By Larry Lefkowitz
MODI’IN, Israel — I was sitting at a table in a small unprepossessing Italian restaurant in the Sheepshead Bay area of Brooklyn. Being an insecure type, I sat with my back to the wall, as usual, when three nattily dressed gentlemen of Italian appearance entered and approached me. “This table is our table. . .” the nattiest of them said to me softly and not impolitely. Maybe because of the gangster movies I had seen, I considered it best not to dispute the fact. If I were younger, I would have yielded with a humorous face-saving remark, such as “I thought tables were fungible.” If I were much younger, maybe even argued a bit, and perhaps I would have remained much younger for eternity. But fortunately I was not so young and life had taught me a certain prudence. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll sit somewhere else.” I reached a hand toward a plate of spaghetti and meatballs that had arrived immediately before the three gentlemen – to take it to a table less in demand.
The ultra of the natty put forth a hand in my direction. Maybe my answer or movement of ready compliance had struck a soft spot under the armor. “Wait a minute,” he said. “You can join us.” He seemed to have surprised his two brothers–in-possible-arms as much as me, for they glanced at each other momentarily.
I hesitated. These guys didn’t seem out of Damon Runyon; I wasn’t sure I wanted to be their dinner companion. “Thank you, but I don’t want to disturb you,” I said. “Probably you have business you want to discuss.” “Business can wait,” he said, glancing meaningfully (it seemed to me) at his two attendants whose body language seemed to relax at their being temporarily “off duty.” He then turned to me once more. “Sit down,” he ordered affably.
His subalterns looked me up and down. I had the feeling that they were searching me for under-my-clothes bulges denoting hidden weapons. I suddenly had the presentment that I was about to bend spaghetti elbows with three Mafiosos, one of them a don or whatever, and that rivals would burst into the restaurant “wasting” (I believe is the argot) the other guys at the table and not excluding me despite my comparatively poor dress. The odds were against such an occurrence, but I was at the stage of life where I already knew that things go against the odds more than one thinks. It was this latter conjecture that made me pause. But curiosity and a circumspect instinct not to protest too much decided me.
After I was seated, the leader sat down. The two subalterns sat down more slowly, after looking around the restaurant. This look-around I cherished (from the movies), I felt I was indeed present at a gangster meeting. The don looked disdainfully at my plate of regular spaghetti and meatballs. “You can do better. I’ll order for you what I eat. You’ll thank me later.”
“What the hell,” I thought. “Fine,” is what I said.
He smiled a not unengaging smile, if not altogether reassuring. He waved his hand and there immediately appeared a heavy-set man whom I took to be the owner of the premises. (I had had a mere waiter.) His obvious interest in pleasing those who sat around me confirmed my suspicions as to the profession of my fellow diners. Only gangsters or media stars got such attention. And my three dinner partners didn’t come across as media stars.
The ordering business was completed quickly and I noticed that the owner accorded me “star” treatment, too, even though I sat passively as the don ordered for me. Carried away by the moment, perhaps, I set my face to looking “hard” — as one of the gang – but feared I did not succeed. Although wanting desperately to look around the restaurant to bask in my celebrity company, I forbore, fearing, on one hand any sudden movement on my part and, on the other, getting “too cocky,” “respect” reputedly occupying a near-mythic place in Mafia pantheon. Between mouthfuls of elaborately garnished spaghetti, the don was looking me over. I tried to ape his consummate ham-fisted fork and spoon spaghetti-lifting-and-devouring but lacked his savoir-faire. I might have beaten him at knishes but we were on his turf.
I waited for him to begin the conversation. Maybe he liked to eat in silence. I felt relieved when he began to exchange small talk with me. (During the whole time the other two exchanged with me not a word. I sensed they were not overly happy with my being so chummy with the don. Or maybe “on duty,” they were forbidden conversation. Maybe for the same reason, they didn’t order. Or maybe they were dieting.)
