Public Parts

By Joel W. Harris

A failed escape? Or a Mob hit arranged by crime boss Meyer Lansky to silence him and save Lepke Buchalter, Bugsy Siegel and Albert Anastasia from the electric chair? Either way, Murder Incorporated hit man turned major crime snitch Abe "Kid Twist" Reles, "the pigeon who could sing but not fly," encountered the one law he could not evade: The Law of Gravity.
Thirty years later in the early 1970s, Larry Levine takes over at PUBLIC AUTO PARTS, in Brownsville, Brooklyn, when his father is forced into abrupt retirement in Florida to avoid questions about the demise of his old friend, Reles. Someone is talking. Larry knows a little of his father’s link to the Mob, but not nearly enough, as he is left to face a relentless police detective, John Mannion, who wants answers and an equally relentless Mob boss, Carmine, who wants cooperation. While trying to protect his father, end Mob sway at Public Parts, deal with Laurie, his dissatisfied wife, and Ann Riordan, his new, beautiful, and enigmatic young assistant, the business burns to the ground. Indicted for arson and other charges, he is defended by Brownsville's own Harvard trained Bernie the Attorney, once a renowned Mob mouthpiece, now turned Orthodox Rabbi, whose time has long past. Ultimately, Larry’s fate is in the hands of his assistant, whose reluctant testimony about the extent of their relationship and where they were on the night of the fire could save Larry from prison but could also destroy her engagement and his marriage.
PUBLIC PARTS is a black comedy of corruption and error cloaking a classic tale of love and betrayal, death and redemption; a might-be-true legend of its time and place, and Larry is the last man able to tell the tale.




PRAISE FOR PUBLIC PARTS

“The writing throughout is good-to-better-than-good.”
Richard Marek, former President and Publisher, E P Dutton Co

“A Triumph.”
Stefan Kanfer, former Book Editor, Time Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514406021

Joel W. Harris

A native of Brooklyn, New York, I attended James Madison High School and New York University. Creative writing was always a major interest, and I took several courses at both schools. Inducted into the army after a brief time at the New York Daily News, I was fortunate to get assignments that let me further develop and use what I had learned. After marrying my beautiful wife, Evvy, and in need of a steady income, I went into the insurance business. The brokerage office I joined had a clientele that was a colorful mixture of old world and new, including several businesses owned in part by the family of Meyer Lansky, who was our customer for a time. For the many years I worked there, first as an employee and eventually as the owner, I continued writing for my own enjoyment and to take further courses in the various skills required. If you want to study the skills required in storytelling, nothing beats the sudden talent evidenced when a client reports a claim. Even the dullest among them can be ingeniously creative when there is money involved. I learned a lot from them too. In September 1993, recuperating from back surgery, I started to write out the story that had been forming in my head for several years and which eventually became “Public Parts.”

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Copyright © 2015 by Joel W. Harris.

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.

With the exception of certain historical events and notable people presented herein with reasonable accuracy, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead and how they manage to mess up their lives and the lives of those they love, is unintended and coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Rev. date: 03/20/2020

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FOR EVELYN

WHO ALONE MADE IT POSSIBLE

CONTENTS

NOVEMBER 12, 1941

L it by the first rays of the rising sun, the death struggle overhead holds his attention. On his back on the bed in room 623 of Coney Island’s Half Moon Hotel, Abe Reles studies the action. Big bug thrashing in the web. Tricky spider in for the kill.

Abe understands spiders, understands tricky, understands killing- wonders if the spider gets a kick out of it like he did. More than a job, almost a calling. Good money, too. Enough for a house in Brooklyn and a wife and kids, one in the crib, one in the oven.

Now his career is over, and Abe has to be tricky, like a spider walking its web, to lure in the suckers and duck the price of eleven known contract rub-outs. There were more, but who counts? An ice pick in the ear was his specialty. Quick. No noise. No blood. They call him a ruthless, cold-blooded killer, a sure bet for the chair. So they got him, OK. But he’s got what they need: information. Dead men can’t sing. Dead men don’t make good material witnesses. Dead men can’t cut deals for their lives. Pittsburgh Phil Straus, Knadels Nitsberg, Bugsy Goldstein, and Happy Maione, fellow hit-men of Murder Incorporated found out the hard way. Once his good buddies, they’ve already fried with his help. Abe remembers all, and tells all, and more good friends will follow, but that doesn’t bother him. All part of the deal. His words will also get Lepke Buchalter a ride on Sing Sing’s Ol’ Sparky, which does bother him; and today he’s New York State’s star witness, in fact their only witness in the murder trial of Albert Anastasia, which bothers him a lot. Then they’ll take him to the Coast to do the job on Bugsy Siegel, which bothers him even more. These are big men, well connected, deadly when crossed. He knows. He’s done witness elimination jobs for all of them. But it’ll never happen to him. Abe’s singing days are over. Today he gets sprung.

Rosie was in to see him last night. They called it a conjugal visit, but the bitch wasn’t having any. Not in the mood. Sore as hell. Talking divorce. He would work on that. But she did say his guys were coming for him first thing in the morning. He should keep his radio on so they could find him easy. Abe’s one trusted friend still on the outside would have the getaway car where he could see it from his window, so he would know it was legit. He would be out of the country before noon. They would be together in the Bahamas; get their marriage back on track. Meyer Lansky, his Boss and mentor, had made the arrangements, was footing the tab.

Abe’s radio is playing Arty Shaw’s Frenesi, his new favorite. He turns up the sound.

Will you keep it down? Allie Tannenbaum, from the doorway: I can’t sleep with all that racket. Another killer-for-hire turned stoolie, they call him Allie Tick Tock because he talks too fast. Abe they call Kid Twist, a tribute to his wily ways.

