Brooklyn Noir Part 2

In the kitchen my wife was washing up, putting things away. I joined her at the sink with a dishtowel, and told her about following the rebbetzin to a strange address.

Don't you know anything? my fine rebbetzin asked rhetorically. The poor woman remarried about a year ago, to a widower about fifteen years older than her. People say she was led by the nose for a long walk, to the end of the block and back again. By a scheming brother-in-law who convinced the world, the wife, and the children of the Dobrover's sins.

And what happened to the younger children? I asked.

Taken in by the brother-in-law, Reb Shloimele. The younger daughter, barely seventeen, was palmed off to her first cousin, Reb Shloimele's son, a b.u.m, rumor has it, who would have had difficulty finding a father willing to hand over his daughter. The younger son, still a cheder cheder boy at the time, was raised in Reb Shloimele's home, and at the age of thirteen, sent off to a Litvak yeshiva, with the intention, it was said, to further hurt the father. boy at the time, was raised in Reb Shloimele's home, and at the age of thirteen, sent off to a Litvak yeshiva, with the intention, it was said, to further hurt the father.

That explained the strangeness of a Dobrov son in Litvak garb. And again Reb Shloimele made himself felt in this sordid story. I shook my head. So much evil under the noses of the most pious men, and in their names. I felt an obligation to bring this murder to light, to clear the innocent and accuse the guilty, but how to go about it? And whom to name? This brother-in-law was a mover and shaker, a makher makher in Yiddish, but he couldn't have acted alone. There were powerful men behind him but I couldn't accuse all of Szebed. And who would risk the congregation's ire, help point the finger, and haul the shameless sinners into Jewish court? None of the rabbis appointed to our house of judgment would risk political suicide. Since I couldn't expect a.s.sistance on the inside, I would have to go outside. in Yiddish, but he couldn't have acted alone. There were powerful men behind him but I couldn't accuse all of Szebed. And who would risk the congregation's ire, help point the finger, and haul the shameless sinners into Jewish court? None of the rabbis appointed to our house of judgment would risk political suicide. Since I couldn't expect a.s.sistance on the inside, I would have to go outside.

I attended my evening study session, then started walking toward home, but found myself instead on Keap Street again, in front of the Szebed residence, looking for something, I wasn't sure what. The door opened, I stepped into a nearby doorway and watched the young Dobrover son in his short coat and hat emerge alone, hurry down the stairs, and turn right on Lee. I followed at a distance, curious, wondering where he would go. He led me to 446 Ross, to the Dobrover home, dark and shuttered, and stood at the foot of the stairs looking up. Would he go up the stairs and enter his old home, which the angel of death had invaded? He didn't. After long minutes, he turned away and walked back. What struck me as exceptionally cruel was his inability to mourn publicly, a ritual intended as an aid to grief and recovery. Standing in the way of mourning were the laws of excommunication. An excommunicated man, considered dead, was denied living mourners; there would be no one to say kaddish kaddish for the Dobrover's soul. His enemies had succeeded in cutting him off both in life and in death. for the Dobrover's soul. His enemies had succeeded in cutting him off both in life and in death.

It was my turn to walk the streets and think.

The perpetrators had used public opinion to help make their case to the judges. I too would have to take my case to the public. And since I couldn't afford print-even the cheapest pamphlet costs a goodly sum-I would have to use the poor man's version: the Internet.

At my desk the next morning I found a chat room with organized religion as its topic, soon steered the conversation to religious politics, and posted my story as an example of corruption, proclaiming the Dobrover's innocence. I didn't have to wait long for the important questions to come up, the who and why of every whodunit, and I pointed my finger to the brother-in-law as prime perp, offered as explanation the oldest motivation, envy, the reason Cain raised his hand against his brother Abel. I was convinced and was able to convince others that without the green worm of jealousy, the Dobrover rebbe and his family would have remained untouched.

