Mickey Russian's Brother

By Martin Starkand

This is the saga of the Roshensky family. Jacov, the father, is a prosperous jeweler who, in his youth, was a Marxist rebel in tsarist Russia and still possesses the heart of an idealist. Mikhail, Jacovs oldest son, is brilliant, handsome, and fearless; he is drawn to the underside of life and becomes a notorious professional gambler known as Mickey Russian. Bobby, the youngest Roshensky, dazzled by his older brothers lifestyle, finds himself entangled in the violent world Mickey lords over.

Their tale journeys through the Spanish Civil War, Nazi Germany, betrayal, murder, revenge, and the landing at Normandy on June 6, 1944.


Please visit www.martinstarkand.com and www.MICKEYRUSSIANSBROTHER.com for more information.

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BOOK REVIEWS:

"Vivid and intriguing, Mickey Russian's Brother is a compelling novel."

Martin Richards
Tony Award and Golden Globe and Academy Award winner for Chicago


"The Book is an unusual amalgam of several genres, part gangster novel, part war story, part thriller. It is well written and often quite funny."

Kirkus Discoveries

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 28, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462824854

Martin Starkand

Before he became a writer, Martin Starkand was a professional actor, singer, and variety performer. He has appeared in a number of films such as Serpico, The French Connection, The Next Man, and Dog Day Afternoon, to name a few. Early in his career, he performed as a comic/singer in nightclubs, resorts, hotels, and on several luxury liners that cruised to Europe, the Caribbean, and Central America. Last year he put the finishing touches to a romantic satire entitled Princess Yellow Rose, and is currently writing a sequel to Mickey Russians Brother.

Book preview

Mickey Russian’s Brother

Martin Starkand

Copyright © 1994, 1997, 2008 by Martin Starkand.

TXu 817-793 registered 1997

TXu 625-786 registered 1994

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

47160

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Sources

DEDICATION

For my daughters Elizabeth Robin and Rebecca Alison Starkand

CHAPTER ONE

New York City, December 1942

She was a lavish-looking redhead with long slender legs and large breasts that kept trying to swim out from under her fur coat as she chased him down Forty-ninth Street.

Slow up, will you, Mickey?

Come on, come on, he yelled back at her as he strode through the crowd, his camel-hair polo open in the freezing December night, a dark grey fedora cocked over his right eye, trying hard to look like Tyrone Power. He swept into Madison Square Garden, the redhead trailing behind.

Inside, the first preliminary fight was under way. There was cheering and jeering as the shorter and heavier of the two fighters chased his opponent around the ring, landing punches seemingly at will, that is, when he was able to catch up with him. The taller man’s flight was so graceful it almost appeared as an offensive tactic, as though he were looking to lure his opponent into a certain corner and turn on him. The truth was that he was terrified, and what he was looking for was a way out. As the round ended, the taller man took a glancing blow to his nose. It didn’t inflict any real damage, but it started his blood flowing and the crowd cheering. He walked to his stool and sat down as his corner man, Joey Barbero, went to work on him.

What the fuck’s wrong with you, Bobby? This bum is beatin’ the shit outa you. What are you doin’ out there?

I’m trying to figure his style Joey, that’s all.

I’ll tell you what his style is. He keeps punchin’ you in the fuckin’ head. That’s his style.

Bobby took a mouthful of water and spit it out. Where’s Mickey? Did he get here yet?

Yeah, yeah, he’s here, Joey said as he finished touching up Bobby’s bloody nose.

Where?

Right behind you, first row center. Next to the redhead with the big tits, Denise.

Bobby nearly fell off his stool as he quickly turned to wave at his brother. Mickey returned the gesture, and Denise smiled.

Now you don’t wanna make a fool outa yourself in front of your brother, do ya? Joey asked.

No.

Then pay attention to what I’m telling you. This guy’s only got a right hand. He can’t do piss with his left. That’s the only reason you’re still alive.

How do you think I should handle him?

How you should handle him is, the next time he swings at you, try hittin’ him back. The shock will probably kill him.

Right, Joey.

You gotta go after him, Bobby. Show him your jab—show him your jab, Joey pantomimed. Let him throw his right, then left hook, right cross, and he’s mashed potatoes.

The bell rang, and Bobby stood up and turned to face his brother. Mickey winked at him.

Go get him, kid! he shouted as the redhead shook her breasts at him. Bobby took a deep breath, then whipped out of his corner, arms up, spitting his left hand and tracking his man. All the terror that had cramped his intestines in the previous round was now propelling his jab. The sudden onslaught surprised and confused his opponent, and he began to back off. Bobby moved in on him—in, in, in—and when he cornered his man, the jab became a powerful left hook that stunned the other fighter. Another left hook and the man was dazed and defenseless. It was time to finish him off, but Bobby hesitated, his right hand poised and primed for launching. He wished he could stop and walk away, but he knew that wouldn’t satisfy Mickey.

Take him, Bobby, take him now. That was Joey. Still, Bobby lingered.

You want me to come in there and do the job for you? Cream the son of a bitch. That was Mickey. Bobby got the message and let go with his right. If Bobby’s left hook was a surprise, then his right cross was a revelation. The blow landed like a pistol shot to the head, and his opponent fell to the floor facedown and lay there in oblivion. Bobby’s first impulse was to go over to the fallen man and apologize, but the referee shoved him into a neutral corner and as the Garden rocked with cheers, counted out the prostrate fighter. The winner by a knockout! the ref shouted as he raised Bobby’s right arm. Bobby the Russian.

Not Bobby the Russian. It’s Bobby Russian, schmuck! Bobby Russian! Joey yelled. Bobby pranced around the ring, looking out for his brother’s face in the crowd, caught his eye, gave him a wink, and then threw up.

A thing of beauty is a beautiful thing—what a right hand, what a right hand, like a goddamned cannon. He hits just like you, Mickey—just like you. Right, Mick?

Right, Joey.

The four of them sat in Lindy’s Restaurant, talking and chewing excitedly. Joey turned to Bobby and half seriously and half not said, You could have a hell of a career if you wanted.

