Kindle Edition
Amazon
Fixer: A Novel by Ed Brodow
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: Ed Brodow Publishing
ISBN-10: 1499559925
Type: Fiction
Pages: 228
Copyright: May 16, 2014
ISBN-13: 9781499559927
Price: $7.99 (eBook)
Power broker Harry Leonnoff takes on Mayor Fiorello La Guardia in this thrilling novel of New York City politics.
From the slums of the Lower East Side to New Orleans, the Vatican, and the bloody battle of Belleau Wood, Fixer is the spellbinding tale of a fearless politician with a limp and a thirty-eight who is faced with an impossible choice between his career and his integrity. Harry Leonnoff, uneducated son of Russian Jewish immigrants, overcomes the poverty of the Lower East Side, a crippling bout with polio, and rampant anti-Semitism to become the admired Robin Hood of Depression-Era New York. He helps four mayors get elected, saves nine innocent black men from the electric chair, and comes to the aid of immigrants and the poor. But the enmity of Fiorello La Guardia may be too much even for Harry Leonnoff to fix. Ed Brodow introduces us to one of the most compelling characters in contemporary American fiction.
Excerpt
Marshal Harry Leonnoff sat with his bum leg resting on the desk. The open jacket of his dark, double-breasted suit revealed a flashy red tie and a pair of lavender suspenders. If you looked hard enough, the grip of a large thirty-eight special peeked out at you lasciviously from the top of his waistband. The oversized foot enjoying the comfort of the desk was encased in a heavy, black orthopedic shoe that resembled a combat boot. His hands were stuffed in his trouser pockets. From the bored expression on his face, he might have been mistaken for your average, balding civil servant. At the opposite side of the desk stood a well-dressed, well-fed, middle-aged white man with a mustache, and a short, stooped, older black man with a crest of snowy white hair.
“He hasn’t paid his rent in two months,” said the white man with the hint of a brogue. “There is no reason why I should have to support this lazy bastard.”
The black man did not reply. His bloodshot eyes were trained on the floor. He nervously fingered an old cap.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Jesse?” the marshal inquired of the black man in a theatrically powerful bass baritone that was used to giving orders. As Harry’s face came to life, intelligent blue eyes sparkled over an aggressive nose and strong Mongol cheekbones.
“Jeez, Mr. Harry,” replied the black man. “I been payin’ ma rent fo’ six years to this here man. But ah done lost ma job down at the Navy Yard when ah got hurt. Ma wife she cain’t work no mo’. He axed me for da rent money, and ah begs him.”
“These niggers all have one excuse or another,” said the landlord. “I’m sick and tired of it.”
“Please, Mr. Harry,” said Jesse. “Ah’s gonna pay him just as soon as ah gets me a job. Don’t let him throw me out in da street.”
“Is that true?” asked Harry. “Has he paid his rent for six years straight?”
“Well, yes, but ... can I talk to you privately for a minute, Mr. Leonnoff?”
“Jesse,” said Harry, “Go wait over there by the window for a minute.” He beckoned to the landlord to come closer. “What’s on your mind?”
“Look, Mr. Leonnoff,” whispered the man. “You and me, we understand each other.” He reached into his pants pocket and produced a twenty-dollar bill. “This is a simple case. He doesn’t pay his rent. He gets evicted. It’s too bad. I don’t like it and you don’t like it, but it happens every day.”
In 1917, it did happen every day. Rent strikes were a common occurrence of the period, and so the marshal’s job of executing eviction judgments against tenants could be extremely lucrative. An enterprising marshal could earn a small fortune in fees and payoffs, which made the job a sought-after perk of public life. When Mayor John Purroy Mitchel appointed Harry Leonnoff as city marshal, it was a plum patronage assignment. Harry’s take was more than $20,000 per annum, a king’s ransom by the standards of the time. A practice that is now frowned upon, in Harry’s day the offer of a twenty-dollar bill for looking the other way was not at all unusual, and this landlord knew it.
As the man expected, Harry palmed the twenty, winked at the landlord, and called for the black man.
“Jesse, how much is your rent?” asked Harry.
“Eight dollars a month,” replied Jesse.
Harry leaped up with surprising speed and stuffed the twenty into the dumbstruck landlord’s vest pocket.
“Here’s for the two months he owes you, and here’s for next month.”
Harry fished out four singles from his own pocket and jammed them into the vest with the twenty.
“That’s twenty-four bucks. You want to count it?”
“Wait a minute,” screamed the landlord. “You can’t do that!”
Harry grabbed a leather sap that had been resting on top of the desk and, from the intimidating vantage point of his not quite six feet, held it up as if poised to strike. The white man flinched as Harry’s disarming blue eyes cut him in half.
“Listen you prick,” Harry said in a loud, booming voice that startled everyone in the large room. “You got your goddamn rent, now get the hell out of here before I throw you out on your ass!”
The terrified white man ran out of the room. Harry put one arm around the black man’s stooped shoulders and with his free hand slipped a ten-dollar bill into the pocket of the man’s shabby coat. Jesse, staring at the floor, began to sob.
“Keep your chin up, brother,” said Harry. “The Lord will provide.”
The phone rang as Harry escorted the black man to the door.
Excerpted from Fixer by Ed Brodow
Copyright 2008 Ed Brodow. All rights reserved.
|
