Gonif ~~ A Blast from the Past

A little muse-less at ther moment, so I'm gonna repeat a seven-year-old story I wrote.... ummm... seven years ago. (Tolja my mind wasn't too clear, fellow babies!)

Seriously, I hope you like it. It's a little long, but most of my stuff is.

Thanks for your time.

Gonif

I dunno th'exact words, but there's some old sayin' like "Life's a comedy for th'man who thinks, an' a tragedy f'th'man who feels." Like I said, somethin' like that.

S'right now, I'm thinkin' -- thinkin' -- 'bout th'past couple o'days... an' laughin' my fool butt off.

Part One -- The Grab

Look, I'll be honest with ya. Whenever I got a choice 'tween doin' th'so-called "right" thing, an' doin' somethin' th'easy way, I go f'th'easy route. Even if -- hell, 'specially if -- th'easy way ain't necessarily legal. I get some weird kinda rush about breakin' th'law. It's almost a fever, or an addiction. I don't like gamblin', or binge eatin', or hookers or booze or drugs... none o'that crud. I get my rocks off doin' whatever it is that I wanna do when I know I ain't supposed t'be doin' what I wanna do!

Make sense? No? Ah, well.

Let's jus' say that in my time, ol' Lefty's done all sorts o'illegal things. Some's jus' small things, like runnin' a stop sign or a red light. Whenever I can, I'll do th'chew'n'screw bit at a diner or a reg'lar restaurant. Sometimes it's more serious stuff, like findin' a wallet an' keepin' it, or maybe cheatin' on taxes, when I bother declarin' income at all! But in sixty-plus years on this planet, I ain't never done nothin' real bad. Well... almost never.

So two days ago, I'm walkin' down by th'docks, gettin' th'simple kinda exercise that keeps me in shape like a boychik half my age... while wearin' my new suit, no less. A few feet ahead o'me, I see this homeless slob -- a tall schvartze -- trudgin' along carryin' a brand new, expensive-lookin' suitcase, an' I says t'myself, "Lefty, what's wrong with this freakin' picture?" y'know? I mean, Handsome here's sportin' a beard with th'remains o'his last few meals hangin' on it like Christmas tree ornaments, an' he's got long, kinky hair that looks like it ain't seen shampoo since they started sellin' Head & freakin' Shoulders! An' his clothes? Lord knows what color his pants were when they first came offa the rack, an' add t'them a pair o'broken vinyl shoes, no socks, an' a stained overcoat 'stead of a shirt. And this (th'overcoat) in mid-freakin'-August, no less.

So th'fancy briefcase sticks out like a sore thumb. It was a big sucker, too, an' all sorts o'possibilities started flashin' through my mind, y'know? It can't be his, I figger. He prob'ly swiped it. So even if I did have a normal-type conscience -- an' trust me, I don't -- I still woulda felt okay 'bout swipin' it from this guy.

And o'course, I did swipe it from 'im!

I followed 'im kinda discreetly for a while. He was walkin' away from th'waterfront an' toward th'city itself, so I figgered I hadda make my move soon or witnesses'd start pilin' up like pigeon droppin's on a statue. Luck'ly f'me, th'guy steps in 'tween a couple o'big crates t'take a leak, an' while he's doin' his business, I swoop by an' snatch th'case.

Nothin's ever too easy, o'course, so even as I'm makin' th'grab, Handsome's sixth-freakin'-sense or somethin' kicks in, an' he whips around -- still relievin' himself, only now on my shoes, fer cryin' out loud! -- t'take the case back. Luck'ly for ol' Lefty, the sun's in his eyes, so he doesn't get a good look at me, an' he don't see it comin' when I smack 'im as hard as I can right in the puss with th'case itself! Ha!

I take off like a bat outta hell, hearin' 'im moanin' and groanin' like a wounded animal as he lays there in his own urine. An' no, I don't look back, are you nuts? Lefty's no shmendrick.

Screw it, at least he's still alive, right?

Couldn't wait t'get home t'see what kinda goodies I got.

Part Two -- The Take

So here I was, in a fancy hotel room 'stead o'th'kinda motel rooms I'm used to, y'know, thanks t'the welcome run o'good luck I had at the track a few nights back. (It's how I bought my new suit, too, y'know?) I decide to be a fresser, an' call down t'room service an' order myself a thick'n'juicy hunk o'prime rib. After hangin' up th'phone I plunk Handsome's suitcase down on top o'th'bureau and start checkin' it out.

It ain't heavy, considerin' its size. An' not so surprisin', it's locked. The "locked" part just makes me laugh; I'm a pro, remember?

I get it open in a few secs, and find that somebody's wrapped an entire bedsheet 'round this whatever-it-is f'paddin', so it won't bang around too much in the suitcase. I take th'bundle out o'th'case and put it on th'bed t'give me more room t'work.

As I unwrap th'sheet, a funny smell -- like spoiled meat -- starts t'invade th'room. "Oy," says me, "This ain't good, Lefty!" Inside the sheet is somethin' long an' thick, wrapped up in some taped-up butcher paper. It ain't too big, and it's too long'n'narrow t'be, like, a human head or somethin', I figger, as I start laughin' nervously. "A freakin' head? You seen too many movies, Lefty!" I remember thinkin'. Then again, there was that rotten stink...

But it wasn't no head, o'course. Like I said, wrong shape. This thing was only a little bit bigger'n my...

Forearm.