Bobby sat up. Forget it. This was my first and last fight. That was the deal. Right, Mick?

That was the deal. Here, I’ve got something for you. Mickey pushed a small gift-wrapped package across the table between the pastrami sandwich and the cheesecake. Bobby picked it up and opened it. A watch. A curved to the wrist 18-karat gold-white enameled-Roman numeraled Cartier watch. Bobby was overwhelmed.

Why did you get me this, Mickey?

You deserve it, kid.

Can I look at it? the redhead asked.

Sure, Denise. Bobby handed her the watch.

It’s gorgeous. She handed the timepiece back to Bobby. Use it in good health, sweetie.

Read the inscription on the back, Mickey said. Bobby turned the watch over and read the writing on the back. ‘To my brother, the champ’. Mickey, how did you know I’d win?

Because I believe in you, pal, and you’ve never disappointed me yet.

The two men stood up in the restaurant and faced each other. At a casual glance, they did not look like brothers, although they were both just over six feet tall. Mickey had broader shoulders and was a solid twenty pounds heavier. While Bobby was a well-built, attractive young man, he could not match his brother’s sizzling handsomeness. With dark wavy hair and a smile so open and engaging, Mickey both captivated women and reassured men. From the cut of his hand-tailored clothes to his bold swagger, he was a man easy to admire. The brothers embraced and exchanged a kiss on the cheek.

You know why you had to fight him, kid, don’t you?

I guess so, Mickey.

You can’t allow some lowlife to come into your place of business and make a fool out of you. Right?

Right.

You manage the place, and this creep comes in and shoves you around in front of everybody. It doesn’t look right for you, and it sure as hell doesn’t look right for me. I own the joint.

You shoulda decked him right off! The second-rate punk fighter, he figures he’s a pro, and he can muscle you.

I tried to talk sense to him, Joey. After all, he had a reason to be mad at me.

Why? Was it your fault you got trapped in the refrigerator with his broad?

Who got trapped in what refrigerator with who? Denise asked.

With whom! corrected Mickey.

With whom? she asked again.

Didn’t Mickey tell you? Joey said.

He don’t . . . doesn’t—she corrected herself—tell me anything.

You want to tell her, Bobby? Joey asked. Bobby didn’t answer. You mind if I tell her?

Tell me already, tell me, Denise pleaded. Everybody else knows. Who am I gonna to say somethin’ to?

Well, Joey began. You know the walk-in fridge in Mickey’s place between the kitchen and the bar? Denise nodded. So, about six weeks ago, it was a Saturday night I think . . . right, Bobby? Bobby barely acknowledged him. And it’s real busy, so Bobby’s helpin’ out at the bar, and they run short of sliced fruit. So Bobby goes into the walk-in, ’cause he keeps a couple of extra trays of sliced fruit there just in case and in trots Rosalie, the flower girl.

What’s she doin’ in the fridge?

’Cause she keeps her flowers there, and she ran out ’cause they was so busy.

So?

So somebody slams the door when they’re in there together, and it jams shut.

Who did it?

We figure it was one of the waiters. He probably figured someone left it open and slammed it, not on purpose. It was crazy busy, and the door blocks the entrance to the kitchen.

Oh my God. It suddenly dawned on Denise. Rosalie doesn’t hardly wear anything when she’s selling flowers.

Right.

Why didn’t somebody shut off the fridge?

Nobody knew they was in there until about twenty minutes later when the bartender tried to get in, and he hears Bobby pounding on the door. So when he figures out what happened, he shuts the refrigerator off. But that kills the light inside and don’t make it much warmer anyhow.

So they were alone in the cold and the dark? Denise shuddered.

Yeah. Meanwhile, me and Mickey dropped by just to check out the place on our way out to Jersey, and it takes me forty minutes to pry open the door with a crowbar.

I thought we were going to have to get a blowtorch, Mickey added.

You must have been in there over an hour. How did you and Rosalie stay warm, Bobby? Denise wondered. Bobby’s face colored.

They were screwing.

Joey, watch your language in front of a lady, Mickey chided.

All right, I’m sorry, Denise—they was humping. I popped the door, and there they were—

In love’s embrace, Mickey interjected.

Propped up against the stepladder doin’ the thing, Joey continued.

Still . . . after over an hour? Denise asked in wonder.

Bobby could listen to no more and excused himself and went to the men’s room. Joey went on. They didn’t even know we was there, I don’t think. Finally, Rosalie yells something about the face of Jesus, and everybody cheers and applauds.

You mean there were people watching?

The help—whoever wasn’t on the floor workin’ was trying to lend a hand.

How embarrassing, Denise said.

