Streets Of Brass

By Jack Schwartz

Jerry Rosen is contemplating suicide in an Atlanta motel room. The country is in a deep recession. His business is losing money. His marriage is all but over.
Ever since he can remember he has been bombarded with advertisements to borrow and buy. Possessions and the success needed to attain them were the driving forces of his existence. Credit cards had been mailed to him without any request for them. The government was urging citizens to borrow and buy to support the economy. He had followed the recipe to the letter and all it had brought him were deep feelings of insecurity and fear: the fear of losing his family and his possessions. Was the Horatio Alger syndrome a pipedream foisted on the American public to keep them in lock step in the pursuit of the dream?
Questions and doubts bombard his brain like a swarm of angry bees. In search of answers, he begins a journey that takes him back in time. Streets Of Brass is a glimpse into the origins and reasons for the current economic crises.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Schwartz
• Release date: Dec 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465821010

Jack Schwartz

Jack Schwartz was born in New York City and currently resides in Statesboro Georgia. He has been an entrepreneur all of his life and has started up and run a number of businesses. He currently manufactures and supplies antique gun parts to collectors and dealers internationally. He has written and published technical manuals on the subject of antique guns. His father, Arkie Schwartz, was partners with Harry Richman, a notable roaring twenties entertainer, in the (speakeasy) Club Richman. He was also partners with Benny Leonard in Benny Leonard’s Ringside, also a speakeasy. Benny Leonard was a lightweight boxing champion who was implicated in the Arnold Rothstein, Black Sox, World Series fix scandal. The 1920’s background material was supplied by his father.

Book preview

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Schwartz was born in New York City and currently resides in Statesboro Georgia. He has been an entrepreneur all of his life and has started up and run a number of businesses. He currently manufactures and supplies antique gun parts to collectors and dealers internationally. He has written and published technical manuals on the subject of antique guns.

His father, Arkie Schwartz, was partners with Harry Richman, a notable roaring twenties entertainer, in the (speakeasy) Club Richman. He was also partners with Benny Leonard in Benny Leonard’s Ringside, also a speakeasy. Benny Leonard was a lightweight boxing champion who was implicated in the Arnold Rothstein, Black Sox, World Series fix scandal. The 1920’s background material was supplied by his father.

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AUTHORS NOTE

Streets Of Brass is a work of fiction. The characters, other than those noted, are fictitious as are all of the events. I also want to make it clear that in all my years in the carpet industry, I never offered, nor would they accept if I had, any fee or payment to a designer or specifier of commercial interiors.

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CHAPTER ONE

AUGUST, 1987

Jerry Rosen watched the hot Georgia sun bouncing off the parking lot in shimmering waves. It made his friend Martin Rostoff's 450 SL seem to float across the black top as it nosed into a parking space. He watched Martin walk across the lot toward the restaurant. Martin looked successful: Mercedes sports car, tastefully expensive clothes, purposeful stride. For that matter, Jerry himself had the same aura about him. He was forty eight and in the eyes of the world he had accomplished his mission in life, but inside...

He started to think about his father and his uncle Eddie and Billie Blue. He caught himself and dragged his mind back to the present. What the hell is the matter with me, he thought to himself in frustration? Normally, he would have been looking forward to lunch with Martin and the shop talk that reinforced his feeling of success; of belonging.

Jerry, how are you? Good seeing you again, it was the standard greeting.

I'm pretty good, Martin. How's the new job? Jerry responded as they shook hands. Well, it's a job, let's put it that way.

Jerry looked hard at Martin as the waitress took his drink order. Martin, like Jerry, stuck with iced tea, avoiding alcohol until after five. Martin had just been hired as president of LTI's newly formed carpet manufacturing division. It was Martin's third job as a president in about as many years. Jerry wondered if his friend was tiring of the endless jockeying for position -- the constant protect-your-ass tactics -- the hammer blows to your ego of being fired and having to put together another high paying situation in order to support the lifestyle that had crept up on you over the years.

Maybe this one will work, Jerry offered lamely.

I've got a contract this time; and a stock option. Martin mouthed the words but they both knew they meant nothing. When a company had mined what you had to offer and your time was up, a contract might get you a few extra bucks in settlement but that would be it. It would still be over.

Jerry experienced a sense of kinship with his friend Martin, and at the same time, a feeling of empathy for him. Because of these feelings, Jerry wanted to offer Martin something to let him know that he was not alone.

I'm not with my wife anymore, Martin. Jerry spoke the words in a conversational tone, but their impact caused Martin to freeze with his iced tea three inches from his lips.

