by Yari Stern
“Louie had real reason to be bitter. There were lives at stake in those days, not just possessions. He was determined to avoid the same fate for himself and his family. But he did it by becoming a gozlen, a racketeer, hunted by Thomas E. Dewey, the district attorney of New York. He died in prison at age sixty-four.
“I had to visit him in there, watch him waste away. You can’t do that to me. I’m begging you to try a different way before it’s too late, and you ruin your life and break your father’s heart. You’re his favorite. All his hopes and dreams are riding on you.” Irene got down on her knees in front of her son and grasped his hands in hers and kissed them as tears flowed down her cheeks.
“I was going to be like Orwell, lead people out of bondage. But now I’m sinking, and dragging everyone down with me.”
“Didn’t you see the pain in your father’s face when he found out what you were doing?”
“I guess I figured that if he didn’t say much, it didn’t bother him.”
“He didn’t say anything because you were bar mitzvahed.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“When a child completes that rite, the whole community treats him as an adult and lends their strength and support. Your father turned the other cheek because he never wanted to limit your potential. Telling someone what to do, rather than being an example, drives people away. And your father swore that we’d always be together. But you’re going to go over the precipice if you continue on that path.”
“All right. I’ll give it a chance, but I can’t prom--”
“Mazel tov! Tonight I’ll re-introduce you to the relatives you haven’t seen in years.” A smile spread across his mother’s face, like the first night after a new moon. She wiped her tears away and went on. “We’ll talk to them about honest dealings. They’re very successful. Maybe you can go into the car business with your cousin Mark. I hear he’s doing very well.”
Yari drooped his head in acquiescence. “What time do we have to be there?”
“Seven sharp,” Irene said then turned to the phone.
* * *
“Irene! Sam! Shalom! And all the children!” A short, squat man rushed up to meet the Stern family at the door to Har Zion Reform Synagogue on 54th Street in the Wynnefield section of the city.
Children? You midget freak. Where do you see children when you’re staring into my belly button? Yari looked around the room, checking for anything not nailed down.
“Cousin Bennie! We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tatilla.” Irene pinched her cousin’s cheek in the ritual Jewish greeting. “Do you remember my sons? This is Carl, David and this is my youngest…Yari!”
“What boys! You should be proud. But you can’t nosh standing here!” Bennie nudged Irene and the family toward the gluttonous display of food: rye bread, corned beef, pickles, potato salad, tongue, and pastrami were piled to precarious levels on three large serving counters. Yari shook his head side to side, while Bennie encouraged, “Eat! Eat!”
As Yari and his family moved on, Bennie reached out and grabbed him by the arm, and said, “Yari, can I talk to you for a minute? My refrigerator’s on the fritz and my wife’s nagging me to get a new one. Waddaya got?”
“Amana, Frigidaire, GE,” Yari responded.
Across the room, a line led to the bar miztvah boy. People congratulated him and stuffed envelopes into his pocket. But quickly, the line leading to Yari grew longer than the one for Samuel Cohen.
Stanley Rabinowitz walked up to Yari after patiently waiting his turn. He had his beefy teenage daughter, Naomi, in tow. When he reached the front he asked, “Yari, can you help me out?” Pointing to his daughter, he leaned in and whispered, “The clothing bills are killing me. Do you have anything in her size?”
“I only carry up to junior hippo,” Hershel said, then stopped to consider before turning to Naomi and adding, “Hey, nice mustache!”
The young girl ran off toward the dessert trays. As she did, her father called out, “There’s five more years worth of electrolysis payments and clothes from Lane Bryant’s.”
Yari quickly dispensed with the rest of the people seeking assistance and caught up with his family as they migrated deeper into the spacious ballroom.
“Sam. How are you? How are things in Human Relations?” a middle-aged man with a dumpy frame inquired. Then, before Sam could respond, “Say, did you see the size of the coupon section in the Inquirer this morning?”
“No, Phil, I didn’t,” Sam reluctantly responded.
“My god. It must have been this thick,” Phil said, with two fingers on one hand stretched as wide as possible.
“I haven’t been able to read much of the paper,” Sam grudgingly replied. “The riots have everyone working double shifts.”
“The only riots in Gladwyn are when they run out of prune juice.” Phil momentarily laughed himself into hysteria. “Now eat! It’s an insult to ignore all this.”
”I’m full. I’ve lost my appetite,” Sam replied.
“You call that full? If you can stand you can still eat.” Phil’s face contorted in confusion. “Besides, it’s free you shmendrick!” The man walked away rubbing his temples, the universal language of headache.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Phil,” Sam called out, then turned to Yari, “The pisk.”
“What’s a pisk?” Yari asked.
“A big mouth. Right, Irene?” Sam looked to his wife for clarification.
“The man’s a kerper, an animal,” Irene said as she led the family toward the dining area.
They easily found space at one of the large circular tables, with most of the guests standing in line for seconds while still gorging on their original helpings.
“Mom, why are they eating that way?” Yari asked his mother while nodding toward those seated around them.
