Prologue
March 13, 1945
Caraballo Mountains, Luzon, Philippines
The rabbit’s foot swung from the back pocket of Bob’s fatigues like a furry little tail. Bob didn’t care how stupid it looked. He was the luckiest man alive, and he wasn’t ashamed to show it. Like his best friend, Al, slogging up the jungle trail behind him, he was only twenty-five, but three years of hard fighting across the Pacific had made them both battle-savvy warriors. Pearl Harbor seemed like a hundred years ago.
A month earlier, they had been transferred to a new division to join the 33rd Infantry when it sailed into Lingayen Gulf. Bob thought back to that first morning when a Jeep dropped them off pier-side, and they watched their new comrades come shuffling down the gangplanks. They all marched to a nearby staging area for an earlymorning briefing. Even at 7 o’clock, the thick, damp air gave the newbies their first hint of what was in store for them.
The major—short, stocky, and already sweating through his bulging uniform—sounded like the accountant he’d been before the war as he told the troops they would only be doing a little “mopping up.” Bob remembered the major’s exact words: “This war is won. The whole damn world knows it. You men just do what remains to be done. Then you can sail home to your wives or girlfriends and get that big hero’s welcome you’ve been dreaming about.”
Bob had looked around at all of the fresh young faces nodding in agreement and thought for a moment that he was the only one who wasn’t buying it—until Al hissed, “Do you believe this crap?” Then the major wrapped it up: “Look sharp out there, men. Do what you’ve been trained to do, and let’s get the hell out of here.” Like the major said, everyone knew the war was won. How could you not? The problem was, nobody had told the surviving Japanese soldiers—soldiers who had taken a pledge of honor to fight to the death. Unlike Bob and Al, most of the Illinois boys in the 33rd hadn’t seen much combat: the Prairie Division, fresh from training in Hawaii and pretty green. Green enough to believe the major when he called what they were in for “mopping up.” The sharp crack of a rifle brought Bob’s mind back to the moment. “Sniper!” Al shouted. Instinctively, Bob and the others fell to the ground, taking cover in the thick jungle underbrush. Bob tried to block out the image of the corporal on the point who’d taken the sniper’s bullet and silently crumbled to the ground. He wondered, where’s the major now? “Mopping up.” There was silence for a moment. A few of the seven remaining members of the patrol tried to peek out in search of the enemy ahead “Grenade,” someone yelled as the deadly orb flew over their heads. It landed with a dull thud twenty feet away, and a moment later a deafening blast erupted, killing the two soldiers behind them and ripping open a third. A Japanese battle cry from the brush triggered a cross fire that pinned the GIs to the ground. Driven by terror, two greenies up front broke and started running back down the path. Watching in horror, Bob knew those boys didn’t have a chance. They both fell, one dead, the other dying, only a few feet from where Bob and Al, now the only two remaining survivors, had taken cover. The old friends shared a silent, knowing stare. They’d been here before and didn’t need words to communicate. Al, being in front, quickly stood and sprayed the woods
with fire. Bob instinctively reached back to rub his rabbit’s foot for good luck before lunging five feet down the path. And so it went: each friend took a turn putting up covering fire while the other retreated down the hill. The plan was to leapfrog like this for as long as they could, praying that either the Japs showed themselves or the cavalry came riding in. On the third rotation down the mountainside, another grenade exploded to their right just as Al stood to fire.
Shrapnel tore at the side of his face, barely missing Bob, who was already scampering forward. Bob glanced back to see if Al had escaped the blast. Instead he saw that the explosion had spun his wounded friend around, causing his rifle to recoil. Instinctively, Bob tried to turn away, just as he felt the searing pain of Al’s stray bullet piercing his flesh. And in that moment, Al too realized he’d shot his best friend. Nearly blinded by the blood streaming into his eyes, his
head pounding from the ringing in his ears, Al followed his instincts and began running away from the gunfire. But only for a few feet before his foot caught on something, sending him sprawling to the ground. Totally disoriented, Al struggled to his knees to make one more attempt at escape. Rising, pain throbbing from his bloody face, he thought he could hear the Japanese barking orders. They were getting closer. And he wanted to run, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t run,
because he knew that what caused him to trip wasn’t a jungle root or a dead animal. It was Bob. Frozen for just a moment, he willed himself to turn and
run back up the hill. Back toward the attacking Japs. Back to his friend lying on the ground, bleeding from the gunshot that he himself had fired.
