by Yari Stern
“Hey, that’s my favorite song,” Sylvan responded in a melancholy vent.
“It’s too slow to be music,” Yari insisted, reaching again for the large chrome knobs.
Jack blocked his hand. “I like it too.”
“But how many times do we have to listen to Otis Reading sing ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay?’” Yari put both hands in his lap to resist the temptation to try again.
“It reminds me of where I want to be,” Sylvan said.
“How do you figure to have a life where you can go fishing every day when all your plans are about ripping off businesses, burning down buildings and killing people?”
“You just got a small piece of the puzzle, kid,” Sylvan clarified. “Livin’ in Ardmore, scammin’ a few pieces from local department stores, don’t make you an expert about shit.”
“Yeah. You’ll find out some day,” Ed interjected. “It’s not just about where ya wanna go, but where ya start from. My family put me out on the street when I was eleven. That was my classroom.”
“But that’s your past, not your destiny. All you have to do is go a different direction,” Yari schooled the others.
The group at the table stared at him like he was from another planet.
“Really?” Sylvan asked. “Sounds easy. How’s it workin’ for you?” He laughed at his own joke. His jowls reddened and rattled like the neck of an old rooster. “When society erects fences, using laws, economic barriers, or social status, it’s pretty fuckin’ tough to see over the top or crawl underneath. By the time you learn that there’s another way, you’re too set in your habits to change.” Sylvan snapped his fingers for the waitress, then continued, “All most people know is what they see and hear on TV every day, not what history teaches. It’s not truth that rules, but government-sanctioned bullshit hammered into their heads on a daily basis.”
“But they have a choice,” Yari insisted. “Only morons believe that what they see and watch on TV and movies is true.”
“I’m a student of people, kid. And most people would rather sit around and stare at the tube than worry about political power becoming concentrated in the hands of the Feds and big corporations.”
“I thought the idea was to get in and get out,” Yari suggested.
“Not for us, kid. It’s a fight to the death now. We’re the cowboys of the twentieth century, ready to spill blood so that no one, including the mother-fuckin’ president, tells us what to do.”
“But the idea is to use the system, not die trying to change it.”
“If we don’t stop it, everyone’s gonna become an indentured servant.” Sylvan clicked his empty glass harshly against a plate as the busboy walked by, then wiggled it rudely when he gained the youth’s attention.
“Did your dad ever tell you stories about ‘Mates’ when you were growing up?” Sylvan asked while looking over at Yari with an ingratiating smile. When he got a confirming nod, he continued. “What did he say?” Sylvan asked in a slower, more melodic voice, as his eyes sharpened with intensity.
Yari felt himself being adroitly manipulated, pulled in, first with intimidation then with compassion, but could not help responding, “I used to go out with my dad in the evenings, after dinner. There were lots of fathers walking their children down the street. All the adults called each other ‘Mate’. When I asked my dad if everyone had the same name, he said no, that it was just short for shipmate, people who shared knowledge and skills.”
“Right,” Sylvan agreed. “Until zoning and licensing laws started dictating that economics were more important than brotherhood. The IRS figured out that they could collect the same amount of taxes from one company as a thousand individuals. The motherfuckers are making it illegal for a person to run a business out of their house,” Sylvan’s voice rose sharply, cutting across the narrow gap, “or barter with their neighbors. They’re forcing everyone to be a small cog in a big machine.
“More government always means less interaction between people. It’s the divide and conquer philosophy, the battle cry of every successful general in history. But nobody does it better than politicians.” Sylvan hurried his last words out, leaning back from the table as an oblivious waitress rushed over and noisily starting unloading trays of eggs, bacon, sausage and home fries.
When she caught Sylvan shooting daggers at her with his eyes, she realized the entrance was ill-timed. The thirty-ish blonde with spit curls quietly finished setting the rest of the plates on the table and slinked away as Sylvan went on. “What they’re doing is ensuring their survival at the expense of everyone else.”