I almost puke. Inside th'paper is some poor mamzer's left hand'n'lower left arm. It's pretty obvious that th'dear departed was a guy, from all the white hair on th'arm'... an' th'back o'th'hand, too. There's a fancy-shmantzy gold ring on his ring finger, which I don't pull off, fightin' all instinct, an' one more little detail I can't help but notice:

Whoever this unlucky soul was, he was one o'my people, an' he spent some time in one o'th'Nazi death camps... cuz there on his arm is one o'those damn tattoos I seen way too many of.

I ain't too religious, as y'mighta guessed, but this gave me the creeps. I hadda get rid of it. But since it was pretty freakin' obvious that th'luck I'd had at the track was now officially kaput, I figgered that if I just decided to toss it in th'nearest dumpster, some cop'd spot me disposin' o'th'evidence.

So I said t'myself, "Wonder if Handsome would want it back?" while I was callin' room service t'cancel my prime rib.

I'd kinda lost my appetite anyway, y'know?

Part Three -- The Meet

I wrapped that smelly sucker up in the sticky paper first, an' th'sheet second, and slammed that case shut. I took only a few secs t'wash my hands, an' off I went, headed right back t'the docks.

See, my mind was goin' a mile a minute, an' I was havin' all sorts o'creative flashes as t'exactly why this arm was in a suitcase like this. An' mixed in with th'flashes was all kindsa questions, some I could ask Handsome... but most he prob'ly woulda been clueless about. (I was still figgerin' he'd swiped th'case himself, y'know?)

The most unsettlin' thought was that this was some kinda freakin' trophy, maybe belongin' t'some professional hitman who'd kept it t'prove that he'd completed a mission, y'know? An' I sure as hell didn't want him lookin' for whoever'd ripped off his precious case, an' windin' up with me, right?

I was still on the outskirts o'th'heavier-trafficked streets, not yet even as far as th'docks, when I spotted Handsome, shufflin' along like the poor schnook he was. I hadn't been walkin' f'ten minutes! Maybe my luck wasn't totally gone, I figgered.

"Hey! Hey!" I yelled, when I'd almost caught up to 'im. A bunch o'people, Handsome included, looked t'see who I was yellin' at. I pointed right at 'im t'eliminate confusion, y'know? "You! Overcoat!"

He looked at me kinda funny for a sec, prob'ly wond'rin' what some old Jewish guy in a two-piece suit would be screamin' at him for. I mean, don't forget, he didn't really get a look at me when I snatched th'case. Then he saw th'case itself. His eyes bugged out an' he took off in th'other direction.

Maybe my spiffy suit made 'im think I was a cop, an' he figgered I wanted t'question him about the suitcase? Maybe he thought I was th'rightful owner, shall we say, an' that I wanted to "thank" him proper f'havin' ripped it off from me? Hell, did he even know what was in th'case?

I never had a chance to ask 'im any of that crap. I hadn't been chasin' Handsome for more'n a couple o'blocks before he darted into traffic an' got hit by one o'those brand-new Fords some wiseass decided to call a Mustang.

Damn.

I was far from the only one who crowded 'round 'im t'see if he was dead. An' yeah, he was. Shame.

Even as I was wond'rin' "Now what?" I got my freakin' answer. A voice outta nowhere yelled "Hey, you!" an' my head swivelled around like that broad in "The Exorcist," only to realize exactly how Handsome'd felt not two minutes earlier.

There were two guys in suits -- cheap suits, not a dandy like mine -- pointin' at me. "Yeah, you! With the suitcase!" shouted one of 'em, th'taller one. "Don't move!"

Cheap suits, I said. These weren't hitmen. These were detectives. An' when a cop tells me t'do somethin' -- anythin' -- I do the freakin' opposite, y'know?

So I took off like a raped ape... but like a schmuck, I held onto th'freakin' case, can you believe it?

Not only did that make it look like th'case'n'me were "connected," y'might say, but it slowed me down.

I keep in really good shape, like I said. So even at sixty-three, I could usually outrun a couple o'middle-aged cops. On a good day, anyway.

But as y'may o'noticed, this wasn't a particularly good day f'me!

I dunno which one caught up t'me first -- ignore th'crap Hollywood churns out, y'never turn around when you're bein' chased -- but he tackled me like a NFL pro. I went down hard'n'smacked my head on th'pavement... and blacked out.

Part Four -- The Grill

I woke up sittin' on a metal chair, an' cuffed to a long table in a room I'd seen more'n my share of over the years. I even recognized the guy who handed me a cold coffee when I opened my eyes. Known 'im since he was a rookie. No kiddin'.

"Hey, Lefty..."

"Officer Kyle? Long time, kid. I see this room got another paint job."

"Here," he said, pushin' the coffee closer t'me. "You'd better drink this. You'll need to have your wits about you. You're in big trouble this time, Lefty!"

"Nahh, don't you fret, boychik. I got an explanation f'all o'this."

One of the two detectives who'd chased me down earlier was in th'room with me'n'Officer Kyle. I just hadn't noticed 'im. "Don't be too sure of that, southpaw," he said.

"Southpaw? Why'd you call me that?"

"It's what they call a left-handed pitcher in baseball."

"No! Really?" I said, sarcastic-like. "Look, you yutz, I know what a freakin' southpaw is! I was a Sandy Koufax fan when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn. But I ain't no southpaw!"

His eyebrows kinda knitted together as he looked at the copy of my rap sheet which was sittin' on the clipboard he was holdin'. "Then why the hell do they...? Oh. Allen Lefcowicz. Got it."

