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

by Yari Stern

  Sylvan gave Yari a surly look but quickly turned it into a smile. “Okay kid, I’ll call ahead and say I’m standing behind you. Now, tell me what else ya’ got?”

  Yari looked at Sylvan, trying to decide whether the man was the real deal or just one more scammer with a smooth line.

  Sylvan saw his hesitation and patted Yari’s hand. “Go on, kid. I’m listening.” The big man gave Yari his undivided attention and rallied the others with a circling finger.

  “Ed told me you’ve got insurance adjusters in your pocket.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Sidney’s assured. “And we squeeze every dime out of them we can. We make 10% juice on every claim the people we send to them make.

  “Ten percent of nothing is less than dirt. For probably the same that you’re paying them now, they’d give you the names and addresses of every wealthy business and individual they insure. You can pre-qualify your hits by the neighborhood they live in, the type of assets they insure, where they’re hidden in the house, even the alarm system they have,” Yari explained, then sat back and basked in the limelight. “And your adjuster can give all of that to you.”

  “How would they know?” Herman asked.

  “When anyone insures collectibles worth over a million dollars, the agent or broker has to make a physical inspection, it’s standard procedure. The name and description of each piece, along with its place in the home or business, and the type of security system, has to be listed on the coverage record.” Yari slowed down for a sip of soda, savoring the moment.

  “How did you learn all that?” Sylvan interjected.

  “A customer of mine is an insurance investigator. He lets me in on all the inside dope.”

  “So what’s next?” Sylvan asked, his head imitating a wagging dog.

  “You farm out the robbery and cut your crew in for twenty-five percent of the take. They can’t cheat you because you know exactly what’s in the place. You give your boys every detail from your man, sometimes even the vacation plans. Because they’re in and out in minutes, and know exactly where the merchandise is, there’s almost no risk. From what my guy tells me, the average upper class hit should be good for one hundred fifty to two hundred grand. Three quarters of that is more than a hundred thousand bucks without ever getting your hands dirty.”

  “We don’t need nothin’ new,” Jack challenged.

  “Trotter don’t like any conversation where he’s not the center of attention,” Ed said, staring directly at the thug.

  Sylvan waited impatiently for Yari to run down the rest of the scam. He raised his chin, indicating he was ready for more.

  “Most agents can’t stand the people they insure,” Yari went on. “They look around those big houses and fancy offices, staring at imported leather furniture, Impressionist paintings, and Ming vases, writing down lists of collectibles and counting dusty stock and bond certificates representing more equity than they could accumulate in a hundred lifetimes.”

  “Do we have to listen to this shit? We’re gonna miss the daily double at Garden State,” Jack reminded the gang. “And why the fuck should this punk get so much respect?” He glared contemptuously at Yari.

  Sylvan stared Jack down like the big dog on the block. Then, pointing at his henchman he said, “This kid’s the next generation. Your time is almost up. Breakin’ thumbs and whacking people out is passé. We have to flow with the coming tide, or drown. Crime is going to be sophisticated, and require a whole new set of skills. It’ll all be done by usin’ your head, not a gun or fists.”

  Yari picked up Sylvan’s cue and went on. “By the time the insurance agent leaves the interview, they’d be able to tell you the cat’s name and favorite food, and draw you a layout of the floor plan in full color. They’re happy to give up the info. It’s what happens when they get a peek over the fence, but don’t get a taste for themselves.

  “If your men ever do get caught, it’s simple robbery, no guns, no violence. Since they’re not facing serious time, they’ll never roll on you.”

  “Does it play out?” Sylvan asked, looking over to Ed who had a smile on his face like that of a proud new father. In deference, Ed tilted his head back to Yari.

  “There’s been a rash of what the insurance companies think are inside jobs in the Midwest and California. Some robberies netted over five million. But it won’t last forever. Big insurance firms share information with each other and with the police. There’s maybe a year window to take advantage of.”

  “What else ya got?” Sylvan asked.