Time to get up anyway, ya lazy bum. Abe turns down the sound and rolls his thick simian body on its side, facing the wall. Bed check in a few minutes. The cops take turns. Boyle would be in to take a peek. He closes his eyes, tries to relax.

Footsteps in and out, then nothing for a while. Then footsteps again. A hand on his shoulder. Company. Abe rolls over, looks up at two figures in Police Blue.

Welcome to the Walled-Off Astoria, guys, Abe says, getting to his feet. Where’d you get the uniform there, Heshy? he says to the patrolman. Looks almost for real.

Posthumous donation. I always wanted to do a cop. Ol’ Sarge here’s my inspiration.

We only got a few minutes, the sergeant says. Let’s cut the comedy.

Lookin’ OK there, Abe, the patrolman says. The Boys wondered if you could live on birdseed. I think you put on a few pounds. They must be treating you right.

Like a king, Hesh. I’m gonna miss this place.

The sergeant reaches behind Abe, pulls both sheets off the bed.

Whadaya want wit’ the sheets? Abe asks. Don’cha know you can get inta real trouble stealin’ sheets from a hotel?

The sergeant ties the sheets together, drops one end out the window, looks down to see where it ends. A few feet short, he says, pulling it back. Got that ignition wire?

Right here, Sargey, old boy, the patrolman says.

The sergeant ties one end of the wire to the free end of the first sheet, then measures out two spans equal to his outstretched arms, takes a wire cutter from his pocket, clips the wire at the other end, and ties that end to the radiator. He pulls on it, hard. See, he says, no problem.

Anyone wan’a clue me on what the hell’s goin’ on? Abe asks, heavy brow furrowed.

We’re setting up your brilliant escape, the patrolman says. Out the window.

Out the window? What’s wrong wit’ the elevator?

Can’t get past the guard in the hall, the sergeant says.

You past him gettin’ in. You’re gonna pass him gettin’ out. Why can’t I?

You’re not a cop, the sergeant says. That’s why.

Yeah, like me, the patrolman says. He laughs a short mean laugh.

You go out the window, down the rope, and back in on the fifth floor. That’s only one story down, the sergeant says like it was nothing special. The whole thing’ll take under a minute. Then we put the sheets back on the bed and get out. If anyone asks us, we left you in good spirits, ready for breakfast, and eager to rat out your old boss, Albert Anastasia.

That’s bad talk. How do I know you won’t mess wit’ the rope while I’m out there?

Why are we going to all this trouble? the sergeant says. If we was lookin’ to ice you you’d be out the window by now. Without a rope.

You sing like a canary, the patrolman says. Question is, can you fly like one?

They made me talk, Hesh. You gotta understand. You sure The Boys ain’t mad at me?

They understand. No one’s lookin’ to hurt you, Abe. Time to get you out, is all.

How about the guy below us? What do I say when he sees me pop in the window?

Nobody’s there, Abe. The coast is clear. Meyer thought of everything.

Yeah, the sergeant says. And paid for everything, too.

And my buddy? My getaway?

Downstairs in his car. With some cash for you. Take a look yourself.

Abe looks out the window, contemplates the long way down. Six stories below and off to the left he sees the car. He waves. His buddy waves back.

We’re done talking, the sergeant says. Time to get moving. Robbins’ll be in for bed check in a few minutes.

You’re not supposed to have visitors at this hour, the patrolman says. You could get into real trouble, you know?

Let’s go, Abe, the sergeant says. He drops the second sheet out the window, checks the knot to the first sheet, feeds it out the window until he reaches the knot to the wire. He checks it carefully, then checks the knot fastening the other end of the wire to the radiator. That’s fine, he says.

You’ll be on your way in no time.

Abe grabs the sheet with his big powerful hands, thinks again of the spider walking its web without getting stuck, backs slowly out the window, holding on for his dear life.

Thanks, guys, he says. See you in the Bahamas. Drinks on me.

The slide down to the floor below is quick and easy. Abe feels the security of the window sill under his toes, knows he needs only a moment more.

PART

ONE

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BROWNSVILLE: A BRIEF HISTORY

C harlie Brown bought a cow meadow in the wild hinterland of eastern Brooklyn and, in 1865, built a pretty village of some 250 homes. The bucolic and cozy isolation of Brown’s Village faded a brief eighteen years later when real estate speculator Aaron Kaplan learned of the planned new subway route to the village and started building tenements there.

Eager to leave the overcrowded, dilapidated, impoverished and crime ridden slums and sweatshops of the Lower East Side and Williamsburg, exploited garment workers flocked to the fresh-out-of-the-box overcrowded, dilapidated, impoverished and crime ridden slums and sweatshops of Brownsville. Their bosses, with their exploiting ways, flocked along with them.

By the early 1930s both labor and crime had become well organized, mostly by the same people. Prominent among these organization men were Louis Lepke Buchalter, Boss of the Furriers’ Union; Meyer Lansky, Boss of the Bosses; and Albert Anastasia, his partner, Boss of the National Crime Syndicate. With Jake Gurrah Shapiro, Abe Kid Twist Reles, and a legendary crew of colorful and cold-blooded local mobsters, they organized in Brownsville the ultimate criminal enterprise of its day, the first national rub-out contracting business, Murder Incorporated.

During this time of their greatest glory Big Moe Levine, laid-off department store window dresser and aspiring nightclub entertainer, acquired Public Auto Parts on Sutter Avenue, a major commercial thoroughfare deep in the heart of Brownsville. Meyer Lansky was the money guy, Big Moe’s silent but very influential partner. Understandably, the business flourished.

Fresh out of college and just married, I went to work there in 1956.

ONE

M y on-the-job training began late, fifteen years late, on the day my father abandoned me to my fate. It was early April 1971, and a typical Friday morning at Public Parts. We fought. I don’t remember what about. It wasn’t important. It seldom was. As Brenda pointed out, more than once, it was a question of chemistry more than substance. Big Moe would have preferred his son take after him and at least appear to agree with him, like all the slackers that worked at Public Parts. I didn’t want to. He had his ways. I had mine. He wasn’t free to fire me. I wasn’t free to walk. So we fought.