He studied my little resumé for a few secs, then dropped th'clipboard on th'table I was cuffed to. "So, what makes a small-time career criminal graduate to murder, Allen?" I sat silent for a bit, cuz I didn't have no lawyer there yet. The detective smiled liked he was readin' my mind. "Don't worry, that was just a rhetorical question, Allen. Nothing's official until your public defender arrives."

I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so I blurted out, "I didn't kill nobody! That dumb schvartze ran into an oncoming car! And don't freakin' call me Allen. Only people who knew me as a little pisher coulda got away with that, shmendrick!"

Th'guy came around t'my side of the table an' kicked the freakin' chair right out from under me. I was still cuffed t'the table, o'course, so I couldn't break my fall too good, an' landed hard. He bent down so we were face t'face, and his voice was like freakin' thunder in my ears. "I wasn't talking about the homeless man, Lefcowicz! I was talking about the man whose arm you severed, you sick little freak! And just for the record, yutz and shmendrick aren't going to cut it with me! It's Detective Streimekis to you, loudmouth! You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya. An' you're breathin' in my face." He stepped away. "Well, help me up, willya?"

"Help yourself up, Lefcowicz." He glared at Kyle, who was gonna assist me, from th'looks o'things. "And don't you go near him, officer," he warned.

I picked up th'chair -- an' myself -- an' tried t'recapture a little bit o'dignity. "Streimekis, huh?" He nodded. "Lemme guess: Litvak?"

"Yup. Third generation Lithuanian Jew. Something to say about it?"

"Nope," I said, sitting down.

"Okay, here's what we've put together: For some reason -- and we're thinking robbery -- you decided to kill some old Jewish man... a Holocaust survivor, no less, you lousy...! We don't have an ID on him yet, but since you were so kind as to provide us with several fingerprints..." He laughed at his own little joke. "Anyway, keeping the arm was pretty stupid, don't you think?"

"Look, y'got this all wrong..."

"Shut up, Lefcowicz, I'm not done. That poor black guy somehow got the opportunity to steal the suitcase, and kept ahead of you for at least two days. And when one of our guys spotted a tramp with a pricey-looking suitcase, we decided to watch him as much as possible until the true owner showed up to reclaim his property. Which you did. So we didn't know of your involvement until you finally tracked down the guy who stole your grisly little souvenir, and chased him into traffic. So, Lefcowicz... Did you kill the old guy for his money? It would sure explain how you were able to afford the fancy digs advertised by the key in your suit pocket. Quite a notch above your usual accommodations, according to a few of the officers here. It'd explain the suit, too, for that matter." He inhaled and exhaled loudly. "Did I leave anything out?"

"Nope. Everythin's there. Course, s'all bullshit, but..." He looked like he was gonna come 'round th'table again an'smack me one, but he didn't. "Look, I paid f'th'hotel room and th'suit with dough I won at th'track a few nights ago." The detective chuckled, and even Officer Kyle smirked. "Look, guys, trust me on this one..."

That got a big laugh.

Part Five -- The Punchline

Like I said, all that was a couple o'days ago. My lawyer strikes me as bein' a total putz, so I ain't feelin' too good about this at all.

You prob'ly wonder why I'm takin' this bum rap so well, ain'tcha? Well, remember when I said "I ain't never done nothin' real bad," an' then added, "Well... almost never?"

Quite a few years back, I robbed a guy of twenty-three dollars in an alley... an' unfortunately, I hit 'im too freakin' hard on the back of th'head with a pipe... and he died. An' no one ever came after me f'that, so I guess this is karma's way of havin' a nosh at the expense of my tuchus.

Author's note: Regardless of whether or not "Lefty" Lefcowicz's public defender was a putz, Lefty was acquitted of all but a few minor charges. He learned his lesson and became a productive member of society.

Yeah, right. You didn't really believe that second sentence, did you?

* * * * *

This story is dedicated to Will Elder, Harvey Kurtzman, Al Feldstein, Allan Sherman, Don Rickles, and countless additional Jewish comedians and comic book creators who gave me an appreciation for Yiddishkeit years before I ever heard the word.

Old Home Week -- Part Three

Okay, fellow babies, after having read the first two chapters of "Old Home Week," some of you are beginning to catch the little gimmick I'm working with here. The plotline itself is going to delve into what will become my most fantastic story yet on the Silver Fox blog... and by "fantastic," I mean "fantasy-oriented" rather than egotistically saying it's "wonderful" or "terrific," etc.

Having said that, I do hope y'all enjoy the ride.

As you encounter -- or... re-encounter? -- these characters, feel free to remark about their past & present selves.

* * * * *

As Karen Magarian climbed out of the van, Howard walked up to her to greet her. She hugged him tightly but briefly. "Sorry we're late, Howie! This old mechanical beast nearly died on us just a few miles from here. Frankie got it going again, thank God." She paused, as Howard shrugged. "Good to see you, Howie."

Then she was all business. As her camera and audio crew people emerged from the van as well, she wordlessly but frantically made a few gestures in the air, gestures that translated to "Let's move!"

Pat, Howard's cameraman and the sole person in Howard's "crew," had already set up enough lights to illuminate the little pumpkin patch and its surrounding area.

Mark Arthur -- clad in his superheroic "Golden Mask" garb -- stood next to his friend, Jack Mac, as Howard explained his complicated plan to Karen.

Both Howard and Karen would read their respective introductions separately, each filmed by their own cameramen. Then both Howard and Karen, each of them off-camera, would consecutively read the exact same questions for Golden Mask from both of their lists, deleting any questions that echoed one from the other as they went along. After that, each would tape their closing comments.

