by Yari Stern
Jack and Herman sat in silent reinforcement while clattering glasses, rattling dishes, cattle calls by waiters and waitresses to cooks and busboys, shook the room. Yari was revolted by the hustle and bustle: a show put on for Jews to make them feel they were getting their money’s worth.
“The people you sent me after are doing everything they can to get the money,” Yari responded in a desperate voice. “Your buddy Jack already put the fear of God in them. No threat I could make was going to make them move faster.” Yari struggled to maintain his place within the narrowing confines allocated for him in the booth by the others. “I’m sure they’ll come through. I’ll pay their debts if they don’t. That’s how certain I am.” He then readied himself for their reaction.
“Are you willing to stake your life on it?” Jack wrapped a wool scarf around the barrel of his .38 and slipped it under the Formica-topped table.
“Yes!” Yari said, almost too loudly.
“You come back with nothing, making promises for others when you can’t even keep your own?” Sylvan leaned forward across the narrow table, blocking out the light above, creating a shadow. His suit jacket, pressing around the metal edge, seemed like the mouth of an enormous shark biting into the Formica top. “What the fuck do you take me for?” Sylvan threw a piece of half-eaten lox back onto Yari’s plate. “I’ve whacked out guys for less cause than I got against you.”
“Doesn’t your conscience ever bother you?”
“Hey, a conscience is something you keep buried, like old enemies and new friends.”
“I say we chop the kid up and make him an example for others. If we ship parts of his body to the people who owe us, he might still help collect the dough.” Jack nodded as he spoke. “Whadya say, boss?”
“You guys have got to learn to work together.” Sylvan smiled reassuringly. “Here’s the agenda. Yari, tonight you go with Jack. It’s time your real education began.”
“I’ve got my own agenda.” Yari still wasn’t used to taking orders.
“Not anymore. You owe me big time and this is the only game in town. You playin’ in my court, by my rules, or not at all.”
“What’ve you got in mind?” Yari listened to Sylvan but kept his eye on Jack.
“Jewish Lightning.” Sylvan explained in a monotone, detached voice.
“That’s pretty heavy stuff.” Yari was taken aback.
“Nah, that’s not a crime,” Sylvan assured. “You know what the worst crime is?”
Yari shrugged his shoulders.
“Being a bore,” the big man said, laughing himself into a coughing spell.
Yari gave the man some slack.
When Sylvan recovered, he picked up where he left off. “Almost all the merchants on the East Coast need to collect on their insurance every few years to make it through lean times. We don’t advertise. They come to us, begging.” He tilted his head; a smirk widened on his face as he spoke. “We just review the policy, create an accident, and get ten percent. It takes two to tango: the guy who’ll do anything to guarantee his enterprise keeps going, and us, who offer a service.
“You don’t realize what it means to those people.” Sylvan turned on the charm and continued. “Most of them fear losing their business more than they do losing their wife or kids. Their companies represent more time, energy, and effort, and give them more prestige, than any thing else in their lives.” Sylvan took a minute to pick at his French fries before continuing. “Their sons and daughters always have their hand out for cash, and their wives only care about image. So the guy stays late at night and works weekends, not because he loves his job, but because it provides the recognition and respect he can’t get any other way. It’s why he’s willing to break the law and risk jail. It’s still better than having his own family, neighbors, and country club buddies spit in his face.” Sylvan flicked a rude finger toward Jack who slid the napkin container across the table. “It’s neat and clean, no guns, no extortion, no bad guys, just two willing partners.
“Besides, insurance companies own half the real estate in this country. They didn’t get that from charging fair premiums. Insurance is a sucker’s game. The only way it pays is if you can even the chances by guaranteeing that there’ll be a claim. We’re just balancing the odds that are stacked against little guys and family enterprises.” Sylvan sat back, resting comfortably with his logic.
“I don’t do arson.” Yari crossed his arms like a scolded child.
