Six Years Inside the Mafias: how I worked my way through college: a true story

by Yari Stern

  “Teddy, that whole load netted me less than five Gees,” Yari explained. “That’s not going to cut it. Can you put together a major score?”

  “Some brothers stopped by. They told me they broke into a warehouse and got twenty-five TVs.”

  “Do you believe them?”

  “I don’t know them that well. I’ve seen them around, but we never did any business together.”

  “Set it up.” Yari hung up, but waited by the phone. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “They’re ready with the merchandise,” Teddy said. “They’ll meet you on the corner of Tenth and North. It’s set up for nine tonight.” Her voice aired a rare note of caution.

  North Philly

  “You white. You must be Yari.” The unfamiliar faces were colder than the fifteen degree night in the middle of a heartless winter. “They call me Snake,” he said without taking his hands from the pockets of a poor excuse for a coat. “And this is Pee-wee.”

  Yari confronted the two black youths out in front of an abandoned building in the hard-core section of North Philadelphia. He looked around at the neighborhood. The homes and apartments were dilapidated. Yari watched small cyclones - swirling bits of dust and paper dancing at every street corner, the merging of man and environment in a maelstrom of apathy. He could hear the wind roaring with laughter as it whipped through any weakness, bent on ridding the city of its physical and philosophical waste.

  “The shit’s upstairs. You ready to take care o’ business, whitey?” the boss gibed. He was tall and thin, with two distinct scars angling across his bony, protruding cheeks. His exaggerated hand movements reinforced Yari’s original belief that he was a lying sack of shit who had practiced his delivery a dozen times in front of the midget brother who accompanied him.

  The two started walking up the steps ahead of Yari, sauntering with an unmistakable confidence that they had hooked their man with the proper incentive. Bells and whistles went off in Yari’s head, but he attributed that to the cold and the neighbor-hood. I hope this is for real, but if it’s not, this white boy will kick your punk asses up and down the street till there’s road rash over every inch of your black bodies.

  “Let’s do it.” Yari followed the two brothers at a careful distance, but close enough to catch fleeting glimpses of their smirking faces as they proceeded up the double flight of stairs. He tried to memorize details that might soon become vital: broken rungs lit solely by the beams of a callously cold full moon shivering through a lone, shattered second floor window.

  Each step echoed the sound of feet clashing with withered floorboards. Peeling wallpaper flaked off and dropped like leaves fluttering down on gentle currents, drawn in motion by frayed leather jackets sweeping against the narrow hall. Seductively, the two in front continued onward.

  “Here’s the shit. Check it out, brotha. It’s hot, it’s cool, it’s just for you,” Snake offered as he walked into the large open space.

  “Sounds like you’re auditioning for the role of D-J on ‘Soul Train,’ brother,” Yari mocked, as he set foot upon the upper landing. He took two more strides and stared into a room full of…nothing. He immediately turned toward the stairs but stumbled into the arms of two other black guys who made Snake and Pee-wee look like children. One seized Yari from the side and locked an arm around his throat; another took his wrist, bent it behind his back, put a .32 revolver to his temple, and took away Yari’s .45.

  “What now, Snake?” the gunman asked his boss.

  “Yo gotsta give it up, chump.” Snake explained the options to Yari. “Give up da money or give up da ghost.”

  “There’s nothing to give up, slick. I got the money on me like you got the TV’s, asshole.” Yari’s rasping words were quickly followed by heavy blows to his stomach, ear, and nose. Blood splattered everywhere.

  “I hope you got lots o’ time. Dis is gonna take a while.” The biggest man, holding Yari around the neck from behind, tightened his grip as he rifled through Yari’s pockets. He grabbed a wad of bills and slid his hand out smiling until he saw only singles. “What da fuck is dis, motherfucker? Where’s da dough?” the hulk said while shaking Yari like a rag doll.

  In a blind rage, Yari kicked out at his captors. But wind-milling feet struck only frigid air. A moment later, exhausted, Yari waited for the gang’s response.