It would admittedly be a bit confusing, but in the end, when the individual tapes were edited, it would look like each reporter had gotten an exclusive interview!

The only real difference was that Howard's interview would be aired on his small station's six o'clock newscast, while Karen wouldn't be allowed to broadcast hers until her own Boston channel's eleven p.m. telecast.

That was their agreement, and Howard knew that Karen was as good as her word.

As everyone got into their respective places, Howard realized that this Golden Mask bozo had been right about Karen's vehicle having broken down... something he should have had no way of knowing.

* * * * *

A short while later, the white-haired, middle-aged man looked at his clock. It was almost six p.m.

Almost six.

"Shit!" he exclaimed. "Ohhh, shitshitshit!" He jumped up from the chair in front of his computer, and reached for his keys and wallet on the nearby bed. Where the hell did I put my shoes? And my belt? And my pants, for that matter?

Then, he stopped. There was no way he'd be able to get to anyone's television before Howard's broadcast aired. (He owned a set, of course, but it wasn't hooked up to a cable or a satellite feed. The bearded man only used it to watch DVDs or videotapes.)

He shook his head, temporarily disgusted with his own habit of playing on the computer endlessly and -- especially -- giving his blogs last-minute edits and tweaks, over and over. He walked slowly to the telephone, and dialed the private number of Howard's cell phone.

He got Howard's voice mail, of course.

"Howard? This is David. Umm... I got a little tied up with things, and I'm going to miss your Halloween feature tonight. I am so sorry! Is there any way I..." He paused, as he realized that Howard's spot -- that is, the entire half-hour news show on which Howard Enz's featurettes appeared almost nightly -- would be shown again at ten o'clock that evening. David deleted his message when prompted to do so by the voice mail. He hung up the phone, smiling.

Then he returned to the computer to email a friend in Worcester. He could be at her home -- and in front of her TV -- long before ten p.m. arrived.

* * * * *

Earlier that morning, somewhere on the west coast of California, a tall man in a cheap suit was trying not to raise his voice as he argued with a clerk at a bus terminal.

After showing the clerk a mug shot of a clean-shaven, round-faced, sixty-something white male with a thinning "duck's ass" hairstyle -- a style the man had worn since Elvis had hit the pop culture scene -- the man placed his badge on the counter meaningfully. And demanded information.

"I'm sorry, officer..."

"Detective."

"Whatever. I can't tell you where he was headed, or..." The clerk paused. "Actually, I can't even confirm that he was on any bus."

Detective Peter Streimekis tapped the badge where it lay. "And this means nothing."

"Not without a warrant, or whatever the hell you need for my boss to okay this."

The clerk looked down again. A fifty-dollar bill had miraculously appeared on the counter, next to the detective's badge. Just as miraculously, the bill seemed to disappear, and the clerk quickly rifled through some papers, and checked a small computer screen.

Looking up at the detective, the clerk gave the name of a Massachusetts town located somewhere between Boston and Worcester. "That's all I've got. Knock yourself out. I mean... Have a nice day."

The detective stood there, obviously waiting for something.

"You need anything else, buddy?" Maybe for another fifty, thought the clerk...

"Yes. A ticket. And... I'm not your buddy."

* * * * *

Don, a beefy man with a bushy brown mustache and thinning hair, got up from his seat at the bar and walked over to where the attractive blonde was arguing rather one-sidedly with her husband, who had been playing the bar's piano until her arrival.

"Hey, excuse me, lady, but would you mind keeping it down to a dull roar? I'm trying to hear the news."

The pretty, curly-haired woman glared at him. "Why do people go to noisy barrooms to watch television?" she asked him. "Isn't that sort of stupid?"

"Whoa! No need to get insulting, honey."

"Don't call me honey."

"Fine. Sorry. Then, don't call me stupid." She looked at him, coldly. "Anyway, this bar usually isn't noisy. At least until you showed up tonight and started yelling at this poor guy." He didn't mention that he'd also been annoyed by the man's piano-playing as well.

The woman stared him down. "If you don't mind, this is a family argument."

"Good. Then take it -- and Burt Bacharach here -- home."

She tilted her head, as if in acquiescence. "Let's go, Marty," she said to her husband.

"Angie..." her husband began, but then fell silent.

As the two exited the bar, Don returned to his seat. Sitting next to him was a man who looked like Woody Allen would, if Woody were to put on a bad black wig.

"I'll tell you something, Phil," said Don, "I feel sorry for that guy tonight, going home with her. What a bitch!"

* * * * *

Dr. Rachel Janson was the administrative head of a renowned psychiatric hospital. Aggravated by continually-rising cable TV rates, she had finally taken the plunge and signed a long-term contract with a satellite service to provide the institution's TV reception instead.

That was almost three weeks ago.

Tonight (Halloween), two of the interns in the hospital were in the community room. It was nearly 8:30 p.m. They were watching the final feature on an 11:00 news feed from a network affiliate based on the opposite coast, and having a moderately friendly disagreement about one of its commentators.

"I'm tellin' ya, it's her, Kevin!"

"No, it's not, Brian."

"Look," Kevin continued, firmly. "She hasn't acted in anything for years. So she's changed a little. She's older. And now it looks like she got herself a job with TV news. That's a natural enough move, don't ya think?"

"It isn't who you think it is," Kevin reiterated. "This woman is named Karen Magarian! Why on earth would she change her name from...?"

"Maybe this is her real name."

"Jeez! Enough! Now let me hear this."

As the two young orderlies fell silent, a middle-aged inmate wearing a bathrobe and pajamas entered the community room and approached the television.

