by Yari Stern
“There’s a hell of a lot of ignorance out there to fight,” Sam retorted apathetically.
Yari turned and peered into an alleyway rustling with noise and commotion. “Dad!” Yari jumped in front of his father to protect Sam from the unseen danger. The tumult continued. Huge mounds of refuse, piled higher than the first floor of the abandoned buildings in the narrow, dead-end street, seemed to be moving forward, like a giant rat boring its way through jungle vegetation.
Sam pulled his service revolver.
Yari pushed his arms out directly in front of him, in anticipation of confronting a creature beyond imagination. Then it broke through.
“Mr. Johnson!” Sam yelled at the dwarf, as if the individual didn’t know his own name.
“Mista Stern. How you be?” the diminutive, middle-aged man, with a noble silk derby tilted down onto the side of his head asked, then recoiled from sight of the .38 police special staring him in the face. “Yo ain’t goin’ kill me, is you?”
Sam quickly holstered his revolver. “No, Mr. Johnson, I didn’t know it was you. Why were you walking through that trash?”
“Dat’s where I live now!” The fellow pointed back proudly to the home at the end of the street. “And dats where da garbage men be dumpin’ the rubbish. It be a lot easier fo’ dem to drop it here than to drive twelve miles to Passyunk Avenue.”
“But now they have your home blocked!” Sam contended.
“Ah’s gots no reason ta complain. Ah be livin’ in an abandon building an da trash be pretty good insulation anyhow.” He then tipped his hat and trudged on, as though exiting one’s home through mounds of debris were perfectly normal.
“How can we allow that to happen?” Yari agonized.
“I’ve tried for two decades to right those wrongs.” Sam shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless gesture. “I’m tired of trying to push back an ocean of ignorance and greed. Besides, nobody listens anymore,” he uttered, mostly to himself.
“You kept telling me that there are things more important than oneself, but I didn’t understand until it was too late.” Yari managed a faint smile for his father.
“It’s never too late,” Sam encouraged.
“People only see someone else’s craziness, never their own. But none of us are going to make progress unless we learn what others have to show us. Jews work hard and value education, but disregard their health and nature since there’s no immediate return. The blacks live for today but neglect the future because they don’t think their future is in their own hands. The wise guys don’t let the government take advantage of them, but they take advantage of everyone weaker than themselves.
“Politicians expect others to concern themselves with the same things they care about, and for everyone to go along with the system even though the incentives never filter down to the average Joe.
“I figured the same way, that if I focused on my own needs, I’d have it all. But the path I chose led me in the opposite direction, and I lost the most important thing.”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“Empathy for other people. Now I finally understand but I’m never going to get the opportunity to act on it,” Yari reflected, tilting his head to the dead, gray pavement.
“What do you mean you won’t get a chance? You’re only twenty-one-years-old.”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Dad.” Yari realized he almost gave his plan away.
He and Sam turned around. They retraced their steps to the store. When they got back inside, Sam mechanically returned to work.
And Yari sat, surrounded by doubts, uncertain of what actions to take. Finally, a singular conviction led him to his first of many determinations that day. He walked up to the seclusion of the third floor to call a man who thought he controlled everyone else’s destiny. “Hey, Sylvan, I made a decision.”
“I hope for your sake it’s a good one,” came the reply.
“I figure I’m worth more to you than my whole family. You kill them and you’re diggin’ your own grave. If I wind up dead you’ve got someone to point to and say, ‘That’ll be you if you ever fuck me.’” Yari tied his logic to money, the most essential ingredient in Sylvan’s miserable, twisted life. “You collect more dough with me gone than you could ever get out of me alive.”
“Go on, kid. You’re on a roll.”
“And if you go through with burning the store, the letter I dropped off at my attorney’s office will find its way to the DA, describing in detail every crime I know you’ve been a part of: arson, murder for hire, extortion, loan sharking, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg. This is going to stay between me and you.” Yari was a man with nothing to lose and spoke with that conviction. “And not only am I not going to kill that guy at city hall, but I called and told him about your plans. I’m sure he’s very well protected now.”
“Hold on, Yari. I’ll let you tell that to Jack.”
“Before you put Jack on, I’ve got one more thing to say.”
“What’s that, punk?”
“I’m going to ruin your life worse than any nightmare you’ve ever had. I’ll destroy you if I have to come back from hell to do it. Now you can put the other asshole on.”
Yari could hear in the background Sylvan relating to Jack the gist of what he had said, then handed the phone to his henchman.
“Where ya at, Yari?” Jack asked in his strictly business voice.
“I’m at the store.”
“Wait for me there. We’ll just take a short ride together; I’ll make it quick. If I have to come lookin’ for you, it’ll be slow and ugly.”
“A man can choose the time and place of his death; a coward can never control his destiny.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Yari hung up the receiver in slow motion. Nobody deserves to die more than me, but you won’t get the satisfaction.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Ridge Ave. Phila. Pa.
