Chapter 7

So Heshy had been pissed that he was taking the afternoon off. Who gave a shit? Even sick and on his ass the old man was making money up the giggie. Here was this doorman got up in a frog-green hat and heavy overcoat, bobbing his head in welcome, face perspiring in the unseasonably warm one o'clock.

Kingsley and Joe approached the maitre d’. "Bonjour, Monsieur Kingsley. Tout va bien? We have not had the pleasure of seeing you for many weeks. A voyage?"

"Non, non, Jacques. Work only. Mon ami, est-il arrivé?"

"Oui, Monsieur Kingsley. I will take you to your table. Il vous attend."

Showing off. The fucks. To put him in his place? They couldn't say it all in English? Joe noticed on the wall the platters regularly hung like pictures, in the center of each plate a giant frog. Beth's walls had better decorations. Better than Kingsley's too. Why did Kingsley hate the art that Beth was nuts for? He could see a picture was a picture, but the art Beth liked was different, more than that. He'd put his money on Beth's taste. He'd picked that up from her. Taste. He liked it.

As they approached the corner table Joe saw a young man with a fleshy face, wide blue eyes innocent of everything, and thick blond hair cut short. He wore a navy suit and a skinny blue tie. White shirt. Joe made a mental note of it. The look.

Whoa! Up close this kid was hardly older than him. Not even thirty. What could he know? In the next split second he decided age had no relationship to what you knew.

The maitre d' seated them, poured wine from the waiting bottle in the ice bucket, and left.

Kingsley. "Comment allez-vous, cher ami? Haven't seen you in too long."

"Tout va bien, Bob. And Mary? Beth?"

"They're fine. They miss you, of course."

"We have to get together soon. Maybe next week. I'll give you a buzz."

Kingsley laughed. "Please excuse us for the personal, Joe. We met at a fund-raiser for Eisenhower near my alma mater, Princeton. Reggie here was still an undergraduate and a Young Republican delegate. I ran into him again in Paris under especially trying circumstances. He saved that day for me, and several others since. We speak a little French when we get the opportunity, although like Reg, the more I go to France the more I like my Spanish friends. Reggie Sloan, I'd like you to meet my friend Joe Ostowitz. Joe, meet Reginald Sloan. Reggie's with Lehman Brothers in their mergers and acquisitions department, and a registered rep as well. And a very good friend. He's the man who handles the account I started for you."

When he reached out his hand to shake Reggie's Joe was conscious of the black stains underneath his fingernails. No French like these two Wasps and Beth. Black stains. Well, fuck it. He wouldn't learn the French, and he'd never be a Wasp or a Republican, but the black stains wouldn't be there forever.

"You haven't mentioned, Bob, that I owe my position at Lehman to you."

"Don't make too much of it, Reggie. I said a few words only. You're good, or you wouldn't have lasted there. I did them a favor. Joe's the man, as I've already told you, who owns the Berkey shares that I set up in that special account."

"Good move. Bought a bundle of it too."

"I thought you men should get to know one another, especially with this business to transact. It's a real pleasure for me to bring you two together here at La Grenouille, one of my favorite spots, a new young friend and an old young friend. Remember I'm simply a middleman here so I'll listen only, unless you need my opinion on something. Jacques has brought us a bottle of his best white, as he always does, so let's decide on lunch. Sorry, Joe, their menu's all in French. I'll order for you what I think you'll like. Trust me."

Go ahead and put me down. I'm learning something now, you fuck, that no one else will ever get a glom on. "I do, Mr. Kingsley. Trust you with my money and my life. And now my lunch."

When they had ordered Reggie swung his eyes like cannon, settling them on Joe. "You did well, buying Berkey when you did. It's trading now at 2 bid 2 asked. Bob said you'd like the account in your name so I've brought the transfer papers for you and Bob to sign. I've signed already." He took a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket, leaned across the table and placed them before Joe, who studied them briefly and said, "Would you look these over, Mr. Kingsley?" Start this ball rolling right, get Kingsley used to looking at the things he signed, although by now he knew enough to read these papers, plan his moves, some that maybe these guys didn't know.

Kingsley smiled and took the papers, scanned them and signed in several places, made some x' s with his pen. "They're fine, Joe. Sign where I've placed an x."