As soon as he walked into the men’s room, Bobby got nauseous and threw up his dinner in the toilet. He washed his face with cold water as he stood in front of the mirror, trembling and attempting to regain his composure. At least it was over with. Over! All those weeks of training with Joey and worrying about what would happen should he get beaten. How could he look Mickey in the face if he’d lost? And he’d won, big. Still he stood there shaking with fright as the numbness of his victory wore off, and the pain of the beating he’d absorbed began to trouble him. He was exhausted, and his body ached, and he felt chilled. It was almost worth all the anguish though to have had Rosalie that way in the freezer. He hadn’t planned it of course, but it had been such a long time since he had made love that he began to fantasize the situation. The only time they were ever alone together was in the walk-in refrigerator, and it seemed to him that when they were there, Rosalie always found a pretext to rub up against him or bump into him. He developed what he believed to be a one-sided crush on the girl, and then the opportunity presented itself. When the door slammed shut on them, they’d both laughed at their predicament. But as the minutes passed and it got colder, Rosalie began to panic. So he put his jacket around her shoulders and held her to comfort and reassure her. Then she kissed him, which encouraged him to kiss her in return and fondle her, although he was certain she would ask him to stop at any moment. But when the light went out, she simply said, Fuck me, Bobby. Shy and as uncertain of himself as he was, his need outweighed his doubts as his body chemistry took hold of him. There was no need to undress her; her skimpy costume left her nearly naked under his jacket. Her breasts had already spilled out of the top of her tights, and he slid aside the lower half of her outfit and got into her as they leaned against a wooden stepladder. They were so caught up in the heat of their encounter that they were barely aware of the clamor outside the door. As he moved deeper into her, he began to fall in love, and she, delighted by the size and verve of his intrusion, began to dwell on a way to work him into a steady schedule. Then the door burst open, and so did their bubble. Rosalie did not show up for work the following night, and several days later when she did come into the club, eyes blackened and face bruised, she was accompanied by her boyfriend, Sonny Stratto, and two of the goons he hung out with. Sonny was an acquaintance of the bartender, so word of what took place in the freezer reached him the following day. He’d confronted Rosalie (who denied everything), and then he punched her around. Now he came in with two of his henchmen to exact retribution and do mayhem in general for Bobby’s affront to his manliness. Bobby, being a complete gentleman (and somewhat foolhardy), admitted to what had taken place, took complete responsibility for the incident, and attempted to apologize for his indiscretion. It was to no avail, for Sonny, upon hearing his confession, immediately slapped Bobby across the face and kicked him to the floor. Surprised and terrified by the assault, he lay there paralyzed with fear. It was only through the intervention of the burly Joey Barbero and several of the huskier waiters that Bobby was spared a more thorough thrashing. He had been humiliated and defamed in front of his staff, and when his brother Mickey learned of the debacle, he was livid.

How could you lay there like a pussy and not do anything, Bobby? How could you not do anything?

I felt I was in the wrong, Mickey. It was my fault the whole thing happened. I made the first move.

So? Did she fight you back? Did you have to slug her one or tie her up or force her?

No, but she’s someone else’s girl—it wasn’t right.

Listen to me, pal. They’re all someone else’s, girl. Every dame over the age of twelve is seeing someone, sleeping with someone, living with someone, or married to someone. They all belong to someone else, and if you let that stand in your way, you’ll never get laid!

But it wasn’t right . . . I ruined Rosalie’s reputation.

Mickey’s eyes rolled heavenward. Kid, you’re my brother, and I love you. But when it comes to real life, you’re something of a schmuck.

What do you mean?

What reputation are you talking about? Rosalie’s been working for you for six months, and she’s already screwed three of the waiters, and Mike, the bartender, has been doing her on a regular basis. That’s why he ratted you out. He probably saw the size of your schlong and got an inferiority complex.

Bobby winced at the reference to his manhood. How do you know Mike told on me?

Never mind, I know that’s all. Christ, Bobby, don’t you ever listen to me—didn’t I tell you that all women are cunts? When you look into a broad’s eyes, you should never see her face. You should only see her crack and try to figure the best way in, because more than half the time she’s thinking the same thing you are and trying to figure out the best way to let you in. Capish? Bobby nodded, but he didn’t necessarily agree with his brother’s assessment.

Now I’ve got to arrange for you to fight him.

Fight who, Mickey?

Sonny Stratto, that’s who. You’ve got to fight him and beat the hell out of him.

Why do I have to fight him? Why can’t I make an apology and forget about it?

You tried to apologize to the scumbag, and he tried to beat you to death. Talk won’t do it. You’ve got to fight him.

But he’s a professional, Mickey. He’s unbeaten. I can’t win against him.

Sure you can. He’s had ten fights as a pro, eight of them were dive bombers, the other two times he fought against bums ten years older than he was, and he couldn’t put either one of them away, he won by decisions. He hasn’t got a punch, Bobby, he hasn’t got a punch.

I don’t know . . .

Look, if he was so brave why did he come looking for you with two of his boyfriends? You can take him, kid, I know. You hit him with one good right hand, and he’ll disintegrate, I promise you. Bobby was not convinced.

Look at it this way, pal, if you don’t fight against him, he’s going to come looking for you again. You’re not going to have any peace until you stand up to him.

Bobby thought a moment. I guess you’re right. Okay, I’ll fight him.

Good kid.

Sonny Stratto was controlled by a hoodlum from Brooklyn by the name of Nick Gentalia, who lived not far from the neighborhood that Bobby and Mickey grew up in. Mickey had substantial affiliations of his own with organized crime, so arranging the contest was a relatively simple matter. But there was more to it than that. Neither Mickey nor Nick liked each other, and the squabble between Bobby and Sonny was to precipitate a series of more ominous events.

Bobby splashed cold water on his face one more time, dried himself, left the men’s room somewhat more composed and returned to the table.

Hey, Bobby, what happened to you? What took you so long? We was about to send Denise to go looking for you.

Oh, Joey, you were not, Denise giggled.

Are you all right, pal? You look worried.

I’m all right, Mickey. I was just wondering—

What?

Suppose Papa finds out about what happened tonight?

Finds out what?

You know . . . that I had a fight. Suppose he finds out?

He’s not going to find out. He’s out of the country. How is he going to find out? Mickey rose from the table and dropped a couple of twenties to cover the bill and gratuity. Okay, kids. Now let’s go over to the club and show them all who runs the place.

Outside the restaurant, Mickey took Joey aside. How come Bobby hasn’t fired Mike yet for ratting him out to Sonny?

You know why, Mickey. Mike came to Bobby and apologized to him for what happened.

Christ, how can he be so stupid? Why does he want to keep the guy when he’s a squealer?

Don’t worry about it, Mickey. Mike won’t be coming into work no more. He had an accident.

What kind of an accident?

He fell up and down a flight of stairs and broke his arms.

When did this happen?

Yesterday morning after he left the club.

How did you find out about it?

I was there when the clumsy fuck fell.

Well, at least Mike was out of the way, but Mickey was still concerned. The very fact that Sonny Stratto had the audacity to walk into his club and attack Bobby was a show of disrespect. Sonny never would have committed an affront like that without the backing of Nick Gentalia. What Mickey couldn’t figure out was why. Something was up. Something.

