March 12, 2013--Found On Staten Island (Concluded)

The following afternoon I took the bus south down Hylan Boulevard to Louie Randazzo’s Fiat dealership.  To pick up the car that we would be raffling.  It was a glorious day and even the undistinguished strip malls that lined Hylan on both sides benefited from a coating of the slanting sunlight of early autumn.  As I squinted into the glow reflected back to me off the faux mansard roofs of the fast-food restaurants and carpet and auto body shops, I felt that maybe I was fortunate to have been cast up onto the shores of Staten Island after my humiliation at Queens College.  This didn’t seem like such a bad place to be after all; and maybe, I thought, I was already beginning to make a difference through my initial forays into the diverse communities that were unique to this distinctive and exotic place.

The bus bumped to a stop, snapping me out of my sun-drenched reverie, right opposite Randazzo’s.   It was a typical automobile showroom surrounded by glinting rows of new and used Fiats, all festooned with banners, balloons, and signs proclaiming, “Make Me An Offer And I’m Yours” and “Nothing Down—Take 48 Months to Pay” and “Kiss Me, I’m Italian.” 

It was clear, that I had found the place.  And as further evidence, right there, at the center of his array of shiny cars, in an equally luminous suit, with capped teeth as radiant as the sunlight that flickered off them, there was Louie Randazzo himself, standing resplendently next to a blood-red Fiat convertible that was perched on top of a platform so obliquely slanted that it looked as if the car could be launched into geosynchronous orbit if one were to gun its 300 horsepower engine, slam it into first gear, and pop the clutch.  I knew that this was the car set aside for the raffle and that in a few minutes I might be blasting my way in it back up Hylan toward the college.

Grinning, Louie, who towered over me, looped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him in a bone-crushing embrace.  My head, as a result, became buried among the folds of his suit jacket in his hot armpit, “Can you believe such a day like this?”  He squeezed me so hard that I was having trouble breathing and struggled to release myself.  But he continued to clutch me to him, “You know, on days like this I don’t give a shit if I never sell anyone a car or lube job.”  I grunted to show that I understood and agreed that it was glorious even though I was about to pass out.  “You know most of my business is not from sales but from tune ups and body and fender work.  Especially because the kids here, whose parents buy them these cars, get drunk and drive like banshees.”  I finally managed to twist out of his grip and needed to bend over to suck in enough air to keep from fainting.  Louie didn’t appear to notice, “Every Monday morning when I get to work the parking lot is loaded with wrecks.  There’s good money in wrecks.  I make out very well, if you get my drift,” he winked at me, “with the insurance adjusters.  Workin’ with them there’s enough to go around for everyone.  You know—you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.”

Finally breathing more normally, I agreed, “You said it—as long as no one gets hurt.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” he said, “But look, I know you’re busy what with everything they have you runnin’ around doin’.  So I won’t waste your time.  You’re not here to learn my business . . .”

“Actually,” I broke in, “I find it very interesting.  I really do.  You know, I’m supposed to work in the community so the more I can learn about life here the better.”

“Life here,” he bellowed, “well that’s a completely different story. Maybe one night, after a meetin’ of the club, you and me we can go out for a few belts and I’ll tell you everything you need to know about this place.  Believe me, I know everything, and I mean everything, including who’s doin’ it to who.  If you know what I mean.”

“I think I would enjoy that.”

“I guarantee it.  For example, you won’t believe what that little pipsqueak Sal Rizutto has got goin’ on.  You’d think from the size of him that he’s got nothing in his pants except that big rod of his, well don’t believe it.  You know what they say about those little guys.  But we’ll leave that for another time and another place.  OK?”

In truth, I couldn’t wait to hear his stories and said, “Sure, any time you say, Louie.  I’m yours.” 

“I like that ‘I’m yours.’  I know we’ll get along just fine.”  He winked again, this time in such an exaggerated fashion that I felt certain that even people all the way on the other side of the Boulevard would think we were participating in a major conspiracy.  “But let’s go inside.  We have a little business to transact.”  He grabbed hold of me again and tugged me toward his glass-enclosed office.

It was festooned with pictures of him with various members of the Italian Club, interspersed with others of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.  Again, I thought that I was being drawn into a B movie.

“Like I said, I know you’re busy but do you maybe got a minute for another matter?  Of a personal sort.  If that’s OK.”  From the other side of his spotless dark wood desk he looked at me with now softer eyes. 

I tried to adjust to this change in tone and said, “Sure Louie.  For you, like I said, ‘I’m yours.’”

He smiled, “It’s maybe not what you’re thinking.  It’s not that personal.  I don’t have Sal’s problem, if you want to know the truth, or for that matter his equipment.  This is about my son, Louie Junior.  You’ll have to meet him one day.  I think you’d like him.  That’s him, in that picture over there.  With Frank in Atlantic City.”  He was a virtual clone of Louie, only younger of course and without the moustache.  “He’s a good kid.  He goes to Curtis.  He’s in 11^th grade.  And he’s smart, very smart.  He gets straight A’s.  In everything—math, English, science, even art.  You name it and he gets A’s.  And he’s on the soccer team.  He’s big enough for football but he prefers soccer.  Which is fine with me.”

“He sounds terrific Louie.  You must be very proud of him.  But what’s the problem?  It sounds like he’s pretty perfect.”

“I am and he is.  To tell you the truth, I don’t have any problems with him but his mother does.  We’re divorced, Marie and me.  It’s all amicable and everything but about Junior we have our problems.”

“What kind?  He sounds as if he can do anything he wants.”

“That’s my point exactly—he can do anything he desires.  But Marie she still treats him like her baby.  You probably haven’t heard but we also had a daughter.  She was younger.  Two years.  But she got cancer four years ago and suffered something awful.  It also nearly killed poor Marie.  She was her dream.  And it destroyed the marriage.  Marie wanted to cut off everything from the past.  Anything that would remind her of her Gina.  Who was an angel.  It broke my heart too.” 

He turned away from me for a moment to compose himself.  And then he swung around to face me again.  “So when little Gina finally died Marie, wouldn’t let go of Louie.  She tried to turn him back into her baby.  By keeping him close to her she thought she could protect him from harm and pretend that nothing had happened.  And he’s such a good kid, and since he was probably a little scared from what happened to his kid sister, he allowed her to.  I have custody of him every other weekend, and we get along fine.  And when we’re together I try to talk with him about his future.  And that’s where you come in.  At least I hope so.” 