As he was signing the boilerplate Joe said, "Reggie Sloan. So you're my broker now."

"I am. Bob was kind enough to place the account with me. I'm delighted that we're getting off to such a good start."

"I have a question, Reggie Sloan. On the transfer slip Mr. Kingsley handed me I saw you charged me a transaction charge of $180 and change."

"Right. Our standard commission fees."

"But the whole commission isn't yours."

"Regretfully it's not. Lehman gets its share."

"And the account is mine to take to any broker that I want."

"Of course."

"Uh-huh." Joe paused. But just for the effect. What he said next he'd planned. "Well, let's agree that if I keep my account with you I get 30% of your percentage back to me. In cash." He leveled his brown eyes on Reggie's blues.

Shock. It' s what you do to them when you rock their boat. Panic time.

He watched Reggie take a sip of wine, face reddening, not knowing if it was Kingsley or him who'd set him up for this, then glanced at Kingsley, whose face had reddened too but still looked on impassively, thinned his lips, shook his head a little. Reggie would come back with yes or tell him to fuck off. Joe bit a chunk of breadstick. Not bad.

"I just met you, Joe. You've got a hell of a way to start a broker/client relationship. Besides, what are we talking about? Twenty, thirty bucks? This lunch will cost me more than that when I pick up the tab."

Joe paused again. These guys knew wine and French. They dealt in zillions. He had nothing compared to them. It had to be his mouth, his words, the moves he planned that had to bring him everything. What he'd planned was make it clear that Reggie worked for him! "That's just my first transaction that you handled, Reggie. Not my last. Got one to do this afternoon, you meet my terms."

Reggie swivelling his head from Kingsley back to Joe, his collar suddenly too tight. He faced toward Kingsley but found no relief. He took a sip of wine, his face now pink. "What you didn't tell me, Bob," with a rueful smile, "was bring a chair and whip inside this cage. I thought you told me Joe had never owned a share of stock."

Kingsley shrugged his shoulders and smiled a lopsided smile. "I did tell you that, Reggie. Joe learns quick. You should have seen him rake it in at my little monthly Latino game -- only his second time there."

And when's your regular big money game with Wasps, you fuck? Did Reggie play in it? You gonna bring me into that one, or afraid that I won't fit? Well -- who cares. Spics hadn't played too good, too wild, and he'd sold two muscle cars to them besides.

Reggie studied his glass. "Tell me, Bob -- if I say yes to Joe, I have to do the same for you?"

Joe watched Kingsley study Reggie and then study him. The way he hesitated, face still red. Thinking. Reminded him of Beth. What was he thinking of? His friendship with this clown and the French they spoke? That he didn't approve of such a shitty thing but money's money, no? Joe felt his blood run hotter. Do it, man. I want to see this thing go down.

Kingsley spoke at last. "Makes sense to me, Reggie. Joe here is something else now, isn't he? Surprise a minute."

How about that! Kingsley had the balls to fuck his friend. Showed that you could fuck someone as quick in French as you could in English. Had to re-evaluate this guy. Capable of fucking anyone. But look! It was the first time Kingsley followed him. It wouldn't be the last.

Reggie frowned uncomfortably at his glass of white and turned to Joe. "What's this new transaction, Joe, you' ve got in mind?"

"I want you buy me 1300 more at 2, make it an even 5,000 shares. I brought cash."

"Cash?"

"Why? Cash no good?"

"No. I can manage it. But Joe, Berkey's not at 2. I told you there' s a bid and asked."

"You're now my broker, Reggie. You're my man. What' s good with Mr. Kingsley is good with me. You' ll find a way to buy at 2. Don't pay more. I want you fight for me for every eighth."

The waiter placed their plates before them. Joe's seemed like nothing he had ever eaten. "What do I have here, Mr. Kingsley?"

"Frog's legs, Joe. Best in New York."

Frogs!? A test like with the ham at dinner that first time? He hesitated for a moment only. "So good. Let' s have some lunch."

