Inherit the Mob (34 page)

He found Gordon lying facedown on the bed. “Kid, it’s me,” he said, putting an arm around Gordon’s shoulder. “I’m sorry as hell about your father.”

Gordon raised himself on one elbow. Flanagan could see from his
swollen eyes that he had been crying, and smell from his breath that he was drunk.

“Jesus, John,” Gordon mumbled. “They’re killing everybody. I can’t believe it’s happening, right here in New York. It’s like a nightmare. How could things have gotten so out of control?”

Flanagan was tempted to slap Gordon across the face. He loved those scenes in the movies where the combat veteran snaps the young kid out of his battle shock with one quick blow. But Gordon looked too beaten to respond. Flanagan realized that he would have to keep him away from the troops while he rallied them; there would be time to bring him around later.

“Listen, kid, your father’s going to be OK,” he said. “Tomorrow, we’ll go see him in the hospital. Honest, everything’s going to be all right now. I can handle it.”

“My father said you were a warrior,” Gordon mumbled.

“Did he?” asked Flanagan, delighted. “Well, your old man was right. We’re going to kick the shit out of these humps, I promise you.”

Gordon grinned weakly and closed his eyes. “Wake me up when it’s over, chief,” he said, and fell back into a drunken sleep.

Before going back into the living room, Flanagan looked at himself closely in the mirror. He
was
a warrior, by God. You’re fucked, Sesti, he said to himself. Your ass is grass and I’m the lawn mower.

Flanagan knew he needed a plan. Taking on the whole mob was out of the question, but somehow he had to think of a way to get to Spadafore and Sesti. He had no doubt that he’d come up with something, but whatever it was, he’d need help. Right now, his only allies were the frightened old men sitting in the living room. Somehow, he’d have to shore up their morale.

Flanagan strode into the living room. “The only guy here I know is Bad Abe,” he said in a strong voice. “Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves.” One by one, formally and a bit shyly, they mumbled their names. No one, he noticed, used his nickname. Even Sleepout referred to himself as Louis Levine. Flanagan knew who they were, although he gave no sign of recognition; Grossman had gathered quite a group.

“I’m John Flanagan,” he said when they had finished. “You can call me Mad Dog.” The old men raised their eyebrows and shrugged at one another, unsure of how to react to the tall goy in the hat.

“Right now I’m the proudest guy in New York,” Flanagan continued. “Why am I proud? Because I’ve just been introduced to the goddamndest collection of tough guys in the history of this city. Kasha Weinstein. Zuckie Zucker. Indian Joe Lapidus. Pupik Feinsilver. Sleepout Louie Levine. Bad Abe Abramson. And Handsome Harry Millman. This is the goddamn Hall of Fame here,” he said, letting his voice rise to a near shout. “A lineup of legends. Fucking superstars. It will be an honor to lead you men into battle.”

Feinsilver coughed. “Look, Mr. Flanagan, it’s nice of you to say so and all, but there ain’t gonna be no battle. We’re going home.”

“Yeah,” said Levine. “No offense, but we ain’t never heard of you. We was hired by Al to do a job, and Al’s not here now. That’s that.”

“You were hired by Al to protect his son,” said Flanagan.

“It’s no good, Mr. Flanagan—”

“Mad Dog.”

“Yeah, Mad Dog,” said Weinberg in an ironic tone. “We were only kidding ourselves. A bunch of old men, up against the Spadafores? Forget it. We don’t have a chance and neither does Velvel. The best thing he can do is make a run for it. That’s my opinion.” Most of the others nodded in agreement, but Flanagan noticed that Indian Joe and Millman looked grim.

“How about it, Handsome Harry,” said Flanagan. “You too old to fight?”

“Goddammit, I never punked out in my life,” said Millman.

“Me neither,” said Indian Joe. He turned to Weinberg. “You should speak for yourself, Kasha. Not everybody here is yellow.”

