by Yari Stern
“I’m not taking the luggage, just a change of clothes.” Yari grabbed a shirt, ball cap and a pair of slacks, then slid the suitcase back down on the ground. When he got up off his knees he patted the vinyl bags and whispered ‘good-bye’.
Yari silently followed the porter, reflecting that while Willie obviously had no formal education, his thinking was crystal clear and one hundred percent correct.
On the way to the front of the train, Yari slipped into a bathroom and changed into the other clothes. Just as he emerged, he and the porter were met by a team of men coming from the opposite direction. They were all dressed very conservatively, with uniformly crew-cut hair. As the four guys passed Willie and Yari, they stared hard, as if to match up anyone they encountered with a composite drawing they had in their heads.
“Where’re you taking him?” one asked.
“He be travlin’ with his sister and they got separated.” Willie was fast with the cover story.
The officers quickly set their sights on the next car.
The two of them approached the jump-off point. Yari handed Willie the money and followed him to the platform between compartments.
“How’d you get yo’self into this crime mess, boy? You look like you come from a nice family.”
That’s a good question. Yari nodded in agreement. He wasn’t about to recall it for Willie, but he couldn’t help reliving it in his own mind. If I had grown up on Green Street, with the professional folks and well-manicured lawns, I could have been a doctor or lawyer. If I had been raised in Valley Forge, near the military academy, I might have been an officer in the Army and maybe a hero in a battle that really meant something. If I had spent a summer in the Peace Corps, I could have been saving lives in the Third World instead scamming dollars on the streets of Philadelphia.
Yari could see the bend coming up – less than a minute away. Time was running out.
I shook hands with President Kennedy when he visited Philadelphia. I could have joined the civil right’s movement after that. I could have helped change the system. If I had only listened to my dad, I might have lived to be twenty.
As the train rounded a tight turn, the scraping of metal wheels on rusted tracks shocked his system, propelling him toward morose conclusions.
Where is it written that a person can’t use what he learns later in life? Why is it I only had one chance and didn’t even know it till it was too late?
Willie leaned out and pointed to the track ahead. "Get ready.”
This is what it comes down to . . . after years of selling newspapers out in the rain, crawling on the freezing ground fixing cars, putting my life on the line in North Philly every night, and every dime on the horses at the race track, living day to day with my own rage and frustration, with nothing to take to my grave but the pain of my own greed and frustration? He stared out at a gravelly pit below, power lines passing slowly in the background, jackrabbits running from the sound of man’s intrusion.
“Y’all won't have no problem. Da train ain't be goin' but ten mile an hour when we on top-a-da curve."
Yari's heart was beating again, at a thousand times a minute. His face throbbed from the swell of blood.
He jumped, hit the ground standing, and started strolling across the tracks like he had as little to do with the train moving off as the ground squirrels that guided his path to a park just to the east.
All around him, birds sang with a freedom he had never heard in himself. Ocean breezes rattled palm fronds and bent top-heavy bushes until their tips almost touched the rich dirt. Children played stickball with branches and stones, and laughed without a dime in their pockets, while he looked on with envy.
The discord between himself and the natural beauty around him forced Yari to reflect . . . I’ve turned into just another slimeball, willing to tempt people into corrupting themselves, all in the act of saving myself, someone who doesn’t deserve the air he breathes.
Yari moved purposefully across the dirt field and over to a small store, a grocery packed with daily essentials and a smiling, almost toothless old man willing to break a large bill for change, and no, it was no problem a’tall.
He walked back outside and into the stifling heat of mid-day only slightly mitigated by the wind, and called his cousin, the sole person within a thousand miles he could trust.
“City of Miami, Central Division,” a young woman’s voice related.
“Alan Stern, please.” Yari held for his cousin, a police officer with the city of Miami.
An interminable minute passed before the phone was answered. “Alan, I need some help.”
“Are you all right?” his cousin asked. “Can you speak?”
“Call me at 773-6709 on a good phone.” Yari hung up but held onto the receiver like it was his umbilical cord.
In less than a minute, Cousin Alan was back on the line.
“Is it okay for me to talk?” Yari quickly asked.
“Yes. This phone’s not monitored. What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to put you in the middle of this.” Yari choked back his emotions.
“Family always comes first, you know that. Now tell me what’s going on.”
“I had a problem on the train going back to Philly. I don’t know if they’re watching the airports and bus and train stations or not.” Yari’s voice was cracking, along with his cool. “I left some valuable things on board.”
“Stay right there. I’ll make some inquiries.”
A moment later . . . “I spoke to my contact at the FBI,” Alan relayed. “He said his men made a routine search of your train but came up empty.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that since there were no arrests, they probably grabbed the contraband and split it between them.”
“So now what?”
“You lost your haul but kept your freedom. There’re no APBs, or warrants out for you.”
A frozen breath exited from Yari’s lungs. “Thanks, Alan. I was dead in the water. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yeah. Straighten yourself out so that the next time you call we can meet and both be on the same side of the bars.”
Yari hung up and immediately jammed more coins in the phone slot. “It’s me,” he said in a secretive voice.