*

Hesh always loved that first swallow of Doctor Brown's Cel-ray Tonic, remembering the deli on the corner, he was maybe five, his father putting on the table franks for Yussel and him, a soup bowl full of sauerkraut, the mustard in a dish, Mama skinny, this ritual Sunday smell, this deli treat at noon, the first bite as he crammed it in, and then the swallow of the Doctor Brown's. He didn't like it, memories of Papa junking up his mind. Impatient Papa with eyes jumping all around the store, planning even then escaping his responsibility like Mama said. Why did he do it, why? Had they done something bad? And yet he surely was remembering it right, that Papa liked him best, that Joe had always been a trumbernik. Sitting at his work station he washed the rest of his pastrami sandwich down. He still had half an hour on his lunch, the place all emptied, McCullough sick again today, him supervising more and more.

At least the inventory stock he'd made accessible in seconds, not five, ten minutes just to dig through boxes finding parts. Still needed more controls but now the wheels were set in motion, shouldn't take too long to get it right, by Labor Day for sure.

On the far wall he noticed that the top two-barrel carburetor box was not aligned. Getting bad as Joe. Coming closer saw the sealing tape looked wrinkled, wrong. Red flag! He sensed it in his gut. He hefted down the box and lugged it to McCullough's office, set it on the desk. Rochester delivered tip-top merchandise inside that orange, blue and white box. The sealing tape was fastened by machine. It couldn't, couldn't have been moved a whisker except somebody opened it.

Joe. Of course. Who else? But what? What did it mean? He slit the sealing open with his pocket knife. Well, there it was, packed in its cardboard form. Two-barrel carburetor. Wait!! What was that smell? What means this bending of the cardboard form? Impossible! Whole thing packed by a machine. He recognized the smell. Cleaning fluid used on dirty parts!

He lifted out the carburetor. Set it on the desk. Examined it. Oh, shit! The screws were fucking tampered with. Used part!!

To convince himself he wasn't going blind he got another Rochester, opened it. Compared. Of course! In some way he wasn't seeing clear enough, he knew that it was Joe and fucking them big-time. But how? Now what?

First thing he'd change the locks. Should have done it right away. A shmuck, that's what he was. He'd let the old man down. OK. It couldn't be a single carburetor. How much could Joe make on that? It didn't sound like Joe's MO to do just this. So now he'd have to go through all the stock, make sure! God damn! Joe had to be stealing their new parts and putting used parts in their place.

What was so hard Joe couldn't be legit? Couldn't see that you could make it going straight. Only if you gave yourself of course, put out. What made Joe stay a small-time hood?

Well, maybe it was each man for himself. Maybe partnership was out. And yet -- how could he write Joe off, his twin, going nowhere fast, down the rat hole with the rest of them, with Binky and his gang? If he could only get this place ship-shape, grab the pizza lease next door for two more bays, convince McCullough that they had to grow. They already had the customers. Problem was the old man was probably too spooked by getting sick all the time to spend a dime. Lease wouldn't last forever without someone snap it up.

He saw Joe going toward his locker. Joe always changed now to have lunch. Like he was some big wheel. Couldn' t see himself for what he was -- a small-time punk. Let's see how he got out of this. He replaced the carburetor in the box, sealed it makeshift, carried it to where Joe stood before the open locker changing into uniform.

"I found this box."

"Yeah, so?" Shrugging up the shoulder straps.

"You see this tape?"

"I've seen a carburetor box before." Bending smoothly down to tie his right shoe lace.

"Sure, Joe. But this one has been opened and resealed." He looked for signs of anger, panic. Nothing.

"No shit?" Tying up the left.

"Well, let's rip off the seal and see what gives. OK?"

Now Joe had stopped above the shoes. "OK."

Hesh set the box down on the floor and ripped the seal off. Opened up the box, displayed the carburetor.

Joe shrugged. "So? A two-barrel carburetor. What did you expect in a carburetor box? A steering column?"

"The thing is, Joe, that this ain't new. It's a used part. First smell it, see. You get a whiff? Then look these tool marks and these rounded screws. You see? Used part."

"No shit. I tell you. Hesh, the world is getting mean. You can't trust anyone these days, not even Rochester."

"You don't know anything how this used part got in here and the new part out?"

