Operation Underworld (10 page)
“Doc, it ain’t like I got an anterior motive or somethin’. I’m just worried about gettin’ you through this shit!” Louie’s client reports were always fun to read.
“Next thing you know, you’ll be doin’ something really stupid like hoppin’ a plane to Miami and tryin’ ta get her ta come back to New York.” Mancino sat down at the desk and put his feet up. Doc put his towel down and, without looking at Louie, went into the back to change his clothes. Louie immediately understood.
“Tell me you didn’t do something really stupid, Doc!” There was no response from behind the partition. Looking down at the floor, Louie saw the pieces of torn ticket.
“You did! Didn’t you? You hopped a plane, you went to Florida and…” Louie was cut off in mid sentence as Doc burst through the partition door in a half-buttoned shirt.
“I told you, god-damn it! I had to get it outta my system! And I did! So let’s drop it, Louie! You made your god-damned point!”
“But Doc! Shootin’ holes in the freakin’ wall…” he pleaded.
“I said
DROP IT
!
I’M OVER IT
! She’s history. Yesterday’s news, a footnote in the archives. End of subject! Savvy?”
Louie was taken off guard by the intensity of Doc’s anger, and wasn’t sure how to react. So he sat in silence behind the desk.
Doc continued to dress in front of the mirror. Louie continued to sit, and the awkwardness of the silence intensified. Doc finished tying his cravat and slumped over the sink holding his head in his hand in a vain attempt to reduce it to normal size. Louie spoke first.
“Hey Doc?”
“What?” He turned to face Louie without lifting his head. Louie held up the empty whiskey bottle.
“Ya wanna go get a drink?”
“You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch, Mancino! Ya know that?”
The tension gone out of the room, they both laughed.
“So is this why you came up here at the ungodly hour of noon? You felt sorry for me because I didn’t have a wife anymore, so you decided to take over as the pain in the ass in my life?”
Louie didn’t speak, but rose from the desk and, as he made his way to the door, produced a folded sheet of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to Doc. He continued across the room to the letterbox on the inside of the front door.
Doc unfolded the paper and read aloud.
“Ira and Norma Birnbaum, apartment 2B, 127 East 64th. What the hell is this?”
“What the hell’s it look like? It’s a client,” Louie said, with a smug look on his face, knowing nothing had come into the office for over two weeks. Doc welcomed the work with guarded optimism.
“Who are they? What’s the skinny?”
“She’s Doris’s hairdresser, she’s a nice girl, you’ll get a kick out of her.”
“If she’s so nice, why does she need us?”
“She thinks maybe her husband is screwin’ around on her, and she wants to know for sure.” Although he had no choice, Louie was tentative about giving this information to Doc. He knew how Doc felt about that alimony, divorce shit.
Louie was facing the door, so Doc didn’t see him mouth the words as he spoke.
“Oh Jesus, Louie! You know I hate this alimony, divorce shit!” Again Louie didn‘t answer. He reached into the same pocket and produced five $50 bills and laid them neatly on the desk. Doc stared wide-eyed at the money.
“On the other hand, work is work. Where’d this come from?”
“I had her make the cheque out in my name. I didn’t know where the hell you were or when you’d be back. So I took a down payment and signed the case. I told her you’d call early next week.”
Doc picked up the money. “Ya did good, Louie.”
“Ten per cent of that’s mine!”
Doc handed him a fifty. “Here. Go buy Doris a chocolate layer cake.”
Louie’s eyes lit up.
“Shit, Doc! Thanks! You okay with this?”
“Shut up before I change my mind.”
“No problem!”
“This ain’t no gimme. You’re gonna work this case with me.”
“You serious?” Louie was thrilled. “But I ain’t got my licence!”
“You won’t need one. We follow the guy, find out who the girl is, take a few snaps, and show up for court. Clean and simple. What could happen?”
Doc was pleased to see Louie so excited. He would make a good PI. There was an unspoken agreement that Louie would one day take over the agency.
“Louie… ah, sorry about flyin’ off the handle. I just want some peace and quiet, and ta get back to work.”
