I was 26 years old, working for a real estate investment company in Los Angeles, and answering to my father’s every request. I was sent to Miami to report on the Carriage House, one of the apartment high-rises our company owned. My father said as long as I was in Miami I should meet his good friend Meyer, whom he referred to as Guy. Milton is my boss. Teddy is Meyer’s wife:
The Carriage House on Collins Avenue was miserably neglected. It was worn around the edges, the paint peeling, the carpet frayed, and the glass windows smudged with dirt. The lobby was the centerfold of action; women dressed in bathing wraps and high-heeled sandals, and men in melon, and lime colored suits. There was an abundance of light, and a distinctive smell of chicken soup. Great numbers of Jewish men and women shuffled through the lobby in flip-flops, carrying big beach bags recognizable by their Yiddish dialect.
After a quick tour, I was whisked off to a lovely ocean front suite. I changed clothes and went looking for the Fontainebleau, the hotel where we were to have vacationed had my mother not died. I walked through lofty empty dining rooms, decorated with ornate chandeliers and furnishings, imagining the gaiety that once played, like an old forgotten movie set. The rooms were empty, and the obvious absence of guests or activity anywhere gave it a ghostly appearance. A heaving sadness for the place, and for the loss of my mother collided and I left in tears.
My emotions were replaced with getting ready to meet Meyer Lansky and his wife,Teddy. By now I’d heard the rumors, seen the Godfather, and knew that he was a living legend. All my life, I heard his name mentioned. My father said he had not spoken to Meyer in 20 years, that would be 1950, the year my parents moved to Houston to start a new life.
At seven o’clock, I was standing in front of the Carriage House dressed in an outfit my father insisted on picking out. A vintage four-door gray Mercedes pulled up in front. Neither one moved, but as I opened the door, Teddy grasped my hand.
“Oh my God! Look Meyer, she is exactly like her mother!”
He turned around once, took me in, and grinned. His face was a historical map; the lines were cut deep as roads, and the curve of his nose twisted, but his eyes; unmistakable eyes that see right through you.
“Oh darling I’m so thrilled to see you. Meyer, isn’t she just exactly like Lucille?” Teddy peered through twinkling brown eyes, radiating warmth and eagerness. She had a rapacious smile, petite frame, with lovely blonde hair pulled back at the nape of the neck. My father called her Tiger because she was untamable.
“No. She looks like Allen,” Meyer protested.
“Oh Meyer, she’s her mother’s image, she would be so proud of you, wouldn’t she Meyer…”
“Teddy will you please shut up so Luellen can speak.” Meyer never turned around, he glanced at me through the rear window. They continued to argue about whom I looked like, and both agreed it was a blessing I took after my mother, because she was a saint. He drove tentatively, hitting the brakes every few feet, while Teddy chided him about his driving. When we arrived at the restaurant, he faced me directly for the first time. He just stood there and examined me without hesitation. He was dressed in an open necked shirt and sports jacket.
Though his face was creased with deep permanent lines, when he smiled they all melted together, and looked almost youthful.
“So tell me, is your father still as sensitive as he used to be?” he said. I didn’t know how to answer. I had never thought of my father as sensitive.
“Well, he yells a lot.” I answered. He chuckled and nodded his head in agreement. Teddy took my hand and we went inside the restaurant. It was like meeting family, not friends. They made so much fuss over me, I felt remiss in not meeting them before. They wanted to know everything about my life. I was taken aback, and wished my father had been sitting with us. He sat very still; Teddy was kinetic and consumed with the turmoil of emotions.
I was not born when these people knew my father; my parents were not even married.
“So, he yells a lot does he?” Meyer continued once Teddy stopped talking.
“Yes, in fact his friends call him the “Warden.” They both burst out laughing. They were sharing something beyond my comment. Meyer ordered, suggested what I might like, and picked out a bottle of red wine. Teddy sat beside me intermittently squeezing my hand and dabbing her eyes with a Kleenex. She immediately wanted to talk about my mother. She could not say my mother’s name without a tear in her eye.
“Your mother was ravishing, and I don’t mean her looks, though she was prettier than any movie star, she was beautiful on the inside. She had a quality of kindness and sincerity every one adored.” Meyer’s eyes bonded to mine, and I felt him almost whispering to me. He was examining my character, what I was really thinking, if I was hiding conflict, what was in my heart, and if I could be trusted. His posture was relaxed, his mind was intense.