“But they’ve also created millions of new jobs and developed a welfare system to provide for those who can’t make it on their own,” Yari retaliated, unwilling to play second fiddle to anyone, not even an organized crime boss.
“It’s all done with mirrors. They’re robbing from Peter to pay Paul. Now, as I was saying,” Sylvan continued, “there was camaraderie in our country during World War II. Regular people worked and fought together, here and in Europe, in a common cause. But those who came back to the U.S., or finished their mainland military jobs, faced a country that had changed. Big business mobilized for the war effort, then, afterward, became a giant machine grinding up vets, like my father.
“There was no allegiance to the soldiers who risked their lives for our freedom, or to the factory worker who’d been taught a skill that was no longer important. If they didn’t have the talents industry needed, they stood in soup lines or marched to the welfare office, just like my dad did.”
Yari watched the others at the table shovel food into their mouths like mechanical men, nodding their heads as if they understood what Sylvan was talking about, certain from their facial expressions that they didn’t.
“People have lost their will to fight.” Sylvan returned to what seemed his coronation address. “They feel helpless, up against impossible odds. The experts said that if taxes ever went past twenty-four percent there would be a taxpayer revolt. Well, the twenty-four percent level has come and gone and there’s been no revolt. You hear people complaining all the time, like there’s no choice. What a bunch of suck-ass, butt-fucked sheep. Don’t they realize that if they’re gettin’ screwed they should fight back instead of handin’ over their paycheck?
“Twenty-four percent taxes? Sure. Twenty-eight percent taxes? Yeah, no problem. Thirty-two percent taxes? Okay. You want me to buy the grease so that when you ram the pole up my ass it goes in easier? You want me to obey the system? The one that rips neighbors apart and buries small businesses? All right,” Sylvan mimicked, with arrogant, protruding lips.
“But look what the government’s done with the higher taxes,” Yari said, “ . . . an interstate highway system, Social Security and Medicare for old people and--.” Yari was cut off at the knees.
“You can’t see shit when you’re in a little fuckin’ classroom with no windows. Every-thing the bureaucracy does is to further itself. Social programs make men and women as dependent as house cats.
“You’re lookin’ at life through a distorted mirror, polished by your college professors and government officials so you’ll see things the way they want you to. In the meantime, it’s the end of neighborhoods, Mates, and independence.
“We’re here to protect all that,” Sylvan went on. “We’re the last line of defense of individual liberties. Once we’re gone, they’ll be using a cookie cutter to punch people out.” He then folded his hands in front of him, signaling a temporary end to his speech.
Yari stared at Sylvan, waiting for him to break out laughing. When he didn’t, Yari retorted, “We’re not defending anything. We’re just thieves and fences.” He had more but held back when Sylvan scowled at him.
“You got it backwards. We’re liberators, not larcenists,” Sylvan assured. “We show people that there’s another way.” He paused then asked, “You think that’s bullshit, kid?”
“No. Sylvan, I just--.” Yari was taken aback by the surly look.
/> “You hear me out,” Sylvan insisted, pointing a contemptuous finger at Yari, “then you can give me that worthless bullshit indoctrination you’re learning at school.”
“I’ve got to make a phone call.” Ed threw a pained expression at Yari, indicating he had heard the speech before, and squeezed out from the confines of the narrow booth.
“They’re all self-serving: the courts, Congress, the president, corporations, charities,” Sylvan explained. “They fight for power and control, even if it means sacrificing the basic tenants this country was established upon.”
“Where do you see that?” Yari questioned.
“How about your motherfuckin’ FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover?” Sylvan suggested.
Jack Trotter turned a startled head. “What about him?”
“There’s one of the sickest mother-fuckers you’d ever want to meet. A flaming queen who wears stockings under his pants, but in public condemns gays and every other minority group.”
Herman perked up his ears at an interesting piece of the conversation and asked, “How do you know that?”
