The Iron Will of Shoeshine Cats (21 page)

That Justo had to explain this was proof even to me of how little I knew about the real world. With my nose in books, I had grown up with the idea that money was something that might or might not appear as a result of work, but that the object of what one did was not money. It was pleasure, satisfaction, art. My first role model had been my father, who was a detective because he loved it, and when they took that away he did privately what he could no longer do for the NYPD. My second was Eugene del Vecchio, a poet who made his living as a professor. Neither had ever earned more than two hundred a week.

Sitting in that aerie above the suite and learning first from Justo and then from my own investigations into the files, it appeared that the world did not turn on self-image, aesthetics, eros or the odd joint. It turned on power, which could find its form as muscle or money or both. Not that I took seriously Shushan’s so-called iron will, but I had to laugh that a man so much a part of the world of muscle and money could have chosen me as heir.

Two phone calls later I stopped laughing.

Ira-Myra’s had already returned when I came downstairs with Justo. Miguel the tailor was gone, three altered suits neatly arrayed on one of the two green-leather couches. Next to them was a pile of folded clothes from my apartment and on the floor a stack of books, my Olivetti portable typewriter in its sky-blue zippered case and, packed in a carton that had once held bottles of Foxx’s U-bet Chocolate Syrup, all the loose sheets of paper, notebooks and scribbled-on flotsam that Ira-Myra’s had been able to gather up.

“I didn’t take nothing from your kitchen, boss,” Ira said.

I looked at Justo. “More boss?”

“It’s a hierarchy,” Justo said. “You got to learn to accept it.” He turned to Ira. “The new boss don’t want to be called boss.”

Ira looked at me with the puzzled, head-cocked expression of a large confused dog.

“Forget it,” I said. “You can call me anything you want. You too, Justo. I’m not the boss, I’m not going to be the boss, but the truth is it’s just not worth the effort to fight with you two over something that’s going to go away when your real boss shows up.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear, boss,” Ira said.

It was midnight, but I wasn’t tired. I was hungry. I’d been hungry for several hours, but in the excitement of new circumstances and in the fear that had created those circumstances I had forgotten to eat. I seemed to have become accustomed to the circumstances. But my stomach wasn’t. It was audible. “I’m going down for some deli—you two want to join me?”

Ira-Myra’s shook his head.

“Justo?”

“He’s not saying no to deli, boss,” Justo said. “He’s saying no to your leaving the building.”

I looked back at him. “You’re calling me boss at the same time you’re telling me I’m a prisoner here, is that it?”

Poor Ira. This kind of complexity was too much for him. He retired to his seat by the door, although it was not entirely clear if he were guarding against someone coming in or someone going out.

“Boss,” Justo said. “Maybe we should talk.”

I sat down on the green-leather couch between the two sets of clothing. Idly my left hand rested on the sleeve of one of the suits. It was some sort of light-weight wool, soft as the skin on the nape of Celeste’s neck—so this was what vicuña felt like. I looked to the right: the clothes Ira had retrieved from Eastern Parkway looked like a pile of rags some medieval peasants had worn, and worn out. I realized I was hungry for more than food: soft hand-tailored wool, a hotel suite, Shushan’s red Eldorado. I could get used to this. I gave Justo a smile of encouragement, and tapped my left ear with my right hand.

“For the next day or two, boss, you can’t go nowhere.”

“Because Ira is going to stop me?”

“Because you are. Outside this hotel is like the Chosin Reservoir.”

I stared. “There’s armed North Koreans and Red Chinese?”

“Worse. The papers have it you’re replacing Shushan. Maybe you are, maybe not. Maybe, please Jesus, Shushan will walk in here tomorrow and say April Fool! and we’ll all have us a good laugh. But,
chinga,
perception rules, right? That’s what Shushan liked to say. You could have nothing in your pocket but if you’re dressed right and smell good you’re not a beggar.” He watched my hand fingering the vicuña. “One, you got certain Italians. Start with the Tintis. They been waiting for Shushan to fall since he displaced them. We know this. But we figured they’ll wait for a conviction. The trial is next week. It could take a month, even two. Even Shushan figured he was going away. The only question is how long. We know it, they know it. It’s tragic but what can you do, right? Part of the business. Like if you have a company on the New York Stock Exchange it can be worth millions Monday and zip on Friday. So that’s the Tintis. Definitely not divinity students.”

“There’s more?”

