The Case

by Leopold Borstinski

  “I get it. He buys in stock from all over the place. Big whoop.”

  “Big whoop, you say? How dare you!”

  “Huh?”

  “My friend, the ingredients arrive at Harry’s Delis because of the blood, sweat and tears of my members. The goods are driven across country. No freight trains here. Truckers.”

  “And ...?”

  “Mr. P believes in making a large profit.”

  “Now, Bernie. We’ve had this conversation once too many times in the past. He’s entitled to make some money for himself. He owns the company and takes the risks. Let’s not rehearse this again.”

  “Jake, I’m not trying to. I accept that under the current economic conditions, Harry will make money out of the toil of my members. Understood, but in order for him to make as much money as he does, Mr. P is refusing to pay a proper wage or follow basic safety precautions.

  “He pays a fixed amount per shipment, but it’s a long way to the east or the west coast. So the only way drivers can earn enough to feed their families is to drive for twenty hours straight or longer. Their hourly rate is below the poverty line and they are putting their lives at risk as well. They literally can’t afford to stop and sleep. They drive on empty.”

  “Tough break,” I said, but I had little sympathy with a bunch of truckers who should only pick the short runs if they wanted to get some shut eye more often.

  “Tough break indeed, Jake. But we at the Teamsters National Union are not prepared to let this situation persist. We have given Pilkerton notice that, unless our demands for better pay and safer working conditions are met, we will withdraw our labor and strike.”

  “Well good luck to you - and your members with that - but I’m still at a loss as to why you’ve come to my office.”

  “I’m getting there, Jake. I’m getting there. If there was only a strike then I wouldn’t be here. But there’s a little problem around the edges I do need your assistance with.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Harry has friends, who are making their presence known.”

  “Huh?”

  “They are trying to break us before we’ve even stopped working. There have been threats against me. Bricks thrown through the local’s windows. Anonymous letters sent, threatening all manner of unpleasantness if we strike.”

  “Nasty. How do you think I can help?”

  “I’d like you to find these guys and convince them to get off our backs and allow us the right to lawfully strike for our rights.”

  “Have you any idea who these guys are?”

  “Let me put it this way, they have Italian last names.”

  Finally, I got what was being asked of me. Bernie wanted me to go to the local organised crime syndicate and plead his case to let the strike go ahead. Fifty sentences versus five. Bernie won again.

  THIS WOULD BE a dangerous thing to attempt so I asked for two hundred a day plus expenses. I figured the Teamsters could afford it so I asked for a week up front before I’d start. You have to hand it to Bernie: the man had the cash in his pocket and just handed it over. No receipt, no invoice requested. A standup guy from a standup union.

  I went over to the north-west corner of Amigo Park at West Lexington and South Loomis, the heart of Little Italy because the best way to get to Italians of influence was to hang out near Italians and listen hard and talk little.

  And it didn’t take me long to find a guy, who knew a fella I could speak with. I swigged my espresso and followed the guy down a dark alley, one of my least favorite locations in the whole of Chicago.

  The guy introduced me to the dude he knew, and we stood and talked at the rear of the alley for a minute and then he knocked a particular rat-a-tat on the door behind him, which opened and I was invited in.

  Down a corridor and into a comfortably furnished room, after the usual check of my inside leg measurements. If these dudes ever left organized crime behind them, they’d make brilliant tailors.

  In the corner of the room was a figure sat with one arm resting on a table, legs crossed foot pointing downwards and a cigarette in the other hand. And a beautiful gray suit.

  “I believe you wanted to see me.”

  “I believe so too. My name is Jack Adkins, but my friends call me Jake.”

  “Well Mr. Adkins, you are here.”

  “Yes I am.” Beat. “I’ll keep this short.”

  “We are both busy men, I am sure.”

  “Indeed. I’ve been asked to speak to someone about the situation between Harry’s Deli and the Teamsters.”

  Fancy Suit held his cigarette hand up to halt my words.

  “You appear to misunderstand. We have no relationship with the Teamsters National Union nor do we have a relationship with Harry’s Deli - apart from buying the occasional loaf of bread.”

  My shoulders sagged. Waste of time. Shit.

  “But we do move in interesting circles. If we were to have a conversation on this matter with other individuals more closely associated with the situation you describe ...” His voice trailed off and his hand waved a continuing motion to me. I got the drift.

  “Well, I don’t care about the rights and wrongs of the grievances the truckers have. I really don’t, but I’m a moderate man who doesn’t like to hear of violence being done to others.

  “So I’d like to understand what the Teamsters could do for your ... friends, were you to bump into them some time ... to avoid any unpleasantness like bricks in windows or baseball bats on brains.”

  Fancy Suit smiled.

  “Nicely put. I appreciate your consideration in this matter. Wait outside a few minutes and we can continue our conversation then.”

