by Yari Stern
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Smashie’s Wrecking Yard. Passyunk Ave. Phila. Pa.
It was eleven p.m. A time of night when nothing good ever happened.
Yari got to the rendezvous early, taking the time to situation himself in a spot where he could be seen from across the street and from the hills on the south side of the yard.
A half hour later, the rumble of motorcycles broke the silence.
Fifteen bikers pulled up to the entrance and dropped their kickstands. Zee pulled a shot gun from his saddle bag and walked toward Yari.
The other bikers took out tire irons, chains and switch blade knives.
“Well, the little man had the balls to show up,” Zee sneered. “It would have been a lot worse if we came looking for you.”
“Nobody would be looking for anybody if you hadn’t screwed up, killed a guy with a gun you said was getting shipped overseas and never used on American soil.”
“Yeah, well, you know the saying, ‘The best laid plans of mice and men’.”
“Oh, so now you’re a philosopher,” Yari derided.
“No, now I’m your executioner.”
“I got a better idea.”
“Yeah? Let’s hear it.”
“You pick a guy from your gang as a sacrificial goat.”
“Why would I do that when I’ve got you, right here, standing in front of me?”
“But you don’t have me.”
“We’ll see about that,” Zee said, throwing a head chuck at his men to take care of Yari.
One of the men threw a rope around a cherry picker. The end, tied in a noose, came down the other side.
“Try this on for size, punk,” Mike suggested not too cordially. “It’s payback time.”
“Fuck you, you illiterate, hillbilly, moon shiner,” Yari shot back.
“We was gonna kill you quick, but now I’m gonna make it last,” the biker said.
One of the gang gripped Yari’s shoulder and guided him forward. The biker with the rope played out some slack in the noose to fit Yari’s neck.
Just as he was about to slip it over Yari’s head, a crack, like a bolt of lightening, rang out. The rope was shot out of the biker’s hand. Other shots followed, hitting the weapons the bikers held.
The men were disarmed before they even knew where the shots came from.
“What the fuck?” Zee said.
The Dude walked through the gate with six other men. They were dressed in army fatigues, green berets tilted to the side of their heads, carrying M-16s.
“Who the hell…?”
“Where’s all that braggadocio now?” Yari asked.
Zee looked at him men. They hesitated.
The Dude said, “Do what the man suggested and you won’t be standing in a pool of your own blood.”
They all showed empty hands.
The Dude took two steps forward. “Looks like you’d better pick a sacrificial goat,” he suggested. “Unless of course you want to volunteer yourself?”
“Court’s at 2: 00 p.m. tomorrow,’ Yari said. “Have your man there a quarter till. I don’t intend to be made out the squealer. I don’t give a shit what you have to offer the guy. He takes the heat…unless of course you want to make a play against the men you see here….plus the dozen guys with sniper rifles on the hill across the way who have you and every one of your men in their sites.”
“Looks like it’s your day, kid,” Zee admitted. “Just don’t cross my path again.”
“If I did, that would mean I was in hell.”
Zee nodded to his men. They got on their bikes, revved their engines until the sound was deafening, and peeled out of the yard.
“Looks like we’re home free,” The Dude decided.
“Not yet,” Yari replied. “I’m in deep with some Mafia guys.”
“We can dust ‘em,” The Dude assured.
“We can’t kill them all.”
“Why not? We got a couple thousand bullets.”
“We can’t settle every score with guns. Besides, I got myself into this mess. I need to be the one to take the risks.”
“You did right by me and the others. We’re ready to go to the wall for you.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Yari said.
The Dude started walking away then turned and said, “Oh, Tony wants to know if you have any more suits in size fifty-two; he popped the buttons off the last one.”
“Sure, I’ll bring a couple by in a day or two…if I’m still alive and in business.”
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
Cherry Hill, NJ.
“What’s so important that you needed to see me right away?” Cherry Hill Fats asked, sitting on his throne in the Haddonfield Diner.
“I’ve got a proposition, Sylvan,” Yari said as he slid into the booth. “I’ve got to risk everything on one roll of the dice.”
The blond waitress in spit curls took a step toward the booth with a tray of water, utensils, and menus. When she saw Sylvan with his game face on, she immediately turned around and headed back toward the kitchen.
“If I fuck up,” Yari continued, “I go down and take my father with me.”
“What’s your dad got to do with it?”
“Rizzo’s buddies are trying to push my father out of the department. And since they can’t pin anything on him, they’re watching me, waiting for me to slip up so they can use it to force him out. I need to make enough dough to pay you and Carlo off and leave town for a while until things cool off.”
“What happened to the straight business with your cousin?”
“We got screwed, just like you said.”
“No!” Sylvan feigned.
“Like a tape-recording of your speech.”
“Give me the details,” Sylvan insisted, while adjusting his silk tie. Even in the middle of the afternoon, he looked like he was dressed for a formal affair.
“Mark and I started the deal about three months ago. We had things rolling from day one. We had about fifteen cars for sale, plus five to ten details each day. There were people constantly coming to check out the inventory from all the advertising we did.
“We were taking up a big chunk of space but it didn’t seem like a problem since the garage held over two hundred cars.”
