I'm Glad I Did (5 page)

I was starving by my lunch break at one, but I had more important things to attend to.

I leaned on the elevator button, pretending it was Nick's throat, and prayed I'd get his car. There were only two elevators, so the odds were fifty-fifty. But sure enough, like everything else that day, it didn't work out for me. The other operator was a dapper Puerto Rican guy named Antonio, who I later found out was a ridiculously successful bookie. I pretended I'd forgotten something, waved it closed and pressed the button again.

Half a minute later, Nick opened the door. The elevator was jammed with people headed out for lunch, but I slid in anyway. Nick flashed a friendly smile at me and I nodded back, my lips tight. When everyone poured out into the lobby, I stayed put.

“I'm going back up,” I told him, shooting daggers at him with my eyes. “And I'm in a hurry.”

He didn't seem to notice. “Your private express,” he said cheerily, closing the door and waiting for a floor number. “Where to, kiddo?”

“Tell me something,” I demanded. “What made you think it was okay to tell Bernie Rubin all the private, confidential, secret, personal stuff I told you yesterday after my meeting with Bobby?”

His smile remained intact. He didn't even blink. “Well, first of all, you didn't tell me
not
to tell him,” he responded smoothly. “Number two, I knew he could help you. And number three, I felt bad for you.” He lowered his voice and placed a gloved hand on the elevator crank. “Was I wrong about any of those things?”

This was not going exactly as I had planned. I thought he'd be apologizing all over the place for betraying a confidence. “No, but I wanted to get the job without any help,” I countered. I was starting to feel like a broken record, appropriate considering my location.

“Trust me, kiddo, that wasn't going to happen. Now, where are you headed?”

I took a silent breath and leaned against the elevator wall, staring down at my shoes. “To my uncle's office.”

“Ninth floor, next stop.” He turned and faced the door. “It's 909, and for the future, if you give me classified information, just let me know, and I'll lock my lips and throw away the key.”

“Sorry I was such a grump,” I told him. “Please accept my apology.”

“Absolutely, kiddo,” he said gently. “Now we both know the rules.”

At floor nine, he opened the door with an encouraging nod.

Steeling my nerves, I proceeded to stomp down the hall to my Uncle Bernie's office. My rage returned; only this time, it was directed at the right person. I couldn't wait to tell Bernie to stay out of my life. Of course, not in those exact words. As I stood outside the big wooden door, I tried to think of another way to say it. Firm but not rude, bold but not brash, smart but not smart-alecky.

I stood there, ready to knock. The fact of the matter was I had no idea what I was going to say. I had never actually called out an adult before. I'd never had any reason to.

LIKE MY MOM, LAST
time I had seen Uncle Bernie was when he had crashed Jeff's bar mitzvah. The celebration was at the Plaza Hotel. Janny hadn't invited him—her only brother, our only uncle—but she had invited every single other relative (some Jeff and I hadn't even known existed). One of them must have leaked it. So Bernie strolled in and kissed Janny hello as if he had been at the top of the guest list. I'll never forget the look of distaste in her eyes.

The ballroom was packed with boring, cheek-pinching grown-ups as well as Jeff's friends, who looked at me as if I was some sort of microbe. With nothing better to do, I sat down at the piano when the band took a break. I was just noodling around, not really playing a song, when I heard a gravelly voice behind me.

“Hey, Justice, baby, I didn't know you played piano. I'm your Uncle Bernie.”

For an old guy, Uncle Bernie wasn't bad-looking. His
dark hair was slicked back, and he had a Florida tan that set off his really white teeth. He wore a shiny gray suit with a white flower in the buttonhole of his lapel. He was picking his teeth with a gold toothpick, which I found both disgusting and weirdly hypnotic.

Without waiting for an invitation, he slid onto the seat next to me, almost nudging me off. “You taking lessons?”

I shook my head, embarrassed, “No, I play by ear. I don't read very well, but I like to write songs.”

“Do you?” His eyes lit up. “Let me hear something.”

It was the first time anyone had ever asked me to play something I'd written. My entire family was always yelling at me to keep it down—“it” meaning any note, no matter how soft, I struck on the piano at home. Maybe that's why I didn't hesitate. I played him what now seems like a really babyish song. Still, I was only ten, and I thought it was great. It was called “When You Smile” or something dumb like that. But he sat very still with a serious face, as if he were completely riveted.

When I was finished, he nodded.

“I'm in the music business,” he told me. His voice had changed; he spoke quickly and evenly now, as if talking to a grown-up. “I publish songs and manage recording artists. I've done it for a very long time. Do you want to know what I think of your song?”

“I do,” I answered, trying to keep my own voice from shaking. The piano bench turned to pins and needles. This was a first. An opinion about one of my songs. I held my breath.

“I think you should keep on writing. One day, when
you've finished college, if you're still writing songs, I'd like you to come and play them for me. I think you have talent.”

Before I had a chance to ask him anything else, the band members began to take the stage. He stepped off, and I lost him in the crowd. He must have left right after that, because I couldn't find him anywhere, even though I spent the rest of the night searching.

On the way home in the taxi, I asked Janny about him. She clammed up, muttering that it was rude to attend an event you weren't invited to, and Bernie was not someone she wanted me asking about or associating with. Jeff nudged me with his elbow, warning me to shut up.

That night, after our parents had gone to bed, I asked my brother what he knew.

“Uncle Bernie is Kosher Nostra,” he whispered behind his closed bedroom door. “That's what they call the Jewish mob. He's got some kind of bad gambling habit, so he's always selling his recording companies to pay off the bookies, but he never sells his publishing companies 'cause he loves songs.”

