Inherit the Mob (30 page)

On their fourth morning together, Bev sensed a change. Gordon came to breakfast with an appetite, joked with her as if he were an old friend instead of a diffident house guest, and asked what they would do that day. She heard the “they” loud and clear; he was thinking about them together, as a couple.

“We’ve still got those W. C. Fields movies I rented,” she said. “We could watch those, have a film festival.”

“Just like in college,” Gordon said.

“You did that too?”

“Are you kidding? One semester that’s all I did. Yeah, let’s watch some flicks. Think it’s too early for popcorn?”

“Never too early for popcorn,” she laughed. “Since we’re skipping class, you want to get high?”

“High? On what?”

“I’ve got some grass,” she said, trying to keep her voice even and natural. “But I hate to smoke alone. I haven’t gotten high in a long time.”

“Me either,” said Gordon. “Yeah, what the hell.”

They sat on the sofa in the den, passing their second joint between them. Gordon stared at the movie, but Bev could tell he wasn’t really paying attention. When he thought she wasn’t looking he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

“How do you feel?” she asked. “Are you stoned?”

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “How about you?”

“God, yes,” she laughed. “I’m completely wasted.”

“How does it make you feel?” he asked, looking at her directly for the first time. She giggled and put down the joint. “The truth is, dope always makes me horny.”

There was a long silence. Gordon felt the sexual electricity in the air. He wanted Bev, and he was sure—almost sure—that she wanted him. But if he was wrong, it would be a disaster. He was stuck here with her and a misunderstanding would make things awkward. And, she might tell his father that he had tried to seduce her, making him appear ridiculous. It never occurred to Gordon to wonder how his father might feel about it.

Bev sensed his dilemma. This was the moment, she thought. She looked at Gordon and found that she really
was
horny. Her nipples were hard, and she felt wet and warm. “Will,” she said softly.

“What?” Gordon answered, his voice heavy with excitement. Bev got up and stood between his legs. Slowly, she kneeled in front of him and, unbuckling his Levi’s, took him in her mouth. She felt him run his hands through her curly hair, and heard him breathe, “Oh God.”

They spent the next two days making love, eating cheese and crackers in bed, smoking cigarettes and making up stories for each other about what they thought and didn’t think, felt and didn’t feel. They pretended they were stranded on a desert island, a place where Luigi Spadafore and Al Grossman, Jupiter Evans and the crushing loneliness of suburban widowhood didn’t exist. But it was precisely those things that fueled their lovemaking, making it an act of heated healing and forgetfulness.

Al Grossman’s phone call from Florida broke the spell. “What do we tell him?” she asked Gordon.

“What do you think we should tell him?”

“Nothing, right now,” she said. She wanted to be sure she had the son before losing the father.

“I think you’re right,” said Gordon, afraid of antagonizing the old man just when he needed him most.

“We don’t want to hurt him,” they said to each other.

O
n Tuesday, Al Grossman returned from Miami. Bev and Gordon woke up early, made love in the shower and then ate breakfast. “I’m going into the city,” she said. “I don’t want to be here when your father comes.”

Grossman arrived at noon, accompanied by three elderly men whom Gordon vaguely recognized but couldn’t place. “Velvel, you remember Zuckie, don’t you?” said his father, gesturing toward a heavyset old guy with dentures and a beard. “And you saw Harry at the funeral.” Gordon recalled him, all right—Handsome Harry, the one with the tan who had killed those guys in Detroit. “I don’t believe you know Louie Levine.”

“Call me Sleepout,” said Levine, a small man with a pockmarked face, prominent nose and huge hands that hung from long, thin arms.

“Sleepout?”

“Louie never liked to go home very much,” said his father in a dry tone. The others, including Levine, laughed.

“Velvel, get your things. I got us a place in town. These old bastards are your new roommates.”

“You play pinochle?” Zucker asked. Gordon shook his head. “OK, we’ll learn you, won’t we, Harry?” he said with a sly grin. “By the time we get done learning you the game, you’ll be a regular Cincinnati Kid.”