“You’ll do it or we’ll burn your grandmother’s store down, with your whole family in it. The door to our club only opens one way.” Sylvan got up quickly, agilely for a big man, bumping Yari onto the floor. “Jack,” he said, “don't forget to pick up the rat cages before you head out tonight.”
Sylvan, Jack and Herman gurgled out repressed laughter.
It was Yari’s moment of realization. He was no longer in control of his own destiny, no longer an eagle soaring toward freedom, but rather an impotent speck of dust, doomed forever to ride the currents of immoral winds aroused by Sylvan, destined for eternal damnation.
You bloodsucking whoremasters, he yelled internally. You’d sell your mothers and sisters into prostitution, then become their best customers. Black-hearted scumbags. How could I ever have sunk so low as to look up to you?
He walked outside into a cacophony of sight and sound: blaring car horns, a sea of humanity shuffling along sinuous sidewalks, a blur of incandescent signs, a paved-over, surreal version of reality that blocked every exit, and left him with nowhere to hide and no options but to wait, like a servant, for orders.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Ardmore, Pa.
The telephone rang hard enough to shake the nightstand. Yari knew who it was before picking up the receiver.
“Ready to pay some interest on your loan?” the voice asked. “It’s show time.” Jack Trotter sounded excited, like a man about to have sex. “Meet me at the Duffield House in half an hour; wear dark clothes.”
Yari went to the bathroom; splashed some water on his face, slipped into some jeans and a black jacket, and walked outside into the austerity of a new moon. He looked up at stars that, to him, encompassed all the freedom possible. He was aware that they were totally dependent upon one another, and that without the force of gravity each provided, they would individually fly off to the far reaches of the cosmos.
While under that spell, he wondered if he would remain mired in crime, or rise up, as his father hoped, and make something of his life. A gaseous shadow seeped up from a nearby manhole cover, clouding his vision, portending worse to come.
The drive across City Line Avenue was shorter than usual without the obligatory lights and traffic that held sway during daylight hours. He considered his new place and role: a teenager deeply involved with serious men; a dreamer now permanently ensconced in an underworld with no exit, no path except deeper into the abyss.
He turned into the parking lot of the Duffield House. Jack was already waiting, sitting inside his 450SEL Mercedes Benz. He rolled the window down as Yari approached.
“Follow me. We’ll leave your car a couple blocks away as a back up and take mine over to the warehouse. Flash your lights if you run into a problem.”
Yari didn’t answer. The instructions were simple enough and he had far too much on his mind to come up with even a muted response. He followed as Jack weaved through the neighborhoods of East Falls and up onto the Northeast extension of the Schuykill expressway. Ten minutes later, Jack turned off on Grant Avenue and headed west into the Roosevelt Boulevard Industrial Park.
At the entrance of the grounds, Jack pulled over to the side and pointed out his window where he wanted Yari to leave his vehicle. Yari slid into the space, locked his car and got into the Mercedes without uttering a word.
They rode in silence the last few blocks to the building that needed special attention. Yari never looked over at Jack, hoping he might disappear from lack of attention. He knew that the guy was a bomb waiting to go off, a man made
more violent by every violent act he committed. And it was Sylvan who pulled the pin on that live grenade.
It was the combination of the two, he saw, that brought success to the organization. The only redeeming value in Jack was that he was so brutal Sylvan only rarely had to turn him loose.
Jack let the big sedan idle its way to a stop alongside the three-story brick structure. The sign said, “Chandler’s Imports”, but not in a proud manner. It was tilted and worn, ready to be replaced.
“What’s the story?” Yari asked, searching for a reason, a justification for backing out, or the motivation for going forward.
“Just a slime ball who doesn’t have the brains or the guts his father had. The old man worked twelve-hour days for forty years to build this thing. He turns over the business to his son, a twenty-six-year-old putz who buys a Caddy convertible, ten thousand dollars worth of Quaaludes, and hangs out at high schools picking up sophomores during the day instead of overseeing the factory. Four years later, the kid’s broke and begging us for help.