How long? Martin asked. About six weeks

Are you going to get a divorce? I don't know.

Have you got a girl?

No.

I do. I've had her for three years. It's the only thing that's kept me sane.

It was Jerry's turn to freeze in reaction to his friend's words. They had known each other for five years but had never really talked, only shop. Martin’s admission that he had an extra-marital affair was new, but it did not come as a great surprise. Many married mill owners and executives kept illicit lovers on the side; generally in high style. It had become, or perhaps always was throughout history, a sort of status symbol.

What caused it?

I don't know, Jerry answered. I guess it's been coming for a long time. Has she been messing around?

No, she's been drinking heavily for years, won't face reality, with-drawing into a shell. She hardly ever leaves the house.

Jesus, it sounds like we're married to the same woman. Mine drinks wine…almost a gallon a day.

Jerry was taken aback. His wife's main drink was wine also. Maybe it's us, Martin. Did you ever think of that?

No way, I've been to enough A.A. meetings not to accept that mantle of guilt. It's them, they do it to themselves.

I don't mean us, I mean our lifestyles. The constant debt, the insecurity... It's the American way.

Yeah, I know. Jerry sighed.

I'd love to get my personal overhead under control, but I can't. Seven grand, that's what goes out every month.

Seven grand, the words echoed off the inner walls of Jerry's skull, like thunder in a canyon. That was about what it cost him, eighty-five thousand dollars a year.

Incredible pressure, Martin continued. I've got a daughter who starts college in September, a son two years behind her, and a wife who's an insecure wine sponge who will not lower her lifestyle. It'll never end, you know that? It'll be this way for the rest of my life…a fucking paycheck. That's really what I'm reduced to...a paycheck. There has to be a way out, some business that I can go into that doesn't require a million dollars.

There it went again, Jerry thought as he watched Martin's lips moving. It was the old American dream. They could not escape it. It was as much a part of them as their body functions.

Let's meet again next Tuesday, Martin said as Jerry got into his car." It was good for us, I think. Like a dual therapy session. Maybe together we can come up with something that will get us back on track.

Next Tuesday will be fine, Jerry said as he started the car and felt the blast from the air conditioner hit him in the face. He was halfway to Calhoun before he started talking to his father.

"Here I am again, pop, scared to death and with Shorty grabbing me around the throat. My business looks like it’s beginning to hit the skids. Competition is coming out of the wood work. My money is going away from me pop; my family is going away from me.

God I miss you pop, I miss you the most. I miss Uncle Eddie and Billy Blue. Why did you all have to die and leave me alone....?" he cut the words off in mid-sentence when he realized that he was speaking aloud.

A line of thunder storms moved across 1-75. Large drops of rain spattered against the windshield. Jerry turned on the wipers. When did it start to go wrong: a year ago--two years ago--how about thirty years ago? He thought about all of the bullshit that was flying around in his head then: all men are created equal -- every man must be prepared to die for his country -- the American fighting man is the best on earth -- education is wealth -- there is no limit to what you can achieve in a system of free enterprise -- all men are created equal...

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CHAPTER TWO

APRIL 1956

You people are the future leaders of this country. He was a distinguished looking gray-haired man in a blue business suit. He had been introduced as Councilman O'Brian. He stood on the podium regarding the senior class, looking like he really might believe what he was saying. The principal, vice-principal, and guidance counselor were seated behind him in a loose semi-circle.

The years ahead will bring many trials and tests. He paused and sipped from a glass of water.

Jerry sat in the fifth row listening to the drone of his voice as he continued his narrative. Things were starting to close in. He thought about how much he hated school; always had. As the man talked about graduation and looking back with fondness on their high school years, Jerry knew that he would never have any fond thoughts of school. Upon reflecting on graduation, all he felt was a tremendous sense of release; escape was more like it. All that concerned him about school was somehow passing, and then, once he left, he would never look back.

It was April the 28th. Easter was already past and in a couple of months it would all be behind him. He thought back over the last year and a half. It seemed impossible that time had advanced to this point. A hierarchy had been established among the two ruling classes in school society: jocks and bad asses. Jerry looked around him. There were other searching eyes that met his. Several fart like sounds echoed across the auditorium to underline the contempt for society in general that the maker of the sound felt.

In the seat to Jerry's left, Barker slouched on his spine. Barker had emerged as one of the most consistent and effective brawlers in the class. Jerry remembered the day, almost two years ago, when he had first met him.

The man standing in front of the blackboard wrote on it with white chalk: September 6 1952. Under this he wrote: Mr. Halverson room 213. He put the chalk into the runner under the board, turned, and regarded the group seated in front of him.