“I saw that,” said Harry. “Edward G. Robinson played the old man. Remember him in
Scarface
? They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

“Wasn’t it poker?” asked Gordon. “I mean, in
The Cincinnati Kid
?”

“We don’t play poker when we’re on the job,” said Levine. “It leads to hard feelings.”

“It’s one of the first things you learn,” said Millman.

“And no craps,” said Levine, pinching Zucker’s cheek. The others laughed again; apparently it was an old joke.

They reminded Gordon of foreign correspondents on a big story, full of good humor and adrenaline. By contrast, he felt constrained and sour. When he had agreed to put himself in his father’s hands, it had never occurred to him that he would wind up being guarded by a bunch of characters out of
Guys and Dolls
.

“Enough shmoozing, let’s get the show on the road,” growled Grossman. “We got things to do and people to see.”

They drove into the city, Gordon wedged between Zucker and Sleepout Levine in the backseat, Millman in front with Grossman. At Sixty-third and Second they pulled to the curb. Zucker and Millman climbed out of the car, but Levine put a restraining hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Let them check the street first,” he said. Up the block, under a green awning, Gordon saw an old man in an overcoat and fedora look their way and nod. Levine tapped him on the arm. “All clear,” he said.

The apartment was on the third floor in the rear. “It should be a walk-up, according to Hoyle,” Sleepout said as they crowded into the elevator. “This way you gotta watch the stairs
and
the elevator.”

“Yeah, OK, but I didn’t want you guys dropping dead on me,” said Grossman.

“Very thoughtful,” said Zucker, but Levine was not appeased. “You do it, you do it right,” he muttered.

The apartment was a dark, stuffy two-bedroom flat with plastic slipcovers on heavy old-fashioned furniture and cheap reproductions on the yellowing walls of snowy landscapes and apple-cheeked children. The aroma of boiled meat and stewed vegetables permeated the place.

“Very haimish,” said Zuckie, looking around approvingly.

Gordon wandered into a small bedroom, where he found a man in a white sleeveless undershirt squinting through bifocals as he oiled an old-fashioned-looking revolver. He ran a small cloth through the long barrel and whistled under his breath. Gordon recognized the song: “How Much Is That Doggy in the Window?”

“Hi,” he said, feeling like an intruder. “I’m William Gordon.”

“Velvel!” said the man, rising slowly as if his back hurt. “I remember you from when you were a pisher. Kasha Weintraub.”

“Hello, Mr. Weintraub,” said Gordon. “It’s been a long time.”

“Call me Kasha,” he said. “You wanna bunk with us? Joe Lapidus is staying in here and Abe Abramson. This is the best room, believe me. Zuckie snores like a bastard.”

“Where do we all sleep?” asked Gordon. There were two cots and a narrow bed in the room.

“It’s a two on, two off,” said Weintraub. “But you’re not part of the rotation, so you get the bed. We take turns on the cots.”

“I’d like to take a shift along with everybody else,” said Gordon, but Weintraub shook his head. “That’s not the way it’s done,” he said. “You’re the body, we’re the bodyguards.”

“I’d still like to take a turn,” said Gordon. “It would give me something to do.”

“It’s up to your father,” said Weintraub, “but I don’t think he’ll go for it. There’s a right way to do things and a wrong way. Maybe some of these young punks—no offense, Velvel, I mean some of your younger wise guys—they don’t know how it’s supposed to be. But your true pros from the old school, it’s our second nature. Just stick with Uncle Kasha, you’ll learn the ropes in no time.”

“How many of you are there?” Gordon asked.

“Seven,” said Weintraub. “That was Joe Lapidus you passed downstairs, we call him Indian Joe. Pupik Feinsilver and Abe Abramson are in the kitchen, I think.”

“Why do you call him Indian Joe?” asked Gordon. “He didn’t look like an Indian to me.”

“Naw, he’s a Galitzianer,” said Weintraub. “He got Indian Joe because he had this habit of scalping guys.”

“You mean like tickets, at the ballpark?”

Weintraub chuckled. “Naw, the real thing.” He made a cutting gesture. “Like you see in the movies. Only I guess you don’t see too much of that anymore. They don’t make so many Westerns nowadays, and if they do, the Indians are the good guys.”

