Inherit the Mob (39 page)

“Dum de dum dum,” Flanagan sang the ominous first notes of the theme song to
Dragnet
. “He’s got you there, Carlo old chap.”

“You, bastard!” Sesti spit between clenched teeth. “You did this.”

Flanagan stared at him with ingenuous blue eyes and shook his head. He had to admire the consigliere’s fighting spirit and his quick, devious mind. Sesti had figured out right away that the initials were forged; whereas it had taken Flanagan himself half an hour to come up with the idea, and another hour for Sleepout Levine to actually copy Rand’s handwriting.

“Don Spadafore, this man is lying. I give you my most solemn assurances—”

The door opened and Sesti saw Bertoia and Rizzoli. “You may save your assurances for God,” said the old man. “Good-bye, Carlo. In many ways you were a good consigliere. Perhaps we will meet someday in heaven.” The pleasantry was insincere. Although Don Spadafore feared that it might be blasphemy, deep in his heart he believed that God had a special part of heaven reserved for Men of Respect.

G
ordon sat at the long table in the front of the wood-paneled private dining room in the Waldorf, and fiddled with his silver butter knife. It had been two days since Flanagan’s meeting with Spadafore, two days since Flanagan had reported on that meeting over drinks at O’Dwyer’s. Now, watching the lanky Irishman, resplendent in his shining black dinner jacket, greet his guests, Gordon still couldn’t believe that conversation.

“He offered you what?” Gordon had asked in an incredulous tone.

“You heard me, pal,” said Flanagan. “As of this morning, you’re looking at the new media consultant of the Spadafore Family. Of course, it’s really the consigliere job, but Luigi is too traditional to appoint an Irishman. But it amounts to the same thing.” Flanagan raised his glass of Jameson’s. “L’chayim, kid,” he toasted himself.

“Flanagan, of all the insane shit that’s happened the past few weeks, this has got to be the craziest. What the hell does Luigi Spadafore need with a media consultant?”

“Are you kidding? After the job we did on him, image is his biggest problem. He’s got a Senate committee on his ass, and Eddie Murphy doing bits on him on television. He figured that if I could get him into this, I can get him out. He’s right, too, that smart old bastard. By the time I’m finished, half the country’s going to be calling him Uncle Luigi.”

“What about Sesti? What’s Luigi going to do with him?”

Flanagan grinned broadly. “I think he’s already done it,” he said. “See, I explained to him that Carlo was the one who had his kids numbed. Which, by the way, happens to be true, not that it matters all that much. And you know how sentimental Luigi is about his boys. So, good-bye Carlo, hello Mad Dog.”

“We’re off the hook,” said Gordon, more to himself than to Flanagan. “I can hardly believe that this nightmare’s over.”

“One man’s nightmare is another man’s daydream,” said Flanagan, rubbing his stomach lightly; the scar was still tender. “I’m really sorry about your father, and Jupiter, but I’ve got to admit that from my point of view, this could have ended a lot worse.”

“You really think you can get good PR for Spadafore?” Gordon asked, intrigued in spite of himself.

“Well, not right away, not directly. See, the real problem is that people have the wrong idea about organized crime. They picture it as a bunch of, I guess you could say, criminals. The thing is to let them see the warm, human side of the underworld, the kind of things we’ve seen the last few weeks.”

“What I’ve seen are half a dozen murders and a bunch of crazed thugs combing the city with automatic weapons,” said Gordon. “I don’t think even you could make that play in Peoria.”

“Yeah, but you’ve seen some other things, too,” said Flanagan.

“Those old guys your dad rounded up are some of the most lovable characters around. When I told them the war was over, you should have seen how disappointed they were about going back to Florida. They still don’t know that old Mad Dog Flanagan has other plans for them—”

Suddenly a heavy hand on Gordon’s shoulder snapped him out of his reverie. He looked up and saw Mortie Zucker’s yellow-toothed smile. “This is a hell of a going-away party, Velvel,” he said, gesturing
broadly toward Flanagan. “I’ll give that guy one thing, he’s got class.”

“You’re not just beating your gums,” said Handsome Harry, joining them. Millman gave his dinner jacket a fastidious tug and took a noisy sip of champagne. “Hell of an evening—black tie, bubbly, the whole shmeer. Reminds me of way back when.”

