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

by Yari Stern

  “An excellent observation, June.”

  “I’d like to add to that, sir,” a somewhat older student spoke up.

  “Yes, Martin,” the professor acquiesced.

  “If you follow that line or reasoning, you end up with a machine built by man which knows that by its inherent programming that it must have terrible enemies all around and within it, but it can't find them. It therefore deduces that they are well-concealed and expert, likely professional agitators and terrorists. Thus, more stringent and probing methods are called for. Those who transgress in the slightest, or of whom even small suspicions are harbored, must be treated as terrible foes. A lot of rather ordinary people will get repeatedly investigated with increasing severity until the Government Machine either finds enemies or someone very high up indeed personally turns the tide. And these people under the microscope are in fact just taking up space in the machine's numerical model. In short, innocent people are treated as hellish fiends of ingenuity and bile because there's a gap in the numbers.”

  “George Orwell – 1984. The future is now,” Yari concluded.

  “If you would, Mr. Stern. Please allow others to enter the discussion.”

  “I was attempting to give direction to the discourse, not dominate it.”

  “Yes, well, thank you.”

  Yari retreated in his seat.

  “Now, who said, ‘If the universe was scientific and just left to itself, then we’d have statistical probabilities to rely on. But once people are involved it sometimes becomes much more problematic because they’re erratic.”

  A student raised his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Sara Sheridan.”

  “Correct. And can you tell us why the argument is true?”

  “People do things that don’t make sense, that defy logic and make statistics irrelevant.”

  “Correct.”

  “Professor,” the student began, “How do you respond to the quote by Steven Maraboli who said, ‘Statistics lie. They are designed to sway opinions. Take the time to keep yourself informed on things that matter’.”

  “Statistics don’t lie, Mr. Cooper. It is those who interpret them that destroy their usefulness for their own personal gain.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the young man replied.

  “Would anyone care to offer something humorous to take away the bland notion of numbers?” the professor asked.

  A student raised his hand, was noted, then offered, “DC mayor Marion Barry said, ‘Outside of the killings, DC has one of the lowest crime rates in the country’.”

  “Ha! Excellent, Peter. Now, continuing, let’s look at a classic flaw in the thinking of a lay person. The mistaken notion connected with the law of large numbers is the idea that an event is more or less likely to occur because it has or has not happened recently. The idea that the odds of an event with a fixed probability increase or decrease depending on recent occurrences of the event is called the gambler's fallacy. For example, if a coin landed, say, forty-four heads in the first one hundred tosses, the coin would not develop a bias towards the tails in order to catch up! That's what is at the root of such ideas as ‘her luck has run out’ and ‘He is due.’ That does not happen. For what it's worth, a good streak doesn't jinx you, and a bad one, unfortunately, does not mean better luck is in store.”

  “There is a case where the laws of probability cease to exist,” Yari suggested.

  “And that would be…?”

  “When the fix is in.”

  “Ah, yes, the preverbal lamentation of the gambler. A fallback on flaws in their own system or thinking. Unfortunately, in today’s sophisticated gaming industry, such events are simply not possible.”

  “I can assure you it’s real, sir,” Yari insisted.

  “And just how would you do that?” the professor queried.

  Yari took an enormous wad of money out of his pants pocket and held it high like an offering to the gods.

  That brought a hush through the room, then whispers, then applause.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  West Park Section. Philadelphia, Pa.

  Yari steered his Thunderbird convertible through traffic, weaving in and out of the lanes on his side of the street and using the on-coming lanes as well.

  Annie, in the passenger seat, was being bounced around like a rag doll in a hurricane. She clutched the dashboard to steady herself.

  “We have enough to get out. Why don’t we quit while we’re ahead?” Annie asked.

  “You think fifty grand is enough to live on?”

  “Sure, if we’re careful with the money; don’t go anywhere fancy or buy new cars.”

  “Fifty grand is just a deposit. I’ve been risking jail, almost gotten killed. When you take those kinds of risks, you have to have something to show for it…serious money. That much would last maybe two years. Then what? Get regular jobs?”