“You mean with one arm in front protecting their plates? That’s in case someone tries to grab a bite or take away the food before they’re finished. But, please, don’t say anything,” Irene whispered. “You’ll embarrass them.”
“But they’re all fifty pounds overweight! What are they trying to do, eat themselves to death?”
“Look at their arms. See the numbers?” Irene waved a hand indicating almost everyone at the table. “They were in the concentration camps. Most starved to death; they survived, but probably wish they hadn’t.”
“But there’s plenty of food now.”
“They were scarred so deeply by those events they can never be satisfied. They’re trying to fill the void with food.”
“How about the ones that weren’t old enough to have been there?”
“For them it’s the easiest form of satisfaction, a new generation that hasn’t learned to control themselves.”
For Yari it was clear: Jews loved food like the blacks loved their Cadillacs. The same mentality that motivated a colored man to buy a car he couldn’t afford had Jews eating seconds and thirds at buffets even after their stomachs girgled, “enough.”
The Jews called blacks ignorant, yet Yari saw them seeking a similar satisfaction in their own way. Ignorance is color-blind, he decided.
“So, did you hear about Marvin?” a portly woman asked Irene from across the table.
“No, what’s to hear, Sylvia?” Irene loaned a polite ear.
“He’s been indicted for tax evasion.”
“But the momzer is worth four hundred million!” Irene clasped her hands in disbelief.
“Yes,” Sylvia assured, “and he wants to keep every dime. You remember what Herb Kaplan told us decades ago…’The man who has five million wants to get to fifty million worse than one who’s got five thousand wants to get fifty thousand.’
“Marvin got more and more greedy as the years went by,” Sylvia went on. “Now I hear he’s offering his tax accountant a million dollars to take responsibility and serve the sentence.”
“Excuse me, Irene,” Sylvia said as she pushed her chair out from the table, turned to the side wit
h an arm extended like a railroad crossing, and grabbed a black waiter by the sleeve. ”Boy, I’ve asked twice now for more ice. What is it with you people?”
“Yes, Mrs. Horowitz,” the waiter responded. “I’ll get it next time around. We’re short-handed since you and your husband booked the room for twenty guests and there are eighty.”
Yari watched the young man speed off; one man trying to do the work of five.
“Can you believe the impudence of those Schwartzes?” Speaking to no one in particular, Sylvia continued, “They think a statute can make them into human beings like us.” The look on her face replicated someone swallowing a mouthful of year-old mayonnaise. “And they’re always sweating!”
“That’s because they work for a living, Sylvia,” Sam interjected, flinging out his logic like a cold tossed salad.
The densely bejeweled woman immediately spotted an acquaintance and rushed off to torture someone new.
“So, how do you like my stole, Sam?” a tall, thin woman asked as she paraded by wearing a mink stole on the balmy eighty-degree day in August. She sat down close, enticing him to feel the material.
“Yes, it’s very nice, Eleanor.” Sam then leaned over and uttered to Yari, “It looks like a dead cat landed on her shoulders.”
“Nice? Nice? It cost eight thousand dollars and you say nice? Gay mit hent en de fis en drerd,” Eleanor sneered, contorting her lip in an agonizing manner as she spoke.
“Whatever she said didn’t sound very nice, Dad.”
Irene motioned to Yari who tilted his head toward his mother. “She told your father to crawl into hell on his hands and feet.”
“How about I throw some acid in her face and we watch the skin drip off onto her pumpernickel bread?” Yari spoke loudly enough for the thickly made-up woman with pointed ears to hear.
“What chutzpe! You need a good slapping, young man,” Eleanor retorted.
“You even try to touch me and I’ll be munching on your sliced-off fingers like a delicacy at a Middle Eastern restaurant, smacking my lips with every swallow while you lie in a pool of your own blood, begging me to end it quickly. However, my respect for etiquette would never allow such a culinary faux pas.” Yari licked his fingers in mock imitation.
“A rhaner mushuggener,” the woman called out, so upset she ran off leaving a half-eaten cheese blintz on the table.
In response, Irene said, “I agree that the relatives take things too far, and with some of what you say, but not with how you say it. They’re still your elders and they’ve been persecuted all their lives. They lost every-thing during the war, and some of them had to provide services to stay alive in the concentration camps. You don’t have the right to judge them until you’ve been through as much.”
Irene’s manner lightened as a couple and their young boy approached the table. “Gene, Sandy, Mark, come sit.” She gestured for the three to join them at the now vacant table. Irene nabbed Yari’s ear, and drew him in. “No more nasty talk. This is the young man you’re going to work with.”
“I’ve got serious business going on. I can’t be--”
Irene reached over and pinched Yari’s arm. “This is your last chance to make something legitimate of your life. Do I need to get down on my knees and beg? Or have a stroke?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Otto's Social Club, South Brooklyn, NY
Yari was stopped twice as he walked deeper into the club. Men, big men, frisked him, not offering a smile or an apology.
“Just business,” Yari assured himself.
He was escorted through the last door by a guy as big around as he was tall. The man sweated profusely from the effort of walking the fifty feet, moving sideways as much as he moved forward.
He tapped on the door three times.
