you like. You’ll see it’s quite correct.”

  “That’s quite an accomplishment. And do you put this talent of yours to any good use, Mr. Berman?” Ruthie asked, as the bugle blew for the next race and the horses came out on the track.

  “After the eighth race, given the crowd size, he’s known to be able to calculate just how much the gate will be at the end of the day,” Buchalter said. “Down to the dollar. In fact, he can tell my friend Arthur, here, just how much we have to bet to achieve a desired number.”

  “How impressive,” Ruthie said to Alice Leavis with an edge of sarcasm. “And why is that such an important skill?”

  I knew that Dutch Schultz was known to be big into the numbers racket now. And that the last three digits, which were what the payoffs were set to, were pegged to the gross that day at the track. So if someone could correctly estimate the gross, it could be worth a ton of money to him. Millions. “It just is, honey,” I said to her.

  “Say, I’m glad I ran into you, Morris,” Louis Buchalter said. “Morris has a sizable garment company,” he explained to his friends. “And the two of us are looking to see if we have anything in common, business-wise. You mind if I stay and chat a moment, Morris?”

  “It’s a free world,” I said. “My friends and I were just about to place a bet.”

  Schultz and his man Berman said they’d catch up to him back in their box and moved along with quick good-byes.

  Buchalter said to me, “I understand some people from the Amalgamated Needle Trade and the Fur Dressers Union have been in touch.”

  I said, “Funny, they’ve been making this big point of saying how you didn’t have anything to do with the union.”

  “I’m merely an interested party, that’s all. I just like to keep the peace, however I can make that happen. Anyway, I hope you’ll become more receptive to what they have to say. Your husband’s a stubborn man, Mrs. Raab,” he said. “But you must know that.”

  “He’s stubborn, but I usually find that he’s right.” Ruthie backed me up.

  “Funny, my wife always says the same thing.” Buchalter chuckled. “So how’s your brother anyway? Harry, right? I hear you’re doing your best to make an honest man out of him.”

  “He’s doing just fine,” I said without giving much away. “He’s learning the trade.”

  “Well, good for him. You know I always kept an eye on that young man. I guess he doesn’t need me to look after him anymore.”

  His thin smile came to rest on me, and I couldn’t decide if the bastard was making a threat or not. But keeping my cool in front of the women, I said, “My brother Sol and I thank you for that. But from now on, that’s our job.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, who can guarantee anything these days?” He shrugged. The kind of shrug that meant there was something behind it. Which if we weren’t in front of a couple of thousand people, I might have asked him if he had something he really wanted to say. “Look, I’ll let you all get back to your afternoon.” He checked his watch. “Very nice to spend some time with you all. You said you were placing some bets?”

  “We were about to,” Ruthie said.

  “Then maybe I can offer some advice. One of our horses is running in this race. Number Four. Fire Island. Me, I don’t like to bet so much—I don’t like to risk anything on something out of my control—but the Dutchman … he takes it all very seriously. I see the horse is on the board at three to one. You may have a good result if you take a chance on him.”

  “Thanks, but we’re placing our money on Sammy’s Siren,” I said. “Our son is named Sammy.”

  “Is he, now? Isn’t that nice.…” Buchalter checked the board. “Twenty to one, I see. I didn’t take you for such a chaser, Morris. If I were you, I’d give some thought to what I mentioned. Number Four. He’s been training very well, the Dutchman tells me. And he would know.”

  I put my hand up to signal for the bet runner. The Leavises and Ruthie told them what t
hey wanted to do and I peeled off some bills.

  “Ten thousand dollars on Sammy’s Siren to win,” I said.

  Ruthie, who’d been doing her best to ignore things, turned around, completely pale. “Morris, what are you doing?” she gasped.

  “And another two thousand to place,” I said. With trembling hands, the shocked runner made out the marker. I signed it and stuffed it back into his hands. “All on Number Six. Sammy’s Siren.”

  Buchalter shook his head and gave me a crooked smile. “You got balls, Raab, if nothing else. Mind if I hang around a bit longer and watch the race?”

  “It’s a free country,” I said. “If you got nothing better to do.”

  “Oh I got lots better to do. But seeing your face after might be more entertaining than the race.”