  “Let’s see it, punk.” The gunman pressed the barrel into Yari’s ear.

  Yari spit into the face confronting him.

  “This is gonna hurt real bad,” the insulted kid promised. Then, in retaliation, he began cracking Yari on the top and side of his head with the butt of the gun.

  Yari was able to deflect the first few blows by lifting his elbows high and twisting his head from side to side, but he was fighting a losing battle. He began drifting into semi-consciousness, being beaten about like a low-hanging Piñata.

  “Dees motherfuckers keeps da money in their boots!” Snake reached down and took a hold of Yari’s Tony Lama’s.

  Those words caused an involuntary reaction in Yari: to save what was left after the fire and Florida. Whatever clarity he had left returned to him.

  Yari welcomed Snake with a knee to the face. He then ducked down to slip his head out from under the arm of the surprised gorilla. A palm thrust bounced the smallest of the four off the side wall. Yari raced to the stairs, and the door to freedom at the bottom. He got one foot on to the top riser before a construction boot buckled his leg and he fell face first down the steps.

  Even rolling fast, and gathering momentum, the four brothers were catching up with him. Yari bounced to a standing position as he hit the bottom landing and threw a shoulder at the door. His momentum opened the entrance just a crack. He could make out another guy leaning against the gate to freedom, staring back at him with gold-capped teeth.

  The four, now five, turned upon him with renewed vengeance. “Befo’ we wuz just gonna rob ya. Now ya gotsta die,” Snake pronounced as judge, jury, and executioner.

  Blows then rained down from every angle with Yari unable to fend them off.

  Snake worked on Yari’s boots while the others continued delivering their punishment. One of the boys had his hands around Yari’s throat, choking the life out of him. “Yeah, motherfucker, how’s dat feel?”

  Just then a giant Black man came out from the rear of the apartment they all thought was abandoned. He was naked and dripping wet from a shower and holding a baseball bat above his head.

  “Get da fuck outta my home, you punks,” he yelled, waving the bat around

  The five Black kids jumped up and turned to run. But they stopped just long enough to say, “Here’s something to remember us by.” That was followed by a kick to Yari’s head for good measure. Each one gave a parting shot on the way out the door.

  “Stay cool, brotha,” Snake said.

  Yari watched with one partially-

  opened eye as the gang blew their breaths into the bluish air, testing the ferocity of near zero temperatures pushed forward by tenacious winds.

  He rolled over and said the owner of the apartment, in a voice barely above a whisper due to the strangling he’d just endured, “Thank you.”

  “You get the fuck outta here too,” the man yelled, still waving the bat.

  Yari crawled out the door.

  “Help me,” he called out instinctively, then hesitated. Calm returned along with a certainty that no one would respond even if they heard, for his words wouldn’t resonate beyond his own battered chest cavity. It was a hollow cry reverberating from within a thin shell of life.

  His pleas withered under the din of a city torn apart by avarice and indulgence, calls that were further muted when combined with those of more deserving souls, leaving him without hope, without even the desire for hope.

  After time had lost all meaning, and his existence pendulumed between two worlds, Yari was helped to his feet.

  Through the pitch-black, he could barely make out a figure wearing a heavy overcoat.

 
; “Who are you?” he asked.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Bala Cynwyd, Pa.

  From the depths of hell, Yari was back in his own world. Now, emotionally and economically bankrupt, he was back to seeking help from those he didn’t trust. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Ed, it’s me,” Yari whispered into the receiver, as if speaking softly might be considered a mitigating circumstance.

  “Where ya’ been? Lost?” Ed Dein suggested cynically. “Sylvan’s looking for you, and he’s got a hard-on.”

  “The guy’s a fuckin’ psycho. One day he’s my new father, the next day he’s going to bury me alive.”

  “Yeah, well money makes him a little nuts. It does that to lots of people.”

  “I almost got killed trying to put something together.” Yari’s voice was hoarse, still affected by the strangling he had undergone a week before. “I didn’t want to call before I at least had an offering to tide him over.”

