A WELL-DRESSED MAN

by Stephen Shaiken

© 2020

Manny Krazloff told strangers his mother’s maiden name was Rothschild, usually delivered in a fake British accent.  Manny used this ruse  more frequently as time passed, and he became more practiced at the art of deception. Mark was amazed at how often people believed him.

Manny’s real name was Martin, but since third grade, he was Manny, because his tall, thin body called to mind a praying mantis. At sixteen, he was six feet tall, lantern-jawed, thin as a rake, and looked like he could be folded up and carried away.

Mark and Manny became friends their sophomore year at high school. Manny was a year older, so they never shared any classes through junior high. Then Mark skipped the eighth grade, and entered high school at the same time as Manny. They quickly became constant companions during lunch and in the school yard recesses. Manny spoke endlessly on subjects in which his peers, Mark excepted, showed no interest. They cared not at all for art, literature, cinema, or any music not played on the top forty stations. Mark found in Manny an island of sophistication and intelligence amidst an ocean of ignorance.  Manny was the only one of the older boys who treated Mark well, and many treated him poorly, except when he was with Manny. Mark was elated to have such a friend, having enjoyed few thus far, and Manny enjoyed filling Mark’s ears with his accumulated wisdom. He also enjoyed borrowing five dollars every Friday afternoon, when Mark was paid for his part-time job at the neighborhood pharmacy.

The two young men shared a mutual awe of JFK. “Dripping with class,” Manny said whenever President Kennedy appeared on a television screen. Mark was dazzled by the constellation of JFK’s achievements: war hero, author, scholar, brave liberal Senator, youngest man elected President, stirring speaker, and aggressive touch football player. He didn’t believe any of those stories that JFK was really in bad shape. “Republican lies,” his father called them.

On that sad day in November of their sophomore year,  students were inexplicably dismissed early, but a classmate with a transistor radio told them the news as they walked home from the bus stop. Mark began to cry, and some of the older boys laughed at him. Manny gently placed his hands on Mark’s shoulders and briefly massaged them.

“Be strong,” he whispered.”That’s what the President would want.”

                                                                                        #

Manny dressed well, despite his family being no more affluent than anyone else in working class Macbeth Heights. The Borough of Queens ranked low on the New York City prestige scale, and Macbeth Heights ranked low among Queens residents. Manny told strangers he came from Forest Hills. Mark figured this was because no one would believe a Rothschild lived in Macbeth Heights, but Forest Hills was a possibility. After all, he told Mark, everyone knew about their famous tennis stadium, and tennis was identified with wealth. Mark couldn’t say, as he knew no one one in Macbeth Heights who played tennis. In truth, the Krazloffs lived in a two bedroom apartment above a delicatessen. The scent of pastrami perpetually lingered in the Krazloff household.

Mr. Bennie Krazloff, the family patriarch, was  Macbeth Height’s most controversial resident. He worked as a modestly- paid manager of a hardware store, but in a genetic predictor of his son’s behavior, dressed as if he were Undersecretary of State. His wardrobe exceeded what his economy justified. In the eyes of the neighborhood, Bennie was just a fool, who would eventually have his day of reckoning. And indeed he did.

After Bennie served many years as treasurer of the local American Legion Post, a serious cash discrepancy was discovered. A long train of funds could not be accounted for, annual statements could not be reconciled.  Such a thing had never before happened, not while Hilly Flusterman served fifteen years as treasurer, or the six years before then when Irving Glapsner kept the books. A special committee was appointed to investigate, and at the next Legion monthly meeting, its Chairman asked Bennie for his books.  Bennie stormed out, went home, and burned every page in his kitchen sink. For days, the aroma of charred account books seasoned the smell of pastrami in the Krazloff home.

The Post imposed a special assessment on its members to cover the missing funds. Everyone paid except Bennie, who quit the Post without uttering a single word in his defense. For several years thereafter, he  was the neighborhood pariah. As nearly all male heads of household were veterans and members of  the post, the Krazloff name was caked in mud, some of which never flaked off. The scuttlebutt around the neighborhood was that the American Legion paid for Bennie’s fancy wardrobe, noting that after the missing funds were discovered,  Bennie’s wardrobe remained static. The community eventually relented to the extent of allowing a nod in recognition upon sighting Bennie, but nothing beyond. Some parents prohibited their children from associating with Manny, simply because he was a Krazloff, but Mark’s parents never went that far.