  A small buzz went up from the people around us as word got out I had made such a sizable bet, and people were pointing toward me.

  “Morris, have you gone crazy?” Ruthie said to me under her breath. The Leavises looked on, not really understanding what was happening. A few people around us who heard placed bets on him as well and held up their tickets to show their support. The air bristled with excitement.

  “Just watch the race,” I said to Ruthie. “Sammy’s Siren is going to win.”

  The horses pulled into the starting gate.

  “So you don’t bet?” I asked Buchalter.

  “Not on the races.” He pulled up a set of binoculars.

  We looked on as the horses loaded, then after a pause, the gates opened with a clang. “And they’re off!” the track announcer shouted.

  Then Buchalter added with a shrug, “But others I’m close to do.”

  The race was seven furlongs. A little less than a mile. A tangle of colorful silks and pumping legs burst out of the gate. They ran close to us on the rail and I could hear the pounding of their hooves as they galloped by. Bolting to the front I saw the tall brown horse. Number Six. Sammy’s Siren, taking the lead. “You see, Ruthie.”

  “He’ll run himself out like that,” Buchalter commented. “That colt’s only setting the pace.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said. I’d never felt so sure of anything in my life. I started cheering. “C’mon, Sammy! C’mon!”

  Buchalter watched through his glasses, not saying a word. Fire Island, the Number Four horse, was trapped in the pack, in eighth place out of ten. “I’m told he’s a closer.” Buchalter looked at me.

  “He’ll have to be,” I said. Inside my heart was racing.

  On the back stretch Sammy’s Siren maintained his lead.

  In front of me I heard Ruthie, who generally could care less about things like this, screaming loudly, “Come on, Sammy’s Siren! Come on!”

  The horses rumbled around the far turn. I couldn’t see across the field, but the board still had Six maintaining his lead. But I could see a horse starting to weave its way through the crowded pack.

  “Watch,” Buchalter said.

  I’d rolled up my Racing Form and slapped the seat in front of me. “Come on, Sammy! Come on!” We were all up on our feet. Six was now in front by a full length. He wasn’t tiring. In fact, he was looking like this was his day. Stronger and stronger. He didn’t need the mud.

  His lead widened to two lengths.

  By that time we were all cheering him on. Even Reg Leavis. Everyone knew there was a lot more on the line than just a race. Not to mention a small fortune. “C’mon, Sammy!” I kept urging him on, whispering it under my breath. “Come on!”

  As they rounded the last turn, Sammy’s Siren still held the lead. Buchalter, still peering through his glasses, said, “Your horse seems to be tiring.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll hold it,” I said.

  Only a quarter mile to go.

  “I’m afraid not. He’s done. These things aren’t left to chance, Morris.”

  As the horses hit the home stretch, the stands let out a roar. My blood was like a locomotive through my veins. A long shot was in the lead and looked like he had the distance to win. Everyone was feeling it, shouting, “Go, Sammy!”

  Suddenly a horse came out of the pack, the jockey whipping him.

  It was Number Four. Fire Island. He set his sights on Sammy’s Siren’s tail, still a couple of lengths ahead.

  He started gaining.

  “I told you, he’s a closer,” Louis Buchalter said matter-of-factly, looking through his glasses.

  A furlong to go, it was just the two of them now, separated from the pack. Sammy’s Siren still clinging to the lead. Which was only a length now, but with every stride Fire Island was making up ground. As they came along the last pole, they were stride for stride. The crowd was on their feet, roaring.

  “C’mon, Sammy!” I kept saying. Ruthie and Alice Leavis were on their feet screaming too. “C’mon!”

  Only another twenty yards or so …

  Then, with only a few strides remaining, Sammy’s Siren seemed to run out of gas. His stride faltered, and Number Four, Fire Island, surged past him. In fact, at the wire, a couple of more horses had caught up to him and galloped by, the crowd emitting a collective groan.

  “Too bad.” Buchalter put down his glasses and said to me, “I thought for sure I said to bet on Fire Island. I told you, the horse can close.”

  Though I was completely empty inside, I did my best not to show the slightest trace of disappointment.

  “Me, I never bet though. I think I mentioned that, Morris. If there’s one rule I live by, it’s never bet against the house. Especially when you can be the house. Know what I mean?