He looked across at me so pleadingly that though I didn’t have any idea what he might be wanting of me, I said, smiling back at him, with arms akimbo, “As I told you, anything.”

“Like I said, Marie and I have a problem.  She knows how smart he is, how talented, and that he wants to go to college.  But she wants to keep him close to home.  So she doesn’t want to let him go off the island to school.  She feels that if he decides to go to college he should go to the community college, your place, commute back and forth and live with her.  So she can take care of him.  Continue to keep him safe.”

“And so you want me to help him get admitted to the college?  That shouldn’t be a problem.  Not with his grades.   He really doesn’t need me.  He’ll get in on his own.  But I’m happy to help.  Whatever you want.”

“You’re missing my point here.”  I gestured that I was sorry and he continued.  “Like I said, he’s special and I want to see him go to a good college.  Not that shithole.  Sorry.  Forgive me.  I didn’t mean to insult you.  I’m sure it’s an OK place.  A good place.”  I waved at him and shrugged to indicate I was not upset.  “But I’m being honest.  It’s not the best place for him.  It’s fine for those other kids who need to figure out what to do with their lives or don’t have the money to go anywhere else.  But look around you.  I may not have had much education but I’m doing pretty good here.  As I said, I do a lot of lube jobs.”  He chuckled.  “So for Louie Junior money is not gonna be a problem.  But what will be a shame is if he doesn’t go to a college like the one I’m sure you went to.”

I mumbled, “I went to Columbia.”

“In the city, right?  That’s the kind of place I mean.  But to be honest with you, no offense, I’d like to see him go to a better place.  You know, one of them New England colleges with a real campus.  Like maybe Yale.  I been through there once or twice on my way to Rhode Island, we have family up there, and since then I’ve dreamed about my kid going to a place like that.”

“Yale is a great school Louie.  I’m sure he’d be very happy there.”

“To tell you the truth, it’s not just about him bein’ happy because he’d be happy staying here with Marie and me.  He’s that kind of kid.  But I want to see him in a place where he could become a different kind of person.  Don’t get me wrong.  He’s a wonderful person already.  But I don’t want to see him turn out like his old man.”  He made a gesture to take in all of his realm.

“There’s nothing wrong with this, Louie, or you.”  I meant that.

“Nice of you to say.  You’re a classy kid yourself, Lloyd.  Like I said, I like you.  But you’re wrong.  There is something wrong with this, and, I gotta admit, me too.  Not that I’m a bad person.  I did well with my life, true, except of course for what happen to Gina and then with Marie.  But my time is passing.  It’s not what you’re thinkin’.  I’m healthy as a horse.  Knock on wood,” which he proceeded to do as well as on his massive chest, “I’m built for the past.  But I want my boy to be prepared for the future.  To tell you the truth I don’t know what I mean when I say that.  Which is precisely my whole point.  I want him to get the best possible education so he can figure out where the world is headed to and get ready to make his way in it.  Maybe even make a contribution.”

“What do you mean by that Louie?’  I wasn’t sure what he was saying.

“To contribute to making it a better place.  To give something back from all that God gave to him.  As I said, he’s gifted and with that comes obligations.  I know your people, the Jews, believe that, right?”

“I’m not an expert about that but I do know that Jews are thought to be very charitable.” 

“I’m not talking about charity, though I believe in that too, all real Catholics do.  And you know I’m Catholic.  I’m talking about him maybe devoting his life, or a part of it at least, to humanity.  I know what you’re thinking--that I’m goin’ soft after what happened to little Gina and so maybe I’d like to see Louie become a priest.  That would be OK by me too if you want to know the truth.  But I’m thinkin’ maybe he could study literature or, better, philosophy.  You know, figure out the meaning of life.  He loves Plato and those other Greeks.  And don’t look so surprised,” he smiled.  I suppose I was at the reference to Louie Junior studying philosophy at Yale.  “And maybe he could even become a professor like you.” 

He folded his hands on the desk and, satisfied with himself, grinned at me, waiting to see what I might say.  “Well, Louie, as you say—to be perfectly honest, I am surprised.”  I paused for a moment to allow that to sink in; and, as I anticipated, his expression hardened as if he was upset by this.  “Really surprised.  But not for the reasons you’re thinking.  I’m surprised that any young person these days has any interest in Plato or Aristotle.  But I’m not surprised that Louie Junior does.  He sounds like a terrific kid.  Just as you say.  And I do understand what might be at issue between your wife and you.  I mean your ex-wife.  But having said this, I’m still not sure what you want me to do.  How can I possibly help?” 

“Simple,” he resumed his beatific smiling, “Just talk to him a little.  I can arrange for that.  No problem.  Just talk with him about colleges like Columbia and Yale and what happened to you when you went there.  How, I assume, it turned you into a different kind of person.  A better one.”

“I can do that though I’m not sure how much ‘better’ I am as a result.  At times I wonder if it wouldn’t have been preferable if I had gone into my family’s construction business.  Maybe I would have been happier.”  I thought back on those days when I worked so proudly and happily on some of the company’s big jobs in the city.  “But what about your wife?  I mean Marie.  Won’t she be upset that I, a stranger, am talking to her son about leaving home?  Leaving the island?  Placing him, as she would see it, in danger?”

“I can handle that.  I’ll figure out what to say and how to make it right by her.”  I thought I could see in the slanting light that his eyes had become dewy.

Clearly not wanting me to notice that, he jumped up and grabbed my hand, “So you’ll talk to him, right?  Do we have a deal?”  I nodded with as much understanding as that gesture could communicate.  “Now let’s take care of the other business—the little matter of the car that you’ll be raffling.  The red one out there in the lot.” 

“That sounds great.  I can’t thank you enough for being so generous.  I see that you do believe in charity and put your money where your mouth is, so to speak.”

“Well,” he said as we walked out to the car, again with his arm around me, “it’s really no big deal.  After all, we never know who’ll win the raffle.  Could be a friend of the family, if you know what I mean.”  He was winking again.  I chose to ignore that, thinking that would be unlikely since we would undoubtedly sell thousands of tickets.

He tossed the keys to me and told me some of his men would lower the platform on which the car was propped so I could drive it off and then take it up to the college.  “Won’t I need the papers for the car?  You know, in case I get caught speeding,” this time I winked at him, “And so we can sign it over to whoever wins it?”

“Nah, I know all the cops on the island.  If anyone pulls you over just tell ‘em you’re delivering it for me and they’ll let you go.”