  “Maybe we can--.”

  “Don’t you remember any of Thoreau?” Yari asked derisively. ’Men labor for a mistaken cause. The better part of the man is soon plowed into the soil for compost.’”

  “How can you be so sure that’s true now?”

  Yari pulled the car over to the curb, wheels squealing to a stop. “I’m sure,” he answered, insulted by her doubts. “I’ve seen it myself. Last summer I worked as a staff accountant for one of the Big Eight accounting firms. Everyone, from the boys in the mailroom to the secretaries, to the CEO, was miserable. It was pervasive, hanging on their faces like the shroud of doom.

  “I knew it wasn’t for the money. Most of them earned just enough to keep them in the same place, like a swimmer treading water. Creativity was treated like the plague. Every facet of work was rote. It was paralysis of the brain and spine, trading off one’s peace, health, and happiness for a paycheck to nowhere.

  “Then there was that false sense of goodness, bullshit trust and love drifting out from their fancy suits and stifling manners, like a thick fog blocking my vision of what was real.

  “I got out before they got me. You can give it a shot, but I don’t think you’ll be so lucky. They’ll suck you in and hypnotize you. That’s what the system does to people. You’ll be mailing out foreclosure notices on widowed grandmothers before you know it.”

  “I didn’t realize--”

  “There isn’t time for that. I’ve got some big things about to go down.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yeah, don’t do anything. You’re not nearly as smart as you think. Just be ready when I call.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Haddonfield Diner. Cherry Hill, NJ

  “Sylvan’s been impressed with the shit you’ve been bringing in. He wants to sit down with you,” Ed Dein said as he slid over, allowing Yari to move behind the wheel of the Caddy. “You take it.” He grunted out an expression of appreciation. “And keep your cocky fuckin’ attitude under wraps; he don’t wanna hear no punk kid quotin’ philosophy to him,” Ed warned, then abruptly delved into a briefcase full of papers and began working, adding as an afterthought, “Just show him some way he can make more dough. That’s the only thing he gives a fuck about.”

  “How?”

  “Compliment him. Tell him what a great salesman he is,” Ed said, then laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “He sells everything. He starts with what he has, then after he’s done selling what he owns, he starts selling things that he doesn’t own.”

  “And people go along with that?”

  “Dead people can’t complain.”

  “What’s your connection to him?” Yari asked.

  “Money. It always comes down to money. The more you bring in, the more respect you get.”

  Finding a palatable balance between deference and disgust, Yari floored the Caddy. Its wheels chirped. “So Cherry Hill Fats himself wants to meet me?” he asked after settling into the flow of traffic. He had seen the man’s name and picture in the paper recently more times than Lyndon Johnson�
��s. Pride inflated his youthful chest as the words of praise sunk in.

  “Don’t call him that,” Ed said while fumbling through his mail. Company checks, unsigned, sequentially numbered were tumbling out of envelopes like raindrops in a downpour. “He doesn’t like to be reminded he’s a little overweight.”

  “A little? He must weigh six hundred pounds,” Yari suggested while rolling down Route 76 East, picking up speed.

  “Seven ten, but who’s counting?” Ed said, pushing out one of his piggy laughs.

  “Where are we headed?”

  “Jersey. The meeting’s right outside of Cherry Hill. Take the West River Drive; they’re doing construction on the Schuykill at Vine Street.”

  Yari moved into the right hand lane, preparing to exit the recently finished expressway.

  “How ‘bout this piece of shit highway?” Ed suggested to his protégé, sweeping a hand beyond the windshield in a panoramic gesture. “They really fucked it up.”

  “Who fucked it up?”

  “The grease-ball, Angelo Bruno.”

  “Yeah? Were you in on it?”

  “Nah, the dagos got the building and construction trades locked up.”

  “So what was the deal?”