  “I’ve got clockers at the track on my payroll tipping me off to hot horses, janitors at Lord and Taylors tossing pieces of jewelry and Lalique in the trash for me, and automatic weapons coming from the national guard armory.”

  “I knew I’d love this kid!” Sylvan smiled a smile of generous proportions. “You just keep the merchandise coming and you’ll have a permanent place at the table,” he said, slapping down a huge wad on the table in front of Yari. “Here’s ten grand, kid. We’re partners.”

  “I’ve already got a partner.”

  “You work for me now,” Sylvan said in a menacing voice. “You can pay your people out of your end. You see, nothin’ happens in Philly or Jersey unless I get a piece."

  “I work for you now?”

  ‘Yeah, kid. This aint’ no democracy.”

  Yari looked at Sylvan and smiled. But what he thought was, You fat motherfucker, take-it-in-the ass, faggot pimp. Work for you…you diseased, heart-attack waiting for a place to happen. I’ll be dancing on your gave before I take orders from you.

  Sylvan then grasped for the check with one hand and his wad of money with the other. “Hey, does everyone here have short arms?”

  Yari whispered to Ed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s an old Jewish expression,” Ed replied with a hand over the side of his mouth. “It means they’re havin’ a tough time reachin’ their wallets.”

  Sylvan stood up, hooked Yari’s shoulder, and walked him out into the brilliant, midday sunlight as the others tagged along. Like nocturnals, Herman and Jack blocked the glare with outstretched hands. Ed seemed not to be bothered as he kept his head tilted to the pavement and followed the shadows of those in front of him.

  “Yari, stick close. We’ll make headlines together,” Sylvan announced in visionary tones.

  The group of men dispersed. Yari and Ed hopped in the Caddy and headed back to Philadelphia. But as they crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge, Yari’s aura of self-confidence quickly dissipated. His attention was arrested by a simmering torridity that had settled over Philadelphia, ten miles distant. It sat atop the city, radiating oppressive waves of searing heat down through the stationary air. It seemed to him that some form of ancient wrath was being leveled at both the people and buildings, and that nothing could escape, or remain unaffected.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Ridge Ave. Phila., Pa

  Over and over he read the three-inch headlines of the Philadelphia Inquirer, each time more torturously: “Race Riots Explode in Philadelphia, Spilling out of the South Like a Brush Fire Fanned by the Winds of Rage.”

  The tides of fortune that spurred Yari on had, just as quickly, turned against him. With his world in turmoil, and spinning out of his previously inviolable control, Yari drove over to the family home, walked in unannounced, and confronted his father. “They’ve got four thousand men in the department. How could they let this get out of hand?” he asked Sam, trying to comprehend the ramifications on his crumbling empire. He hovered over his father, demanding, by his radiating impatience, an immediate reply.

  With some difficulty, Sam tore his eyes away from the graphic scenes shown on the Channel Three news bulletin. He let the newspaper slide down into his lap.

  “Well, it--,” he hesitated, caught the paper before it hit the floor, and began again. ”It blew up out of a routine matter, a domestic dispute. A guy who had beaten his wife twelve times in the past year took advantage of a lu
kewarm TV dinner to knock her down a flight of steps.” Sam shook his head. “The police officers began their usual routine with the husband, giving him an audience and a forum to vent his frustrations before carting him off in a paddy wagon.

  “The suspect, Leroy Weldon, weighed three hundred and forty pounds and loaded cement bags for a living. Handcuffs couldn’t even fit around his wrists, so the alternatives were waiting until he was ready, or shooting him eight or nine times.

  “It was stifling hot. Every neighbor within earshot was sitting out on their front stoops, just waiting for an excuse to confront authority The guy was ranting and raving about police brutality.” Sam sat back, drained.

  Yari reached out to his father’s shoulder, egging him to continue.

  “Mrs. Delila Vernon, the neighborhood orator, was there, center stage, with her supporters.”

  “The fat lady who comes in the store all the time?” Yari asked.

