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

by Yari Stern

  “I’ve got to go, too many questions to answer. You’ll be okay.” Yari folded the man’s arms in front of his body, as a coroner would lay out a new arrival. But one hand clutched back. Yari looked down at the face to see lips moving but no words issuing forth. He tried to stand but the man held his shirt. Sirens screamed louder. Yari tore the fingers away, stood, and spun toward his car.

  Someone else, who could risk more than a fence and arsonist would have to help now.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Cherry Hill, NJ. Ten miles east of Phila.

  “That was good work, kid. Now I’ve got something even more interesting for you.” Cherry Hill Fats was on the line the day after the arson job. “Be over here by four o’clock,” he instructed.

  “I’ve got my own business to take care of,” Yari said. The strength in his voice caught Sylvan off-guard.

  “I told you, I own you till the debt’s paid.”

  “You don’t own me. The only people you own are the ones you sucked the blood out of and replaced it with ice water. I’ve seen the price people have paid to make money with you.”

  “Nobody talks to me that way. You’re gonna learn--”

  “Nobody talks back to you because you have them hypnotized into believing you’re the messiah, but not me. I’m not going to threaten people who are trying to save their families, or old friends who cave in to temptations you provide. And I’m not working with your buddy who would kill a man just because he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time. From now on I’m devoting all my energy to getting as far away from you as fast as possible.”

  “Kid, I’m tellin’ ya--”

  “Hey, you might learn something if you stop talking for a minute, Sylvan. You’re not paying me to do your dirty work. The only way I get out of debt is to make my own deals and that’s what I’m doing. I’m trying to line something up but you keep interrupting. I’ll fit your errands in between my business from now on.”

  “You work for me until the last cent’s accounted for,” Sylvan bellowed.

  “Listen carefully, Sylvan. As much as you love to control people, I know you love money even more. I’ll get you your fuckin’ dough. All you have to do is get off my back for a few days.”

  Even with all his bluster, Yari knew he was trapped. He was a guinea pig in the great Cherry Hill Fats’ laboratory of crime.

  “If you don’t have something by the end of the week, I’ll have Jack pay you a visit.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen Jack in action, a real tough guy, threatening kids and bookkeepers, and using animals to start fires.”

  “I’ll tell Jack what you think of him.”

  “I just wet my pants. Maybe you could sic Ed on me. He could kill me by draining the blood out of my body with a vacuum cleaner after using it to suck all the money from my pockets!”

  “You’ve turned into a real wise guy. Remember what I told you about a visit to your family store?”

  “You can’t threaten me anymore, Sylvan. I’d rather be dead than turn out like you. And as far as burning down the store with a Philadelphia Police officer in the building, do you think they’ll just forget about it? They’ll launch the biggest investigation in the history of the city and take you and your gofer out for good. Now take a few deep breaths and calm down. I’ll call you when I have it together.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Upper Darby, Pa.

  “I’ve got the answer!” George announced from his seat across the bar at The Dude’s Tavern.

  “What did you come up with, Ace?” Yari asked. “I hope it’s better than what you thought up so far.” Still, with everything in his arsenal turned to scrap and his own plans no more than an amorphous haze on the horizon, he gave an eager ear to his friend.

  “We’ve got one shot; borrow what we can and shoot it through tomorrow tonight,” George replied with assurance.

  “Why then?”

  “It’s the grand opening of Garden State harness racing. There’ll be thousands of first-timers, families, and people going to the carnival set up in the infield. They’ll bet their favorite numbers, or a horse named after their aunt. There’ll be huge overlays.”

  “How do you figure we can get out using the same scheme that got you in over your head?” Yari challenged.

  “What else do you know that can make the dough we need so fast, starting with so little?”

  “I don’t have piss for money.”

  “You can borrow whatever you want,” George assured.

  “From who? I used up all my connections.”

  “I know a loan shark for Phil Testa that comes into the downtown club every night.”

  “You’re talking about the Sicilians. Suppose I lose and can’t repay the loan?”

  “Then we go to plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “I haven’t got that figured out yet.”

  “Make the call.”

  “Right. I’ll find out how much the vig is.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll only need the money for forty-eight hours. Just set it up.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Bank Street Restaurant, South Philly, Pa

  George and Yari stood outside the rundown building housing the restaurant on the ground floor and apartments above. It looked precarious. They hoped it wouldn’t fall down on them during their visit.

  Both of them had their hand pushed deep in their pockets and their collars turned up to protect them from the biting cold and wind. Unfortunately, those precautions did not work with lead.

  “It’s not too late to turn around,” George said, stamping his feet against the cold.

  “There is no later and there are no options. You said so yourself. And now’s not the time to half-step,” Yari said.

  “Shit,” George said, “these guys hit higher than Rod Carew.”

  “Huh?”

  “Seven time American league batting champ. Lifetime average, 327.8. These guys are better. They swing, they don’t miss.”

  “Great. You’re a real confidence builder,” Yari said.