  “Bruno’s people got a vice clamp on the balls of local and state officials who supervise the awarding of contracts. The highway was slapped together by companies who kicked back twenty percent of the gross to ‘The Family’ in order to win the sub-contractor bids. Then, to make up for those expenses, the construction firms cut every fuckin’ corner imaginable,” Ed explained as he filled out the checks with a different color pen and a poorly disguised variation of his own handwriting.

  “The day the motherfuckin’ thing was completed, it was over-crowded and running at twice the amount of traffic it could hold. A couple months later cracks started spreadin’, and then chuck holes the size of fuckin’ Volkswagens opened up. Now the cocksuckin’ half hour ride to Jersey takes an hour.”

  “So if the Italians are so powerful, why don’t they just walk in and take over Sylvan’s operation?” Yari asked.

  “The Mob doesn’t move against him because they can’t do what he does. Sylvan does crime as a business. The Italians can’t do anything that requires brains and planning. They can’t do any more than shake people down with their fourth grade educations. Sylvan whets their beaks and they leave him alone.”

  “So why meet in Jersey? All that’s there are hick farmers and horse shit.”

  “Not everyone in the state’s fuckin’ retarded. We’re meetin’ the rest of the gang, Sylvan, Jack, and Herman, at the Haddonfield Diner.” Ed stared out the side window. He began humming a few bars of a popular song…”Sittin’ on the dock of the bay, watchin’ the tide roll away.”

  “I want in!”

  Ed made a sour face, pissed that Yari interrupted his thoughts.

  “Schmuck, you don’t want in, you get asked in. And stop watching Al Capone movies,” Ed said, pulling down the visor and swiveling it to the side. “You’re like most people, thinkin’ the Mafia is all Italians in dark suits.”

  “Not so, huh?” Yari was flying down the shoulder, avoiding traffic piled up.

  “Right, but perfect for us. Let ’em spend their time looking for cartoon characters and leave us the fuck alone. One percent of the Mafia is Sicilian. The other ninety-nine percent of the people are in because of what they bring to the table,” Ed said, motioning to the Girard Avenue exit.

  “You’ve heard of Meyer Lansky. He’s a perfect example of what I’m talkin’ about: a five-foot, four-inch Jew who’s in on all the action just because of his brains. Now there’s the Irish, Jewish, and even the Black Mafia. It’s connections and scams that open all the doors. Don’t ever fuckin’ forget that.” Ed glanced over to see if Yari got the drift.

  “But don’t the Italians control the real action?”

  “The only things those grease-balls have a lock on is all the bad publicity, and a guarantee of getting knocked off when they reach the top.”

  “Pretty stupid, huh?”

  “They’re all grammar school drop outs who claim to live by a code of laws from Sicily, but how the hell would they know…they can’t read or write. They’re rodents who scratch their way into someone’s life, anything that isn’t their own making, then declare they’re your partner.”

  The two spent the rest of the drive in silence until they reached their destination.

  * * *

  ”Pull in there.” Ed nodded to the vacant lot next to the Haddonfield Diner. “Use the second driveway and park with the rear bumper backed up against the far wall. Make sure the license plate’s not showin’.”

  After Yari did what he was told, the two got out and proceeded toward the entrance. Ed went first, lumbering in the direction of the diner, his thick frame moving as much side-to-side as forward. It was the most exercise Yari ever saw Ed get, beyond pressing the power window switch on the Caddy when he stopped at Sonics for a chocolate shake.

  As they walked into the old-fashioned diner, a relic from the early ‘50’s, Yari readily spotted three sinister-looking men gathered at a booth in the far recesses of the establishment. One man of enormous girth, with cheeks like the buttocks of a full-figured woman, decked out in a satin double-breasted pinstripe suit, rubbed his fingers up and down his silk tie as if it were an extension of his cock.

  Another, shorter figure, had what appeared to be one immensely long strand of hair wrapped around his head a thousand times and two heavily-scarred hands that better fit a gorilla. The final one of the trio was tall and lean, with a thickly-lined face, and a head of snow white hair. The way they lit their cigarettes, tilted their heads, and slowly shifted their eyes, connoted power, and an assurance of perpetuity.

