Inherit the Mob (2 page)
Authors: Zev Chafets
Gordon stepped out of the shower and began toweling himself. “My old man? He doesn’t kid. Besides, every minute that Max was alive after 1930 was borrowed time. He figures they both beat the odds by about fifty years.”
Flanagan followed him into the bedroom, where Gordon began dressing. “They expecting a big turnout today?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” Gordon said. “When you’re eighty-five, there aren’t many mourners left.”
“Ever read about the Nails Morton funeral in Chicago?” Flanagan asked. “Five thousand people, half of them rabbis. Morton was in the Bugs Moran gang, and he got thrown from a horse. They shot the horse.”
“Who? The rabbis?”
“No, shmuck, the boys. The rabbis came because Nails was a local hero. He protected them from the Polacks.”
“From the Irish, more likely,” Gordon said. “Anyway, I don’t think that Max was too big on protecting people. I never heard any Robin Hood stories about him.”
“You could be wrong about that,” said Flanagan. “I see him as a kind of Jewish Godfather. Remember that scene where the undertaker comes to Don Corleone after his daughter is raped? ‘Godfather, Godfather, give me justice.’ Great scene. I’ll bet a few people came to Max for justice over the years.”
“Chief, did anybody ever tell you that you’re a romantic?”
“Uh-huh,” said Flanagan. “And you’re not. I’m the one who took a wacko thesbian to Mexico for the weekend, right? I’m the one who believes in true love? All I said is that the old man might have helped some neighborhood people.”
“If you’re going to use the shit I tell you in arguments, I’m going to stop telling you shit,” Gordon said. “Besides, Jupiter is bisexual. She just has trouble getting close to men. That doesn’t make her a pervert.”
“No,” said Flanagan. “It makes
you
a pervert.”
They arrived at the Riverside funeral home a few minutes before one. As the cab pulled up alongside the brown stone building, Gordon was surprised to see hundreds of people standing outside. “I told you,” said Flanagan delightedly. “A great send-off for a great American.”
Gordon and Flanagan edged through the crowd, but they were stopped by the bottleneck at the door. Suddenly Gordon felt a hand on his elbow and turned to see a broad-shouldered old man with a hook nose, piercing brown eyes and a white mustache perched above sweet-tempered lips.
“Hi, Nate,” Gordon said. Nate Belzer was one of the few people from his uncle’s world whom he actually knew, a regular guest at the Grossmans’ Passover seder since Gordon’s boyhood. He remembered Belzer chanting the Hebrew prayers in a clear, educated voice, and giving him a silver dollar to buy back the matzoh that he ritually stole every year. He remembered, too, that Belzer used to stand
outside when the door was opened for Elijah the prophet. “You never know who’s coming in with him,” he would whisper.
Gordon looked around the funeral home. “Who are all these people?” he asked.
“Friends of the family, children, grandchildren,” Belzer said noncommittally. “Max had a lot of friends.”
Gordon felt an arm reach over his shoulder. “Mr. Belzer, I’m John Flanagan. I’m a friend of Velvel’s,” he said, giving the nickname a slight emphasis that made Gordon wince.
“Nice to meet you,” Belzer said neutrally, taking the outstretched hand.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” said Flanagan. “Knuckles Belzer, right? Out of Brownsville. And the Palm Hotel in Vegas.”
Belzer gave Gordon a hard look. “He works with me, Nate,” he explained. “At the paper. He’s a newspaper man.”
“A newspaper man,” Belzer said evenly. “Well, a friend of Velvel’s is a friend. Velvel, Ida wants to see you.” He took Gordon by the elbow and gently pushed him through the crowd.
When they entered the small study off the chapel, Gordon went directly to his aunt, kissed her on the cheek and murmured “I’m sorry, Aunt Ida.” He shook hands with his father and the rabbi, a small, mild-looking man dressed in a dandruff-covered black robe.