  “He’s got no sympathy, and you can’t hide from him. He’s got tentacles everywhere. What are you going to do?”

  “I made him a ton of money: jewelry from Saks, guns from the National Guard Armory, furniture from Strawbridge’s, Lalique from Lord and Taylor’s, suits from Botany. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “That’s yesterday’s news.”

  “Can’t you calm him down while we work on a few things together?”

  “Tell you what, you handle a couple assignments and in the meantime I’ll stall Sylvan.” Ed’s voice snickered without making the sound.

  “Okay. What do I have to do?” he asked Ed, then added for himself, In my new position as assistant asshole.

  “Meet me at the store on Kensington Avenue tomorrow…early,” Ed said before hanging up.

  Kensington Avenue, Phila. Pa.

  As Yari pulled up, a penetrating, chaste winter sun struggled over the tops of the dismal four-story homes in the Polish section of Philadelphia. The street was a wall of double-parked trucks and cars. A tilted, rusted sign over a paint store squealed in the wind.

  He parked the station wagon half on, half off the curb, avoiding the windswept, dented trashcans rolling back and forth on the sidewalk.

  He approached the freshly painted red brick building where Ed was standing and pointed to two guys working up on ladders. “What’s the deal?” Yari asked as he watched the men he knew were off-duty city cops hammering a wooden sign announcing “Hartman’s Appliances” into place on the front of the empty store. They were on Ed’s payroll, hooked to him by their love of money.

  Ed started to walk into the building to get away from the noise of hammers going at a fearsome pace, but then turned back to the carpenters who were working their asses off. “Don’t think I’m not watching you, you lazy motherfuckers.”

  “So, it’s Mr. Hartman this week?” Yari asked.

  “Yeah. The merchandise will be here starting tomorrow at noon,” Ed said. “Everything’s got to be in and out by dark. Your end is to move the stuff to the warehouse. There’s goin’ to be refrigerators, console TV’s, ranges, dishwashers and air conditioners: four forty-foot containers. They’ll be coming two hours apart. We gotta have each load moved by the time the next one arrives or the shit will be spread out all the way down to Allegheny Avenue. And that’ll attract more heat than we can handle.” Ed slurped down half an A&W root beer float, hiccupped, belched, and laughed.

  “We’ve got a twenty-eight foot step van. That’ll mean two trips for each delivery. You’ll have to work like an animal to get it done in time. It took six months to put this deal together. There’ll be almost three-quarters of a million in merchandise coming through the front door. It’ll sell for fifty cents on the dollar. Your cut will be five percent of that, more than you owe Sylvan.” Ed searched the sawdust-ladened floor with penny-pinching eyes and a sweeping foot, looking for nails that had dropped, as they walked back to the front entrance.

  “I’ll handle my end, you just take care of the fat man,” Yari said.

  “It‘ll take me about a week to unload it all. In the meantime I’ll tell Sylvan his money’s guaranteed and that I’m standing behind you. How’s that?” Ed patted Yari on the back, then turned to hand one of the men on the ladder another bag of nails.

  “Okay, Ed. I’m in. But make sure you talk to Sylvan today. I hear he’s got Jack looking for me and if he doesn’t get the message in time, I won’t be around to lift or drive anything.”

  “It’s a done deal,” Ed assured him, waving a modest hand. “You can stick a fork in it. In the meantime, grab a hammer and a ladder and help Joe and Tony for a little while. We’re going to work all night. If this place doesn’t look like an up-and-running retail store, those manufacturer’s reps won’t drop off anything.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ardmore, Pa.

  The knock was strong enough to rattle the door.

  From a deep sleep, Yari jumped to his feet.

  The pounding at the door increased in intensity.

  He pulled on his jeans and ran to the door before the knocking brought nosy neighbors…then the police.

  Yari opened it, but left the chain in place.

  “What the--?” was all he could say before a kick broke the chain and the door flew open, exposing two men, wearing heavy trench coats that did little to hide their bulk.

  “Well, if it ain’t the kid,” one of the men said to the other.