  As Yari approached, following Ed’s lead, he sensed a very serious conversation, and so he stood at the edge of the booth, waited, and listened.

  “…So tell me, Jack, what’s the scariest thing you could ever imagine?” The portly, well-tailored man addressed the one with turban hair. Yari recognized Sylvan Skolnick, AKA Cherry Hill Fats, as the one directing the conversation. Sylvan looked so jolly, with his huge frame and rosy cheeks, it was hard to believe that he had orchestrated scams of incredible magnitude all up and down the East Coast and, according to Ed, provided such services as arson and murder for hire with his henchman Jack Trotter.

  Sylvan’s voice dominated. Yet it was more than volume; it was absolute confidence, asserted in a manner that scorned anyone who would disagree. Sylvan was only in his early thirties by newspaper accounts, but Yari saw signs of serious malady: bulbous eyes, intensely flushed face, nervous tics. Nonetheless, sitting there in his rich suit and starched white shirt with French cuffs, Sylvan was still the picture of dapper. The weight was so evenly distributed on the big man, it only seemed to add a positive dimension.

  “That I’d be crippled in a car accident,” Jack Trotter quickly answered. “I wouldn’t be able to fuck people up any more.”

  As Ed so proudly and often related, Jack beat up the guys who collected money for a living, and anything, it seemed, that interfered with that occupation was worse than death itself.

  “What grips you, Herman?” Sylvan directed the same question at the quiet man wearing a cashmere sweater accented by gold jewelry, one whose eyes followed the rhythmic bouncing of every well-endowed young waitress.

  Ed leaned in and whispered to Yari, “That’s Herman Speer - gambler, loan shark, connected into Vegas and the West Coast boys.”

  Herman responded, “That I’d be blinded by my diabetes. I couldn’t count the cards or watch the dice bounce down the smooth green felt tables any more.” He flattened out the wrinkled, white tablecloth as if a bright new set of dice would shortly come tumbling forth.

  “And how about you, Sylvan?” Jack asked. “What rattles you? That you’d spend the rest of your life in prison?” As he spoke his upper lip snarled, almost touching his flaring, hooked nose. The resulting
scowl remained in place long after the last words exited.

  “Nah, I can operate just fine in the joint. Having to answer to some slob with a sixth grade education and dirt under his fingernails who drools every time he gets to tell someone what to do,” Sylvan replied, posturing himself as the intellectual and physical center of the universe, “that would be worse than death.”

  Sylvan finally turned to acknowledge Ed. “How about you Dein, what would end it for you?”

  Without hesitating Ed answered, “Having to work a nine to five job for the rest of my fuckin’ life.”

  After what seemed to Yari a solemn moment of self-realization, all the men nodded in unison. There could be no dispute of that statement by those present.

  “But almost everyone does.” Sylvan nudged the napkins and salt ’n pepper shakers off to the side, as if they were chess pieces maneuvered to outflank an opponent, shifted his body against the corner of the booth, and motioned for Ed and Yari to sit down. “And it’s because they’re being tranquilized. That’s why the fuckin’ world’s falling apart.”

  Ed and Yari quickly slid into place.

  “Did you know that since the end of World War II the number of laws has increased twice as fast as the number of people?” Sylvan continued. “It’s getting as bad as goddamn Nazi Germany. But it would be even worse if they hadn’t come up with all the pacifiers.”

  “What kind of pacifiers?” Yari asked, intrigued by the rationale espoused by a man who had beaten the system for a decade.

  “Movie houses, television, nightclubs. If people are able to live out their fantasies through others on TV, at shows, motion pictures, or at those damn rock concerts, become something they’re not for a short time, they’ll accept anything else the system tries to stuff down their throats. Meanwhile, each year, the government’s using a larger bore to drill out their asses for the big fuckin’, while everyone’s looking at Ed Sullivan instead of watchin’ their backsides.”

  “Can we turn that crap down?” Yari reached over to lower the volume on the table-top juke-box.