  Sam nodded. “She stood up on the steps and cried out, ‘Why do you have to take that man out of his house? He goes to work every day and gives everything to his family. Let us take care of our own!’ she yelled at the officers like a parent scolding her children.”

  ‘”Why didn’t they just start busting heads. That’s the only language the blacks understand.”

  “You think the arrogance is all on one side? You should have seen the demeaning glares and heard the holier-than-thou attitude of the police officers. They incited Mrs. Vernon until she drew a huge crowd. It was the good guys versus the bad guys for the thousandth time, each seeing the other as evil, one against the other, with only negative reinforcement.”

  “Couldn’t you have told that to them?” Yari asked, unwittingly taking the high road.

  “By that time, there were more senior officers there than me. I could only stand back and listen as Mrs. Vernon carried on. ‘This isn’t the way it has to be,’ she cried out. ‘You’re only here when something bad is going on. You see the worst of people - never a mama gettin’ up at 5:00 a.m. to feed her family breakfast and get the kids off to school and then go work two jobs, only a woman cheating to get extra food stamps; never a daddy reading to his children before bed, only a drunk sleeping in the gutter,’ she preached, rocking back and forth, just like an evangelist at a revival meeting.”

  Irene came in the room and sat quietly in the leather lounge chair, her gaze moving back and forth from the riot scenes on television to Sam’s account of the events.

  Sam continued. “When the police taunted her, Mrs. Vernon responded, ‘Come back on Sunday when we’re dressed up and walking to church holding hands with our neighbors.’ When she was done, she got ‘Amens’ from her supporters, while the officers at the scene just laughed.

  “During the time it took them to quiet Mrs. Vernon, the police, even colored officers, whom ghetto residents viewed the same as white policemen, were spat upon and cursed at. You could see it building up in the beet red faces of the patrolmen, but there was nowhere to go with it.

  “Finally, with Leroy Weldon safely tucked into the back of the paddy wagon, the police cruisers began edging away from the mob. The crowd buffeted every patrol car, with their fists, feet and wine bottles. The officers did just what they were told: nothing.

  But as the last unit drove off from the curb with the final insults firmly attached, along with a trash can lid, the cop riding shotgun, flicked on the loud speaker, and blared out, ‘And I have a dream. I have a dream.’

  “Even the oldest blacks in the crowd chased after the squad car when the taunts continued to defame the words and spirit of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Those neighbors didn’t catch the black and white unit, but as they ran and paraded down Columbia Avenue they did explode with rage.” Sam quickly inserted a tissue in between his face and glasses and wiped a few tears away.

  “Why don’t they just call up the National Guard, line them up against the walls, and start blasting?”

  “I’ve worked for fifteen years to bring people and neighborhoods together. Now, all that effort is going up in smoke and your suggestion is to use more violence?”

  “It’s the only solution I can think of.”

  “Why don’t you come with me tomorrow and see if there’s another way?”

  Intent on protecting his investment stashed in the warehouse on Delaware Avenue, Yari took Sam up on his offer.

  * * *

  Inspector Sam Stern, with Yari along, reported for duty early the next morning. The first call was about a disturbance at a new housing development in the predominantly White Northeast section of the city. As they drove to the scene in the Studebaker Lark squad car, Sam explained to Yari, “A black husband and wife went to the locale with the intention of purchasing a home. All the property manager had to do was tell the people to leave an application, then toss it in the trash. Instead, the transplanted Southerner screamed, ‘Ain’t no Coons gonna live here. Get your black asses off my property.’ Apparently, he then grabbed a gun and chased the frightened people all the way back to their car.

  “Now, the N.A.A.C.P has organized a march and are picketing the property. Neighbors have countered by throwing curses, trash, and water balloons. The situation is marginally under control.”

  As soon as they arrived, an officer in uniform sporting a lot of brass walked up to the driver’s side of their car.

  “What have we got, Saul?” Sam questioned the officer as he got out of the squad car, followed by Yari.