Standing at Brenda’s desk in the front office, paper work in hand, I was waiting patiently for her to finish some well-meant but futile advice on how to paper over my latest disagreement with my father, when Police Inspector Gordon Lynch, an occasional visitor, marched in.

Big Moe around? he growled.

Yes, Inspector Lynch, Brenda said. I’ll tell him you’re here. She jabbed at a button on the new intercom console, but Big Moe never got a chance to respond because Lynch, not breaking stride, had taken the few steps from the front of Brenda’s desk back to Big Moe’s office, walked in and slammed the door. We could hear their raised voices through the partition, but could not make out the words.

Wow, I said. I wonder what’s cooking in there.

We’ll know sooner than later, Brenda said. Secrets don’t last long around here.

She was only half right, of course. Most secrets at Public Parts, like everywhere else, lasted no longer than it took to find someone to tell them to. But my father’s well kept secrets were an exception, and had long ago helped mangle our relationship beyond any easy fix.

A few more minutes of heated but muffled discussion, then the door to my father’s office was flung open and Inspector Lynch strode out, past Brenda and me like we didn’t exist.

I went in to see my father. What was that all about? I asked.

Just leave me alone, will you?

How to describe his look? Shocked, stricken, upset, whatever. Between who had brought him some bad news and how he was processing it, only one well-worn answer came to mind.

What is it, Dad? Another Mob problem?

I told you, leave me alone.

You look positively shocked. Lynch spring some surprise on you?

No. Not a surprise. Something I’ve been expecting for a long time.

I told you your precious connections were more trouble than they’re worth. If you tell me what’s going on maybe I can help.

You can’t help. No one can. Now be a good lad and mind the store. I have to go out.

Big Moe was back within the hour, and spent the rest of the morning in his office with the door closed, but not alone. First, Sal Rizzo, our parts buyer, was in with him; then Rosie Biegelman, our head bookkeeper, was added to the meeting. There was no shouting. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Many years earlier, when I first learned of my father’s close ties to the old Brownsville Mob, I was intrigued. Lepke Buchalter and Gurrah Shapiro, known locally as L & G, ran Murder Incorporated for Meyer Lansky and Albert Anastasia. Even though Gurrah died an old man in prison, and Lepke was electrocuted, just the mention of their names was fascinating to me. The most famous, or infamous, were Bugsy Siegel, Lansky’s partner in the Bugs and Meyer Gang, and Abe Kid Twist Reles, Dad’s good buddy. Then there was the only slightly less famous crew: Bugsy Goldstein; Pittsburgh Phil; Frank the Dasher; Charlie the Bug; Tony Duke; Little Farfel; Knadles Nitsberg; Allie Tick Tock; Happy Maione; Harry the Actor; his cousin Schlom Bernstein; Dimples Wolensky; Pretty Levine, a distant relative; Mendy Weiss; and many more.

It was the stuff of legend. OK, they were killers for hire, but that didn’t keep them from having their cute but misleading nick names, and from being my colorful folk heroes.

Those that came after were not heroes by any measure. Mostly colorless businessmen and petty crooks whose stature and authority, like most shamans, was mainly in their own heads and in the minds of their true believers. Big Moe Levine, a rare survivor of that bygone era, was one of the last few true believers. I was not, and had only wanted him to let go of a world that no longer had any power over him and move on.

He couldn’t do it. It was beyond his capacity. Big Moe could have had all the closed-door meetings he wanted. He could shut out the present. That was easy. But the past was inside him. It was who he was and shaped what he had become.

When Big Moe strolled into my office that afternoon, I still held hope for some minimal disclosure of what had happened. Those muffled conferences were not frequent, but had occurred before. He would never say what about. Maybe this time would be different.

He sat down and lit one of his El Stenchos. He knew I hated the smell. It was a smoke signal, loud and clear.

You think you can do a better job around here? he asked.

That’s not what’s bothering you. Can you tell me what is?

Stay with what I asked. You want a chance to show what you can do? Yes or no?

That’s a loaded question if I ever heard one. Depends.

Typical evasive answer. Not that I care what you think, he said, blowing smoke.

For the last time. What’s really on your mind?

What’s on my mind is I’m very tired. I’m tired of your big mouth and shitty attitude. I’m tired of everyone’s shitty attitude. You all act like I owe you a living. I’m tired of responsibility. I’m tired of my employees, my suppliers and my customers sucking my blood every day. I’m tired of Paul Behrer’s pissing and moaning. I’m tired of Saul Stein’s dire warning, Bill Cooperstein’s sales pitches, Jim Corso’s anxiety attacks and all the other doom-and-gloom so-called professionals I’m stuck with. Did I leave anyone out? He had just gone down the list of our accountant, lawyer, insurance broker and banker.

How about Sal and Rosie? You spent a lot of time with them this morning.

Losers. Both of them. Losers and thieves. And incompetent too.

I’ve been telling you that for years.

I’m tired of you being right all the time too. Especially when you’re wrong. Bad as they are they’re still the backbone of the business. You have to make allowances.

There’s no reason to accept mediocrity, I said.

Yes, there is. We’ve talked about that before. I’m tired of these discussions too.

So what are you not tired of?

Your mother, for one.

Mom?

A saint. The light of my life. I still bless the day we met. I want to spend what’s left of my life with her, in peace and quiet. She waited too much for me to come home. Now she can wait for me to go out. I’m finished with Public Parts. I’m out of here. I’m retiring. Happy now?

When’s this supposed to happen?

Today. We’re moving to Florida tomorrow.

Today? Aren’t you rushing things a bit? Suppose I need you for something?