“Well, there you are, partner. A nice, simple client to ease you back into the saddle.” Louie was still holding the mail in his hand and Doc asked what was in it.
Shuffling through the four pieces, Louie recited, “A subpoena, the electric bill, another subpoena and an invite to join the Ancient Order Of Hibernians.” Louie couldn’t repress his smile as Doc shook his head.
“Give me that.”
Doc took the envelope from Louie and made his way around behind his desk. From a drawer he took a large rubber stamp and stamped the post in several places with the words,
Scottish
!
Not Irish
!
Louie laughed as Doc handed him the solicitation and told him to put it back in the box.
“Louie?” Doc flopped into his chair.
“Yeah?”
“How do you do it? I mean, spend so much time away from Doris and still have such a healthy relationship after twelve years?”
“I dunno. I guess it’s… true love,” Louie said in a mocking voice.
“Bullshit! It’s ’cause she’s horny all the time. That’s why you married her in the first place.”
“Yep. Body of a woman, sex drive of a man. Hell, only way it could be any better was if she was a rich mute and owned a liquor store.”
“Come on, shit head! I’m tryin’ to be serious here! Emotionally, what makes it work?”
“Jesus, Doc. You’re startin’ ta sound like those phony letters in
True Romance
magazine.”
“Go to hell!”
“The truth?”
“Yeah, the truth.”
Louie took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Than he sat down next to the desk and spoke in a serious tone. “Doc, I love her so much that… that when I’m away from her, I’m so miserable I feel like she’s here.”
“I asked for it.”
The brass letters, 2B, were neatly polished and contrasted aesthetically against the black enamelled door of the apartment. Doc knocked, and to his surprise the door opened immediately, as far as the safety chain would allow, as if someone had been standing there waiting for him. An elderly woman, maybe early seventies but spry, very short, undid the chain and opened the door. She was visibly upset. Doc rechecked the sheet of paper.
“Yes?” she enquired.
“I‘m looking for Mrs Birnbaum?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs Norma Birnbaum?”
“Yes, that’s me.” The elderly woman held a tissue in one hand and spoke with a Jewish accent.
“I’m Mr McKeowen. The detective.”
Opening the door wider, she gestured for Doc to come in, then locked up behind him.
The modestly decorated rooms were immaculate, and Doc thought about his office. Contributing to the feeling that he was visiting his grandmother’s house, was the fact that the air was saturated with the delicious aroma of some food which Doc did not recognise, simmering on the stove.
“Ah… Mrs Birnbaum. You have a daughter, that wants to hire a private investigator?”
“No, I half no daughter.”
If Louie screwed this up, I’ll brain him!
“I was told someone wishes me to investigate the possibility of… infidelity. That their husband may be having an extra-marital affair. Is there a woman in this building in that situation that you know of, Mrs Birnbaum? Perhaps with another name?”
“Did your muther half a difficult delivery? I am Norma Birnbaum! I am da voman! Andt my husbant is cheatingt on me! Mit a rich, younger bimbo no less!” she declared, making her way to the kitchen.
Doc was taken off guard.
If this guy is anywhere near her age and is foolin’ around, I gotta meet him
, he thought.
“What makes you think Ira has been seeing someone else, Mrs Birnbaum?”
“Dink?
DINK
? I don’t dink. I know! A voman knows dees dings. Since the war started! Maybe he wants to sow some vild oats, who knows? In case we’re invaded, maybe. Come, sit!” They both took seats in the kitchen.
“What did you notice, since the war started? That made you suspicious, I mean?”
Mrs Birnbaum explained as she stirred pots and made tea.
“The usual. Stayingt out late. Goink to verk at odd hours. Dinks like dat.”
“Has there been any money missing, say from his pay, or anything like that?”
She shook her finger vigorously as she spoke. “No! Dat’s how I know da little hussy is rich. He still gives me all his money, and den some! But he still has money to play mit da hoochie-coochie.” Norma embellished the words with pelvic gyrations.
“What does your husband do, Norma?”
“He is postal clerk. You know, for dee postal office.”
“So, he works at the 42nd Street Station?” Doc asked as he kept notes.
