by Yari Stern
“How many?”
“Two.”
“Okay.”
“Two Smith & Wesson M76: the main submachine gun of the Special Forces.”
“Hum.”
“Four Remington 11-48 semi-automatic shotguns used by the Marines.”
“Very nice.”
“One Browning Automatic Rifle…and…”
“I’m listening,” Kyle replied quickly, like he was excited.
“An M60 machine gun; the same gun used on the helicopters.”
“How much for the lot?”
Yari took a sheet of paper and added it up…fast. “Twenty-six, five.”
“You calculated it all that quick?”
“Yeah. I’m not just a pretty face.”
“You know if you make a mistake it’s goin’ cost ya.”
“Right now, my only mistake is dealing with someone who doesn’t trust me and is breaking my balls.”
“You do have cohones, Jeff. I gotta give that to you.”
“No, what you ‘gotta give me’ is the long green.”
One of Zee’s men who had been leaning against a post on the porch straightened up and took a step forward. “You gonna let this punk talk to you like that, boss?”
“What do you suggest, Mike?”
“How about I kick the shit out of him?”
Zee turned to Yari. “How about that, Jeff?”
“Gee, you are a bad ass, Mike. Let’s see…you outweigh me by about a hundred pounds, stand about six inches taller. You think that makes you a tough guy?”
“Tough enough to make you wish you were never born.”
“You hick, back-water, inbred moron, there are ways to lose a fight you haven’t even dreamed of. You beat the shit out of me; I come at you with a knife. You beat my knife, I get a gun. You take my gun; I wait outside your house and run you over with my car when you step off the curb. I will drag you down the street until you look like some ground meat that dropped off a butcher’s delivery truck.”
Zee laughed his ass off.
Mike took a step forward. He face was beet red and it looked as if steam was blowing out of his ears like a train engine.
Zee put a hand out, stopping the man. “Cool it, Mike. We need Yari…and he can’t bring us guns if his arms and legs are broken.”
“And you can’t use the guns if your men look like road kill,” Yari retaliated.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Villanova, Pa.
Yari cruised down I-76 east. The boosting of the 1967 Corvette L88 Coupe, one of only twenty ever made, had gone without a hitch.
And this time there was no shooting or chase through the wide, well-groomed street of the city...until he came upon a roadblock... Cars and cops were dispersed at various angles from one side of the street to the other, leaving no room to get around.
At first, he thought it was for him. Then he realized it was an alcohol check point. People in cars were being pulled out to do roadside sobriety tests. He wasn’t drunk, but he couldn’t chance it. They might already have a description of the stolen car.
That left only one option. Yari dropped the car into second gear, and popped the clutch. The front wheels came off the ground and the rear tires smoked as they spun on the black asphalt. He hit the roadblock at seventy miles per hour, scattering police and vehicles but also badly damaging the Vette
The cops jumped in their vehicles to go in pursuit. Yari was already a miles down the road. But he needed tat least three minutes, or three miles leeway to be able to get safely to the docks.
He turned on his bearcat scanner and flipped through the frequencies. “All units in pursuit of blue Corvette, subject has broken through the blockade at Girard Avenue and 33rd Street. Be advised of a dozen car pile up on the Passyunk Ave Bridge. South bound traffic is blocked.”
“I’ve go to get over that bridge; it’s the only route to the dock without driving through every small street in south Philly,” Yari said to himself.
“All units. Suspect vehicle is headed south on 33rd. Street. Use caution.”
Yari got back on 76 East and could see all southbound traffic on the bridge at a stand-still because of the accident... The Northbound side of the bridge was empty.
He came to a stop one hundred yards before the last car in the pile up. There was no way past .All the cops behind him came to a screeching halt. They thought he was trapped, but Yari saw a possible play.
A flat bed car hauler had the bed tiled down to the ground, getting ready to pull a crashed vehicle on to the bed. Yari skirted the damaged vehicle, jumped on to the ramp, got a foot above the barrier between the lanes, yanked the wheel hard to the left and landed on the north bound lanes of the bridge.
His bearcat scanner squawked. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Yari landed with a horrible thud. He thoughts he might have cracked the frame in two, but there was no time to check on that. He sailed down the empty lanes. When he looked back at the scene, none of the cop cars tried the same maneuver.
Five minutes later he arrived at the dock. The same scraggly Arab was seated at the entrance to the container.
Yari got out of the Corvette that was billowing smoke from the crack radiator and leaking oil from a broken oil pan. The smashed fenders were rubbing on the tires, and had almost cut through the cords.
The Arab had his own bearcat scanner. By the smile on his face, he knew what had transpired. “Well, Mr. Stern, you caused quite a ruckus.”
Yari walked over to the board, took the black marker and crossed out 1964 Corvette. Where's the money?”
“Money for what?”
“This Corvette.”
“That is not a Corvette.”
“No? Then what is it?”
“It is a smashed Corvette.”
“The deal was for a 1964 Corvette. Nothing was ever said about the condition.”
“Take it to a body shop. Get it fix, come back and I will pay you your money.”