It is September the 6th, the first day of school, he said in a reedy voice. For all of you it is also the first day of high school. He paused after each sentence and let his eyes travel over the group seated in front of him, as if expecting some one to challenge his statement. He was tall, underweight, and bald. He had a hunted look about him, but also an air of determination. Of course, under the system of Junior and Senior High Schools, you will only be with us for two years instead of four, he chuckled nervously as if he had just told a subtle joke.

A cheer broke out from somewhere in the rear of the class.

All right, who did that? Halverson had turned beet red and began to pace back and forth in front of his desk. His voice had grown shrill. Who was it? You...back there, he pointed at a husky dark haired boy in the back row. What's your name?

The boy looked around him at the other students who were all staring at him and then looked back up at Halverson. Me? he asked in bewilderment, pointing to his own chest at the same time.

Yes, you. Get on your feet! Up! Up! Halverson shouted angrily.

The boy pushed his chair back slowly. His every move radiated insolence. The slow, deliberate raising of his body from the chair was a challenge hurled at the now raging Halverson.

Move, Halverson stammered impotently.

All right, take it easy, the boy murmured as he pulled himself to his full height. What did you just say? Never mind I heard you, you darned wise guy. Get out!

Halverson screamed.

A low murmur punctuated by nervous titters began as soon as the door slammed shut behind Halverson and the boy.

Hey! someone shouted in a deep voice as if to test his vocal chords. There was nervous laughter and the high-pitched shriek of a monkey or cheetah imitation. Loud general laughter was followed by more jungle sound imitations. The door flew open and Halverson stuck his red face back into the room.

Quiet! I want complete silence in here while I'm gone. Go to the classes on your assignment cards when the bell rings, he added in afterthought as he slammed the door behind him.

The cafeteria at Blakely High was a cold study in terrazzo, stainless steel and unpolished marble. A field of linoleum topped tables and benches grew out of stainless steel posts rooted to the floor. Jerry stood in line, hearing the hubbub of voices, the clanging of trays and the clinking of silverware and glasses emanating from the group of at least two hundred students seated in the cafeteria.

Come on, move it up!

Jerry had been regarding a group of girls seated at one of the nearby tables. They were engaged in animated conversation. He was sure that they were seniors by their self assured airs and familiarity with other passing students. They were all very pretty and the voice cut through his daydream of one of them picking him out of the crowd and falling madly in love with him; a slave who would whisk him through the frightening maze of high school social life. He turned and was surprised to see the boy who had been ejected from his homeroom earlier in the morning. His eyes burned into Jerry’s. Jerry averted his eyes and moved up in line.

What's that gloppy lookin' shit? The boy's voice was rough and transmitted the same belligerence that had been evident in his manner with Halverson.

Rice puddin’, Jerry answered brusquely, adopting the same belligerence of tone automatically. There was something about the tension the boy had created in homeroom earlier that morning, and the resulting notoriety he had received, that made Jerry envy him.

Looks like come.

Yeah, Jerry laughed. It does.

Jerry reached out for a ham sandwich. It was the last one and only egg salad, tuna salad, and bologna remained. As his hand closed around the sandwich, he felt it being pulled from his grasp. He instinctively tightened his grip.

Gimme that, huh? It was a request rather than an order and even though there was something about the boy that he admired, Jerry resisted.

Uh -- uh. I got it first.

The boy placed his forearm on Jerry's chest and shoved, tentatively, as if he were testing him. Normally, Jerry would have experienced fear, but somehow he didn't and he let his body be pushed backwards but at the same time, grabbed the other boy's arm and swung him into the stainless steel rail behind them.

Hey! Knock it off you two! The command came from a stern faced matron who was doling out cake from behind the food line.

They stopped grappling and started to move toward the cash register at the end of the line. Jerry glanced over his shoulder at the group of girls he had been watching before and saw that they were looking at them. A perverse glow of pride spread through him.

What's your name kid? the boy asked him haughtily as they paused at the register. Jerry Rosen, he answered, neglecting to respond to the kid part of the question. He suddenly found that he wanted to be accepted by this gruff guy, maybe even become his friend. What's yours? he countered. Mike Barker.

They started to move away from the register. Hey Barker, Jerry called.

Barker turned and looked at him, his eyebrows arching. What? You wanna swap sandwiches? he smiled.

Yeah, Barker grinned, fuckin A. Where you sittin?

I ain't yet, Jerry answered trying to sound as much like Barker as possible. Come on, Barker gestured with a jerk of his head for Jerry to follow him.