Yari staggered outside, into a callous, dismal day that suited his disposition to a tee. He plodded south on Ridge Avenue to the corner and headed west. Sixteenth Street was perfect, an eight-foot wide racetrack. Cars and trucks used the narrow road as a short cut from Fairmount Avenue to North Philly. Cops rarely patrolled the area during the day, and most of the houses were abandoned so there were few neighbors to complain about the excessive speed.
Now I resolve everything: take away Sylvan and Jack’s satisfaction; pay off the bank for Dad; clear Peter and George’s debts with the proceeds of my student insurance policy; close the case for the FBI; end the heartache I’ve brought on my family, and rid the world of a greedy, selfish bastard.
He didn’t have to wait long. A huge delivery truck came sailing down the street, its oversized box almost rubbing the utility poles on both sides. There was no room for it to swerve. Yari used a light post to gather momentum, flinging himself into its path.
Air brakes screamed in harmony with an old bag lady pushing an ancient, rusted shopping cart filled to the brim with useless trash.
As fast as Yari was, the driver of the van was even quicker. The vehicle stopped so swiftly it bounced off one curb then the other. The operator jumped out of the cab and squeezed himself in-between the bumper and Yari who was slumped in the gutter.
“I almost took you out. Why the hell did you do that?” The man reached down to touch Yari’s shoulder, to confirm he was okay.
“I’m already out,” Yari said, then looked up to see where the kindness was emanating from. “Slim?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Now tell me why the hell you jumped in front of my truck.”
“I didn’t know it was you. I was just waiting for something big enough to do a good job on me.”
“Why you want a job done on yourself?”
“I borrowed thousands from Sylvan, and can’t pay him back. He and Jack are going to kill me. I was just trying to take away their satisfaction.”
Slim slid his back down the
pole and took his place next to Yari as he continued pouring out his tale.
“The bank is going to force my dad to repay my debt because I can’t. If you hadn’t been a goddamn basketball star with super reflexes, you would’ve crushed me, then my student policy along with the insurance on the bank loan would have kicked in.”
“Things can’t be that bad?”
“No? Phil Testa’s people will be back looking for me when Sylvan pulls his marker. And they won’t stop until they have the money or an important piece of me. Plus some other good people are going down because I couldn’t figure a way to help.”
“Why you tryin’ to kill yourself? Why not waste all the motherfuckers tryin’ to off you and your people?”
“It doesn’t work. It’s like a boomerang; the harder you throw it, the faster it comes back at you.”
“We can use my people, the Black Brotherhood, not even get our fingers dirty.”
“Slim, even if I stuck it out, I’ve got a trial date in federal court for interstate weapons violations, transportation of stolen property and conspiracy to commit murder. And you know the Feds don’t miss. So stop talking about a future.”
“But what about all the stuff?”
“What stuff?”
“The stuff I moved from the warehouse on Delaware Avenue before the riots hit.”
“What?”
“Yeah. I thought you figured it out. I took and stored it where nobody could find it. My uncle grows chickens on a big farm in Lancaster. I started moving everything to his place when I got wind of trouble, a few hours before things exploded.”
Yari was filled with a hundred questions, but exhaustion forced him to only listen.
“I tried to catch up to you and settle things, but the day after the riots they busted the furniture and rug operation at Strawbridge’s. Every-one went down, my people on the inside, too. It went all the way up the line to corporate headquarters.
“They busted me, interrogated me for days. I didn’t say shit and sat for months waitin’ for a bail I could make. I just got out this morning, grabbed a rental truck, packed it up, and was headed to the store to see you. We got a double load added to the one we already had.” Slim nonchalantly picked at the lint on his knee-length suede coat.
“Three loads! That’s gotta be worth a hundred and fifty grand, seventy-five thousand a apiece; enough for me to pay everyone off. But why didn’t you just take it all for yourself when you got out? Why come to me? Why even tell me?”
“Because we’re partners. You never sidestepped me. That means some-thing. Remember, there’s honor among thieves.”
“There’s nothing honorable about stealing, Slim,” Yari said, then recoiled from his own words. He realized for the first time that a new, broader consciousness was evolving in him.
“There’s justification. People are righteous if they rob to eat, or boost things from people who take away every other opportunity. It isn’t wrong if The Man blocks every other way.” Slim slid the rings around on his fingers as he spoke. “It’s like Eskimos killin’ fish, or American Indians huntin’ buffalo; they do it to survive.”
“Do you really believe that?” Yari asked.
“That’s the reality for us, just like White people believe police are here ‘to serve and protect’, and ‘the System helps everybody, no matter what color they are’.”
“But that logic won’t save you from jail. You’re facing serious time.”
“No way,” Slim said as he got up and smoothed the wrinkles out of his jacket. “My guys were good. The paperwork they gave me proved I only got the goods I was supposed to. I played the stupid, homegrown nigger. They finally cut me loose with no strings.”
Yari considered all that Slim had told me. “I can’t help you unload this stuff, Slim. I promised myself and my dad I’d make a clean start. I can’t go back on my word.”