He found Bob right where he knew he would be, lying face-down among the undergrowth. Al grabbed him by his shoulder and rolled him on his side as bullets began to fly all around them. Kneeling at his side, Al cradled Bob’s head and saw his eyelids begin to flutter. Their faces only inches apart, Al whispered between teeth clenched in pain. “Looks like your rabbit’s foot may be losing its power, buddy.” Before Bob could answer, Al stole a glance up at the slowly advancing Japs—bayonets fixed and now less than one hundred feet away. Silently, he checked his rifle, only to find that the action was jammed. Bob’s weapon was nowhere to be found. Al was thankful for the dense jungle cover, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Bob’s eyes flickered open. Not seeming to notice the bloody pulp of Al’s cheek, he simply asked, “Can I see it? Can you give me my rabbit’s foot?” Al took another look back and motioned for his friend to whisper. Then he reached behind Bob and, with a single, firm yank, tore the rabbit’s foot away from the fatigues. Gently he handed it over.
In the dim light of the overgrowth, Bob tried to make it out. He studied his rabbit’s foot as if he’d never seen it before. “What the hell, you moron! Look at this. You shot it! You shot my lucky rabbit’s foot.” Al took it back, and sure enough, the metal clasp at the top was badly burned and dented from his stray bullet.
“Okay, let me get this straight,” he whispered. “I come running back up the hill to save your ass. Now we’re both about to get killed, and you’re pissed off that I shot your stupid trinket?” Bullets started flying again. A quick glance up showed the nearest Japanese soldier standing still, less than forty feet away. Snatching his rabbit’s foot back, Bob propped himself up on one elbow. “Yeah, I’m pissed. Not only did you shoot my rabbit’s foot, you shot me in the ass too!”
The ground rumbled as more soldiers made a charge from behind them. Shooting. Yelling out commands. Flinging grenades. The two friends realized at the same moment that they were saved: a full platoon of Illinois boys from the 33rd came charging up the hill, forcing the enemy into retreat. Bob managed a smirk: “Who says the luck wore off my rabbit’s foot?” “Medic!” Al shouted as the 33rd drew nearer. As the medic dropped down on one knee to tend the
wounded soldiers, he stared in disbelief at two bleeding Yanks arguing with each other like an old married couple. Al waved the medic away from his bloody face, signaling that he should treat Bob first. “So you’re not even going to thank me for coming back for you?” Bob only shrugged. “Why would I thank you? I knew you’d come back.”
Three months later, on June 15, 1945, the two soldiers were recuperating in the cramped sick bay of a troop carrier bound for Hawaii. The same day in Chicago, a young colored boy in the upper deck of Comiskey Park squirmed in anticipation as he waited for the thirteenth annual National Negro League All-Star Game to begin. It was a mild day, and pretty much every seat in the stadium was filled. The previous year, the game had nearly been cancelled due to a players’ strike, but that had been settled when the players each got a $90 pay raise. This year, though, there was never a doubt that the game would be played, and the crowd buzzed with excitement. But no one was more excited to be there than the boy high above left field. He was wearing his favorite red plaid shirt along with his most prized possession: the baseball mitt his father had given him last Christmas. Today was going to be his special day. With four younger brothers and sisters, he rarely got his parents to himself. Worst of all, he didn’t get to see much of his dad, who worked every shift he could get as a bus driver for the Chicago Transit Authority. But not this afternoon. This afternoon was his. But where was his dad? Father and son had been planning this outing for weeks, and so far everything was perfect. His dad was to meet him at the stadium as soon as he got off work. Aunt Maxine had walked him over to the ballpark and given him his ticket as he got into line. She’d also given him 50 cents for snacks as her own special gift, which meant he had almost a dollar in his pocket, even after he’d bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. An usher had helped him find his seat. Now, he was taking it all in: the aroma of hot dogs and popcorn, the slow, steady wave of people trudging up the stairs, but most of all the sea of green that filled the vista from the concrete entrance ramp
to his section high above left field. He watched intently as the batting practice, the introductions from around home plate, and the national anthem all came and went. But no dad. A pretty woman smiled kindly at him as she and the man with her slid by to take their seats next to him. It didn’t take her long to start up a conversation. “Which team are you for, honey?” She had the nicest smile he had ever seen and looked so beautiful in her flowered dress with a huge belt that matched the light brown bonnet on her head. He wanted to impress her with his knowledge. “I’m for the West. I want to see Jackie Robinson running
those bases. My dad says he’s the best there is.” The woman nodded her head. “Sounds like you’re quite a fan. Did you come here all by yourself to see Mr. Jackie Robinson?”