Consider this brother-in-law: a promising yeshiva boy who in maturity proved to be a minor scholar with an impatient mind incapable of complex argument. Marrying the sister of the Dobrover rebbetzin, herself a woman of fine rabbinical stock, was his undoing. He would have sat at the table, listened to the deeply scholarly talk, and squirmed in ignorance. The first years of his marriage, he sat pressing the yeshiva bench unwillingly, because the husband of the Dobrover's rebbetzin's sister had to be a scholar, then seized the first opportunity that came his way and became the director of the newly founded Szebeder boys' school. The position fulfilled his need to move about and accomplish things, but at the Sabbath table the sense of his own inferiority would have deepened. And without scholarship to occupy his mind, he became a plotting busybody. The rivalry between the two congregations presented him with an opportunity. Knowing he would never be a significant player in Dobrov, he determined to curry favor at Szebed. Indeed, his reward for interfering in the life and marriage of Dobrov was proof enough of his motivation: He had recently been appointed administrative overseer of the entire Szebed congregation, not a scholarly position, but respectable enough to protect him from his detractors. In taking him on, in other words, I was taking on the whole of Szebed. The anonymity of the Internet, I hoped-I hadn't used my name-would protect me.

And that's where I miscalculated. I didn't count on the Internet's long and wide reach, nor its speed. Religious corruption, whether among priests or rabbis, has a captive audience in America. Well-meaning, sympathy-riddled letters came pouring in, as if I was the one who had suffered the heavy hand of the court. The chat room conversations went on for hours and days, and when I was too exhausted, continued without me, spilled over into new chat rooms. I spent hours online, returned to my office after services and dinner, and remained until midnight typing.

Who were the people chatting? A mixed group-the word crowd crowd would be more correct-it turned out. There were both knowing and unknowing partic.i.p.ants, meaning Hasidic and not. Also a good number who asked questions that revealed they knew nothing at all about Judaism. Within days, a reporter from the would be more correct-it turned out. There were both knowing and unknowing partic.i.p.ants, meaning Hasidic and not. Also a good number who asked questions that revealed they knew nothing at all about Judaism. Within days, a reporter from the Village Voice Village Voice asked for an interview, then a staff writer writing for the asked for an interview, then a staff writer writing for the New Yorker's New Yorker's "Talk of the Town." I agreed to give the interviews as long as I remained anonymous. I didn't meet them in person. "Talk of the Town." I agreed to give the interviews as long as I remained anonymous. I didn't meet them in person.

Is it necessary to say that I wasn't making my wife happy? She argued that I would remain anonymous only to outsiders. Anyone on the inside who wanted to know who was behind this would soon figure it out. Once known, my name would be mud, and our lives would be shattered. And of course she had a point. Good women are often prescient.

First an anonymous threat to cease and desist or suffer consequences was posted in what I was by now thinking of as my chat room, named Hasidic Noir Hasidic Noir by a partic.i.p.ant, a wise-guy. I was accused of lying. Where were the mourners? this faceless voice asked. No one had performed by a partic.i.p.ant, a wise-guy. I was accused of lying. Where were the mourners? this faceless voice asked. No one had performed keria keria (the ripping of the lapels), no one was sitting (the ripping of the lapels), no one was sitting shiva shiva (seven days of mourning), and no one had recited the (seven days of mourning), and no one had recited the mourner's kaddish mourner's kaddish (the prayer for the soul of the dead). He concluded with a declaration that there was no Dobrover rebbe or Dobrover congregation, that I was a careerist who had fabricated a murder for the sake of publicity. (the prayer for the soul of the dead). He concluded with a declaration that there was no Dobrover rebbe or Dobrover congregation, that I was a careerist who had fabricated a murder for the sake of publicity.

Clearly this was coming from an insider with knowledge of the vocabulary and customs, someone who knew that excommunication rendered a man nonexistent to the community, hence his argument that there was no Dobrover rebbe.

The chat room became a divisive hive, with people taking sides, demanding to know what the words meant, who was the liar in this story, how to find out. One cynical partic.i.p.ant raised the irrelevant question of my, not the murderer's, motivation. If the brother-in-law is jealous Cain, he asked, who is this snitch, and what's he going for? The next morning the Village Voice Village Voice published the interview, and late that evening, when my wife and I were already in bed, there was a knock at the door. published the interview, and late that evening, when my wife and I were already in bed, there was a knock at the door.

