The Iron Will of Shoeshine Cats (35 page)

After posing for the photographers once more, we were suddenly inside an overheated courtroom, rising when the judge entered, a stern-looking woman with straightened gray hair done in a kind of African pageboy, the white collar bordering the neckline of her black robe a bright demarcation between dark and dark. She did not sit.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a voice like paper being slowly and deliberately torn, “It is fitting that we stand for one minute of silence to honor the memory of our slain president.”

I looked sideways to Shushan, but he betrayed no emotion at the suggestion that John F. Kennedy was worth this.

When the minute was up Judge Went merely said, “You may be seated. Counsel for the defense, you have a motion, do you not?”

Fritzi stood. I could see why he won cases. He looked for all the world as though he could effortlessly
sit
on an opposing argument until it expired by suffocation. The level of the courtroom itself seemed to shift as Fritzi took three balletic steps forward (like most big men, he had early learned to move with grace) enough to take control of the real estate between the judge and jury, twelve of the most innocuous faces I had ever seen, or not seen in the way the drab and affectless pass us every day in the subway or on the street—but not so close to the bench to challenge the authority of the judge by moving into her immediate space.

“
Good
morning, your honor,” he said brightly, as though they were merely passing on the stairs. “If it please the court, a family matter of the utmost delicacy and urgency has arisen, as I noted in my informal communication with your honor late last night, and I therefore ask that this trial be adjourned forty-eight hours, in order that my client make the proper arrangements.”

What fiction was this? I knew as little as the grinning reporters seated opposite the jury and scribbling notes—doubtless they had seen Fritzi in action before. The “mob mouthpiece” was known for his ability to delay proceedings, dragging them out until a jury member grew ill or a prosecutor apoplectic, or the judge up and died. While her honor made a brief note, I considered what this family matter of the utmost delicacy and urgency might be. A birth, a wedding, a bar mitzvah? An appointment to be fitted by Miguel for a new suit?

“Both counsel in my chambers,” the judge said. “Bailiffs will instruct those having business before this court as well as members of the public to remain patiently where they are. This court is in recess for six minutes.”

With a start I realized who the prosecuting attorney was. I had sat in her office and been grilled until Fritzi had sprung me: the same man’s cut gray suit, the same gray hair, the same dry efficiency. She followed the judge through a door at the front of the court and Fritzi followed after, pausing only long enough to throw a sad-clown’s face of resignation in the direction of the jury.

“That bitch has been after me for years,” Shushan said.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”

He looked at me. “For years?”

“Days,” I said. “What’s the secret?”

“Secret?”

“The family matter of the utmost delicacy and urgency.”

“Yeah, well,” Shushan said.

“Yeah, well?”

“I was hoping we could talk before the trial. Maybe after, when we have a little privacy.”

“This is private,” I whispered. “You could write it in a note.”

“A death,” Shushan said.

Abruptly I envisioned Terri, her wrists slit, then her throat. Projection, I thought. Some part of me would probably like her dead. “Justo? Ira?”

“They’re fine.”

“Okay, so who’s the fictional corpse?”

Shushan leaned closer. “I’m sorry we have to do this, here. We should have more time.”

“We have six whole minutes.”

“Your mother died,” he said.

Big news. “When I was a kid.”

“No,” he said. “I mean, your mother is dead.”

I considered. Was this a puzzle, a distinction with a hidden difference? “Okay, and my father too. I’m a fucking orphan. Is that what you’re saying? I know that. It’s not very interesting. Just what is.”

Shushan looked pained, as though he had tasted something unreasonably bitter. “You know the truth about language?” he said. “It’s no way to communicate.”

“Shoosh, I’m listening, but not getting it.”

“I mean to say, I’m trying to tell you...” He seemed to be on the brink of abandoning the attempt altogether, then plunged on. “Your mother died.”

“I
know
that.”

He put his hand on my shoulder, tightening his grip. “Yesterday,” he said.

How long does it take to discover your life is a lie? Most people take forever, if they discover it at all. Me, I was luckier. It took all of six minutes, five minutes actually and one of silence until Dolores Grady reentered, glaring at me as she took her place at the table to the left, where she busied herself zipping up her briefcase. Then came Fritzi, looking like he’d scored a hole-in-one and nodding to the jury like Arnold Palmer acknowledging the gallery’s awe. After a moment Judge Went climbed back on the bench, the courtroom standing. When she sat, we sat. She banged her gavel three times. “This court is adjourned until Wednesday at 9 AM. Members of the jury may go home but are advised not to read newspapers or watch television news or hear news on the radio. You may not speak of this trial to anyone, not even to a fellow member of the jury. In the event you are contacted by persons known or unknown you should (a) decline to carry on any conversation bearing on this trial and (b) immediately contact the bailiff with full information on said contact.” She turned to Fritzi. “Mr. von Zeppelin, we have here the final adjournment of this trial—is that clear?”

