As Time Goes By (19 page)

Rick knew who he was: George Raft, the society tea-
dancer whom O'Hanlon was making into a movie star
out in Hollywood. Some gangster picture called
Scarface.

"Mr. O'Hanlon sends his greetings and invites you to join us at his table," said Raft.

"Who's Mr. O'Hanlon?" Lois asked innocently.

"He's the gentleman with Miss West," answered
Raft.

Lois was up and out of her seat before Rick had a
chance to say anything. "Smart girl you got there,"
Raft said to Rick privately as they followed Lois.

O'Hanlon was on his feet and bowing graciously.
"It is an honor and a singular pleasure to welcome the
daughter of a treasured business partner to my table on
this fine evening," he said. Lois extended her hand, and
O'Hanlon took it in his, pressed his lips against it, and
kissed it.

"Do sit down, Miss Horowitz," he suggested. Although his speech patterns were Irish, he had a faint
English accent, a legacy of his youth in the mill towns
of England, where his parents had sweated enough
money for the passage to America. "You, too, Mr. Ba
line. I've heard a lot about you, and I am very pleased
to make your acquaintance." He snapped a finger in
the air, and the headwaiter materialized instantly. "Champagne, please."

"We've already ordered some," said Lois.

"I refuse to let such a lovely young lady as yourself
drink ordinary champagne, miss," he told her. "As
someone who knows a bit about the liquor business, I
keep my own private stock here, precisely for moments
like these." His lips widened in a mirthless smile that
showed no teeth.

"Of course you know Miss Mae West and Mr.
George Raft," O'Hanlon said as if of course they
would. "May I present Miss Lois Horowitz and Mr.
Yitzik Baline, daughter and protege, respectively, of
my esteemed associate Mr. Solomon Horowitz of Har
lem and the Bronx."

Rick could hear the contempt for Horowitz, Harlem, and the Bronx in the Irishman's voice and hoped it was
lost on Lois. It was found not in his tone, but rather in
his manner or pronunciation, the way he separated each
word in order to draw attention to it, the way he implied
that Harlem and the Bronx were now alien places that
no decent person would live in if given a choice. It was
the contempt of the city for the boroughs, of the big-
time for the small-time, of the winner for the loser.

"Now to complete the introductions," continued
O'Hanlon, addressing Lois. "This good-looking lad
who's been struck dumb in obvious admiration of your great beauty is none other than Robert Haas Meredith,
whom you may have been reading about in all the New York newspapers recently, and by that designation I do
indeed include the
Journal,
the
American,
and by God,
even the
Times."

Now Rick recognized the man. Meredith was the
scion of a rich Upper East Side family, a Park Avenue lawyer in private practice with big political ambitions, who charged his rich clients a fortune to win equal jus
tice under the law. Meredith was too smart to defend
gangsters like O'Hanlon in public, but there was no law
against helping out on the side—and besides, it never
hurt one's image to be seen in their company. Why,
Mayor Walker had made a career of it.

"Good evening, Miss Horowitz," said Meredith.

"Charmed, I'm sure," replied Lois, who was.
        

"Mr. Baline," O'Hanlon said, addressing the table,
"has quite a head for business. In the space of a few
short weeks, he has transformed the Tootsie-Wootsie
Club uptown into the foremost rival of my own dear
Boll Weevil." As everyone knew, the Boll Weevil was
Harlem's leading jazz nightspot—although not for
long, if Rick could help it.

"Love that name, the Tootsie-Wootsie," said Mae
West, as only she could. "I hear you've got quite a
piano player there, you know, what's-his-name."

"Sam Waters," replied Rick.

"I'll have to come up and see him sometime," said
Mae.

"What's your line there, Baline?" Meredith asked.

"I'm—"

Just then the champagne arrived. Everyone was
poured a glass except the attorney and the host, and
after a brief toast by O'Hanlon, the sparkling wine
went down smoothly. Even Rick had to admit it was good stuff.

"I'm a drunkard," he said jocularly as he drained his
glass. "Or at least I will be after much more of this."

"Mr. Baline exaggerates his fondness for the bottle,
I'm sure," said O'Hanlon. "For with Prohibition the roaring success that it is, surely there is not a true
drunkard left in America at the moment—and more's
the pity! They were my best customers." He took a
sip of ice water. "Mr. Baline is the manager," he told Meredith. "And would you think it to look at a young fellow like him?"

"I'd think a lotta things to look at him," said Mae
West, tugging on her champagne.

Everybody laughed. O'Hanlon set both his impecca
bly manicured hands on the tabletop. "Mr. Meredith," he said, "I wonder if you would be so kind as to escort
Miss Horowitz and the rest of the group to that empty
table over there so that I might be permitted a few private words with Mr. Baline."

O'Hanlon turned to Lois. "I most heartily apologize
for depriving you of the company of your escort, but I
hope you'll have no objection to dining with Miss
West, Mr. Raft, and Mr. Meredith."

"The pleasure would be all mine," added Meredith,
taking her by the arm and starting to lead her away.
"Good-bye, Mr. Baline," he said.

"Is it okay, Rick?" asked Lois, already in Meredith's
grip.

Rick tried to read her expression but couldn't. "I'll
be right over," he said reassuringly.