Need me? Fifteen years you’re bustin’ chops how you can do it better. Now you want me to stay? Cold feet, Larry? What happened to the big-mouth smart-ass just waiting for me to get out of his way? Now the chips are down you’re not ready?

It’s a bit sooner and faster than I expected. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

I know. I know. That could be a problem.

Thanks for the compliment. You don’t think I’m ready then don’t go.

I got no choice. Something came up.

Lynch’s visit, right? What did he tell you to make you run like a rabbit shot in the ass. Who’s chasing you?

Stop asking already. I can’t talk about it. I’m sorry. If someone comes looking for me tell him I’m on vacation. Don’t mention retirement. Not good for business.

You want to talk about evasive answers? You always give me the what but never the why. If you have to leave then leave. It’s OK with me. Good-bye.

Not that easy. I’ll take some money up front. You’ll do a payout for the rest.

We never talked price. How do you know what I’m willing to pay? Suppose it’s too much and I don’t want the deal?

You’ve been itching to take over. As far as you’re concerned no price is too high. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t cheat my own son.

Then something happened that had never happened before at Public Parts, and seldom elsewhere. Big Moe walked around my desk, reached out and pulled me to my feet. We embraced, awkwardly, uncomfortably, unaccustomed to any show of affection for all the years I had been working there. What had been for so long lost had been so easily found, if only for a moment. Between fathers and sons that’s all it needs.

Take care, he said. Be smart. And try to remember what I’ve been telling you.

Did I see a drop of uncommon moisture in his eye? I couldn’t be sure as he turned his head away and walked out of my office.

TWO

S o Big Moe was gone. Monday morning Brownsville’s leading auto parts dealership had a New Boss. There were big problems to solve, neglected issues to address, a few scores to settle, changes to be made. I had plans.

Walking into Public Parts through the main Sutter Avenue entrance I viewed the cramped retail area with my New Boss eyes. The dented and dated wall-to-wall olive green steel counter, and the tall stacks of floor-to-ceiling steel shelving at right angle behind it receding back into the dim recesses of the store looked shabby and grim. The same description applied to my retail clerks lurking behind the counter, waiting for walk-ins. Sid and Gary waved languidly, like it was a real effort. Lou didn’t bother to look up from his Racing Form. He was too busy making little circles. Big Moe had staked him to more than one advance. That would end. The volume of walk-in trade and the need for three retail salesmen had diminished, but my dad could never bring himself to let anyone, or anything, go. Lou was first on the list.

Three strides to the left was the doorway to the office.

Good morning, sweetheart, I said to Brenda, office girl and all-around pain.

How many times did I tell you, don’t sweetheart me unless you mean it?

I mean it. I’ve always meant it. Our time has come at last.

In your dreams, Larry. Just ’cause Big Moe ain’t watching don’t think you can take advantage of this working girl. I’m on to all your little tricks.

Damn. Can’t fool you for a minute.

That’s so true.

Brenda, lover of bad news but apparently not much else, smiled as she handed me two pink While-You-Were-Out slips and a summons You have two calls. The summons is from the Fire Department. Inspector Lynch called. Said it was urgent. And Mr. Corso, from the MOB, very unhappy.

Late thirties and a tad overweight, like me, with dark curly hair, she was still the new girl. A mere ten years at Public Parts.

Call Chief Nolan, I said. Ask him to stop by when he has a moment.

You’re going to fix the summons?

Out time-honored tradition. You have a better idea?

Yes, I do. Buy the fire extinguishers. And fix the furnace instead of the summons. Then you can stop paying bribes, get the Fire Department off your back, and have a safe place for us all to work in. What could be so bad?

Takes time. Costs money.

You know you sound just like Big Moe.

Just a chip off the old block. That’s me all right. Go buy some extinguishers.

Not my job. Don’t push your responsibilities off on me. I have enough to do.

That’s what I thought. Forget it. Get Corso on the phone.

As for Lynch, besides whatever bad tiding he brought Dad, he had also ignored me both coming and going. Now he could wait. He was probably just looking for money anyway.

Walking down the narrow knotty pine hall, I paused at the door to my father’s office, and peered in. Several pyramids of forsaken papers made his desk look like the Valley of the Kings. The dark walls were crowded with thirty-seven years of memorabilia. Framed photos, yellowed with age. Pictures of Big Moe and Malka, my mother, at places and times long past. Old shots of my sister and me; photos of my father shaking hands with major figures of the past: Fiorello LaGuardia, mayor of New York; Abe Stark, borough president of Brooklyn; Frances Spellman, cardinal of New York; David Ben Gurion, prime minister of Israel; and more. Dad did get around. There were panoramic banquet shots of my father and his friends and cohorts, all looking at the camera, all smiling at me. Frozen moments from a world long gone.

There was a framed commendation signed by President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, thanking my dad for his war bond purchases. Not an original autograph, but it did look impressive. And one from the State of Israel signed by Chiam Weitzman, president, for his help in the defense of Israel. That one was an original. He had gone there shortly after the war of independence to help set up a parts supply system for the Israel Defense Forces. There was a citation from the United Jewish Appeal for his generosity, and one from the Holy Name Society for the same.

Sales awards and trademark plaques from suppliers, some long out of business; yellowed newspaper clippings sealed in plastic. Appreciations from the Police Benevolent Association, and the Fire and Sanitation department’s equivalent. The office, like Public Parts itself, was a monument to my father’s past dynamics. Did I want to take it apart? Would I be able to?

I wanted to toss it all, but not just yet. It was still Big Moe’s office, still his stuff, still his business. And I was still his son. I walked past, into the next office, and sat down at my desk.

Like an understudy getting his big break minutes before curtain time, I felt suddenly inept. I knew my lines cold, but waiting in the wings so long I was unsure of my moves. Dad had always been so busy all day. We seldom had time to talk except to disagree and do battle. Now Big Moe could interfere no more. Anger would no longer cloud my days. I was free to pursue my own long nurtured grand design, but where to start?