“Yeah,” said Zucker. “How’s Al doing, Velvel?”

“A lot better,” said Gordon. The mention of his father’s name made him uncomfortable. Ever since their reconciliation at the hospital, he had been feeling distinctly guilty about Bev, and uncertain what to do next. Not about Bev—he had no intention of seeing her again—but about his father. A part of him wanted to confess, apologize and gain absolution. But, Gordon realized, a part of that part wanted to do this just to see the look on the old man’s face when he found out.

Gordon heard the tinkle of silver on crystal; Flanagan was calling on the guests to take their seats. “Just look for your card,” he said.

Next to each plate was a formal place card inscribed with a nom de guerre: Sleepout Louie, Indian Joe, Pupik, Bad Abe, Handsome Harry, Zuckie the Rabbi, Kasha and Morgan the Magnificent. Gordon rose, found his own card and grinned in spite of himself. It read, “The Pulitzer Kid.”

“Gentlemen, before we begin the evening, I want to ask our spiritual leader, Rabbi Zucker, to lead us in prayer,” said Flanagan.

Zucker stood, fished a black yarmulke out of his pocket and placed it over his bald spot. He clenched and unclenched his powerful fists, and then placed his right hand over his heart, like a Boy Scout. “Um,
Baruch ata Adonai, Elohaynu melech ha-olam
, thanks for everything, God, amen,” he said, and sat down to appreciative cheers and laughter.

“Hey, that’s not supposed to be funny.” Zucker scowled, and the men laughed harder. Only Flanagan kept a straight face. He let the laughter go on for only a few seconds before tinkling the room back to silence.

“Thank you for those inspiring words, Zuckie,” he said. “And thank all of you for coming here tonight. Men of the Mishpocha,” he intoned solemnly, raising his glass and gesturing for them to raise
theirs, “I salute you. You came, you saw and you conquered!” Flanagan gulped his champagne, and then threw his glass against the wall with a powerful gesture. The others did the same.

Flanagan faced them, legs spread, hands on his hips. “Men, it has been a pleasure to lead you in battle. Together, we have made history. Thanks to you, we have made the peace with the Spadafores.”

A cheer went up as the old men slapped each other on the back and pounded the table. Flanagan held up his hand for quiet. “You have fulfilled your part of our bargain, and I have some envelopes here,” he said, tapping his breast pocket. “Believe me, nobody ever earned their money more than you guys.”

“Yeah, you and Velvel weren’t so bad either,” said Sleepout Louie, and the others applauded. Gordon shook his head modestly, but Flanagan beamed.

“For some of you, tonight is a good-bye party,” said Flanagan. “But no party is complete without a few surprises. Bad Abe, will you get the door?”

A murmur went up as Abrams walked across the thick red carpet and opened the polished oak door. The murmur turned into a cheer as Al Grossman entered the room in a wheelchair, pushed by a blond nurse of about thirty, dressed in a tight-fitting white uniform.

“Al, you look great,” hollered Handsome Harry.

“Look at him, just like FDR,” bellowed Indian Joe.

“Who’s the chippie, Al?” called out Kasha Weintraub, and the others, including the nurse, laughed appreciatively. Gordon noticed that his father’s color had returned; he looked as healthy as ever. He also noticed that the young blonde was gently stroking the back of Grossman’s neck.

“Behave yourselves, you galoots,” Grossman growled affectionately. “Say hello to Nancy the nurse. Velvel, come over here a minute.”

Gordon felt Flanagan gently pushing him to his feet. He walked over to the wheelchair, bent over and gave his father a kiss on his rough cheek. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Pop,” he said.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “Wheel me over to the corner there, I want to talk to you. Nancy, sit next to Handsome Harry and have some bubbly. But no hanky-panky.”

Gordon pushed his father to the far end of the room, and pulled
up a chair next to him. “Not bad, eh?” Grossman said, gesturing toward Nancy. “You know something? It’s true what they say about nurses.”

“Pop, don’t you think that it’s a little early—”

“Yeah, I got all the time in the world. Listen to me, boychik, I decided that I need a change. I’m moving to Florida. And I’m taking Nancy the nurse over there with me.”