“But what about for the person who wins the raffle?  Won’t we . . . ?”

He cut me off and said a shade ominously, “I told you that’s not gonna be a problem.  That I can promise you.  But just so you don’t get too nervous on me, here they are.  Take them along with you and lock ‘em in the glove compartment.  I have to protect my investment in you, don’t I?  You know, if you’re gonna talk to Louie Junior as we discussed I don’t want to have to bail you out or anything.”  With a blazing grin he extracted the ownership papers from his jacket pocket and tossed them to me as I climbed into the car. 

*    *    *

The drive back up Hylan Boulevard was much more fun in the sleek Fiat with the top down and the wind cutting through my hair than the earlier jolting ride in the bus.  It took just fifteen minutes to dart across the island; and, when I got to the college, true to his word, I found that Al Moroni had arranged for a platform, similar to the one at Randazzo’s, to be built right in the middle of the concrete campus to display the car—halfway between the administration building and the one that housed the student center.  Gingerly, I drove it up the ramp, locked the papers in the glove compartment as I had been instructed, vaulted out without opening the door, and raced over to the visitors’ parking lot to retrieve my own battered car since I was eager to get over to Jersey Street to let Lonny Russell know I had convinced President Teitelbaum to split the raffle cash with him.  Just so long as he was willing to enter into a few joint ventures in the community with the college.  Quid pro quo style, as Dr. T would put it.

When I got to the center, before I could even begin to share the good news, Lonny said, “Got your sneaks with you?”

Surprised, but since the last time I was there he had challenged me to a game of one-on-one, to prepare for that eventuality I had tossed a pair into the trunk of my car.  So I said, “I’ll be right back.”

He was waiting for me when I returned, standing in the middle of the shabby basketball court, distractedly bouncing the ball on the hardwood floor as if the game we were about to play was the last thing on his mind.  He flipped the ball over to me before I could get to within twenty yards of him but did so with enough force that as I snatched it out of the air it drove me half a step backwards.  It took all I could do to keep the ball from slamming into my chest, but I tried to appear nonchalant as it stung my fingers so as not to reveal to him any sign of weakness or give him a psychological edge.  I sensed what was about to happen on the court would be important to our working together, but I also recalled what President Teitelbaum had told me about Lonny’s having played Division I ball at St. Johns.

“You take the ball out first,” he said, “Eleven baskets wins.”

I dribbled the ball out onto the court and then beyond the foul circle which was required by the schoolyard rules of one-on-one before any shots would be allowed and before any points could be counted.   Facing the basket, I dribbled the ball deliberately forward to where he stood, well inside the foul line, close to the basket, showing little interest in moving up to guard me.  As I approached him, to protect the ball, I turned so that my back was to him and the bucket.  I expected him to close in on me, likely putting his hand on my back to guard me, to push on me in order to keep me from backing closer to the basket.  But he didn’t.  So since I did not sense his nearness nor feel any effort to guard me, I pivoted on my left foot, rising up on my toes, and launched a high-arcing hook shot toward the basket.  Remarkably, it ricocheted off the backboard with a thud and swished through the hoop.

He pulled down the rebound and began to dribble casually out toward the foul circle.  “That’s one for you,” he said, “Not bad for a white boy.”  I could hear him chuckling to himself.  “Now let’s see what I can do.”  And before he finished the sentence, from well beyond the circle, from perhaps twenty feet away, he snapped off a two-handed set shot which whistled trough the rim, barely flicking the tattered net. 

“That’s one apiece.”  He was grinning, “Now it’s your turn again.”  Since my first shot had worked so well, I thought why try anything different, especially if he wasn’t going to make much of an attempt at defense.  If he was attempting to play with my head by not taking my basketball skills seriously, I would try to gain my own edge by taking advantage of his disregard for me—of course this meant that I needed to keep hitting buckets.

So when I reached the foul line I again turning around and, with my butt sticking out, backed deliberately toward the basket, being a little more protective this time of my dribble.  I didn’t know for sure what he was up to and I didn’t want to be lulled into carelessness and as a result have him strip the ball from me.  I moved closer, dribble by dribble, and this time felt his hand on my back.  But it offered little resistance--it felt more like a caress than a hand-check--and so, making the most of the opportunity, I wheeled again, as before, and did my George Miken imitation, this time hitting my shoot without the ball touching either the backboard or net.  Swish!  It was my turn to grin and I did, broadly, announcing with some pride, “That’s two for me and one for you.  I think it’s your turn.” 

I retrieved my own shot as is bounced off the wall behind the backboard and shot it over to him, as hard as I could, out to where he stood at the top of the circle.  He was still grinning, but I saw that it had been transformed now into something sly or even ironic. 

This time, like a cat, as soon as he touched the ball, he sprang into forward, gyrating motion, dribbling the ball back and forth from hand to hand; and as he approached me, before I could even raise a hand to check him, he bounced the ball between his legs, which allowed him to change direction, and slide by.  Totally faked out I stood frozen to the court, feeling the breeze he generated as he flew past me, and watched in awe as he elevated his body above the rim and slammed the ball home.  “Check your sneaks,” he said, “I think the laces may have come undone.”  He was no longer smiling. 

He slapped the ball to me and I retreated to the top of the circle before turning to advance once more toward the basket.  But unlike the first two times, this time, facing me, he crouched low, rocking forward; and before I could dribble even twice more flicked a hand in my direction, stole the ball, and in a single graceful motion sliced to the basket where he again executed a slam-dunk—this one with a flourish, shifting the ball from his left to his right hand while seemingly suspended in midair.  It was clear that the game was effectively over.  “What’s that score now, boy?” he asked tauntingly.  I was out of breath, panting.  He was hardly even breathing.  And he and I knew he now owned both my body and my mind.

And then, in just a few more minutes, as he raced by me essentially unimpeded, and as I was rendered motionless, standing bent nearly double, with my hands on my hips, dripping with sweat, the score reached 10-2.  He was just a point away from finishing me off.  “Why don’t you go get some water,” he said to me, showing mercy for the first time, “I don’t want any dead crackers on my hands.”  He was grinning again.  This time with self-satisfied glee.

I supported myself by leaning on the tiled wall by the water fountain, trying to gulp down a few mouthfuls while simultaneously attempting to pump my body full of oxygen, thinking maybe I should just concede and get the inevitable over with.  But when I looked up, I was surprised to find Lonny standing nearby, looking down on me with what appeared to be some form of understanding.