“My nephew is a Nobel Prize journalist,” Ida told the rabbi. “Tell him what you’re planning to say, see what he thinks.”
“Pulitzer Prize, Aunt Ida,” Gordon corrected automatically, but the rabbi was already making little “uh, uh” noises, revving up his topic. “Today I intend to talk about Max Grossman the man,” he said. “Max Grossman the husband, Max Grossman the Jew. Max Grossman who gave his charity in private, who never forgot who he was and where he came from …”
“Sounds just like him,” Gordon said, eliciting a sharp look from his father.
“This is serious, shmendrick,” he said. “We got a writer in the family, we want a writer’s opinion.”
“We thought maybe you’d say a few words,” said Ida. She was dressed in black and smoked a Kent 100. “Nothing against the rabbi, but he didn’t know Max, and you did. Max always said you were a great talker.”
“I pass,” said Gordon. “Listen, I wouldn’t know what to say. There’s a guy I came with, Flanagan, he wants to write a whole book about Uncle Max. You ought to let him give the eulogy.”
“No goyim,” said the rabbi sternly.
“I don’t see why not,” Gordon said. “Wasn’t Uncle Max in business with Italians? Maybe you should talk about what an ecumenical figure he was.”
“That’s a good point,” said Ida, missing the irony. “Max was always friendly with the lokshen.”
There was a knock on the door, and Nathan Belzer stuck his head in. “Ida, the Israeli consul general is here to pay his respects. Do you want to see him now?”
The old lady smiled. “Consul
general,
” she said, hitting the second word. “Have him come in.”
Belzer opened the door wider, and the diplomat, who had been standing behind him, walked in. A man in his late fifties, he gently shook Ida’s hand, intoned a Hebrew phrase and then addressed the room in general. “Max Grossman was a great friend of the state of Israel,” he proclaimed. “His loss is a loss to all of us.”
This was news to Gordon, who looked at his father quizzically, but the old man’s face gave away nothing. “You must be William Gordon,” said the diplomat, extending his hand. “I am an admirer of your writing. Your series on the Palestinians was first rate, really excellent. I only wish more of your colleagues were able to bring your perspective to the complicated issues that—”
“I didn’t know that Uncle Max had anything to do with Israel,” said Gordon. “I didn’t even know he had been there.”
“I don’t believe that he ever was in Israel,” said the consul uncomfortably, sensing that he had said too much.
“He had passport problems,” said Grossman.
“Precisely,” said the Israeli. “But he was always there in spirit when he was needed, I assure you. And now, Mrs. Grossman, let me convey, once again, our condolences.” He shook hands all around and left the room.
“What did Uncle Max do for Israel?” Gordon asked, his journalistic curiosity aroused.
“Here and there, this and that,” said Ida.
“Perhaps I should mention it in my talk,” said the rabbi, but
Grossman shook his head. “No business, just personal stuff,” he said in a gruff tone. The rabbi nodded so emphatically that dandruff swirled off his shoulders.
From the chapel they could hear the swell of voices. Grossman looked at his watch. “So, you gonna say something or not, big boy?” he demanded.
Gordon shook his head. “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. No disrespect intended.”
“Forget it, then,” said Grossman. “Rabbi, you do all the talking. And remember, keep it short and sweet. Nothing fancy.”
Gordon helped his aunt to her feet, and she stubbed out her Kent. “We’re having Chinese at the shivah,” she said. “How’s that for a little class?”
The
Tribune
’s late edition hit the streets during the funeral; on the way from the cemetery Flanagan bought a copy, and read the obit aloud as they headed to Ida’s East Side penthouse.
“Max Grossman, reputedly one of America’s leading crime lords, died yesterday at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York after a long illness. He was eighty-five years old.
“Grossman was born on the Lower East Side of New York in 1897 to Jewish parents who emigrated to the United States from Russia. After leaving school at the age of fifteen, he formed his own gang, known as the Max and Ax mob, with childhood friend Al “the Ax” Axelrod, who was shot to death in a gangland slaying in Palm Springs in 1951.