He also, quite honestly, was approaching a date with destiny.

* * * * *

To Be Continued...

And next time, maybe we'll finally have that bloody interview! (UPDATE: Due to pressing "real world" concerns, culminating in the death of my mother, this storyline was interrupted and never completed. The rhythm was broken, you might say. Sorry to get you all the way to this point for nothing. Someday, I fully intend to finish this mess.)

(If you want more background on Jack Mac, Mark Arthur, and "Golden Mask," click here.

For more info on Detective Streimekis and the man he's chasing, click here!

Want to know who these Don and Phil characters are? click here!

And finally, as for "Angie" and her musical hubbie, click here!

And thanks for your time.

Old Home Week -- Part Two

Howard Enz was pacing nervously around the perimeter of the small pumpkin patch on his cousin's property. He had originally thought this would be a great place to hold his interview with the costumed nut who claimed to have super-powers of one sort or another. Now, after having waited for nearly half an hour past the agreed-upon meeting time of four-thirty p.m., all he could think about was that they might miss his deadline for broadcast entirely.

Well, that, and It's freaking cold out here!

Although he had originally been promised an exclusive, Howard had reconsidered several hours ago and called his friend Karen Magarian, a popular and "seasoned" reporter now working at a Boston television station. Howard, graciously repaying one of the many favors he'd come to owe her since he'd started in this business almost twenty years earlier, had invited her to interview this "masked man" as well.

Howard had insisted, however, that his interview be taped for the early evening news on his own small TV station, while Karen's interview was supposed to be held until her channel's eleven p.m. broadcast. She'd given him her word, so he knew that he and he alone would be breaking the story.

It was with great consternation that Howard suddenly realized that Karen and her mobile crew were half an hour late as well. Not like her, he thought, not like her at all.

"This is bad," Howard said aloud to his cameraman, Pat. "This is very, very bad."

From somewhere in the darkness, a somber voice rang out. "Don't worry, Mr. Enz... She's fine. Minor car trouble only ten or twelve miles away."

Howard turned his head from side to side, quickly searching for a look at the man who had spoken. Finally, Mark Arthur, wearing a form-fitting black jumpsuit and a plastic Halloween mask which had been painted gold, emerged from a wooded area not twenty feet from where Howard was standing. A paunchy man with a VanDyke beard and a shaved head followed a few steps behind Mark.

Howard looked at the two men appraisingly. He spoke to Mark first. "I'll go out on a limb here and say that you're the soon-to-be-famous 'Golden Mask' dude." Mark nodded, unnecessarily. Howard turned to Jack, and said "So that makes you the guy I spoke with on the phone, the one who insists on calling himself 'Jack Mac,' right?"

Jack also nodded. "Anyone ever tell you, you look like Oliver Platt?"

"Lots of times. But he's got better hair. And no mustache, usually. Anyone ever tell you that you look like a tubby Steve Austin?"

"Lee Majors, or Stone Cold?"

"Oh, gee, take a wild guess," said Howard, scowling slightly. Jack laughed politely.

"Excuse me, Mr. Enz," said Mark. "What did you mean by 'soon-to-be-famous?' "

Howard tapped his own chest twice with the index finger of his left hand. "Thanks to me. You're welcome. Now, first question, before we roll tape: What did you mean by 'She's fine, minor car trouble?' "

"Your friend, or girlfriend," Mark replied. Howard's face was impassive, and unreadable. "Umm... sister?" he added, suddenly less sure of himself.

Howard pressed on, still staring at the oddly-dressed man. "Never mind that." He paused. "So, Mr. Mask, mind if I ask you your real name?"

Jack Mac broke in. "You ain't really expectin' us to tell you that, are ya?"

Howard turned to face him. "Frankly, I don't know what to expect from this..." Howard was about to say "clown," but finished with "...gent."

Mark spoke again. "And you don't have to call me 'Mr. Mask,' just call me..." He hesitated. He hadn't given any thought to what people should call him when speaking to him conversationally, whenever he was wearing his superhero suit. "Mr. Mask" was just... wrong. And shortening it to "Golden" sounded just as bad, or even worse.

Howard smirked slightly at Mark's quandary, which was obvious although Mark was wearing that face-obscuring, gold-colored mask.

Several hundred feet away, the headlights of a large van cut through the night as it drove onto Howard's cousin's property. Howard breathed a loud sigh of relief. Karen had arrived. "Don't worry about it, Goldie. When we do the interviews, we'll just use the full name."

We? Interviews, plural? thought both Mark and Jack. Mark was slightly concerned. Jack grinned; this would be good for business.

* * * * *

One day earlier:

The short Jewish man in his early sixties was standing at a sink in the men's room of the seedy (but crowded) bar, examining the contents of a wallet, when the taller, younger, suited man walked in on him.

"Nice-looking wallet, Lefcowicz," said the cop -- Of course he was a cop. Who else would dress like that in a place like this? -- as the older man whirled to face him. "Mind if I look at the I.D.? I'm betting that it's not yours!"

The man that the detective -- okay, okay, he was a detective, not just any beat cop -- had referred to as "Lefcowicz" let out a string of expletives, some of them in Yiddish. The detective calmly took the wallet from him and opened it.

He saw the face of "Allen Lefcowicz" staring back at him from an expired driver's license. "What the hell...? I could have sworn I saw you lift this from the pocket of a guy at the bar."

"Sorry, schmendrick, you lose."

"Mind if I ask you why you came in here to look through the contents of your own wallet?"

