Israel (92 page)

She would cancel an appointment at the spur of the moment if Herschel could get free for a while. She missed him desperately when he went off to work. She felt helpless when he unburdened himself.

The project had taken far too long. It was too late for it to do his people any good during the present conflict. Becky reminded him that what he had accomplished would benefit the Jews of Palestine in the future. Herschel grimly wondered if there would be a future; the news was worsening every day. It seemed as if every nation had an embargo against supplying arms to the Jews, while the British, claiming treaty obligations, were rushing to arm the Arabs.

At last the project was complete. Most of the machinery could be trucked across the Canadian border and shipped out of New York via PSA. The more specialized components and the prototypes of the gun itself were another matter. Getting them out of New York would be a problem, but before that they had to be gotten out of Canada.

“I can help you out with that,” Becky told Herschel over dinner one night. “I'm shipping all sorts of samples back to New York. We'll disassemble the stuff and ship it to Pickman's.”

“No, Becky, the risk for you would be too great. If the pieces are discovered customs will recognize them as munitions. You would be liable.”

“My brother is risking his life in Palestine. Soon you will be as well. If I can't take this minor risk, how can I hold my head up around you two?”

Herschel was undecided. “If it goes wrong, you could end up in prison.”

“It won't go wrong. Samples are shipped this way all the time. Customs will just wave the boxes right through. Anyway, if you could go to prison for Frieda, I can go to prison for you.”

“God forbid.” Herschel scowled and then his expression softened. “You love me that much?”

“I love you more, but until a better opportunity to prove it comes along, this one will do. Besides, I have an ulterior motive. We're going back home soon, but the samples won't reach New York for another week to ten days. That gives us all that extra time to spend together in bed.”

“Becky, I gotta tell you what I told Herschel,” Benny Talkin fumed. “There's no way I can arrange for that stuff of his to get past customs. Stefano would have a fit if he knew I was even discussing this with you.”

“It's the last time we'll ask you to move contraband for us,” Becky promised. “I swear it, Benny. Please, this project has been so important to Herschel. You're his only hope.”

It was a Thursday morning midway through January, although the dingy coffee shop still had up its gaudy holiday tinsel.

“Herschel sent you here to talk me into this, didn't he?” Benny demanded, lighting a cigarette. “Hell of a thing.”

“It'll be so simple,” Becky coaxed. “I've pulled nine dozen disassembled bicycles out of PSA inventories. We'll scatter the gun parts and dies in the cartons—”

“The waterfront is crawling with G-men. What do you think, they're not going to check out a Palestine-bound shipment?”

“I'm talking nine dozen bikes' worth of gears, handlebars, cranks and whatever,” Becky grinned. “Who is going to be able to make heads or tails of a mess like that?”

“They're checking everything going anywhere near the Mideast,” Benny insisted. “They're dying to find something they can use to come down hard on your PSA program and to scare would-be contributors away from listening to that woman Golda Meir. Do you think the government is happy about millions of U.S. dollars going abroad? No, Becky, those customs agents are going to comb through anything on its way to Palestine.”

“Then have your people—Stefano's people—bribe them not to comb this one time.”

“If Stefano found out—”

“If he found out, so what? You could explain that you had to do it. How mad could he get?”

“Really mad,” Benny grumbled. “It's more complicated than you know.” He paused. How could he tell her what Stefano had ordered him to do to Louie Carduello?

He'd been stalling with nonsense about how he was staking out Carduello's daily routine in order to do the job right. He could tell Tony didn't believe a word of his excuses; he figured Bucci was content to let him stall. When Stefano got angry enough, Tony would be afforded the pleasure of being allowed to kill him.

Benny begged his wife to intercede with her father on his behalf, but she refused. Daddy could do no wrong. Benny's last hope was to mark time until the law caught up with Stefano. He himself had made some tentative overtures to an assistant district attorney, but he'd so far been unable to bring himself to turn state's evidence against Stefano. Meanwhile the pistol that Bucci had delivered to him weeks ago was gathering dust in the top drawer of his desk.

