Bloodline (47 page)

“Maybe it’s just the way he is. He doesn’t like to talk about what he’s thinking.”

“You know, it’s not like I expect him to marry me. God, I know he’s got other women. A lot of them. One night I heard someone say that Charlie was a philanthropist because he had given work to five thousand women. He meant all the whores in Charlie’s houses. I’ve met some of them at the club, and it’s like Charlie owns them. They’re furniture. And sometimes I feel like I am, too. Maybe I’m his best sofa, but I’m still just a sofa.”

“And you never ask him about any of this?”

“You can’t ask Charlie things. You try to make conversation about what the future holds, about someday retiring and living on a farm, about slowing down and touring Europe, and he looks at you like you’re a bug. ‘That’s for crumbs,’ he says. ‘I’d rather die than be a crumb.’ End of discussion. The other night he got mad at me and said I was butting into business that didn’t concern me.” She sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s just getting tired of me.”

Tina finished her drink and poured another. She looked out across the living room to the street beyond, her thoughts somewhere Sofia could not reach.

She’s just like me,
Sofia thought.
Just another piece of property.

She rose to get more coffee, wincing at a sudden pain that jabbed at her back.

“What’s the matter?” Tina asked.

“Since the baby. My back hurts a lot.”

“I had a wonderful thing the other night called a massage. It might be just what you need.”

“I can just see myself getting out of here to go get a massage,” Sofia said.

“No need to go anywhere. Just leave it to me.” Tina stood up, took Sofia’s hand, and steered her toward the bedroom. Sofia felt her heart racing.

*   *   *

S
INCE
T
OM
D
EWEY,
his law-school roommate, had moved, the rent on their apartment had been too much for Tommy to handle alone, and in the summer of 1927, he found a smaller apartment uptown in an area already being called the Upper West Side.

He would have been welcome to move back home, but at twenty-eight, Tommy thought it was time to really start living his own life. He had only a few more law classes before he had his degree.

So without a girlfriend, without much furniture, without much of anything but his police uniforms and his lawbooks, Tommy had moved uptown—helped in the manual labor by brother Mario, who for that hot July day at least had disdained his Roman collar so he felt free to swear at the cheap help who were dropping Tommy’s boxes all over the street.

Tommy spent the summer reading more lawbooks. At nights he walked his police beat, and on weekends he attended special-credit classes at the law school, and the summer ended all too soon and he was back in the full-time grind of classes, and there wasn’t a day when he wasn’t tired.

One drizzly night, he pushed the books aside and decided to go for a walk, and he wandered half the length of the city, down toward his old neighborhood. The drizzle suddenly turned into a pelting heavy rain, and Tommy saw ahead a small restaurant where he sometimes took meals as a policeman, and he opened its front door, forcing it to move against the wind and rain, and went inside.

Someone was sitting at the counter spot where he usually sat, but there were other vacant seats there and he walked to the coatrack on the side of the small diner, peeling off his heavy police raincoat and shaking it dry. He hung it up and saw the man at his counter seat leaving.

He started in that direction when—

“Not only are you dumb and ugly,” a voice said. “You’re rude and clumsy too.”

Tommy looked around, surprised.

“Huh?”

“And articulate too, I see,” the voice said.

The words were slowly burning their way through the fog of his fatigue. Without thinking, he reached down with his hand toward the spot on his belt where he wore his gun when he was on duty.

“Holy jumping Jesus Christ,” the voice said. “Now he’s going to shoot us all.” The voice laughed.

Tommy turned some more and finally located the source of the voice. It was coming from a girl seated at a table nearby. With her were two other girls and a young man.

Tommy walked two steps in her direction.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said softly, keeping just an edge of menace in his voice, as he had learned to do while working the streets. “Am I doing something to bother you?”

The girl stood up. She was dressed like an art student, mostly in black, covered with a few daubs of oil colors here and there. It looked as if she was several days past the time for a shampoo, but she smelled wonderful. She was tall for a girl, nearly as tall as he was, and she was slender with narrow hips and small breasts.

