May 12, 2007--Saturday Story: "Found On Staten Island"--Part Seven

In Part Six Lloyd had two significant encounters—the first with Lonny Russell and then a second working-lunch with his president, Dr. T. As a contest of will, former college basketball star and lapsed lawyer Russell drew Lloyd into a game of One-On-One and it took little time or much effort for him to trounce Zazlo. But just as Lloyd was expecting him to issue the coup de grace, Lonny, perhaps feeling that Lloyd had disposed himself well or, more likely, that he, Lonny, had Zazlo already defeated, he declared the game a draw; and, over drinks, they worked out a deal to split the proceeds of the car raffle. They also hinted at certain painful parallels in their life stories and thus became secret sharers. And, as part of the deal they struck, the quid pro quo, Lonny agreed to cosponsor some community projects with the college and its president. After that, feeling quite good about what he had accomplished, Zazlo resisted his employer’s entreaties to report about what he had worked out with Lonny Russell, contesting with him as he had in the gym with Lonny, forcing Teitelbaum to pull the information out of him. But, of course, Dr. T had the last laugh when he revealed that he and Lonny had wrestled with each other, literally, and were also, as a result, secret sharers.

Part Seven brings “Found On Staten Island” close to a conclusion . . .

It didn’t rain Friday night or at any time through the weekend. So all tolled, we sold more than 44,000 raffle tickets. At a dollar apiece, we had done quite well. There was much to share. Literally.

Ed Paradise, the head of college security, told me that by 8:00 Saturday night nearly 3,500 were squeezed into the quadrangle and that the concession stands were concerned because they were already running out of zeppolis. This was more than 2,000 more than the night before. Ed attributed this to the fact that at precisely 9:30 we would be raffling off the Fiat. Teitelbaum himself insisted on doing that. Moroni had wanted to pick the winning ticket but Dr. T was adamant. So they made a deal—before the raffle, Al would be allowed to offer a few comments of his own to the crowd. And then Teitelbaum would pick the winner. Deals were breaking out all over.

I was able to arrange for a tenor, as had been requested by President Al Moroni; and he was set to sing Lord Percy’s aria E me si vale ei tene from Donizetti’s popular opera, Anna Bolena, which was reputed to be Al Moroni’s mother’s favorite. Though she had died decades ago, it was reported that her son was very devoted to her and that hearing this aria again would mean a great deal to him.

As I looked around at the happy throng, at the gleaming ragtop still secured to its tilted platform; as I gazed at all the college buildings and lampposts festooned with green and white and red balloons and streamers (the colors of the flag of Italy), I could not resist the impulse to swell with self-satisfaction—I had helped make all of this happen. And then with the cash we had collected, I would be able to parlay what had initially been a cynical plan of President Teitelbaum’s to pander to the Italian-American community, I would be able to direct the money to some programs on the ground around the island that would benefit a whole new generation of students.

As I was surveyed my good deeds and contemplating their long-range implications, slipping stealthily to my side, a full head shorter than I, was Sal Rizzuto, who had been generous enough to print the raffle tickets at no cost to the college. While I was glowing with pride he looked all agitated. So much so that he couldn’t stop his head from twitching from side to side. By my jacket lapels, he pulled me down to him so he could whisper directly in my ear. It was also evident that with his other hand he was clutching the massive gun that was stuffed in his belt.

“Just like I told you when you were at my printin’ plant. There’s some bad things about to go down here. You know Al, my president, has all sorts of connections on this island. Contacts that run deep into all the communities. I mean all of them. Including among the Colored people. And he heard, Al, that them Moulinyans are lookin’ for trouble here. Well, trust me--trouble is what trouble does. You know what I mean?” He patted at his side to make sure I knew what he was packing.

“I don’t know, Sal, to tell you the truth, everything is feeling peaceful to me.” I wanted to get away from him and enjoy my triumph. But he held on to me, still causing me to be bent nearly double.