“I can't go into it,” Benny shrugged uneasily. “Now is just a bad time for me to get Stefano upset.”

“He'd never find out,” Becky said. “Couldn't you do it one last time? Please?”

Benny eyed her suspiciously. “What the hell's gotten into you?”

“What? Why, nothing.”

“Don't hand me that. You're acting crazy. This isn't like you. Jesus, you're flirting.”

“I am not. Cut it out.” Becky blushed scarlet. “You're the one being crazy.” She looked away.

“Like hell, honey. I know flirting when I see it. You didn't even flirt when we were going together. You've changed. Yeah, I see it, now. You're acting different as well, coming around to plead Herschel's case—” He snapped his fingers as the truth dawned on him. “Goddamn! You and Herschel Kol!”

“Benny—” Becky looked around, clearly afraid someone would overhear.

“Calm down,” Benny chuckled. “You're not exactly a well-known face on the waterfront.” He gazed at her. “I'm right, aren't I?” he asked, and when she nodded, he shook his head. “Some guys have all the luck. I've been carrying a torch for you for years.”

“Now you understand why this is so important to me.”

“Yeah.” He nodded glumly. “Now I understand.”

“You once said that if I ever needed your help to call on you. Well, I need that help now.”

Benny planted his elbows on the small table and rested his head in his hands. “Okay,” he sighed. “I'll do it, but God help me if Stefano finds out.” He laughed humorlessly. “Make that when he finds out.”

“Oh, thank you, Benny,” Becky gushed. “I'll never forget you for this.”

“Becky, are you sure he's the one for you? He's not even American.”

“I'm sure,” Becky said gently. She reached across the table to squeeze his hand.

“I love you, you know. Just thought I'd say it for the record.” He shrugged nonchalantly, throwing a bill on the table to cover their check.

Becky nodded and they stood up. “Just for the record,” she murmured, coming around the table to kiss him, “I meant it. I'll never forget you.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said huskily. “You tell Herschel I'll get his junk outta New York. Have him come around to the office and we'll work out the details.”

Tough break, he thought as he and Becky parted company and he watched her walk away. But then, tough breaks had been the only kind coming his way for a long time.

Two weeks later Benny got the shipment of guns and dies past customs and on its way to Palestine, nestled in those cartons packed with bicycle components. He hoped that the stuff would be worth the enormous trouble it had caused. The intermediaries who had so often followed his orders in the past this time rebelled against Benny's directives, rightly pointing out that Stefano had issued a hands-off policy for Palestine-bound contraband. Benny lied and bullied them into doing it, pretending that Stefano had given his okay for one last time, meanwhile nervously wondering when the shit was going to hit the fan.

It was a few days into February when Tony Bucci stormed into Benny's office. “Stand up,” he demanded, a look of grim satisfaction on his sallow, homely face. “You're coming with me.”

Benny swallowed hard and tried to smile. “What's doing?”

“We're going for a ride. Stefano wants to see you.”

Benny gestured to the papers on his desk. “Tony, I'm busy here. Can't this wait?”

Bucci lunged across the desk to grab Benny's necktie. He used it like a lead to haul Benny up out of his chair and around to the front of the desk.

“What the hell you doing?” Benny exclaimed. “Let go, you four-eyed creep—”

Bucci shoved one foot behind Benny's heel and shouldered into him, knocking Benny off balance and sending him sprawling to the floor. “Jew trash,” he muttered as he went around behind the desk to find the pistol he'd given Benny. He checked to see that it was loaded and then waved it in Benny's direction. “Get on your feet.”

“Have you gone crazy?” Benny demanded, brushing himself off as he stood up. “You know how much this suit cost me?”

“A big shot, huh?” Bucci smiled thinly. “You've made a lot of mistakes, big shot.” He held the gun loosely in his right hand as he spoke. “You should have done Louie and you shouldn't have sent out that Palestine shit.”

“Ah, big deal,” Benny said wearily. He wondered how Tony planned to kill him. The one thing in his favor was that Tony had come alone. “I'll explain everything to Stefano,” Benny remarked. “Let me call him.” He began to move toward the desk.