  “It’s a metaphor.”

  “Nice time for an English lesson.”

  George squeaked out a piggy laugh.

  “What are we looking at here?” Yari asked. “I think a little knowledge of our friend might come in very handy sometime down the road. That is…if we still have legs and are walking.”

  “Testa has an office in the back of the restaurant. He operates his legitimate and illegitimate businesses out of here. Drugs, loan sharking and extortion. There’s a story they tell about him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure I’m going to like this,” Yari said.

  “You’re the one who wanted information.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “He was sent out on a contract killing. One of the other men scouted out the house. He came back and said, ‘No good. There are kids in the house.’ So Phil says, ‘I don't care who’s in the house. Everybody goes.'

  “Oh, and this is the guy we’re borrowing money from? You couldn’t come up with a better alternative?”

  “We’re not exactly good risks. I don’t think the banks are going to lend to us on a signature.”

  Yari nodded to George and they walked into the club.

  It was filled with big men in dark suits with perpetual scowls on their faces.

  A dozen sets of eyes followed them as they walked through the club.

  A man stepped back from the bar and blocked their way. “You lookin’ for somebody?”

  “Phil,” George said. “He’s expecting us.”

  “Ooo, he’s expecting you,” the guy smirked. “Well, in that case, wait here and I’ll roll out the red carpet for you.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble for us,” Yari said, then handed the guy a double sawbuck.

  The guy looked at his hand and asked, “What’s this?”

  “A tip.”

  “You a wise guy?”

  “No you’re t
he wise guy; I’m the smart guy.”

  “I oughta…”

  “You want to be the one to keep Phil waiting?”

  “Maybe we’ll finish our little conversation another time.”

  “Sure. Just remember to bring a dictionary with you. I don’t speak ‘retardese.’”

  The guy looked at Yari like a guy trying to memorize a face.

  Another guy came over and pushed the fist guy out of the way.

  “You guys look lost.”

  “We’re here to do business,” George said. “You want to be the guy who tells Phil you turned money away at the door?”

  “Hey, you don’t need to get hot under the collar. Com’on, I’ll personally escort you to the back.

  They passed men leaning in across tables, heads almost touching, in whispered conversations.

  As they walked deeper into the club, the path got more narrow…until it ended at a single door.

  The man knocked.

  “Yeah?” came a voice.

  “Two kids. Say they’ve got an appointment.”

  “Send them in.”

  The guy reached across and opened the door and nodded for George and Yari to go in.

  Phil Testa looked up and smiled. “Hey, ain’t you the handicapper from the Inquirer?”

  George straightened up, gathered his pride, and said, “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “You cost me $5000 the other night with your picks, you cocksucker.”

  George pushed his hands out in front to deflect the verbal abuse.

  “I’ll make it up to you. Give me your direct number. When I’ve got a sure thing I’ll call you.”

  “That enough reminiscing. Why are you here…money, drugs or sex?”

  “Money,” George said.

  “Oh, you’ve been betting your own picks I see,” Phil said, then laughed.

  “I’m in a slump. I’m due to break out.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve heard that from a hundred guys.”

  “I’ll make sure he does the right thing, Mr. Testa,” Yari said.

  “And who the fuck are you…his fairy god mother?”

  “I’m guaranteeing the money.”

  “And just how so you do that…seeing as though you ain’t even old enough to vote.”

  “I’m a guy who’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

  “Yeah, well if you want to keep it there, make sure you don’t miss a vig payment.”

  Yari stuck out his chest and said, “We’ll have the principal back in your hands in forty-eight hours.”

  “if you don’t, I turn it over to one of the guys you passed sittin’ at those tables. They only eat when they collect money. You can’t imagine how nasty then get when they’re hungry.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Ridge Ave. Phila. Pa.

  “Dad, I need your help. I’ve got myself in deep.” Yari stood next to his father, who was slicing open boxes of diapers that were about to be stocked on the shelves. They were the biggest sellers at the store, supplying a neighborhood that averaged six children per family and a new generation every fifteen years. “This time it’s with the Sicilians.”

  Sam turned toward Yari with anguished eyes. “I assume it’s about money. You know I can’t borrow anything from the bank because of that unpaid loan of yours.”

  “Why don’t you scream at me, or curse me, or hit me like other fathers do?”

  “Because that’s what my father did to me; and it’s what the police do to people in this neighborhood. That’s never worked. But maybe we can--” Sam’s voice was drowned out by his mother.

  “Irving! So, how was it this morning?” Bub called out to Irving Kofsky, who was struggling to avoid being crushed by a front door attempting to repel his most ardent efforts. The grandmother cast her words into the middle of the shop, knowing that the man was three-quarters deaf.

  “Not so good,” Irving replied, thin arms dangling like bones of a skeleton within an oversized raincoat. “I sat for forty minutes,” he continued with a slack-jawed, slow drooling expression, assuming everyone in the store would be interested in his morning ritual.

  “Finished the New York Times Crossword Puzzle, still nothing, not even gas.”