“You know,” he said, “I’m cramping up myself.  Maybe we should call it quits and not worry too much about who wins.  We could call it a draw.  How does that sound?  I’m not as young as I used to be; and,” he winked at me, “it seems, neither are you.” 

“Let’s play it out.  I’m only down eight points,” I gasped, clinging to last of my evaporating pride, “and who knows, if you’re as out of shape as you say, anything can happen.”  I tried to grin up at him but was so beat that I couldn’t force my mouth to form anything resembling a smile.

“Whatever you say, dude,” Lonny spat back and just as quickly bounced the ball to me.  It was my turn to take it out.  Which I did, on automatic pilot—the time-out had not rejuvenated me.  This time I didn’t turn my back to him and advanced the ball slowly toward where he crouched waiting for me.  I shifted the ball from hand to hand as he had, all the while not looking down at it, rather trying to keep my eyes on his as a way to catch any indication of how he planned to again reach in to steal the ball and race to score the deciding point, attempting in that way, while remaining light on my feet, to see if I could turn to my advantage his defensive quickness, faking one way, as if toward his strength, while quickly altering direction and, perhaps catching him off balance this time, drive past him to the basket and score an easy lay up.

Incredibly, the strategy worked—Lonny poked his right hand toward the ball, as he had previously; but this time, before he could snatch it, as a fake, I shifted my weight to the left toward his flicking hand, but in the same instant torqued my tired body to the right, scooting by him, as he for a change found himself riveted to the floor by my fake; and as I had envisioned, I easily and neatly banked in a lay up.  The score stood at 10-3.

It was his turn again.  Unlike earlier, after taking the ball out beyond the foul circle, rather than twisting aggressively toward the basket, he stood fixed in place, languidly dribbling the ball and said, “So boy, what’s the deal you worked out for me?”

“You mean about the raffle money?”

“Yeah, that.”  He continued to remain in place, just dribbling.  “Did you talk to your man about that?  You said you would.”  He was smiling once more.

I was happy for the respite.  Maybe I’d be able to catch my breath.  I keep one eye on the ball and the other on his feet to catch the first sign of a change in tempo.  I was determined that he would have to work for the winning basket.  “I did” I said, “My word is good.”

“So what’s up?  What’s my cut gonna be?”

“That’s for you and me to work out.  He gave me the OK to do that.”

He kept up his rhythmic dribble.  “As I recall you were talking five figures.”  I nodded.  “So let’s say you pull in 50K.  If we split it down the middle, that would get me, I mean the center, 25 grand.  I could live with that.”

I reminded him that I had told him it would be “low five figures,” and to me 25 thousand was not “low.”

He snorted at that; and, though he did not move forward with the ball, he began, agitatedly, to shuffle his feet and pound the ball, like gun shoots, into the floor.  “So you’re like the rest of them clowns up at the college.  Your word ain’t worth shit.”  The gym was echoing with his fierce dribbling.  “And I was beginning to think maybe you were gonna be different.”  I tried to say something but he talked right over my attempt, “I checked you out, man, how you operated at that Queens College.  You did some OK things there.  For the people.  But here you are trying to hustle me and my community like some butt-boy for Teitelbaum.”

“I am not his butt-boy, thank you,” I shot back, “I know what he’s about.  You don’t have to tell me.  I’m here to be straight with you and to see if we can do some things together.  Some real things.  Maybe even some important things.  Not the kind of bullshit things Teitelbaum has made a career out of.”  I knew he was listening because he had resumed his earlier, gentler dribble.  So I continued, “I can’t be sure how much we’ll make from the raffle, but I can get you a third of the take, maybe $15, perhaps as much as $20 thousand, and . . .”

“Again, we’re talking cash?  Sorry, how did you put it last time, we’re talking ‘unrestricted money,’ right?”  I nodded.  “That will do me,” he said and began to move from side to side, indicating that he was about to resume the game.

“That’s your piece, the money; but then there’s the college’s piece.”

“I’m not followin’ you so keep talking.” 

“This is not free money.  You, or should I say the center, will have to do a few things.”  I kept my eyes on the ball and his feet.  We were still not done with the game.  “And, to quote you, not ‘bullshit things.’”

“Keep talking.’” He continued to dribble.

“Well, I expect we’ll want to offer some off-site college courses here; maybe provide some tutoring at the center for high school kids to help get them interested in and prepared for college.  Stuff like that.”  I thought I saw the hint of a nod.  “And part of the deal will be that you’ll agree to put the college’s name up in whatever space we use here and will agree to, say, a ribbon-cutting,” he shot me a sour look and again increased the pace of his dribbling.  “Yes that, side-by-side with Teitelbaum.  Perhaps we’ll get the Advance to send out a reporter to cover the story.  Take some pictures.  That sort of thing.” 

I added, feeling good about myself, “It will be a beautiful thing to see the two of you together!”  At that, with just a snicker of response, he sprang into motion, for the first time turning his back to me.  In an instant, feeling restored, I closed in on him, digging my elbow into his back to impede his push toward the basket.  Lonny outweighed my by at least twenty-five pounds and I needed to lean into him with all my weight to slow down his relentless advance.  “So I know about you and St. Johns,” I said.  “That you even played in the NIT in Madison Square Garden.  So who’s hustling who?”  He pounded his body against mine.  Locked together he moved the two of us to the foul line.  “That after St. Johns you went to Brooklyn Law School and then worked on Wall Street.”  I jabbed my elbow into his kidney and heard him grunt.  He tried to swipe my hand away.  “And I even know what happened to you after that.  I also did some checking.”

Still saying nothing but dribbling the ball with his left hand, bent low to protect it from any attempts to poke it away, he rotated quickly to his right and, after hacking his right elbow into my kidney, which sent a streak of pain up the side of my body, and pounding his big bottom into my groin, which unleashed another wave of agony, he turned to the basket for what we both expected would be the final shot.  But as he twisted by me, I somehow, before collapsing to the floor, managed to get a couple of fingers on the ball so that when he let it go this altered its trajectory enough so that rather than falling through the hoop like all his other shots, this one perilously circled the rim twice before falling harmlessly to the floor. 

The score thus still remained 10-3.

He retrieved his own rebound and dribbled slowly back toward the foul circle.  I remained on the floor, attempting to pretend that I had just slipped.  It would be all over in a moment since we both knew he could score the final point unimpeded.