"I'll make this as brief as I can," O'Hanlon said as
they departed, and Rick realized that this was now seri
ous business. He was not frightened by O'Hanlon so
much as respectful of him. Solly's contemptuous dis
missals of the man now seemed to ring very, very
hollow.

"Mr. Baline, you will please tell the charming Miss
Horowitz's father that I harbor no hard feelings toward
him for what he's been doing to my Canadian trucks.
If his boys can take my liquor away from my boys,
then that is my problem and I am just going to have to
find me some better boys. That is the nature of our
business, and a very good business it has been up to
now for all of us."

"Solly says you've been chiseling him in Montreal
with Michaelson,"countered Rick. "That you're trying to put him out of business."

O'Hanlon waved off his objections. "Solomon Horo
witz and I go back to the days of Lefty Louie and Big J
ack Zelig and—God help me, for doesn't this date me
as an old-timer—the great Monk Eastman, his own
dear departed self. And wasn't Monk, who treated me
like a son, a Hebrew like your own good self, and
didn't I love him like a father." He took another sip of his drink.

"Unlike so regrettably many of my fellow Chris
tians, I have nothing whatsoever against Jewboys or
sheenies of any kind," O'Hanlon continued. "Under
the misguided scourge of the Noble Experiment, those
of us who serve the common weal have got to work
together in a spirit of harmony and mutual understand
ing, and sure, isn't there plenty of turf for us here in
the great and united city of New York. I have no interest
in Solomon's policy rackets in darktown, and what he
does north of a Hundred and Tenth Street and along the
Grand Concourse is basically of no interest to me.

"However," O'Hanlon continued
sotto voce,
"any
thing he does to affect my shipments from our brothers
in Quebec very definitely
is
my business. It is messy,
and messiness of any kind disturbs me greatly
.
Now I
am a kind and gentle man, as you know, and I don't
want any further trouble between us. Therefore, I have
a proposition for him. Please tell your boss that I want
a truce between us, and to that end I am prepared to
offer him a considerable consideration, one of my most
valuable and prized political assets—a lad I have been
grooming myself for quite some time—in return for his
promise to lay off."

Rick was listening, but not quite understanding. His
blank look proclaimed as much.

"It's known far and wide that the one thing that Sol
omon Horowitz wants is respectability," said O'Han
lon, "and he'll get it if he has to kill for it. There isn't a soul in New York he hasn't told that he's reserving
his little girl for a big man. Now that I have met the
young lady, I can see why. She's extremely beautiful,
and I am a man who has known and loved a great many
beautiful women in my time. And I intend to love a
great many more before the good Lord calls me
home."

O'Hanlon drained his water glass and wiped his lips daintily on his napkin. "In the shape and form of Mr.
Robert Meredith here, I think I have quite the candidate
for the hand of Miss Horowitz. He is everything Solo
mon hopes for in a son-in-law. He is independently
wealthy. He is a lawyer, which is always a handy thing
in our line of work. And he is a gentile with a distinguished name and a pedigree that would put a prize pigeon to shame. I had been intending to effect the introduction soon, but fate, it seems, has lent a hand."

O'Hanlon had been fiddling with the tableware as he
spoke. Now he looked up and into Rick's eyes.

"Just as I thought," he said. "Lovesick. You have
my deepest sympathy, but I advise you to put the very
thought out of your mind. She's not for you, lad, and there's no gainsaying it." He began polishing a per
fectly clean knife. "But just as in the days of old, when warring kingdoms could settle their differences in a ra
tional and civilized manner in the furtherance of their
common interests, so can we today ameliorate our differences by letting the young people bring us together.
Good for Solomon. Good for me. Good for her. And
good for you, too, if you're smart enough to see it that
way."

He put the knife down. "There's a lot of very hungry
men in this town, lad," he said.

"Aren't you big boys ever going to join us?"
drawled Mae West, who had sashayed over from the
other table, "You know how rude it is to leave me with
only two gentlemen?"

O'Hanlon stood up. "I was just remarking how hun
gry I was gettin'," he said to her. "Shall we join
ladies, Mr. Baline?"

Rick glanced over at the adjacent table. Raft
peared to be in the middle of a funny story. Meredith
had both arms on the table, chortling away.

Lois was leaning against him, laughing gaily, her left
hand on his arm, her hair brushing his face.

"I think maybe I'm not wanted over there," he said.

O'Hanlon shrugged jauntily. "Suit yourself, lad," he
said. "It's the wise man who knows where his place
isn't."

They shook hands, and O'Hanlon pulled Rick close.
"I heard about what you did, saving your boss from
taking a hit from one of my boys. Very brave of you.
But very stupid as well. Remember: Only a sucker is
willing to take a bullet for another man, no matter who
he is. Stick your neck out for no one, that's my motto, Mr. Baline. You'll
find you live longer that way."

Rick made to leave. He couldn't wait to get out of
there.

"One more thing," said O'Hanlon. "Always go with
the winner, whether it's in a horse race, at the gaming
tables, or at the fights. The smart man always knows who the winner's going to be in advance." He patted Rick avuncularly on the arm.
"
Your
boss has been warned. And so have you. The smart man hears and heeds a warning. You
look like a smart lad to me. It's your chief I'm not so sure about."