  “Not gas even? Did you have your prune Danish?” Bub’s pitch shriveled as Irving edged close enough for the two to bump heads.

  Perverse curiosity drew Yari nearer to catch more of the conversation, but he then recoiled as the smell of urine-saturated underwear reeked up from his grandmother’s lap.

  “What a life,” Yari exclaimed, as he staggered backward toward his father, “where the most important thing they’ve got going is a bowel movement.”

  “You pass judgment so swiftly on other people, and another generation. You might want to consider a little compassion; someday you’ll need it yourself.”

  “Yari, telephone for you,” Trixie called out from the kitchen.

  “I’ll take it in here.” Yari walked over to the phone by the register. “Hello.”

  “Mr. Stern?” The voice Yari heard was agonizingly polite, male, professional in tone.

  “There are lots of Mr. Sterns here. Which one do you want?”

  “Mr. Yari Stern.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Mr. Stern, there’s the matter of a $5,000 loan. How do you intend to--”

  “Check’s in the mail. You’ll have it by tomorrow. Bye.” Yari moved the receiver away from his mouth before his last words reached the caller, then walked back over to where his father was working.

  “Why do you get involved in things like that?” Sam asked as soon as Yari hung up the phone.

  “I have to,” Yari said. “Because I can’t believe,” he said sweeping his hand around the store, “this is all there is.” It was an anguished insight that escaped his father.

  “How much is it going to cost this time?” Sam asked.

  “No, Dad, it’s beyond that.” Yari tried to catch his father’s eye, but Sam veered away. “I feel like Thoreau and Huxley, struggling against a system trying to control society, making people fit in to cookie-cutter shapes.

  “That’s not what they believed.” Sam turned and pointed a harsh finger at . “You’ve distorted those concepts by dealing with people who think and act the same way you do. Thoreau didn’t call for an end to government, but for better government created by enlightened men, men who act upon reason, not impulse.” Sam reached out to Yari, who was momentarily distracted by a potential shoplifter. “And Huxley didn’t say that mankind was doomed. His book was a warning for people to become aware and change things before society reached the point described in Brave New World.”

  “Well Keats was willing to risk everything for what he saw were noble causes,” Yari insisted.

  “Keats reached out to every encounter not because he was daring or curious, but because he saw life as hopeless and unalterable. His father died when he was seven, his mother succumbed to TB, and he was destitute for most of his life. You don’t have those excuses.”

  “How about Lord Byron? He died fighting for what he believed in.”

  “Byron was a scandal, looking for circumstance to make himself important, not just a hero dedicated to great causes. There’s always another side.” Sam’s tone rained despair. “And if you really had faith in your convictions, you wouldn’t be afraid to challenge them.”

  “It’s too late for that now, Dad. There are warrants out for me in two states.”

  “Did you ever think about what might happen, after it put money in your pocket?”

  “Not until it was too late. But it’s not too late to save the people I vouched for. They’re going to become cripples if I can’t stop Sylvan and Jack. You’re the only one who can help me. The only thing they fear is a badge and--”

  “Is somebody gonna wait on me or ain’t they?” a gaunt black woman with sunken cheeks cast out her question as a challenge.

  “Can you wait just a moment, ma’am?” Sam asked.

  “Sister,” she
called out to Daisy, the light-skinned colored salesgirl, when her demands went unheeded, “can you help me? Ah ain’t got all day for these white folk to make up their goddamn minds.” The customer evil-eyed every member of the Stern family, starting with Yari.

  “I’m not your sister,” Daisy informed the customer, scooping up the box of nylon stockings she had been sorting. “We’re not even from the same planet,” she tossed back over her shoulder as she walked away.

  Sam hustled over to the waist-high glass showcase in front of which the woman was standing. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Sam entreated with raised eyebrows and ridged forehead. “I’m trying to help my son.”

  “Ah don’t give a goddamn ‘bout your son.” The woman cut Sam off abruptly, jutting her chin in an attempt to charge the intimidation.

  Yari stepped forward to defend his dad. Sam waved him off with a subtle gesture. In false compliance, Yari moved to a nearby counter, feigning work, while keeping an eye and ear on his father.

  “I won’t have that kind of talk--” Sam began again, struggling to maintain his composure.

  “Why I’ll spit in--” She furled up her jaw, gathering ammunition.

  “If you want some respect, then you need to learn to give some first.” Sam gripped the edges of the showcase as he spoke.

  “I works every day, Sundays same as Mondays,” the woman boasted.

  “I’m working two jobs and it’s still not enough to keep my family from suffering,” Sam said with a burst of emotion.

  The customer pointed contemptuously to the drawer of baby socks while taunting, “What you know ‘bout sufferin’? Every night Ah goes home to walls that sweat an’ to cockroaches big as cats,” the lady foul-mouthed Sam even as he handed her the items she requested.

  Yari watched her toss around the socks like they might be crawling with some of the same insects that dominated her apartment.