“Come,” came the reply from within.
The man reached around Yari, opened the door and pushed him forward.
“Well, well, it’s the little kid with the big cohones,” the man behind the desk announced.
“I stopped being little a few years ago, and I stopped being a child when I had the first gun put to my head,” Yari replied.
“Well, I like a guy with balls,” the boss said, nodding at a chair in front of the desk. “Have a seat.”
Yari sat down and placed the briefcase in his lap.
The man’s tone changed from pleasant to all business. “You got the shit?”
Yari opened the case and took out the stack of credit cards wrapped in a thick rubber band. “Two hundred and fifty cards. Credit limits from five hundred to twenty-five thousand. Unsigned, undelivered.”
“Nice,” the man responded. “Very nice. Why don’t you put the case on the desk?”
“Why don’t you put fifty grand on the desk first?” Yari suggested in the same surly tone as that thrown at him.
Suddenly, the boss turned purple with rage, swept all the papers off the desk and screamed, “Do you know who the fuck you’re talkin’ to?” Without waiting for a reply or a guess, he said, “I’m Carlo Gambino, the head of this family and the boss of bosses. I’ve whacked out guys for looking sideways at me, and they were Sicilian. You’re not even Italian.”
“I was told you’re a stand up guy. I came here with no protection. I didn’t figure I needed any because Sylvan made a proper introduction.”
“Yeah, Sylvan. Now there’s a piece of work. He’d put his own mother on the street hookin;’ if he thought she could turn a few tricks.”
“You’re saying his introduction doesn’t mean anything?” Yari asked in a more conciliatory tone as he saw his position weakening.
“I’ve done business with Sylvan before but that don’t mean I respect him.”
“People tell me you’re a man of your word. How’s it going to look when word gets out on the street that you ripped off an eighteen year old kid who came to you with a righteous deal, unarmed, unprotected?”
“I’m not going to kill ya, kid. This business wouldn’t run without Jews. Take a look around. Do you think these guys can count to ten?”
Yari looked, but didn’t reply. He was beginning to feel like his feet were encased in cement.
“You know what they call a Jewish revolver?”
“No,” Yari replied.
“A ball point pen. It was Abba Dabba Bernstein who made Dutch Shultz rich. That moron could only count as high as the number of bullets a gun would hold.
“Besides, who will kill an eighteen year old kid?” Carlo asked, then answered his own question. “The only person I know who would do that is me,” he said and laughed.
“How about we finish the business I came here for so we can both get back to what we do best?” Yari suggested
“Let me clue you in to a little secret kid. Your good friend Sylvan suggested I rip you off and split the profit with him. How’s that for a friend?”
“That fat motherfucker. I knew he was a lying cocksucker.”
“Hey, kid, you need to learn to express yourself. Holdin’ things inside can make you sick.”
All the other men in the room laughed at that.
“So, do I walk out of here alive…with my money, or do you send my mother my shirt wrapped around a fish?”
“No, kid. It’s not gonna go down that way. I like ya…and I think you’re going places. I think you’ll come back with even better deals. Not like these goombas I’ve got workin’ for me that don’t know shit form shinola. They’re shakin’ down merchants for ten and twenty bucks, takin' a percentage of the numbers racket. Small time shit. Not enough money to blow your nose with. You keep comin’ back with the goods and you’ll have a seat at the table.”
And with that, Carlo, reached in the drawer, took out a huge stack of money and put it on the table.
Yari reached for the dough.
Carlo put his hand over Yari’s. “Just remember; we’re partners now. I get first shot at whatever you come up with. I find out you went around my back and I’ll send a couple of my guys down to Philly to wh
ack out your whole family. And yea, I do know your father’s a cop. That don’t mean shit to me. Now get the fuck out and start makin’ deals. I expect something else real soon.”
“But Sylvan said he’s my partner. I can’t have two.”
“Sure you can. Fifty percent for me, fifty percent for Sylvan, zero for you.”
“I’m not taking all the risks and coming away with nothing.”
“Your biggest risk is disappointing Sylvan or me. You disappoint me I change the program for you.”
“Huh?”
“From livin’ to dead.”
Yari got up and move toward the door. As he started to walk through, two big men narrowed the space down to where he had to turn sideways to get out.
He could feel the guns hidden under their jackets and smell the sweat on their skin and the scent of sausage on their breath.
Yari wasn’t sure which of the two men hit him first, but the punch knocked all the wind out of him. He doubled up, dropped to his knees and threw up. That’s when the kicking started. He heard his ribs break but still the men did not stop. They obviously enjoyed their work too much to let Yari off lightly.
“That’s just a little reminder, kid, what happens if you cross me,” Carlo warned.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cherry Hill, NJ
“Come on in, kid,” Sylvan said as he opened the door wide, but only after a quick, paranoid glance over Yari’s shoulder.
Yari debated whether to tell Sylvan he knew about the deal he’d made with Carlo Gambino, but decided that he’d hold the knowledge for a better time and place. He could play the game too, and the fat man had a bigger ass than he did so Yari figured he could jam a bigger pole up his backside than Sylvan could do to him.
