Israel (88 page)

Very late at night, when Becky sat up reading or listening to music, her thoughts turned to Herschel Kol. She'd seen him only a few times since last November. He finally stopped apologizing for that pass in Toronto, but he maintained propriety to the point of aloofness. If only he would show that passion again, how she would welcome his embrace.

Her incessant evening solitude and her yearnings began to work black magic on her, making her angry and bitter. In the fall she would turn thirty, but she felt much older.

Her father had always used her, as had her brother in order to get his way with their father. Even Carl had used her. Why should Herschel Kol be any different? He'd gotten exactly what he wanted, hadn't he? Thanks to her he now had his connections in Canada and the financing for his precious project.

At other times, however, she found her thoughts turning to how guileless and radiant Herschel looked that night as he told her about Palestine. She imagined how it would be to turn away from this life and go with him to his sun-drenched land, where by day they would work and rejoice together with other Jews and by night retire to their simple bed to make love.

One fine morning in May she arrived as usual, an hour before the store was to open. Becky was in high spirits. Tucked under her arm were the morning's newspapers, and in each were full-page Pickman's ads that hadn't cost one cent. Becky had managed it by calling the store's most popular brand-name appliance company and
offering to run a promotion on their entire line if they would agree to foot the bill for the ads. The grapevine had it that both Macy's and Gimbels—which also featured the appliance line—were furious.

On her way up to her office Becky stopped on floor three to see how the renovations were coming. She'd had the entire floor cleared for a tea room and to rearrange the outmoded counter displays of better women's apparel. The idea had been partly Grace Turner's—she had returned from Paris full of enthusiasm for the little shops called boutiques where a customer could choose from a complete line of merchandise from dresses to belts, scarves, shoes and so on. To Becky boutiques sounded very much like the storefronts on the Lower East Side, plus glamor.

However, soon one Pickman's salesperson would be able to walk a customer through the purchase of a complete new wardrobe. The new tea room, which Becky hoped would entice shoppers to the third floor, would be a convenient place for women to have lunch.

From the third floor Becky made her way to her office up on floor six. She had a morning's worth of dictation, an Institute luncheon and an afternoon of planning for Pickman's new public relations department.

She intended to have her new PR staff comb New York for amateur athletic teams, orchestras, flower clubs and churches that would benefit from Pickman's sponsorship. She wanted community classes in knitting, sewing, cooking, infant care—all the necessary supplies to be sold at discount to the students, who she hoped would form a lifelong attachment to Pickman's. That same staff was to see to it that the newspapers covered the store's goodwill campaign. It was the sort of advertising money couldn't buy.

As Becky entered the executive suite, she noticed that neither Millie nor the administrative assistant was at her desk. It was unusual for Millie to be late, Becky mused.
As she pushed through the glass doors and past Phil Cooper's office, she saw that his door was ajar and his office was empty. Where is everybody? Becky wondered.

And then she entered her own office and at once understood that everyone was hiding. Making herself comfortable on the moss-green sofa was Gertrude Hoffer Pickman.

“Rebecca, my dear.” She did not stand. “I hope you don't mind my waiting for you in Carl's office.”

“Your concern for my feelings is touching, Mrs. Pickman,” Becky replied evenly as she took her place behind her desk. “However, since you're already in my office, what can I do for you?”

Gertrude's smile remained fixed in place, but she did not speak.

“Really, Mrs. Pickman, I'm quite busy,” Becky said. “Can we get to the matter at hand?”

“No manners.” Gertrude feigned a concerned sigh. “But then manners were always the least of your charms, I'd imagine. Well, we'll do it your way, Rebecca. There's no sense in mincing words, is there? Carl's sisters and I have decided there should be a change in management. We've waited what we consider a proper interval since Carl's passing so as to make it appear that we've always had confidence in Carl's most recent decisions.”

She paused. “I suggest that you consider the next couple of months an interim in which to consider what you might like to do next. Retire or perhaps find a position in another store.”

“You want me to resign?”