“This is the second call we’ve gotten from the schmuck. A few years ago, we had to torch six trucks sitting at the shipping dock because there wasn’t any merchandise to put in them and the deliveries were paid in advance.” Like a god providing dispensation, Jack seemed to delight in reviewing his past contributions.
“Why doesn’t he just sell the business and do something he likes or is good at?”
“Like what? Makin’ fuckin’ reservations? Most of the people who come to us are from old money. The company got passed to them, but not the backbone or willingness to work. The toughest training they ever got was to go to the bathroom by themselves.” While he spoke, Jack carefully adjusted the remote side-view mirrors, alternately looking out of each window in the car. “Every one of them I ever met has sucked the mishpucha dry or ran it into the ground.”
“The what?” Yari asked.
“The mishpucha, the family business. You don’t know anything about your heritage, do you?”
“What good can that crap do me?”
“When you follow traditions, you’re part of something bigger than yourself. And everybody, even the toughest guy, can use that. It’s what we’re doing here, helping someone preserve the family legacy, for at least a few more years.” Jack pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from the center console, slipped them on, and then checked his watch. “Time to go.” He got out of the Mercedes, motioning to Yari to do the same. “Hit the trunk remote, in the glove box.”
The rear deck lid popped open with a slight hiss. Jack and Yari got out and moved around to the back of the car.
“Grab the cages,” Jack whispered as he picked up a large bottle of lighter fluid.
“Are you going to tell me what the rats are coming along for?” Yari visualized himself inside the pen, just as trapped as the creatures within.
“You’ll see soon enough.” Jack lowered the trunk cautiously, until the vacuum lock mechanism caught and closed itself the rest of the way. “Let’s go.”
Yari began walking down the long thin alley that separated Chandler’s Imports from an abandoned Acme warehouse on the left. The dark of a new moon narrowed the passage even further.
Halfway to their destination, Jack stumbled. “What the fuck--?” He jumped up like he had stepped on a land mine. Jack pulled his gun and flailed the air with his arms to ward off the unseen danger. Yari flicked on a small flashlight and illuminated the body of a man crunched up into a fetal position. Even the force of Jack tripping over the body, and kicking it out of fear and confusion, did not stir the person.
Yari bent down to assess the situation more closely. Blood was oozing from the man’s mouth. His clothes were torn and only one boot survived whatever fate had befallen him. Yari started to roll the guy over, to determine the extent of his injuries, when…
“Come on.” Jack squared himself off after reviewing the threat. “He’s either dead or will be soon.”
“He’s still breathing. We’ll have to carry him over to the grassy area around front or blow it off. We can’t leave him here. The fire will take away any chance he has of making it.”
“We’re not blowin’ off anything. This is a two million-dollar deal with two hundred grand going to Sylvan and me. How does one useless drunk fuck compare to that?”
Yari turned the man over. If I let this guy die, the last decent piece of me dies with him. I’ll be tied to Jack and Sylvan forever, and slide right down to hell with them when the time comes. Yari looked up at Jack, to make one last plea for the stranger, and himself. “He’s no drunk. Look, his beard is trimmed and his clothes are new. I’m not leaving him to--”
Jack pressed a gun to Yari’s head. “You want to stay here with him…permanently?”
Yari set the man down gently and got up, clutching the rat cage. Jack pushed him in front and they continued walking until they reached a dead end. “Flash your light over there,” Jack ordered.
Yari illuminated a small basement vent window on the right side of the wall that was open just a crack.
“This is it,” Jack said, motioning Yari to hand him the cage.
“Now do you tell me what the rats are for?” Yari’s curiosity temporarily rose above his concern for the man they had left stuck to the frozen ground a hundred yards back, and his own fear of involvement in arson and now, possibly, murder.