“I know you liberal types. Always trustin’ the downtrodden. Well, when Al was Borough President he made sure to spread things around. If you know what I mean. You know the porters on the ferries?” I couldn’t say that I did. “Then you know all of them are Colored. Al did that. He made sure of that. And so those boys trust him and that’s where his information comes from.” He had my attention—maybe, just maybe something was in the wind. “So like I told you the other day—stick by me. In fact, be sure to stand behind me because that way I can shield you.” That didn’t make me feel very secure because Sal was no taller or wider than an underweight jockey. Sensing that I might be feeling thus concerned, he said to assure me, “Remember kid, this here rod,” again he touched the side of his windbreaker, “how did they used to say it? It’s the great equalabrator.” He smiled at me and, involuntarily, I found myself falling into step behind him.

“And be sure to keep an eye on him,” Sal warned, “That big buck over there with that wool hat on his head.” He was pointing to Lonny Russell who was sitting peacefully on the steps of the library. I had made sure he would be there so I could give him his cut of the proceeds right after the drawing. “Al says he’s done a lot of time. For manslaughter and whatnot. And he’s one of them Brown Panthers.” I couldn’t contain a smile. “But if you stay close by my side, I’ll take care of everything.”

“I’ll be sure to do that Sal. Thanks.” But if Lonny was the greatest threat, I knew everything would be fine.

“One more thing Larry,” I didn’t correct him, “Remember I told you about my little Angie? The one who’s a student here? She’s studyin’ the liberal arts?” I did recall that--the daughter whose head we were filling up with “fancy ideas” and who, as a consequence, Sal was afraid would soon be burning her bra. “Well there she is over there. Come on, let’s go say hello to her. I want you to meet her so you can talk some sense into her head. Not tonight, but maybe next week. That she should take a business program.” He was dragging me in the direction of a statuesque young woman who, even in the gathering dusk, was radiant.

And when he introduced us [“Angie, this is a teacher here who I know—Larry Something (I said to her, extending my hand, which she took, setting it on fire, “Lloyd Zazlo”); and Larry this is my little girl, Angie.”] She was nearly my height and because of that I could see that Sal was right—though he was wrong about the timing—Angie had already burned her bra. If it I could figure out how to arrange it, I would have been eager next week to meet with her, over coffee, and try to talk some sense into her. But in any case, I knew in an instant that for her the liberal arts were the perfect course of study.

As I stood there transfixed by her beauty, and sexuality, having out-of-control thoughts that if even minimally carried out would have put my life in serious jeopardy, Louie Randazzo, thankfully, approached, pulling along by his hand what could only could be his son.

“Just the guy I’m looking for.” He reached out to clamp hold of my shoulder and gave it a couple of affection squeezes. “This is my kid, Louie Jr., who I told you about. The one in the family with the brains.” Junior stood slumped by his father’s side, looking down disconsolately and shifting his weight, which was considerable, from foot to foot. “After you and me take care of a little business you and him will have a few minutes to talk about what we discussed the other day. Right?” He winked at me and gave my shoulder another, much firmer, painful squeeze.. Louie Jr. did not seem to notice; he kept his eyes riveted to his sneakers. “Be a good and wait over there,” he pointed to where Sal and Angie were standing. “Dr. Zazlo will be with you in a moment. But first, I have a little somethin’ for him.”

Again he winked and me and signaled for me to follow him to a quiet and half-lit spot to the side of the entrance to the administration building. When we got there, he looked around to be sure no one was in earshot and, as if we were conspirators, huskily whispered, “I got this for you.” He patted the large attaché case he was holding. “You can count it for yourself later, but Sal swears to me that we took in forty-four and change.” He passed the case to me.

”I’m not following you Louie,” I was but wanted to milk every drop of excitement and drama from the situation—it was not every day that anyone slipped me so much case, and in the shadows at that. “Forty-four what?”

“Where do you come from? Here on the island that’s how we talk about thousands. Forty-four grand plus. Right there in that briefcase. Al told me to tell you you can use it any way you want. Any way because only you and us know how much we took in. If you get my drift.” With that he winked so exaggeratedly that I could see it in the dark and he simultaneously slapped me so hard on the back that I stumbled into the bushes. But I certainly got his full drift.

