Chapter Thirty-Six
Polly
New York, New York
The phone rings as I’m applying a final swipe of lipstick in front of the hallway mirror. I’m considering whether I should try a different shade than my signature crimson when the Lion appears in the entry hall. I hope it’s nothing urgent; Mrs. Carter awaits in Central Park.
“The call is for you,” she says, her tone wary.
“Usually is,” I answer, then turn away from the mirror toward her. A strange expression has overtaken her face. “You’ve got quite the look on your mug. It’s not the fuzz, is it?” My stomach lurches. “Is it about Virginia?”
I’ve tried to leave no stone unturned in my search for her, but in this world, some stones are very well hidden. So I’m always worrying that I’ve somehow missed her.
“No,” she says slowly, then pauses as if she can’t quite believe what she must say next. “The caller says she’s your mother.”
“My mother?” I ask, gobsmacked. I haven’t heard my mother’s voice for nearly twenty-five years.
Not since I was packed off on the first leg of that terrible journey from Yanow to America.
Letters, yes, those I’ve received, and even the occasional telegram.
But telephones aren’t exactly in abundance in Yanow. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure it’s your mother? No. Am I certain she described herself as your mother? Yes. I asked twice because her accent is very thick,” the Lion says, and I don’t doubt it. If it’s indeed Mama, I’m surprised she knows English at all. Although heaven knows, she’s had years enough to practice.
“My God,” I cry out, and feel a brief squeeze from the Lion’s comforting hand on my arm. She’s the only person in the world who knows my full story. As well as my mixed feelings—frustration and relief—over my mother’s ongoing decision to stay in Yanow.
I race toward the phone. Sitting down at the little desk in the parlor where it perches, I pick up the receiver with a shaking hand and say, “Mamele?”
The word slips out; I don’t recall ever using the diminutive, affectionate form of the word “mother” with her before. The line is quiet for a long moment, and I wonder if the Lion got it all wrong.
Then I hear the familiar sound of my mother’s voice. “Iz dos meyn Perle?”
Suddenly I’m twelve again. I’m Pearl, the young Jewish girl living in a small, segregated Russian town where people have dressed and acted and lived the same way for hundreds of years.
A bright, ambitious girl who wants a different sort of existence and believes she’s found it with a scholarship to the Pinsk Gymnazia.
A girl who had her anticipated future and her familiar present torn away from her when she was sent to America.
A girl who missed—and misses—her mother. I start to cry.
“Mama! It’s Pearl! Where are you that you can call me?” I ask her in my now-rusty Yiddish. She’s never had access to a telephone in Yanow before.
Laughter resonates through the receiver, and I can hardly believe it.
My mother isn’t known for her delight. She must have good news.
Perhaps my father has finally summoned her, after my endless needling.
But why wouldn’t my brother or father have informed me that my mother was finally, finally coming here?
“I am in Brooklyn, Pearl, staying with old friends from Yanow.”
“Brooklyn?!” I squeal. “You’ve already made the journey?”
“Yes, with your three younger brothers. I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve done more than surprise me—you’ve shocked me,” I cry out, but my reaction is far more knotty than mere shock.
A queasiness settles in my stomach alongside the excitement at finally seeing my mother after all these years.
With Mama so close, will she find out who I really am?
I decide not to think about this terrible prospect now, but to revel in her arrival.
I am going to lay eyes on my mother. Imagine.
“Can you come to where we are staying? Now?” my mother asks.
“Of course, Mama. I cannot wait.”
—
My step feels curiously heavy and light as I traverse the intersection from my apartment to Central Park.
The thought of my mother nearby is unfathomable after so long, and I want to rush to her side.
I couldn’t tell her that a meeting with an assistant district attorney investigating the Mob would delay my departure by an hour or more.
That would only be the beginning of an inquiry that might lead to the truth.
The iron gate to the park swings shut behind me as I step inside, and I jump.
The clang so closely resembles the slam of a prison cell door that, for a second, I’m transported back to that horrible month in the House of D.
Then the chirps of blue jays and warblers and the sight of vivid green buds on the cherry trees—stunning harbingers of spring—brings me back to myself, but not completely.
I stride toward the agreed-upon meeting place near the beds of riotous red, yellow, and white tulips that line the rambling pathways in Shakespeare Garden.
From the looks of it, we won’t be alone here on this sunny spring day—mothers with prams and pairs of women weave in and out of the walkways, pausing for sniffs of blooms here and there—and I feel exposed, as though anyone’s eyes might land and linger on us.
But I haven’t been able to dissuade Mrs. Carter from her view that the public space acts as a camouflage for our meetings.
Sauntering in the direction of Mrs. Carter, I approach a bed of purple flowers directly behind her and lean forward to study them.
“You’re late. I’ve been twiddling my thumbs for thirty minutes, no doubt drawing attention to myself the whole time,” she says, as angry as I’ve ever heard her. “I was just about to leave.”
I stand up and reply, always peering in the opposite direction. “My mother called me as I was about to step out the door.”
“Your mother? If I stopped what I was doing every time my mother wanted to talk to me, I’d never leave my apartment or get any work done. She’s never had an opinion she didn’t share.”
“I hadn’t heard my mother’s voice for twenty-five years.”
Mrs. Carter doesn’t turn toward me, but she does stop moving. She half whispers, “Twenty-five years?”
“Yes. Not since I left Russia by myself at twelve.”
