Meyer Lansky, the legend

I was 26 years old, working for a real estate investment company in Los Angeles, and responding to all of my father’s requests. I was sent to Miami to report on the Carriage House, one of the high-rise apartments owned by our company. My father said that while he was in Miami he 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 was peeling, the carpet was frayed, and the glass windows were smeared with dirt. The lobby was the center of the action; women dressed in bathrobes and heeled sandals, and men in melon- and lime-colored suits. There was a lot of light and a characteristic smell of chicken broth. Large numbers of Jewish men and women were shuffling through the lobby in flip flops and carrying large beach bags recognizable by their Yiddish dialect.

After a quick tour, I was shown to a beautiful oceanfront suite. I changed my clothes and went to find the Fontainebleau, the hotel where we would have gone on vacation if my mother hadn’t died. I walked through empty high-rise dining rooms, decorated with chandeliers and ornate furniture, imagining the gaiety that once played out, like an old forgotten movie set. The rooms were empty, and the conspicuous absence of guests or activity anywhere gave it a ghostly appearance. A deep sadness for the place and for the loss of my mother collided and I left crying.

My emotions were replaced by preparing to meet Meyer Lansky and his wife, Teddy. By now he had heard the rumors, had seen the Godfather and knew he was a living legend. All my life, I’ve heard his name mentioned. My father said that he hadn’t 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 that my father insisted on choosing. An old gray four-door Mercedes pulled up in front of him. Neither moved, but when I opened the door, Teddy took my hand.

“Oh my gosh! Look Meyer, she’s exactly like her mother!”
He turned around once, looked at me and smiled. Her face was a historical map; her lines were deep as paths, and the curve of her nose crooked, but her eyes; unmistakable eyes that see right through you.
“Oh honey, I’m so excited to see you. Meyer, isn’t she exactly like Lucille?” Teddy looked through her bright brown eyes, radiating warmth and enthusiasm. He had a rapacious grin, a petite figure, with beautiful blond hair tied at the nape of his neck. My father called her Tiger because she was indomitable.

“No. He looks like Allen,” Meyer protested.
“Oh Meyer, she is the image of her mother, she would be so proud of you, wouldn’t she Meyer…”
“Teddy, please shut up so Luellen can talk.” Meyer never turned around, he looked at me through the back window. They continued arguing about who she looked like to me, and both agreed that it was a blessing that I looked like my mother, because she was a saint. She drove tentatively, braking every few feet, as Teddy chided him for his driving. When we got to the restaurant, he looked directly at me for the first time. He stood there and examined me without hesitation. He was dressed in an open-collared shirt and sports jacket.

Although his face was streaked with deep permanent lines, when he smiled they all blended 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 respond. I had never thought of my father as someone sensitive.
“Well, he yells a lot.” I replied. He laughed and nodded in agreement. Teddy took my hand and we walked into the restaurant. It was like meeting family, not friends. They made such a fuss over me that I felt bummed that I hadn’t met them sooner. They wanted to know everything about my life. They took me back, and I wished my father had been sitting with us. He sat very still; Teddy was kinetic and consumed by the whirlwind of emotions.

I was not born when these people met my father; my parents weren’t even married.
“So, he yells a lot, right?” Meyer continued after Teddy stopped talking.
“Yeah, actually, his friends call him the ‘Guardian.’ They both laughed. They were sharing something beyond my comment. Meyer ordered, suggested what I’d like, and chose a bottle of red wine. Teddy sat down next to me.” by my side. intermittently squeezing my hand and wiping her eyes with a Kleenex. She immediately wanted to talk about my mother. She couldn’t say my mother’s name without tears coming to her eyes.

“Your mother was stunning, and I don’t mean her looks, although she was prettier than any movie star, she was beautiful on the inside. She had a quality of kindness and sincerity that everyone loved.” Meyer’s eyes met mine, and I felt him almost whisper to me. She was examining my character, what I was really thinking, if I was hiding a conflict, what was in my heart and if I could be trusted. Her posture was relaxed, her mind intense.