“Florida? With her? What for?”

Grossman gave him an amused look. “A bedside romance, boychik, what’s the matter, you never saw
General Hospital
? Don’t worry, I’m not planning to marry her, I just want some hands-on health care while I’m recuperating.”

“What about Bev?” Gordon blurted, hoping that his voice didn’t betray any guilt.

“Yeah, Bev,” said Grossman, looking at his son steadily. “I was hoping you could help me out there.”

“Me? How?”

“I got the idea that you and Bev got to be on good terms while I was away,” Grossman said. “She’s a good-looking broad, you’re a nice young guy …”

Suddenly Gordon saw the whole picture. It was the Pulitzer Prize all over again, his old man trying to arrange his life. He waited for the angry lump to rise in his throat, but to his surprise, there was only a warm feeling of affection. Jewish fathers, he thought with an inward sigh; they never quit, but they only want what’s best for their kids.

“Listen, Pop,” he said. “Bev Friedman’s a nice woman, but she’s your friend, not mine. Besides, I’m leaving in two weeks. I asked the paper to send me back overseas.” Sure-footed in Beirut and Baghdad, Gordon felt out of his depth in Brooklyn. He knew that Flanagan would try to drag him into his new life, and he had had enough of the world of the Spadafores.

“Overseas, eh?” grunted Grossman. “Well, it’s your life. Listen, boychik, I don’t feel so hot. Ask Nancy the nurse to come over, I want to head back to the hospital.”

“Sure, Pop,” said Gordon. He signaled to the nurse, who put down her glass and hurried to Grossman.

“Let’s go, honey,” he said, running his thick hand down the
outside of her thigh. “I’m getting tired, and I want a sponge bath.”

“Your dad’s a devil,” Nancy giggled, wheeling the chair in the direction of the door.

“Take good care of him,” Gordon called after her. “I’ll be by tomorrow to see you, Pop.”

“You do that, boychik,” called Grossman over his shoulder, “I’ll be looking for you.”

The heavy door closed behind them, and Grossman slumped in his chair, a smile on his face. In the lobby, near a bank of pay phones, he told Nancy to stop and dial a number for him. It began with an L.A. area code—213. After the third ring, he heard a familiar voice.

“Bev, it’s Al,” he said.

“Al, where are you? I just called the hospital and they said you went out.”

“Yeah, I’m over at the Waldorf, at Velvel’s going-away party,” he said.

“Going-away party?” Grossman could hear the surprise in her voice. “What do you mean, going away?”

“He decided to go back overseas. The Middle East or some damn place. I think he’s trying to get over that broad of his, the les. Didn’t he tell you?”

“I haven’t spoken to him,” she said in a tight voice. “Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure, he just told me,” Grossman said. “Listen, that trouble we had? It’s all taken care of. I’m heading down to Florida for a month or so, gonna stay at Harry Millman’s place, near Miami. Wanna join me?”

Grossman heard the pause, so brief as to be all but indiscernible. He could guess at the disappointment in that pause, but it didn’t bother him. All’s fair in love and war, he thought to himself; that, and age before beauty. It wasn’t Shulman’s kind of wisdom, but what the hell.

“Of course I’ll come,” Bev said brightly. “And Al … I can’t wait to see you.”

On the way back to the hospital in the front seat of Nancy’s Saab, Grossman took five one-hundred-dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to her.

“I guess it went all right, huh, Mr. Grossman,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Grossman, flipping on the radio to look for the Knicks game. “You’re a hell of an actress, honey. You ever play Century City, don’t forget to look us up.”

“… So there’s the deal,” said Flanagan, looking at the rapt faces of the old men and at Gordon. “It’s up to you—you want in, you’re in, same as the last time. Anybody wants to leave, well”—he patted his pocket—“your money’s right here, and God bless you.”

“Now wait a minute,” said Pupik Feinsilver. “Let me get this straight. You want us to appear in a movie?”

“Not appear in a movie—star in a TV docudrama,” said Flanagan. ‘The Glory That Was Hester Street’ is the working title, although that could change. Like I said, it’ll be a documentary, about your life and times.”