The Stand-Up Guy

By Srulik Stein

The Berkley Building Company's office closes on week-ends. So when Rose Shapiro arrives for work on Monday morning June 20, 1966, she has to unlock the door to gain entry. She finds her boss, Max Robbins-dead-the apparent victim of a heart attack.

At the funeral home because bruises are found on Max's body, the Medical Examiner performs an autopsy. He opines that Max did die of a heart attack, but one caused by powerful blows to his solar plexus.

So who killed Max? Crude, black-sheep son of real estate mogul, Sam Robbins, Max wasn't short of enemies. The police discover evidence that David Lev, Max's boyhood friend and lawyer was the last person to see Max alive.

David, normally unflappable, borders on panic. He turns for help to his ex-mobster cousin, Jack Lerner, once head of Detroit's infamous Purple Gang, whose criminal activities teenaged David abhorred and which embarrassed him. With input from Chick Marcus, another childhood friend of David and Max, Jack makes the problem go away. Max's killer is never discovered.

Thirty-eight years later, Chick, only survivor of the trio, eighty and frail, but with perfect recall tells us who killed Max and why.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 14, 2008
• ISBN: 9780595622160

Srulik Stein

Sol Srulik Stein, lawyer for over fifty years, lives in West Bloomfield Michigan. Author of countless legal documents, The Stand-Up Guy is his first novel. Husband, father, grandfather, and a three-year World War II Army veteran, he had the unique, if not rare, experience of serving in both the European and Pacific theaters of operation.

Book preview

THE

STAND-UP

GUY

A Novel By

SRULIK STEIN

iUniverse, Inc.

New York - Bloomington

The Stand-Up Guy

Copyright © 2008 by Srulik Stein

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is work of fiction. Pure fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical and public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical and public figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogue concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-0-595-52153-1 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-0794-8 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-0-595-62216-0 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Author’s Note

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part Three

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Part Four

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Part Five

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Part Six

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

To my family, my wife Marion (the lovely Mrs. Stein), my children, Susan, Linda, and Kenneth, my son-in-law, Spencer, and my grandchildren, Benny and Annie.

Street Grid circa 1920s showing part of Detroit area where it all started.

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Author’s Note

Rabbi Hillel (ca. 60 B.C. –ca. 10 A.D), was a Jewish scholar and sage, founder of a dynasty of patriarchs, who were the spiritual heads of Jewry until the 5th Century. He was most famous for his succinct sayings that summed up what was most important in man’s relationship with his fellow man and in his own conduct.

This is perhaps one of his most famous sayings:

If I am not for myself, who will be for me,

yet if I am only for myself, then what am I?

And if not now, when?

Implicit in the phrase who will be for me is that whoever is for me shall be loyal and dependable: a stand-up guy.

Most of us know or have a sense of what a stand-up guy is. But for those who don’t, he’s the guy you can always count on. Unwaveringly loyal, unselfish, steadfast, —no matter what—he’s the guy who throws himself on the grenade.

Our Founding Fathers were stand-up-guys. Many were wealthy men; yet, unhesitatingly signed the Declaration of Independence, risking both purse and life. As far as the British Parliament was concerned, they were traitors and many of its members wanted them hung.

Although, perhaps, not in the class of the Founding Fathers, in my novel Jack Lerner, the old mobster, particularly and Chick Marcus, who tells the story are stand-up guys.

Judge for yourself.

Part One

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Chapter 1

The birth certificate issued in 1924 by the Department of Health for the City of Detroit says that my name is Charles Marcus. But no one (except for my teachers) ever called me Charles. And no one ever called me Charlie, or Chuck, or Chuckie, or Chickie. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been called Chick, a name that I think has more gravitas than Chickie. Honestly, though, I’m not a gravitas kind of guy. Anyway, my mother, Gitel—Gitel Marcus, great-granddaughter of the Siedlce Rabbi (may she rest in peace), never called me Chickie. To her, I—her first-born and only son—was always Kalman.

This morning my nephew, Mortie Silver, my only surviving relative (that’s not quite true, his kids are too), visited me, and told me that he’d heard on the radio driving here that Jack Lerner had died. Ninety-nine years old! Died in his sleep, yet! Would you believe it? Can you imagine a guy like Jack living that long? When he was nineteen, I’ll bet you couldn’t find anyone willing to take a hundred to one that he would live to be twenty.