“I’ve been worried. I haven’t heard from you in a week. Where are you?” Annie questioned. “You sound far away.”
“I can’t talk now; things haven’t gone well. I’m trying to get it together but everything I touch is falling apart.”
“What about me? I’m depending on you,” Annie insisted. “Can’t we go back to the old deals?”
“We can’t get out on a few thousand bucks. It’ll take us a hundred years saving nickels and dimes working the streets.”
“Don’t leave me trapped here.”
It sounded like an ultimatum to Yari, but he remained empathetic. “I’ll figure something. I’ll be back in a few days. In the meantime, sell the rest of the coke and use the money to take care of yourself. I left it in the trunk of the car parked on the side of the house. The key’s under the big rock next to the water meter. It’s all that’s--”
A click on the other end indicated that Annie had all the information she needed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ardmore, Pa.
A shrill sound split the still, thick fog of his sleep. Yari woke in a froth of sweat, heart pounding like a steel drum. Was it the lock-down bell in jail? A ship’s horn off the coast of Florida? The signal of a train pulling away from the station?
It took a moment before the light seeping in from the street lamp reoriented him from the trauma of his dreams to the bedroom of his rented home in the quiet suburb. He spun his head toward the clock. Luminescent hands indicated it was 1:00 a.m. It quickly became clear; it was the phone ringing.
He listened as Teddy, his connection in North Philadelphia, the woman that middled all the stolen property, responded to his urgent call for a big score. At six hun
dred pounds, she was the largest Fence in the city, figuratively and literally.
"It better be good. I’ve got people lookin’ to bury me.” Yari responded to a voice that sounded more like a man trying to disguise himself than a mother of six. She outlined the deal; three brothers had some ‘pieces’ to sell and couldn't wait till morning. They were hop-heads and were going to score the moment they left, which was minutes away. She said she could mellow them out for the half-hour it would take Yari to reach North Philly, a short ride across town, but a steep moral descent.
Yari ghost-walked to the bathroom, grudgingly respecting his roommate’s privacy, and protecting the secrecy of at least some of his enterprises.
Dressed and ready in five minutes, he left his T-Bird convertible and took the nondescript Dodge station wagon.
North Philadelphia
As Yari approached Teddy's place, he took the usual precautions – driving around the block twice, in opposite directions and from different angles, looking for bad guys and worse guys. In his upside down world, the bad guys were the cops, but not the greatest danger. Normally unconcerned with crime in the ghetto, where ninety percent of offenses against blacks were committed by their neighbors, ‘The Man’ sometimes stumbled upon a fugitive or a 'real deal': drug smuggling, automatic weapons, interstate car theft.
The worse guys, from Yari’s perspective, were the organized street gangs. Let the local thieves do the work, then follow them to the go-between and take everybody down. Armed with assault weapons and a bad attitude, any encounter with that group was likely to have a ring of finality about it.
After three years of working with Teddy, Yari had a sense of when things were right and when, as Shakespeare said, 'something was amiss.’ Everything seemed in order: abandoned 1950’s cars lined the street; neighbors sat on doorsteps to escape the boredom of another frustrating night that brought on another desperate day, while both screams and laughter emanated through upper floor windows of row houses close enough for residents to shake hands across the way.
That the three-story dwellings were still standing forty years after being built was a testimony to the construction ethics of a past generation, Yari concluded, rather than lack of effort by residents bent on destroying a repulsive, stifling environment.
Red brick buildings reflected enough pain and adventure to fill volumes. Chips of stucco from bullets gone astray and gouges from rudderless cars all contributed character to a section of the city where he saw everything linked together. It was the continuation of a painful sameness: buildings, people, hopes, and dreams, all sinking in a downward spiral.
As he stepped from his car, Yari inhaled the aroma of meat sizzling in heavy cooking oil wafting off the grill of a steak house several blocks away. The scent permeated the surrounding air, competing for attention with the stench from sidewalks used as urinals.
Striding up the four marble steps that adorned each home similarly, Yari received a respectful nod from those who knew him and a visual “What da fuck is dis white boy doin' here?” from an old man who didn’t. One rap and he let himself in. With half-a-dozen children, twenty-some grandchildren and a score of gang-bangers inside, Teddy wouldn't have heard him if he’d knocked until his knuckles bled.
Yari walked over like a capo to his godfather, leaned down, and gave Teddy a kiss on the cheek, a sign of homage to her and to elicit respect from those who might consider him fair game. In preparation for what lay ahead, Yari reminded himself of the undeclared ghetto philosophy, one few in the mainstream could ever grasp: This isn’t the logical world of the liberal “do-gooder” society. It’s more like a jungle. And when you walk into the lion's den, better have a whip.
Yari looked around the room. Even weeks after the holidays the house looked like Macys at Christmas time. Stolen property - typewriters, bicycles, televisions, stereos, men's suits - were piled up from floor to ceiling.
Pieces of plaster flaked off walls every time the music hit a bass note. The stench of babies peeing in three-day-old diapers, teenagers wandering through the house in sweat-stained clothes, and carpets soaked with vomit all added flavor to the place.