Fritzi stood. “It certainly is, your honor.”

“My condolences to the family,” she said. “This court is adjourned.”

After we rose for the judge to exit, I continued standing, staring into the middle distance, trying to comprehend what I had just been told. A strange arithmetic had entered my life: what I had thought was real was now proved unreal. Facts could no longer be depended upon. Everything added up, but differently.
X
now meant something else entirely; thus
Y
was different. What I knew about myself was the same, but rearranged like a room full of furniture that I stumbled into as I tried to navigate in the dark. In a daze I watched Fritzi climb into his huge belted topcoat, blonde cashmere so soft it hung in gentle folds like drapes framing a large window. The jury emptied out, looking puzzled, disappointed. To my left Dolores Grady and her prosecutorial team wheeled out their files—who knew what was in them that Fritzi intended to defend against with a briefcase so small it could not have held more than thirty sheets?

“Mr. Shushan Cats?”

I heard the voice, recognized it, but couldn’t place it.

“Such police work,” I heard Shushan say. “You eye-deed me out of this huge crowd? What’s up?”

“I’m Special Agent Quinones of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Mink. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions? It won’t take long.”

“Fritzi?”

I turned to see the lawyer place the pearl-gray Homburg on his head, where it sat so lightly, tipped a bit to the right, it seemed a breeze might blow it off. “My dear, we’re in the middle of a criminal trial,” Fritzi said. “Why don’t we all wait until it’s over? Fair play and all that. Please do take a number.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” Quinones said. She’d done something to her hair, dying out the bit of premature gray so that it was uniformly brown. Curiously, it made her look older. “There are two ways we can do this, Mr. Cats.”

“Yeah, I know,” Shushan said. “The hard way or your way. Just tell me what it’s about.”

Quinones looked at Shushan, then at Fritzi, then at me, finally back to Shushan, who seemed suddenly combat-ready, as if waiting for a punch so he could deflect it and go in underneath for the kill. His legs moderately spread, his arms hanging loose, beneath the relaxed demeanor he looked vaguely dangerous. Probably he looked that way to a lot of people. “Mr. Cats, we’d like to talk to you about where you were on the twenty-second of November.”

“That would be, what—”

“Friday, sir.” This was Mink of the short fuse.

“Friday the twenty-second of November? I was in Texas.”

“Houston?” Quinones asked. “El Paso? Fort Worth?”

“Dallas,” Shushan said. “Is there a law against that?”

Special Agent Mink put his hand on his ear and turned away, facing the entrance to the courtroom. I followed his gaze. There on either side of the double doors were two more poorly dressed federal specimens—unmistakable: it was as if they had had to pass a bad-suit exam to get the job.

“Sir, there is at this time no law against being in Dallas the day the president was shot,” Special Agent Quinones said. “But there might be. Is there someplace nearby we can talk?”

Shushan laughed. “Spend a lot of time at the movies, Miss Quinones? Yeah, there’s someplace nearby we can talk. You like Italian food?”

Dolce Far Niente seemed deserted without the slight figure but large presence of Auro Sfangiullo. At this hour, barely eleven, it was devoid of diners except for a few individuals, all men, all excessively well-barbered, who sat one to a table drinking espresso and reading the racing sections of the
Mirror,
the
Post
and the
Daily News.

We had pulled up in front on Mulberry Street, parking directly beneath a sign reading NO STANDING/TOW-AWAY ZONE. Two carloads of FBI agents tucked in right behind us. It seemed only people like Shushan and those who pursued him could be assured of a place to park in this city—both groups clearly above the law. Fritzi’s uniformed chauffeur sat in the limo, its motor running, while on either side drivers sat in the two FBI cars, miserable black Chevy Biscaynes, bottom of the line, occasionally pressing their ears to get better reception.

At the round table we were shown to in the back, Shushan ordered a bottle of Montepulciano Soriano 1955, and told the waiter to bring only three glasses. “The FBI is not allowed to drink, gamble or enjoy the pleasures of the flesh while on duty,” he said pointedly to the waiter, then winked before turning back to the table at large. “Or any other time. Except for J. Edgar Hoover, and that’s limited to dressing like a lady and taking it up the... You know why we’re here?”

Not only wouldn’t Quinones and Mink drink, they wouldn’t eat either. Except for a cup of instant coffee—the waiter said he would search the kitchen for this exotic substance—they sat and watched while Shushan ordered and, as the fragrant food was brought out on heavy white dishes, seemed to grow visibly more glum, like vegetarians at a pig roast.

“Sir, we’re here to ask you some questions about your activities over the past week,” Quinones said.

“No, no,” Shushan said. “It’s clear why you want to talk to me—what I’m asking is do you know why we’re talking
here
, in this place?”

