“They don’t know that Max didn’t tell me details about the money. Right?”
Grossman nodded, eyes hooded under his thick brows. “So?” he said.
“So that gives us leverage. It gives us a chance to deal, a part of the money in return for whatever information Belzer has. We might at least come out of this with a big chunk of—”
“Goddammit, who is this we and us?” Gordon’s father exploded. “I’m not a part of this mishegoss. You want to blackmail the Mafia? You got shit for brains or what? These guys are smart, Velvel—maybenot smart enough to give lectures at the Ninety-second Street Y, but smart enough to figure out that if you give them the stuff we got, they don’t need you around anymore.”
Suddenly his voice softened and Gordon saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—alarm. “Listen, Velvel, this is your old man talking. I’m not gonna say that maybe I haven’t been such a good father because we both know I been a great fucking father. I took you to ball games as a kid. I saw to it you went to the best schools. I always had time, you wanted to talk something over. When you went away to college I bought you a sports car, remember? The Vette with the leather interior. Even after you left home, did I stop taking care of you? Hell, no. I got you that prize—”
“What? What prize did you get me?” For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time in his life, Gordon saw his father blush.
“Ah, skip it,” he said.
“No, I won’t skip it. What prize did you get me?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you figured it out yesterday when you saw Henderson’s name in the stuff Nate showed you—”
“Henderson?”
“Yeah, that Yankee yutz, used to be with the CIA over there. You didn’t see his name on the shnorrers list?”
Gordon recalled that there had been a list among the papers he had seen the day before—names of politicians, judges, senior government officials. He might have seen a Henderson, but he had been too much in shock for it to register.
“You mean the cables I got—”
“Yeah, from Henderson,” Grossman said softly. “Funny thing, too, we wound up making a bundle with that guy. Arms in Latin America. Anyway, the point is, I did all these things for only one reason. Because I love you. You’re the only son I got. And I don’t want to see you get mixed up in something you can’t handle.”
Gordon felt nauseated and numb. The two Pulitzers were as much a part of his identity as his nose or his name—more, because he had earned them. They defined his profession and certified his excellence: William Gordon, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. “What about the other one?” he asked thickly.
“The other prize? That one was Max’s idea. He was tight with theIsraelis ever since the war in 1948. Sold them weapons. Sold some to the Arabs, too, but he made sure to send them the wrong-size bullets. Yeah, Max worked it out with some general, Bar Dror, I think was his name. I think Max was jealous after the Vietnam business, wanted to fix the Pulitzer himself. Speaking of which, sometime I’ll tell you about the ’38 World Series—”
“Goddamn you,” Gordon said. To his horror, he felt tears in his eyes and the start of a sob in his throat. “You rotten bastard, you dirty rotten bastard—”
“You think Luigi Spadafore cries when he gets bad news,” demanded Grossman harshly. “ ‘You dirty bastard,’ ” he imitated in a whiny tone, “ ‘you dirty rotten bastard.’ Why? Because I gave you a hand? I fix a prize for the opposition, then you can get pissed. But don’t blame me for doing what any father would do if he got the chance, OK? Look,” he said in an appeasing voice, “you’re a top kid, Velvel. You think if you weren’t a great reporter they wouldn’t have found out about it by now? So you got a little help, so what? The next one, you win on your own.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”
The speech gave Gordon
Grossman nodded, eyes hooded under his thick brows. “So?” he said.
“So that gives us leverage. It gives us a chance to deal, a part of the money in return for whatever information Belzer has. We might at least come out of this with a big chunk of—”
“Goddammit, who is this we and us?” Gordon’s father exploded. “I’m not a part of this mishegoss. You want to blackmail the Mafia? You got shit for brains or what? These guys are smart, Velvel—maybenot smart enough to give lectures at the Ninety-second Street Y, but smart enough to figure out that if you give them the stuff we got, they don’t need you around anymore.”
Suddenly his voice softened and Gordon saw something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—alarm. “Listen, Velvel, this is your old man talking. I’m not gonna say that maybe I haven’t been such a good father because we both know I been a great fucking father. I took you to ball games as a kid. I saw to it you went to the best schools. I always had time, you wanted to talk something over. When you went away to college I bought you a sports car, remember? The Vette with the leather interior. Even after you left home, did I stop taking care of you? Hell, no. I got you that prize—”
“What? What prize did you get me?” For the first time in years, perhaps for the first time in his life, Gordon saw his father blush.
“Ah, skip it,” he said.
“No, I won’t skip it. What prize did you get me?”
“I’m sorry, I thought you figured it out yesterday when you saw Henderson’s name in the stuff Nate showed you—”
“Henderson?”
“Yeah, that Yankee yutz, used to be with the CIA over there. You didn’t see his name on the shnorrers list?”
Gordon recalled that there had been a list among the papers he had seen the day before—names of politicians, judges, senior government officials. He might have seen a Henderson, but he had been too much in shock for it to register.
“You mean the cables I got—”
“Yeah, from Henderson,” Grossman said softly. “Funny thing, too, we wound up making a bundle with that guy. Arms in Latin America. Anyway, the point is, I did all these things for only one reason. Because I love you. You’re the only son I got. And I don’t want to see you get mixed up in something you can’t handle.”
Gordon felt nauseated and numb. The two Pulitzers were as much a part of his identity as his nose or his name—more, because he had earned them. They defined his profession and certified his excellence: William Gordon, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist. “What about the other one?” he asked thickly.
“The other prize? That one was Max’s idea. He was tight with theIsraelis ever since the war in 1948. Sold them weapons. Sold some to the Arabs, too, but he made sure to send them the wrong-size bullets. Yeah, Max worked it out with some general, Bar Dror, I think was his name. I think Max was jealous after the Vietnam business, wanted to fix the Pulitzer himself. Speaking of which, sometime I’ll tell you about the ’38 World Series—”
“Goddamn you,” Gordon said. To his horror, he felt tears in his eyes and the start of a sob in his throat. “You rotten bastard, you dirty rotten bastard—”
“You think Luigi Spadafore cries when he gets bad news,” demanded Grossman harshly. “ ‘You dirty bastard,’ ” he imitated in a whiny tone, “ ‘you dirty rotten bastard.’ Why? Because I gave you a hand? I fix a prize for the opposition, then you can get pissed. But don’t blame me for doing what any father would do if he got the chance, OK? Look,” he said in an appeasing voice, “you’re a top kid, Velvel. You think if you weren’t a great reporter they wouldn’t have found out about it by now? So you got a little help, so what? The next one, you win on your own.” He extended his hand. “Deal?”
The speech gave Gordon
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