Mr. Finkel
paced up and down in his spacious apartment on Crotona Park East. He lived in
the best building in the area, an elevator building that had been built just
before the crash in ’29. It had a marble lobby, three staircases, a big courtyard
with a statue in the middle and a laundry room . It was one of the few things
that gave him solace nowadays. In the background, his wife watched the
Army-McCarthy hearing on TV.
He’d been
out for two years already and was itching for some action. He kept his job as a
Wall Street clerk that he’d been given as a condition for his release, but
let’s face it, there was no future or real money in that. He wanted to get back
in the game in the worst way, but his parole officer wouldn’t even let him go
to Tillie’s candy store, with its two-bit bookies and its penny-ante pinochle
games. His wife’s brother owned a big commercial laundry on Allerton Avenue and
White Plains Road, and both his wife and his brother-in-law both wanted him to
become a partner.
But so far,
he resisted. After all, he’d been in the outfits since he was 17 and Dutch
Schultz hired him to work on the truck delivering barrels of beer. He was still
only 52 years old—he had a lot of years ahead of him. Some of the guys he used
to run with, like Meyer Lansky, Longie Zwillman and Doc Stacher, were making
millions in Florida, in Vegas, in Havana. Why not him? It just wasn’t fair! He
wasn’t ready to throw in the towel and become a square.
On top of it
all, his wife kept pushing him to move to a better neighborhood, to the
Concourse or Pelham Parkway. But Mr.
Finkel resisted. Yes, the neighborhood was changing. But the changes hadn’t
reached his block, or any of the adjacent blocks. He’d lived in this building
ever since he moved up here from down-and-dirty Fox Street. He knew the
butcher, the baker, the appetizing store guy, the newsstand owner, the local
movie theater. No, he’d stay here for the time being – unless, of course, he
got his big break and moved to Miami or Vegas.
Suddenly, he
got the call he’d been waiting for. It was Mr. Vellela. He wanted to see him
tomorrow in his suite at the Concourse Plaza. They agreed on a time. He
wouldn’t miss this for anything in the world!
“How you
doin’, Sol,” Mr. Vellella greeted him as he walked into the office. “You want a
drink? Scotch,
bourbon, rye, anything? A martini, maybe? My girl will make it
for you.”
“Just a
Canadian Club and soda,” Mr. Finkel answered, sitting down in the plush
armchair. “What took yiz guys so long?”
“Well, we’ve
been a little preoccupied. Frank Hogan, the Manhattan DA, is startin’ to make
some noise again. Also some tension between some of the families. Don’t worry
about it—it’s a Sicilian thing. But let’s let bygones be bygones. You up for a
little proposition?”
“Sure. You
know me,” said Mr. Finkel eagerly, sipping his Canadian Club. He was finally
going to get some action. “Watcha got in mind?”
“We want you
to run some numbers for us.”
It wasn’t
much, but at least it was a new start. “Sure! Where?”
“In your
area, you know, East Tremont, West Farms, Crotona Park.”
Mr. Finkel frowned.
“I dunno. About half the neighborhood is P.R. now. Those people want to bet
with their own kind.”
Mr. Velella
smiled. “That’s why we want you to partner with this kid, Jesus! He’s smart,
he’s resourceful, he knows the lingo, he knows the people.”
“His name is
Jesus? You bullshittin’ me?”
“It’s
pronounced Hay-Zoos! Lots ‘a Puerto Ricans have that name.”
“Whatever.”
The next
day, Mr. Finkel met Jesus, whose family owned a private house near the old
railroad tracks south of 180th Street. He was impressed with his
intelligence, his organizing ability,
the way he had a backup plan ready if anything went wrong. Jesus would organize
the street operation, recruit local teens as runner and do the collections,
while Mr. Finkel would do the bookkeeping and deal with Mr. Vellella and the
other higher-ups.
“You and me,
Jesus, we’re gonna make mucho dinero!”
“That’s
Hay-Zoos!”
“Whatever.”
For awhile,
things went great. It was almost like the old days before the war, although not
quite. Because he didn’t want to attract too much attention from the parole
board, Mr. Finkel wore suits from Robert Hall nowadays, not the $100 suits of
yesteryear. For the same reason, he didn’t drive a Packard anymore, just a more
plebian Oldsmobile.
After about
six months, however, things began to go sour. Jesus became late with some of
his payments and became increasingly difficult to find. And, of course, Mr.
Vellella put the pressure on him. He decided to take things into his own hands.
Going through his ledgers, he focused on one address that was two months behind
in payments. He decided to go there himself. He was a little nervous about
going that far south, to 169th Street, but why should he be afraid?
Wasn’t he the same guy who had personally bumped off three hijackers when he
was riding shotgun for the Bugs and Meyer Gang back in the ‘20s? He might be a
little more overweight and a little more gray, but he was still the same guy,
he told himself. He headed out. Just to make sure, he put his gun in his
pocket.
Walking up
the tenement stairs to the apartment where that particular numbers drop was
located, he had the sense that something was wrong. Suddenly, he found himself
face to face with five Puerto Rican teenagers.
“Where you
going,” one of them asked. “You don’t live here.”
Thinking
fast, he said, “I have to visit someone. I’m a Welfare investigator.”
“No you’re
not,” said the same kid, whom Mr. Finkel gathered was the leader of the gang.
“We know who you are. As soon as we saw you on the street, we followed you
here. You’re Mr. Finkel, right?”
“What’s it
to you?” Mr. Finkel asked in a oud, aggressive voice. “You don’t know who you’re
dealing with. You don’t know the people I’m connected with.”
The gang
laughed. “We’re not afraid of anyone, man,” another one said. “We’re the
Diablos!”
“You’re
making a mistake,” Mr. FInkel said, yelling even louder. “I’m gonna tell Jesus
about this!”
They laughed
again. “That’s Hay-zoos, man. He’s working for us now!” the leader bragged.
“He’s been with us for about a month.”
So that was
why the money wasn’t coming in, Mr. Finkel thought.
“Look,” the
leader of the Diablos said in a suddenly conciliatory voice. “We don’t wanna
hurt you. We give you respect because we know you’re one of us. You’re a
player. But your Jew gangsters and your Italian compadres don’t run things about here no more. We do! So why don’t
you just go home?”
Mr. Finkel
was packing heat, but he knew he couldn’t take on five guys. As he started
going down the stairs, he heard the Diablos’ boastful chant:
“Out came
the Diablos
From the
coconut trees
They were
bad motherfuckers
In their
BDVs!”
When Mr.
Finkel got home, he was shaking. “What’s wrong?” his wife asked. “Something
happen to you?”
“Nothin’,”
he said brusquely, waving her concern away with his hand. “Just gimme a
Canadian Club and soda, will ya?”
Mr. Finkel
stayed awake all night, thinking. If he left the life, Mr. Vellella would be
pissed, but Vellella knew enough about him to know that he wouldn’t start
running to the cops and the DA. Maybe it was time, he thought. In the morning,
he woke his wife up with a smile.
“Rachel,” he
said, “Tell your brother I’m goin’ in with him in the laundry. And so we can be
closer to the place, we’re movin’ ta Pelham Parkway!”
No comments:
Post a Comment