What a crock of shit, hissed Dabona, a skinny, curly headed kid in lime-green, pegged pants seated to Jerry's right. That old fuck up there is gonna’ bullshit all day." Jerry's attention swam back to the man on stage.

Your memories of high school will be among the very best of your lives. There were some muffled hoots of derision at this.

What a crock, Jerry thought. The only thing that he would remember about high school was his car and the night that he and Barker and Dabona had broken their cherries on the dips.

It was a Wednesday morning that Jerry saw Jigger Martin for the first time. It was that same morning, that same exact time in fact, that he knew he had to have a car. He had just walked over the grassy rise on Seine Avenue. The high school stretched out in front of him and as he started down the hill toward it, he heard a ripping blast punctuated by a series of short, sharp, backfires.

There was a horseshoe shaped driveway in front of the school for buses and visiting cars to pull up into and disembark students. A black, '50 Mercury barreled into the driveway with a screech of tortured rubber. As the car decelerated for the turn, the exhaust rumbled and growled and popped like an animal protesting at being held in check. He could see the driver through the window as the car screeched to a halt in front of the wide front steps of the school's entrance. The driver was hunched over the wheel. He had black curly hair and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. He looked bored. A redheaded girl in skin tight pedal pushers and an Angora, form-fitting, sweater exited the car from the passenger side and glided up the steps. She tossed her long red hair back over one shoulder with a careless move of her head. She looked at least twenty to Jerry, but he knew, of course, that she could not be.

The driver hunched over the wheel a little farther and two quick barks of exhaust ripped out as he goosed the gas peddle. There must have been over a hundred kids gathered around the front of the school and Jerry swore that every eye was glued to that car.

The car was like a living thing. Snarling and growling and barking as its master teased it and urged it on. As Jerry walked across the lawn he heard some kids near the car saying: hey Jigger -- how's it goin', Jig? He grinned and gunned the engine long and hard. Then he let out the clutch and the rear wheels screamed in agony as the car shot forward.

Jerry had read about the Romans and how they had chariots pulled by spirited teams of horses, and he had also heard that nothing in the world ever changed. It was the same now as it had been a thousand years ago. Jigger Martin was like a young Roman god riding in a magnificent chariot. Shit, with a car like that you could go anywhere, be anybody, and do anything you wanted to. And for getting girls -- that had to be the answer -- a car was a teenager's ultimate weapon in the mind-numbing war against shyness and the fear of rejection. Jerry guessed that every kid standing around the front of Blakely High wanted that car, or one like it. But he knew that he wanted a car more, and somehow, he would get one.

By the time lunch hour arrived, he had already mapped out a plan. He knew that his only chance was his father. He did not think that his mother would deny him if he put on enough pressure, but she was so insecure since the divorce last year that he didn't have the heart to approach her about buying him a car. As he walked through the front doors of the school, he made up his mind that at 3:00 he would head straight for his father's office.

Jerry's father's office was located in the front of a brick commercial building, one of a group of three, all of which he owned, on the extreme western end of the city. The buildings were situated in the middle of a very long block. There was a large vacant lot that Jerry had to walk past, also owned by Jerry's father, at the east end of the three buildings. The lot dropped down from the sidewalk and then leveled off about ten feet below Main Street to form a low, heavily treed swale. People had begun to use the lot as a trash dump, and it had become one of the main banes of his father's existence.

Dirty bastards, his father would say vehemently. Come in the middle of the night and throw garbage out of their cars. Rats down there as big as cats. He would hold his hands out to approximate the size of the cat, or rat.

His father had one employee, a Negro, named Billy Blue, more frequently referred to as Bill. Bill would be sent out after each rat sighting by Jerry's father with a long, single barreled, twelve gauge shotgun in a vain effort at extermination.

Don't you worry, boss, I'll get rid of them rats, Bill would assure Jerry's raging father as he set out on his mission.

Jerry could never remember a shot being fired, and the shells that Billy kept in the drawer in his father's office never seemed to diminish in number. The brass at the end of their casings had turned a deep brown from age. Among Bill's other duties was keeping all of the buildings painted and in good repair. He mowed the grass in the summer and shoveled the snow in the winter. His most important job, however, was washing and waxing Jerry's father's maroon Buick convertible to a deep rich luster. He also drove Jerry's father on his incessant errands around town. Billy had been with Jerry's father as long as Jerry could remember. Thirty years ago Billy had worked for Jerry's father and his uncle Eddie at the night clubs that they had owned in Manhattan. His father told a story about Jerry's grandmother stumbling onto Billy.