“My goodness, I’m sorry for my harshness about you being late,” she murmurs. “That must’ve been hard.”
“There were times I didn’t think I’d survive it. I certainly never thought I’d see my mother again.”
“Was the call to tell you she’s on her way?”
“The call was to inform me that she’s arrived. And that she’s waiting for me in Brooklyn.”
“Oh my,” she says, her voice heavy with emotion. “I’ve been separated from my child since the investigation began. I cannot imagine being parted as long as you and your mother have been.”
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?” I glance in her direction for a brief second, just as she does the same. Our eyes meet, and I see her eyes brim with tears. My own eyes well up, at her loss and my own.
“More challenging with every passing day,” she says. “Let’s get down to business and get you out of here fast. Back with your mother.”
—
A brisk twenty minutes later, I hustle out of the park, reversing my path.
Our time together may have been short, but Mrs. Carter’s list of questions was anything but.
Today, she poked and prodded on the topics of a bunch of Red Sadie’s girls, Lucky Luciano’s girlfriend, and syndicate enforcer Ralph Liguori and his girlfriend, Nancy Presser.
She’s trying to make an airtight case, and I’m only too happy to provide answers.
But I’ll have to do some investigating of my own to get them.
Crossing Central Park West, I walk down the empty sidewalk toward my apartment building; I want to fetch several items to bring my mother.
An odd sensation passes through me, as if I’m being watched, but I chalk it up to the fact of Lucky’s extradition to New York.
Never mind that he entered the city in shackles and sits behind heavily guarded prison bars.
I feel his presence and know that vice and violence can be conducted from a jail just as easily as the streets.
I’m sure he has eyes on his empire from the slammer.
Maybe even me. Stop, I tell myself, Lucky has got bigger fish to fry than Polly Adler.
Just then I hear the squeal of tires, the sound of a car cruising at top speed. I scan the vicinity. No vehicles are peeling down Central Park West, and when I don’t hear the noise again, I disregard it. Just another joyrider.
I’m at the corner of 65th Street and Central Park West when I hear the shriek of tires again. I look up quickly and see a huge black sedan—the size of a battleship—barreling down the road. Until it comes to a screaming halt a quarter of a block away from me.
I freeze. Should I run? Race into my house, grab my bag of necessities—the hidden cash, fake identification card, and some jewels I always keep on hand—and flee?
But where could I go that Lucky Luciano wouldn’t find me?
Anyway, wouldn’t taking off telegraph guilt to him?
And what punishment would he exact upon the Lion and the girls?
And I risk never seeing my mother again. Just when she’s so close.
Instead, I pivot toward the sedan, staring at it head-on. Hand on hip, cigarette between my lips, I face the vehicle and whoever is inside. I hope I appear more confident than I feel.
An interminable pause ensues before someone finally opens the car door.
Out steps a man I’ve never seen at the King Tut bar before but who has been pointed out to me at several speakeasies and nightclubs over the years.
Rumor has it that this minor gangster has recently been promoted, undoubtedly because the ranks of Lucky’s usual men have been depleted.
Beggars can’t be choosers, I guess, especially when most of your best men are in jail.
Without a word, the thug in a charcoal-gray suit gestures for me to walk toward the car.
That urge toward flight returns, but I know I could never outrun a gun.
And I’m fairly certain that there is one trained on me right now.
A bullet could sail down 65th Street and kill me on the spot, and these men would make sure that no one on the street ever saw them do it.
I would simply disappear. That is one of their specialties.
Without a choice, I walk in his direction. Not fast, not slow. More of a guarded stroll. I never look away from him; that would signal weakness or nerves. A woman without secrets or guilt has no reason to be hesitant or fearful. Especially a woman like me, who’s seen it all.
Coming within ten feet of the man, I stop.
I know better than to speak first. What if I make the wrong guess as to why he’s here?
Or use the wrong tone, inciting the worst?
After all, he could be using this unorthodox approach to book one of my girls, and I could ruin an innocent encounter by babbling on about Mrs. Carter simply being an old friend.
I almost laugh at the preposterousness of this wishful thinking.
The gangster doesn’t say a word. He only points toward the interior of the car and stands back to give me space to enter.
Sliding across the black leather back seat, I nearly bump into another person on my right.
The interior is so dark I can’t see him at first, particularly since my eyes don’t immediately adjust from the bright spring day.
When my vision does adapt, I realize the man’s face isn’t familiar.
But the expensive cut of his suit, its wool and cashmere fabric, and the swanky silk tie are known to me. They signify power.
Who is this man?
The gangster settles onto the back seat to my left.
I am sandwiched between the men so tightly that I couldn’t move if I tried.
The car is silent except for the driver closing the passenger door.
Even when the driver returns to the front seat, we sit immobile, no one uttering a word. What are we waiting for?
Another long black sedan, nearly identical to this one, crawls down the street and pulls in front of us.
The man to my right turns around and glances through the back window.
I follow his stare. There behind us is a third automobile, just like the first two.
Only when we assemble into a caravan do we begin to proceed.
It is then that I understand, and it is then that the hysteria begins to set in.
My hands begin to tremble, so I slip them under the handbag on my lap.
My eyes well up with tears as I think of the girls and the Lion back at my house—and my mother in Brooklyn—but I force them wide and refuse to blink, so the tears dry.
There can only be one reason I’m here in the back seat of this sedan between these mobsters: Lucky knows that I’ve been feeding damning information to the Dewey Commission. And he’s sent his goons for me. My time is up.