I’m sure you’ve never heard of me, but if you know anything about the twenties and thirties, you must’ve heard of Jack Lerner. Jack was head (undisputed) of the Detroit Purple Gang, one of several Jewish gangs of Prohibition days. The Purples, as they were often referred to, were the toughest of the tough, ruthless bastards, and Jack called the shots. By 1927, under his leadership, the Purples had pretty much eliminated the other gangs in the Detroit area, Jewish and otherwise, in bloody turf battles; even the Italians didn’t challenge their supremacy. The Purples controlled all whiskey traffic from Canada to Detroit, and had numerous politicians and public officials, not to mention the cops, on their payroll. But with the repeal of Prohibition in 1933, they slowly but surely self-destructed, and their reign ended.

But Jack didn’t end. He branched out into a number of gambling operations. By the fifties, he wound-up owning a piece of a Las Vegas casino; by the seventies, he owned it all. And that was only part of his holdings. Not bad for an old pistolaro, who didn’t get past the eighth grade. Who said crime doesn’t pay?

In 1950, Congress, determined to ferret out just how crime did pay and to whom, formed the Special Committee on Organized Crime in Interstate Commerce, which became known as the Kefauver Committee, after its Chairman, Estes Kefauver, a Senator from Tennessee. Knowing the public’s fascination with mobsters, and television then in its infancy, Kefauver permitted the hearing to be televised thus giving himself and his Committee members an opportunity to preen and posture before millions of viewers. In 1951, the Committee subpoenaed Jack to appear before it.

Kefauver, a prim-looking guy, normally genial and soft-spoken, but now fixated on being the star of the show, chose to question Jack himself, rather than leaving it to Rudy Halley, the Committee’s counsel. The mild-mannered Kefauver, his tone, a touch contemptuous, his demeanor, a touch pompous, began his interrogation holding Jack’s financial statement in his hand, and looking sternly at Jack, making more of a speech than asking a question, opened with, I am impressed by your net worth, Mr. Lerner. You’re a very wealthy man. You’ve made a great deal of money. I suppose you did it by pyramiding your profits from one investment to another, and so on. But to start the pyramid you got yourself a nice big nest egg from rum running. Didn’t you?

Unlike all the previous witnesses called that day, Jack had no lawyer at his side. Both David, his cousin, and I, his friend, both lawyers, had volunteered to represent him. But he’d turned us down. I’ve been legit for twenty years. I don’t need any lawyers. he told us. So, instead of taking the Fifth, as had most of the witnesses that day, Jack, ever the master of timing, leaned forward toward the microphone on the witness table, and like Jack Benny’s maddingly lengthy silence in response to the robber’s famous question: ‘Your money or your life?’ Jack, instead of answering Kefauver’s question immediately like Jack Benny he remained silent (so long that it seemed he would never answer), and then, with the audience sitting on the edge of their seats, he finally did answer the crusading Senator, Well, Senator, I can tell you this: for sure … whatever you see on my financial statement, I didn’t inherit.

The audience greeted Jack’s answer with peals of laughter. Even some of the other Senators and Committee staff, while not laughing, smiled broadly. Poor Estes, stunned, looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He lamely asked another question, and then turned over the interrogation to Halley.

Of course, Jack didn’t inherit any money, but for years he’d been operating as a legitimate businessman, and shrewdly and legitimately became an extraordinary wealthy man. Now, the interesting question is who’s going to wind-up with the estate? He had no family. I think it’ll be a foundation for Jewish causes that he’d set up years ago. At least that’s what I heard through the grapevine. He never talked about it. At least not to me.

Jack was an old friend, and although I didn’t share Jack’s career in crime (sometimes, I think, if I’d been ten or fifteen years older in those days I might have). We did share an interest, however, in gambling. For him, it was a business; for me, it was an addiction. To me there’s nothing that gets the old cardio-vascular going better than a hot craps table. You can take all the aerobic exercises and jogging, and shove them—you know where. But, where Jack made gambling his business; I let it ruin my life.

When he moved to Las Vegas in the sixties, I’d visit him (and the tables) just about every month; he’d always pick up my room and food tab. How could I stay away? After he sold his casino interests, I only visited Vegas and him about three or four times a year (but he still got me comped), and I began giving most of my action to Atlantic City; and, when gambling came to Detroit and Windsor, I switched my action to those casinos. As a result, I didn’t see Jack as often as I had. But we maintained contact by telephone. At first, one would call the other at least once a month; then, maybe four or six times a year; then, twice a year; then, once a year … on Rosh Hashanah. You know how it is. By the way he called me last year to tell me, very proudly, that the State of Nevada had renewed his driver’s license.

One of his calls that I’ll always remember is when he called me in 1989 to tell me that his friend and old mobster, Moe Dalitz had died. He never mentioned Moe by name, but instead said, Chick, our friend died. God forbid that he should use any old-time mobster’s name over the telephone. But he knew that I knew that it was Moe, although I was no friend of Moe, if you know what I mean. I didn’t even know, Moe. Jack and Moe had always been close, not only from the old days, but also since each had moved to Vegas. In fact, Jack had pieces in two of Moe’s casinos, as well as, in several real estate deals.