2

You arrange a boxing match in Madison Square Garden in front of thousands of people, and now you are surprised that I have found out about it? Jacov Roshensky stood facing his oldest son in the wood-paneled library of his house, a four-story brownstone that adjoined Prospect Park in Brooklyn.

You were out of the country. I didn’t figure you’d be back so soon, Papa—anyway, he won.

Oh, he won? The elder Roshensky lit the cigarette in his holder and took a puff. What did he win—money?

Some, but that wasn’t the point.

Yes? Mr. Roshensky took another puff and waited.

I’m trying to give Bobby some self-confidence. You know what Mama tried to make out of him.

A gentleman.

A pansy! You taught me how to take care of myself—I’m teaching him.

I taught you how to defend yourself, not how to assault people.

It was a sporting event, not an assault.

I imagine the man who was beaten might feel differently.

The man who was beaten is a two-bit lowlife who had it coming to him. He came into the club with two of his friends and tried to cripple Bobby.

Why?

What’s the difference why? Because there are people like that that’s why. All right? What’s the fuss about, Papa? Bobby had a fight, one on one, fair and square with a trained professional, and he whipped him, and that’s the end of that.

Is it? I heard that the man ended up in the hospital with a broken jaw and a severe concussion.

Tough luck. Anyway Bobby sent him a note of apology and a basket of fruit.

Suppose your brother had received the beating, what then?

But he didn’t, Papa, he didn’t.

Mr. Roshensky sighed heavily and took a good look at his son and saw his wife’s face. A long straight nose, blue eyes, full mouth, and a crown of dark hair, and when he was in the right frame of mind, the same endearing smile. Amazing. When did he lose him? At what point did Mikhail Roshensky, such a bright shining star, become Mickey Russian? Mickey! What a name. It conjured up visions of a cartoon mouse or a short movie star with a squeaky voice, not the splendid creature standing before him.

Your brother looks up to you. You are a major influence in his life, Mr. Roshensky began.

If you stuck around a little bit more instead of spending your time trying to save the world, maybe you’d be a major influence on Bobby yourself.

What is wrong with trying to save the world or at least some small part of it since so much of it is being destroyed?

Because the world doesn’t want to be saved. The world is happy doing exactly what it pleases, and neither you or anybody else is going to stop it from going to hell with itself. It’s like the tide, right now it’s going out and until it comes back you either go along with it or you go under.

There are times when you must fight the sequence of events no matter what the risk.

Why, Papa? Why? For the longest time you believed communism was the answer to the woes of the world. The Communists were going to educate and feed and free the downtrodden masses and save us all. Then Stalin shook hands with Hitler, and it broke your heart.

It didn’t break my heart. I saw it coming, Mr. Roshensky lied.

It broke your heart. I don’t know which affected you more: Mama’s death or Stalin’s pact with Hitler.

Jacov Roshensky stiffened at the remark, and Mickey thought for a moment his father might strike him. He was sorry he’d said it but wouldn’t apologize. Instead he continued, Now you believe Roosevelt and democracy are the answer. Well, let me tell you something they all have an angle, and it has nothing to do with saving anybody—it has to do with power and money and greed. A lot of people are going to get rich in this war, and a lot of people are going to get dead. All I want to do is stay among the living and make some money.

Even if you make a criminal out of your brother?

Bobby manages a supper club I own on Fifty-second Street, and it’s strictly a legitimate operation—nothing illegal goes on there.

What about the gambling casino you operate in New Jersey? That is not legal, is it?

It’s not legal to cheat on your wife. It’s not legal to shortchange your Uncle Sam on your tax return. People do it, and people gamble.

Mikhail, you are directly involved with the kinds of criminals who think nothing of resorting to violence to resolve the most minor of disputes—real or imagined.

That’s the way of the world, Mickey answered.

What do you know of the world? Where in the world have you traveled, and what in the world have you experienced that gives you the insight to pass judgment so readily on what is right and what is wrong for all of us? Mr. Roshensky angrily responded.

It’s like Einstein said, ‘There is no right or wrong in the universe, just consequences.’

That is an interesting philosophy you have adopted. It has made an outlaw out of you and allows you to drag your brother down the same path.

I’m not dragging Bobby anywhere, Papa. He still lives in the same house with you, and he still comes home right after work whether you’re here or not. He’s a good kid, and I intend to keep him that way. Mickey was growing tired of the debate and took a step toward the door.

Consequences sometimes have a way of interfering with intentions, my son.

I’ll try to hold onto that thought. Now if you don’t mind, I have some business to attend to. Mickey buttoned his coat, walked to the door, and turned to his father. Nice to have you home again, Papa. He left the house and walked up the street toward his parked car and ran into his brother Bobby, his arms laden with groceries. Hey, kid, what did you do? Buy out the store?

I did some shopping—Papa’s home. Did you see him?

Yeah, I saw him.

Did he say anything to you about anything?

He told me he had a terrific trip, and he was happy to be back.

Why don’t you stay and have lunch with us, Mick?

I can’t, pal. I’ve got to be somewhere. I’ll see you later. Mickey opened the door of his 1939 Cord automobile, slipped behind the wheel, and started the engine. He was about to drive off when a thought occurred to him, so he rolled the window down and called out to his brother. Bobby! Denise has a cousin that’s looking for a job. She’ll be dropping by the club tonight.

Bobby didn’t fully understand. Who will be dropping by, Denise or her cousin? he asked.

Her cousin, pal, her cousin.

What’s her name?

Mona or Magda or Marsha. I don’t remember exactly. You’ll recognize her. She’s a tall, redhead like Denise, Mickey answered.

She looks like Denise?

Something like her, except she’s flat chested.

Well, she can’t be the new flower girl, Bobby thought to himself. Maybe the hatcheck girl.

She’s from the other side, Mickey added.

Where from the other side?

Some place in Europe, one of the friendly countries.

Does she speak English?

I guess so. Look, pal, you talk to her and find out. I’ve got to go. Mickey put the car in gear and began to edge into traffic. See if you can keep your hands off this one, tiger. Mickey laughed and then gunned the engine and sped off into the middle of the day.