“And then your landlord made some changes,” Sylvan said, taking over from Yari for a moment.
“You got it. One day we go in and there are signs all over the place: ‘This space reserved from so and so’, and ‘Limit of four spaces per business’. Steve Landis, our landlord, said, ‘these are the new rules. You either follow them or you’re breaking your lease.’
“What did you do?” Sylvan listened like it was all happening to him again.
“My cousin had applied to college. Any problem would destroy his chances of getting accepted, so I told our landlord that I would take over the lease on my own. I moved the inventory out over the next couple of days. Three days after the building was clear, I got a notice from Steve Landis’ attorney demanding full payment for the balance of the lease.”
“I’ll bet as an upstanding citizen, you came up with the dough, right?” Sylvan laughed and drew a sly smile.
“Almost. I called his law firm and pretended to be a new client. I gave his secretary a phony name and made an appointment. I went down to his place at Seventeenth and Locust Streets; I took Reggie Martinez as back-up.
“Didn’t I see him box in Madison Square Garden, in big-time fights?” Sylvan asked.
Yari responded with a nod.
“How did you get to know him?”
“Through my dad. They met at the back of a paddy wagon when my father was a rookie cop called to the scene of a bar brawl. There were a dozen police officers at the location but no one was jumping in to arrest Reggie. His reputation preceded him.
“Instead of trying to break his head with a nightstick, Dad spoke to Reggie man to man. That conversation led to a peaceable ending and a life-long friendship.”
&n
bsp; “What happened to Reggie after that?” Sylvan asked.
“In the fifties, Willie Pep was the lightweight champ. People say he ducked Reggie because most of his opponents wound up in the hospital. He moved up in weight class to get a shot at the title but never did as well.”
“Get back to the lawyer,” Sylvan urged.
“I wore a suit in order to fit the part of a client, plus he had no idea what I looked like. When I got in the office I told him who I really was but started slow so he wouldn’t hit the alarm. ‘Mr. Cohen,’ I addressed him like a limp-dick, ‘I really needed to respond to your letter in person.’
“‘Who’s the guy with you?’ he asked, pointing to Reggie.
“‘Oh, he’s just my driver,’ I explained. ‘I’m afraid to operate an automobile.’
“The guy must have thought I was a goof or a laydown because he put his feet up on the desk and lit up a fat cigar to bolster his big-shot image. When he was comfy, I read him the riot act. I asked him if he knew his client was a pedophile and a gay necrophiliac that had been tried and convicted of fondling lobotomized grandmothers, Down-syndrome babies, and the cadavers of mentally ill patients.
“He dropped his feet to the ground and his Havana Special fell out of his mouth and burned a hole in the rug.
“‘Why is that guy sweating so bad?’ he asked as he looked up at Reggie who was shadow boxing.
“‘He always sweats before a big fight,’ I told him. ‘He’s having a flashback and probably thinks you’re his next opponent.’
“‘Please leave my offices now!’ he insisted, gathering up any courage he hadn’t peed out in his pants.
“But I was just getting warmed-up and went right back at him. ‘Do you know why Steve Landis likes you to represent him? He told me it was because you always fuck up and find a way to lose. Then little Stevie goes into a holding cell with a dozen butt-fucking, six-foot, five-inch black construction workers and provides his shriveled-up white ass as a bulls-eye.’
“‘Hold on,’ he says to me. Like I was sane and gave a fuck.
“I swept all his papers off his desk, jumped up, and sat beside him. ‘Steve Landis,’ I said in my calmest voice, ‘is a cross-dressing, hermaphrodite, bull-diker who, on his worst make-up day, still looks better than that fat fuck whore wife of yours with lips permanently puckered for blow-jobs.’
“I grabbed his tie and pulled it tight above his head, like I was going to hang him right in his own office. I waited until his eyes were bugging out of his head before letting go.
“He pushed his chair back until it slammed into the windowsill behind him.”
Sylvan choked back the tears of laughter. “That’s beautiful! I’ll tell it to the boys. They’ll love it.”
“There’s more. When he didn’t respond quick enough, I picked up the tempo. ‘Mother-fucker,’ I ranted, while Reggie danced around the office punching out pictures and laughing while his hands dripped blood onto the cut-pile carpet, ‘you’ll wish your client was paying for your services with a spaceship ticket to fuckin’ Neptune, ‘cause that’s the only place you and your family will be safe. I know the route your children take from school. I’ll be trading them for pottery in Turkey if I ever hear from you again. Remember, not even a Hanukah card.’”
Sylvan nodded his confirmation. “It’s just more legal bullshit. They rely on their attorneys instead of themselves. The suit and tie crowd has gotten away with it for so long they think they’re totally insulated. If they ever had to, or even thought they had to, pay with something besides their checkbook they’d for sure think twice.
“Lawyers are like the mercenaries of the past, never questioning their master or the motivation, just pinching both sides for all their worth.”
“Everybody’s squeezing everybody else, right down the line,” Yari added. “The landlord’s squeezing tenants, the government squeezes workers for more taxes, the brass are squeezing my dad, and the street cops are squeezing small businesses for bigger payoffs.”