Larry. A grim Brenda at my door. Corso, from the MOB, line 3. Thoroughly pissed. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Brenda, sweetheart, use the new intercom, please? OK?

She scowled and walked away. I pressed the flashing line 3 button, picked up the phone and spoke to the Brownsville branch manager of the Mercantile Overseas Bank.

Mr. Corso, how are you this morning?

Lousy. Where’s Big Moe? I got to talk to him.

On vacation. You can talk to me instead.

Is he coming back?

Of course he’s coming back. What’s the problem?

He rushed in here last Friday, got me to OK a big check for cash, and now you’re OD thousands of dollars. If you can’t cover by 11:00 AM I have to send them back.

That’s impossible. With the credit line we have?

That’s the credit line you used to have. Big Moe tapped it out.

We had agreed on a modest down payment, but we never got down to specifics. Big Moe was too busy to talk to me. I glanced at my watch. It was after ten thirty.

Give me a few minutes to talk to Rosie, OK? And hold those checks ’til I get back to you. I’m sure we can cover.

Never share your doubts with a banker, or let him know that serious damage had just been done to your master plan. Good Ol’ Dad. He didn’t even have to be around to mess me up.

By eleven, Larry. No later, or I bounce ’em all.

Rosie Biegelman was in her office chatting with Sal Rizzo. With Public Parts longer than I, Rosie, at fifty-five or so, looked and sounded more like an aged-out hat check girl than a full charge bookkeeper. Sal, another veteran of the early days, still sported a fifties pompadour, even if his hair was now a streaky gray.

Rosie, we need to talk.

Sal’s eyes narrowed, but he made no move to leave.

Sal, would you excuse us, please?

He glared at me, shrugged his shoulders and brushed past. Trouble there, I thought, but it would have to wait.

Corso called. Says we’re overdrawn thousands. He’s ready to bounce our checks. Says Dad tapped out our entire line. How could he do that?

Good question. Ask your father.

I’ll ask him when he comes back.

You know he can’t come back.

Yes, I knew all right, but I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know what Rosie knew, and I couldn’t ask without looking like a fool.

I’ll deal with that another time. What happened?

I sent out some payments to vendors last week. We had more than enough to cover until Big Moe decided to help himself.

How about the cash in the safe?

Took that too. But we got in a few respectable checks today. And I’ve been holding some head checks we can use. It should be enough. I’ll make a call and get it taken care of.

That’s OK, Rosie. I’ll do it. He’s expecting my call.

Better let me. We don’t need more trouble.

Was Rosie being helpful? Or did I just hear the put-down it felt like. This wasn’t the time to ask about that, either.

Are we going to have this problem again?

I’ll keep an eye on things for you. Same as I’ve been doing for Big Moe. He helped me get rid of a big problem way back when. It’s the least I can do.

On the way back to my office I stopped for a few moments, as I did every day, to rap with my inside salesmen, Bob and Mario and Russ and Eddy, Freddie, and Teddy. Slumped behind old olive green steel desks, wide catalog racks before them, ready to take phone orders or make calls and appointments looking for business, they spent much of their days in pointless chatter. Each had his own reasons why sales were off. I wasn’t buying their stories like Dad did. Life was too easy in the squad room. If things didn’t improve fast, at least two of them would have to go.

My private line was ringing. Only Laurie and my father knew the number.

Wanting to talk to both of them, I grabbed the receiver and said, Hello.

Hey, Larry. So you’re the big guy now. Hearty, cheerful, no match.

Who is this?

Carmine. My father’s main Mob contact. Seldom heard from, seldom seen, he usually sent others to do his bidding.

Carmine. What do you want?

Me an’ The Boys want to congratulate you and wish you all the best.

Much appreciated. How did he find out so fast?

We’re old friends of Big Moe. We always thought well of him, you know.

I know only too well.

Easy, Larry. Easy. This is a friendly call. Let’s keep it that way.

Look, Carmine, I appreciate your sentiments, and everything you and The Boys did for Dad over the years, but, as you seem to know, he’s not here anymore. I’m in charge and things are going to be different from now on.

Larry, Larry. Talk less. You’re irritating me. You don’t want to do that. Just listen. Your father was good to us and we was good to him. We had a good arrangement. It’s best if you understand it didn’t end just ’cause he gave you the keys. We expect you’ll be working with us.

Sorry, Carmine. Big Moe’s gone. All his arrangements, good or otherwise, went with him. I’m taking Public Parts down a different path. I don’t see us doing business any time soon.

You think it’s so easy? His tone was no longer hearty or cheerful. Think you can blow us off just like that? That’s how people make problems for themselves. We look to be nice, for starters, but sometimes people don’t understand. Then it takes a little extra effort to get our point across.

What kind of extra effort?

Sometimes a little lesson. A demo. Sometimes just a chance to do the right thing. Like keeping your good friend Corso in line. Big Moe understood. We’ll see that you do too.

You’re keeping Corso in line? How?

Why so hostile? We put some bucks into the Public Parts account to keep things going. Not the first time, either. There’s only one thing you should say now.

You lent me money? Rosie must have called him. How much? At what rate?

Why do you ask so many questions? Just say thank you. Let’s hear it, Larry.

Thank you.

That’s better. Much better. Your father knew how to say thank you. Every day of his life.

For what?

Helping him out. Bringing him great deals. Protecting him. We always did the right thing by him, just like we done for you today. See? Someday we’ll look for you to return the favor, like he always did. We’ll send you a friendly reminder. Give you a chance to help out.

Don’t send me any reminders. And don’t give me any chances, please. I’ll get the money back to you as soon as possible. I told you where I stand.

Yes, Larry. You told me good and I told you better. Now you think about it.

For the few seconds I devoted to thinking about it there was silence. Then I heard a click, like a safety catch, but it was only Carmine hanging up the phone.