“We loved Lucille, everyone did,” Meyer chimed in sadly. He spoke of my father in the same commendable way that my father spoke of him. I didn’t sit back and think, this is the Meyer who collaborated with Frank Costello, Lucky Luciano, and Ben Siegel to operate casinos and racetracks across the country. I didn’t think of him as any kind of criminal, mobster or organized crime boss. My interest was what he knew about my father and mother, what stories he could share with me. Maybe you could tell me something concrete about my mother’s life. Meyer’s sharp eyes crinkled 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 replied. “Long ago.” he dodged my question just like my father.
“How do you like your job?” she asked.
“I’m lovin ‘it.” Her warm eyes darkened as she spoke. He encouraged discussion, and yet I sensed that he was upset with my responses. I wanted to impress Meyer because I wanted to make my father proud.
“What exactly are you doing on this trip?” she asked.
“I’m checking the rents and checking the condition of the property.” I replied. Teddy smiled supportively, but Meyer was suddenly silent.
“I have several friends who live in the Carriage House.” Her eyes pierced mine.

“You do?” I replied foolishly.
“Yes, I do, and they live on social security every month, fixed income. Are their rents going to increase?” she asked. I blushed red as the tablecloth. She kept eating.

“NO NO! Just tell me who they are and I can exclude them somehow,” I said hastily. Teddy pressed Meyer down with his delicate hands.
“No, you can’t do that. I just wanted you to know, that’s all,” he finally said. He was like my father, that crescendo of stupidity that comes when my father sets me up. Teddy interjected something to break the seriousness, and we returned to a lighter conversation. My eas incessant at that time. I couldn’t think of anything but the inconvenience of my job at the moment.

Later that night I allowed myself to remember all the things I’d heard about him over the years, shaved from years of denial. I shuddered to think how she felt about him raising the rents of his friends. Guys he played poker with once a week while Teddy cut up corn-steak sandwiches. My father casually informed me that Meyer lived in the Carriage House, before moving to the Imperial House. He knew everything about Milton and about my work. He had the power to raise or lower rents. He wanted to bury my head in the sand, but my father’s words claimed my denial.
“This is what life is all about, making decisions you can face years later.”

He knew that not everyone who assumes the appearance of wealth has money. Not even Meyer Lansky, who reporters allege was worth more than 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 ultimately the money is at stake. That’s what they do with the money. If these men invested their money, they would be richer than the government. Perhaps that is what the government was worried about.

My relationship with Meyer was limited to what we had in common; We loved my father. The next time I called Meyer and Teddy over for dinner, he was gratuitously polite: “We don’t want to interfere with his work.” I felt a stab of sarcasm; just enough to let me know he was onto me.
We exchanged more than an exaggeration of emotions the second night. I was unable to extort any specific information from any of them. Meyer was interested in talking about my work.

“Your people are going to turn Carriage House into condominiums?” Meyer caught me off guard again. I knew that 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 hint of a smile crossed his lips. “I’ll tell my dad right away if I find out anything. And as for the rents, I’m not recommending an increase on any units, until we get the place remodeled. It needs a lot of work.” Teddy took my hand.

“That’s very considerate,” he said.
“Don’t let it interfere with your work,” he emphasized.
“I hope I can interfere, on your account.” He nodded acknowledging our little understanding. I took a look at the Meyer who negotiated peace treaties between different factions of the underworld, with Cuban emissaries, army generals and the Israeli government. Meyer emulated the power, without any gesture or expression. He came from within. At the end of the night, I took the plunge like I’d seen my father do a thousand times.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Meyer, my father will kill me if I don’t get this check.” I said jokingly. He chuckled and caught my attention as he took the check 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 who could weave true stories around a thousand lies. I didn’t know much when I met Meyer, just stories about “Murder Inc” and his friendship with Lucky Luciano and Frank Costello. What penetrated the most was what he had heard about the murder of Benny Siegel. I thought about that after I got back to Los Angeles and why my dad hadn’t talked to Meyer in twenty years.