“We loved Lucille, everyone did,” Meyer interjected sadly. He talked about my father in the very same praiseworthy fashion my father talked about him. I did not sit there thinking, this is the Meyer who collaborated with Frank Costello, Lucky Luciano, and Ben Siegel to operate casinos and racetracks all over the country. I did not think of him as any sort of criminal, mobster or organized crime boss. My interest was what he knew of my father and mother, what stories could he share with me. Maybe he could tell me something concrete about my mother’s life. Meyer’s discerning eyes crinkled up when I asked a question. After a glass of wine, and we relaxed, it was my turn to ask a question.
“When did you meet my mother?”
“I can’t remember,” he answered. “A long time ago.” he skirted over my question just like my father.
“How do you like your job?” he asked.
“I love it.” His warm eyes darkened as I spoke. He encouraged the discussion and yet I felt he was displeased with my answers. I wanted to impress Meyer because I wanted to make my father proud.
“What exactly are doing on this trip?” he asked.
“I’m reviewing the rents, and looking over the condition of the property.” I answered. Teddy smiled supportively but Meyer suddenly went silent.
“I have a number of friends who live at the Carriage House.” His eyes pierced mine.
“You do?” I replied dumbly.
“Yes I doand they live on social security every month, fixed income. Are you going to raise their rents?” he asked. I blushed red as the tablecloth. He continued eating.
“NO NO! Just tell me who they are and I can exclude them somehow,” I said in haste. Teddy pressed Meyer with her delicate hands.
“No, you cannot do that. I just wanted you to know is all,” he said in finality. It was just like my father, that crescendo of stupidity that comes when my father lays a trap for me. Teddy interjected something to break the seriousness, and we returned to lighter conversation. My easiness ceased at that moment. I could think of nothing else than the inconvenience of my job at that moment.
Later that night I allowed myself to recall all the things I’d heard about him over the years, shaved by years of denial. I shuddered to think how he felt about my raising the rents on his friends. Guys he played poker with once a week, while Teddy sliced corn beef sandwiches. My father casually informed me that Meyer lived at the Carriage House, before moving to the Imperial House. He knew all about Milton and about my job. I had the power to raise or lower rents. I wanted to bury my head in the sand, but my father’s words reclaimed my denial.
“This is what life is about, making decisions that you can face years later.”
I knew not everyone who assumes the veneer of affluence has money. Not even Meyer Lansky who reporters allege was worth over a million. My father facilitated a wealthy lifestyle, but he lived month to month. He may have had a million one day, maybe he had it a year, but eventually the bankroll is gambled. That is what they do with money. If these men invested their money, they would be richer than the government. Maybe that is what worried the government.
My relationship with Meyer was limited to what we had in common; we loved my father. The next time I called Meyer and Teddy to have dinner he was gratuitously polite, “We don’t want to interfere with your job.” I sensed a twitch of sarcasm; just enough to let me know that he was on to me.
We exchanged more than an exaggeration of emotions the second night. I could not extort any specific information from either one of them. Meyer was interested in discussing my job.
“Are your people are going to convert the Carriage House to condominiums?” Meyer caught me off guard again. I knew he and my father had talked.
“I haven’t heard that. Why do you ask?” I said.
“I want to protect my friends,” he answered, and a slip of a smile passed over his lips. “I’ll tell my father right away if I hear anything. And about the rents; I m not recommending an increase on any units, until we refurbish the place. It needs a lot of work.” Teddy took hold of my hand.
“That’s very thoughtful,” she said.
“Don’t let me interfere with your job,” he emphasized.
“I hope I can interfere, on your account.” He nodded acknowledging our little understanding. I got a glimpse of the Meyer that negotiated peace treaties between different factions of the underworld, with Cuban emissaries, Army Generals, and the Israeli government. Meyer emulated power, without any gestures, or expression. It came from inside. At the end of the evening, I dove for the check like I’d seen my father do a thousand times.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Meyer, my father will kill me if I don’t get this check.” I said in jest. He chuckled and captured my focus, while he snapped the check right out of my hand.
I could see how difficult it would be to cross this man. Part of America’s history was sitting with me that night, a man that could weave true stories around a thousand lies. I did not know much when I met Meyer, only stories about “Murder Inc,” and his friendship with Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello. What penetrated most was what I’d heard about Benny Siegel’s murder. I thought about that after I returned to Los Angeles, and why my father had not spoken to Meyer in twenty years.
Luellen is freelance creative non-fiction writer, and newspaper columnist with the Del Mar Times in San Diego, CA. Smiley’s Dice is a weekly column covering the arts, and adventures in living. Luellen splits her time between San Diego, Saratoga Springs, New York, and Taos, New Mexico. She works as a freelance publicist for arts organizations, galleries, and artists.