There’s a perfect example, I thought, of the colorless tough-guy businessmen my father chose to deal with. Acting out a scripted role that no longer had a place on stage. Very convincing but all talk. What, after all, could he do to me?

I needed to talk to Laurie. My beacon, my anchor, my foil, my beautiful wife of fifteen years. More often right than wrong, something I would never admit, even to myself. The biggest issue between us was her unreasonable, intractable dislike of Public Parts. Last Friday night, when I told her that I was taking over, I was disappointed that this did not change her attitude.

Why is that good news? How can you even stand to work there?

I tried to lighten up the conversation. Did you know that Emma Lazarus once lived around the corner from the store?

Yes. From the last time you told me. I’ll bet the wretched refuse she wrote about were her next door neighbors.

And Jerry Lewis, Danny Kaye, Zero Mostel and George Gershwin all came from Brownsville.

Came from, Larry. They left. Now your father’s leaving too. But you’re happy to stay. How can you stand it?

It’s not all that bad. You get used to it.

Maybe you did. I never will. It’s old. It’s dirty. It’s depressing.

I had taken Laurie to Public Parts a few years ago. I thought she would understand me better, and maybe be a little impressed, if she saw where I worked. A big mistake.

We make a lot of money there. Lots of nice, clean, new money. You don’t get depressed when you take it and spend it. I don’t hear any complaints then, do I?

You could have made a lot of money somewhere else, doing something with a little class. I cringe when someone asks me what you do. ‘Larry sells auto parts,’ I tell them. Then they ask where. ‘Brownsville,’ I tell them. Then they go into culture shock, and get very polite. ‘I’m sure he must enjoy his work.’ What they mean is otherwise why would he do it? What a joke.

What’s wrong with selling auto parts?

Most of our friends are professionals; doctors, dentists, lawyers, accountants, teachers. Others make things, or they have nice clean businesses. And the people you deal with. Gas station people. Auto mechanics. Grease monkeys. People with dirty hands.

How can you talk that way about people you don’t know? Some of them are pretty damn smart. Some of them know how to make a buck, too.

How many have been to college? You have a fine education and a good mind. You could have gone into something clean and interesting, like journalism.

Like your old flame Heshy Berkowitz?

As long as you brought up the name, yes. Heshy knew what he wanted.

Booze, broads and bullshit. Besides, you preferred me.

I was young and foolish then. Now I see things more clearly. Why did you go into your father’s business in the first place? You had so much promise.

You were still in Brooklyn College when we got married. I needed a job, quick.

Now it’s my fault? I don’t believe you.

You’re the one I married, right? We’ve been paying our own way from day one. What’s wrong with that? What did I do wrong? I was shouting. Laurie was crying.

A fight to the finish. Does anyone ever win these battles? All relationships have fault lines. When subject to the occasional seismic shocks that life produces they tend to shift along these fault lines, and become something else.

Over the weekend she had calmed down. We were back to what passes for normal and I needed to hear her friendly voice. The phone rang and rang. Laurie had not mentioned any games, lessons, courses or shopping expeditions planned for the day, but what did I actually know? I was giving serious thought to hanging up when a breathless Laurie picked up the phone.

Hello?

It’s me. Where were you?

I was with Mario, the gardener.

Like Lady Chatterley?

No such luck, Larry. And that was her gamekeeper. Mario’s very good looking, if you want to know, but all I was doing was showing him where to put his flowers.

Flowers? Another new interest?

Did you know your choice of flowers reveals deep personality traits?

Maybe yours, not mine. An interest in flowers is the last thing I need around here.

Do you know my favorite flower?

Pillsbury, I think.

You need to rethink that. You need to take an interest in flowers. A few shared interests would help our relationship. And give you some insights into your personality problems.

My personality problems don’t compare to my real problems. I have my hands full.

Your father left you with a lot of his headaches, didn’t he? He took off much too fast. What was he running from?

Not running, Laurie. No matter how it looks.

I’m sorry you ever got so committed to the auto parts business. It’s not for you.

You mean it’s not for you. I’m here to stay, and I expect to succeed.

I hope so Larry. For both our sakes.

Staying home all day? Time for a new subject.

No. I’m going to my new Yoga class this afternoon.

What for?

Contemplation, meditation, relaxation. That sort of thing.

You can’t do that at home by yourself?

No. A good hands-on guru makes a big difference.

Whatever makes you happy. Something I still didn’t know.

THREE

H ours later, stuck at my desk , tackling one routine business issue after another, concentration eluded me. I was doing two jobs now, drowning in details. The sense of direction and purpose I had come to work with was fading fast. If I was ever to get out of my own way an assistant was needed. Maybe Brenda was ready for the job. We would talk.

I was giving the matter some thought when Brenda again appeared at my door, this time clearly upset. You have a visitor, Larry. Quietly, almost a whisper.

Can’t use the new intercom?

I detest the new intercom. And besides, this guy gives me the creeps. I didn’t want to talk in front of him.

Nonsense. Next time, use it. No more excuses, OK? Now, who’s got you so shook?

Plainclothes cop. Detective John Mannion. A Dick Tracy knockoff with a real chip on his shoulder. He asked for Big Moe but says he’ll settle for you if he has to.

He has to. Everyone has to.

You want I should tell him?

Don’t bother. I’ll tell him myself. Show him in.

So Detective John Mannion was ushered into my life. Brenda was right. Had he been sporting a yellow rain coat and a wrist radio, he could have easily been taken for a sullen Dick Tracy. He flashed a badge and said he was looking for my father, one Morris Big Moe Levine.

I’m sorry, he’s on vacation, I said, remembering my father’s instructions: If someone comes looking for me tell him I’m on vacation. He expected this visit to happen. That must have been one of the things Lynch told him last Friday.

Where’d he go running off to? Mannion said.