The boy fibbed just a little. “Yep, I walked over here all by myself. But I’m meeting my dad here as soon as he gets off of work.” She didn’t respond, but she did seem a little relieved. She smiled once more and turned back to her companion. In the third inning, he bought a hot dog from one of the vendors, and a few minutes later, another Coke to wash it down. He tried to act like he wasn’t scared, but his constant looks over to the entrance gave him away.
“You okay, sweetie?” “Yes, ma’am. I’m fine. The West is up by two.” “Your dad’s probably just late getting off work.” “Yes, ma’am.” By the seventh inning, the West’s lead had grown to three, but he wasn’t paying much attention. Mostly, he just stared straight out at the field. The nice woman put her hand on his arm. “What’s your name?” He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he mumbled, “James Artis.” “Well, James Artis, is there anyone you’d like me to call?
There’s a pay phone back by those concessions.” By the eighth inning she’d persuaded him to write his phone number on her program book, and she told
her friend she’d be right back. When she returned, she whispered something to the man next to her, and he snapped his head around. James couldn’t hear exactly what he said, but he sure seemed angry as he gestured wildly to the action on the field. The woman just leaned into him and once again whispered in his ear. She turned back to James and smiled sweetly as she took his hand. But there were tears running down her cheeks. “Come on, baby. We’re going to walk you home.”
Sarah’s Funeral
Thinking about the weather isn’t usually considered strange. Still, here I am sitting at my own wife’s funeral and, sonofabitch, would you believe I’m thinking about the weather. It seems like only from a distance that I hear the words of those who stand by Sarah’s coffin to speak. I can hear crying, too, especially the pitiful tiny sobs of the small children I love, but none of that is in my mind right now. Just the weather.
It’s the sunlight that’s throwing me off. Funerals are meant to be held on dark, rainy days. But here I am, sitting in the chapel, and all I can see is the brilliant Maryland winter sunlight gushing through the stained-glass windows and shining a spotlight on Sarah’s coffin.
Where are the dark clouds? Where is the rain? I mean, somebody has died here, for God’s sake, and I’d be a lot more comfortable with the whole thing if it was raining. Jeez. Indiana. Now there’s a place that knows about rain. Rain like it rained that day so many years ago when we buried my father. I was only ten years old, but I can still remember that cold winter rain like it was yesterday. Then again, I can still see my childhood home in Hammond filled with all the family and friends who had come back with us from the cemetery. I can still smell the tuna noodle casserole some of the neighbor ladies brought over, and to this day I still can’t eat the stuff. Like snapshots burned in my mind, I see their sad faces as one by one they took turns telling me how much they loved my father or how proud of me he was or—my personal favorite—that now I was the man of the house. Sure, I was only ten years old, but for my mother’s sake, they said I needed to be a man. And then, of course, they would all hit me with the big one: “Your father was such a great man.”
Sometimes they would say it with a hand on my shoulder, or maybe whisper it in my ear through a crushing hug. Maybe they would be crying, or maybe they’d be smiling sadly. It didn’t matter, because they would all say the same thing: how much they loved him and what a great man he was. Well, a lot of good their love was doing him now, right? And they could cry all they wanted to, but not me. No tears from me. Not one. If he was so great, why did he have to get himself killed? I had run out of the house and away from all those people. No jacket. No hat. Just me in the freezing January rain. Oh, and one more thing. I also had that stupid rabbit’s foot key chain that my father had given me only a few days before. It was supposed to be a lucky charm. Yeah, right. My dad would have told you that I wouldn’t have even been born if it weren’t for that thing, but to me, well, now it all just seemed like a big lie.
