Jack kept his emotions in check as the grave swallowed what remained of his father. Though there were no prayers because the Law of Moses forbade them for suicides, he said a few words of his own. Then he cast the first shovelful of earth. When the gravediggers finished their task, Jack laid a stone on his father’s grave. Tears escaped his eyes as he said good-bye.
On the way out of the cemetery, Jack received condolences from Benjamin, whom he had last seen the day before at Rockefeller Center. The man lowered his head when he tried to justify his boss’s absence, claiming some unavoidable commitment. Jack didn’t believe him. He was certain that his uncle Gabriel was the kind of person who could cancel a meeting with the company president, spit in the face of his partners, and still make more money than he had before. With tear-filled eyes, the accountant said how sorry he was that he’d been unable to help Jack’s father.
“He was stubborn . . . You know what he was like,” Benjamin said.
Jack nodded. Solomon had always been stubborn.
The funeral-goers gradually filed out until Jack was left alone. He stood quietly for a while, letting the rain soak him, until someone approached. Jack looked at him in silence. It was Walter, his spectacles mended with surgical tape. Jack felt ashamed. Yet his old friend spoke to him as if nothing had happened, resting an arm on his shoulder.
“Come on, Jack. Let’s get you home.”
Jack wondered what home he meant.
The last person he imagined he’d find waiting at the entrance to his building that day was Lukas Kowalski. The man was sheltering himself from the rain in silence on the steps leading into the hallway, flanked by two of his thugs. As soon as Jack saw him, a surge of anger filled his chest.
“You son of a bitch. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hello, kid.” There was malice in Kowalski’s voice. He didn’t even look at the young man as he took a puff on his cigar. “I wanted to get into my apartment . . . but you have the key.”
Walter managed to stop Jack just as he went to leap on Kowalski, who continued to smoke undeterred. He merely gave the younger man a condescending smile, as if dealing with a small child.
“Look, kid. It’s cold and this place stinks, so I advise you to—”
Jack didn’t let him finish. He shook Walter off, took out the money he’d earned from the sale of the theater tickets, and threw it in Kowalski’s face.
The landlord raised his eyebrows as he inspected the bills that had fallen at his feet. Without deigning to pick them up, he turned to Jack.
“Thirty dollars? What do you expect me to do with that, kid? Buy myself a hat?”
“I’ll have the rest next week,” Jack replied. “Now, get out of here before I kill you.”
Kowalski sat in silence, as if considering the offer. Finally, he struggled to his feet.
“Next week . . . next week . . . It’s always the same old story! And then it’s the next, and then the one after, and then, surprise surprise, you suddenly disappear and make a fool of me.” He came down the steps until his face was almost touching Jack’s. “Tell me something, boy, do you think I look like a fool?”
Jack stepped back to get away from the stench of stale sweat the landlord gave off.
“Look, Kowalski, I don’t want any trouble. Take the money and come back tomorrow. If I haven’t got what I owe you by then, I’ll pack up my things and—”
“I don’t think you’ve understood me, kid. I ain’t here for spare change. I’ve come to take what belongs to me . . . as well as all your belongings.”
“Damn you, Kowalski! I said I’ll—”
The landlord held his hands to his head.
“Why is it you Jews never do what you’re told?” he said, raising his voice. “Who knows what might happen tomorrow?” He took a long puff on his cigar, savoring it. “Why don’t you just ask your pop?”
“Son of a bitch!”
Jack threw himself on Kowalski again, but before he could reach him, the nearest goon stepped in and knocked him down. Walter went to help his friend, but the second thug stopped him dead with a knee to the stomach.
The two young men writhed on the ground.
“The key!” Kowalski demanded.
Jack was trying to get up when a kick to the ribs sent him flying against the handrail on the steps. Walter, immobilized by pain, looked on helplessly.
“Leave him alone, you bastards!” he bawled.
The two men turned on Walter and kicked him mercilessly. Jack, bent over the handrail, took the chance to grab a loose metal bar and smash it against the shin of his nearest assailant. The man howled and collapsed on the steps, his leg shattered. Seeing this, the thug kicking Walter left him and turned his attention to Jack. Before he could pounce, Jack moved away just enough to be able to drive the iron bar into the goon’s belly. Then he ran to help Walter.
“Watch out!” his friend warned him.
Jack turned in horror to find that the hood he’d just struck was pulling out a revolver. He leapt on him and grabbed his arm before he could take aim. The two men struggled, the revolver dancing in the air until, suddenly, a gunshot rang out in the night.
For a moment time stopped. Jack and his adversary froze, looking at each other. Then they loosened their grip and slowly separated as, a few yards away, Lukas Kowalski’s body lay lifeless on the steps.
“Boss!” sputtered the goon.
Walter approached his friend from behind.
“Let’s go!” he urged him.
Jack remained motionless, gazing at Kowalski’s blood-soaked chest.
“But I . . . I . . . ,” he stammered.
“For God’s sake, Jack. Run!”
Jack and Walter fled down a deserted alleyway, stumbling and bumping into things as they dashed across Williamsburg’s avenues, trying to get out of Brooklyn as quickly as possible. Jack followed Walter blindly, certain that Kowalski’s men would appear at any moment to riddle them with bullets. Every so often they heard far-off voices, sirens, or the squealing of brakes, making them duck into porticos or crouch behind trash cans. Whenever they stopped to catch their breath, Jack tried to remember at what point the gun had gone off, but Walter wouldn’t let up, pushing him to keep running. As they got farther away from the scene of the crime, the streetlamps became less frequent, and the avenues turned into a maze of backstreets and alleyways that Walter snaked through as if he’d been born there. Jack thought they must be close to Long Island, the neighborhood where his friend lived, but he couldn’t be sure. Finally, they stopped in front of a doorway that, judging by the rust covering it, seemed as if it had been closed for years. Walter took a key from his pocket, opened the padlock on the iron shutter, and tried to lift it.