“I don’t have time,” Yari said, taking a few steps toward the Arab.
The man pulled a gun and pointed it at Yari. “You insulted me and the Koran. Did you think there would not be price to pay?”
“Hey, Samood, it’s all part of the game.”
“My name is Achmed, not Sammod.”
“Sammod, Achmed, it’s all the same: raghead.”
“Good! You threaten to deface the Koran, now you mock me. That will make it easier for me to shoot you.”
The Arab was pointing the gun as he spoke. It was obvious to Yari that he was not familiar with firearms. Yari timed it in his head how long it took the man to wave the weapon from the surrounding areas back to Yari.
Before the guy could re-aim the gun, Yari pulled his .45 from the small of his back and shot the man in the knee cap.
The Arab howled like a wolf caught in a trap.
Yari walked over and pulled an envelope out of the man’s jacket. He counted out the money and threw the rest back at the guy writhing in pain on the ground.
“Ten thousand and ten dollars,” he said.
“What is the ten dollars for?” the man cried.
“A taxi. I don’t think you’re in any condition to drive me home in a car with a manual transmission.”
“May the wrath of Allah bear down upon you!”
“I guess that end’s our little business, Achmed. Don’t call me; I’ll call you. Maybe time will allow us to make amends and get together with our kids at a pool party.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Drexel University. Constitutional Law Class. Phila. Pa.
Professor Gibbons called the class to order. A few lingering murmurs brought a stern look from the professor.
“Would anyone like to take the position as to why modern society could not function without lawyers?”
“Lawyers will always be necessary, professor,” Yari responded.
“Yes, but can you tell us why?”
“Lawyers are men we have to hire to prote
ct us from lawyers.’ E. Ron Hubbard,” Yari quoted.
“I hope you are being facetious, Mr. Stern,” the professor said, his hawk eyes riveted on Yari.
“An old Spanish proverb said, ‘It is better to be a mouse in a cat’s mouth than a man in a lawyer’s hands’.”
“Without lawyers, modern industrial society, with all its legal contracts, would not stand. And let me remind you of the benefits those companies have brought to the world: electricity, airplanes, skyscrapers and automobiles. Need I go on?”
“Will Rogers said, ‘Make crime pay…become a lawyer.”
“From what I have heard, you’ll be needing a good lawyer very soon, Mr. Stern.”
“It’s just a paperwork glitch. It’ll all be straightened out in a day or two.”
“Hum. I seemed to have heard a different time frame…maybe five to ten…years. That would seem to be the standard sentence for grand theft.”
“What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”
“What happened to making an honest living?” the professor suggested.
“The Godfather said, ‘A lawyer with a briefcase can steal more than a thousand men with guns’.”
“Not all lawyers are thieves, nor are all clients so cynical,” Professor Gibbons argued.
“A lawyer is a person who rescues your estate from your enemies,” Yari assured,“…and keep it for himself.”
“A quick wit, Mr. Stern, may be amusing in a classroom, but may be a detriment in a court room.”
“Richard Lamm said, ‘Nations which train engineers will prevail over those which train lawyers. No nation has ever sued its way to greatness.’”
“People don’t like lawyers, that is, until they need them,” the professor argued.
“Jay Feinman said, ‘The law is so complex and voluminous that no one, not even the most knowledgeable lawyer, can understand it all,” Yari said. “Moreover, lawyers and legal scholars have not gone out of their way to make the law accessible to the ordinary person. Legal professionals, like the priests of some obscure religion, too often try to keep the law mysterious and inaccessible.”
“When most people hear the word ‘cells,’ we think biology. while you think penitentiary. An occupational hazard?”
“Hunter S. Thompson said, ‘It’s only a hazard if you go to trial.’”
“It's every lawyer's dream to help shape the law, not just react to it.’”
“Chief Joseph told the story of a tribal leader…a man called Lawyer, because he was a great talker, took the lead in the council, and sold nearly all the Nez Perce country.’”
“You may soon find yourself searching for a good attorney, Mr. Stern,” the professor suggested.
Many in the class laughed at that. It felt to Yari like they were slapping his face to wake him up top the real possibility that he was headed for the big house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Brooklyn, NY
The meeting was held at a private club in a seedy section of Flatbush.
Yari got there at the allotted time, parked his station wagon a half block down from the place, then sat there with the engine running and the heat going at full blast.
Even with the car heater on high he was still shivering. He was in way over his head and the people he was dealing with killed for as little as a perceived insult.
Five minutes went by before screwed up his courage enough to get out of the car and approach the club.
Out front were five men, big men with no necks, smoking cigarettes in a way men with power did. When they reached the filter, they threw their butts down and ground the remains out with the heel of their shoes…as if they were rubbing out the life of useless person, a rat or a man who didn’t make money for the organization.
Yari reached the entrance, nodded to the men and started to step inside.
One of the men put a hand on his shoulder and stopped Yari in his tracks.
Another man frisked him.
Yari started to say something, then thought better of it and acquiesced to the humiliation of being searched by men with fourth grade educations.