I drew on my flannel dressing gown, removed the Glock I keep in the locked drawer of our night table, and instructed my wife to remain in bed. I opened the door, loaded gun in hand, pointing. These men should know what there is to know. Three Szebeder b.u.ms stood red-faced, mouths open, breathing hard. They must have used the stairs. If you didn't know better, you'd think they'd been imbibing. But I knew that if there'd been any excess, it had been verbal not alcoholic. To achieve a tough's appearance they'd had to talk themselves into a frenzy.

The barrel end of the gun quickly quieted them, as it often does those who want to live. The middle one in the group produced a letter. I opened it in front of them, keeping the gun aimed, keeping them fearful and rooted in place. At a glance, the letter appeared to be a court summons. The Jewish court, made up of the same rabbis who'd helped bury the Dobrover, was now calling me in.

I congratulated myself on achieving something of a goal. Two weeks ago these men wouldn't have given me the time of day. Now they were all ears. But if I didn't want to lose all that was precious to me-my wife, my children, and my livelihood-I would have to plan well. I would tell my story, but I would tell it publicly.

I looked at the quivering men at my door and felt sorry for them, mere messengers. We were told to bring you in, one mumbled.

Tell the court I'll see them tomorrow, at 9 a.m. sharp, in the revealing light of day. There will be no nighttime shenanigans. Good evening.

I shut the door and waited for the sounds of their steps, first shuffling, then sprinting to get away. I bolted the door, inserted the police lock, looked in on the children who had slept through it all, a.s.sured my wife that everything was under control, and got to work on the small laptop I keep at home.

When I finally returned to bed at 3 in the morning, my wife hugged me silently and did her best to remind me that I am only a man, of flesh and blood, not iron. I knew that even though she was against what I was doing-for reasons of safety rather than principle-she couldn't help but be proud of the way I was handling it.

I slept well, and in the morning dressed as usual, in my charcoal gray suit, white shirt, black overcoat, and silk m.u.f.fler. I pocketed the Glock as protection against the court's manhandling, their method of intimidation. This was a non-jurisdictional court, therefore without metal detectors, and without the routine of body searches, both unnecessary. A handful of appointed rabbis, intrinsically honest, would act as judges, but they owed their livelihoods to their patrons, the men who nominated, appointed, and paid for their services. There would be some younger scholars available to act as mediators. Also present would be the man who was bringing the case against me. Who would it be? I expected to see the man I'd fingered, the jealous brother-in-law, or if he didn't want to show his face, a representative.

I followed my regular routine, stopped first at the mikvah mikvah which was buzzing. It was a perfect setting for murder, an underground h.e.l.l, where locker room odors envelop you on entrance through the una.s.suming side door. Hurrying down the stone stairs and long tiled hallways, the curl and drip of the waterlogged vapors take over and then the low rumble of ba.s.s and tenor voices. At the entrance to the lockers, the bath attendant hands you your towel, one per person, and you move along toward your designated locker and the bench in front of it. You undo your shoes, remove your socks, left foot first, then the left leg of your pants, and so on, in the order in which you were taught to undress. Dressing, you reversed it, right foot first, insuring against the possibility of getting the day off on the wrong foot. And still the act of undressing provokes other indiscretions. While your hands are at work, your ears don't remain idle. They tune into the nearest conversation in the aisle, then onto the next nearest, and so on, staying with each one long enough to hear whether it's of interest. And of course there always is something of interest, a bit of information, gossip someone heard at home the night before, husbands picking up at the which was buzzing. It was a perfect setting for murder, an underground h.e.l.l, where locker room odors envelop you on entrance through the una.s.suming side door. Hurrying down the stone stairs and long tiled hallways, the curl and drip of the waterlogged vapors take over and then the low rumble of ba.s.s and tenor voices. At the entrance to the lockers, the bath attendant hands you your towel, one per person, and you move along toward your designated locker and the bench in front of it. You undo your shoes, remove your socks, left foot first, then the left leg of your pants, and so on, in the order in which you were taught to undress. Dressing, you reversed it, right foot first, insuring against the possibility of getting the day off on the wrong foot. And still the act of undressing provokes other indiscretions. While your hands are at work, your ears don't remain idle. They tune into the nearest conversation in the aisle, then onto the next nearest, and so on, staying with each one long enough to hear whether it's of interest. And of course there always is something of interest, a bit of information, gossip someone heard at home the night before, husbands picking up at the mikvah mikvah where their house-bound, child-bound, telephone-addicted wives left off the night before. where their house-bound, child-bound, telephone-addicted wives left off the night before.