“Good you’re seated. Then you have Auro Sfangiullo. He expects people he works with to keep it zipped, and so far, with the odd exception, like that big
Chinga
Joe Valachi who snitched to Congress, maybe a few more we haven’t read about in the papers, they dummy up the way they should. They do their time, come out, are respected, end of story. But Auro doesn’t have that feeling for non-Italians. That’s why it’s a closed club. The Itals don’t like to do business with Irish, Puerto Ricans, Negroes, Jews. Why? Not because they’re degenerate dago pricks who are prejudiced against the entire non-dago human race—which by the way they are—but because when push comes to canary, if you’re not a wop you might sing. To wops, non-wops can’t be trusted.”

“Which is one reason Shushan is probably alive. He faked his death to avoid trial.”

“Very good, boss. I agree. That would be the reasonable assumption. But Shushan isn’t, wasn’t, afraid of doing time. He wasn’t afraid of it in Korea. He wasn’t afraid of a firing squad, so he wouldn’t be afraid of a couple of years in the can.”

“I guess you’re going to tell me about Korea now.”

There was a knock at the door. Ira leapt to his feet like a drowsy sentry startled by gunshots. He checked the peephole, then let in a waiter pushing a cart. If this is what it’s like to be the boss, I could get used to it. I was stuffing myself with a roast-beef sandwich layered with cole-slaw when Justo picked up the story.

“Chosin, I don’t have to tell you, it was so bad. We were engaged with the Red Army, not the North Koreans. They were tough but the Red Chinese was the real thing. Outgunned, outmanned, outfucked. Fox Company, 2nd Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division. Anybody who knows about Chosin knows us. The Decoy Company. We were supposed to create the impression the entire Marine force was digging in. What a laugh. The ground was froze like rock. You know how we dug in? We pushed C-3 explosive into empty C-ration cans for a shaped charge and blew holes in the ground. It was fifteen below, though it could get to thirty-five below at night. You made coffee it froze at the top before you could drink it. C-rations was so solid you had to gnaw at them like a rat. The entire Marine deployment was shifting south-southeast to regroup. We were left behind. Started with sixty men. Two days later fifteen came out.” Justo shook his head. “Our CO was a captain. I can’t say his name. I mean I can but I won’t. His family got word he was one of the casualties. He was. Shushan shot him.”

“By accident?” Even as I said it I knew.

“Annapolis graduate, can you imagine? He
got
orders to stay, create noise, action. He
gave
orders to surrender. Maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn’t worth forty-five Marines. But an order is an order, right?”

I didn’t know how to answer.

“The captain says, ‘Surrender.’ Shushan, he’s gunnery sergeant, says, ‘No surrender, sir.’ The captain raises his sidearm and tells Shushan he’ll shoot the first man who doesn’t follow orders. A lieutenant rushes up, steps between them and then says to Shushan, ‘After we finish this mission, sergeant, report to the ranking officer for arrest.’ Shushan says, ‘Oorah!’ Lieutenant must have seen the future. He doesn’t say
report to me
. Lost him that night. Two weeks later there’s a court martial. The court doesn’t know what to do. On the one hand somebody picked off the captain with a rifle. Nobody saw it, but the slug is USMC issue. That’s a firing squad. On the other, if we’d surrendered it would have been all over for the retreating Marine units. We were the only thing between them and the Chinese.”

“What happened?”

“The captain is declared killed in action. Shushan makes master gunnery sergeant, that’s the highest non-commissioned rank, gets the Navy Cross. Only thing higher is the Medal of Honor. What does that tell you about the USMC, boss?”

“That you must be proud to be an ex-Marine, Justo.”

“Boss, there’s no such thing as ex-Marine. There’s retired Marine. There’s veteran Marine. But never ex-Marine. Once a Marine, boss, always a Marine.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“I got out about eight months after Shushan. Found him in New York. He helped me finish college.”

“How long ago is that?”

“Nine years. Boss, Shushan says you’re in command, that’s good enough for me. My job is to make sure you’re healthy. For a couple of days, just keep your head down, okay? You got the Tintis. You got that creepy Sfangiullo.”

“Sfangiullo doesn’t even know me.”

“He might be figuring you know where Shushan is, and he’ll want you to tell him.”

“According to the DA, Shushan got it in a mob car.”

“Say he didn’t. We don’t know for sure. If he didn’t Sfangiullo wants to know where Shushan is so he doesn’t cut himself a deal before the trial.”

“Unless Sfangiullo killed Shushan, or had it done.”