So there I was, a ten-year-old man, standing on the curb in the cold, blowy Indiana rain, looking down at my soaking feet, now almost ankle-deep in a miniature river racing down to the drain a few feet away. Thrusting my freezing hands deep down into my pockets I felt it, soft and fluffy on the outside, hard bone on the inside, and I knew right then what I was going to do. I yanked it out of my pocket and threw it into the little river at my feet. Then I stood there, watching with grim satisfaction as the water carried it away toward the drain,
slowly at first and then faster. But then, as if to mock me, it just floated there, right over the steel slats of the street drain, just bobbing up and down, caught somehow, I suppose. It seemed to ask me, “Are you sure, Josh? Are you really sure?” But I just stood there in the rain, not wanting a second chance, just watching, watching, watching, and then in a flash, it’s gone. Down the drain. Into the dark. See you later, Dad. So what the hell kind of funeral is this? No rain, hardly even a cloud. Sure, it’s winter, but with the sun and the brilliant blue Maryland sky, it might as well be August. And there’s that weeping again. And somebody else is standing up, speaking words that sound so familiar. Words about Sarah being a great person, words about how much people loved her. Sarah, Sarah, Sarah. I wish you and my father had met.
January 28, 1983
Ninety-Four Hours before Sarah’s Death
Sarah! Get the door. Sarah!” “You don’t have to shout. I’m right here,” Sarah
snaps. She is holding our little three-year-old, Sophie and her brand new Cabbage Patch doll, gently bouncing her up and down in one arm to try to stop her crying, while towing six-year-old Richie with her other hand. Pretty amazing how she can be gently coo-cooing one of the kids at exactly the same time that she is totally unloading on me. Kind of like a great NFL quarterback who can look left and throw right in a single move. “I’d be happy to get the door.” Oh boy, here it comes. “I’ll get the door, and why don’t you just get Richie dressed, hug Sophie until she stops crying, and then make a list for Sherry of everything she needs to do with the kids this weekend, and get her the phone number of the hotel. After that you can check the freezer for—” “Fine. I’m going.” Perfect. I’m not up even an hour and I get my first blast. Now I’m headed downstairs to open the door for her sister so that she can rip into me too. Swell.
I’m only thirty-six years old, and we’re living in a beautiful home in Potomac. Nice cars, a club membership, no debts to speak of, and she thinks it just happens by magic. She could take her sweet time packing last night; I had work to do. I didn’t get to be the youngest officer and a top attorney in my company by working 9:00 to 5:00. I mean, the whole company is under tremendous pressure to grow our position, and it was my job to finish up a critical strategy report so Grand National wouldn’t be on the hook for millions in new claims based on some wacky, experimental x-ray gizmo. Level Three intervention . . . give me a break! Sounds like something the Dolphins might try to throw at the Skins! OK, deep breath. Just open the door, smile, and say, “Good morning, Sherry. Thanks again for watching the kids this weekend.” God, how I hate that smirk of hers. “Well, look at you, Josh. Nice legs. And I just love how your new burgundy T-shirt goes with those gold boxers.” “Are those your traveling clothes, or do you have some Redskins pants you can throw on, too?” Okay now, be sweet, pleasant. Don’t lose that smile. Don’t let her see you blink. “Gee, Sherry, I’d love to stand here and chat with you for a while, but I have to finish
packing.” Smooth, very smooth. “I was burning the old midnight oil last night.”
“In other words, seeing how many claims you could get denied. Important stuff. I talked to Sarah last night, so I know all about your evening. A pity you couldn’t make time to say goodnight to the kids.” Just keep smiling. “Or maybe help out Sarah a little? You do know she had another bad one last night, don’t you?” “Of course I know she had a bad one. She has had a bad one every day for the last three months. But she’s been to half the doctors in Washington, and nobody can find anything wrong with her. What else can I do?” “So you’re saying it’s all in her head, right? You think Sarah isn’t in pain?” Ah, the phone. Saved by the bell. I yell at the staircase, “Good news, honey, Sherry is here, and she is coming up to help you. I’ll get the phone. Probably my mom anyway.” Mom is no doubt calling to tell us to have a good time and, of course, to make sure I remember. Like I haven’t thought about it every day for more than twenty-five years now, and even more so when Super Bowl weekend rolls around. This should be the best week of the year for me. Especially this year, with my Skins going up against the Dolphins. But there it is, another year’s gone by without him, and Mom thinks she has to remind me. Back in 1956 they didn’t have Super Bowls. But my dad said it was going to be the best weekend of his life: December 30, 1956, to be exact, when his beloved Chicago Bears would take on the New York Giants for the NFL Championship. We were going to watch the game together, he promised. But then, surprise, surprise: the game went on, and the Giants killed the Bears. Too bad my dad wasn’t alive to see it. He’d gotten himself killed too just three days before. “Hi, honey. It’s Mom.” Yeah, surprise, surprise. “I just called to see how the kids are and to wish you and Sarah a nice time on your trip. Are you excited?” “The kids are both fine, and you bet I’m excited. You know how much the Redskins mean to me. Watching the game on a large screen with hundreds of fans will be great. How about you, Mom? Any plans for the weekend?” “You know how I feel about Super Bowl weekend. It seems like every time I turn on the television, all I see is people talking about ‘the big game.’ Well, it’s not the big game to me. It’s just a flood of sad memories. You remember what the end of the football season really means to me, don’t you? I mean, other than your big football game?” “Yes, of course I remember.” I think she’s crying now. “I know. I still can’t believe he’s gone either. Twenty-six years now. So sad.” I’ve gotta get her off this before I go nuts. “Have you seen any of your old friends lately?” “Well, I bumped into Roberta Johnson last week.” Oh shit. I had to ask. “She said that Sammy always asks about you. You know, he lives in the D.C. area too, and you’re both lawyers, so you really ought to give him a call sometime. You two
were such good friends growing up.” “Mom, the last time I spoke to Sammy was at our tenyear high school reunion, and that was just a quick hello when he tracked me down at the bar.” “Well, Mrs. Johnson is very proud of him.” “That’s nice for Mrs. Johnson. Personally, I don’t think that he has two nickels to rub together. Listen, Mom, I really would like to talk to you some more, but I’ve gotta run. I still haven’t finished packing, and our flight leaves in a few hours. Okay?” It’s just about an exact replay of the conversation we have every year on Super Bowl weekend, except this time I get to cut it short so that I can pack. I think the whole vacation thing threw her for a loop, especially when I told her the trip was free. A Premier VIP guest of the casino on Paradise Island: room, food, drinks, even the airfare! Eat, drink, and be merry, soaking up the
sun during the day, then watching the Super Bowl with hundreds of other Redskins (and Dolphins) fans. The only thing is, the rest of those fans are high rollers in the casino, and I’m chump change. They won’t get enough action out
of me to cover the free drinks at the pool, but there it was, a letter last month inviting me and my guest to be guests of the casino. Nice letter to get, wouldn’t you say? Somebody’s head is going to roll when the pit boss sees me putting only an orange five-dollar chip on the line at the crap table. But that’s not my problem. “Mom, really, I gotta go. Yeah, I love you too. Yeah, you bet. Dad was a great man. One of the best. Okay, gotta go.” I’ve got to finish packing, which means I can close the door and not listen to Sherry telling Sarah what a jerk I
am. I think Sherry hates me simply because of my job. She actually thinks my work hurts more people than it helps! Just because it’s my job to figure out how to control our exposure. And guess what? No apologies. I’m good at it! The
thing that Sherry, and maybe even my own wife, doesn’t understand is that the first obligation of any business is to itself. I know it sounds heartless, Sherry would even say evil, but if a company doesn’t take care of itself first, then there is no company. No company means no employees. No employees means no job. No house, cars, or clubs, and no future for Richie and Sophie. I can’t even make it upstairs to finish my packing before the phone starts ringing again.
“Look, Mom, I really can’t talk now.” “Er, Mr. Brown? Is this Mr. Josh Brown, director of policyholder relations for the Grand National Insurance Company?”
“Yes, it is. How can I help you?” Might as well be pleasant; this has got to be a friend of my boss’s if he has my home number. “Mr. Brown, my name is Anthony Scappelli. You don’t know me, but I have health coverage with your company through my union. The thing is, I’m in a pretty desperate way, and I really appreciate your taking my call.” Swell. Just what I need right now. I have minutes left to pack and get Sarah out the door, and somebody from the office thinks this is a great time for a joke. “Listen, Mr. Scallini, I’m sure whoever put you up to this little prank has a great sense of humor, but I don’t, not when I have to catch a plane, so have a nice day.” “It’s Scappelli, Mr. Brown. Anthony Scappelli. I was told to call you because my little daughter is dying and your
company won’t do anything about it. That sound like a joke to you?” “Can I ask how you got my home number?” “Sure. I got a phone call a few minutes ago from a man who had just reviewed our file. He said I needed to talk to you, that you were the only one who could approve my daughter getting a new procedure so they can operate, and he gave me this number. First nice person I’ve talked
to at Grand National. But he didn’t tell me it was your home number, so I’m sorry about that. I’ll call your office Monday morning if you like, but I’m begging you, please, look at my daughter’s file as soon as you can. My baby is
dying.” “Mr. Scappelli. I’m sorry for you, I really am. But there’s been a mistake here. We have more than a half-million policyholders, and I don’t speak to any of them, ever. I’m the director of policyholder relations, Mr. Scappelli, not one of the designated adjustment clerks. I’m sorry about your daughter, but I can’t help you. Just call our Claims Department on Monday, and I’m sure someone will be happy to speak with you. Now I have to run. Good luck, Mr. Scappelli.”