Aside from spending time with Manny or working at the pharmacy, Mark’s main activity was spent at the local pool hall. Mark did not play very well, and rarely took to the table, but once he discovered the Heights Pool & Billiards he became a regular, visiting three or four times a week. It was a short walk from home. The old timers took a liking to  the shy, diminutive young man, and regaled him with tales of bygone days and the great confrontations between legendary hustlers. Many of these old men were not particularly skilled players, and were there to bet or kibitz, or like Mark, enjoy the company. Mark never grew tired of hearing these stories. He promised himself that one day he would write them down, in a collection of stories, like John Steinbeck did with Tortilla Flats.

One Spring day in final semester of their senior year, Manny accompanied Mark to the  pool hall after classes. Manny never showed any interest in the game, and told Mark he couldn’t understand what he saw in a bunch of old geezers who blew their pensions betting on pool. He offered Mark no explanation for his sudden change of heart, and Mark was happy to spend the time with his friend.

Manny wore a dark green sport coat with shiny gold buttons. It fit him perfectly. A middle aged man watching the same match as Manny and Mark  commented on the coat.

“Pretty snazzy, kid. Got your own tailor?”

Manny looked down at the man, a half a foot shorter. “More or less,” he replied,

When walking home with Mark, Manny suddenly laughed and explained the coat’s origin.

“Walked into Bloomingdales, tried it on when no one was looking, walked around examine a few other items, and walked out like a captain.”

“Weren’t you scared someone was watching?” Mark asked.

“Nah, they only watch colored people and gypsies,” Manny said. “And I just would have said I was looking for a cashier. They would let me off with a warning.”

Mark recalled his mother warning him to stay away from Manny.

“The father is a crook and I’m sure the apple does not fall far from the tree,” she declared. “Your father paid for a bunch of Bennie’s ties.”

“He’s my friend,” Mark countered. “He’d never do me wrong.”

“People like the Krazloff’s don’t have friends,” his mother replied. “Just people they can use.

“Besides, he’s got that crooked, crocodile smile, just like his father,” she added

If Mark expected any succor from his father, it was not forthcoming. When Mark once mentioned he was a going to spend an evening with Manny, his father issued a stern warning, more forceful than his mother’s.

“Has that Manny Krazloff ever done an honest days work? All you kids have part-time jobs and summer jobs, and this guy just hangs around, dressed like a movie star. Something’s not right.”

Mark grew up hearing these stories about Bennie Krazloff, but still looked up to Manny. Mark absorbed what there was to be learned from Manny Krazloff: Edith Piaf, Charles Aznavour, Camus and Sartre, Ionesco. Mark pledged to emulate Manny and read every word of Winston Churchill’s History of the English Speaking People. He was nonetheless glad he had not told his parents about the loans to Manny. There were now fifteen, totaling seventy-five dollars. Manny told him he would be writing a book review for the New Yorker magazine, and he would be able to pay him back then.

“They book their writers a year in advance, so it may take time, but you’ll be paid.”

                                                                              #

One spring day in their senior year, Manny pulled up in front of the pharmacy just as Mark was leaving, as he had promised during lunch. Mark expected to see Manny on foot, but he sat behind the wheel of a blue Pontiac Catalina parked illegally in the bus stop in front of the pharmacy . The car looked to be about three or four years old at most.

“On long-term loan,” was all he said.

The car was air-conditioned, with a built-in-stereo. Mark savored the cool air blowing across his cheeks and ankles, though the noise of the fan obscured the jazz station. Manny spoke loudly.

“Remember that if they catch us, you take the blame. I’m over eighteen and I might not get off as easy as you. You hang on to everything. If they ask why the bigger size, tell them it’s a graduation present for a friend.” High school graduations were in full swing that second week in June, and Manny had indeed just turned eighteen.

Manny walked him through the routine several times as they drove to Westbury Mall, considered by Macbeth Heights residents to be where the elite shopped. It didn’t take much to appear as an elite to someone from Macbeth Heights, Manny Krazloff excluded.