“I’m not yellow, I’m sensible,” said Weinberg in a hurt tone. “We got nothing, no plan, no leader except this character, nothing. How the hell we gonna fight Spadafore?”

The phone rang, and Abramson picked it up. The others fell silent, afraid of more bad news. They saw a look of astonishment come over Bad Abe’s face.

“Who is it?” asked Flanagan, annoyed that the momentum of his pep talk had been interrupted.

Abramson put his hand over the receiver. “It’s Jerry Shulman,”
he said in a thick whisper. “He heard about Al on the radio. He says he’ll be here tomorrow.”

Flanagan had no idea who Jerry Shulman was, but he could tell from Abe’s urgent tone, and the amazed looks on the faces of the others, that he was someone special. Flanagan scowled; this was his show and he wasn’t in the mood for intruders. “Tell him we’re not receiving visitors,” he said loudly.

Abramson ignored him. “Sure, Jerry,” he said into the mouth-piece. “They’re all here.… Tomorrow at eleven?… I’ll tell them.… God bless you, Jerry. Good-bye.”

He hung up and everyone began speaking at once. Abramson held his hand up for silence.

“Jerry said to ask you all to stay until he gets here,” he said. “He says we owe it to Al.”

“Christ, I thought he was dead,” said Harry Millman in a dreamy voice. “Jerry Shulman …”

“Jerry’ll know what to do,” said Zuckie. “Jerry always knew what to do.”

“I still say we don’t have a chance,” said Weinberg. “Shulman’s as old as the rest of us. With or without him, taking on Spadafore is suicide.”

“Suicide my ass,” snorted Millman. “What are we doing down in Florida? I’d a hell of a lot rather go out fighting like a man than wind up in the Hebrew Home for the Aged with oatmeal dribbling out of my nose. Besides, we got Jerry now.”

The others nodded; resentfully, Flanagan saw that Shulman’s name was magic. Well, he thought, if you can’t fight them, join them.

“Goddammit, with Jerry Shulman here, how can we lose?” he demanded in a strong voice. He would find out later who Shulman was and what he wanted; right now, he had no other card to play. “I’m not gonna let Jerry come all the way up here to find a bunch of quitters. Every man here has to decide right now. Either you stay, same deal as before, or you leave, no hard feelings. Harry?”

“I’m in,” said Millman.

“Me, too,” said Indian Joe. “Harry’s right, I got nothing waiting for me in Miami.”

“Count me in,” said Abramson. “Allie would have done the same for me.”

“You’re sure Shulman’s coming?” asked Zucker.

“That’s what he said,” Abramson said.

Zucker nodded. “OK, then. You got me.”

“You’re all nuts,” said Weintraub. “You don’t have a chance.”

“Goddammit, Kasha, you yellow momser, shut up,” snapped Millman.

“How about it, Kasha?” asked Flanagan, staring directly into Weintraub’s eyes. “Yes or no?”

Weintraub looked at the faces of the others and sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “You only live once, what the hell.”

“What about you, Sleepout?” said Flanagan.

“Did Jerry say he had a plan?” asked Levine. Abramson shook his head. “He just said to wait.”

“Jerry Shulman says to wait, I wait,” said Levine.

“That’s it, then,” said Flanagan. “Everybody’s in.”

“In that case, we might as well eat,” said Pupik Feinsilver. “How about some latkes? I could whip some up in a jiffy.”

“Great idea,” said Flanagan. He went to a side table, poured himself a double shot of Seagram’s and raised his glass. “To the men of the Mishpocha,” he said grandly. “All for one, and one for all. Today we eat latkes; tomorrow, we conquer the world.”

T
he first thing Flanagan did after dinner was to call Mike Collins, a retired crime reporter from the
Trib
. He and Collins were old drinking buddies. “Who’s Jerry Shulman?” he asked.

“Jerry Shulman,” Collins said in a fond tone. “Where’d you come up with that name?”

“I’m working on an organized crime piece, and somebody mentioned him. What can you tell me about him, Mike?”