  “It’s pretty well organized on their part, Sam, but the neighbors are pushing the limits. Say, is this your youngest boy?”

  “Yes. Yari, this is Captain Jameson. Saul’s in charge of the detail protecting the marchers. We’ve worked together for almost twenty years.”

  “The builders took our advice and fired the property manager,” Saul said. “They even hired a black man to take his place.”

  “Nice work, captain. Let’s see if we can get them to issue a public apology while the media are still here. It’ll be good for the city and just maybe keep a lid on the riots.”

  As the three stood observing the marchers, an official car pulled up to the edge of the picket line.

  “Who’s this, dad?” Yari asked.

  Before Sam could answer, Saul Jameson informed Yari, “That’s Chief Inspector Frank Rizzo.”

  A thick-figured man dressed in full tux, moving in the lumbering manner of a primate, got out of the sedan with a Billy club sticking out of his cummerbund.

  “Will you look at all dem niggers,” Rizzo spouted out, standing next to the brand new Chrysler New Yorker with the door held open by his hulking bodyguard. “I never seen so many spooks outside of a prison before.”

  Sam turned toward Saul and Yari and asked in a strained voice, “Can you believe a guy who’s probably going to be the next chief of police would say something like that?”

  Before either could reply, Rizzo pointed to a woman leading the marchers and continued, “Hey, now that’s a giant coon. She must weigh four hundred pounds!”

  The chief inspector pushed an elbow into the side of a sergeant standing next to him as he blared out his thoughts for the entire procession to hear. “Don’t you people ever work? There’s lots of tenements that need scrubbin’. I’ll give you all a free ride over in the paddy wagons.” Frank rubbed his engorged belly as he laughed himself to tears.

  Sam pushed his way past the bystanders and hastened over to Rizzo, with Yari one step behind. “Frank, what the hell are you doing?” Sam appealed. “Don’t you see the reporters over there? This mess is being covered by the national media, for Christ sake! We’ve got disturbances breaking out on every corner of the city. We’re barely keeping a lid on the situation.”

  “I don’t give a fuck about that. We’ve got to protect our good citizens and their property from trash like that.” Frank cast his voice at the demonstrators as they moved directly in front of his position.

  “We had this under control until you came on the scene.” Sam spoke through clenched
teeth, trying to control his smoldering rage.

  “Naw, you’re trying to explain things to people who are all screwed up. The connection that’s supposed to go from their brain to their mouth got rerouted to their rectums. They’re just talkin’ shit.” Frank stuck out his tongue like the crap had gotten into his mouth.

  “I’m telling you,” Sam threatened, “that unless you get back in your car and get the hell out of here, I’m going to file charges against you.”

  Even old time sergeants at the locale took a step back as Sam’s words reverberated in close quarters.

  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” Rizzo demanded. “I’m your superior officer.” Frank pushed his long-beaked Italian nose directly into Sam’s face.

  “I don’t give a shit about your rank…chief. I report directly to the mayor. I’ll lock you up for inciting a riot if you don’t get the hell out of here right now.” Sam’s eyes were on fire.

  Frank stepped back to gain a better perspective. “If you can’t keep these darkies in line, I’ll be back to handle it my way!” Rizzo threatened as he sauntered toward his car.

  “That arrogant son-of-a-bitch,” Yari mumbled.

  The chief stuffed his enormous body back into the sedan. His bodyguard, eyes wide with concern after hearing the threats bandied back and forth, closed the rear door, rushed around to the other side, hopped in, and sped off before his boss lost more of his temper and a lot of rank.

  Sam and Yari threaded their way back to Saul at the command post.

  “I relayed the suggestion of apology to the owners of the development, Sam,” Captain Jameson said, his look quickly changing from professional to incredulous. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”

  “It’s a second generation thing,” Sam replied. “Rizzo’s father was a foot patrolman in the days before everybody rode in cars. He used to take Frank Junior with him on the beat. Back then, cops got constant and total respect.”

  Yari drew closer as his father relayed his story.