“I’ve done business with Meyer,” Sylvan answered, then returned to his previous thought. “Every president since Truman has been trying to get the guy out, but he’s got shit on them all,” Sylvan went on. “His job is to uphold the Constitution but all he does is protect his diseased little fiefdom, and try to destroy anyone who thinks or feels differently than him.
“Now I don’t love the darkies, but they gotta have a chance just like we did, and everybody should. But instead of supporting the government’s policy on civil rights, Hoover taps Martin Luther King’s phone, has agents questioning his laundry about how many suits the guy owns, and--”
“How many does he have?” Ed asked as he arrived back at the table.
“A few hundred. But that’s not the point. Hoover uses a guy named Pat Buchanan to pass the information to newspapers, transcripts of phone conversations of King with his girlfriends and others, shit about how he loves to eat pussy and will only wear custom tailored clothes,” Sylvan said, spreading butter over his toast like it was a religious act. “The blacks think he’s pure, one of their own. But he’s just like a lot of people…gettin’ high off of money and power.”
“So what did Hoover do that was so bad if he just tried to trash the Big Molignon?” Jack asked.
“The point is that instead of enforcing the laws, he twists them.” Sylvan explained. “First it was Commies, then the blacks, next it will be us. We don’t have a shield against him like the Sicilians.” He slurped up half of a three-egg omelet before continuing. “When a guy’s got the power Hoover does and goes too far, he can take the whole country down with him. If they declare military law or a dictatorship, nobody’s going to keep anything.”
“There’s a system of checks and balances built in,” Yari interjected, echoing the theoretical belief of his college professors. “No one branch of government can circumvent the law.“
“Yeah, what’s stoppin’ Congress from getting rid of him?” Jack asked.
Sylvan pulled the napkin out from under his chin and explained, “During the McCarthy hearings, when Hoover was supplying all the files to Tail Gunner Joe, a congressman phoned Hoover and told him he was tearing the country apart and that if he didn’t resign by the end of the week he was going to release the photos he had gotten from a source of his.”
“What did the pictures show?” Yari asked, feeling himself drawn in.
“They were shots of Fred Tolson, number two man at the FBI, giving Hoover a blow job. The next day the congressman got a package delivered to his office with no return address.”
“What was in it?” Ed asked.
“One picture, of the congressman’s wife blowin’ their black chauffeur in the back seat of the family station wagon. Now how’s that jive with what you learn in school?”
Yari didn’t answer, waiting for the all clear.
“So this is your new protégé, Ed?” Sylvan asked, his demeanor and tone changing abruptly.
“Yeah. The kid’s set up inside deals with some of the best department stores in the city,” Ed said in support of Yari. “And he’s been pushin’ the stuff from Strawbridge’s our way, makin’ us a ton of money. Now he’s got some even better things cooking.”
“And you’re willing to bet your life on him?” Sylvan asked Ed while patting Yari’s hand in a paternal manner.
Ed nodded deliberately.
“Well I’m glad you brought him along. We need some new blood,” Sylvan said. “You’ve been building the kid up, Dein. Now let’s hear what he’s got to say.”
Yari looked over to Ed, who gave him the okay nod, and so he began, “Ed tells me you know lots of insurance agents and brokers who work real close with you, that you arrange for people to make claims against their homes and cars, then take ten percent of the action for laying out the scam and getting them the best payoffs. I asked Ed why you don’t use your connections to make the long green.”
“We squeeze every ounce of blood from our contacts.” Jack threw a fastball at Yari. “There’s nothin’ left by the time we get through.”
“If the brokers and agents are already in your pocket, how about this…rent a mansion. Go out and rent antiques, expensive stuff, or borrow it from wealthy people you know: art, sculpture. King George II era.”
“Why the fuck does that matter?” Sidney asked, a sneer taking up half his face.
“Ascended to the throne June 11, 1727 aged 43 years. Died: October 25, 1760, age 77. Reigned for: 33 years.”