Joe thought real quick. He didn't need a hassle now or he'd tell Hesh to shove it, box and all. What could the poor schmo do? Turn him in? Never happen. Still -- he'd try a new one. Bound to give Hesh problems with his head. "Me? What for I do that, Hesh? I do my job. I make my wages. Bother nobody. I follow your lead, underneath an auto body with my drop light and my tools, 'cause some day maybe we can be something. Why always you're accusing me? I do you something, Hesh? I'm Joe. You're speaking to your twin, your brother. What do I know some manufacturer ships you used and charges you for new?"

Come on! It made no sense. The fuck was making fun of him except this time there wasn't any grin. He peered into Joe's warm brown eyes. Now how could he be innocent? Impossible. What happened to the Joe who told him to go fuck himself? Who else would switch the part and why? This Joe in front of him seemed new, as if he'd maybe learned a thing or two. Could that be possible? Dissatisfied with the way that this had gone, he thinned his lips. " It's OK, Joe, I'll track it down. I'm sorry I questioned you that way, like I'm a cop or something." He walked away, cradling the box in his hands as though carrying it before some judge, although ten yards away he stopped and turned around, as if to catch Joe out or nail the moment down. He'd check with Rochester the possibility.

Joe finished changing. What happens when you go legit. Your brain goes soft. Loses every lesson that it learned. Hey, he'd been some good with Hesh. He should have maybe had a stage career.

That tore it now. The bastard wasn't gonna keep his fingers off of anything. Who knew the fuck would poke his big, fat nose in there -- a box! What else if he began to look? Had to push the schedule up to open the new space. One step ahead but only just. Had to move quick, orders piling in.

*

Joe shook his head. The way they built things then. The original thick beam was a trued-up 8x8. An engine hoist was hanging from an I-beam now. Binky lent him Manny set it up. An air compressor, paints, air-powered spray gun, paint curtain just in case he needed it, floor jacks, stands, some creepers for the underbody work, a maul, some Craftsman ratchets, sockets, wrenches that he had to buy at Sears at retail, Bedford Street the nearest place. Set, except for tires, wheel spokes, covers, but Binky's guys would bring him stuff fell off the backs of trucks. He wanted all his ducks lined up before he started anything. He saw he'd have to juggle time with Beth and promised himself nothing gonna put a crimp in that. She was introducing him to friends tomorrow after work. What she wanted was to show him off. Why not? He' d look his best for her. She was his luck. Still lots to learn. Still did a number on him every time. If he had to juggle time, he'd have to quit his job. He didn't need it any more. The wages was to laugh. He had a list of all the customers besides.

*

Kingsley on the 28th floor, the Treasury across Broad, and the bank downstairs. The money sure got tied together good.

Joe gave the elevator man his floor, a half a dozen people getting out before. What with their faces? Looked like all of them were set to fight each other, men and women both. Hey, even Clinton Street they didn't look this ugly, mean. Maybe something happened to the market. Or maybe it was just because no one could make a buck without they snatch it from a guy who couldn't keep a grip, and they'd been snatched. Forget Saigon. The war was in these buildings, in the street. Just look these people's faces getting on and off.

You couldn't miss it, entering. Half of the Caribbean in here. He gave his name and Kingsley himself appeared in shirtsleeves. Liked the way the guy knew how to dress, blue tie, white shirt, gold cufflinks at the wrist. Looked strict as a warden. "Joe! Come in, come in," and gestured with his open hand. Then shut the door behind them as they sat. Dead serious. On the desk a picture of Mary and Beth together. Kingsley picked up the phone, spoke softly into it. "Hold all calls," he said.

Great-looking women this guy had. "You said last night when we were leaving poker that you wanted me. I'm here. I'm playing hookey, sir."

"I wear two hats today, Joe. Wearing my first hat I'm going to have to put aside my debt to you and be brutally frank. The deal is this: I'll ask, you'll answer honestly. Agreed?"

Whoa! Had Kingsley discovered that he' d served time? How would he answer that? He felt a flutter, not of fear, but anxious just the same. Hell of a time to screw things up. "Why would I lie? To you?" Not the same as playing Hesh. This was a lawyer man, a thief like him. Beth was his daughter! Men would kill for that.

"Last night Claudio and Luis boasted to me that you'd sold them expensive cars at bargain prices. Now let's get something straight, Joe. I'm no policeman and no stranger to bending rules myself, and Mary's none the worse for it. But I'm Beth's father, so you answer me. Are you headed for trouble?"