None of that made much sense to me. Why would Janny care if her brother gambled? Jules played poker with his friends. “Did you know he was at your bar mitzvah?” I asked.

Jeff grinned. “Yeah, he gave me an envelope stuffed with money. When Mom counted it, it was one thousand eight hundred dollars.”

I frowned. “That's a weird number. Why not thirteen hundred for your bar mitzvah?”

“Dad told me when you give money gifts, they should be in multiples of eighteen, 'cause that's a lucky number in Jewish numerology. Most people give fifty-four or a hundred and eight, but Mom says Bernie likes to give big gifts just to show off.”

And that was all I was able to find out about my Uncle Bernie.

NOW I STOOD OUTSIDE
of Uncle Bernie's office door, nervously biting my cheek, furious at him for helping me get the job I wanted—which I never would have gotten without him. Nothing made sense. I didn't know if I was angry or grateful. Maybe I was both. I felt too mixed up to think straight.

Still at a loss as to how I was going to handle this, I stepped inside.

The secretary's desk was empty. She must have gone to lunch, so I made my way down a hall lined with gold records to Uncle Bernie's office.

The door was open. He was seated at a desk even bigger than Bobby's, almost as if he were waiting for me. He looked exactly the way he did at the bar mitzvah, tan and slick. The only difference was that his suit was navy with pinstripes. He was leaning back in a big leather chair, with his shiny patent shoes propped up on his desk, a huge grin on his face.

“Justice, baby!” he exclaimed. He checked his big gold watch and flashed his pearly whites. “You just made it. I gave Nick eight to five you'd be here by one thirteen.”

Before I could open my mouth, Bernie held up a finger. “Hold on,” he instructed. “We're having lunch at The Turf, and I've got a Bobby Darin session at two, so save it until we sit down.” He swung his legs down, jumped up, slipped his arm through mine and steered me out the office door—whisking me down the hall to the elevators.

He didn't even need to ring. The door opened as if by magic, and Nick welcomed us in.

“I'll let you have your say,” Bernie promised as we rode down to the lobby. “Just wait until we're at our table.”

I figured there wasn't much point in arguing. Besides, I could use the time to formulate my thoughts. Unfortunately the force of Uncle Bernie's personality wiped my mind clear. He was bigger than life. He was the Wizard of the Oz of the Brill Building.

THE TURF OCCUPIED PART
of the lobby level. There were tables where diners could get Surf and Turf (lobster and steak),
and a bar where, for fifty cents, you could sit on a stool and get roast beef on a bun. I noticed there were a lot of deferential smiles and nods toward Bernie from both tables and barstools. I also noticed we bypassed a line of people waiting to be seated. A corner table by the window was ours.

A waiter scurried over immediately and placed a cocktail in front of my uncle. I opened the towering menu, but Bernie didn't bother. He ordered the most expensive lunch for each of us—The Turf Special—without even asking me what I wanted. Then he leaned back, unfurled his napkin, and took a sip of his drink.

I shoved my menu into the waiter's hands. “Uncle Bernie—”

“Justice,” he interrupted, “I'll bet you a nickel this is more or less what you were planning to say to me …”

“I don't want to bet—”

“It's just a nickel, Justice, baby. Don't give me a hard time, okay?”

I slumped back in my chair.

He took a sip of his drink and cleared his throat. At least he didn't try to imitate my voice. “ ‘Uncle Bernie, I know you thought you were doing something nice when you stepped in and got me the job at Good Music, but it really upset me. I wanted to get that job on my own. I don't want or need anyone's help, especially yours.' ”

I started to speak. Up came that finger again.

“ ‘My mother says you're the black sheep of the family, and I should have nothing to do with you. So I wanted to let you know how I feel, because after this lunch I never
want to see you again.' ” He paused and took another sip. “That's pretty much it, right?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“So pay up,” he said.

I laughed in spite of myself as I dug into my purse and dropped a nickel in the middle of the white tablecloth. A moment later, the waiter slid our lunch plates in front of us.

“If you knew I didn't want your help, why did you help me?” I asked him.

Bernie picked up his silverware and leaned over his plate. “Because if you do have talent, I want you to have the chance to find that out, and a job at Good Music is the way to do it. It's the best songwriting school you can go to.”

I glanced around the restaurant. I wondered how many other people here were aspiring songwriters. “When Bobby didn't like my songs, I figured I didn't have any talent at all,” I admitted.

“You have a lot to learn, Justice, baby. Lesson one: Bobby isn't always right. No one is. I'm only right about talent ninety percent of the time, and that's a damn good percentage.” He flashed his irresistible, twinkly white smile and leaned in closer, palming the nickel. “As you can see, I take betting very seriously.” His face grew serious as he leaned back. “I think you've got it, JJ. I saw it in your eyes and heard it in that little song you played me at your brother's bar mitzvah. I got the same feeling in my stomach as I did the first time I heard Carole King sing and play. She was fifteen. Now she's writing hit songs for everyone you can think of. I couldn't let you give up because one person discouraged you. I just couldn't.”

My heart swelled. I wasn't sure what to make of this uncle who'd just conned me out of a nickel. On the other hand, I had never, ever received this much encouragement and understanding from
anyone
. Was it possible Uncle Bernie saw me in a way that no one in my family ever had? In spite of the warmth, I felt scared. Now I not only had to prove to my family that they were wrong about me, I also had to prove to Bernie that he was right.

“I should have come to your office to thank you,” I said. “Can we make-believe I did that?”

He smiled, downed his drink, and motioned to the waiter for another. “Justice, baby, you and me should never make-believe about anything. I've got four ex-wives and a bunch of grown kids I don't get along with, and my problems always began with me not being honest with them. I don't want to make the same mistake with you.”