"Yeah, I do mind, but I'll answer y'anyway. I wuz checkin' t'make sure I had a rubber on me, case I get lucky tonight."

Grimacing with distaste at the thought of Allen "Lefty" Lefcowicz in bed -- or anywhere else -- with anyone, Detective Peter Streimekis grunted in frustration as he turned abruptly and left the men's room... and, moments later, the bar itself.

Lefty chuckled softly as he removed a second wallet -- the stolen one, naturally -- and said aloud, "Yeah, like I didn't smell you th'moment y'sneaked inta th'place. Putz."

The smiled faded as Lefty started thinking more seriously. Streimekis had been breathing down his neck for months, determined to catch the habitual criminal doing something he could arrest him for. Maybe a change of scene was in order.

Suddenly -- very suddenly -- Lefty thought of a few towns in southern Massachusetts which he was familiar with, although he hadn't been on that side of the country for almost ten years.

He looked in the stolen wallet to see if he had busfare. If not, it was going to be a long night.

* * * * *

And speaking of Massachusetts, on Halloween once again...

In their own bar -- well, not their bar, but a bar they both frequented -- the two regulars known as Don and Phil were watching in amusement as the annoying piano player in the corner was being verbally accosted by his wife, a pretty, skinny woman with curly blonde hair.

* * * * *

Finally...

Approximately a twenty minute drive south of Worcester, Massachusetts -- Do all roads lead to Massachusetts? -- a middle-aged, bearded man with whitish hair did the final edits before posting his latest blog.

* * * * *

To Be Continued...

(If you want more background on Jack Mac, Mark Arthur, and "Golden Mask," click here.

And for more info on "Lefty" Lefcowiz and Detective Streimekis, click here!)

Thanks for your time

Gonif -- A "Theme Thursday" Post

I dunno th'exact words, but there's some old sayin' like "Life's a comedy for th'man who thinks, an' a tragedy f'th'man who feels." Like I said, somethin' like that.

S'right now, I'm thinkin' -- thinkin' -- 'bout th'past couple o'days... an' laughin' my fool butt off.

Part One -- The Grab

Look, I'll be honest with ya. Whenever I got a choice 'tween doin' th'so-called "right" thing, an' doin' somethin' th'easy way, I go f'th'easy route. Even if -- hell, 'specially if -- th'easy way ain't necessarily legal. I get some weird kinda rush about breakin' th'law. It's almost a fever, or an addiction. I don't like gamblin', or binge eatin', or hookers or booze or drugs... none o'that crud. I get my rocks off doin' whatever it is that I wanna do when I know I ain't supposed t'be doin' what I wanna do!

Make sense? No? Ah, well.

Let's jus' say that in my time, ol' Lefty's done all sorts o'illegal things. Some's jus' small things, like runnin' a stop sign or a red light. Whenever I can, I'll do th'chew'n'screw bit at a diner or a reg'lar restaurant. Sometimes it's more serious stuff, like findin' a wallet an' keepin' it, or maybe cheatin' on taxes, when I bother declarin' income at all! But in sixty-plus years on this planet, I ain't never done nothin' real bad. Well... almost never.

So two days ago, I'm walkin' down by th'docks, gettin' th'simple kinda exercise that keeps me in shape like a boychik half my age... while wearin' my new suit, no less. A few feet ahead o'me, I see this homeless slob -- a tall schvartze -- trudgin' along carryin' a brand new, expensive-lookin' suitcase, an' I says t'myself, "Lefty, what's wrong with this freakin' picture?" y'know? I mean, Handsome here's sportin' a beard with th'remains o'his last few meals hangin' on it like Christmas tree ornaments, an' he's got long, kinky hair that looks like it ain't seen shampoo since they started sellin' Head & freakin' Shoulders! An' his clothes? Lord knows what color his pants were when they first came offa the rack, an' add t'them a pair o'broken vinyl shoes, no socks, an' a stained overcoat 'stead of a shirt. And this (th'overcoat) in mid-freakin'-August, no less.

So th'fancy briefcase sticks out like a sore thumb. It was a big sucker, too, an' all sorts o'possibilities started flashin' through my mind, y'know? It can't be his, I figger. He prob'ly swiped it. So even if I did have a normal-type conscience -- an' trust me, I don't -- I still woulda felt okay 'bout swipin' it from this guy.

And o'course, I did swipe it from 'im!

I followed 'im kinda discreetly for a while. He was walkin' away from th'waterfront an' toward th'city itself, so I figgered I hadda make my move soon or witnesses'd start pilin' up like pigeon droppin's on a statue. Luck'ly f'me, th'guy steps in 'tween a couple o'big crates t'take a leak, an' while he's doin' his business, I swoop by an' snatch th'case.

Nothin's ever too easy, o'course, so even as I'm makin' th'grab, Handsome's sixth-freakin'-sense or somethin' kicks in, an' he whips around -- still relievin' himself, only now on my shoes, fer cryin' out loud! -- t'take the case back. Luck'ly for ol' Lefty, the sun's in his eyes, so he doesn't get a good look at me, an' he don't see it comin' when I smack 'im as hard as I can right in the puss with th'case itself! Ha!

I take off like a bat outta hell, hearin' 'im moanin' and groanin' like a wounded animal as he lays there in his own urine. An' no, I don't look back, are you nuts? Lefty's no shmendrick.

Screw it, at least he's still alive, right?

Couldn't wait t'get home t'see what kinda goodies I got.