“He actually scalped people?” asked Gordon, incredulous.

“They were dead first, though,” said Weintraub. “Why don’t you go in the kitchen, say hello to Pupik and Abe. They’ve been waiting to see you.”

Gordon found the two old men sitting at the kitchen table with a copy of
Jennie Grossinger’s Cookbook
. Kitchen utensils, many of them still in their plastic wrappers, were strewn around, and several large pots stood on the counter. When he came in, they looked up and smiled shyly.

“You like Jewish food?” asked Feinsilver. He was a small, round-shouldered man with a fringe of gray hair and bifocals perched on a button nose. “We’re thinking about making kugel.”

“I don’t think we got the right-sized baking pan for kugel,” said Abramson. His hooked nose and drooping white mustache reminded Gordon of the fierce, sad-looking old Turks he had seen in Istanbul.

“We could use two smaller pans,” said Feinsilver. “Or we could make the kugel as a side dish, and cook the roast.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to order in something?” asked Gordon.

“Naw, cooking’s half the fun,” said Feinsilver. “Besides, what can you order in? A pizza? Chinese? For this kind of work, you need something that sticks to the ribs.”

“How about sending somebody over to the Carnegie?” Gordon asked. “They’ve got Jewish food over there. It’ll be my treat.”

“Why spend the money when you can cook yourself?” asked Feinsilver reasonably. “Believe me, I’ve cooked for more than eight before, plenty of times. Once, in the old days, I fixed a whole Pesach seder, the works. You remember that, Abe?”

Abramson smacked his lips, and Gordon heard his dentures clack.
“Yeah, just like Mama used to make. Pupik is a great cook, believe you me.”

“You guys had a seder during a war?” asked Gordon. He was pretty sure they were putting him on, but Feinsilver looked serious. “Of course a seder. A holiday’s a holiday.”

“Here you are, Velvel,” said Al Grossman, walking into the kitchen. “You meet everybody? Good. I’m going out for a while, I’ll be back by five, six o’clock. In the meantime, just sit tight. There’s color TV in the living room, anybody wants to watch, but make sure you keep it down in here. I don’t want the neighbors complaining.”

“Hey, Al,” said Abramson. “You think you gotta tell us that?”

“Don’t be so touchy,” said Grossman. “I just thought I’d mention it.”

On the way out to Brooklyn, Grossman congratulated himself on the way things had gone so far. Velvel was temporarily safe; now it was time to make things right with Luigi Spadafore. Thanks to Jerry Shulman, he had a plan. Jerry was dying, but he was still brilliant. Albert Grossman was not, by nature, an envious man, but he envied his old friend’s learning and originality.

As he pulled up to Spadafore’s mansion, Grossman noted the hoods on the corners and in front of the house. It had been years since he had been to the brownstone, and never had he been invited on his own. He hadn’t seen or talked to Luigi Spadafore since his retirement, and he hadn’t missed him. Grossman knew that it was mutual; in the old days, the Sicilian had barely tolerated him, and made little effort to hide it.

He parked at the curb and took a small piece of paper out of his breast pocket. There, in Jerry’s spidery, precise handwriting, he read: “Canossa, Gregory, Henry.” “Canossa” he repeated to himself. He was afraid that he might get it mixed up with Canarsie.

Grossman was admitted to the tomblike house by Carlo Sesti. He had seen the consigliere at Max’s funeral, but hadn’t bothered to say hello; Sesti gave him the creeps. Now they shook hands solemnly. “Mr. Spadafore is expecting you,” he said. “He’s in the library.”

Spadafore, dressed in a silk smoking jacket, sat in his easy chair
puffing a DiNobli. Classical music that Grossman couldn’t identify played softly. The Don took Grossman’s proffered hand, but remained seated, a calculated act of rudeness.

“Luigi,” Grossman said, “I was sorry to hear about Mario.”

Spadafore nodded silently, but his face told Grossman nothing. He gestured to his guest to take a seat. Sesti remained standing behind Spadafore’s right shoulder. So far he was playing it just as Shulman had predicted, like a fat wop potentate.