“Last I heard, he was down in Florida, dying of cancer,” said Collins. Although he was retired, Collins liked to keep up; occasionally he and Flanagan met in a midtown bar and swapped stories.

“I’m more interested in his past,” said Flanagan. “I hear he was connected with Max Grossman.”

“You hear right,” said Collins. “He’s been retired for years, though. Teaches history in a college, if you can believe that.”

“A professor? Is he smart?”

Collins cleared his throat. “Jerry Shulman is the smartest guy I ever met,” he said.

“Smarter than Max, or Lansky or, I dunno, Luigi Spadafore?” asked Flanagan, trying to sound offhand.

“Smarter than Henry Kissinger,” said Collins with a finality that dismayed Flanagan. “Hell of a lot more trustworthy, too.”

“If he’s so smart, how come I never heard of him, then?”

“You just answered your own question, John,” said Collins.

Flanagan hung up, feeling angry and a little intimidated. Goddammit, he thought, this is my operation. He felt Pupik Feinsilver’s latkes rumble in his stomach and thought of Morgan Threkeld. Morgan could help keep an eye on Shulman; he could also prevent them all from dying of food poisoning. He picked up the phone and dialed the club in Harlem.

“M.T., here with thee,” Morgan Threkeld whispered in his Isaac Hayes voice. Obviously he had been expecting a woman.

“Morgan, it’s John,” Flanagan said. “I need your help. Do you think you could get away for a few days, come downtown and cook for me and some friends?”

The old man chuckled. “What’s the matter, John Flanagan, you turnin’ green from the bean cuisine of Big Arlene?”

“I’m not at Boatnay’s anymore,” Flanagan replied. “I’m holed up with seven old Jewish hoods, and I need a combination cook and chief of staff. You game?”

“Does a cat have a tail? Yass, Morgan will be there, just hold the chair. By the way, does Captain Threkeld know about this venture in community living?”

“No, and don’t say anything to him about it. I don’t want to get him involved.”

“You very thoughtful for a tall white man, John Flanagan. Who’s running your intelligence-gathering operation?”

“No one right now. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I thought you might be interested to know that Captain Bernard Threkeld has put himself in charge of the investigation into the shooting of one Albert Grossman.”

“Oh, shit,” said Flanagan. “Look, maybe you better not come down here, after all.”

“Naw, it’s cool. Boatnay don’t mess in my business and I don’t mess in his. Onliest thing is, I can’t be getting involved in any er, ah, illicit activities.”

“I just need you to cook and help me plan. And to keep up the morale of the troops. Nothing on the street.”

“In that case, as the little hand said to the big hand, see you in one hour’s time.”

The next morning, Flanagan arose early and found the tiny apartment bustling with activity. Pupik was in the kitchen preparing a spread of bagels and lox, pickled herring and Bloody Marys. Morgan Threkeld sat on the side of Gordon’s bed, helping the reporter work on his hangover with a homemade recipe of black coffee laced with rum, honey and garlic. Handsome Harry ran an old-fashioned stand-up vacuum cleaner over the living room rug, and hollered at Kasha Weintraub to take out the trash. The others, faces covered with lather, jostled one another in front of the mirror in the cramped bathroom, or whistled as they spit-shined their shoes. By a quarter to eleven, the flat looked like a marine barracks on inspection day, and the septuagenarian men of the Mishpocha sat fidgeting in the living room, like schoolboys awaiting the visit of a beloved headmaster.

Precisely at eleven the doorbell rang. Abe Abramson rushed to answer it, and a moment later reappeared in the living room accompanied by a frail-looking, breathless old man. “It’s Jerry,” Abramson announced grandly, and then pointed to the others. “Jerry, look who’s here.”

Slowly, Shulman moved from one man to the next. They rose and shook his hand with great formality, displaying none of their normal banter. Shulman said a quiet word or two to each man, eliciting pleased, bashful reactions.