Death Of A Dream Maker (3 page)

“The private service was this afternoon, but the
graveside is tomorrow morning,” T.S. said. He was holding a Garden
City newspaper. “Kind of quick.”

“He's Jewish,” Auntie Lil replied. “It's supposed to
be within twenty-four hours.” She grabbed the paper from his hands.
“It starts at eleven. That's a bit early for me.” She rapidly
calculated the distance. “It must be near his house in Garden City.
We'd have to leave around nine-thirty to be safe. Let's see, I have
a black silk pant suit that would do nicely... and that hat from
Paris would match.”

“It's been raining for hours,” T.S. protested. “And
it's supposed to rain all night. Have you any idea how muddy the
cemetery will be? I'll probably have to tote you around like a sack
of potatoes while wading through slime.”

“You said you would help,” she said mildly. “This
will give us a look at the family and probably lots of his
employees.”

“You're serious about catching the killer, aren't
you?”  T.S. asked, shaking his head.

She looked at him over her glasses. “Dead serious,”
she said.

 The morning ride to the graveside service gave
Auntie Lil a chance to sketch in the details that the newspapers
lacked. “He was a man of change in a time of change,” she explained
to T.S. “He had extreme ideas, I suppose, but back then they seemed
possible. And they turned out to be quite possible in the end.”

As she talked, the picture of a fearless, powerful
man emerged. Max had rejected his father's business at first, then
rejected his religion as well. He had embraced communism in the
thirties and helped to found the United Garment Workers.

When the war came, he discarded communism, regained
his faith, and led early failed efforts to force the United States
to help German Jews. After a year in Europe organizing private
rescue efforts, he had enlisted and been sent to Italy. When he
returned, he joined the family business after a decade of
animosity, recapturing the love of his adoring father and
displacing his older brother, Abe.

“It was a sad situation,” Auntie Lil explained. “Abe
was a hard worker, but he never had Max's vision. Abe didn't go to
the war. He had a weak heart. He stayed behind and supervised the
women who worked for Max's father back then. They did all right,
but somehow the company missed the chance to grow that the wartime
economy should have given it. When Max came home a war hero, he
made up for lost time. He expanded that company from five full-time
tailors into a major manufacturer by the end of the 1940’s. His
father was so proud of him. Max was all he talked about. It can’t
have been easy for Abe, but Max was Max and no one could blame him
for being who he was.”

She dabbed at her eyes with one of the handkerchiefs
jammed into her large pocketbook. “The world just isn't the same
without him. We never spoke in recent years, but I thought of him
often. Especially lately. I thought the time was drawing near to
see him again and then...” Her voice trailed off and she was quiet
for the remainder of their journey, lost in memories.

There was nothing T.S. could say to console her, and
so, wisely, he chose to remain silent.

When they arrived at the cemetery, it was immediately
obvious that they were not the only interlopers there. A trio of
haggard, overweight men eyed arriving mourners suspiciously. They
wore tattered sport coats and flowered ties that looked as if they
had bought them from the same street merchant on the way out of
town, for two bucks apiece. A neon sign mounted on the roof
flashing, “We're New York City Cops” would not have been any more
obvious.

“They're casing the joint,” Auntie Lil whispered
tersely. Her crime vocabulary was heavily influenced by old James
Cagney movies. T.S. would not have been surprised to see her climb
the nearest water tower and shout, “Top of the world, Ma!”

The cemetery was located off the Meadowbrook Parkway.
The steady stream of cars whizzing past added a wet background hum
to the sound of light rain drumming on car roofs. The daylight had
not changed since seven o'clock that morning—it was still a
brownish gray topped off by sullen-looking clouds. T.S. felt as if
he had to keep moving at all costs; if he stopped, he would begin
to mildew. He quickly retrieved Auntie Lil's gargantuan pocketbook
from the car. She produced an umbrella from its depths, and he held
it above them both.