But he said matter-of-factly, as if nothing had transpired, “Let’s go back to my office.  Pry your skinny bones up off the floor because we have a few details to work out.  I’ll be waiting for you.  What’ll you be drinking?”

“What’s the score?” I managed to croak, still curled up on the floor. 

“I think it’s a draw,” he said, “But I asked what you’ll be drinkin’”

Still not able to rise, I said, “Water will do me fine.  If you got any.”

“What a honky,” he muttered as he turned to leave me there.

Just like the other day I found him behind his desk, swinging in his chair.  On his desk, just like in Teitelbaum’s office, there was a bottle of Cutty Sark.  With irony I said, “I see you and he have the same taste in booze.  Why am I not surprised?”

“Well we community-oriented boys know how to be good partners.”   He poured two glasses of Scotch.

“That’s what happened to you, right?”

“Whatya mean?”  He was eyeing my over the rim of his glass.

“Partner—you didn’t make partner at that white-shoe firm.”  He didn’t move.  “Remember I checked you out.  They dumped you even though you did more billing than any of the other associates.  Do I have that correct?”  Still he did not move of give any indication that I was talking about his previous life.  I pressed on, “I can only imagine what that was about and how it made you feel.”  I then shut up and just looked back at him.  Neither of us wavered or blinked. 

After a moment I continued, speaking almost in a whisper.  The sun had nearly set in the window behind him.  “Really, I can.  I think I do understand.  You said you knew about my work at Queens College.  So maybe you heard what happened to me there.”  He did not move.  “Well a version of the same thing happened to me.”  For an instant he looked away but returned to hold my gaze.  “I don’t know how to put this, because it’s usually the other way around.  Like what happened to you.  But in my case, I too was let go, fired because of my color.  Because I was white.”

“Still are, boy.  Not was,” he spat under his breath.

“Fair point.  Because I was and am white.”

He refilled my glass but still did not engage me.  So we sat together for what felt like twenty minutes while silently, slowly emptying our drinks.  Twilight had fallen and Lonny did not move to turn on any lights but we could still see enough of each other in silhouette.

I heard him creak forward in his chair.  “Let me tell you something Lloyd.”  This was the first time he had called me by my name.  “What happened out there on that court, well we can think about it as a metaphor.  You’re a literary guy, right, so you’ll be able to follow me.”  I did not respond to his mocking jab.  “Let’s say the court is life where lots of one-on-ones get played out.  You followin’?”  I nodded.  “Good.  And on that court, in this life we play with the tools and skills that we have—those that were given to us by God, others that we picked up or learned along the way; and then a few more, important things, that were given to us, assigned to us by others.  God gave us black folk big butts, and He gave you Jewboys big brains.  Don’t stop me,” I wasn’t in fact attempting to, “I’m not being anti-Semitic.  I’m just trying to make a point.  And that point is that yes there are some God-given differences, but they are very slight, much less than folks imagine, but from them, from out of what appears to be characteristic of black folk or Jews or women they make a big deal.  They mischaracterize people based on these insignificant differences.  Out of fear.  Fear of being displaced from wherever they see themselves to be located in the world.  To preserve that place.  Pitiful though it may be.  In fact, the more pitiful the more they do their mischaracterizing, the more they try to define you away.  And then they act accordingly.”

“I understand that,” I took the chance to interrupt him, “But what does it have to do with the metaphor with which you began?  I’m not yet seeing the connection.”

“Well hang with me for another moment, Lloyd, you know how discursive we black folk can be.  I’m sure you studied us in anthropology or somethin.’”  Even in the darkening room I thought I could see a smile emerging.  And he was right about that—I had an interest in oral cultures when I was in graduate school.

“OK, so what happened out there on the court?  True, you checked me out--I could maybe have gone to the NBA, I was once that good.  So I had that advantage.  But it was the last point that we played that held all the meaning.  Listen up now—I used my God-given big butt to my advantage and you developed a defensive strategy by using that Jew brain of yours.”  This time he pitched back in his swivel chair and roared with laughter.  “And guess what?”  He paused.  This time I was the one not to move.  I was determined to wait him out.  It didn’t take long.  “I’ll tell you, we both won.”  He placed both hands behind his head and, self-satisfied, rocked back and forth.

“You know what,” I finally said, “I’m not quite getting the message—maybe I’m not understanding; but then again I’m not sure that everything you’re sayin’ adds up or is consistent.  But that’s OK because enough of it sounds right to me for me to consider becoming your partner.”  I decided to add, “Maybe you feel the same.  But above all, there is one thing we both share, that we both know—we both got the shit kicked out of us pretty good.  And, for the same reason.”  I touched the skin on the side of my face to emphasize my point.  “If we acknowledge that and operate out of that understanding, we can both win.  Like what just happened on the court.  It will be quid pro quo up the poop.  There’s another metaphor for you!” 

Lonny lurched forward, slamming his feet on the floor and hauled his bulky body up out of the chair.  Unsteadily, we both had had too much to drink after the one-on-one, he weaved his way toward me and, grasping me in a massive bear hug, said, “As you see, I like Teitelbaum’s brand of Scotch.  Now let’s see if I can come to like that quid pro quo of his.  Let’s say, twenty grand worth.”  With that, in each others arms, we both rocked with conspiratorial laughter.

*    *    *

“So Lloyd, did you make us a deal?”  It was Teitelbaum, high up on his regular barstool at the Staten Island Rathskeller.  We were meeting for our second monthly liquid lunch just two days after I had picked up the Fiat and had my one-on-one encounter with Lonny.  Andy had filled Dr. T’s glass and left the bottle on the bar.  I could see that he had been there for some time since the bar was blanketed with his sprawl of papers and the glass was almost empty.  He patted the seat of the stool to his right and I hopped up onto it.

“Well, I did make a deal,” I said, feeling proud of myself.  “I got the Italian Club to eat the cost of printing the raffle tickets and, as you can see from your office window, picked up the Fiat and it’s . . .”

“Now Lloyd, you know that’s not the deal that interests me.  I couldn’t care less about the car or the raffle or the Italian Club for that matter.”

“But I thought you saw the Cultural Festival as an important part of your agenda for the college?”  I was totally perplexed.  “You know, to build bridges to the community.”

“I have no interest whatsoever in that community.”  Andy had set an empty glass full of ice in front of me and Teitelbaum refilled his glass and then mine.