  “See, I told you he wouldn’t try to run,” the other responded.

  “Lucky for him. If we had to go to the trouble to find him it woulda been a lot worse,” the first man said.

  “Well, kid, whadaya got to say for yourself?” the second man asked.

  “Who--?”

  “Oh, look, Al, the kid already forgot he’s workin’ for Carlo,” the first man said.

  “Maybe he needs a reminder, Pauli?” the second man suggested, kicking Yari in his sore ribs.

  Yari coughed up blood.

  “Oh, looked what you did, Al?” Pauli said. “Go easy on the kid. After all, he’s got to be healthy enough to go out and make some money for Carlo.”

  “Yeah, Pauli, you’re right.” Al agreed. “Here kid, let me help you up.”

  Yari brushed the hand away and carefully got up, trying to stay out of range of the hands and feet of the two thugs.

  “Carlo ain’t seen no money from you in two weeks,” Pauli said. “He’s worried that you forgot the arrangement you made with him.”

  “It wasn’t me who made the arrangement, but, yeah, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “We can’t go home empty handed,” Al warned.” Whatsha got?”

  “Things haven’t exactly gone well. I don’t have anything to offer,” Yari admitted.

  “We can’t take back excuses, kid. You gotta wet our beaks or Carlo’s gonna take it out of our hides.”

  “You have to give me a little time. I’m working on a few things,” Yari implored.

  “Al, take a look around the place,” Pauli suggested. “Maybe the kid just forgot.”

  Al wandered off in search of anything not nailed down.

  Yari got to his feet, watching Pauli's hands, ready to ward off the blows that were sure to come.

  Horrible noises came from the bedroom: furniture being turned over, drawers broken, glass smashed.

  Ten minutes later, Al came back in the living room waving a fist full of bills at Pauli.

  “You were right, Pauli,” Al said. “We just didn’t put the fear of God in him.”

  “Well, kid,” Pauli began cordially, “did you just forget or are you holdin’ out on us?”

  “That’s just enough money to fill my tank with gas. How am I supposed to make money without a bankroll to buy the stolen shit?”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that,” Pauli said. “I ain’t here to solve your problems.”

  “Hey, I got an idea,” Al said. “Steal the shit yourself and cut out the middle man.”

  “Yeah, and don’t even think about sleepin
g,” Pauli added.

  “Yeah, you can sleep all you want when you’re dead…which might not be too much longer,” Pauli suggested.

  Both men got a good laugh out of that.

  “You can tell Carlo I’ll--,” Yari began.

  “I’m not tellin’ Carlo shit. When someone tells him something he don’t wanna hear, he has their tongue cut out,” Al explained.

  Al put a hand on Yari’s should in a fatherly gesture and pulled him in. “I like ya kid, you got ball.”

  He then threw an uppercut into Yari’s stomach.

  Yari dropped to his knees and threw up.

  “But this is business and I can’t let personal feelings get in the way,” Al said.

  Pauli went to open the door but Yari, on his hands and knees blocked it from opening all the way.

  Al pushed a foot to Yari’s shoulder, titling him over.

  The two men took a last look around. “Ya got a nice place here, kid,” Al said. “How would you like to move to a new home?”

  “Depends on what it looks like.”

  “Like a funeral home.”

  The men laughed, then left.

  Yari was sure he heard one of them whistling, but then thought maybe it was just his breathing through broken ribs.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Kensington Avenue. Philadelphia, Pa.

  As Ed and Yari stood outside the store early the next day, the first eighteen-wheeler, followed by a Pontiac Bonneville carrying the manufacturer’s rep, pulled up and double-parked in front of the eagerly-awaiting appliance store.

  “Mr. Hartman, it’s good to see you again.” Speaking through a fabricated smile, the neatly dressed, prematurely bald man continued, “It looks like you’re set to go.” He tried to make eye contact and shake hands but had to settle for a “Let’s just get down to business look” from Mr. Hartman.

  Ed put an arm around the guy’s shoulder and walked him into the store.