He was just a kid, Jerry's father was fond of saying, used to hang around the basement in Momma's apartment building in New York City. The building superintendent caught him breaking into the storage bins and called the cops on him. They were taking him away, crying like a baby, when momma came along and stopped them. Been with us ever since. Momma's Billy, he would laugh and shake his head. Never could remember where he came from; always talked about a town somewhere near the Mississippi River. He thought his mother's name was Nellie Blue. Never mentioned a father, but he always talked about an Uncle Bo Weevil, Jerry's father would shake his head again. He had the greatest personality in the world. Everybody in New York loved him, all of the entertainers and even the tough guys. Never could stay out of trouble though, couldn't stick his hand in a barrel without getting caught. Momma always had us bail him out though...Momma's Billy, he would laugh again and shake his head.

Monte Rosen's office had two large windows facing the street. He had never put drapes on any of the windows, so the entire interior of the office was in view of the street. There was a brick fireplace in one corner and the walls had brown composition board paneling, which gave the room a pleasing, dingy, appearance.

He sat behind a large walnut desk, his wide brimmed hat pushed back on his balding head. His Sulka tie was tied with a perfect Windsor knot, and his wide-lapelled, double- breasted suit was meticulously pressed. He wore highly polished wing-tipped shoes which he propped up on a pull out shelf on one side of his desk. He was a living relic of the Twenties. That was when he had made all of his money; it was his time of greatness. He had been twenty years older than Jerry's mother when he had met and married her. It had taken fourteen years, but the gap in their ages, their eras, and their values, had finally separated them like milk from cream.

Hey, Buddy, he greeted. How are you doing?

Jerry would always remember him like this, wearing a tie and suit, never casual. Everything expensive and custom made. Still, a sense of genuine warmth radiated from him.

Getting along with your mother? Yeah, sure.

It's a shame, the whole thing. I never did that woman an ounce of harm. She's a very foolish woman.

Jerry steeled himself as his father continued; for some reason his father felt that this dissertation about his innocence was necessary, and Jerry had no choice but to indulge him.

If she wasn't so gullible and hadn’t listened to her sister, Joan, we'd still be together; I swear on my mother's grave.

Where's Billy? Jerry asked, hoping to change the subject. He's out in the garage simonizing the car.

Jerry had hoped that he would be. It would be a great excuse to get into the subject of cars. He suggested that they go out and see how Billy was getting along. Monte readily agreed, always happy for a chance to view the Buick. It was one of his most prized possessions.

The garage was a long, low brick building consisting of six bays. Each bay was fronted by large, double wooden doors. The bay that Billy Blue was working in had its doors hooked open. The sound of a radio playing jazz drifted out into the late afternoon sunshine which filled the blacktopped yard.

Billy Blue was a big man. His face was round, but not fat. As he leaned, over the gleaming hood of the car, his pants, held up by a ragged leather belt, kept slipping down over his slightly protruding stomach. He hummed along with the music as he rubbed the paste wax he had applied to the hood. He paused and stared at a large horsefly which had landed on the gleaming metal near him.

Look out, you damn fool, you gonna slip and break your ass! Aw, tell it to him, Bill, Monte urged.

Hey Boss! Billy's face glowed in genuine pleasure. Maybe it was this that made people love him so, the ability to transmit the warmth that he felt for people. Jerry, how you doin', boy?

Okay, Billy, lookin'good, Jerry gestured toward the car.

You can't take nothin away from these Buicks, he said shaking his head. They're good cars.

Yeah, they are, Jerry agreed, happy to be launched so quickly onto the subject. A Mercury’s a nice car too.

A Mercury? Billy asked, raising his head. Ain't that a Ford? Sort of, Jerry answered dubiously.

Never drove one, Billy stated flatly, returning to his polishing.

Fords are tough cars, Monte Rosen broke in. Sam Johnson has a '39 that he uses every day…never breaks down.

Huh! Billy Blue raised his head once again, a look of distaste on his face.

Sam Johnson was a Negro employed as a porter by a paper box manufacturer who was one of Monte's tenants. Enmity had grown between Sam and Billy over the years.

Pop, Jerry began; I'm going to be sixteen next month.

Yes, you are, Monte agreed, shaking his head. time sure flies. Well, I'd like to have a car," Jerry blurted.

Monte pushed his hat back on his head and blew out his cheeks in an expression of agitation. Well, he began after some deliberation, I think you're right, and I'll kick in for half but you ought to ask your mother to chip in. He looked up at Jerry, his face visibly brightening. You know I gave her a lot of money in the settlement, he began to warm to the subject. She gets a hundred and fifty a month to boot. I was more than generous. All the harm I wish her, I wish on myself from my enemies.

