Page 17 of The Bootlegger’s Bride
Jan ordered a round for them, specifying to Czeslaw a bottle he knew to be real Canadian whiskey (and not the “Canadian” whiskey distilled in East St. Louis that he himself had labeled) along with two bottles of a local lager he knew and trusted.
Bogdan, whom he had known his whole life and who looked after Jan like the big brother he never had, raised his shot glass. “May our children have wealthy parents,” he said in English.
The men downed their whiskey and chased it with lager. The competing aromas (one pungent and sweet, the other yeasty and fecund) and tastes (the first sharp, the second bitter and cooling) mingled in a pleasing way. Jan ordered another shot and knocked it back.
Bogdan stared at him and said, “Where is Janusz Aleksander Nowak? You know, the smiling and sober gymnast who never lets his poisonous product pass his lovely lips. Who is this gloomy, drunken imposter?”
Jan and Bogdan always spoke English together, though the latter with a north St. Louis accent à la polonaise that made him sound sinister, matching his looks.
English was part of their glue, both Americans heart and soul.
Outside the neighborhood Bogdan Zawadski went by Bob Wade.
Further, he didn’t appear Slavic, more dark and wolfish, though who knew?
The historic Polish genetic stew consisted of Slavs, Jews, Germans, Gypsies, Celts, and other tribes.
Half a head taller than Jan, Bogdan boasted a strong nose, deep-set brown eyes, and curling black hair.
After Czeslaw poured them a third shot Jan stared into his on the bar and turned it round and round. In answer to Bogdan’s question, he finally sighed and said: “This is a lost man, a man with a dilemma.”
Bogdan raised his shot glass again and downed the liquor. “What’s her name? She pregnant or married or in love with you or something?”
Jan smiled for an instant. “No, Bogdan. Not a woman. This is serious. A business problem.”
Bogdan nodded. “I know that in your business, problems can be very serious.”
Jan sat thinking how much to say and how to say it.
“Guys ever get funny with you?”
Bogdan reached across and pinched his cheek. “I’m not as pretty as you, cukiereczku .”
“It’s more than that…”
Much more than that. Tasting a year of freedom from his father’s oppressive rule had opened his eyes to how life might be lived. He wanted his freewheeling independent existence to continue. Forever.
“…Everything I have is at stake. My home, my livelihood, my reputation. My future. I’m stuck.”
Bogdan studied him at length, as if Jan had just made a big wager across a poker table. Finally, he said:
“This sounds like extortion.”
Jan straightened. “Yes! Exactly. That’s what it is: extortion.”
Bogdan pressed an index finger to Jan’s chest. “Once you give in and let them bully you, you are forever fucked, my friend. You must tell them to try their luck elsewhere and mean it.”
“Wish it was that simple, Bogdan. They’re not going away.”
Bogdan pursed his lips and lowered his voice.
“If that’s so, if someone’s trying to squeeze your balls and you can’t escape, there’s only one way to make the trouble disappear.
” He jerked his head over his shoulder, east, toward the Mississippi, which flowed dark and menacing but a few blocks away. “Maybe I can help.”
Jan stared at Bogdan. Then he lifted his gaze above his friend’s dark locks to the blackened ceiling beams. There in the dimness Jan Nowak glimpsed a curtain rising.
Behind it he saw himself writhing in pain as a smirking Leo Gold crushed Jan’s testicles in his fists.
Gold had him by the balls—figuratively if not yet literally.
Yet—and this was Jan’s epiphany as the two men in his imaginative tableau abruptly exchanged roles—the opposite was also true.
Gold needed—and wanted—Jan. Without him or someone like him he had no ready access to the lucrative Polish-speaking market that Jan had cultivated for him.
Conversely, Jan now saw he had no need of Leo Gold.
He knew the operation, the suppliers, and where the special inventory was cached.
He also had his own customer list. So, no Leo, no problem. It could all be his.
This, Jan realized, was a pivotal point in his young life—if not a life-or-death drama then damn near.
As such, his cerebral approach—worrying how to somehow escape his dilemma through craft or compromise—had been too timorous and forgiving.
Too New Testament. Whereas the Jew Leo Gold was Old Testament, a document that justified aggressive self-defense, Jan seemed to recall.
And if this was not a case of self-defense, what was?
Bosses, teachers, cops, bullies—whoever gained power over people always stuck it to them good and hard.
Which was why all the folks up and down Cass Avenue—Poles, Jews, Irish, Italians, whatever—were here and not back in the old country—to escape tyrants and tyranny.
But they were deluded in part. You can’t escape human nature.
Even good people succumb to the urge to wield power once it falls into their hands.
To bend others to their will. To lord it over them. To fuck them.
Still, Jan couldn’t take Bogdan up on his offer of help.
His friend had always guided and protected him, ever since they were kids.
This would be no way to repay him for his love and loyalty, by pulling him into a scheme that could cost him everything if it didn’t go just right.
Also, if Bogdan got nicked it would then be too easy to trace it back to Jan.
He knew of others who might take on the job. Maybe someone from across the river, where no one knew Jan or the extent of their bootlegging operation. Where he might get a good price. And in the process even the score for Eddie Jankowski.
Jan rose to his feet, stared down at Bogdan on his barstool, and took his face in his hands.
“You’ve shown me a way out. A road to freedom and success.
Once again you have saved my life! Thank you, dear friend.
Dzi?kuj? ,” he said, bending forward to kiss a startled Bogdan on the lips. And the speakeasy fell silent.