Having kids of my own, I really do feel sorry for the poor guy, but what am I supposed to do about it? So I hang up and call Philip Townsend. Imagine that, 7:30 in the morning and I’m calling the boss. I’ll score some points, too, when I
let him know that the new x-ray is dead on delivery. Coffin nailed. We shouldn’t have to pay out a penny, so crisis averted, and we live to fight again another day. “Phil, I told you I’d have it done before my trip. Solid too. It will be years before Level Three isn’t considered experimental. I mean give me a break: they’re talking about getting images from any angle, even at the core of
the brain, and using these images to guide surgery. But our docs will testify that either the patient’s brain will be fried, or even if they get some images, the unlucky patient will still hemorrhage and die on the table anyway.” Phil grunts in approval. “I don’t have to tell you, boss, but we can’t afford to pay a single claim here, or we will just wind up encouraging these guys. Our engineering consultants from Baker laid it out as plain as day: huge doughnut-shaped machines that patients would actually be rolled into while magnets and God only knows what else go spinning all around them! A handful of tech companies are already spending millions to develop these contraptions, and I’m sure they see big dollars coming back to them from massive patient fees and enormous insurance claims. Level Three my ass. Not on our nickel!” I catch a glimpse of myself in our hall mirror. I’m grinning from ear to ear. “Problem solved, Phil. The report is sitting on your private fax machine. I sent it over around 1:00 a.m.” Phil isn’t one to mince words. “You’re on a rocket, Josh. You’ve got lightning bolts coming out of your ass, and you’ve got VP written all over you! Listen, I’ve gotta run myself, but have a great time in the Bahamas. GO SKINS! And if I ever find out who gave out your home number, he is gone. We take care of our own at Grand National.” “Thanks, boss.”
Twelve Days before My Father Dies
Dad, come on. I’m starving. You promised!” “You’ll make it, Josh. Five more minutes, buddy. Go get your hat and coat. Gloves too.” I’ve never really minded waiting for my dad. For one thing, I’m used to it. When you own your own business, like my mom and dad do, there are always things to do. Like Mom always tells Dad, a business like Lucky Auto Car Center doesn’t run itself. My dad, Bob—never Robert—Brown started Lucky Auto in 1946 with a VA loan. Before the war he had been a district manager for a large automotive accessory chain in Chicago, but he figured if he could survive being shot in the war, he could make a living running his own business. Hence the name—Lucky Auto. So after the war he left Chicago, looking for virgin territory, and wound up about forty minutes south of Soldier Field in Hammond, Indiana. I think my dad also knew that he could count on my mom, Susan, to do the serious work of actually running the place, freeing him up to do what he did best: entertaining our biggest customers and generally being about the most popular man in Hammond.
Last week my dad took me to a pancake breakfast for the Lions Club, which he’s been president of for years. With a hundred conversations going on at once, the school gym was so noisy we had to shout to be heard, but when Dad went up on the little stage to thank everyone for coming, the whole room got quiet. Everyone in the gym looked up at him, smiling and waiting for the first of his jokes, or maybe a story. My mom and dad were college sweethearts. When the war broke out and Dad enlisted, he and my mom ran off and eloped. I guess Mom’s family didn’t think marriage was such a great idea since she could wind up a widow a few months later, but that didn’t stop either of them. Dad never had any doubt he would return. He always considered himself the luckiest man alive, and no amount of combat would change that. My mom and dad were a good team to own a business: she did the work, and he kept the customers happy. Today is Saturday, the best day of the week for any ten[1]year-old boy, but especially for me. Every Saturday my mom and dad bring me to work with them, and I love hanging out at the store. Plus, I’m an only child, so what else can they do with me? Of course, when I say I’m an only child, I’m not including James Artis, the young colored man who manages Lucky Auto. Dad says he loves him like a son. That doesn’t always go over so well in Hammond, Indiana, where most people don’t think like that. My dad and James go way back. When James was a boy, he was the sole support of his family, and my father gave him his first part-time job. Dad watched James grow into a “fine young man” who put himself through college in the evenings.
