Paul Levine - Riptide

Then an abridged version of the familiar tale of the arrival at Ellis Island, of working for a cousin making corrugated boxes, and of starting his own small factory and finally retiring with six mammoth ones.

That story done, Kazdoy looked ahead. “Tomorrow, first we’ll see a short subject, and I don’t mean Mickey Rooney. It’s about the Moscow subway system and it’s beautiful to look at. They scrub those cars every night, you could eat off the floor. Have any of you ridden in a New York subway recently?”

A knowing murmur swept the crowd, heads bobbing in affirmation.

“Then a great war film that shows the horrors, the losses, the sacrifices…”

Oh no, Lassiter thought, how many times can they watch The Cranes Are Flying?

“ The Cranes Are Flying,” Kazdoy said. “I know all of you love it.” And again, an appreciative stirring rustled through the theater, patrons content that they would revisit the familiar.

After the show, as Violet was making her way to Harry’s place, Lassiter and the old man locked up the theater. “Let’s get a bite to eat, Jacob,” the old man said, as always. “Maybe the Chicken in the Pot is better than last time.”

Kazdoy’s All-Nite Deli was on Collins Avenue along the ocean but thirty blocks south of the high-rent district and ten blocks north of the trendy club scene. From the window booths, you could see the marquee of a triple-X movie theater advertising an all-male film festival. Next door was a noisy bar frequented by dockworkers who would be shipped out on the next freighter if Immigration ever pulled a raid. On the sidewalk, young women in short shorts and halter tops moseyed along in the universal stroll of the working gal with nowhere to go and lots of time to get there.

The Chicken in the Pot was no better. A layer of grease coated the soup, heavy noodles sinking to the bottom, while rubbery chicken parts floated near the surface.

“Eat a little something,” the old man commanded. “Enjoy!”

Lassiter had a whitefish platter, the smoked fish surrounded by coleslaw and potato salad, last week’s mayonnaise sharp on the tongue. They ate silently, Kazdoy growing tired, the excitement of the crowd wearing off. Lassiter munched a pickled tomato and wound his fork with sauerkraut. Finally, the old man asked, “How about you come to the theater this weekend?”

“I can’t. I’m organizing the windsurfing races on the Key.”

“Windsurfing.” Samuel Kazdoy shook his bald head. “You make any money at that?”

“Not a cent.”

“Meshugge. Why do it?”

“I like the challenge of riding a rough sea with just the wind for power and a chunk of fiberglass under my feet. It’s a thrill to go faster than the lugheads in their half-million-dollar powerboats. It also keeps me sane, makes me forget about my sweaty-palmed partners and my clients who’ve never lost anything but their scruples.”

The old man narrowed his eyes. “You got no clients you like?”

“Only you, Sam, and nobody’s sued you lately.”

“Nm, who should sue me? When those momzers in Hollywood tried, you kicked them in the ass.”

Lassiter laughed. “As I recall, we entered a consent order. I assume you’ve stopped buying bootleg films.”

Sam Kazdoy worked his crumpled face into a look of childlike innocence. “That’s for me to know, and Samuel Goldwyn to find out. But you did a good job then, and I haven’t forgotten.”

“Neither have I. You were my first paying client after I got out of the PD’s office. Plus you always brought me apple strudel. Nowadays, my clients bring postdated checks and perjurious witnesses.”

“I’m surprised you have any clients. Half the time you’re at the beach, windboarding or sailsurfing or whatever mishegoss…”

“Sam, didn’t you ever play golf or tennis or go skiing?”

“Skiing?”

You might as well have asked him to eat suckling pig. “Didn’t you ever have any hobbies?” Lassiter asked.

“Hobbies? I should live so long.”

“But you must have done something besides run your businesses.”

“I did religious work.”

“You?”

“Sure, I made a lot of women Jewish, if only by injection,” Kazdoy chuckled.

“Well, you should come to the beach this weekend just to watch,” Jake Lassiter said. “Lila Summers from Maui will be there. She’s young and beautiful and one of the world’s great athletes. What more could a man ask?”

“To be seventy again,” Samuel Kazdoy said.

Whadaya mean don’t take ‘em all?” Harry Marlin asked. He was unnerved, pacing in the tiny apartment, throwing his hands around, sweat beading on his balding head.

Violet Belfrey watched, worried that he couldn’t handle it. Look at him, the little soda jerk — let’s face it, she thought, that’s what he is — coming unglued only hours before he should be grabbing fistfuls of eagles, enough to fill Lincoln Road with three feet of birdshit.

“You take ‘em all, the old man’s liable to croak,” she said. “Besides, if you only take some, like a couple hundred thou, he won’t make such a fuss, maybe not even report it to the police.”

“Vi, baby, you don’t know what you’re asking me to do. It’s like saying, ‘Harry, only stick it halfway in.’ I might promise, but I get the door open, you know damn well I’m gonna ram it home.”

“Maybe you should just keep it in your pants, you got such little control, and I can do this myself.”

Harry smiled a crooked, gold-capped grin. “Then what about your alibi?”

He had her and had her good. Violet would be with the old man when the B and E was coming down. Someone else had to do the job and Harry was the one.

“Awright,” Violet said. “Ah’ll keep the old man happy as a clam at high tide, but why be greedy?”

She had finagled an invitation to Kazdoy’s apartment, agreeing to broil some chicken — dry it out good, bubeleh — and once there, high heels kicked off, yawning and slipping out of tight blouse and frilly bra, she’d cook his goose.

Harry would have all night to root around in the metal drawers.

If he didn’t fuck it up.

But look at him now, nervous as a dog shitting razor blades. Should be so easy. But the little man, sweet as he is, couldn’t break into a pay toilet. Now he wants to take ‘em all, cause a big ruckus.

“Vi, you gotta think big. You said yourself there might be millions there. Millions!”

“That’s what ah’m worried about. The bigger the haul, who knows, the FBI might be here tomorrow givin’ me the third degree.”

“The FBI don’t give a shit about an old man’s bonds. They got stolen cars to worry about.”

Harry stopped pacing to look in the bathroom mirror and adjust his black wool ski cap, pulling it down over his eyes. Nice touch, changes a guy’s looks, harder to make a guy. An army surplus store had provided the essentials of the evening’s attire, black turtleneck sweater rolled up to his ears, ski cap pulled down, baggy green army jacket, camouflage pants, and black lumberjack boots, plus a backpack that held a flashlight and crowbar. In that getup and with a four-day growth of beard, he didn’t look like Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief more like Yasir Arafat after a tough week in the Bekaa Valley. It never occurred to Harry that a burglar on Miami Beach shouldn’t look like a guy who would blow up a synagogue.

Harry smiled into the mirror. Nice change from the guayaberas, he thought. He looked tough, weather-beaten, mean. And truth was, he’d wear a daffodil up his ass to keep from adding a blue chambray shirt with a six-digit number to his wardrobe.

Violet was fixing her hair, trying to get the lank, bleached strands to puff up into a beehive or bird’s nest, or some other den for small animals, Harry thought. Each time she almost had it, some pins gave way and a side of the nest crumbled like a seawall in a hurricane. Soon she gave up and let gravity carry her hair down over her shoulders. Then she stepped into a black cotton miniskirt that was so old it was back in style. She wriggled her feet into black high-heeled shoes with sequins and spun around in front of the mirror to evaluate herself.