“It’s upper middle class, but not really rich, the way I’m gonna be some day,” Manny said as he breezed along the Long Island Expressway, crossing the border between  the New York City Borough of Queens into suburban Nassau County.

“As you’re walking, every so often you crane your neck like you’re looking for a cashier. Might even be a good idea to ask some salesperson on the floor which way to one. That way, if they do grab you, you can say you looking to pay, and you have someone to back you up.” It seemed pretty clever to Mark.

An hour later, Mark wandered the Men’s section of Macy’s, carrying two pairs of pants, three shirts, a sport jacket, and a belt, all Manny’s size. A Greek fisherman’s cap sat perched on Mark’s head, the kind Bob Dylan wore on the cover of his first album, which Mark played at least once a day. That cap was for him. He followed Manny’s instructions, and when a pretty sales woman pointed towards a cashier, Mark walked in the other direction, towards the door, where Manny would be waiting outside.

Mark was no more than twenty feet from the door when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a deep voice asked him to stop. Mark turned around and saw a stocky six-footer in a tight gray suit and a hound dog face. “I’m going to have to ask you t come with me please,” he said in a soft but firm voice. The young woman who had directed him to a cashier stood next to the big man. She stepped forward and took the clothing from Mark’s hands, a stern look other face. She looked at Mark for a few seconds, and he felt relief when she turned away.

In the little office next to the fitting rooms, the six-footer  faced Mark across a metal table. Other than the table and chairs and a telephone, the room was bare.

“You came back clean,” the big man said. “No shoplift records with the cops or the stores. And you look like such a twerp, I can almost believe you were just looking for the cashier when you absent mildly wound up by the doors to the street. But one thing holds me back. That tall drink of water you were seen talking to before the spotter reported you to me. Who was he? How’s he mixed up in this?”

“Just some guy I knew from school. We were in a few classes together sophomore year. Said he had to go meet his mother for his ride home.”

“Funny, he didn’t have any packages,” the big man said. That stuff you had could fit him, not you. I’m not buying  that they’re gifts for your graduating friends. It don’t work that way.”

“I don’t know what his story is,” Mark replied.

The store detective rose from his chair and stared down at Mark.

“I think we both the story. He was using you kid, and he don’t give two shits what happens to you.”

Mark’s hands shook and his knees wobbled.

“But I do,” the man said. “I know you’re a good kid, never do anything like this unless you got manipulated by some prick. And I know you figured that out, so I’m gonna let you off with an informal warning. You’re not even banned from this store. Come back any time you want, just be prepared to pay.  Agreed?” He reached his big hand across the table. Mark grabbed it.

“And we’ll be watching you,” the detective said.

                                                                       #

It had grown dark. The only lighting in the vast and mostly empty parking lot came from scattered underpowered lampposts. Most stores were closed. Mark remembered exactly where Manny had parked, confirmed by the closed chain shoe store directly ahead and, the dim lamppost immediately to the left of the last-in-row spot. It was empty.

We forgot to plan for this, Mark thought. Manny must be somewhere around. He wouldn’t just leave me here like this. He began the first of several circular trips around the lot, interspersed with long walks between nearly deserted lanes. He longed to find Manny, to tell him how strong he had been, how he stood by his friend when the going got tough. After an hour, he gave up. Wherever Manny was waiting, they weren’t going to find each other.

A workman taking out the trash directed him to the nearest Long Island Railroad Station. “Maybe two miles right up that road,” said. He pointed to the big street fronting the mall.

“Shouldn’t take more than half an hour,” he added. “You should easily make the last train.”

The worker was right. During the last ten minutes, it started to rain, at first a gentle drizzle, but by the time Mark reached the platform, it was coming down heavy, and was starting to seep through his thin jacket and shirt.  The last train was on the tracks, and he scurried to board before it left. Mark paid the premium for buying his ticket on the train, but it was off-peak, and he had just enough change in his pocket to pay for the trip to the Woodside Station.

Mark sank into a cushioned seat and let his head rest on the back. He felt something rubbing against his head. He reached up, and felt the cap he had put on. Mr. Brilliant detective never even thought about this, he thought. Manny will get a laugh out of that one.

Five minutes later, he wasn’t so sure.

THE END