"I'm glad you made it quick. These boys are anxious." Teddy looked concerned but it was automatic for the go-between to press both sides. She patted the cushion next to her. Yari eyed the bug-infested, threadbare, puke-ugly sofa that sat bowed in stark contrast to the expensive merchandise piled all around the home, then took his seat.
"Jimmy’s got some nice stones,” she said.
Even seated right next to her, Yari had to lean over to hear. Babies screaming, TV’s blasting in competition with radios, and couples arguing about the price of wine versus diapers all fought for his attention.
“I can’t believe it’s back to this, dealing with small timers for chump change, all because of that mother-fucker Slim taking off, and taking his armory connection with him,” Yari bitched out loud. “I was right about him the first time.”
“Why are you bad-mouthing Slim?” Teddy asked, having overheard what was meant to be personal. “He’s good people.”
“Was. He walked out on me when things got too hot.”
“Slim didn’t walk out. He got locked up. He’s been sitting for weeks; didn’t roll on anybody, just doing his time like a man.”
“I . . . didn’t know,” Yari said, a voice stumbling with embarrassment.
“Now that you do, why don’t you go down there and bail him out?”
“With what, good looks? And what if he did roll and they’re waiting for me when I walk in?”
“Maybe you right. Anyway, we’ve got business. You give these boys good money. If you do they’ll be back with more."
Teddy then called into the kitchen, “Jimmy, come in here and bring the merchandise.”
When Jimmy entered the room, Yari hooked eyes with him and said contemptuously, “Yeah, let’s see the shit.”
His adversary was about twenty-five, tall and thin. They were of similar height, but The Fence was thicker and harder. Yari had made sure to wear a muscle shirt that showed off pumped up arms. That got respect. It was one’s self that was taken seriously in the ghetto. You leave your college degrees and business title in the drawer at home and just bring your balls in a wheelbarrow when you come here, he reminded himself.
“Let’s see your motherfuckin’ money,” Jimmy demanded, responding to the verbal challenge. “Ain't nothin’ happenin’ till then.”
“Don’t worry about me, slick. Just handle your end right, or you’ll be back inside the joint real soon.”
“Dat don’t mean shit to me. My grandparents had nothin’, my parents got nothin’, I’ll never have nothin’, the future’s gonna get worse. Whatsha gonna threaten me with? Bein’ on the inside’s like bein’ on vacation.”
The White justice system thought the ultimate punishment against those who disrupted the fabric of their society was prison. But Yari knew that wasn’t true.
Jimmy broke in, countering that logic. “All my friends be there, I get three meals a day without workin’, a gym for nothin’ and a place to sleep while people guard me! Where do I get in line?”
"Jimmy, show the man the stones." Teddy ended the standoff.
Yari relaxed into the sofa as a member of Jimmy’s crew brought out briefcase. Jimmy opened it like he was the genie of the lamp.
It was the real deal: rubies, diamonds, emeralds.
Before Yari could even look them over, Jimmy pronounced his ultimatum, "Twenty large."
Yari didn't even give him the respect of looking up; he took out a jeweler’s eye piece and started inspecting each piece. He took his time, pissing Jimmy off. "Ten Gees," he retorted with the same finality thrown at him.
Now he could feel it coming, like a prizefighter who got hit a lot but grew to like it. The problem was, Yari was sitting so low on a sagged out, over-stuffed couch, he couldn't move very fast.
Jimmy pulled a .45’s from the small of his back, slammed in a clip he had stashed in his
pocket, slid back the chamber, and stuck the barrel right to Yari’s forehead. "Ah told ya what Ah wanted, white mothafucka. Dis ain't ‘Let’s Make A Deal.’ Yo got no say here. You gonna die for ten grand?”
Teddy leaped over, at least as much as six hundred pounds could, to push Jimmy away.
Yari waved her back, passively explaining, "I got this under control."
Ignoring the bore of the cannon stuck in his face, Yari looked back up at a man who thought he was in charge. "Now it’s eight thousand."
“Fool! You gotsta give it up or die.”
For Yari the threat of physical violence paled in comparison to years behind a desk, or death by resignation. He had nothing to lose, so he sat back and stared serenely at his adversary. “Well, if we’re all done here I need to get back and change the kitty litter for my Tabby.”
Jimmy listened, thought, then scratched his head, trying to make sense of what Yari just told him.
"You as crazy as I am brotha,” Jimmy decided. He smiled a smile indicating they had communicated on a very deep level. “It’s a done deal."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Bala Cynwyd, Pa.
“Where have you been the last week? We’ve hardly seen you, and you haven’t eaten one meal with the family.” Irene was visibly pained as she turned over the sandwich she was cooking on the grill. “Lot’s of people have been calling and it’s been busy at the store. We need you there every day after school.”
“Who’s been calling?”
“A man named Jack and then there was that lawyer but I haven’t heard from him for a while,” Irene said as she set the meal in front of Yari.
“What did Jack have to say?”
“He said you need to talk to Sylvan in person. Is it serious, Yari? I need to know.”
“No, Mom, it’s just business. I’m working everything out.”
He grabbed the grilled cheese sandwich and walked down the cellar steps to use a more private phone.