Not running. Just not here. What difference does it make?

Kind of sudden, wasn’t it?

Sudden is a relative term. Did he know how sudden? My father’s taking some long-planned time off. Working too hard. He needed a rest. What do you want with him, anyway?

Commissioner’s Organized Crime Task Force. You’ve heard of us, right?

Who hasn’t? I read the papers. The police department’s answer to the Knapp Commission. ‘We clean our own house.’ So?

Working here a while?

Fifteen years. Why?

That’s plenty long enough to know the score. Looks like Big Moe left you in charge. You must know a lot about his business.

Enough to get by. You still didn’t tell me what you want.

Patience, Larry. Patience. I’m just a cop doing his job. Since you know enough to get by, I’ll bet you know a lot about your father’s partner, Meyer Lansky.

That’s former partner. Lansky and my father were friends. He helped Dad go into business. Backing Public Parts was a good investment. He’s out of it a long time now.

Public Parts opened in October ‘34. Right?

So I’ve been told. I wasn’t invited.

Stocked with hot goods from all over the map. With some help from a wave of auto parts burglaries, hijackings, and other assorted heavy-handed dealing around the same time.

All that? How do you know?

Checked the records. All there. Mannion looked a little smug as he studied me. A long, analytical, detective look. I’ll spell it out. We have some dependable information that Big Moe and Lansky ran Public Parts as a front for dealing in stolen goods from day one. Want to talk about it?

My father? A fence? Did I sound surprised enough?

Like you didn’t know. Oh yes, and a gangster too. Just like his hot shot big time Mob buddies. Are you proud of your father?

The legend of Public Parts and Dad’s partnership with Meyer Lansky still troubled me. An intriguing fellowship: exciting, and not altogether shameful. Yes, Dad had been close with some famous, powerful, and ruthless men. That he had not only survived these dangerous liaisons but prospered from them was testimony to his exceptional abilities. But was I proud of him? I was, once. I could still have been if he hadn’t left me uninformed, broke, and burdened by his accumulated misconceptions.

My father’s a successful businessman, not a gangster, and not a thief. He built this business from almost nothing. How could a son not be proud?

Tricky. Tricky. I asked you a simple question. First, you take way too long thinking up the right answer, and then you answer my questions with a question that’s supposed to be an answer, only you and I both know it isn’t. ‘How could a son not be proud?’ Too many ways, Larry. I was proud of my father. I didn’t have to think about how to say it. He was a cop. A good cop. Being on the job was all he ever wanted out of life.

Good for him, but what’s that to do with Big Moe?

More than you can imagine. A whole lot more. It’s just so hard to believe you don’t know what goes on here.

I’m aware of everything that goes on here, and I have never ever seen or heard anything to make me think stolen parts were being bought or sold. Except when I couldn’t avoid it. What do you have, anyway?

Not for you to know. Not right now, anyway. He sat down on the chair opposite my desk. So you’re an aware guy. Good for you. But not aware enough to know what’s going on around you. That’s a real shortcoming. I would work on that if I were you. But since you’re so aware, you must know about his connection to Murder Incorporated.

Whose? Lansky’s or my father’s? Where was this going?

Big Moe, wise guy. We know all about Lansky’s.

There was no connection. Lansky was a part owner here. It was an investment. That’s all. It’s history, anyway. Why is that so important?

No connection, you say? The incredible, legendary Big Moe Levine. From department store window dresser to third-rate night-club singer to big time auto parts dealer, like overnight. With a little help from his not-so-silent partner and the organization to which he had no connection. You expect me to buy that?

As you please. I was never told of any connection.

Never told. How about what they did to Kid Twist? The Abe Reles job?

The pigeon who could sing but couldn’t fly. What about him?

Big Moe was in on it. Big-time. He didn’t tell you about that either?

Nothing to tell. Reles took his swan dive thirty years ago. No one ever connected my father with it, of all people. He was Abe’s best friend. It’s absurd.

What’s absurd is no one connected anyone with it. It was a Mob hit made to look like a failed escape, or maybe a suicide, take your pick. Allowed to happen, so they said, because of the negligence, incompetence or dishonesty of the cops guarding him. That’s who took the rap.

So why’s that absurd? If no one on the scene was willing to know what happened that’s what it looked like.

Just like you don’t know what’s happening right here. See how that works? We have a saying in the department: ‘The blindest witnesses are the ones who didn’t want to see.’

While I pondered this purloined pearl of paraphrased police profundity Mannion picked up the plot.

Reles was headed for the Chair, for sure. OK? So he cuts a deal. His life for Lepke’s and Bugsy’s and all his other cronies he had the goods on. His wife was expecting their second kid. With all that success, why would he jump? And where was he going to hide from the friends of all the guys he snitched on if he escaped? The Bahamas? He wouldn’t last two days.

The story I heard was two of the cops guarding him tossed him out the window. So it was your guys did him.

Someone did him, for sure, but not the cops. They were victims just like him. It was a setup. They took a bum rap for someone higher up. We’ve picked up a fresh lead; someone who worked for Lansky at the time. He says there were two uniforms in on it, one a sergeant and the other a fake patrolman they called Heshy. But he’s having trouble recalling their names. We’re working on helping him remember. We know Lansky was in on it for sure, but we can’t talk to him. He ran to Israel to be with the rest of the thieves. I need to talk to Big Moe.

Sorry about that. Like I said, he’s away for a little while.

We’d like to send him away for a long while. So he gave us the slip. He must still have a good friend in the department. Someone tipped him, for sure.

It’s probably just a coincidence.

We have another saying in the Department: ‘There are no coincidences.’

The respectful silence given this additional pearl of police wisdom was broken by the insistent buzz of the new intercom. Good old Brenda, finally following instructions. Trying to think of a polite way to get Mannion out of my office I absently poked at the SPKR button.