They scurried past a long line of gas-guzzling parked
automobiles. There seemed to be an endless supply of Cadillacs,
Buicks, and other land boats, with an occasional BMW or Mercedes.
T.S. was startled when a figure popped out from behind one of the
Cadillacs. She was a hard-looking woman in her mid-thirties, with
short, straight hair dyed platinum except for defiantly black
roots. She wore a trench coat indifferently over a tight black
sheath. She also wore black high-top tennis shoes. Lifting a
cigarette to her mouth, she stared intensely at T.S., winked, then
dropped the butt and ground it out in the mud. Her eyes swept over
Auntie Lil before dismissing them both.

Unnerved, T.S. turned his attention to the next part
of their journey. He had correctly predicted the status of the
graveyard grounds. Stepping off the asphalt road was like wading
into the bayou. All about them, figures floundered in the muck.
Fortunately, Auntie Lil detested high heels, so she was spared the
task of stopping at every step to pull her shoe out of the
saturated grass. Others were not so lucky. Ahead of them, a small
flock of women fluttered and balanced on one foot, like sandpipers
along the seashore. They were helped by scowling husbands, who
glared alternately at the ground and at their wives before roughly
yanking the legs of their spouses free from the mire. People limped
and staggered toward the grave like survivors of a Civil War
battle.

“We must be fashionable or die,” Auntie Lil muttered.
“Who are these people anyway?”

That was a good question. A crowd of around one
hundred mourners was gathering around a gravesite near the center
of the first cemetery section. A wide expanse of AstroTurf
stretched over the swampy ground for several yards around the
freshly dug hole, where a small tent protected the luckier
attendees. The rain distorted perspective and the burnished coffin
seemed tiny, almost toylike, from where T.S. and Auntie Lil
stood.

Of course, T.S. reflected, it might actually be a
small coffin. A car bomb didn't leave a whole lot behind to
bury.

The crowd shifted and stamped anxiously in the damp
cold, like a herd of cattle waiting for the barn door to open. From
behind, the early arrivals looked no better than those who had
arrived later. The carefully teased hairstyles of the women had
caved in under the weight of the rain and now tilted in sunken
failure like fallen souffles. Many of the men had suffered the same
fate. Former pompadours squatted on broad foreheads like berets
that had been sat upon. Here and there, a soggy skullcap topped off
the wet look.

T.S., who was meticulous in his grooming but detested
excessive use of personal-care products, patted his own thick mane
of graying hair carefully. A hurricane could not conquer its upward
vitality. He was proud of it and could be forgiven this small
vanity. His hair saved him from being ordinary looking and made him
look distinguished in a relaxed kind of way. He was a firmly built
man of normal height, with a hint of middle-aged spread. His broad
face was a more masculine version of Auntie Lil's, from the wide
cheeks that bloomed with good health to the broad nose and generous
lips. It would never occur to T.S. knowingly to abuse the sturdy
body that fate had given him—such antics were imprudent and
disrespectful to oneself. Like Auntie Lil, he carried himself with
the conviction and pride of one who is comfortable in his own
well-weathered skin.

The crowd shifted impatiently as the long minutes
passed, but perked up considerably when a black limousine drove
slowly up an empty driveway opposite the waiting grave. A small man
with a gleaming pate emerged from the car. He was round and packed
into a shiny black suit. Noticing the crowd's attention, he quickly
fished a skullcap from his side pocket and plopped it on his head.
The rabbi had arrived.

“Max is rolling over in his grave right now,” a woman
by T.S. whispered to her companion.

“He's not in it yet,” the companion muttered
back.

The appearance of the penguin-like rabbi was followed
by the dramatic emergence of what could only be the grieving widow.
First, an impossibly long pair of legs slid from the darkness of
the backseat and dangled languidly for all to admire. She was
wearing spike heels so incredibly high that a murmur of
anticipation ran through the crowd. She'd have to take them off to
make it to the grave. The knees appeared. T.S. looked for a black
skirt to follow and was kept waiting well into the thigh. At last,
clothing made its entrance: ebony knit encased a slim set of hips
and a tiny waist that was nicely accentuated by the folds of an
unbuttoned, purple raincoat. The upper part of her figure was
equally well proportioned, as the skintight dress testified.
     

“She's wearing a sweater, not a dress,” someone
muttered.