I’m sorry to hear that, I told him on hearing about Moe’s demise.

There was a long pause; I thought we’d lost our connection, but then, he said, I guess that makes me the last of the Mohicans. I could picture him smiling, almost chuckling as he made that observation. Yes, indeed, he had outlived them all. He was the last.

You know what I’m thinking: I’m eighty, what are the odds on me making it to ninety-nine like Jack? Jack would’ve figured it out in ten seconds. When he was in action, he was the handicapper. For years, Vegas wouldn’t publish the line on any sports event without checking with him first.

Most people will say that’s okay for gambling, but what did a guy like Jack know about, for example, the formulas and statistics for determining life expectancy as life insurance companies do. In fact they have created and constantly up-date mortality tables that have life expectancy all figured out. And most people, interjecting what they saw as humor, would say that Jack may have known how to shorten life expectancy, but this odds maker knew nothing about calculating life expectancy.

But they would be wrong. Mortality tables deal with statistics; no account is taken of what kind of person an individual is. Take a guy like me, in setting the odds on my expectancy, Jack would take into account the personal facts of my life: eighty, Jewish, criminal lawyer (rating: 3, on a scale of 1-5), three operations (four, if you count my pacemaker): prostate, thyroidectomy, hernia (double), three marriages and three divorces, no kids, degenerate gambler; and—all in all—a fucking loser. From these facts Jack would set the odds on me hitting ninety-nine. I guarantee you that his forecast would be more accurate than any mortality table.

In addition to our interest in gambling (although totally dissimilar), Jack and I shared a secret. We knew who had killed Max Robbins, one of my closest childhood buddies. But I must tell you that by our early teens, my friendship with Max had cooled somewhat.

David Lev, my other childhood buddy (the three of us were inseparable), also knew the secret, but he died over thirty years ago and took the secret to his grave. And, now, that Jack is dead, I’m the only one left who knows the secret. But, the way I feel about it, disclosure of the secret is not just about giving the name of the killer. There’s a background, a flavor, a mood, a tone that must be given; there’s a whole story, a span of time, an era, a place, and cast of characters that must be unveiled. That means telling the whole story.

But to tell the story would take hours; and, to whom, am I going to tell it? The only way to do justice to the story is to write it. And that’s what I intend to do; I’ve had the itch to do so for years, but held off because several of the cast of characters, who were still alive, might be embarrassed, or pissed-off, if I did so.

But, now, who’s going to get embarrassed or pissed off? David’s family is gone: parents, Uncle Abe, Cousin Herman and his wife; although Herman’s two kids are still living, they’re too far removed for the story to have any effect on them. The same goes for Max’s two living sons, the morons; they didn’t give a shit about him when he was living, and wouldn’t give a shit about the story behind his death; Max’s parents and his former wives are also long gone, as is his brother, Alan and his wife (they never had any kids). I’ve always had a yen (a burning yen I might add), to write the story. It‘ll be my legacy. I’ve got nothing else. Maybe, by writing it my departure to the great beyond will be more than just a statistic.

Before I begin, I want to make this point: Although the story will read like fiction, it is not fiction, except for some of the names of characters, and places. And, of course, I’ve made up the dialogue of conversations at which I wasn’t present, but because David, Max, and I had no secrets from each other, and were always pretty much in each others’ heads, and because I knew Jack’s views and thinking, and because of the countless conversations we had about what happened, the dialogue, while it may not be precisely what was said, I’ll lay you ten dollars to your five that it’s pretty much on the money. You may want to argue with me about this last statement, but it would be useless—I’ll‘ve been long gone.

So here goes. Besides, what else have I got to do?

Chapter 2

By the way of background, although I spent most of my life in Detroit, my residence for the past two years has been the Jewish Federation Apartments in Hollywood, Florida. I moved here in 2002 after my prostate operation; I was too weak to take care of myself. Besides, those Detroit winters were getting to me, and Mortie thought it would be best for me.

This is a modern, well-kept complex, built and operated by the Jewish Welfare Federation of Florida. (Jews take care of their own.) With Jack’s help (I suspect), Mortie arranged for my residence here. My unit is about 750 square feet; squeezed into it are: a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room. Included in the monthly rent are meals for the residents served daily in a large dining hall. There is no obligation to eat there, or to participate in the daily group activities, residents are free to go out on their own. It’s not a nursing home. I still drive, have my own car, and venture forth on a gambling jaunt almost every day.