"I don't think so, sir." Serious as Kingsley had to be the way to go.

Kingsley locked eyes with Joe's for an extraordinary time. Probed deep. "I don't care to know what those transactions were about. I'm not some goody two-shoes. But what I need to know is -- did you steal those cars? As bluntly as that. You answer truthfully, Joe."

"No." No surprise that Kingsley wasn't a saint. How could he be and front for all the thieves who had their pictures hanging in museums? And shit, he'd told the man the truth. He didn't boost the cars.

Kingsley's shoulders seemed to relax a hairsbreadth, but he was still frowning like a judge. "Are you taking risks with the law you can't afford? That wouldn't be too wise. Bending it is one thing. Breaking it -- they lock you up in Sing Sing or in Alcatraz and throw away the key. Are those the kinds of risks you're running, Joe?" His eyes bored into Joe's as if he was a witness or a defendant.

"I don't think so, sir."

"You don't think so. That seems to be your answer to everything. Makes we wonder if you're leveling with me." He studied Joe, lips pursed, and spoke almost as though talking to himself, as Beth would do. "I've seen you play table stakes, Joe. You sail much closer to the wind than I would care to do, but you've handled yourself OK so far. I respect that, Joe." He paused. Sat silently. "Perhaps on second thought I guess I ought to respect your answer too. If you'd said 'no' it wouldn' t be believable." Still somber and uncertain, he studied Joe, who sat impassive and open. Let him look. Why not? What could he figure out if he hadn't done it yet?

"On the third hand, I've always found your judgment good. Mostly accurate. I know from experience how quick you are, even though you're rough sometimes, more than I think is warranted. I'm trying not to let my debt to you confuse this thing." He thought a while longer, his eyes never leaving Joe's face. Then said, "Whatever it is you're doing, I can see you've made a judgment call. Out of context as I am, I have no way to second-guess you. I'm going to have to assume pro tem your judgment will continue good until you prove me wrong."

After a lengthy pause his expression and his voice changed: "I hope you've taken no offense at this grilling, Joe. I've broken a cardinal rule of parenting. If Beth found out I've had you here without her knowing it she'd shoot me dead. She thinks a lot of you."

He knew how close a shave he'd just had. " I'm crazy for her, sir." That was the truth.

Kingsley let his eyes drift toward the picture on the desk. "We're past the days of asking what your intentions are toward her, too modern for all that. But what about Beth's safety, Joe, her well-being, and, why not, even her emotions? As both her father and your friend?"

His friend! "Mr. Kingsley, I personally guarantee that nothing bad will ever come to Beth from me. She's in my mind all day. Protecting her from everything is what I think about. Count on me. I do that pretty good. It's like my specialty." Piece of cake and mostly true.

Kingsley rose and paced before the window twice. "You aren't taking risks because you think you must compete with me, are you? Beth has faith in your ability and I do too, but Joe, we come from different sets of circumstance. There's no way we're in competition, Joe."

In competition, Bob? You bet your ass we're not. One day you'll work for me. "Just trying to get somewhere, Mr. Kingsley. Do a little business on the side. Not easy, date a girl like Beth, like date a princess. I support my mom, pay rent for my apartment on my lousy wage. I'm lucky you steered me to those Berkey shares. Hope to make my business grow. That's all." And lowered his eyes a little.

Kingsley sat down and leaned back in his swivel chair, satisfied to a degree, although his eyes had remained on Joe's face throughout. Finally he nodded and said, "OK. Enough of that. I'm putting on my other hat. Perhaps what I'm about to say may help your business grow." He took an envelope from the center drawer of his enormous desk. "In this you'll find an address and a few words of instruction. I can't tell you any more than that. They expect you" -- he consulted his watch -- "at five. It will be worth your while to hear them out. And by the way, don' t call me Mr. Kingsley. My friends all call me Bob."

*

Joe knew he'd been this way before, the Met was just across the street. Here was the Stanhope, fancy lobby, registration desk. "There are people in Room 609 expecting me. I'm supposed to show you this." He placed the letterhead and its instructions on the marble counter. Nervous little shrimp, pushing at his glasses. What was he squinting at? At him? He didn't look like class? His nails were black? C'mon. He wore a three-piece suit!