“My dear, it is not a question of what we'd like, but a declaration of what is going to happen. You are no longer the president of Pickman's. I'm merely offering you a way out without humiliation. You could issue a statement that you've decided to travel or that you've accepted
another job because you enjoy the challenge of working your way up—”

“No.”

Gertrude Pickman looked pained. “Well, of course it is up to you how you handle your leaving—”

Becky grinned. “Mrs. Pickman, I meant no, I'm not leaving.”

“Perhaps you had better speak to your attorney, Rebecca,” Gertrude said. “I can only imagine that you don't understand your situation.”

“I understand it perfectly. You and yours control forty-nine percent to my forty-one. Tell me, who are you planning to put in my place?”

“We thought Deborah's husband Robert—”

Becky burst into delighted laughter. “Oh, that's rich! Robert? You know what a schmo is?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Hardly,” Gertrude sniffed. “I don't care for that beastly Yiddish, and I'd prefer that you not smoke.”

“I do what I want in my own office.” Becky puffed away. “A schmo is a dolt, a lackey, a jerk. Get it? That's what good old Robert is. He couldn't run a sales counter, let alone Pickman's.”

“Nevertheless, he is going to be the next president of this store,” Gertrude coldly replied.

“Why not Philip, for God's sake? At least he knows what he's doing.”

“Rebecca, you can't be that naive. Surely you would prefer to have the business remain under a Jewish individual?”

“I'd rather a goy make a success of it than a Jew know-nothing run it into the ground,” Becky countered. “You know, you amaze me. I always had the impression you were pretty fond of money, but I guess not. I am, though. You know what you're going to have to do? Get together with the unholy sisters and officially, formally,
publicly vote me out, because the only way I'm going is kicking and screaming. Robert Meltzer is not going to fritter away my fortune.”

“As you wish, Rebecca,” Gertrude said smugly, standing up. “This call was a courtesy to you, but of course your sort doesn't understand courtesy.”

“And just what is my sort?”

Gertrude looked amused. “I think you know.” She turned and swept out.

Becky was vastly relieved when she had time to think about it. Phil would soon enough hear about Gertrude's plans, and it seemed highly unlikely that he would vote to move Robert Meltzer above him. The only thing she had to worry about now was whether Gertrude would take her advice and offer Phil the presidency, and that didn't seem likely.

She wondered idly what on earth made Gertrude think Phil would throw in with her. Maybe it was just arrogance, or maybe—her stomach felt a sudden chill—Gertrude had a lever to use on him. Lord, she'd better hope not.

Becky smoked another cigarette in silence, then went out to Millie's desk. “Is she gone?”

Millie seemed to have trouble looking her in the eye. “I'm sorry . . .”

“Goddamnit, Millie, in my own office!”

“She threatened to fire me—you know, after you're gone . . .” Millie's voice trailed off. “I've worked here all my life. I can't let myself get fired. She told me she was going into your office to wait and that was that. She told me not to let on to you. I couldn't lie, so I just went away.”

“Where the hell is Phil?”

“He called and said he wouldn't be in this morning.”

“That figures.”

Millie finally looked up, her eyes huge and imploring. “You wouldn't fire me—?”

“Cut it out. Nobody is getting fired, okay? Everything is going to be all right.” Becky trudged back to her office, where she shut and locked her door.

That afternoon's luncheon was held in the private room of a midtown restaurant. Benny Talkin arrived early. He was having a drink and talking baseball with the owner of a supermarket chain who got all his meat from de Fazio. He excused himself when he spotted Rebecca Pickman arriving just a few minutes before lunch was to begin.

Benny knew she was coming, but actually seeing her jolted him. They'd exchanged business correspondence and telephone calls since she recruited his help with PSA, but they'd not seen each other or spoken of personal matters for ages.

“Hi, Becky,” he said tentatively, prepared for a cool reception but hoping for better.

“Hello, Benny. I never expected to see you at one of these.” She smiled, extending her hand to him.