Like the girls of the neighborhood he grew up in, she had a Mediterranean complexion and black curly hair, but where his neighborhood’s girls’ eyes smoldered, this girl’s eyes flashed and glinted. Her mouth was different, too: almost too wide—but even so and totally unexpectedly, Tommy wondered what she would be like to kiss.

He tried to push the thought from his mind. He had been thinking that way more and more often lately and it interfered with schoolwork.

“You sure as hell are bothering me,” the girl said. “You just splashed water all over me with your raincoat, you jerk.”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the girl, his countenance softening considerably. She stared back, the anger gradually leaving her face. They kept staring at each other.

I am in love,
Tommy thought.
Totally, hopelessly, completely in love. So this is what it’s all about.

“Look, lady, if you want to marry me, just say so. Don’t beat around the bush,” he said.

The girl flushed. Someone at her table giggled.

Tommy felt his own face redden. “Well, anyway, I’m sorry about the water. If there’s anything I can do…”

The girl smiled at him. She had an unusually lovely, crooked smile, Tommy thought.

“No,” she said, “that’s all right. I just like to complain.”

“You must be fun to live with,” he said, but when she didn’t respond he nodded and turned back toward his seat at the counter, which was now vacant. Someone was sitting next to that stool, and he was annoyed until, with some difficulty, he recognized the person as Tom Dewey.

Behind him, he heard the girl call, “Just make sure you don’t do it again. Ever.”

Tommy thought she had the loveliest voice in the world.

“Well, there must be a reason for the sappy look on your face,” Dewey said as Tommy floated down alongside him. “You in love?”

“No, I’m in fatigue. Serious fatigue. What’s that thing on your lip?” He waved to the waitress, who nodded and began to pour him coffee. Dewey carefully folded the newspaper he had been reading.

“Please. Spare me your sophomoric jokes,” Dewey said. “I went on vacation to Europe and grew a mustache so I would look older.”

“You don’t look any older. You just look sillier.”

“It might be the egg on my face.”

“How’s that?” Tommy asked.

“I just got fired from my law firm,” Dewey said.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was ready to quit anyway. They had me doing all this peasant work that a nitwit could do in his sleep. Besides, I’ve got a new job.”

“Better one?”

“Yes. They’re paying me twenty-three hundred dollars a year and I’m doing corporate law. It’s what I wanted to do.”

“At twenty-three hundred per, it’s going to be hard to make a million,” Tommy said.

“You’ve got to start somewhere,” Dewey answered. “I’m satisfied.”

Tommy looked at him carefully. Dewey was a short, broad-shouldered, almost-chunky young man with thick dark hair, a handsome regular face, and an awkward, homely, gap-toothed mouth, now only partly disguised by his little shrub of a mustache. He spoke slowly in a Midwest twang modified by what Tommy knew was years of training for the stage and as a singer.

And he didn’t come here for the quality of the food,
Tommy thought.
He’s got something on his mind.

“So how are you doing?” Dewey asked.

“Fine. I’ve been hanging on to the cop job, but I’m taking extra classes so I can finish up law school in a hurry. Then I’m going to figure out a way to make a fortune and retire by the time I’m thirty-five.”

He looked over at the girl whom he had splashed with water. To his surprise, she was watching him, too. She smiled, and he wondered what it would be like to have her smile at him a lot, forever. He nodded back to her.

He saw Dewey wave to her and she returned the wave.

“You know her?” Tommy asked.

“Who?”

“Her,” Tommy said. “That girl you just waved at.”

“Oh, sure. She lives just down the hall from Francie.” Francie had been Dewey’s girlfriend, an up-and-coming singer and actress. Tommy hadn’t known whether or not their romance was still on, but he guessed it was by Dewey’s casual reference.

“Her name’s Rachel something,” Dewey said. “I forget what. It’s something Jewish, I think. I could find out for you if you want me to.”

“No,” Tommy said. “That’s all right.”

They both sipped their coffee for several minutes; then Tommy announced again, with more emphasis, “Anyway, that’s my plan. I’m going to be rich.”

“I told you. There’s money in the Mafia.”

“Stick it, friend. I’m going to make real money. Honest money.”

“The job market isn’t all that good.”

