When I think of Grandpa, I remember
Limburger cheese, beer, the Brooklyn Dodgers, playing cards, and fun and
laughter—memories of a young child visiting him in Brooklyn and later in
Florida.
Also, I remember hushed conversations and the closing of the kitchen door to mask the words being spoken—memories from when Grandpa stayed at our home in Valley Stream, New York, during the Kefauver hearings on organized crime (1950-1951). Grandpa was a key witness.
And I remember Mom and Dad being away soon after Christmas 1953 because Grandpa was sick in Florida. A week or two after they left, Aunt Helen, who was looking after my brother and me while Mom and Dad were gone, climbed the stairs to my bedroom, and then she sat beside me on the edge of the bed. She told me that Grandpa had died. I knew I was supposed to cry, but the tears didn’t come. I was only 8 years old and unable to process the news of Grandpa’s death.
Throughout the rest of my life, I would
always wonder about Grandpa. For years, I asked myself: “Is Grandpa truly dead, or is Grandpa just hiding?” My brother and I had been shielded from his funeral
and wake, and his death never became a reality for me. Grandpa was quite the
tease and a practical jokester, and he had taught me how to mislead my opponents
while playing cards. Was he misleading the bad guys by pretending to be dead?
As the years passed, my thirst for
knowledge about my grandfather grew. Grandpa was one
of the most well-known detectives of his generation. I wanted to know more
about who he was, both professionally and as a human being.
His reputation had been besmirched by the accidental
death or murder of a prisoner/witness under the protection of Grandpa’s men,
and a cloud hung over him and his family forever after.
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