I didn't have to wait long to hear my own name, and then the name of the man I'd fingered, Reb Shloimele, the chief administrator of Szebed, though to hear the talk, not for much longer. A well-respected man of the community the day before, today his name was mud. With the generous helping of hyperbole typical of mikvah mikvah gossip, someone equated Reb Shloimele's crime with that of the biblical Amelek's, Israel's oldest enemy. In other words, Reb Shloimele was a sentenced man. gossip, someone equated Reb Shloimele's crime with that of the biblical Amelek's, Israel's oldest enemy. In other words, Reb Shloimele was a sentenced man.

This time I expected the crowds, and the journalists with cameras. And I knew how much Szebed would hate it. The rabbis wouldn't approve. No one would like it, but the publicity would serve to protect me. I pulled the brim of my hat down to conceal my face and made my way through the throng. Questions, microphones, and cameras were pressed on me. I walked straight through, succ.u.mbing to none. The Internet had done the work, the chat rooms had been devilishly successful; it was enough. I had no reason to add fuel to the fire and further enrage the sitting judges.

Inside, without much of a greeting and none of the usual friendly handshakes, two men attempted to lead me, strongarm style, to my place at the table, completely unnecessary since on my own I'd shown up at the courtroom. I shook them off and walked alone, pulled out the chair, sat. The judges frowned, but said nothing. They were pretending at busyness, each taking a turn at thumbing through a pile of continuous-feed paper in front of them, the tabs and holes that fit a dot matrix printer's sprockets still attached. Someone had provided them with a complete printout of the chat room conversations, a fat ma.n.u.script t.i.tled "Hasidic Noir." "Hasidic Noir." I suppressed a smile. I suppressed a smile.

Throat-clearing and short grunts indicated the start of proceedings. One judge asked whether the defendant knew what he was accused of.

No, I said. As everyone here knows, I am a G.o.d-fearing, law-abiding Hasid whose livelihood is detective work. I solve petty crimes, attempt to bring to justice those who break the law, my small effort at world repair.

There was a long pause. Read this then, the judge said, and handed me a sheet of paper.

The complaint against me: libel, for attempting to besmirch a man's name, to ruin a reputation.

The rabbi sitting directly across the table waited for me to finish reading, then said, You know as well as we do that a man guilty of libel must be judged, according to Jewish law, as a murderer. Destroying a man's reputation is a serious crime.

I nodded and said, I'm well aware of that law because it is precisely what I believe Reb Shloimele guilty of.

I made a long show of extracting the cheap pamphlet from my briefcase, pushed it across the table, and announced, as if this were a courtroom complete with stenographers, Let the record show that this slanderous pamphlet was submitted by the defendant as evidence of Reb Shloimele's guilt. Murder via slander, false slander, moreover, since not one of the accusations have been proven true without doubt.

I paused, looked from face to face, then continued slowly: And this court is guilty of acting as an accomplice to this murder. Even if Reb Shloimele managed to gather enough signatures to support the excommunication, and all the signatories were surely his Szebeder friends, by what right, I ask on behalf of Dobrov, did it grant the Dobrover rebbetzin a divorce and break up an entire family. Since you're citing Jewish law, you also know that breaking up a marriage unnecessarily is equal to taking life.