3

Monika. Her name was Monika, spelled with a K not with a C, she told him. Monika Nielsman, in the middle of her twenties, and Swedish. Bobby had come into the club a little earlier than usual to find her already waiting for him, seated, hands folded in her lap, at one of the tables near the bar. He figured out who she was as soon as he saw her long red hair and introduced himself. She stood up immediately and shook his hand with a firm grip and gave her name. She was tall in her high heels; she was only a few inches shorter than Bobby. And she was slender, too slender he thought, as she removed her coat for the interview and draped it over one of the chairs. The only part of her that seemed to have some excess of flesh was her behind, which pushed out against the seat of her dress as though it was seeking another body to attach itself to. She did not look like Denise. Her mouth was not as lush nor were her eyes as large as her cousin’s, and her breasts seemed nonexistent, and although she spoke English fairly fluently, she had an accent.

Wery pleased to meet you, she said.

Bobby was somewhat disappointed. He hadn’t expected a great beauty, but he had hoped the girl would be prettier than she turned out to be. Well, he didn’t have to go out with her. (He never involved himself with the girls who worked at the club in any instance. What happened with Rosalie in the freezer was an anomaly.) All he had to do was hire her, if he wanted to, and she was not without appeal.

Would you like to work the hatcheck room, Monika? Bobby offered. Monika let out an audible sigh. From the manner in which Bobby had looked her over, she felt she might not be hired. He didn’t seem to be attracted to her, although most men usually were.

Yah, yes, she answered. I would like to wery much.

Wery again. We’ll have to work on that. It’s not a complicated job, but it can get hectic. We get pretty busy here. Have you eaten yet? Bobby asked.

Eaten?

Did you have your supper yet?

No, not yet, she said.

You’d better have something now. You may not have a chance later on.

You want me to start now to work?

If that’s okay with you?

That’s okay with me.

Follow me, Bobby said as he led her into the kitchen and introduced her to the chef. You can have whatever you like within reason, he told her. But no liquor when you’re working. You can have a beer or two with your dinner but no more than that. All right?

Yah, all right.

Jack! Bobby addressed one of the waiters. This is Monika, she’s running the hatcheck now. Set up a table so she can eat her dinner. The waiter nodded at them both and dashed off into the dining room.

Delores will be here in a little while, and she’ll break you in.

Delores breaks me in?

Yes, Delores will show you what your job is. Right now she’s running the hatcheck and selling flowers and cigarettes too. I think she’ll be very happy to meet you. Come inside, we’ll sit you down and serve you your meal. He led her back into the dining room over to a table that had been prepared and pulled out a chair for Monika. What would you like to drink?

I can have beer?

Sure.

Beer then. Monika wasn’t quite certain why he was being so solicitous of her. Was it because she was Denise’s relative, or was it because he wanted to impress her with his authority? It didn’t matter. She liked him, and she wanted the job.

This is all we have that’s cold now, Bobby said as he brought over a tall glass of draft beer to her table and set it down. If you want another, just tell one of the waiters, and he’ll bring it to you.

Thank you, Mr. Roshensky, she said.

Mr. Roshensky? Bobby smiled. Denise must have told her to say that. To everyone at the club, he was Bobby, or sometimes he was called Mr. Russian. But never Mr. Roshensky.

"Bobby, just call me Bobby, Monika, with a K.’"

Thank you, Bobbee. She smiled back at him as seductively as possible.

About an hour later, Delores came in, took Monika into the hatcheck room, closed the door, and while she changed into her tights and net stockings, filled her in on her responsibilities. Delores was a honey-colored blond in her late twenties with a cute face and a large bosom, which she fully displayed as she squeezed herself into the tights that once belonged to the somewhat less amply endowed Rosalie.

They’re big, ain’t they? Delores loaded her bosoms into the upper half of her costume.

Uh-huh, Monika said wistfully as she watched the struggle. Cow, she said to herself.

I really should get a new outfit, Delores yammered as she finally engineered her breasts into place. But the male clientele get such a kick out of my boobs hangin’ out halfway, and the tips are so good, I keep puttin’ it off. She pinned a little pink bow between the two mounds of flesh. There, the finishing touch. Delores took a pack of Camels out of her handbag and put one in her mouth, then searched for and found a book of matches.

What do you think of the boss, honey?

He seems wery nice.

That’s a cute accent you have, sweetie. It’ll go over big with the clientele. Delores lit the cigarette and took a deep drag. He is very nice. When he first came to work here about three and a half years ago, he started as a bus boy, then he worked the bar, doin’ everything, cutting up the fruit, bringing the ice. Then he became a waiter, even worked in the kitchen for a while. He didn’t have to, you know. He’s the owner’s brother, you know.

I know.

So when Mickey made him manager last year, Bobby knew how the place ran inside and out.

How long you working here? Monika asked.

Ever since the place opened up four years ago, Delores answered. Anyhow, she resumed after a deep breath and another drag on her cigarette, a lot of the girls here thought Bobby was kinda funny, you know. Because he never tried anything fresh or out of the way with any of us—you know what I mean?

Funny? Monika wondered.

Yeah, you know, strange . . . queer . . . a fairy, Delores explained in a whisper. Monika gave her a blank stare.

Don’t they have them where you come from? A fag! Delores began an exaggerated swish around the coatroom, and Monika suddenly understood.

A homosexual, you mean?

Shush, not so loud, Delores said. Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean.

Bobbee? Monika said in astonishment.

That’s a killer accent you have there, honey, don’t ever lose it, Delores went on. That’s what we all thought—that he was a little queer, you know . . . I mean he’s such a gentleman he opens doors for you and pulls out chairs and all that, and he speaks so nicely, and he never lays a hand on you, even when you’d like him to. But after what happened with Rosalie in the freezer. Boy! I saw them . . . Oh, is he equipped! Well, my mother always told me large hands, large feet, large everything. I wonder how Rosalie managed to lock herself in with him. Well, leave it to her. Anyway he’s not queer, we found that out.