Part Two -- The Take

So here I was, in a fancy hotel room 'stead o'th'kinda motel rooms I'm used to, y'know, thanks t'the welcome run o'good luck I had at the dog track a few nights back. (It's how I bought my new suit, too, y'know?) I decide to be a fresser, an' call down t'room service an' order myself a thick'n'juicy hunk o'prime rib. After hangin' up th'phone I plunk Handsome's suitcase down on top o'th'bureau and start checkin' it out.

It ain't heavy, considerin' its size. An' not so surprisin', it's locked. The "locked" part just makes me laugh; I'm a pro, remember?

I get it open in a few secs, and find that somebody's wrapped an entire bedsheet 'round this whatever-it-is f'paddin', so it won't bang around too much in the suitcase. I take th'bundle out o'th'case and put it on th'bed t'give me more room t'work.

As I unwrap th'sheet, a funny smell -- like spoiled meat -- starts t'invade th'room. "Oy," says me, "This ain't good, Lefty!" Inside the sheet is somethin' long an' thick, wrapped up in some taped-up butcher paper. It ain't too big, and it's too long'n'narrow t'be, like, a human head or somethin', I figger, as I start laughin' nervously. "A freakin' head? You seen too many movies, Lefty!" I remember thinkin'. Then again, there was that rotten stink...

But it wasn't no head, o'course. Like I said, wrong shape. This thing was only a little bit bigger'n my...

Forearm.

I almost puke. Inside th'paper is some poor mamzer's left hand'n'lower left arm. It's pretty obvious that th'dear departed was a guy, from all the white hair on th'arm'... an' th'back o'th'hand, too. There's a fancy-shmantzy gold ring on his ring finger, which I don't pull off, fightin' all instinct, an' one more little detail I can't help but notice:

Whoever this unlucky soul was, he was one o'my people, an' he spent some time in one o'th'Nazi death camps... cuz there on his arm is one o'those damn tattoos I seen way too many of.

I ain't too religious, as y'mighta guessed, but this gave me the creeps. I hadda get rid of it. But since it was pretty freakin' obvious that th'luck I'd had at the track was now officially kaput, I figgered that if I just decided to toss it in th'nearest dumpster, some cop'd spot me disposin' o'th'evidence.

So I said t'myself, "Wonder if Handsome would want it back?" while I was callin' room service t'cancel my prime rib.

I'd kinda lost my appetite anyway, y'know?

Part Three -- The Meet

I wrapped that smelly sucker up in the sticky paper first, an' th'sheet second, and slammed that case shut. I took only a few secs t'wash my hands, an' off I went, headed right back t'the docks.

See, my mind was goin' a mile a minute, an' I was havin' all sorts o'creative flashes as t'exactly why this arm was in a suitcase like this. An' mixed in with th'flashes was all kindsa questions, some I could ask Handsome... but most he prob'ly woulda been clueless about. (I was still figgerin' he'd swiped th'case himself, y'know?)

The most unsettlin' thought was that this was some kinda freakin' trophy, maybe belongin' t'some professional hitman who'd kept it t'prove that he'd completed a mission, y'know? An' I sure as hell didn't want him lookin' for whoever'd ripped off his precious case, an' windin' up with me, right?

I was still on the outskirts o'th'heavier-trafficked streets, not yet even as far as th'docks, when I spotted Handsome, shufflin' along like the poor schnook he was. I hadn't been walkin' f'ten minutes! Maybe my luck wasn't totally gone, I figgered.

"Hey! Hey!" I yelled, when I'd almost caught up to 'im. A bunch o'people, Handsome included, looked t'see who I was yellin' at. I pointed right at 'im t'eliminate confusion, y'know? "You! Overcoat!"

He looked at me kinda funny for a sec, prob'ly wond'rin' what some old Jewish guy in a two-piece suit would be screamin' at him for. I mean, don't forget, he didn't really get a look at me when I snatched th'case. Then he saw th'case itself. His eyes bugged out an' he took off in th'other direction.

Maybe my spiffy suit made 'im think I was a cop, an' he figgered I wanted t'question him about the suitcase? Maybe he thought I was th'rightful owner, shall we say, an' that I wanted to "thank" him proper f'havin' ripped it off from me? Hell, did he even know what was in th'case?

I never had a chance to ask 'im any of that crap. I hadn't been chasin' Handsome for more'n a couple o'blocks before he darted into traffic an' got hit by one o'those brand-new Fords some wiseass decided to call a Mustang.

Damn.

I was far from the only one who crowded 'round 'im t'see if he was dead. An' yeah, he was. Shame.

Even as I was wond'rin' "Now what?" I got my freakin' answer. A voice outta nowhere yelled "Hey, you!" an' my head swivelled around like that broad in "The Exorcist," only to realize exactly how Handsome'd felt not two minutes earlier.

There were two guys in suits -- cheap suits, not a dandy like mine -- pointin' at me. "Yeah, you! With the suitcase!" shouted one of 'em, th'taller one. "Don't move!"

Cheap suits, I said. These weren't hitmen. These were detectives. An' when a cop tells me t'do somethin' -- anythin' -- I do the freakin' opposite, y'know?

So I took off like a raped ape... but like a schmuck, I held onto th'freakin' case, can you believe it?

Not only did that make it look like th'case'n'me were "connected," y'might say, but it slowed me down.

I keep in really good shape, like I said. So even at sixty-three, I could usually outrun a couple o'middle-aged cops. On a good day, anyway.

But as y'may o'noticed, this wasn't a particularly good day f'me!