“Okay, say he did. Then he must figure you know things he doesn’t want to get out. He probably figures if you’re the designated boss then you know what there is to know. Either way, this is someone you don’t want to talk to just at the moment. Then there’s the cops.”

“Fritzi already handled the DA.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t thinking of those cops. We been paying off the other cops for years. There’s people out there who don’t want Shushan to talk.”

“Shushan is supposed to be dead.”

“Perception rules, boss. They’re in the same position as Sfangiullo. One way or the other they have an interest. Then there’s the FBI.”

“I met them.”

“They’re not happy the NYPD has jurisdiction. The Injustice Department. You ever hear of a little twerp name of Robert Kennedy? He’s got a bug up his ass about organized crime. Maybe because his father was one of the biggest hoodlums in Boston.”

“The attorney general of the United States is trying to arrest Shushan Cats?”

“He’s trying to arrest everybody. But I’m sure he’s going after the non-Italians because he figures, like Sfangiullo does, they’ll be the first to talk. A piece of shit like Bobby Kennedy, who was born with a silver enema up his ass, he must figure—” The phone. “It’s for you.”

Who would call me here?

“What’s up, pretty boy?”

“Terri?”

“I’m coming over,” she said. “In an hour.”

“It’s one in the morning.”

“It’s not a nine-to-five job, junior. Get used to it.”

“Shushan’s sister,” I said after the click.

“I figured that out, boss.”

“She’s coming over.”

“It happens.”

“She didn’t sound like she’s in mourning, Justo.”

“So?”

“So maybe she knows what we should know.”

“Boss,” Justo said. “I don’t like to say this. I don’t want to say this. I never thought I’d have to say it. Shushan, he’s passed on. He’s in Jewish heaven. You know what, he’s been living on borrowed time since Korea, since that captain.” He paused. “You want me to answer that?”

“Answer what?”

“The phone.”

I hadn’t even heard it. “Go ahead.”

Justo picked up the receiver and handed it to me.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Newhouse?”

“Yes?”

“Eddy in the lobby, sir. I have a Mr. Arnold Savory. Should I send him up?”

I covered the receiver. “Arnold Savory. In the lobby. Is this someone we know?”

“Bookie,” Justo said. “I was expecting this. Either him or someone else. Yeah, he’s one of ours.”

“Eddy,” I said into the phone. “Please send Mr. Savory up.” I put down the receiver. “Who is Arnold Savory?”

“A snazzier dresser than you.”

I took the hint and went into the bedroom to change into one of my three new suits, a meltingly soft number with high, notched lapels in some sort of gray hopsack. Along with a black knit shirt with an alligator on it and a pair of black shoes Ira had brought. I was just admiring myself in the mirror when Justo tapped on the door.

“It’s... Arr-nold!”

Wow, it certainly was. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man so obviously... Arr-nold! From the top of his champagne wig to the bottom of his creme and black shoes, Arnold Savory certainly was a snazzier dresser than I was, or most anyone I knew. In those days most gays—even the word was not in use—were closeted. It would be six years before gays rebelled against police intimidation in a riot at the Stonewall Inn on Christopher Street. It was still against the law to serve homosexuals in a premise licensed by the State Liquor Authority. Most of the bars that did have a gay clientele were in fact run by the Genovese interests, who paid off the police to look the other way, and in fact the Tintis had moved into “licensing” gay and lesbian bars on the rebound from losing the Fulton Fish Market; they also had the wholesale flower market in Chelsea—thereby earning themselves the handle of the Pansy Gang, which they did not like. But unless you went out of your way to visit Julian’s or the Creamery in the village or Hugo’s uptown—a grateful Arnold Savory would give me the full tour later that year—the average New York male’s chance of running into the overtly gay was as great as meeting Miss Rheingold—the monthly winner of a beauty contest sponsored by Rheingold, “the dry beer,” whose face was all over placards on the trains: my favorite was a Brooklyn girl-next-door who reminded me of Marie-Antonetta Provenzano, whose tight sweaters and pointy bras had convinced me Italian was a language worthy of diligent study and that the female breast was cone shaped (Marie-Antonetta never removed her bra during our trysts—she said it compounded the mortal sin). I knew even less about what we used to call fags. Eugene del Vecchio was what even he called a “homo,” but he was a poet, and had been a boxer, and presented as straight as any Kennedy brother, but beyond a few suspicious students on campus and a flamer I’d gone to high school with, my exposure to the Arnold Savorys of this world was nil.