A Book of Great Worth Read Free Page A

public’s interest had shifted, and there were few stories on the subject until my father had again aroused attention with his tales of Bronstyn’s exploits.
    My father strolled leisurely along Allen Street, which lay under the heavy shadow of the elevated train tracks, to the corner of Grand, took a right, then another right at Orchard, crowded with pushcarts and hawkers, then another on Hester back to Allen Street. In the course of a walk around the block that should have taken five minutes but instead took twenty, he was propositioned, by his count, thirty-seven times. Their conversations were almost always short – “Hello good-looking,” or “Say, there, handsome,” in Yiddish inflected with a range of Eastern European accents, Galician, Polish, Hungarian, countered by my father’s good-natured reply, “Good afternoon, young lady, no thank you.” On Allen Street itself, these conversations were often all but drowned out by the rattle of the elevated train rushing by above them.
    One of his two shadows, Chisel Face, was loitering across the street, making a show of studying the contents of a shop window. My father walked quickly across the street and, before he could bolt, had the man by the arm.
    “What the hell…” he shouted, wheeling away.
    “Take it easy,” my father said. “I’m not looking for a fight. I want to talk to Monk Eastman.”
    “You crazy?” the skinny fellow asked.
    “Not at all. Get your friend to go to Eastman, or you do it and your friend can watch me, the heavy-set fellow. I’ll stay right here till you return. Don’t worry. I don’t mean him any harm, or you either. I just want to talk.”
    “You are crazy,” the man said, but a sly grin was spreading across his narrow face. He gestured, and in a few seconds the other fellow came up beside them. The two stepped aside and conferred. After a minute, Chisel Face took off on a trot and Dumpling Face took up a position on the corner, brushing aside a young woman who’d been stationed by the street light. My father, for his part, sat down on the stoop closest to the corner, unfolded his newspaper and began to read.
    Half an hour later, my father was ushered by both of his companions through the door of a saloon on Rivington Street, through the crowded saloon itself and into a back room, all but deserted. There, at a large table sat a well-built, dapper man in an expensive silk suit and a meticulous haircut. The man’s pleasant face was vaguely familiar.
    “Good afternoon, Morgenstern,” he said.
    “I know you, I think.”
    “We’ve met, once or twice, here and there,” the other man said. “We have mutual acquaintances.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Monk Eastman. I don’t know who or what you expected.”
    My father wasn’t altogether surprised that he’d recognized Eastman, or by his manner. As a reporter, he met all sorts of people, didn’t always remember them and was no longer surprised by anything he heard or saw. The two men shook hands, and my father took a chair across from Eastman. A bottle was produced, good Scotch, and drinks were poured.
    Eastman drank and placed his shot glass down gently. “You wanted to see me?”
    “I have a proposition,” my father said.
    “Go ahead.”
    “I’m concerned about a friend. He’s been a nuisance to you, I gather. But my guess is, not much more than a nuisance, no real harm.”
    Eastman’s expression was politely curious but noncommittal.
    “Perhaps I’ve been a nuisance too. I apologize if so. But, you know, if not me, someone else.” My father made a hand gesture indicating the power of fate.
    “I appreciate that,” Eastman said.
    My father took a deep breath and drank off his shot of whisky. He preferred rye, but the Scotch was good.
    “I don’t want to get hurt, but I could be more of a nuisance.”
    “I imagine.”
    “So could my friend.”
    Eastman poured two more drinks. “And your proposition?”
    “I think my friend could be persuaded