I dunno which one caught up t'me first -- ignore th'crap Hollywood churns out, y'never turn around when you're bein' chased -- but he tackled me like a NFL pro. I went down hard'n'smacked my head on th'pavement... and blacked out.

Part Four -- The Grill

I woke up sittin' on a metal chair, an' cuffed to a long table in a room I'd seen more'n my share of over the years. I even recognized the guy who handed me a cold coffee when I opened my eyes. Known 'im since he was a rookie. No kiddin'.

"Hey, Lefty..."

"Officer Kyle? Long time, kid. I see this room got another paint job."

"Here," he said, pushin' the coffee closer t'me. "You'd better drink this. You'll need to have your wits about you. You're in big trouble this time, Lefty!"

"Nahh, don't you fret, boychik. I got an explanation f'all o'this."

One of the two detectives who'd chased me down earlier was in th'room with me'n'Officer Kyle. I just hadn't noticed 'im. "Don't be too sure of that, southpaw," he said.

"Southpaw? Why'd you call me that?"

"It's what they call a left-handed pitcher in baseball."

"No! Really?" I said, sarcastic-like. "Look, you yutz, I know what a freakin' southpaw is! I was a Sandy Koufax fan when the Dodgers were still in Brooklyn. But I ain't no southpaw!"

His eyebrows kinda knitted together as he looked at the copy of my rap sheet which was sittin' on the clipboard he was holdin'. "Then why the hell do they...? Oh. Allen Lefcowicz. Got it."

He studied my little resumé for a few secs, then dropped th'clipboard on th'table I was cuffed to. "So, what makes a small-time career criminal graduate to murder, Allen?" I sat silent for a bit, cuz I didn't have no lawyer there yet. The detective smiled liked he was readin' my mind. "Don't worry, that was just a rhetorical question, Allen. Nothing's official until your public defender arrives."

I couldn't keep my mouth shut, so I blurted out, "I didn't kill nobody! That dumb schvartze ran into an oncoming car! And don't freakin' call me Allen. Only people who knew me as a little pisher coulda got away with that, shmendrick!"

Th'guy came around t'my side of the table an' kicked the freakin' chair right out from under me. I was still cuffed t'the table, o'course, so I couldn't break my fall too good, an' landed hard. He bent down so we were face t'face, and his voice was like freakin' thunder in my ears. "I wasn't talking about the homeless man, Lefcowicz! I was talking about the man whose arm you severed, you sick little freak! And just for the record, yutz and shmendrick aren't going to cut it with me! It's Detective Streimekis to you, loudmouth! You hear me?"

"Yeah, I hear ya. An' you're breathin' in my face." He stepped away. "Well, help me up, willya?"

"Help yourself up, Lefcowicz." He glared at Kyle, who was gonna assist me, from th'looks o'things. "And don't you go near him, officer," he warned.

I picked up th'chair -- an' myself -- an' tried t'recapture a little bit o'dignity. "Streimekis, huh?" He nodded. "Lemme guess: Litvak?"

"Yup. Third generation Lithuanian Jew. Something to say about it?"

"Nope," I said, sitting down.

"Okay, here's what we've put together: For some reason -- and we're thinking robbery -- you decided to kill some old Jewish man... a Holocaust survivor, no less, you lousy...! We don't have an ID on him yet, but since you were so kind as to provide us with several fingerprints..." He laughed at his own little joke. "Anyway, keeping the arm was pretty stupid, don't you think?"

"Look, y'got this all wrong..."

"Shut up, Lefcowicz, I'm not done. That poor black guy somehow got the opportunity to steal the suitcase, and kept ahead of you for at least two days. And when one of our guys spotted a tramp with a pricey-looking suitcase, we decided to watch him as much as possible until the true owner showed up to reclaim his property. Which you did. So we didn't know of your involvement until you finally tracked down the guy who stole your grisly little souvenir, and chased him into traffic. So, Lefcowicz... Did you kill the old guy for his money? It would sure explain how you were able to afford the fancy digs advertised by the key in your suit pocket. Quite a notch above your usual accommodations, according to a few of the officers here. It'd explain the suit, too, for that matter." He inhaled and exhaled loudly. "Did I leave anything out?"

"Nope. Everythin's there. Course, s'all bullshit, but..." He looked like he was gonna come 'round th'table again an'smack me one, but he didn't. "Look, I paid f'th'hotel room and th'suit with dough I won at th'track a few nights ago." The detective chuckled, and even Officer Kyle smirked. "Look, guys, trust me on this one..."

That got a big laugh.

Part Five -- The Punchline

Like I said, all that was a couple o'days ago. My lawyer strikes me as bein' a total putz, so I ain't feelin' too good about this at all.

You prob'ly wonder why I'm takin' this bum rap so well, ain'tcha? Well, remember when I said "I ain't never done nothin' real bad," an' then added, "Well... almost never?"

Quite a few years back, I robbed a guy of twenty-three dollars in an alley... an' unfortunately, I hit 'im too freakin' hard on the back of th'head with a pipe... and he died. An' no one ever came after me f'that, so I guess this is karma's way of havin' a nosh at the expense of my tuchus.

Author's note: Regardless of whether or not "Lefty" Lefcowicz's public defender was a putz, Lefty was acquitted of all but a few minor charges. He learned his lesson and became a productive member of society.

Yeah, right. You didn't really believe that second sentence, did you?

* * * * *

This story is dedicated to Will Elder, Harvey Kurtzman, Al Feldstein, Allan Sherman, Don Rickles, and countless additional Jewish comedians and comic book creators who gave me an appreciation for Yiddishkeit years before I ever heard the word.