  “So I’ll be sending someone by again. I’d be pleased if you could give him a bit more of your time than the last time and we can amicably work something out. Mrs. Raab, Mr. and Mrs. Leavis…” Buchalter tipped his cap to them. “Nice to be with you.”

  He cast me kind of a sage smile and left.

  “Morris, how could you?” Ruthie said to me, as furious as I’ve ever seen her. “What were you trying to prove?”

  I merely sat there and unfurled my racing form and turned the page. “All right, who’s up in the next race?” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The next day two men dropped off a case at Raab Brothers, addressed to Morris’s attention.

  He closed his office door and opened the briefcase.

  It was full of cash, bundled inside. It came to $12,000. Just what he’d lost the day before. Along with a note wrapped around the bills: “My apologies, I must have somehow distracted you yesterday. I was sure I said Number Four.”

  It was signed, “Your friends at the Amalgamated Needle Trade Workers and Fur Dressers Protective.”

  Morris stared at the packs of bills. All hundreds and fifties. There wasn’t a second where he actually gave a thought to keeping it. Instead, he packed the case back up and called in one of his warehouse men who occasionally ran errands for him. “Take the car. I want you to make sure this case gets back to its owner,” Morris said.

  “Where to, Mr. Raab?” the man inquired.

  “A tobacco shop. In Brooklyn. The corner of Livonia and Saratoga. I want you to ask for Mr. Buchalter.”

  “Buchalter?” The man’s eyes opened wide, as Buchalter was a name everyone in the industry knew. “Okay.” He nodded warily.

  “You’ll be fine. Make sure you put it in his hands.”

  * * *

  When the briefcase came back, clearly full, Louis Buchalter closed his office door and stared at it for a full minute, his mind fixed on what to do. Because of its weight he didn’t even have to check what was inside.

  Finally, he undid the lid and took out the uncounted wads of bills. He felt something snap inside. The guy had balls, that was all he could say. And to some extent, Louis had enjoyed the game of cat and mouse, and seeing how far he would go. But that was over now. It had gone on too long, and now it had to end. He had put the ball in Morris’s hands and had made it clear how he wanted it to proceed. Pack by pack, he stacked the bills
on the table.

  He called in Gurrah.

  “Morris Raab…,” Louis Buchalter said, nodding to the stacks of bills. “I know I asked you to go slow.”

  “Did you really expect him to keep it?” his partner said.

  “I don’t know what I expected. But all bets are off now.”

  Gurrah waited. “You say the word, boss.”

  Louis flared his nostrils and then he stuffed the cash into a drawer. “The word is, the game is over, that’s all. Just do what you have to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The following day, at the 500 Club atop 500 Seventh Avenue, as Morris’s lunch partner, Larry Zices, got up and went to the men’s room, another friend from the business, Morty Zimmer, came up to his table.

  “Mind if I join you a moment, Morris?”

  “Sure. Sit down.”

  Morty was known as a quiet, easygoing guy, but today he seemed nervous and agitated. He owned a competing coat company, but, far from being a fighter, he had long ago struck a deal with the fur dressers union to get them off his back. At one time his firm was one of the largest in the industry, but word was, business hadn’t been nearly as good since. He sat down in Larry’s empty chair.

  “You know, I’m kinda friendly with my union guy, Morris…” Morty looked around to see if anyone at the next table was eavesdropping and lowered his voice. “Cy Haddad.”

  “I’ve met Cy.” Morris nodded.

  “He mentioned something to me today. I thought you ought to know. He said you had better watch out. Usually I take that kind of thing with a grain of salt—everyone’s pissing off everybody these days. But he didn’t seem to mean it in a general way. He meant, like, imminently, Morris. Everyone knows you’re not doing business with them. I think you’re going to get hit. Today. Tomorrow. Soon.”

  “Did he say where?”

  “No. If he even knew. He’s just the rep, of course. Maybe the warehouse. Maybe the next time you make a delivery. Ike Goldman told ’em to take a hike and they set one of his trucks on fire. Just that you got to watch out, Morris. You know how these guys operate. You can’t just thumb your nose at these people. It ain’t good.”