When they were satisfied, one opened the door, another pushed Yari inside.
The club was so dark, at first he couldn’t make out any features. A moment later, shapes coalesced. Some men were sitting at the bar, others sat at small tables, their heads close enough to touch, in whispered conversations.
Without direction, Yari continued walking deeper into the club. When he came to a curtain, a man slid it back and nodded for Yari to go through.
There, six men sat around an oval table, playing cards. The one man he knew, Carlo Gambino, sat at the head of the table with the largest stack of chips in front of him. Yari figured that he was too stupid to win on his own and the other men too scared to reveal their cards if they held a good hand.
The haze of smoke hung over the table and almost blotted out the light from a single overhead bulb.
“Well, well, it’s the kid from Philly,” Carlo said in a jovial tone. “Whadaya got for me? Something to whet my beak?”
“I got a few things working,” Yari assured with feigned confidence.
“Yeah, well, I can’t pay my bills with promises.”
“I got bills too.”
“You want to sit at the big table but can’t come through with a score that’s worth shit.”
“If I didn’t have to drive all the way up here, maybe I’d have time to figure something out.”
One of the men raised a hand to swat Yari who stood his ground.
“You got balls, kid, I’ll give you that,” Carlo said.
“Yeah, and I’d like to keep them.”
“Ha! Ya hear that, Gino?” the boss asked.
“Yeah, we heard. You want we should teach him to show some respect?”
“No, let’s see how things go here,” Carlo replied to Gino.
“Let’s hear it, kid, and it better be good,” Gino warned.
“I was talking to Carlo,” Yari responded.
“Do you know who you’re speaking to, kid?”
“Someone who works for Carlo.”
The guy’s expression turned sour.
Yari hit a nerve.
The guy stood up and raised a hand to swat Yari.
Carlo waved him off.
“It don’t work that way, kid,” Carlo said. “Everyone works for themselves. Ya gotta be an earner in this organization. You hafta pull your weight.”
“If I have to pull my weight and all my business is in Philly, why am I standing here?”
“I know where you’re selling your hot shit …the Motorcycle clubs, Bars in Upper Darby, people at the Synagogues.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“You're putting down two, three scores a month. Month in, month out. You got great taste. A regular highline pro.”
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Yari said, tired enough to not care what the man said in response. He looked at Carlo and saw a guy who was going to be dead soon, either from the cigarettes and booze or because someone younger and even more violent thought Carlo would be more comfortable taking a dirt nap.
“You work for me now.”
“I’ve got to keep Sylvan happy.”
“You ain’t gonna talk to Sylvan. You ain’t never gonna talk to anybody if you don’t talk to me. You work for me directly. You'll put down contract scores all over the city.”
“I'm self-employed; I’m doing fine. I like being my own boss.”
“Those days are over, kid.”
Yari felt the new reality taking over.
“You don't look, you don't case, you don't do nothing no more. We point you to a score; we tell you what's in there. When we tell you it's there, it's there. They are laid-out scores. Alarm system diagrams, blueprints, sometimes the front door key. Some- times the scores are in on it. Everybody's ripping off the insurance company.”
“Work cars, drops, tools?” Yari asked, looking for a way out.
&nbs
p; “Whatever you need, you'd see me. I’ll be your father: money, guns, cars.”
“What's my end?
“You get a price. There is no negotiation about the price. We got expenses here you don't have.”
“How big?”
“Nothing under six figures. “
“I’m taking all the heat.”
“Our protection covers that. You take a bust, there'll be a bondsman and a lawyer there. You'll never spend a night in jail.”
“Why me? You have more experienced men.”
“All these job are in rich neighborhoods: Manhattan, Tribeca, Forest Hills. My goons stand out like a sore thumb. You know how to act and look. You’ll move like a ghost through those areas.”
“Who are you getting your information from?
“That's my end. It's nothing to do with you.”
“I don’t know. It’s a big step up. I like small scores. It fits my comfort zone.”
“I guess I didn’t make myself clear. This isn’t a democracy. You got no vote. You’re either in and you stay alive, or you’re out and we tie a cement block to your legs and throw you off a boat in deep water…just like Dutch Schultz did to Bo Weinberg.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Criminal Court. Phila. Pa.
The statue of Ben Franklin rose above the rotunda roof. The court was ensconced in the capital building, a fiefdom of the Democratic Party under Mayor James Tate. It was the place favors and contributions got exchanged between party officials and anyone with a dilemma and enough dough.
Inside Courtroom “C”, Judge Robert Wesley presided, assisted by Bailiff Tom
Yari Stern said in the defendant’s box, along with several other men, waiting their turn to be arraigned. Left with noting else to do, and wanting to keep his mind off all he faced, he turned his attention to the proceedings.
“Bailiff, call the next case,” the judge announced.
“The Commonwealth vs. Marcus Johnson. Mr. Johnson, approach the bench. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?” The bailiff speedily mouthed words that had become ritualized.
“Er, could you repeats that,” the illiterate man stuttered out.