Look, Pop, Jerry interrupted. I can't ask her for anything. Why not, have you tried? Monte asked, perplexed.

Jerry had been afraid of this; his father was going to be difficult. Jerry had to try another tack. His mind churned. Pop, she's not like you...she can't think things out clearly...she gets excited and cries and drives me nuts There was genuine agitation in his voice.

All right, buddy, take it easy, Monte entreated, holding up his hand palm out, his tone and resolve softening. I know just what you mean. She's a foolish woman, he repeated shaking his head. She could have had the world for her oyster. Don't worry, he continued, we'll figure something out.

Aw gee, thanks a million, Pop. You like Fords? he asked.

Yeah, sure... anything, Jerry responded.

I bet I could get Sam Johnson to give me a hell of a deal on his car, Monte said shaking his head up and down thoughtfully in confirmation.

Jerry's heart sank.

Aw Boss, Billy blurted out, raising his head from polishing. The boy don't want that old piece of junk. The boy's gotta’ have a nice, sharp, car.

Jerry loved Billy Blue at that moment. His father's face reddened. His expression turned cold and his eyes blazed with anger.

A sharp car, huh? he spat. How many did you wreck on me, you son-of-a-bitch? he screamed.

Aw boss, Billy entreated as he bent once again to his work.

How about my Rolls, huh? Monte pressed. Most beautiful car you ever laid eyes on. Walter Winchell and Ed Sullivan used to borrow it all the time. Bill over there, he gestured sourly towards Billy Blue, emphasizing the Uuuuu(*)uuuuu drove it under a coal truck on Tenth Avenue…blind drunk, he added. Tore the roof right off. He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and, removing his hat, mopped his sweating brow. What about the Cadillac? He pointed an accusing finger at Billy. Found it in a swamp in New Jersey, he fumed.

Come on Pop, Jerry interrupted gently. That was thirty years ago.

Thirty years ago, huh, Monte shot a baleful look at Billy, how about my other Buick just two years ago?

Aw Boss, that were just an accident.

I don't care! the old man screamed. It happened.' Pop, please…

Son of a bitch, Monte muttered, mopping his brow again. He seemed to be calming down. He blew out his cheeks again and Jerry could see him starting to relax.

How much do you think a car that you like will cost?

Jerry could sense that this was the crisis; his father was going to break.

His mind whirled, he didn't want to give Monte too high of a price and cause him to backtrack. He was also so grateful for Monte's apparent readiness to proceed without his mother's participation, that he became dangerously thrifty in his estimate. Five - six hundred ought to do it with no problem, he blurted.

Monte's eyebrows rose. Yeah, you think you can get something for that? he asked. Sure, Jerry answered, the first twinges of doubt beginning to pull at him.

That's not too bad, if you really think you can. Monte was cheering up now, getting into the spirit of the thing.

Billy Blue said nothing, just continued his interminable polishing.

The first thing you have to do, Monte said, beginning to show enthusiasm.Is to get your driver’s license. Bill, he paused and pointed his finger at Billy, shaking it slowly up and down while he formulated his thoughts. You give Jerry lessons for the next few weeks, and I think he'll be able to pass his test."

Billy Blue looked up and grinned. Sure Boss. Then, suddenly, his expression darkened. He's gotta’ listen though.

Monte grinned and shook his finger at Jerry. You hear that? You listen to your Uncle Bill.

Sure, Jerry grinned back. Anything Billy says, I jump. Humph, Billy grunted in satisfaction and started polishing again.

~ ~ ~

CHAPTER THREE

OCTOBER 1954

The weeks seemed to have whipped by. The long, lazy, Indian summer days of late September and early October had given way to the hard frosts and early darkness of fall and daylight savings time. Billy Blue had been zealous in his pursuit of Jerry's driving lessons, establishing a routine of twice a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, after he had finished work.

After work could be any time from five to seven or eight, depending on Jerry's father's schedule for Billy for that day. Monte was prone to yens, or desires, for a particular type of food, or a newspaper from New York City, which was only available at a variety store located across town. In any case, it was Billy Blue who was sent out in pursuit of whatever was necessary to satisfy the yen. It was the last Thursday in October and Monte's yen was for Lobster Fra Diavlo from Martini's Italian Restaurant in Riverton, fifteen miles away.

Jerry was hunched over the wheel, his eyes glued to the white line which ran down the corridor lit by the high beams of the Buick's headlights. The dash panel gave off a soft green glow from the lights behind the instruments and the radio blared jazz, which Billy Blue loved. Caledonia, Caledonia, what makes your big head so hard? Billy sang as he slapped the seat softly in time to the music.