“Grossman and Axelrod worked briefly for crime king Arnold ‘the Brain’ Rothstein before going into business for themselves. Their activities allegedly included extortion, armed robbery, bootlegging and contract killing.
“In 1929, Grossman reputedly helped found
the Syndicate, the national crime commission that ruled the underworld for decades. He was closely aligned with Luigi Spadafore and other reputed Mafia figures. He also had close ties with Louis “Lepke” Buchhalter of Murder Incorporated, Charles “King” Solomon of Boston and the Purple Gang of Detroit.
“Known as a diplomat and organizational genius, Grossman helped pioneer gambling in a number of Latin American countries, established close ties with leading Democratic politicians in New York and around the country, and founded a chain of department stores run by his younger brother, Albert.
“Over the years, Grossman was the subject of numerous investigations, but his only criminal conviction was for vagrancy, in 1923. Law enforcement agencies were convinced, however, that he stood at the pinnacle of organized crime for decades. In 1957 he was threatened with contempt of Congress for refusing to divulge information to the McClellan Committee.
“In recent years, Max Grossman lived in quiet retirement in his Upper East Side apartment. He is survived by his wife, Ida, his brother, Albert, and his nephew, William Gordon, who serves as a columnist for this newspaper.”
“Thanks for the publicity,” Gordon said. “I don’t remember seeing my name in there before.”
“A last-minute addition, boychik,” said Flanagan. “Just giving the story a local angle. By the way, when we get to your aunt’s, don’t mention who wrote the obit, OK? People are touchy sometimes.”
Flanagan had nothing to worry about; none of the mourners at Ida’s had read the
Tribune
. They filled her large living room, sipping coffee from painted china cups and Canadian Club from standard barroom highball glasses. Along the sides of the room, elderly Jews
sat on sofas and munched dim sum delicacies. The mood of the room struck Gordon as decidedly upbeat.
“Aunt Ida, this is John Flanagan, he works with me at the paper,” he said.
“I’m sorry for your trouble, Mrs. Grossman,” he said, and she smiled through a puff of cigarette smoke. “You too, Mr. Grossman,” he said to Gordon’s father, who grunted.
“You ever been to a shivah before, Mr. Flanagan?” asked Ida. “It’s like a wake, only for Jews. We have plenty of liquor,” she added knowingly. “Get yourself a drink and feel at home.” She drifted off, leaving Flanagan with Gordon and his father.
Flanagan scanned the room with intense curiosity. Suddenly he touched Gordon’s arm and gestured toward a tanned, dapper, gray-haired man who was daintily chewing an egg roll. “Isn’t that Handsome Harry Millman, Mr. Grossman?” Flanagan asked.
“I don’t know any Harry Millman,” replied Grossman, but Flanagan didn’t even hear him. “Sure, it is,” he said. “Somebody pointed him out to me at the Carnegie one time. “He’s a living legend. I can’t believe it.”
“Who the hell is Handsome Harry Millman?” Gordon asked.
“Don’t you know anything about your own heritage?” said Flanagan. “Handsome Harry Millman was one of the hit men in the Dexter Avenue massacre in Detroit in the thirties. He got life. At his trial, he complained that he was only rated number six on the FBI most wanted list. You never met him?”
“I never heard of him,” said Grossman again, and looked hard at his son. Gordon shrugged. “Me, either.”
“Jeez, this place is like the hall of fame,” said Flanagan. “Who else is here, Mr. Grossman?”
“I’m gonna get some more Chinese, Velvel,” he said, ignoring the question. He started to move away, then stopped, seized Flanagan’s elbow and squeezed hard. “This is a solemn religious occasion,” he said to the Irishman in a hard tone. “You wanna eat, eat. You wanna drink, drink. You wanna sightsee, scram.”