“That’s because there’s about as much use for lawyers right now as there is for deep-sea divers. We’re in a trade that nobody needs. Everybody’s getting rich on Wall Street and nobody wants to sue anybody else, but I don’t think it’s going to stay that way.”

“My feelings exactly,” Dewey said. “Two guys as smart as us, you know, we ought to open our own office.”

That’s it,
Tommy thought.
He’s looking for a partner. He wants to go into private practice.

Dewey was searching Tommy’s face for a reaction to his seemingly offhanded comment.

“Two can starve as cheaply as one?” Tommy said.

“You never know. We might wind up stars,” Dewey said. “I don’t want to work for corporations. I want to work for people.”

“There’s always government,” Tommy said. “They can always use a good lawyer.”

“I don’t know,” Dewey said. “Long hours, low pay, and everybody hates you. I don’t think being on the side of the public is a good career decision.”

“You may be right,” Tommy said. “The public’s on its own side. It couldn’t be happier. It made liquor illegal and now it has more speakeasies than it ever had taverns. But it feels real good about it. It talks about working hard and the American ethic, but it makes all its money by buying and selling pieces of paper on Wall Street. The public’s happy as a clam. And just as dumb.”

“Yeah,” Dewey said glumly. “Maybe I’ll just go back to Michigan and open a little office and do wills and mortgages for people who pay me in chicken eggs. Shut down my brain and never think again.”

“Not you,” Tommy Falcone said. “You’re one of those pests that people will always find a use for.”

“Good. Then you’re in luck,” Tom Dewey said. “When they call for me because they need me, I’ll manage to find a job for you, too.” He paused. “Mishkin,” he said.

“Beg your pardon.”

“Mishkin. That’s her name. Her father’s Lev Mishkin.”

“Lev Mishkin,” Tommy mused. He snapped his fingers together. “He’s the guy who runs the garment makers’ union?”

“That’s the one. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Well, here you are, an upstanding citizen, and there he is, with a beautiful daughter, but he’s an old Red. I think he was in jail in Russia twenty, twenty-five years ago for being an anarchist or something.”

“Sounds pretty bad.”

“It’s even worse.”

“How’s it worse?”

“Well, I don’t think he’d ever allow his daughter to go out with somebody from Wall Street. Much less a goy Wall Streeter.”

“Circumcision’s not out of the question,” Tommy said, and his roommate got up, laughing.

“About that partnership idea of yours,” Tommy said. “It’s not a bad thought. Together we might be a good team.”

Dewey sat back down on the stool. “Think about it, Tommy. With your connections with the police and me doing the casework, we might really carve out a place for ourselves. Sooner or later, everything’s going to fall apart. Everybody’s going to need lawyers.”

“Let me think about it. I’ve got some things I have to take care of first, and I haven’t even graduated yet.”

“Good enough,” Dewey said, and rose again. “One other thing. She’s an artist. A painter.”

“The one in the booth?”

“Yeah. Absolutely no talent whatsoever,” Dewey said. “The worst painter I’ve ever seen in my life. But she
is
cute.”

He took a business card out of his pocket and gave it to Tommy. “Hang on to this. Let’s stay in touch.” Then he clapped Tommy on the back and walked away. Tommy noticed him stop at Rachel Mishkin’s table and lean over briefly to talk to her. Soon everyone there was laughing. Tommy saw the girl look at him, and he blushed, turned away, left some money on the counter to pay the check, and started to go. Dewey was already gone.

Tommy was putting on his wet slicker when he was aware of someone standing beside him. It was the girl.

“Stand back. I’m putting on the killer raincoat again,” he said.

“I’ve decided,” she said.

“You have?”

“Yes. The answer is yes.”

“Good. What’s the question?” Tommy asked.

She flushed. “You talked about us getting married. Don’t you remember? God, do you talk like that to everybody you meet?”

“Oh,” Tommy said. It was his turn to blush.

“Of course, you’ll have to court me properly. For a couple of weeks at least. Meet my father. We’ll have to find out if we’re sexually compatible.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Tommy said.

Rachel stared at him for another moment, then leaned forward and kissed his chin.

“Bye,” she said. “See you later.” She turned to go and Tommy called, “Wait.”