At first, understandably, I was the passive dinner partner. He asked where I was from. “Trenton, New Jersey,” I answered promptly. He owned he didn’t know much about the place. Outside his turf, I speculated. “Between New York and Philly,” I explained. He nodded, but I sensed he wasn’t impressed. Somehow, I thought it my duty to entertain him, that things would go easier that way. I groped for a subject. “Trenton was where ‘Legs’ Diamond hid out for a time.” He looked interested. “In ‘Hubby’s bar.'” I began telling the story of how on one occasion ‘Legs’ was hiding under the bar with a girl in a compromising position when the Feds ( a term I thought he would like) came looking for him. The don chuckled and one of his bodyguards sniggered until the don gave him a half-look.
“You’re not Italian” he said to me. I felt I had disappointed him. “No, my origins are from across the water, though.” “The Mediterranean,” I added lest he think I was referring to Jersey. “Jewish.”
He nodded.
The conversation turned ethnic, but in a limited category. Italian and Jewish gangsters — of the past. Maybe the ‘Legs’ Diamond gambit had provided an entry. Of course, the protagonists were never called “gangsters.” We referred to them by name. He acknowledged that there were some good Jewish “boys” as he called them, having an especial place in his heart for Lansky, whom he accolated “smart.” It soon became clear, however, that he thought the Italians superior in the field. I strove to bolster the Jewish position by reaching further back in history.
I brought out ‘Two Gun Cohen,’ so called because of the two pistols he wore as bodyguard for the Chinese political philosopher and first Chinese president, Sun Yat-Sen. Okay, so Cohen wasn’t a gangster but a bodyguard, and not even a bodyguard of an underworld chieftain. And a Chinese philosopher might not stand big in the eyes of a guy whose philosophy, if from anywhere, came from the Borgias. Which is why I changed “philosopher and president” to “warlord.” For good measure, I threw in some of the Odessa Jewish criminals from Babel’s stories as well as Benia Krik, the Jewish bandit hero of Babel’s eponymous novel. Ok again, so they weren’t “wasters,” merely thieves, but what can you do? I did not mention Shalom Aleichem’s humorous offenders who obviously lacked clout. I racked my brains for Jews who had violated the worst of the Ten Commandments and preferably all ten.
The don was interested. “I never knew that,” he said more than once. On one occasion he turned to his two accessories, “Did you guys know that?” The bodyguards shook their heads.
We had finished the meal, including the wine the don had ordered and insisted that I partake of, as well, a red wine we used to call “Dago Red” back in Trenton, which appellation I refrained from using on this occasion, although the Italians also used it. The wine had apparently gone to my head because I suddenly felt at home with the don.
“Delicious,” I said (more than once, I’m afraid), and began to thank him for the experience. “Wait a minute,” he said, leaning close to me, “you haven’t had dessert.” A voice inside me remembered that adage of an ancient Roman or modern gambler: ‘You gotta know when to call it a day.’ I begged off, patting my belly. “I’ll get too fat.”
“Nah,” he said, “you gotta have dessert.” It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.
He ordered some small, furiously caloried cake. My panoply of Jewish gangsters exhausted, I began to tell some gangster jokes – at first utilizing Jewish names but, emboldened by his laughter, I began throwing in Italian names. He continued to laugh. The other two didn’t laugh, although sometimes they couldn’t restrain a smile.
He wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth and stood up. The other two stood up. I quickly stood up. I expected the whole damn restaurant to stand up, and was surprised when they didn’t. I felt a bit wobbly on my feet and hoped it wouldn’t show.
The owner hastened with the bill – one bill and not two; he apparently knew his customer. “How much is my part?” I asked. “It’s on me,” the don said. I thought it best to accede. I thanked him overly, feeling relief that the meal had been completed successfully. He clapped me on the shoulder, “You ever need a favor, you let me know.” The names of a few people who got on my nerves flitted through my thoughts, but I dismissed the idea.
I thanked him without pointing out that I didn’t know his name. Maybe he thought everybody knew his name. Certainly everyone in the restaurant behaved as if they did.
He paused to say a few words to somebody at a table so that I exited ahead of the trio, unable, despite his generosity, to restrain the feeling that my back was vulnerable. I concentrated on avoiding a flinch.
I never learned who my host was. I was sorry later that I hadn’t gone back to the restaurant to learn who he was. But prudence won out again. Maybe the don would have been insulted, or wondered why I was so interested. In that neighborhood the word got around fast.
*
Larry Lefkowitz, a resident of Modi’in, Israel, is a freelance writer and author of the book Enigmatic Tales.