When I climbed out from the rhododendrons, I said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you Louie. You have no idea how much this means to the college and, more important, the community.”

“I don’t give two-shits about the community,” he barked, “I’m talkin’ about what this can do for you. I see you didn’t get my drift.”

“I did. I really did,” I said. “I appreciate that to.”

“Make sure you do. Especially when I draw the winning raffle ticket in, what,” he checked his watch whose dial glowed in the dark, “thirty minutes. You get my drift?”

I decided not to say anything about the deal I had made in Dr. Teitelbaum’s behalf to have him draw the winning ticket.

“Enough of this mercenary stuff,” Louie said, now taking my hand as he had his son’s and pulled me behind him back into the triangle. “Where’s that kid of mine? I want you to talk with him. You know, help him with Yale and philosophy and that kind of thing. His mother’s got him all mixed up.”

Louie Jr. remained where he had been assigned to wait. I could see he was a young 16 or 17 because he seemed totally unaware of Angie’s sultry presence. “You two,” Louie Senior said, “go off over there together and get to know each other. OK?” Junior did as he was told and I followed half a step behind him. He sat down on the steps of the library, near to where Lonny had been. He stared straight ahead, rocking gently back and forth.

I said, “He seems like a good man. Your father I mean.” Louie Jr. did not acknowledge that he heard me. “From what he told me,” I took a chance, “things have been rough at home for all of you. Especially after Gina.” I looked over at him out of the corner of my eye. He continued his rhythmic rocking, which to me looked like a Yeshiva boy davening. “And I gather,” because of his generosity I felt I owed it to Louie to keep trying to reach his troubled son, “I understand that your mom and your dad are not on the same page about your future.” There was still no response. “About college I mean. Where you should go. Things of that sort.”

This seemed to activate him, really get to him because, seemingly out of nowhere, considering how he had thus far been so inert, he shot back at me, looking me straight in the eye, “I can’t believe he talked to you about that. To him nothing is sacred, nothing is private. Who the hell are you for him to be sharing these kinds of private matters with. I could kill him.”

This last thought sounded to me, as I clutched the attaché case full of cash, more than theoretical and so I tried to say, “He didn’t tell him that much. Just that . . .”

“Look, I know him,” he spat, “I know all about him--what he’s about, how he really makes his living. You think he sells that many Fiats in a place like this where all the ‘natives’ dream about Cadillacs? And I know about his so-called business associates and ‘friends.’ I even know about his women. While he and my mom were still together he was fucking one of my best friend’s mothers. In my mother’s bed, while she was doin’ volunteer work at South Beach Psychiatric Hospital! So don’t try to bullshit me. As I said, I know him.” He dropped his head again to almost fully between his legs and resumed rocking.

“I had not idea.” I truly hadn’t. “I thought he was interested in only the best for you. He has a very high regard for you. He told me you’re an excellent student and are interested in philosophy, which is very unusual for a high school student. I didn’t really get interested in philosophy until grad school. . . .” I caught myself rattling on mindlessly since I did not know what to do or say to him. Actually, I wanted to put my arm around him and comfort him, to show I understood; but all I was capable of doing was chatter and offer platitudes.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on you. He’s using you too. Just like he uses everyone else to get his way.” He reached out to shake my hand. “No hard feelings, OK?”

I was relieved. I felt emotionally rescued by him. I had underestimated his maturity—it was not important how he had not reacted to Angie’s heat. “Of course not. But if you ever want to talk about things, I mean college plans, you know where to find me. Right here.” For the moment I had forgotten that I had neither an office nor a reserved parking place.

“To tell you the truth,” he looked over at me once more, “I hate school, I always have; I don’t even know what philosophy is; and in spite of what he told you, I plan to join the Air Force once I graduate. Which won’t be too soon for me.”

And with that Louie Jr. jumped up and ran off, disappearing into the crowd near where the Fiat was perched. I noticed that while we had been talking the platform had been leveled and the ramp which would allow the car to be driven off had been put back in place. It was getting close to time for the drawing.