OK Brenda. You made my day. What’s up? I looked at Mannion and shrugged at the annoying interruption.

Inspector Lynch on 3.

Mannion’s eyes lit up like a kid in a toy store. So much for no coincidences. So much for a promotion for Brenda.

I’ll call him back. So much for making my day.

Says it’s urgent.

I picked up the phone, hit the blinking line 3 button hard, and said Hello.

Larry! Lynch barked. Mannion was staring at the phone like he could see all the way to the other end of the line. I jammed the receiver against my ear to keep any more conversation from spilling into the room. Why didn’t you call back? I left a message it was urgent.

Sorry. It’s been a busy day. What’s up?

There’s a Detective John Mannion out looking for Big Moe.

That’s the part you ordered last Friday. Right? It just came in. How’s that for luck?

What!

It’s here now. Want to pick it up or should we deliver?

Oh Christ! Call me back. He hung up. So did I.

Mannion was smiling. More than smiling. He was grinning for joy.

Big Moe’s good friend in the department.

Just a customer checking up on his order.

If that’s the way you want to play it, Levine.

I would ask what that’s supposed to mean except I don’t care. We’re done, Detective Mannion. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a ton of work to do this afternoon. I’m sorry.

Mannion got to his feet. So did I. Nothing to be sorry about. You’ve been very helpful. You don’t know how helpful. Mind if I spend a few minutes looking around? What’s upstairs?

Merchandise. We keep a lot of stock on hand. Nothing that would interest you.

There are stories about a secret apartment up there. So he knew about that, too. Card-room, conference room, Mob hideout, Big Moe’s love nest, depending on who’s telling the story. What’s your version?

I’ve heard all the stories. Maybe there was some special place upstairs once, a long time ago. Now it’s just another storage area. No one here even knows where it was. Except me.

I heard that one too. I’d like to go up and look around. Come. We’ll find it together.

You have a search warrant or something?

No. I’d like to keep this informal. Your cooperation would be noted and might just keep you out of the slammer as an accessory after the fact.

You’re all heart, Mannion. You want me to help you find something that isn’t there so you can use it to bag my father for something he didn’t do, in return for a kindness I don’t need. Not my kind of deal. But I am touched by your generosity. Thanks, but I’ll pass.

What’s the big deal? If there’s no place, there’s no problem, right? Come on, let’s take a look. Otherwise, I have to think you’re hiding something up there. Is that what you want?

I have nothing to hide, but you can’t search my store without a warrant.

A warrant you say? Read that in some law book, Levine?

Saw it in some movie, Mannion.

Did the good guys win?

They always do.

I’m glad you understand that. Keep it in mind. And learn to tell the good guys from the bad guys before I have to show you which is which.

Thanks for the advice, Detective Mannion. As I said a minute ago, we’re done.

I’m leaving, Levine, but we’re not done. Not at all. You’re not so smart as you think. Don’t feel bad. No one is. You tell a good story just like Big Moe, but someday you’ll slip. Everyone does. I want you to remember I’m out there, watching and waiting. And when you do, I’ll be back.

I’ll look forward to it, Detective Mannion. Always a pleasure.

I walked him to the front door, just to make sure he didn’t wander upstairs.

Inspector Gordon Lynch was more than just one of Big Moe’s good ol’ buddies. He was, in fact, my father’s most successful creation. Now the personification of a bygone era, Lynch had been pounding a beat in Brownsville, just another rookie cop in the late 1930s, when he was befriended by Dad and his Mob buddies. The Boys needed someone on the inside. Lynch needed to come in from the cold. A few phone calls to the right people, a favor in return for past favors done here and there, and Gordon’s career progressed rapidly. He made sergeant by 1940 and full inspector by the late 1950s. All the old connections were long gone, but now Lynch himself was on top of the heap and needed no one to look after him. On the contrary, he had prospered by kindly looking after the needs of others, local businessmen, like my father, who sometimes needed a little assistance to expedite things, or to stay out of trouble. Stationed at the local precinct, Lynch had been on the Public Parts payroll for years.

Brenda’s pink While-You-Were-Out slip was on my desk. I dialed Lynch’s private line.

I called at nine. Now it’s almost three, Lynch said without preliminaries. Why didn’t you call me back?

I got busy. How was I supposed to know it was so important?

I told your girl it was important. Any time I call it’s important. Did he know it was me?

Lynch was upset enough to begin with. I didn’t want to get him more worked up or to endure more of his ranting than was necessary. No, I said.

Good. Did he talk to Big Moe?

No. Whatever you told Dad was enough to send him flying South. What’s going on around here, anyway? Can you tell me why this guy is looking for my father? Why is who killed Abe Reles suddenly the most important case since Cain killed Abel?

Pressure from the Knapp Commission, for one thing.

Mannion’s not from the Knapp Commission. He’s from the Commissioner’s Organized Crime Task Force.

I know. They should call it the Commissioner’s Organized Headline- Grabbing Task Force. That’s all they’re good for.

What are they trying to do?

Mayor Lindsay sets up the Knapp Commission to dig into police corruption. Then Serpico opens his can of worms and adds to the problem. Now they’ve reopened the Reles case, looking for a police cover-up. Another can of worms. The Kefauver Report gave them a good head start.

Frank Serpico was an undercover cop who made headlines when he surfaced with a lot of information about police corruption, the Knapp Commission’s target area. Senator Estes Kefauver’s early 1950s investigation into organized crime added more heat than light, but still made Kefauver a presidential contender. There’s always a lot of political capital to be gained when someone can be seen as tough on crime. Some things never change.

So the task force wants to beat them to the punch?

Breaking the case’ll take the heat off. Mannion wanted the job, bad. Knowing his background, they gave it to him.

What background is that?

His father was one of the detectives guarding Reles.

Mannion said the guards took a bum rap.

"Ey, that they did. They got questioned, but no one talked.