"One moment, sir." The tuxedo telephoned. "Front desk here. I have this gentleman . . . on a letterhead, sir. Thank you. I'll direct him, sir." Still nervous, he turned to Joe. He gestured. "You may take the elevator to the sixth floor."

"Thanks."

In front of the door to Room 609 he ran a comb through his hair. Was this the kind of "opportunity" that Kingsley'd had in mind? Well, he was ready. Knocked.

"Come in."

Man sounded like a spic from Clinton Street. He entered. Place was bigger than Mom's apartment, for crissakes. Through the door a bedroom. Two men in white shirts awaited him, the one with the mustache standing just inside the door, the other seated at a table. "Hi," Joe said, putting out his hand.

"Hello." The man who shook his hand spoke with a heavy accent and was dark enough to be a light-skinned schwartze. What were schwartzes doing in a fancy place like this, must cost a zillion bucks a night? Kingsley, of course. Some racket. Where did he fit in? Think quick, say nothing, stay alert. "Have a seat." Mustache motioned to a fat upholstered chair at the table across from the other guy, who hadn' t said a word.

Now there were three around the table, chandelier hanging down, facing each other, Joe waiting for someone to speak. At last it was the man who'd said "hello." "We' d like to buy some cars. Some Chevys, Chryslers, Fords. We're told you can deliver. Yes?"

Like that? Straight out? What a joke, Kingsley interrogating him about boosting cars like a fucking parole officer, then handing him off to friends to boost some cars. These were the opportunities that Kingsley used his tough guys for. Doing favors for his friends, or maybe even for himself. Not the guys in this room. Nah. Their bosses. It might have been a test there in his office -- what? He'd read him right. Kingsley was a thief! Like him. Well, maybe not a thief, exactly. He surely didn't go for stuff like this, no contact. Nah. He did it with his pen. He was a helping hand. He thought about the bug he'd found and felt a tiny prick of fear. This room. Who knew? "I work on cars so I'm familiar with the different makes." Choosing his words like picking his way across a mine-field in Vietnam. "What exactly do you have in mind?"

The man who'd shaken his hand turned toward the other one. "El abogado gringo estaba supuesto a mandar alguien que está metido en este negócio, alguien que sabe lo, que está haçiendo. Este es un callejero, Miguel, ni tiene 25 anos."

"Quien sabe, Ponce? Deja -- lo hablar."

A street kid!? The fucks. They didn't know he'd learned some Spanish in the can. Something fishy here. Walk out? Tell them to speak English or fuck off? Nothing made him madder than feeling someone shut him out. But wait. Blow your cool was kid stuff. Steady does it. Besides, he now had just a little edge. "I don't know where you came up with the idea that I had cars for sale. Someone told me someone this address could use advice about some cars. So far I don't know what kind advice you want. Who are you guys?" This wasn't Jimmy with two kees of grass. This was money. Maybe his, if he lived long enough. Maybe there were bad guys in the bedroom waiting to bust in.

Ponce riveted his eyes to Joe's. "We can't tell you who we are. What we want is twenty low-priced cars to start, and used and spare parts for them and all kinds of other cars. American cars. Can you get them for us?"

Well, shit on this. Two schwartzes jabbering away in Spanish -- thought he didn't know. Kingsley should have said. Was this a test as well? He'd keep his cool. "Twenty cars? Like that? Delivered to the Stanhope here?"

Ponce looked at Miguel, who bobbed his head again. "You make a joke, yes? Too many for the Stanhope. To Canada. Delivered to Canada."

To Canada!? Now what the fuck. None of it was right -- their Spanish, his ignorance of who these guys were, and Canada, the last straw. Maybe loads of money here, but not with them. If Kingsley was testing if he'd take a crazy risk, the answer was the one he stood to say. Maybe taking his life in his hands. Who knew? "Look. I don't know you guys. I'm not delivering nothing nowhere. Maybe you got me mixed up with someone else. Anyway, I have no interest in this. I'll tell the party on the other side to deal me out." On the verge of saying it, but settled for thinking it only to himself, "Maricons."

He turned to leave, muscles braced, eyes alert, prepared for who knows what, for other bad guys rushing in, locked doors. But then he was outside in the corridor and on the elevator going down and planning what he'd say to Kingsley, had to see him right away.