What time is it, Billy? Jerry asked, interrupting Billy's reverie.

I don't know must be about seven-thirty. What you worryin' about the time for? You got someplace to go?

No. Just want to know, that's all.

Stop scrunchin' over that wheel and sit back and relax.

I'm relaxed, Jerry answered, pushing back into the soft seat and feeling a twinge from the tightened muscles behind his neck.

Road sure is empty tonight, Billy Blue mused, ignoring Jerry's reply. He poked his head forward and gazed out of the windshield at the black star-splattered sky. Must be a million stars up there.

Yeah, Jerry answered, picking up on Billy's mood.

My Uncle Bo Weevil used to know all about them stars. Use to be he could tell you when you was gonna’ come into money or have some other kind of luck, or what kind of baby a woman was gonna have just by lookin' at them and studyin' on them.

You mean he could tell your fortune?

You bets he could. Sometimes when things was just right, he could even tell you what number to play. He was mostly right too. He was a smart man, my Uncle Bo Weevil. Billy leaned back in the seat and laid his head on the back rest behind him. His eyes remained fixed on the sky. The song on the radio changed to a dreamy big band fox trot that Jerry could not identify.

You can't remember where you came from, huh Billy? he prodded. I mean whether your Uncle Bo Weevil or your mother or anybody is still alive or not?

Oh, I feels sure they're alive, he answered with an air of certainty. I've tried and tried to remember but...well, lets me see, I can remember the river. It were almost as wide as the Hudson; fact in spots it were wider. Generally, it looked brown and roilly. Like as if somebody was stirring it. Uncle Bo Weevil worked on the farms mostly; cotton I reckon, cause he was always tellin' stories about the Bo Weevils and how ferocious they was. Mama's name were Nelly, he stated emphatically. She were a sweet woman. I remember we lived close to the river cause I could hear the boat horns at night.

How did you get to New York, Billy? Jerry interrupted.

A troubled expression crossed Billy's features. I don't know, I can't get it clear in my memory how I did it. I knows I was just a youngster cause your gramma adopted me.

Jerry knew that his grandmother had taken Billy in, but had never formally adopted him. Jerry thought about pointing that out to Billy, but decided to remain silent.

She were a fine lady, your gramma.

Billy always had great affection for Jerry's grandmother. She had fed him, clothed him, and the family had always employed him. Looking at it, as it really was, Billy was never sent to school, nor given any of the advantages that Jerry's father and Uncle Eddie had enjoyed as children. In fact, Billy was always kept at home in his youth in order to do the heavy domestic chores that were too taxing for Jerry's grandmother. He always did the nigger or bull work at her boarding house in the Catskill's, and dressed up in a white jacket on special family occasions to act as a serving butler. Everyone referred to him affectionately as Our Billy.

Uncle Eddie would slip him a few dollars. He'll blow it in an hour, Eddie would say in a joking tone after Billy was out of earshot. He was a nigger. They never said that, but that's what he was to them. Jerry never thought there was anything wrong with it and just accepted it as a fact of life.

Where did you learn to read and write, Billy? Jerry asked, trying to lead him off on another track.

Your dad and Uncle Eddie teached me a little...but mostly I learned in college. College? Jerry knew perfectly well that what Billy referred to as college were two stretches he had served in prison; one in Sing Sing, and one at Greenhaven, but he egged him on anyway.

Warden Laws and Missus Laws taught me the most.

Jerry knew that his father had somehow obtained a job for Billy as Warden Laws' house servant when he had been sent to Sing Sing. Jerry did not know what Billy's offense had been, and Billy never talked about it.

A purple glow blotted out the stars as the lights of Riverton reflected off a thin layer of clouds in the sky above the city.

Watch the speed limit, junior, you’re comin' into town, Billy warned.

Martini's Restaurant was a family run establishment located across from the ferry station. Jerry knew, without being told, to park in the rear of the building. Billy Blue was not allowed in the front dining room; Jerry could never remember anyone telling Billy this, it was just the way things were, and Jerry had never given the matter any thought.

The reek of fried garlic and olive oil assailed your nostrils as soon as you entered the kitchen. Clouds of steam hung in the air above boiling pots of sauce, and the heavy-set woman tending them, Mrs. Martini, had a strand of salt and pepper hair hanging down on her forehead.

Anthony! she shouted to a curly haired young man in a waiter's uniform, get Billy a shot and a soda for Jerry. Mister Rosen’s order will be ready in about ten or fifteen minutes Billy.

Thank you missus, Billy's face had broken into a big, warm, smile; a smile that endeared him to almost anyone it was directed at.