“You like the food?”

“The food is good. Try a little
bruschett’
at least. It’s with the table. It’s not like anybody’s paying for it. It just comes when you sit down. No? Why we’re in this place is some people are very sensitive about secret meetings with the FBI. You have this Bobby Kennedy still around—your boss? Nobody knocked him off yet, but we can hope. Seems like the little prick has a perverse interest in organized crime, which by the way doesn’t exist. It’s more like restrained anarchy. Never mind. So if it got out I was having a secret meeting with you two very nice individuals suspicion would enter the picture like cockroaches in a new chop-suey joint. Here, nothing is secret. There’s no suspicion because it’s all out in the open. Of course either way I’d never tell a thing about certain people and their activities, but it’s better not to tell in public. You sure about the
bruschett’?
The
mozarell’
is something else, if you like that. Made in the back. You ever think maybe you’re on the wrong side of the law? We eat better.”

“When did you arrive in Dallas, Mr. Cats?”

“Last week sometime.”

“Sir, I’ll make it easy for you,” Quinones said. “You flew out of Idlewild last Monday at five-twenty PM on Pan Am flight forty-one, stopping in Dallas, continuing on to Mexico City, where you stayed at the Reforma Inter-Continental. Three days later you returned via Dallas, where you stayed at the Hilton, returning yesterday afternoon at six-fifteen PM, after which you checked into the Sherry-Netherland.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Sir, why did you fly to Mexico City?”

“Because I can’t fly to Cuba anymore, that’s why. I got prime real estate in Havana I can’t even visit. I suppose you know that.”

“A hotel and casino,” Quinones said.

“El Flamboyan—people here think it means the flamboyant. Which it does. But it’s a tree,
delonix regia
. The Royal Poinciana. Got them all over the property. If I could I’d invite you down. I can’t. Cuba was raped for centuries, mostly by us, and now we’re upset they put in socialism? Tell me something, what’s so evil about socialism? You don’t like socialism, send in the Peace Corps. Build schools, hospitals. Don’t make the Cubans the enemy. For crying out loud, their national sport is baseball. We used to buy their sugar, now you can’t even get a legal cigar. Sure sometimes you have to use force, but setting up Fidel Castro as David with us as Goliath, how does that make sense? How does that make things better? This entire country has communism on the brain, like a disease. Let me tell you something, Special Agents Quinones and—remind me.”

“Mink.”

“Mink. You know what the antidote for communism is?
Food.
Medicine. Schools. Hollywood movies. Schwinn bikes. Jazz. Tourism. Jobs. What a fucked-up situation. We have these Kennedys, they’re like some form of perverse American royalty. They look like movie stars, they fuck movie stars—Jack Kennedy’s father used to fuck Gloria Swanson, among others, and both sons fucked Marilyn Monroe, probably your boss Bobby would still be fucking her—you didn’t know that, but it’s true. I know people who know. And not just Marilyn Monroe, about as ditzy a specimen of the female mammal as you’d want to avoid in a closed room, didn’t even wash for crying out loud. I could give you a list. So instead of picking up what that Eisenhower did, which was send troops into Little Rock to protect little colored kids, the Kennedys they’re blowing a fuse about organized crime, about the Teamsters union, about Fidel Castro, about some country in Asia nobody but the French ever heard of, and they’re sorry they did. Let me tell you. Like a lot of guys, I fought in Korea. Did I go there because of some political ideology? Absolutely not. I went because I was a kid and thought being in a war would be the coolest thing since fast cars and slow women. But when I got there I realized, you know what, this isn’t our war. This is about some kind of religious fervor called anti-communism. You think there’s a difference between the North Koreans and the South Koreans? They both stink of
kimchee
, they both speak a language related only to Hungarian and Basque—that’s actually a fact—and they both hate the Japs and the Japs hate them. So forty-five thousand Americans ended up dead or missing in action. You know how we could’ve avoided that? Give the poor slobs something to eat. And you know why we won’t? Because there’s no damned money in it. You ever hear of the military-industrial complex? Even Dwight Eisenhower was warning us against it, and he’s not exactly Karl Marx. So who did we have sitting in the White House? The military-industrial complex with well-cut clothes and great hair. Since 1960 every time I talked to somebody in my business who isn’t a complete moron, the first thing they would say is somebody should put a bullet through that asshole Jack Kennedy’s head and his brother too, because they don’t provide anything for this country other than bullshit, image, style. The perception of leadership. Between you and me, I’m surprised somebody didn’t take the shit out months ago.” He looked to Fritzi, who had put down his fork, a rare occurrence. The look on the lawyer’s face was: Please, please,
please
shut up. Shushan ignored him. “You know every morning at eleven the prick went for a swim in the White House pool and then some poor White House college-girl intern blows him. One of them should have bit off his dick.”