After college, he entered officers’ candidate school during the Korean War, becoming one of the first colored officers to lead integrated troops into battle. When James returned from Korea, my dad hired him as the manager of Lucky Auto, figuring if he could order a bunch of white guys to go over a hill shooting guns, he could probably get them to come to work on time. Sometimes my dad even calls James “Lieutenant,” which is pretty funny since my dad never made it past corporal. Dad still loves telling anyone and everyone that James graduated third out of 1,200 in officers’ training. But, like I said, I love coming to the store, and my folks even pay me a little for helping out, but that isn’t the best part either. The best part is that every Saturday at lunchtime, my dad and I take off. Dad tells James and my mom not to burn the place down while we’re away “planning strategy.” Just the two of us. All the guys in the back always yell out, “Have a good one, boss,” and my dad gives them a wave over his shoulder. So do I. Sometimes our “lunch” turns out to be a surprise, like seeing the White Sox play on a sunny Saturday afternoon. One time we made it to Comiskey Park in twenty-seven minutes flat. Or, in the spring, our “lunch” might be fishing at one of the local lakes. Sometimes, my dad secretly packs a little bag with my pajamas and toothbrush, and we head up to northern Michigan for some real fishing. Most of the time, though, we just go across the street to Giovanni’s for lunch, where my dad loves to joke around with the regulars and meet up with his best friend, Al Kaplan, who always sits down with us at our booth. Al is a Hammond policeman, and the first thing I always notice about him is the huge gun on his hip.
That and the pink scar on his cheek, where some shrapnel hit him just before he shot my dad in the ass. “Good morning, Josh. I see you’re still dragging the same goofy guy around.” I smile back at him and settle in along with all of the other customers in Giovanni’s, watching as my dad and Al go through the same greeting ritual they’ve been doing for years. Al stares right into my dad’s eyes and says, “Hello, Robert,” just to piss him off, since he knows better than anyone that my dad hates being called anything but Bob. Then my dad stares right back at Al and says, “Hey there, Eagle Eye. How’s your aim today?” Then Dad reaches behind him and pulls out his lucky rabbit’s foot charm, which is normally dangling out of his back pocket like a miniature tail. With a flourish, leaning in and eyeball[1]to-eyeball with the big cop across from him, Dad always sets the rabbit’s foot on the table right in front of Al. With this little move anyone watching breaks out laughing and lunch can begin. Any newcomer would probably be totally confused by now and ask what in the world was so funny. Even during the war my dad kept his lucky rabbit’s foot hanging from his back pocket, and when Al shot him, the metal ring at the top of the charm partially deflected the bullet. Or, as my dad would say, it literally saved his balls from being blown off. The rabbit’s foot is clearly burned and dented up top, so maybe it’s true. My dad and Al both earned Purple Hearts that day, and my dad walked away with a lifelong punch line: “Where was I shot during the war? Right in the ass!”
With the regular little ritual out of the way, the owner, Tony Imperial, motions for our waitress to come over and take our order. I guess I have Ruth to thank for giving me my first real appreciation of breasts. Big, beautiful breasts that my dad said could make it all the way to the Illinois line. It’s pretty obvious, even to a ten-year-old, that Ruth, whose best years are probably behind her, loves the attention. She always wears the same white-and-pink uniform with the top two buttons undone, lest there be any doubt that hers are the genuine article. Her blond hair is piled on top of her head and held in place by a red ribbon tied in a perfect bow. She’s also wearing the perfume from Marshall Fields that my dad and Al give her every Christmas. As usual I maneuver to sit on the outside end of the booth, so that when she comes back with our food, she’ll bend down right in front of me. Oh man! As always, Ruth gives Al and me a nice smile but saves the best for Dad. “I see you have your partner with you today.” My dad pretends to push me out of the booth, claiming, “I’ve never seen this kid before, honest! I have no clue who he is. But I’ve got an idea. How about if you and me and your beautiful breasts get into my car and drive off into the sunset?” Ruth smacks my dad across the head with her order pad, and Tony howls from behind the counter. Al rolls his eyes as I turn beet red. This happens every time, but I just can’t help it. My dad acts hurt and rubs his head. Pouting, he looks up at Ruth: “Is that a no?”