What freezer? Monika was bewildered.

You’ll find out in time, sweetie. I talk too much. Look, honey, you’ve got a very good job here. You get to keep most of what you make in tips. A lot of places they take half and more of what you get back from you. And here they treat you with respect. Anybody says or does anything out of the way, you tell Bobby or one of the waiters, and it’ll be taken care of, pronto. Just remember no drinking of hard liquor on the premises, no dating of the clientele, and no stealing from the establishment or the customers. Okay, Monika?

Okay, Delores.

That’s a sweet dress you have on . . . but you could use a little makeup, honey.

I have on makeup.

Yeah? Well, we’ll talk about it later. I gotta get myself set up now.

The night went by swiftly, and several times during the evening, Bobby peeked in to see how things were going. He had changed into a double-breasted tuxedo with a maroon cummerbund and matching bow tie, and Monika thought he looked rather dashing, almost handsome. This was an exciting place to work. Well-dressed men and lovely women shuffled in and out constantly. Some of the men looked like gangsters, and some of the women looked like, well, professionals. There were occasional soldiers and sailors popping in, usually to sit at the long bar, which was directly opposite the small bandstand. They’d order a beer, listen to the music, try to pick up a girl, and depending on their luck, would either end up at a table for two or go try their chances at another cafe. The name of the club was Mickey’s. It was formerly a speakeasy during prohibition. After the Repeal it became a supper club. And when Mickey had purchased the lease and renamed the place after himself, it became a very prosperous supper club. He saw to it that the kitchen was first class, the liquor unwatered, and the entertainment top-notch. There were two bands that played alternately throughout the night. One played jazz, and the other played Latin music, which the customers crowded onto the diminutive dance floor to sway to. Located in a basement at the bottom of a long flight of stairs on Fifty-second Street between Sixth and Seventh avenues, Mickey’s competed against a host of other nightspots in the vicinity and more than held its own.

About 2:30 a.m. Mickey, Denise, and Joey Barbero breezed into the club on their way back from the casino in New Jersey and checked their coats with Monika. As Denise lingered to chat with her cousin, the two men sat down at a table in the back with Bobby.

So he hired you right off? That’s swell. How do you like it so far, baby? Denise asked Monika.

Like you say, so far so good, Monika chirped.

Gosh, you sound so Americanized, I can’t believe it, Denise giggled back.

You are in a good mood, Denise.

You bet I am—take a look at this. Denise raised her left hand and displayed a large diamond ring on her fourth finger.

Oooh, who gives this to you—Mickey?

Who else do you think?

This means you are engaged to be married?

Are you silly? The only thing Mickey engages me in is sex. No, this means the blond bombshell from the Bronx is on her way out, and I’m the number one lady in his life now.

You luff him, Denise?

Do I love him? You don’t love someone like Mickey. You’re crazy about him, or you’re mad about him, or you adore him, but you don’t love him, because then you lose control of yourself, and there’s no future in that. Denise’s pretty face grew solemn for a moment. The ring she wanted was the diamond wedding band that Mickey wore around his neck on a gold chain. She suddenly perked up and asked, How about a glass of champagne, cousin, to celebrate?

No, I can’t—no drinking of hard liquor during working hours, Monika said in a voice that attempted to mimic Bobby’s.

Baby, I’m screwing the owner—you can have a little champagne with me.

No, Denise. You made me a favor.

I did you a favor, Denise corrected.

Thank you. You did me a favor to introduce me to Mickey, and I want to do my work by the rules. Okay?

Sure, Monika. Have you wrapped Bobby around your little finger yet?

No, he don’t look at me like that.

Give him time, baby. He’s a little shy, and your charms ain’t as obvious as mine. But you’re the sweetest thing on either side of the ocean, so just give him time. He’s twenty-six, single, and if he’s not rich already, he’s going to be, so just be patient.

That’s the third time in the past two months one of our big winners has been knocked over, Mickey said in deep conversation with Joey and Bobby at their table.

But I thought after the last time it happened you decided to provide an armed bodyguard to escort the winners home.

We did, Bobby, but they bushwhacked the car at the first stoplight and shot the driver in the head, then robbed the high roller.

They shot him in the head. How is he?

Extinct, and the high roller is out thirty-five thou of his winnings plus the fifteen he said he started with.

And the cops in Jersey is howling over it, ’cause it makes the neighborhood look lousy, Joey contributed. Plus it makes us look very bad if we can’t protect our customers when they make a score.

If the car was ambushed at the first stoplight, Bobby said, "then somebody inside the club must be tipping off somebody on the outside.

You’re right on the button, pal."

Who do you think it is, Mickey?

The inside man I’m not sure of yet, but I’m pretty sure I know the outside guy.

Who?

The scumbag from Brooklyn, Joey answered.

Who?

I’m almost positive it’s Nick Gentalia, Mickey said.

What are you going to do about it?

That Robert, my boy, is none of your affair. I’ve told you too much already. But rest assured it will be attended to, Mickey answered.

Rest assured, seconded Joey Barbero. I shoulda took care of the asshole ten years ago when I had the chance, he lamented further.

CHAPTER TWO

Brooklyn, 1931

Seven, another natural, someone announced with a moan. I’m wiped clean.

I’m tapped out too, another voice complained.

That’s gotta be ten passes in a row the kid’s made.

Twelve, a third man calculated. That finishes me, he said resignedly.

The crap game was being run by Nick Gentalia, a thug from Joey Barbero’s Brownsville neighborhood in Brooklyn, and had been in process for eight hours when Mickey, kneeling on the floor and rolling the dice, made a final pass that shut everyone out. The dozen or so losing players grumbled a bit as Mickey picked up his winnings and began to stuff his pockets with twenty-, fifty-, and one-hundred-dollar bills. They were playing in the living room of a small apartment in Brooklyn Heights overlooking the East River, and as the furniture was being moved back into place, Mickey stepped out on the terrace connected to the living room for a breath of air. It was the middle of summer, but there was an early-morning breeze that eased the heat and a stunning view of the Manhattan skyline. He was followed out to the terrace by Nick Gentalia’s nephew, an ox of a young man named Angelo or Big Angie as his associates called him. Joey Barbero, who had been at the game as an observer, not a player, started to join the two men on the terrace when he was distracted by Nick.