“So?” Sylvan asked.
“He reigned longer than almost any other king. Had a chance to collect art and antiques from all over Europe. Had one of the best, most revered collection of all times, past or present.”
“You just shootin’ shit to make yourself seem important,” Sydney insisted.
“Gee, I’m sorry for staying awake in class…as opposed to stealin’ chalk from the teacher’s desk like you did,” Yari taunted.
Sidney reached across the table for Yari’s throat. Sylvan gripped Sidney’s hand and pulled it back.
“I’ve killed guys for lookin’ cross-eyed at me, you punk. Don’t you ever disrespect me.”
Yari stared at Jack…debating how far to go with it.
“You got all the answers kid,” Jack suggested.
“I’ve got some,” Yari bragged, spilling salt in an open wound.
“Yeah, well, pretty soon you’ll have a morgue full of answers,” Jack warned.
“Get back to what you were saying, Yari,” Sylvan insisted.
“Fill every room. Then throw a big party. Take lots of pictures.”
“I’m not following you,” Sylvan said.
“Over the next few weeks, take out one or two pieces at a time. Through the garage so no one sees you loading up. When everything is gone, go on a two week vacation to Europe.”
“I think I get it,” Sylvan said, a smile widening on his face.
“Come back, everything is gone. Wiped out by thieves. Call the police, get a report. Call the insurance man. He comes out and says, ‘Okay, show me the receipts.’”
“And you say…?” Sylvan posed.
“The receipts are in the safe.”
“So he says, “Where’s the safe.’”
“And you say--,” Yari began
“They stole the safe along with the furniture,” Sylvan continued.
“So the insurance guy says, ‘Well, without receipts, you have no proof. I’m sorry’,” Yari said.
“So you’re fucked,” Sidney decided.
“No. You say, ‘Well, I’ve got pictures.’
“And he asks, ‘If they stole everything else, how come they didn’t steal the pictures?’”
“You say, ‘I threw a big party just before our trip. The pictures were being developed.’”
“So you give him the pictures and he gives you a check for a hundred thousand dollars,” Sylvan said.
“I
was thinking more like a quarter million,” Yari responded in an understated manner.
Sylvan reached across the table and pinched Yari’s cheek. “I knew I’d like this kid. What else you got?”
“Credit cards. Undelivered, unsigned.”
“How many?” Sylvan asked.
“The next batch is five hundred.”
“I’ll take ‘em all.”
“I needed to turn them over fast, so I made a deal with the Gambino family.”
“Really?” Sylvan said, impressed.
“Yeah,” Yari replied, chest pumped up.
“You’ll never walk out of that room alive,” Sylvan assured.
“Over a lousy fifty grand?”
“For fifty grand they’d kill your whole family.”
“I’m sure you know all about your new good buddy, Carlo? His partner, Albert Anastasia died of a heart attack…after getting shot in the chest three times. At the funeral, he wiped a tear from his eye and said, ‘You’ll never know the respect I had for this guy.’”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Yari assured.
“And Dominick Scialo, who dropped dead while being strangled.”
Sylvan eye-balled Yari to see if the message was getting through.
“And if that wasn’t bad enough, he had the guys who did the hits killed, just to add another layer between him and the murders. And you think this guy is going the think twice about encasing you in cement?”
“If I don’t show up with the cards they’ll send someone to kill me. So I’m dead either way.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s something you should have thought of before makin’ a deal with the devil.”
“What do you suggest…the witness protection program?”
“Ha! Funny kid,” Sylvan said, tapping Yari’s hand with his own. “Tell you what, you bring me the cards, I’ll sit down with the Gambinos.”
“And supposed to trust you with fifty Gs in cards?”
“I’m a Jew, just like you. We screw other people, not our own.”
“Yeah, well, I was doing just fine before I met you and Ed. So while I appreciate your magnanimous gesture, I think I’ll roll the dice on myself.”