The rabbi's fist came down on the table with a thump. Enough, he said. Neither Reb Shloimele nor this court are on trial. Our sins are beside the point right now. You, however, have a lot to answer for. If you thought or knew that someone had been wronged, you ought to have come directly to us, and quietly. Instead, you took the story to the public, and not just the Jewish public. You are guilty of besmirching not only the name of a respectable man among us, but also the name of G.o.d, and worse, in front of the eyes of other nations. Retribution for befouling the name of G.o.d, as you well know, arrives directly from heaven, but this court will also do its part. You will be as a limb cut away from a body. Your wife and children will share your fate.

I took stock of the situation, decided that I was willing to take my chances with G.o.d, and since in the eyes of these men I was already judged guilty, I couldn't make my case worse. I took a deep breath and went all the way.

Which of you here would have been willing to listen to my story? Which of you here isn't paid, one way or another, by the Szebeder congregation. According to the law of this nation in which we live, you qualify as collaborators, and therefore ought to recuse yourself from this case. I exhaled and stood. And if, as further proof of your guilt, you require a body, here it is.

I took long strides to the door, opened it. As planned, an EMS technician wheeled into the room the Dobrover rebbe himself, frail and wraithlike, a man of fifty-three years with an early heart condition, attended by his young son in the Litvak frock.

The Dobrover appeared before us all as the Job-like figure that sooner or later every mortal becomes, but in his case the suffering had come at the hand of man rather than G.o.d, and that made all the difference.

The room remained silent for long minutes. An excommunicated man shows himself in the courtroom for only one purpose: to have the excommunication nullified, to be reborn to the community. This court had difficult days, weeks, probably, of work ahead.

I'd done my part for Dobrov. Now it remained to be seen what Dobrov would do for me. In the meantime, no one took notice when I snapped my briefcase closed loudly, adjusted the brim of my hat, and left. I had become a dead man, unseen and unheard.

2004 Pearl Abraham

NO TIME FOR SENIOR'S BY S SIDNEY O OFFIT.

Downtown Brooklyn I'm talking murder. Murder!" she says.

It's past noon. I'm sitting in my office near DeKalb and Flatbush, knocking off a corned-beef-lean bathed in cole slaw on seeded rye from Junior's. And there stands Sylvia Berkowitz O'Neil, not looking her age, in high heels, short skirt, and enough makeup to drown Esther Williams and Mark Spitz on a bad day.

Before I can crack wise, Sylvia takes her first shot. "Yer eating at Junior's? I'm working day and night, night and day, with an economy deli for the neighborhood, and you're supporting the compet.i.tion? And don't tell me you never heard of Senior's!"

Senior's? She's got to be pulling of my legs. But not Sylvia. A kid with an old baseball cap on backwards is standing by her side, the spitting image of Seamus "Scoop" O'Neil, my former pal, who run off to City Hall with Sylvia back when we were an item.

"So what's up? Why me? Why today after-has it been thirty, forty years?"

Sylvia doesn't miss a beat. "I need you, Pistol Pete," she says. "The cops have got Scoop in for murder. Murder. They say he done in Front Page Shamburger and Sherlock Iconoflip." Then, "Don't you ask a lady to sit down? What's happened to your manners? And this gentleman, about whom you don't seem to have the presence to ask, is our nephew I.F., named, of course, after the famous Izzy Stone, who you know was Scoop's hero all these many years."

So, I pull up two old bridges that I haven't unfolded in-gotta stop counting the years. Sylvia keeps yammering, reminding me I'm the only private eye she's ever really known, recalling the days when I was feeding Scoop leads, checking out sc.u.mbags for him, so he could blow the lid off the hustlers at Borough Hall-who made the deals with sewer, highway, and bridge contractors. I unwrap a White Owl, pull out the old Zippo, and am ready to light up.

"You are not going to smoke," Sylvia tells me. "I don't believe it. You still haven't caught on."

That's Sylvia. Hasn't skipped a beat, still telling me what to do. I bury the Zippo and start chewing the stogie.

"It happened at their weekly poker game," Sylvia says.