“But aren’t they, the Italians, I mean the Italian-Americans the real community here?  I know, I know,” he had sneered at me and waved a dismissive hand in my direction, “they may be only one of many communities here—I read your book, you know,” he held his sneer, “and I know how you feel about black and Hispanic people, how public institutions have a special obligation to serve them.  I’m with you, but on Staten Island most of the poor people are of Italian descent.  Don’t we have an equivalent obligation to them?”

“You are certainly free to see things that way.  I have other matters on my mind.  And since I do, and I am your president, I would like to know about your discussions with Mr. Sonny Russell.  You did meet with him again.”  He folded his stumpy arms across his chest and sat there, puffed up, staring at me.  I could hear the ice cracking and settling in his glass.

“Yes, I did.”  I stared back.

“And . . . ?”

“As you told me, he did go to law school and then on to Wall Street.”  I was going to make him pull out of me what had happened.

“And . . . ?”  He couldn’t continue staring me down without taking another deep drink from his glass and to do so he was forced to avert his eyes for a moment.  When he looked back at me I thought I saw that some slight advantage in our jousting had shifted toward me—it now wasn’t enough that he was my president.  I had something he wanted and he couldn’t force me to give it to him.  I had been fired from an important job at a real college, working with the very community about which he was, yes, obsessed, and he sensed that I might be prepared to let that happen again if he pushed too hard; and since he had clearly failed to make a deal on his own with the only black leader on the island he cared about—a “real militant” as he once referred to him, a Black Panther—he needed me more for this perhaps than I needed him. 

With that realization, I sat there and, looking over his head at one of the stuffed boar’s heads and asked, “Are we ordering food today?  I’m starving.”

Teitelbaum gestured to Andy who bounded over and Dr. T told him to bring us two orders of broiled flounder.  I cut him off and told Andy that I’d prefer a burger, medium-well with some onion rings.  Also, that he could take away my Scotch and bring me a draft Lowenbrau. 

Teitelbaum’s sneer had disappeared and was replaced by an ironic smile.  “I see that my young dean is feeling very good about himself.”  I folded my arms across my chest in imitation of him and nodded that for certain I was.  “Well, that’s very good.  Very good indeed.  I like that.  You know that I like to see my people feeling empowered.  After all, that’s what we’re about, aren’t we—empowerment?  Power to the people and all that.”  He emptied his glass and pulled mine over to him and began sipping from it.  “No need to waste good Scotch.”  His smile, visible through the ice and diluted Scotch had taken on the look of evil. 

“And so, you met with Mr. Lonny.”  I indicated that I had.  “And I assume from all of your smirking that things went well for you.  Of course, I mean for us, for the college.”  I indicated with a nod that it had.  “And I assume Mr. Lonny enticed you into a game of one-on-one in that place of his that he calls a gym.”  With this he had me off stride again so I indicated nothing, which of course he took as a sign that he once again had regained the advantage.  I could tell that when I saw him straightening himself on the stool to his full height.  “Did he tell you, Russell I mean, that he tried that with me as well?  From the look on your face I can see that he of course did not.  Well, he did.  And do you know what?”  I couldn’t help myself from appearing surprised and puzzled.  “We wrestled rather than played one-on-Whatever.  You can close your mouth now.  It’s not a very attractive look for a dean.  Yes, I had wrestled in college and, though I am a little older than Lonny Russell, and he had never done more than play basketball, out of macho pride he accepted.  So he came to the college and together we went to the wrestling room.  Just the two of us.  I know you are eager to know what happened, but he and I agreed to keep that between us.  That, ironically, is the only deal we ever consummated.  Which is why I had to send you too him—as my representative.” 

Andy put the flounder platter in front of Teitelbaum and the burger on my placemat.  “So what do you think of that?”

I took a huge bite and chewed slowly.  I ignored him.  I needed to regain my equilibrium.  I swigged half the lager.  “To tell you the truth, I don’t make very much of it, considering how little you told me about what really happened between the two of you.”

“You will never know that,” he said solemnly, “since I suspect Lonny will keep his word as have I.”   He bent over his fish and concentrated on it for a few minutes as I did on my hamburger.  It was juicy and delicious.   Then he put down his folk.  “I will ask you one more thing, though, before you tell me what you and he agreed to—that I am entitled to know, that I insist on knowing.  It is after all the business of the college of which, I remind you, you are an employee.”  I once again nodded.  I would give him that much. 

“What I would like to know is not the college’s business.”  He had me intrigued.  “What I want to know if he offered his rap, that’s what they call it, yes, did he—about black butts and Jewish brains?”  I stiffened, on alert.  “I can see that he did.  About how God gives people different  . . . ” 

But before I could even begin to say anything, Andy, at the far end of the bar signaled that there was a call for President Teitelbaum from the editor of the Staten Island Advance.  “I have to take that call.  It’s from Len Trout himself.  But before I do, as it’s the college’s business, do we have a deal with him?  He’ll get his cut of the money?”  I nodded twice.  “And then he’ll work with us?”  I nodded once more.  “Including agreeing to joint public events to which the press, such as it is on this miserable island, will be invited?  Good.  Let me take this call.”  I could hear him chuckling to himself as he left me to pick up the phone.

I finished my food, had a second beer, but still he remained on the phone, gesturing dramatically as if he were on stage.  He did not look my way; and since it seemed the call would go on forever, I slid off the stool and left, not stopping to wave in his direction. 

There was a great deal that had to be completed before the upcoming weekend when the Italian Culture Festival was set to begin.  I hoped the weather forecast would turn out to be wrong—rain was predicted--because we were hoping to sell at least another 1,500 raffle tickets.

*    *    *

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

Ed Paradise, the head of college security, told me that by 8:00 Saturday night nearly 3,500 people were squeezed into the quadrangle and that the concession stands were concerned because they were already running out of zeppoles.  This was 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 Moroni, and he was set to sing Lord Percy’s aria E me si vale ei tene from Donizetti’s popular opera, Anna BoLydia, 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 Italian flag), I could not resist the impulse to swell with pride—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 into getting some programs off the ground that would benefit a whole new generation of students.

As I was reviewing my good deeds and contemplating their long-range implications, slipping stealthily to my side, a full head shorter than I, was Sal Rizzuto.  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 his belt, “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 everythin’.”

“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 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 put some sense into her head.  Not tonight, but maybe next week.  That she should take a business assistant program.”  He was dragging me in the direction of a statuesque young woman who, even in the gathering dusk, was radiant. 

And then 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, “I’m Lloyd Zazlo.  Lloyd.  Nice to meet you.”