“Hey, man. No problem. I’m thinkin’ about getting’ out myself. Been too close too many times. I’ll turn the truck over to a brother. He’s righteous. Give him 10% and we keep our hands clean.”
“I love you, Slim!” Yari jumped up from his lowly position and hugged his friend.
“Hey, don’t be turnin’ queer on me now!”
“You saved my whole family…brother! I’ve got to make some calls. I’ll meet you back at the store at closing time.”
Slim jumped back into the truck.
Yari walked in the opposite direction from the store to use a phone booth on Fifteenth Street. “George, call your inside man with Testa,” Yari ordered his friend. “Tell him I got the money. I’ll drop it off at your place by 10:00 p.m.” Yari hung up and dialed again. “I’ve got your blood money, Sylvan, and the dough to cover Peter Yellen and George from the Inquirer.”
“You came through, kid. I knew you would. All ya needed was a little incentive.”
“Yeah, like killing my entire family.”
“Nah, I was just kidding with ya. Come on over to the house. Now that we’re square we can talk some new deals.”
“We’re done, Sylvan. I’ll send someone over to the diner within twenty-four hours with the money.”
“That’s fine, kid. But there’s just one more thing. That money only covers me. If Mr. Trotter decides to talk to you on his own, I’m not part of that. He takes it real personal when someone doesn’t show him proper respect.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Federal Court House. Phila. Pa.
Yari and Sam left the family house earlier than necessary to make their ten o’clock court date. The ride downtown took twenty-five minutes, despite some residual rush-hour traffic. They parked the family station wagon in a garage at 8th and Market Streets and began walking the three blocks to the Federal Courthouse at 6th and Chestnut.
As they stopped for a light, Yari stared up at the large buildings on each corner. It seemed ironic to him that the place where so many people had their freedom taken away was just a few hundred yards from the First Continental Congress, the Liberty Bell, and the homes of Ben Franklin, Betsy Ross, and James Madison.
Sam interrupted Yari’s reflections and said, “I thought I did everything right in raising you. I never forced you to live life my way. I filled the house with books so you could learn from the great men of the past. I took you and your brothers to every museum and historic site within two hundred miles.” Sam turned his palms up. “What happened?”
“You were never there, Dad,” Yari answered in a low, strained voice. “You were always working.”
“I worked so I could give you all the things I never had.”
“I know. I heard you complain to Mom how every day was a struggle, how bad your knees and feet hurt, and Mom whispering about bills because you were spending so much on our education and trips.” As Yari spoke, he and his father followed those original, narrow, cobblestone streets that housed pre-Revolutionary war homes and historical monuments, remnants of an era far removed from the hustle that had overcome the City Of Brotherly Love.
“I did what I thought a good father should, what my father didn’t.”
“All I ever wanted was you. You were always the greatest in my eyes, greater than Orwell or Huxley.” Yari slowed their pace, to prolong their time and opportunity to be together. “But when you worked late and came home exhausted, I turned to the guys in the street.”
“I thought that providing you with all the advantages was the best thing I could do. But it’s a far different world than the one I grew up in, way too complicated to allow a son to choose for himself. I just didn’t see how fast things were changing.” Sam tried to provide some encouragement. “I made calls to some friends; asked them to speak to the presiding judge and the prosecutors, but those people are cold fishes. I don’t want you to think this just going to go away. We need to prepare for the worst.”
Yari nodded in acquiescence. He and his father reached the courthouse and walked silently up the steps. Dozens of white granite slabs laid before them in classic pattern.
Inside the venerable hall, voices of distant conversations echoed off marble walls and collided with one another, meshing into oneness, a mournful rumble that followed them as they proceeded further into the great room. The atmosphere was inert, sterile, unforgiving. And that setting was magnified by the deliberateness of the elevator, portending the methodical grinding of the system itself.
As they approached Courtroom C…“Hello, Uncle.” Cousin Jerry, a criminal attorney in private practice, looked at Sam as he spoke. “Better get ready because the Feds never screw up.” The lawyer then recognized Yari and pounced right in. “You’re not going to walk away from this one. They may not even let you out on bail while we appeal.” Jerry gave a cold stare to his younger cousin who had created lots of extra work for him. “They’ve seen your file of local run-ins and think you’re a good bet to flee.”
The trio walked in, took their seats at the defense table, and waited in silence as the prosecution team and spectators began trickling in. A few reporters shuffled through, questioning the bailiff as to the nature of the day’s cases.
Yari turned to view the spectators. Five distinguished men in suits and ties seemed out of place among the others.
By the time Judge Henry Kieser took his seat, the room was half-full. The bailiff read the specifications while the judge reviewed the particulars from the folder in front of him.
“Opening arguments, gentlemen?” the judge requested.
Cousin Jerry and the prosecuting attorney remained with heads down, reviewing their notes.
“I believe I have some information that may save this court a good deal of time and expense, your honor.” A man in his late thirties or early forties stood up and spoke from his place halfway back in the spectator section. His dress was nondescript; hardly appropriate, Yari reflected, for an amicus curiae.
“What is the basis of your belief, sir?” the judge asked.