“I figured that considering all the work I've been doing, I might as well get a free meal out of it.”

“Speaking of work, how are things going?”

“Not so good, I'm afraid.” Benny looked around to make sure that they were not overheard. “We had some trouble on the Jersey side of the river. Some local cops showed up on what they claimed was an anonymous tip. They nosed around and discovered that some cargo marked fertilizer was really dynamite.”

“Oh, no,” Becky groaned. “What a day this is shaping up to be. Who could have done that to us—and why?”

Benny shrugged. “I'd like to know that myself. Obviously we've got a rat in our midst. The trouble is, I don't know if the informer was out to hurt us or Stefano.”

“What does Stefano have to do with anything?”

“Well, now's not the time to talk about it, Becky.
Anyway, I was able to pay those cops off. The thing is, there's no way I can buy off the FBI if it gets wind of what's going on. I told your—” Benny stopped abruptly. He had almost revealed that her brother Danny was involved in their work. “What I mean is, I'm telling people that we've got to lay off shipping contraband for a while, but when the time comes, your PSA stuff shouldn't be any problem.” He smiled. “You look great, Becky. Hey, can I get you a drink?”

“Oh, no—” Becky looked thoughtful. “Well, yes. I would like a bloody mary. It's been one of the worst mornings for me—”

“Hold on, let me get you that drink.” By the time he returned the meeting was being called to order. “We'll talk later,” he promised.

The meeting ran until two o'clock. While it was breaking up Benny invited Becky out for a drink. “Come on, play hooky,” he coaxed. “The store will be there when you get back.”

“Maybe it will.” Becky chuckled mysteriously. “Yes, let's play hooky. I don't want to go back just yet.”

They walked around the block to a place Benny knew. He was surprised and gratified at how at ease Becky appeared to be with him and hoped it was her way of telling him that the acrimony between them was finally a thing of the past.

“Now, what does Stefano have to do with things?” Becky asked once they were comfortably settled at a table with their drinks in front of them.

“You know that I work for him,” Benny explained. “If I get nabbed by the Feds for shipping contraband to Palestine, he's implicated, but what I don't know is which of us was supposed to be the target in this particular instance. You see, the New York D.A.'s office has been closing in on some of Stefano's operations. He suspects that the law has got something on one of his people and is
using the threat of a long prison sentence to put pressure on the guy to turn state's evidence against him. Stefano's frantic. He doesn't know who in his organization is stabbing him in the back, and until he finds out he doesn't want to give the law more rope to hang him with. That's why he's ordered me to lay off on my Palestine work. As Stefano puts it, he isn't about to go to prison on behalf of a bunch of Jews.”

“I feel terrible,” Becky mused, then laughed nervously. “No offense to you, Benny, but I know Stefano is a gangster and that he's done some terrible things. Nevertheless, I can't forget his early friendship with my father and the way he used to bring flowers to my mother and candy to me when I was little.”

“Between us, Becky, my father-in-law doesn't bring little kids candy anymore,” Benny said wryly. “When he finds out who is double-crossing him, that guy is dead. Meanwhile, the D.A., in conjunction with the Feds, is on his heels like a pack of bloodhounds. And if they get Stefano, they get everybody, including me.”

“Oh, Benny, I'm sorry. It didn't occur to me how serious this could be to you personally.”

He nodded. “Stefano is calling in every favor he can to get the law off our backs. A long time ago I told you we'd done some work for the Navy, keeping the docks safe for Allied transport. Well, all our Navy contacts have been transferred out of Intelligence or else ordered not to talk to us or to the law on our behalf. They're treating us the same way they treated Luciano. The government deported him to Italy last year after the Navy claimed that it never heard of him.” He offered Becky a cigarette. “Never mind,” he said cheerfully, shaking out a match. “Stefano's as tough as they come. He'll figure a way to get us out of this.” He smiled. “You know, talking like this seems like old times.”

“I think we can be friends again,” Becky said, toying
with the book of matches he had set down on the table. “I still have your cigarette lighter.”