"What useta be their gang of six, what with the smoking and the drinking, what it done to their lungs and livers and kidneys, not to say their marriages and longevity. Well, now it's down to the three of them. Was three until Front Page and Sherlock-may their souls rest in a City Room-got knocked off."

Sylvia is not keen on interruptions, but I cut in. "Gotta play it straight with you for old time's sake, Sylv," I say. "Haven't hustled a case in must be five years. Been sittin' up here in the office on a long-term lease just pa.s.sin' the time. Doin' a little this and that."

She knows I never been hitched, and I can tell by the way she kinda half smiles at me she suspects I'm still carrying the torch for her.

"Sanchez over at the precinct says it was poison-a.r.s.enic mixed with mustard-that done them in," Sylvia goes on. "The cops found splotches of mustard on Scoop's cuff, his shirt, the zipper of his fly. Would you believe it?"

I'm studying the kid's cap. The mellow blue has me wondering if it's an old Brooklyn Dodger lid. "Hey, kid, you ever hear of Carl Furillo, Sandy Amoros? Duke Snider? I know you heard of Jackie Robinson. Everybody heard of Jackie Robinson."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Sylvia says in a huff. "I'm talking about my husband, held for murder. I'm giving you the facts, nothing but the facts, and you come up with a walk down Memory Lane. Who you think you are-Joe Franklin?"

But the kid is hooked. "Carl Anthony Furillo hit .296 for the 1955 World Champions. Edwin Donald 'Duke' Snider hit four home runs, batted in seven, BA .320 in the Series. 'Sandy' Edmund Isasi Amoros led the team with .333 ..."

"Enough," Sylvia says, like she's letting the dentist know one more drill and she's outa there. "We didn't come here to talk baseball."

But the kid has cleared the fences. When Scoop and I seen the last of each other, we had this pact, at least I thought we had a deal, only talk, talk only, about Dodgers, once O'Malley had packed up the gang including the great Sandy Koufax himself and hauled kit and caboodle off to L.A. I'm touched that the kid-did Sylvia say he was her nephew?-has got it all down pat. The memories, my my memories of our church that was Ebbets Field. memories of our church that was Ebbets Field.

"Everything isn't picture perfect between Scoop and me," Sylvia goes on. "I'm not gonna tell you it is. Like Senior's. Me opening the restaurant, a deli. I'm ordering my pastramis from Langers. You never taste a smokier, saltier, peppery flavor in your life. 'Yer ordering pastramis from L.A.,' Scoop says. 'I won't hear of it. First they steal our Dodgers. Now you're goin' head to head with Junior's with an L.A. pastrami.' That's what he says. No head for business."

"Say, kid," I say. "They call you I.F.? What you know about Izzy Stone?"

"He published an independent newsletter, received a Special George Polk Journalism Award in 1970, the same award the Brooklyn Eagle Brooklyn Eagle won for Community Service in 1948 and 1949. Stone thanked the Brooklyn Center of L.I.U. for what he called a great honor." won for Community Service in 1948 and 1949. Stone thanked the Brooklyn Center of L.I.U. for what he called a great honor."

The kid gets no further than that when Sylv is back again.

"What is this? First down Memory Lane, now it's Old Home Week. The Brooklyn Eagle Brooklyn Eagle is dead and so are Front Page and Sherlock. Scoop is facing the hot seat and you're cutting up about Brooklyn bygones. You taking the case or I gotta fly a shammes in from L.A.?" is dead and so are Front Page and Sherlock. Scoop is facing the hot seat and you're cutting up about Brooklyn bygones. You taking the case or I gotta fly a shammes in from L.A.?"

"Sanchez, you say?" I say. "Pablo Sanchez. He still around? Must be a sergeant since I seen him last. I'll give him a call." Sylvia is pumping her heels, the kid is flipping his lid, brim forward now. I can see the fading white monogrammed B B. The number comes to me easy, 84th Precinct, 718-875-6811. I'm still chomping the stogie when I'm on the line with Pablo. "Socorro! Socorro!" "Socorro! Socorro!" I say by way of openers. "I gotta talk to you, I say by way of openers. "I gotta talk to you, amigo amigo. I hear you got Scoop O'Neil in for asesinato asesinato. His wife Sylvia put me on the case. I gotta talk to him. No puedo esperar." No puedo esperar."