“Yeah, well forget that and tell me what you came up with.”
“A deal that will get me out without forcing my father to take out a second mortgage.”
“I’m listening.”
“Quaaludes, in Florida; eighty cents a pop. And I’ve got a perfect cover. My cousin Alan is a cop in Miami. No one will fuck with me there.”
“How much you need?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
“You got the details worked out?”
“Yeah. I’ve done business with them before. They’re righteous people.”
“Okay, kid. But just come back with the dough.” Sylvan’s face flattened out, the tension seeming to stretch his flesh until his eyes became like Asian slits and drew his lips taut and pale. “I’ve heard all the stories before.”
“When and where can I pick up the dough?” Yari asked, realizing that getting out involved getting in just a little deeper first.
“Right here, right now. How’s that?”
“You mean you keep that kind of money on hand?”
“That’s chump change. The green is always in one of two places. Either here,” Sylvan said, slapping the pocket of his bulging pants, “keeping me company, or out there,” he indicated, pointing beyond the picture window with a proud, arcing index finger, “making me more. Just remember: money begets treason. It’s a magnet drawing traitors out of the woodwork, like crumbs of food tempting cockroaches. And you know what the punishment for treason is?”
“No.”
“Read Dante. He breaks hell down into different levels. The lowest level is reserved for people who turn against their families or country. I’m the ruler of this nation.
“I’m your savior, judge, juror, and executioner all rolled up into one. Keep that in mind.” Sylvan pulled out a wad of money six inches thick, separated two packets wrapped in tape marked ten and five Gs, and tossed them on the table.
Yari reached out for the money. Sylvan grabbed him by the wrist. “I like ya kid, but this is business, OK?”
Yari took the wads with his free hand. The pact with the devil was sealed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Hollywood, Florida
“All aboard.” Yari set his two heavy suitcases onto the platform as the whistle signaled the arrival of the train into North Hollywood Station. After ten days holed up in a stinking motel in downtown Miami, he was looking forward to the twenty-four hour ride to Philadelphia.
Twenty minutes from the beach and I couldn't get there once. Now I go home looking like Casper the Ghost. All that time waiting on the freedom fighters. Bull shit; they’re anti-Castro rebels like I’m a representative of the Mormon Church. Just guys selling drugs to make enough money to buy guns and play God. But it was worth it. I can roll these ‘ludes at four dollars a pop and net $100,000, enough to pay off Sylvan and Carlo and grab Annie and travel for three, four years. It was easy, almost too easy. I guess I should be thankful everyone out there’s not as slick as me.
Yari perused the station, watching the whole gamut of humanity shuffling into position on the narrow wooden platform.
Just a bunch of morons scurrying around like ants in a forest fire.
He saw parents dragging little children about, the elderly looking for shade, and at the very end of the platform…That guy talking to the crew-cut goof looks real familiar. But it couldn’t be Oswaldo. I just left him at the hotel. Besides, what would bring him here?
Just then the train lurched into the station and passengers edged toward the opening doors. Whoever it was and whatever concerns Yari had vanished into the maelstrom of the moment.
"Please take your seats, the train is now leaving the North Hollywood Station. Next stop, Ft. Lauderdale,” the loudspeaker announced.
As he wandered his way through the compartments toward the front of the train, he thought, I didn't plan my life this way. It was supposed to be creative, an evolutionary leap. Somehow, along the way, it got distorted. So much quiet time makes you thin
k, even if you don't want to listen to what comes up. That's what came through sitting in that stinking, flea-bag room.
Yari found his first-class compartment, took a seat, and draped his legs over the two precious bags.
Just moments later . . . "Ladies and Gentlemen, please leave your luggage and move to the three forward compartments. Federal agents will be boarding the train to making a routine inspection. This will not cause any delay. We appreciate your cooperation," the loudspeaker blared out. Yari knew immediately it was meant only for his ears.
They set me up. Oswaldo got my money, now he gets all the drugs back, or at least half after splitting with the Feds. The blood drained from his body. He froze to his seat while the humidity edged toward ninety percent. He couldn’t swallow two large suitcases full of Quaaludes in between stops. The electrical current in his brain was moving in slow motion. He was incapable of thinking at a time when he needed a super computer.
"Say brotha, you don't look so good," a black porter remarked as the train lurched forward out the station.
Yari realized the man had been observing his involuntary reaction. He was unable to reply.
“You holdin’ somethin'?" the porter asked with a half smile on his face.
Yari recognized a guy enjoying the misery of a white man who represented every-thing he despised, or craved; a person with a future versus a black man with no past but yesterday’s degradation, the present a battle for survival, and tomorrow in the hands of others.
"I can get ya off the train, but it’s gonna cost ya," Willie, as his name tag read.
Yari felt his face giving him away. The man knew the answers to questions not yet asked. "I only have $100 left after my trip," Yari replied. He was scared shitless but was still in control of his wits. It’s really two, but a hundred should do him.
"Gim’me the money and I’ll sets ya down when we hit the 'S' curve comin' up.”
Yari pulled out one bill, stuffed the other deeper in his pocket, then swung one of the suitcases upright and started to unzip it.
“You can't make it with the bags.”