“Why not? Those boobs cost her ten grand apiece,”
came the anonymous answer. “May as well let us get a good
look.”

Max's widow had glossy black hair wound in an
elaborate twist for the occasion. A small black velvet hat was
perched slightly back on her head and its sweeping black veil hid
her face from the crowd. T.S. was disappointed that he could not
see her features. He had been looking forward to scrutinizing
Auntie Lil's replacement. So far, it had been a most unlikely
show.

“He must have gone mad,” Auntie Lil said, exchanging
a glance with T.S. “She can't even wear black properly.”

Auntie Lil was enormously forgiving about people's
faults, except when it came to fashion. There she was something of
a snob, forgetting that—unlike her—not everyone had been born with
an innate sense of what colors and fabrics suited them best.

The widow, Sabrina Rosenbloom, delicately picked her
way over the wet lawn. The rabbi scurried beside her on tiptoe,
attempting to shield her with a large red-and-white golf umbrella
emblazoned with the words
Sterling & Sterling Private
Bank.

T.S. stiffened. What was the name of his old employer
doing intruding into this funeral? He exchanged a glance with
Auntie Lil. It was turning into a strange morning. It was like
being in a dream that, like so many dreams, was ever so slightly
off-kilter.

The widow had unwisely chosen to wear high heels, but
at least she was graceful at extricating herself. Waving away the
offered help of the soggy rabbi, she freed herself from each step
with a pretty upward jerk that resembled a young colt prancing on
unfamiliar legs. She left a small trail of holes behind her.

Too bad they didn't have someone to follow and throw
in grass seed as she went, T.S. thought. That way, they could
re-sod the gravesite at the same time.

The crowd rustled expectantly as T.S. exchanged
another glance with his aunt. It was time to go into action. They
had to get closer to the family. He knew from experience that the
best strategy in thick crowds was simply to stick close to Auntie
Lil. She could insinuate herself through the smallest of spaces by
flashing a charming old-lady smile, then weaseling her way into the
next clearing. T.S. grasped a belt loop of her coat and held on.
Soon they had slipped past the first four lines of defense and had
penetrated close to the fringes of the inner family circle, leaving
rows of resentful mourners behind.

The last two rows gave them a little more trouble. A
hulking woman with slumped shoulders thrust out one hip and tried
to block Auntie Lil from getting by. When Auntie Lil persisted and
the woman countered with a glare, T.S. nearly jumped at the sight
of her brooding hatchet face and the blood-red lipstick caked on
her wide, angry mouth. She wore heavy blue eye shadow and her hair
was dyed an improbable black, given her obvious age. The best he
could do was murmur an apology as Auntie Lil squeezed by without a
glance, dragging T.S. to the front with her.

They reached the first row of mourners and T.S. found
himself near a tall, well-built man whose expensive raincoat and
razor-cut hair reeked of money and executive power. The man had an
excellent tan that set off his twinkling blue eyes. Small tufts in
the center of his eyebrows lent him a pixieish air. He was staring
at the youngest woman in the family circle, his face placid and
carefully composed in professional grief.

“How's this?” Auntie Lil whispered to T.S.

“Not bad,” he murmured back. “Any closer and we'd be
in
the grave.”

Auntie Lil had warned T.S. what to expect, explaining
that Jewish funerals were customarily simple. There would be no
flowers and the coffin would be modest, so as not to flaunt wealth.
But having reached the graveside, T.S. saw that both custom and
class had been tossed to the winds, along with good taste. A row of
seven folding chairs draped with green velvet surrounded the
yawning hole that would hold Max Rosenbloom. Almost all of the
chairs were occupied by family members. The enormous casket was
made of a highly polished mahogany set off with elaborately carved
brass fixtures. It was suspended on a metal frame above the grave
and festooned with enough roses to wreathe a dozen Kentucky Derby
winners. Petals had fallen from many of the blooms and been mashed
rudely into the mud. The floral scent was overpowering and T.S. was
struck with a sickening thought: it was the smell of people
spending Max's money to show him how sorry they were that he had
died and left them tons more of it.