“Stand still,” Bucci said icily.

“I'm just going to call Stefano—”

Bucci brought up the gun. “Don't touch the telephone.”

Benny winced. “So I'm finished, huh? You plan to do it now?”

“You would have been all right,” Bucci gloated. “Even without doing Louie in and with this Palestine business, you would've come through okay. Stefano has always liked you. You always knew how to charm him.” He shook his head. “But you dug your own grave when you went to the cops.”

His gun momentarily wagged from side to side in an admonishing gesture. Benny used the chance to sink his right fist deep into Bucci's soft belly. Tony jackknifed forward at the waist, and his glasses went flying to the floor. Benny slapped the gun out of his hand and delivered three short, sharp right jabs to Tony's face, rocking his skull, flattening his nose and bloodying his mouth.

Tony sank like a stone. Benny knelt beside him, taking pleasure in the crunch of Bucci's thick lenses beneath his knee.

“Like I've always said, I don't know shit about guns, but I've had my share of brawls in my time.” He smiled down at Tony.

Bucci coughed, turning his head slightly to spit teeth. “Asshole,” he managed weakly.

“How'd you know I went to the cops?”

Bucci's little eyes began to swim in his head. Benny lightly slapped his cheek. “Hey,” he said, “I'm talking to you. How'd you know—”

“That junior D.A. you went to belongs to us, asshole. You hadn't hung up on him ten seconds before he called us.” He offered Benny a bloody smile. “You got nothing, asshole. Your wife and kids are with Stefano right now. He's telling Dolores all about your whores. She didn't much care for you anyway. Don't expect her to shed any tears for you after today, Benny.”

“I'm not dead yet.”

“Yes, you are. You just don't know it. You can't go home. I put a couple of guys there just in case I missed you here. Your wife don't want anything to do with you. Who are you going to turn to, kid? Where are you going to go? You think you can outrun the contract Stefano will put on you?”

Benny shut him up with a hard right to the chin that bounced the back of Tony's skull against the floor. He
stood up, glancing at the gun in the corner and forgetting it at once. He ran from the office.

Becky snapped awake. At the other end of the apartment the intercom was buzzing. She squinted at the radium dial of her alarm clock, glowing ghostly green: three o'clock. She fumbled for the lamp on the night stand and switched it on.

Beside her Herschel stirred sleepily. “Whatzit?”

“I dunno, but it better be good,” Becky mumbled. Yawning and stretching, she fumbled out of bed and into her robe before shuffling to the kitchen.

“Shut up,” she snarled, grabbing for the handset. “Hello?”

“I'm very sorry, Mrs. Pickman,” the doorman said, “but there's someone here who insisted that I ring you.”

Becky heard the doorman arguing, and then, “Becky? It's me—”

“Benny?”

“Becky, I need help.”

They sat in the kitchen while Benny ate scrambled eggs and told his story. “So, I was thinking,” Benny said haltingly, his anxious eyes upon them, “maybe I could go to Palestine. Maybe you two can help me get there.”

Herschel whistled, running his fingers through his hair. “It's no holiday over there. It's war.”

Benny rubbed at his weary eyes and lit a cigarette. “At least in a war I'd have a fighting chance. Here I'm a dead man for sure.”

“Couldn't you go to the police?” Becky asked.

Benny laughed bitterly. “I tried.”

“Not that awful, corrupt one you mentioned,” she replied. “I mean, say, the FBI—authorities Stefano can't bribe.”

“Like I said, I tried.” Benny shrugged. “I didn't
want to mention this, but I guess I'd better. I called the FBI this afternoon, but nobody's buying what I have to sell. They already have enough on Stefano. They're going to let him stew for a while. Then the guy said that the only way that he'd help me is if I informed on the Jewish agents operating on the waterfront.”

“Oh, shit,” Herschel muttered.

“Right.” Benny scowled. “The Feds know something has been going on, and they figure that when I get desperate enough, I'll tell them all I know.” He stared at Becky. “I wouldn't, of course.”