Even though the rents are low, and I get Social Security, it is not enough to cover the rent and my expenses. But five thousand dollars is wired into my bank account every month by an anonymous donor. I know that it’s not from Mortie; he’s a lawyer with a nice practice, but he’s got a wife and four kids to support. So the way I figure it, the money comes from Jack.

I’ll lay you ten to one that Jack’s had a list of old Purples, their widows, and miscellaneous offspring who were in need that he provided for—always anonymously. And now that he’s dead, I’ll lay you another ten to one that he made arrangements so that his beneficiaries would be taken care of for the rest of their lives. And I’ll bet you another ten to one that includes me.

What that five grand every month does for me is to help provide for my expenses, and, if I’m prudent, gives me a stake for my gambling. Jack knew that was what I’d use part of the money for. So the paradox: the casino owner, who didn’t approve of my gambling, recognizing it as an addiction, but not wanting to cut me off cold-turkey, fearing the effect it might have on me, provides me with a monthly gambling stake. What a guy! I’m so grateful and beholden to him. And believe it or not, I watch myself and don’t get carried away like I used to, though I visit Gulfstream, when the horses are running, or visit the near-by Indian casino, almost every day. I’ll say Kaddish for Jack as long as I’m able.

Fifty-five years. That’s how long I’ve been a lawyer. A criminal lawyer. Fifty-five years of dealing with life’s sleaze balls. During most of those years, the Recorders Court had jurisdiction over crimes committed in the city of Detroit. The police headquarters building stood at 1300 Beaubien, and, just behind it, stood the Recorders Court, a five-story, massive, grey building at the corner of St.Antoine and Clinton. Later renamed the Frank Murphy Hall of Justice, the Recorders Court building is still there as far as I know.

A small group (maybe ten or twelve—mostly Jewish) of the criminal lawyers, who practiced in the Recorders Court daily (of which I was one), became known as the Clinton Street Bar. We were a motley band, but all of us, in differing degrees, had the ability of cutting a deal for a client by adroit plea-bargaining. As a result, trials were rare. But most of us, again to differing degrees (with several exceptions), could try a case, if we had to.

The two outstanding trial lawyers of the Clinton Street Bar, in my opinion, were bald-headed, Jake Goldberg and shaggy-haired, Manny Feldman. They both had the unique gift, on cross-examination, of making an honest witness appear to be mistaken or lying. The best Gentile law firms didn’t have trial lawyers with their polished skills. The rest of us were just able journeymen, except for Harry Rose and Joe Kopinski, who were totally inept, in my book.

And the preeminent plea bargainer of all was silver-haired, Frank Ringler. What a smooth apple! Dapper in his custom-made, double-breasted suits, always with a small rose boutonniere in his lapel, long-time criminal law practitioner, he was the ultimate charmer; the deal-cutter without peer. I don’t recall him ever trying a case; nor do I know if he could. But he didn’t have to. Through the years, he had built-up relationships with most of the prosecutors and judges. And through those relationships, his charm, and brilliant intuitive knowledge of human nature he was able — almost invariably—to maneuver a case in front of the right judge—a light sentencer—and cut a deal. He was on retainer with the numbers syndicates and the brothel owners; he was the lawyer, who, at the Early Morning Session call, stood beside the accused hookers or numbers runners, in his splendidly tailored suits, and paid the twenty-five dollar fines on their behalf from his cash-stuffed briefcase.

Practicing law in the Recorders Court was a relatively paperless pursuit. Unlike civil practice, there were few papers a lawyer had to prepare. And, contrary to the popular image, there was not that much trial work; the great majority of the cases were plea-bargained, as I’ve noted. Most days, by lunch time, you were done for the day. Some of us usually retired to Jack Krinsky’s office in the Commerce Building; brought lunch in, and played poker or pinochle the rest of the day, sometimes joined by one of the Recorders Court judges. A telephone call from one of our secretaries that a client wished to speak with his lawyer, or that a newly arrested person needed a Writ of Habeas Corpus were the only allowable interruptions.

Judge Joseph Brady was the judge, who joined us most regularly. A Falstaffian figure of a man, former University of Michigan lineman and tackle for the Detroit Lions, he was a funny guy. I remember being in his courtroom one Monday morning (the busiest morning of the week) for the Early Morning Sessions call. The purpose of the call (assigned to a different judge each month on a rotating basis) was to bestow justice upon those members of society (the dregs), who had been arrested the night before on misdemeanor charges, typically: drunkenness, disorderly conduct (usually pissing on the sidewalk), running numbers, prostitution, assault and battery, an array of minor gambling offenses, and the like.

The bailiff herded these scruffy