Signaling that, the huge speakers that surrounded the campus were switched on and they immediately emitted a series of ear shattering whistles and shrieks that also served to silence the crowd and focus their attention on the stage that had been constructed by the student center. On it was a lone of chairs and in them were the members of the executive committee of the Italian club and the sole representative of the college—Dr. Teitelbaum. There was podium and a small table beside it on which rested a huge wire drum in which there were packed the forty-four plus thousand raffle tickets.

As I had worked out in advance, Al Moroni was to be the first to speak, and at the stroke of 9:30 he rose deliberately and waddled toward the microphone. When he was settled there, almost entirely obscured by the wide podium, and like the mayor of a small Sicilian town, he raised both of his arms above his head to acknowledge the ripples of applause. And then, in a booming voice that blotted out the electronic feedback, he intoned, “Buena sera! Buena sera to you--Yahoos of Staten Island!”

I felt my sphincter slam shut. From all the squirming in his chair I knew that Teitelbaum’s had as well. I saw Sal Rizzuto adjust the bulge at his side.

Moroni turned to face Dr. T; and pointing at him, said, “That’s what he calls us you know—Yahoos.” Teitelbaum looked down, rustling the papers that contained his prepared remarks. Then turning back to the crowd, many of whom appeared confused and were beginning to murmur, Al continued, “He probably thinks we don’t know about Yahoos—he sees calling us that is as his way to insult us, to show us disrespect.” Some nearest the platform were nodding in agreement; a few were shaking their fists. I looked around to catch Ed Paradise’s eye. Trouble was clearly brewing and I was please to remember that he was a retired police captain from the 122nd precinct on Staten Island. One call from Ed and his boys would come racing to our rescue. They had a reputation for enjoying the occasional opportunity to break some heads.

“Look, we know what he’s up to—to use us, to pander to us as his ticket out of here. We aren’t being fooled. We even know why he arranged for this festival, which by the way we think turned out pretty good. Don’t you?” There was some cheering form the crowd at the rear which obviously had had more than their share of beers. “but you know what—this is fine by me, by us,” he swept his hand in the direction of his fellow club officers. “We know a little about doing business. It’s in our heritage, which we are here to celebrate. And, as we all know, it’s doing business is also in the heritage of his people.” There was some vocal guffawing at that. “So I say,” he boomed, “let’s do business together! We can all win!” Again pointing in Teitelbaum’s direction, who had resumed looking toward Moroni because of this change of tone, he continued, “Here’s how I see things—we help him with his agenda, which is to get the college out into the community, and this helps him get the job he really want. The sooner the better, I say.” There was some cheering. “And then we will pay a little more attention the next time around when the trustees look for his replacement.” Everyone got the implication that and here was then widespread applause and whistling. “Right, we’ll keep this in the family. We are famous for that, right?”

He had more to say. “OK, now that we have that settled let’s get back to this Yahoo business. You know where he got that? From Jonathan Swift, from his book, a very famous one called Gulliver’s Travels. He wrote it more than 200 years ago. I remember when my kid Joey was reading it in college. We had long discussions. It was one of his favorites. You know he’s a professor too. At Cornell. Who knows, maybe he,” referring to Dr. T again, “will turn out to be his president. That I’d love!” He laughed into the mike. “Anyway, when Gulliver does his traveling he gets to the land of the Houyhnhnms, I’m not sure I’m pronouncing that right, you’ll have to ask Joey, which means ‘the perfection of nature.’ You know the book is satirical and the Houyhnhnms are horses. That’s right. And they are in charge of the humans there. Who are called Yahoos. Get it? The horses are the civilized ones, and the humans are the animals. That’s the satirical part. Swift was very upset with the state of the world and he felt that humans were responsible. So he turned them into Yahoos who all the time the Yahoos felt superior to everything and everyone even though they were the ones causing things such as wars and starvation.