Your Jew boyfriend did all right tonight.

What are you crapping about Nick? You cut the game. You didn’t do too bad yourself, Joey retorted as the players began to file out the door.

What are you doing hanging around with a kike for anyway? Why don’t you come in with me?

‘Kike’? That ain’t a nice word. You wouldn’t say something like that to Mendy Weiss or Kid Twist, would you, Nick? Joey said, speaking of two notorious mobsters of the Jewish persuasion that came from their same neighborhood.

Fuck them two kikes too. They don’t scare me.

That’s only because they ain’t here in the same room with you, Nick.

Nick Gentalia was forty years old—a man of medium height and slicked back, black hair, who dressed like a movie gangster, and liked to think of himself as a comer in organized crime. But even among his own kind he was thought of as backstabbing and untrustworthy. He ran a small loan-sharking operation and a floating crap game under the protection of a cousin of his who was one of the higher-ups in a powerful Brooklyn mob and who didn’t care too much for Nick either. Nick had a reputation of not allowing big winners to walk away from his game unmolested. He often robbed them when the opportunity presented itself, beat them, and sometimes worse. Joey’s presence at the game was to ensure that if Mickey emerged a substantial winner, he would emerge unscathed. Joey was aware that Nick seldom carried a gun with him since he left the dirty work to others, but during the course of the game, he bumped into him to check him out anyway. He couldn’t get close enough to Big Angie to surreptitiously frisk him, but was almost certain he was carrying a weapon tucked into the waistband of his trousers and covered by a loose-fitting jacket that he never bothered to unbutton despite the heat and stuffiness of the room. Everyone else had left the apartment now, and if anything untoward was going to take place, this was the time for it. Joey made his move for the terrace again.

Hey, Joey. I didn’t mean to insult you, Nick said as he grabbed Joey’s arm. Joey shoved him aside and stepped out on the terrace where Mickey and Big Angie were having a conversation of their own, during which Nick’s nephew had slyly drawn his gun as Mickey admired the Manhattan skyline.

It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Mickey said.

Too many Jews there for me, the big man answered, taking a half step backward, his weapon in hand.

Mickey! He heard the click of a .38 being cocked and Joey Barbero’s warning simultaneously. Mickey turned and threw a roundhouse right at the jaw of a startled Angelo, who fired a wild shot before he dropped his gun and slumped against the wrought-iron railing of the terrace. Mickey clubbed him to the floor with a series of powerful punches while Joey picked up the pistol and covered Nick Gentalia, who had thoughts of making a rapid exit.

Hey, Nick, what’s the matter. Loud noises scare you? You’re not going to leave without kissing me good-bye, are you?

Listen, Joey, I didn’t have nothing to do with, Nick started to plead.

You know what Nick said about you before, Mickey?

Hey, Joey, don’t . . . I didn’t mean it . . . Nick stuttered.

What did he say about me? Mickey asked as he collected himself and started to cool down.

He said you were a no-good, low-down motherfucking Jew-shit kike. Joey embellished somewhat.

No . . . ! You said that about me? I thought you liked me, Nick.

I do, Mickey . . . I do . . . this is all a misunderstanding . . . you see, Angelo just wanted to make sure that nobody robbed you . . . I mean with all that dough on you—

You mean nobody but you should rob him, ain’t that right? Joey said.

No no no . . . look, maybe we can straighten this out. Why don’t I split what I cut the game for with you two guys and let bygones be bygones?

How much money are we talkin’ about, Nick? Joey asked.

I must have cleared close to two grand.

You’re a fucking liar, Nick. I was watching you, it was closer to four.

Okay, okay, I may have been off a little bit—whatever you say.

You’re such a greedy little fuck, Nick, and you got no respect. Mickey came into the game with me, and you were going to take him off right in front of me. What did you think I was going to do about it? Nothin’? Or were you going to whack me out too?

No, Joey . . . no . . . nothin’ like that . . . I swear on my mother’s life—

You swear? A scumbag like you swears? Listen to me, you pile of dogshit, Joey said as he leveled the gun at Nick’s head. I’m just as connected as you and that heap of shit on the floor you call your nephew are, and what’s more, I’m liked better because I don’t cause nobody no trouble. If I put a bullet in your head, who the hell would miss you? Joey pulled back the hammer on the .38.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Nick muttered as he turned pale white and grabbed his chest and leaned against the wall.

It was very close to happening when Mickey broke the tension. Come on, Joey, let’s get out of here.

Don’t you think I oughta teach this slimeball a lesson?

You already have, Joey. He’s wet his pants and probably crapped in them too. Mickey was right. There was a wet stain in the front of Nick’s white trousers, and if they could have seen it a brown one in the seat of his pants.

Joey lowered the weapon, released the hammer, put the gun in his jacket pocket, and told Nick, The next time I see Kid Twist, I’m going to tell him what you said about him.

It’s doubtful that Nick heard him. He was too busy clutching the cross hanging under his shirt and praying to God and all the saints he could think of.

Mickey and Joey left the building, got into Joey’s car, drove over the Manhattan Bridge onto Canal Street, turned onto Mulberry Street, and pulled the vehicle over to the curb. The two of them got into the backseat to count the night’s winnings. Mickey emptied his pants pockets and his jacket pockets, and Joey added the money that Mickey had been slipping to him all night long. It added up to thirteen thousand two hundred and twenty dollars. Mickey counted out sixty-six hundred and ten dollars and handed it to Joey.

Here’s your half.

Half—you’re giving half? We agreed 25 percent. You won the money on your own, Mick.

Are you complaining? You covered my back, Joey, you earned it.

Thanks. It was a close call, wasn’t it?

It’s supposed to be close. That’s what makes it exciting, Joey.

You wasn’t even scared the whole time, was you, Mickey?