Ruth snaps it most certainly is a NO! My dad puts his arm around me, squeezes me hard, and says, “OK, Ruth, if you won’t run off with me, then how about my boy Josh here? Whaddya say?” Staring down at me, Ruth gives me a hug herself, a memory I’ll cherish forever. “Nah. Just a little too young. Maybe next year.” Then she winks at me and walks off to place our order. I always love this little show, or any of my Dad’s other acts that bring smiles to the faces of everyone in the room. That’s my dad. But this lunch seems different than the others. For the first time I see some real tension coming from Al, and even my dad, too. “Look, Al, you wanted to be president of the Police Union, and you got your wish. I still can’t believe, though, that a bunch of Polacks and rednecks elected the only Jew on the force as their leader. Anti-Semites used to exhibit much better taste.” “You’re the one that convinced me to join you down here in beautiful Hammond, Indiana. You said they’d love me. The only reason I got elected union president is because I’m the only one smart enough to see that the police chief and his drunken-bum, insurance salesman of a brother are screwing us.” My dad slumps down in the booth. I’m thinking it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him look frustrated, but Al just keeps going. “The cops in this town have got to have the worst policy and benefits on earth, thanks to Ronnie, and the chief is probably in on it. I’ve been asking around, and the firefighters and the rest of the city workers have it pretty bad too. Ronnie has a lock on insurance sales to anyone connected with the city.
They get an extra cut from everybody’s paycheck, and the cops wind up with lousy insurance coverage and a worthless retirement plan. So the other cops figured, ‘Hey, maybe the Jew can do something about it.’” I’m feeling like this isn’t the kind of conversation that a ten-year-old is supposed to listen to, but that doesn’t seem to be bothering my dad. I think he actually wants me to hear what’s going on. “Chief Wellstone isn’t the kind of guy who is just going to roll over for you. And his brother is just plain mean. I mean pull the wings off a fly mean. You might be messing with the wrong guys here. Besides, the rest of the cops are going to keep hating you anyway. So what do you care?” “So, what? I should just give up and let the chief and Ronnie keep screwing us?” Dad leans forward and even cracks a small grin. He picks up the rabbit’s foot from the table and dangles it in Al’s face. “No, I didn’t say that was your only option. You could also consider shooting them in the ass. You got me pretty good. If my lucky rabbit’s foot hadn’t deflected your lousy bullet, I might be walking around today with a smaller pecker than you, and little Josh here wouldn’t ever have seen the light of day.” He says the last line a little louder for Ruth’s benefit as she serves us our burgers. “Your plan is I should just shoot the chief of police in the ass, and then they’ll let us get a decent insurance plan?” Dad’s face grows darker, and in a rare moment of seriousness he says, “Al, really. Just let it go. These are bad guys, and they are holding all the cards. Okay? Let it go.”
Al wipes his face with his napkin and gets up from the table. Where Ruth’s breasts once held ground in front of my face, Al’s enormous police revolver is now right at eye level, and I can’t help but stare at it. “Sorry. A little late for that. I already told the chief that I’m getting proposals for new coverage next week.” My dad let out a deep breath. “Just be careful. Don’t get in over your head.” Al gives me a weak smile and turns to leave, but then stops to ask, “What time next Sunday? “Come by a little before noon. The game starts at 1:00. Susan said to tell you she is looking forward to seeing Rebecca and the kids, and she’ll help keep everybody busy while you and me and Josh watch the Bears kick Detroit’s ass.” Putting his arm around my shoulder, Dad pulls me closer. “One more win and we’re in the championship. Right, buddy?” I feel like I’m going to explode with joy. We’re flying high. Dad and I have watched every Bears game together all season, and now we’re so close to being the champions of the National Football League. If you grow up in Chicago, you don’t see a lot of championships come around. Football, baseball, whatever. Dad always says in Chicago the only guys who win every year are the local politicians. I think that’s why he is so worried about Al. It’s kind of like Chief Wellstone and his brother, Ronnie, are the New York Giants or the Yankees, and Al is the Bears or the White Sox. Not a fair fight, but my dad always pulls for the underdog anyway. Go, Bears, go.