“Why am I telling you all of this on such a wonderful occasion?” In the crowd there were a considerable number of puzzled looks and much shoulder shrugging. Everyone was clearly ready to get back to the festivities, especially the raffle. “Well I’ll tell you and I promise to be brief—it’s because I want you to understand, especially all the young people here, that we should never let anyone define us, tell us who we are. That’s our job, our responsibility. And, above all else, we let the world know who we are by what we do—not what we say about ourselves, because that’s no better than him calling us Yahoos.

“Listen to me,” he caught himself, “saying these kinds of things when you want to get back to having fun. But, I apologize, before I forget, there’s one more thing I need to do. You all know that Italy’s greatest son, Giuseppe Garibaldi, who unified Italy, he lived for a year in 1850 right here on Staten Island. With Antonio Meucci, the real inventor of the telephone. In Rosebank. If you don’t believe me, you can look that up. Well, the boys and I want to thank Dr. Lloyd Zazlo,” I snapped to attention, “who represented the college and helped make all this possible. Sal said to me at one of our meetings, ‘Doesn’t the kid look just like Garibaldi?’ And you know, Sal was right. Look at him, he does. With that beard and nose and everything. Lloyd, wave your hand so people can see you.” I did as I was told, and there was a smattering of applause. “Well, we took a vote for both of these reasons—that he did good work for us and because of how he looks--and therefore tonight we’re making him an Honorary Italian!” To that there were genuine cheers, mainly because everyone knew Al Moroni had finally come to the end of his remarks.

Teitelbaum was next. It was time to pick the winner of the raffle and he proceeded to the microphone. Right behind, as if shadowing him, was Louie Randazzo. Dr. T plucked the microphone from its stand and with it came out from behind the podium so that he faced the restive crowd. There was thus nothing standing between him and them. He cleared his throat and it boomed through the sound system, echoing off the façade of the administration building where his office was located. In a voice made husky by years of relentless smoking, but sounding calmer and more conversational than was characteristic of him at public occasion where he always opted for drama and even bombast, without introduction, President Teitelbaum simply said, “Look at me,” people down front started to stir. “Yes, look closely at me, and tell me what you see.”

Others in the crowd who had been shifting about and talking among themselves turned back toward the speakers’ platform and looked up at him as if responding to his plea to look closely at him. For it was that—a plea—which he repeated, and then he just stood there, staring out over the heads of the people in the quadrangle with the microphone still in his hand, which he allowed to drop limply to his side as if he were exhausted from bearing all the world’s burdens. Louie who had remained behind the podium craned his neck as if to get a better look at the diminutive Teitelbaum—to see what he was up to.

After what in the circumstances felt like a half hour of silence, but was probably not more than ten seconds, Teitelbaum walked forward to the front edge of the stage and said, still almost whispering into the mike, “You see just a man. Someone very much like each of you. Yes, though I may be your president,” most gathered there were neither students nor faculty members, “if you look closely at me, you will see yourselves. Though you may feel, as was implied by President Moroni, that at times, because of your background, because of things that you feel may be lacking in your lives, for these reasons, the world looks down on you. Perhaps you feel I also do that.”

I couldn’t believe he was saying these things so shamelessly. “Well, I have been known to be careless about some of the things I say. But make no mistake about it, I know from my own life what you may been feeling, what you may be thinking about yourselves—especially as you listen to what is whispered about you in certain dark corners of the world. I too have heard those murmurings. And I too have absorbed those wounds.” His voice cracked for a brief moment and I was inclining to believe that he was actually speaking from his heart. “So I have devoted my life, elsewhere and here, to people just like you. If I may say so, to people just like me. And to some about whom I know you at times have been skeptical and even hostile. But we’re in this together, you and I. Like it or not. And like it or not, if we are to make it through, we had better figure out how to do it together.” With this he ended and turned his back to them.

There was a smattering of applause and a few shouts of “Right on.” Mainly from among the few blacks who were there, but also from some members of the island’s Italian-American community.