Why should I be?

You’re somethin’ else, kid. I ain’t seen nobody ever do what you did tonight.

What’s that?

I ain’t never seen nobody put the big man down. I know Angelo since he was a little scumbag. I seen guys hit him with two-by-fours, I even saw a guy break a Coke bottle over his thick head, but nobody ever put him down. You hit him a couple of right hands, and he was still sleepin’ when we walked out the door. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but you sure impress the shit outa me.

Joey ruffled the wad of bills in his hands. Sixty-six hundred dollars: more money than he’d ever made on a fight, more money than most people made in a year. It was 1931, in the third year of the Great Depression.

2

There were bound to be repercussions over the confrontation at the crap game, and the following week Joey Barbero was called to a meeting with Nick Gentalia’s cousin Vincent at an Italian restaurant in downtown Brooklyn.

He swore to me on his mother’s life that this Mickey kid tried to hold up the game, and Angelo was only doin’ his job, and you came between, Vincent said to Joey as he chewed on his calamari dipped in hot sauce.

How was he goin’ to hold up the game? With his dick? Mickey doesn’t carry a piece, he’s not in the life. Anyway, he didn’t have to rob nobody. He broke the game open at the end with twelve straight passes, and if you don’t believe me, ask Fat Jack Minero, he was at the game.

I know, I already asked him.

So? What’d he say?

Have some calamari, Joey. It’s first rate, Vincent offered as he dipped some bread in the sauce. He said what you said, Joey, the kid was red-hot.

So? Joey asked, chewing slowly on his fried squid.

So why did this kid smack Angelo in the face with a chair, and why did you try to shoot Nick in the head and kill him? I know they can both be very unpleasant at times, but after all, they’re my relatives, Joey, this upsets me.

First off, Vincent, Mickey didn’t smack Angelo with no chair. He hit him square in the jaw with his right hand and put him out cold.

He knocked out Big Angie with his fist? Vincent asked incredulously.

Right, Joey answered. And only after the big schmuck, sorry, Vincent, Joey amended, only after Angelo tried to shoot him in the back with his .38, and if you don’t believe me, check out the apartment. There’s a .38 slug in the wall on the terrace.

Vincent poured some red wine in both their glasses and took a sip of his. You mean that Angelo had the drop on this kid, and he smacked him out anyway?

Right, Joey responded as he drained his glass of wine and warmed to the story. Second off, when I got a loaded gun in my hand and I am pointing it at someone’s fucking head, I am not trying to kill them—either I kill them, or I don’t kill them. I don’t have to try. No one should know this better than you, Vincent, and the only reason that scumbag . . . excuse me, Vincent, Joey amended again. The only reason that your cousin Nick is still walking the earth and is not surrounded by it is because he happens to be related to you!

Vincent poured some more wine into Joey’s glass and took another sip of his own. He knew that Joey Barbero had the ability to shoot someone in the head because as a favor to Vincent, Joey had done just that to a local bookie who had been both stealing from Vincent and informing on his operation to the police.

I can see that you are very disturbed by this, Joey, Vincent said as he sat back in his chair and allowed the waiter to serve the pasta. These are very strong words you are using.

Shouldn’t I be disturbed? Vincent, either I am one of us, or I am not one of us.

You are one of us, Joey, Vincent reassured Joey.

Okay then, so when I bring an associate of mine into a game where I am ‘known’ and Nick also knows that I’m very tight with Mickey and Nick tries to take him off anyway in front of my eyes, shouldn’t I be very unhappy about this? I ain’t a player, Vincent, everybody knows that, so I am expressly there to look out for my friend. Which means if Nick takes him out, I am not going to sit still for it, which means he got to take me out also. This disturbs me, Vincent. No question this disturbs me.

"Cool down, Joey. Mange, mange, eat your linguine paison."

Look, Vincent, when I am asked to dive, I dive. it doesn’t thrill me to do it, but I do it. I’ve done other things too—for you and other people—in return I deserve some respect, not only for myself, but for the people I’m with. What Nick and Big Angie done was not right, and what I done in return was not wrong.

You’re right, Joey, Vincent conceded. There was very little doubt in his mind that Joey was delivering a truer account of what took place than Cousin Nick’s version. Nick was a thorn in his side and also bad for business. When you rob a big winner, he doesn’t come back to play with you again, which means he doesn’t bring his friends to play with you, and big winners have big mouths, so word gets around. Nick ran his loan-sharking in a similar disdainful manner. When a client was tardy or reluctant to pay, Nick, instead of talking to the man, would have him badly beaten or crippled as a warning to other customers. Well, if the borrower was a laborer and his arm or leg was broken and he couldn’t work, how was he going to pay you back? The wanton violence inflicted discouraged return business and new patrons. Vincent also suspected that Nick wasn’t kicking back to him his fair share for supplying the protection.

What do you figure Nick cut the game for Joey?

Close to four very large ones. Why? What did he tell you?

That’s what he told me, Vincent fibbed. Actually Nick had told him it was twenty-five hundred, but what could he do about it? Nick was the son of his father’s favorite brother, Vincent’s hands were tied.

Well, it looks like I owe you on this. How can I make it right? Vincent asked.

Me and Mickey want to start a game of our own.

Where, here in Brooklyn?

No, in the city.

So . . . this kid Mickey isn’t in the life, but he wants to get involved?

Limited, just gambling—nothin’ else.

Did I ever meet this kid?

Yeah, I introduced him to you at the track a couple of months ago.

Was he that good-looking big college guy that was with you?

Yeah, except he ain’t goin’ to school no more.

They throw him out?

No, he graduated.

Honestly? Vincent asked. Joey nodded.

Well, well, well, think of that, Vincent mused. A real smart guy. Okay, Joey, I’ll talk to someone and get back to you. Meanwhile eat your linguine. It’s getting cold!

Joey took a forkful of pasta and began to eat. "I’ll tell you something, Vincent, I don’t know how much you like your aunt Theresa, but if Nick keeps swearin’ on her life, one of these days, God’s goin’ to take him