"Come on over," Pablo says, "Esperare aqui." "Esperare aqui."

"I'm on," I tell Sylvia and the kid. "You might as well come along for the ride."

"Sure I know my way around Brooklyn," the kid tells me as we're ambling toward Gold Street. "I got a map." Then he says, "You ever hear of Only the Dead Know Brooklyn?" Only the Dead Know Brooklyn?"

"Not now," says Sylvia, wobbling on her high heels. "I'm in the dumps without more bad news."

I say, "Yeah. A story by Thomas Wolfe, the elder. I never knew kids your age even knew who he was."

"Izzy knows all about books and batting averages," Sylvia squawks. "But ask him to slice a corned beef and it comes out like he's working the Blarney Stone."

When we reach the old brown brick precinct house where they're holding Scoop, Pablo greets Sylv, "Mucho gusto en conocerla, senorita." "Mucho gusto en conocerla, senorita." Then, he makes it clear, only one visitor at a time in the detective's office. He's arranged for me to have a confab with Scoop. Then, he makes it clear, only one visitor at a time in the detective's office. He's arranged for me to have a confab with Scoop.

I'm sittin' on one of those hard-back chairs that must've been designed by a chiropractor to increase business when Scoop comes in looking like it's ten seconds after Bobby Thomson's home run that done us in in '51.

"Pete. Pistol Pete," he says, shaking his head from side to side, the flaps of his graying mustache twitching in the breeze. "It's been so long, so long ago and far away." For a second there I think Scoop is gonna break into a song. Scoop useta be like that, a walkin', talkin' Broadway musical with subt.i.tles. I understand why Sylv scratched me for him. All that freebee entertainment. Scoop plunks in the chair across the desk from me. "Can you get me outa here? I done nothing wrong. We're playing deuces wild and I'm drawing to an ace and two twos when they cave in-Sherlock and Front Page, two of the greatest beat reporters who never won a Polk Award."

"Hey, you win a Polk Award?" I'm checking out Scoop's memory.

"Nominated twice," Scoop says with a long sigh. "I had Al Landa and David Medina pitching for me, but couldn't get past that flack Hershey they brought in from Newsday." Newsday."

The marbles are there, so I ask him for the story. "No song and dance, Scoop," I say. "We only got so long. Sanchez is doing us a favor. Just a run through, not twice around."

Scoop confirms pretty much what Sylvia has told me-the history of the poker game, the poisoned mustard, the clues on his cuff, pants, fly. I'm taking notes, scratching times, names, the menu. Seems the scene of the crime is a small office off the main drag of Senior's, the deli Sylvia has opened less than a month ago.

"I never wanted her to do it," Scoop says. "What we need a business for at our age? We should be rolling in the clover or at least the sands of Miami Beach. But you know Sylvia, once she got it in her head to make pastrami on rye with a slice of cheesecake for McDonald's prices, there was no stopping her. She's talking franchises coast to coast, going public on the big board, and we're lucky if we can pay the bills even with my kid-" Scoop breaks off, shrugs, collects himself. "I mean our nephew I.F. Izzy. Ain't he an egg cream with a dash of cinnamon if you ever seen one?"

Egg creams with cinnamon? That's a new one on me, but I let it pa.s.s. I'm hearing "my kid" before "our nephew." I say, "Tell me something, Scoop. This nephew of yourn, he's your sister's kid? Molly who I remember lived in Sea Gate before she run off with a retired cutter from the garment district and moved to South Fallsburg?"

"Naw. Naw," Scoop says. "The cutter-may his creases rest in peace-is long since gone. Molly married again, an artist. She's got a place in Brooklyn Heights, right there looking over the southern tip of Manhattan."

I know Scoop has no other sisters or brothers and this "nephew" definitely does not run in Sylvia's family. I put it to him: "This kid, I.F. Izzy. He is or is no no Molly's son?" Molly's son?"