“Larry this is my little girl, Angie.  I hope you’ll talk with her next week and straighten her out.”  Without acknowledging her father or saying one word, she looked me up and down.  Angie 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.

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 and broke the seditious spell, pulling along behind him a shambling adolescent boy, full of pimples, who could only be his son.

“Just the guy I’m lookin’ 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 later 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 squeeze.  Louie Jr. did not seem to notice; he kept his eyes riveted to his sneakers.   “Be a good kid 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 at me and signaled for me to follow him to a quiet, 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, which in effect we were, 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 someone would slip me so much cash, and in the shadows at that.  “Forty-four what?”

“Where do you come from?  Here on the island that’s how we talk ‘bout 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 too.”

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

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

“Enough of this mercenary crapola,” Louie said, now taking my hand as he had his son’s and pulled me back into the quadrangle.  “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.  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 me 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!  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 no 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 and . . .”  I caught myself rattling on mindlessly since I did not know what else 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 displayed.   I noticed that while we had been talking the ramp that 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 in front of the student center.  On it was a line of chairs and in them sat the members of the executive committee of the Italian Club and the sole representative of the college—Dr. Teitelbaum.  There was a podium and a table beside it on which rested a huge wire drum which held the forty-four 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 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 pleased to remember that he was a retired police captain from the 122^nd 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 doin’ business.  It’s in our heritage, which we are here to celebrate.  And, as we all know, doin’ business is also in the heritage of his people.”  Everyone knew he was talking about Teitelbaum and there was some vocal guffawing at that.  “So I say,” he boomed, “let’s do business together!  We can all win!”  Again pointing in Dr. T’s direction, who had resumed looking toward Moroni because of this change of tone. 

Al 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 wants.  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 and there was then widespread applause and whistling.  “Right, we’ll be keeping 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 Teitelbaum 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 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 because 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.

I must admit, I had never felt better about myself.

And then it was Teitelbaum’s turn.  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 directly.  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 and drinking, but sounding calmer and more conversational than was characteristic of him at public occasions 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 be 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 received 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 are 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 an 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 short 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.”

*    *    *

Teitelbaum had asked me to meet him for lunch the day after the raffle.  The day after Al Maroni, bless him, told me they wouldn’t hold me responsible for the Fiat going to some “Mau-Mau,” that was his expression, that they would handle it “internally.”

Thus relieved, I raced over to the Rathskeller where I suspected Teitelbaum wanted to debrief, perhaps get my impressions of that astonishing evening.  It turned out to be our last lunch.

As usual he was down at the end of the bar, smoking and already well into his Scotch.  Before I fully made my way to him, unable to contain myself, I blurted out, “That was remarkable.  I mean, what you did, particularly what you said was remarkable.”  He didn’t move.  He sat there seemingly ignoring me, perhaps not hearing me, the TV was blasting away, as if lost in troubling thought, sipping his drink and puffing away on his Lucky Strike.  I settled on my stool and took the liberty to lean close to him, seeking to pull him out of his sullen mood.  “It was amazing.  After what Moroni said about you.  In public in front of thousands of people.  On your campus.  Virtually mocking you.  But you found a way to be so transcendent, to not take it personally and to find a way to reach out to connect with that part of the community from which you had appeared to be estranged.  And I think it worked.”  He shrugged. 

“They were moved.  Really!  You found common ground.  It’s exactly what you wrote about in your book.  It was living proof of how a college, embodied or symbolized by your example, can connect to the community it is endowed to serve.” 

Since what I was saying did not appear to be reaching him, I stopped blabbering and nodded to Andy to get me a Scotch of my own.  After a moment, Teitelbaum snubbed out his cigarette, pivoted slowly in his seat, and turned to face me full on.  I could hear him clicking his tongue.  Coldly, he said, “You are so naïve.”  Instantly deflated, I dropped my eyes to my drink and began to roll the icy glass in my hands.  “And here I thought I had hired a mature operative.  One who understood the world.  And what do I find?  Someone who is still clinging frantically to innocence.  What is charming in a child is an embarrassment in an adult.”  I did not attempt to respond.  “Have you learned nothing from the world, much less from the experience of you own life?  Listen to you, gushing like a girl.  Look at you, all puffed up with self-satisfaction.”  I allowed myself to imperceptibly shrink on my stool.

“Speaking of ‘looking at you,’ what do you think I was up to last night when that Yahoo Moroni,” he snickered at that reference, “when he had the audacity, the gall to do that to me.  Me!  After all I have done for this ridiculous and undeserving island.  Bigots are what you find here.  And bigots I know all about.  That was the one thing from last night about which I spoke the truth.  The rest was theatrics.  And cheap theatrics at that.  But it was all that was required there to turn things in my direction—just a few cheap tricks.” 

He snorted with obvious contempt and, reaching out with his thick finger, stabbed me in the chest.  “For them it was more than enough, as you witnessed; but it apparently was enough to take you in as well.  Well I never . . . ”

Enraged by his mocking, perhaps as a way to avoid the truth of what he had said about me, I smacked at his hand as he attempted to poke me again.  With the back of my hand I brushed my drink off the bar and it crashed to the floor.  I did the same to his.  Andy moved toward us but then thought better of it. 

“I came to this island, to your college,” I screamed with a pounding heart, “because of what you wrote.  I believed in your ideas.  I still do.  But from everyone I met I heard that you were full of shit.  That you were using the college and your presidency as a means to promote yourself.  I attempted to defend you.  Actually, in truth, maybe not defend you but to indicate that they could use you as they thought you were using them.  To quote you, there were many quid pro quo opportunities out there.  They came to understand that and we did make some new deals with them.  Through these deals that I made, I made we would be able to deliver, another favorite idea of yours—delivery--the kinds of services you have made a career of advocating.  To bring thought to action.  Sound familiar?”  I was so angry and on such a roll that I allowed myself to mock him.  I even found myself imitating his cadences. 

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that he was studying me carefully.  “I have one more thing to say and then I’m finished.  Really finished.  You knew when you came here to be president that the college was not in and of the city.  More of your rhetoric.  Look at this place—it’s more like where you grew up in Iowa than the South Bronx.  But you needed it to be of the city—to put your ideas into action.  So you hired me to help you create a narrative for the college.  In effect a fiction.  You had to import a few minorities, even two from as far away as Africa like that Kwame,” I saw him smile at that, “You had to create a mechanism to reach out to the local community—especially to your favorite part where the few dozen blacks on this island live.  And by doing that you could claim to the larger world that you had torn down the walls that separate gown from town.  Well, on a clear day, if you go up to the top of that hill over there, and stand on your toes, if its winter and there are no leaves on the trees, if you’re lucky you’ll be able to catch a glimpse of the buildings on Wall Street.  That’s your city.  All the way out there.  And you know what?”  I couldn’t stop myself from concluding, “If you were the president of a college in a real city I suspect you’d still spend the whole day hiding behind your desk curled up with your cigarettes and bottle of Scotch.”  I was done.