While this was happening, Louie Randazzo had imperceptibly emerged from behind the podium and took up a position beside the table on which the drum of raffle tickets stood. He folded his arms across his chest as if he were a member of the ancient Praetorian Guard. Seeing this, Ed Paradise came up on stage so as to be available if needed and signaled with a nod of his head to one of his security guards who, on cue, hopped onto the catafalque on which the Fiat was parked, quietly started its engine, and carefully backed it off. He turned it around so it was facing the roadway that ran past the administration building. He came to the stage and tossed the keys up to Ed who snatched them out of midair in a swipe of his hand.

It was time for the drawing. All in the crowd pressed forward to get a closer look. To most this was to be the highlight of the festival. Teitelbaum had moved to the table and still remained with his back to the quadrangle. Louie was right next to him and bent over to say something to Dr. T. With a puzzled look President Teitelbaum glared over to where I was standing, by the steps to the stage, and impatiently waved to me to come up, which I did. When I reached his side he growled, “What does this monkey Randazzo think he’s up to? You told me you made a deal with them and that I would do the drawing. He tells me that he’s supposed to do it.”

“I did make that arrangement. They told me that Al Moroni wanted to speak and that if we allowed that you could handle the raffle.” Ed Paradise, sensing trouble, had inched toward where Louie and Dr. T and I were clustered. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sal Rizzuto fingering what I knew to be his gun. With another gesture Ed had five of his men leap onto the platform and take positions imposing themselves between the seated members of the Italian Club and the now four of us standing by the table. They turned their backs to the crowd and faced the club’s executive committee. No one moved.

The crowd began, at first slowly and softly, to clap their hands rhythmically as if to start a rally at a baseball game. Quickly the chant became a roar, “Raf-fle, Raf-fle, Raf-fle.” Everyone on the stage remained frozen in place—a virtual tableau vivant.

Then Teitelbaum turned to the crowd and raised his hand, calling for silence. Quickly, a hush settled over the packed campus. Ed Paradise moved to wedge himself between Louie and Dr. Teitelbaum. As huge as Louie was, Ed was that much larger. His line of men stared down at the club members who remained rooted in their chairs. Sal also was motionless.

With a squealing sound, Dr. T began to turn the crank that was attached to the drum. The raffle tickets, tens of thousands of them, tumbled on top of each other. He gave it three dramatic turns and stopped its rotation when the trap door came to rest facing him. With a broad magician’s gesture, as if to show he had nothing up his sleeve, President Teitelbaum snapped open the wire door. He plunged his shot arm up to its elbow into the mass of tickets. Louie’s agitation increased as he looked with distress toward his colleagues. None of them made eye contact with him. It was clear he was on his own.

Dr. T extracted a small handful of folded tickets from the drum and tossed all but one aside. Holding the hand mike, he turned back to the crowd and, deliberately unfolding the winning ticket, again approached the front of the stage. He took his reading glasses out of his jacket pocket, flipped them open, and placed them on his prominent nose. Only then did he peer down at the slip of paper. And after that, into the microphone he intoned, pronouncing the winner’s name with full oratorical flourish, “Kwame Olatunji. K-wam-e O-la-tun-ji." He took obvious relish in drawing out all the syllables. “Are you here Mr. Olatunji? Are you in the house K-wam-e?”

I heard someone standing in the front row say, “Kwame what? What the fuck’s a Kwame?”

The crowd began to part as a man in flowing tribal dress pushed his way toward the stage. I had moved to stand next to President Teitelbaum. I am certain that my mouth was hanging open. I am also certain that I heard Dr. T quietly chuckling to himself. I suspected that Kwame Olatunji was one of the college’s two African exchange students, students on campus about whom Teitelbaum was particularly proud, in part because of their rarity, and about whom who spoke endlessly.

While I stood there agape, Ed had slipped me the keys to the Fiat and whispered, “Tell that clown to get right in the car and drive away as fast and as far as he can. Right across the Verrazano Bridge. And if he has any brains in his head, he shouldn’t stop until he reaches Africa. Or wherever the fuck he’s from.”

To be continued . . .