Scoop shrugs, comes as close as I've ever seen him to blushing, starts fumbling for a b.u.t.t. I'd stake him to a White Owl, but it is definitely not a good idea to light up a fat stogie in a precinct house when you're being held for murder.

"He's no nephew," Scoop says like he's breaking the Lindbergh case. "The kid is my son. Not by Sylvia. Sylvia and I couldn't have kids-not in the cards for us."

I'm sitting cool as a cuc.u.mber, no how do you do, it's all news to me how do you do, it's all news to me It's a confession, right out of Bernard Macfadden's It's a confession, right out of Bernard Macfadden's True Story, Truer Romance, Truest Experience. True Story, Truer Romance, Truest Experience. A marriage gone lightly sour, a career diving for cover, not much happening except for poker with the boys and a chippy who likes to sing duets. Scoop tells me he picked up I.F.'s mother in a journalism cla.s.s he was teaching part-time at L.I.U. twenty years ago. A marriage gone lightly sour, a career diving for cover, not much happening except for poker with the boys and a chippy who likes to sing duets. Scoop tells me he picked up I.F.'s mother in a journalism cla.s.s he was teaching part-time at L.I.U. twenty years ago.

"A good kid. I really liked her, had a lot of respect for that babe. Would have broken up with Sylvia for her, but she-Martha Gellhorn Washington-would you believe it, named for one of the great foreign correspondents of her time, who also never won a Polk Award. Anyway, Martha said it was just a fling. I was too old for her, not really her type. But she wanted to have the kid. When Martha's number was up, got hit by an external fuel tank jettisoned from a F14 Tomcat, something like that, there was our kid hanging in there, out in L.A. He thinks I done her wrong, set his mamalochen up for disaster. He drops the line to Sylvia. The rest of the story you can write for yourself."

Pablo is flashing a signal. I lip read: Son las dos en punto. Son las dos en punto. I got to wrap it up now that it's 2 o'clock. I got to wrap it up now that it's 2 o'clock.

I say, "So your kid, I.F., winds up living with you and Sylvia. And the day of the poker game-was I.F. there for the Last Lunch?"

Scoop raises his hands and slaps them on the desk. "Turns out Sylvia is crazy about the kid. Moves I.F. right in with us, signs him on for Senior's full time. He's with her, day and night. Night and day. You are the one. Only you beneath the moon and under the sun. Whether near to me or far ..." You are the one. Only you beneath the moon and under the sun. Whether near to me or far ..." Scoop cuts out for the solo, but I got no time for musical interludes. Scoop cuts out for the solo, but I got no time for musical interludes.

"Answer the question, Scoop," I say. "Where was I.F. when the mustard hit the fan?"

Scoop tells me I.F. was right there. "Matter of fact ..." Scoop lowers his voice. I got no idea who he thinks is listening to us, but I register that this is prime cut information. "I'm not sure I.F. picked up those sandwiches from Junior's for us. Sylvia would hit the ceiling if she knew my guys and me were not even considering Senior's mini-stuffed. We are strictly Junior's disciples until-pardon the expression-until the day we die. We always order the same," Scoop says. "Sherlock and Front Page go halves on a pastrami and corned beef. For me it's white meat turkey, lettuce and tomato, with Russian on the side. The first week of each month we split a hunk of cheesecake."

"And the mustard?"

"I noticed a little blob on my jacket when James L., the old man who works part-time for Sylv, handed it back to me as I was coming out of the c.r.a.pper after lunch. I may have took a swipe at it and smeared it on my cuff and fly. Who knows? I was deep into the game. I don't even remember unwrapping my sandwich. Once we upped the stakes to one and five and I'm down big bucks, what do I know from mustard? I'm thinking about losing C notes and lots of 'em. Last I remember before the guys caved in was pouring the tea for Front Page, the decaf for Sherlock, the straight java for me," says Scoop, and breaks into song. "I like java. I like tea. I like the java jive. It likes me ..." "I like java. I like tea. I like the java jive. It likes me ..."

He's into the soft shoe as Pablo Sanchez escorts him back to the holding cell.