“It’s a trick taught to me by an old firebug in the joint. You douse the critters with lighter fluid, set ‘em on fire, and throw them into the place. There’s no forced entry, no remnants of gasoline and, best of all, the fire starts in a million places at once as the little varmints bounce off walls, boxes, and merchandise trying to outrun the flames.” Jack choked back a laugh as he reminisced. “The owner leaves a few cartons of rags and stacks of tied up newspapers conveniently located in the basement, and the door ajar to create an updraft into the main work areas in the upstairs factory. The trash service is canceled the week before due to ‘inventory counting’ so there’s plenty of fodder for the fire. And nobody thinks a thing of a few dead rats; normal for buildings in an industrial park.”
“Sounds beautiful, Jack.”
“Yeah.” Jack looked starry-eyed as he reviewed his plan, the same expression another man might reflect describing his young son’s first steps.
Jack took the lighter fluid out from his fleece-lined leather coat and began dousing the six rats as they danced around the floor of their cage trying to escape the stinging liquid. After he emptied the entire bottle, he squatted on the ground and leaned his back against the wall of the building.
“Why are we waiting?” Yari hated the job, and Jack. If we have to do it, he thought, the sooner the better.
“For the fluid to soak in, so there’s no residue left inside the building.” Jack haughtily enjoyed the teacher’s role.
“Why do you do this, Jack? I heard you have two body shops and a big retail car lot. It can’t be for the money.”
“What’s wrong with a little extra money? But you’re right, kid. It’s not the dough. There’re some things that even money can’t buy, like respect from others. People step aside when I walk down the street, and never look into my eyes. No job title can do that. I’d do it for nothin’, but I’ll take the cash that comes along with it.
“It’s why I love the action,” Jack went on. You don’t need a wife, or companion, or friends, or family. It’s ‘better than sex,’ as the wise guys say. It’s why prison doesn’t matter. I can keep my businesses going from inside.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“Fuck you, punk. You don’t know shit. And don’t ever, ever talk to me like an equal. I’ve killed nine fuckin’ guys. Whataya got on your resume?”
Yari tried to quickly deflect the threat. “If you love it so much, then why do you want me along to take part of your glory?”
“Sylvan says you need to be tied to us…permanently.” Jack looked at his watch. “It’s time.” He stood up, carried the cag
e over to the partially opened vent window, took out a cigarette lighter and flicked the switch. A three-inch stream of fire appeared. He tilted the lighter into the trap and the rats started a slow burn. Tiny shrieks pulsed out in a painful staccato. Jack held the cage in front of him, his eyes dazzled by the flames. He finally broke the spell long enough to unhook the small door.
“Point the flashlight in here,” he told Yari, motioning to the narrow vent window. Jack then tilted the coop into the opening. The charring creatures slipped in between the bars guarding the basement windows and, immediately upon hitting the ground, began glancing off walls, boxes and bundled trash, setting everything on fire.
“It’s done. Let’s go. The rats’ll do the rest.”
The two retraced their steps toward the car. “Don’t even slow down when we get to that guy,” Jack instructed.
With the specter of death behind him, armed and eager, Yari complied, side-stepping the comatose man.
At the end of the alley, both looked back to see flames shooting from the windows of the building. There wasn’t as yet any billowing smoke. The owner had placed the right material in the basement.
The blaze licked the outside walls of the factory as Jack dropped Yari at his car, then rode off confidently. Yari drove a bit slower, until the rear taillights of the Mercedes faded. When Jack blew a red light at Bustleton and the Boulevard, Yari swung his T-Bird convertible back to the Industrial Park.
It only took him a few moments to return to the scene. The flames were now clearly visible above the rooftop and the smell of smoke tortured the air. Yari parked as close as he could and bolted out of the still-running car. By the time he got to within the last few yards of the unconscious figure, he had to crawl along the ground, unable to see due to the thickening black cloud.
“Let’s go,” Yari screamed into the helpless man’s face. “We’re getting out of here! You’re not a part of this.”
With all the strength his weight-lifting provided him, combined with panic-pumping adrenaline, he dragged the limp body the hundred yards to the lawn area in front of the abandoned warehouse, on the other side of the alley, choking out black soot the entire time. As he laid the man back down on the ground, sirens filled the air.