“No. Two years ago they give him promotion and easier job, downtown. Soon, he retires. He is seventy-nine, you know! Andt still vorkingt! We promise each other he only vork until he is eighty. You know, that way we can spend last twenty years or so together.”
Doc‘s eyes involuntarily widened. “Well, it’s important to be optimistic. Your plans may still work out, Norma. How long have you and Ira been married?”
Mrs Birnbaum stood up straight, and allowed her slight shoulders to set back ever so gently. “Today is our anniversary! Fifty-seven years, two months, and seventeen days! Today!”
Jesus! I should live so long
, thought Doc.
“Well Norma, here’s what we’ll do. Why don’t you give me his work address. I’ll have a look around, and we’ll see if we can’t work this thing out.”
“I yust don’t vant I should lose my Ira, Mr MackQuen.”
“He vas in da films, you know. Da real films! Not dis talkies nonsense! He vas an actor! He vas friends mit Joelson!”
She began to sob, and Doc got edgy. He was useless around crying women.
“Norma, I really need you to act as normal as possible, keep up your daily routines, and wait for me to get back to you. Okay?” He handed her a tissue from the box on the table. “Now what’s the address?”
“It’s on Church Street. Number ninety, Church Street.” He couldn’t place it, but Doc recognised the address. “Here, eat some soup.”
“No thanks, Norma. I really need to… ”
“Eat! Eat!”
Doc realised he was out-gunned and gave in.
In 1936, Murray Gurfein was instrumental in the conviction of the Boss of Bosses, Charlie ‘Lucky’ Luciano. This conviction, which resulted in a sentence roughly five times greater than any ‘normal’ criminal would receive, was intended to put Luciano away for the rest of his life. It didn‘t.
Some of the tactics employed by DA Thomas Dewey compelled many people working with him to ask questions. In particular, why the majority of the dozen or so witnesses they called said nearly the same exact thing. Or why the three key witnesses had recanted their statements almost immediately after testifying and had then signed sworn statements to that effect. Lastly, there was the issue of perjury on the part of some of the witnesses for the prosecution, along with the DA threatening those very same witnesses with imprisonment if they did not testify as directed.
Of course, there can be little doubt that the mobsters probably made some threats as well. But apparently Dewey’s boys threatened harder, and his political ambitions, of which he made no secret, were eventually fulfilled. He was able to buy the Governorship of New York.
Although Dewey’s shady victory had taken place three years previously, Gurfein, as head of the rackets division, had gotten nearly as much mileage out of Luciano’s conviction. And now it was time to meet another one of these hoodlums. Only this time Gurfein would not have the safety of a courtroom. He would meet him face to face, alone on his own turf. At midnight.
To complicate matters, he was going to ask this gangster for help. Even if he hadn’t been ‘asked’ by the DAto do this, as head of the NYC Rackets Division it was his responsibility.
Murray had a problem. If he came back empty-handed, it wouldn’t go well for his career. If he came back with something, he would probably have to make a deal. A deal he had no authorisation to make.
Standing outside the City Hall, Gurfein held his watch towards a lamp post so the faint glow would allow him to read the dial in the winter darkness.
Eleven forty-seven. Shit!
he thought to himself. Desperate to find a taxi to take him uptown, Gurfein stepped out into the street and peered downtown into the gloom of the night. As if on cue, a cab pulled out from around the corner, and came to a stop in front of him.
Getting in through the back door, he didn’t notice the ‘off duty’ roof light was lit and, before he could get himself seated, he felt the cab pull away.
“103rd and Broadway,” he instructed the driver.
“I know,” came the response. The lawyer wanted to ask questions, but thought better of it.
It was at least a twenty minute ride uptown, even without traffic, which gave Gurfein time to think. He nervously shifted his position several times before settling down and gazing out the window into the desolation of the Manhattan night.
Ah, what the hell?
he reasoned to himself.
If the hoods co-operate, the DA looks good. If not, they look like what they are, a bunch of scumbags. If it all goes to shit somewhere down the line, I can always say I was ordered by Hogan to do it, in spite of the fact I was repulsed by being told to do business with known criminals
. He practised how to say ‘repulsed’, and make it sound believable.