After a few seconds of silence, Teitelbaum signaled to Andy that it was all right to approach us and to be sure to bring him a double.  When he did, Teitelbaum turned to me.  He reached out to me again; and as I began to cringe, wondering what he would do to me, he took hold of my chin and forced me to face him.  “Are you through?  Do you feel good about yourself?”  He held me so firmly that even if I were inclined I would not have been able to do more than grunt a response. 

“Let’s assume you do.  Feel good about yourself.”  He squeezed my face even harder and it brought tears to my eyes.  “And let’s assume that I do as well.”  He saw my puzzled look so he added to clarify, “That I do as well feel good about you.  For the first time.  At last.  Because everything you said is true.  Don’t look so surprised.  You think I too am naïve?  Don’t underestimate me.  I know exactly, exactly what I’ve been and what I’m doing.  You think it’s by accident that I am who I am?   It’s time for you to understand that.  It’s not important what you think about me, but it is essential that you never misperceive the truth in all its splendor and contradictions.  This may not set you free but it will set you in motion.  And once you are thus mobilized, who knows, maybe you will do something worthwhile.  Maybe even have you own university in the city.”  He was grinning.

He let go of my face.  My cheeks were throbbing.  Then he reached out toward me again, this time to place his hands on my shoulders.  “And so when I leave in a month to become president of San Francisco State University, you will be fine.”

“You . . . what?  I will be . . . what?”

“Just fine.  I assume you may need to begin looking for a new position,” he said casually, “because you will be vulnerable when they name a replacement for me.  He will undoubtedly want his own representative to the community.  And I assume he will be from that community.  Don’t think your becoming an honorary Italian will protect you.”  He was reading my mind yet again.  “That was too much, wasn’t it?  I never saw anything funnier in my life.”

In truth I hadn’t thought about it that way, but in any case I got up off my stool and took Teitelbaum, who remained seated, in my arms.

“Get out of here,” he snapped.  And I did.

*    *    *

Thus anointed, I left the bar and Teitelbaum to get to my appointment with Sunny Russell.  We had agreed that I would come to the Jersey Street Community Center where we would debrief and divide the cash.

“Did you ever see one of those African dudes move so fast?”  He was again ensconced behind his desk and tipped all the way back roaring with laughter. “I always thought that those robes were not built for speed.  But they didn’t hold him back!  He sure was flyin’.”  He was so amused, smacking his thighs and pitching back and forth, that I feared he would tumble over backwards.

“So what have you brought for me, my man?  I see you have a nice size bag with you.  I assume we are still talking about cash?”

I was exhausted from the past few days’ events, particularly what I had just learned from Teitelbaum, that I wanted to make this quick.  I was hoping that he was right, that I would be fine.  But though I felt that I would be, I needed time on my own to sort things through.  So, deciding that I wouldn’t tell him about Dr. T’s departure, I merely said, “Yes, it’s all here and, as we agreed, it’s cash.  You can count it, but your share, the center’s cut is a little more than fourteen-seven.”

With a wave he dismissed my suggestion, but I knew that once I left he would be certain to count every dollar.  Twice.  “So tell me, what else is going on?”  He rocked gently in his chair, grinning at me like we had just pulled off the Brinks robbery.

“Nothing much.  To tell you the truth I need to get some rest.  I’m beat.  We can talk about the other parts of our deal later this week or next.”

“Come, come my friend.  Partners don’t hold things back from each other.  Especially if it’s important.  We have a lot to accomplish together during the next month.”  His grin widened even further, if that were possible.

“As I said I got to get out of here and catch up on my sleep.  I’ll be good for nothing if I don’t do that soon.”

“OK, I hear you.  So I won’t play with you.”  He stopped his rocking and shifted forward so that his stomach was pressed right up against the desk.  “Your man Dr. T, that’s what you call him right?  I don’t know if he told you, but him and me we go back a bit together.  I see that he did.  Good.  So I can cut out the preliminaries.  He called me last night after he got home from the festival and told me about San Francisco.  Ain’t that a trip—Dr. T finally in the place where he belongs all the way out there.”  He laughed to himself at that.  “That shouldn’t surprise you that I’d be the next to know after he told his wife.  You’ve still got a few things to learn Lloyd.”  So he too was going to pass along some lessons in life.  Go on, I thought, I can handle it.

“Did he tell you about what happened when we met?  I’ll bet he did—it’s one of his favorite stories.  About me trying to hustle him in one-on-one and how he conned me into wrestling with him?  He tells everyone that story.  He even told Len Trout from the Advance!  And he’s the definition of ‘everyone.’  I’m surprised they haven’t printed it yet in the paper.  In any case I’m sure Bill told you about how I laid my butts and brains spiel on him?  Ah, I can see from your expression that he did that too.  Perfect.  And did he tell you that he and I have a so-called secret pact not to tell anyone what happened when we wrestled?”

At that I nodded, and in spite of my tiredness leaned forward to get closer to him.  “We’ll I’ll tell you what—again since I said before that partners should tell each other everything, I’ll tell you what happened.”  I must admit I was curious.

“This nobody else but Bill and I know.”  I believed him.  “He took me over to the wrestling room and had me put on a wrestling outfit that he kept in his locker—tights, jock, headgear.  He had quite a few in there, all sizes, so I assumed he tried to pull this trick with everyone.  Anyway, as you know he’s an old drunk not more than five-five, and you can see from when we played that I’m big and still in pretty good shape.  So when he said it would be two-out-of-three falls I thought I’d be back in my car in fifteen minutes.  At the most.”  He paused and swiveled in his chair to look, away from me, out the window.

“So what happened?  I need to get going.”

Not turning back to me, snapping his fingers, he said, “Well it was over in much less than fifteen minutes.”

“And?” I asked.

“That fucker pinned me twice in a row.” 

Then he turned to look at me again and said, shrugging and grinning in a manner similar to Teitelbaum, “Wasn't no big deal.”