Four Roses, Billy? the waiter named Anthony, Mrs. Martini's youngest son, inquired. I know you want a coke, right jerry?"

Billy and Jerry were seated at a table against the rear wall of the kitchen when Anthony returned with their drinks. Billy threw his straight shot down in a quick, almost violent, motion. He set the empty shot glass down on the table top; still holding it in his hand, as if reluctant to part with it. His eyes stayed fixed on the glass and his features took on a dreamy, faraway, expression.

Jerry looked at Billy across the table, a light pall of cooking smoke hung in the air. As he stared down at the shot glass, Billy's dark features seemed to accentuate the whites of his prominent pupils. He must have sensed that Jerry's eyes were fixed on him.

What you lookin' at, Junior? he asked without glancing up.

Do you remember what my father and Eddie's night clubs were like in New York, Billy?

Does I remember? His features took on a scoffing expression. What kind of dumb question is that? Course I remember. The big one, the Club Cleveland, were right around the corner from Carnegie Hall. Your Uncle Eddie used to hang out there. Your father liked the Chateau Moritz. It were quieter and more elegant.

Where did you work, Billy?

I worked at the Club Cleveland. It were always jumpin'. Your Uncle Eddie had every politician and tough guy in town that amounted to anything hangin' out there.

Was Roy Cleveland really as good as they say he was?

Shoot, he were great. He never used a microphone when he sang and you could hear him all the way in the back of the club, just like there were speakers there. He and your Uncle Eddie used to pal around together. They used to go every place in your father's Rolls Royce. It were sharp; silver grey. I used to be their driver. That car had a handle you used to have to pump the gas up with when you came to a big hill.

Is that what you used to do at the clubs, be the chauffeur?

No, I were the doorman. I drove in the daytime when the clubs was closed. They sure had some wild times in that place. I can remember one Saturday night... lets me see...it were in 1928, September the 18th it were. I can remember cause it were your Uncle Eddie's birthday and Roy Cleveland threw a big party for him. They started comin' like at Grand Central station. Dinty Mahoney, Mayor Walker, Judge Brodsky.

Billy continued to rattle off names. They were names that Jerry had heard before from Eddie and his father. Names he had read in books and sometimes encountered in movies.

By eleven o'clock they was people standin' on the sidewalk waitin' to get in. There was every kind of limousine you could think of lined up on both sides of the street. I had over four hundred dollars in tips in my pocket. Carnegie Hall had a big concert goin' on around the corner and it let out at eleven. The traffic were like Times Square at rush hour. A big, black four door Pierce Arrow pulled up to the curb an I opens the door an out steps Dutch Schultz. He said hello Billy and handed me a ten dollar bill...he were always a big tipper. Two other fellas got out of the other side and the driver pulls up and double parks. The cop on the beat, they was all paid off, disappears around the corner when he see whose car it is. Just about then, Boffo Broderick steps out of a cab.

Jerry looked across the table at Billy, and realized Billy was no longer talking to him. It was as if he were reciting to himself and Jerry could almost see him returning to the Club Cleveland thirty years ago, and he wished, more than anything in the world, that he could go with him.

Hey Shadrach! barked the driver. Yes sir?

Watch the car.

He was a small man. His hat brim was turned up at the front and his thin lips were twisted in a perpetual smirk. There was a telltale bulge under his double-breasted jacket and his pointed wing-tip shoes gleamed like polished onyx, Gee, I'm sorry, but the orders is no double parking. There's a garage around the... Hey! The man stepped up on the sidewalk and pointed a finger at Billy Blue. I said watch the car! And don't give me any of your lip! He emphasized each word with a menacing jab of his finger.

Johnny Broderick, the head of the Manhattan police department's famous Broadway squad, stood framed in the entrance of the Club Cleveland. He watched the encounter between Billy and the car's driver expressionlessly.

A woman, wrapped in Ermine, gestured toward the driver and whispered to her escort, Is he a real gangster? A shiver of excitement rippled through her at the positive reply to her question.

The small man adjusted his shirt cuffs and started across the sidewalk. Broderick remained in the doorway. His angular frame covered in a snug fitting dark brown suit. He wore no hat.

What are you doing here, punk?

The small man looked up in anger and then froze as he recognized who had spoken to him. Hey, wait a minute, Johnny...

Johnny? You know who I am? Sure, everybody does."

I don't know you.

I'm new. Look here Johnny, lay off will you? We’re here on an invite. Are you driving that car?"

Yeah, but...

Get back over there by the driver's side. I want to talk to you…now! Hey, come on, huh? The man held out his hands in a placating gesture. "Did I