  20

  I WALKED OUT the room, just as Fancy Suit picked up a phone from his table and placed a call. By the time I was outside I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Sure enough, shortly after I was ushered back inside.

  “Jake. The answer to your question is simple. A cash donation to a charity of our choice to the tune of fifty racks would solve the matter.” He let the number ‘fifty thousand’ sink into my head.

  “And Mr. Lambretti sends his regards.”

  Of course, why did I think the Don didn’t have his hand in this affair all the way from New York? He was one powerful man.

  “Thank you for taking the time to listen to me. As you can imagine, I will relay your request to the relevant parties.”

  “You are most welcome. Tell the Jew to pay up or he’ll have more than a broken window to worry about.”

  “I’ll let Bernie know, don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried, Jake, but Bernie Levin should be.”

  He beckoned me out, and I left the building the same way I came in and headed back to Bernie to give him the good news, but he didn’t see it that way.

  “It’s extortion is what it is. Pay them off so we can strike in peace. Such chutzpah, I’ve never heard.”

  “Nonetheless, Bernie. It sounds a sensible plan. That or end the strike. No strike, none of your blood will land on the floor, my friend.”

  “I cannot allow the strike to stop before it has even started. We gave Pilkerton warning before we downed tools to give him a chance to do the right thing by us. Not to employ goons to try to break us.”

  “These guys are way more than goons,” I interrupted, because I didn’t want Bernie to consider them as mere hired thugs. They sure weren’t. They had the might of Don Michael behind them.

  “I know, I know, but the other way to get this to end nice and peaceable is if Pilkerton agrees to our demands. Go and see him and find out if he’s prepared to compromise.”

  “Are you serious?” I was surprised he wanted me to do union business, but at two hundred a day I couldn’t complain about being asked to have a chat with a baker.

  The headquarters of Harry’s Deli was actually a warehouse that supplied all seven establishments with all stock. At the back were a series of shutters to which trucks could back up to disgorge their contents. The front o
f the building had a reception and offices, inside one of which sat Harry Pilkerton smoking a Camel.

  “I understand you are about to have some union problems, Mr. Pilkerton.”

  “You are remarkably well informed Mr. Adkins.”

  “Call me Jake, all my friends do.”

  “I’ll be your friend if you can get those communists to keep on making their deliveries.”

  “Their politics may be flakey, but you need them as much as they need you.”

  “And how do you reckon on that?”

  “You need to have items in your delis to sell and you need trucks to deliver the goods to this warehouse cheaply, otherwise you can’t make your profit and wear your nice suit and wear that nice watch of yours.

  “But the truckers need you too. Without your money, they don’t get wages and feed their families and do the stuff that truckers do in their spare time. Drink and gamble, I would guess.”

  Pilkerton nodded. He shared the same general disinterest in the welfare of the Teamsters members as I did.

  “AND THAT MEANS that both sides need to come to some sort of arrangement over this disagreement so that everything can run smoothly again.”

  Pilkerton stopped nodding and opened his mouth to speak, causing a parabola of spittle to fly through the air and land on his desk, next to a snow globe paperweight.

  “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my building and telling me what I should do with these communist drivers?”

  “No, wait. All I’m suggesting is that you find a small bone to throw their way so they can be okay with stopping the strike. Any inconsequential offer will enable them to save face and for you to win.”

  “Save face? Why should I let that Jew, Levin safe face?”

  “But ...”

  “No ifs or buts. Tell Levin he can go fuck himself and the rest of his commie union. I’ve got muscle to help me and drivers who’ll do the work without complaining. Why do I need to throw a bone to Levin? Fuck him and fuck you!”

  Like all good negotiators, I left at this point because Harry Pilkerton was definitely not interested in hearing the others’ point of view. Someone had made him angry, and I didn’t think it was me.

  We were heading towards the end of Thursday and the strike was set to start nine Saturday morning. Back at Bernie’s, I told him what had gone down.

  “At least you tried with Pilkerton. Thank you for that.”

  “Da nada. Trouble is that it’s got us no further than we were before. You seriously need to think about finding fifty big ones and fast.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “How so, Bernie? Are you planning on just striking and be damned? Possibly from a hospital bed or the morgue?”

  He laughed.

  “You see, Jake, Pilkerton isn’t the only one who has friends in ... special ... places.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve got us some good old-fashioned protection. I phoned a guy, who knew a guy, while you were out seeing Harry P.”

  “Protection? Protection from Pilkerton’s goons. These are connected people, Bernie. You can’t go up against connected people.”

  “You can if you have your own protected people to counter them with.”

  “You’ve hired mobsters to protect you from the mob? Crazy, dumb son-of-a-bitch.”

  I just sat there in silence, upper limbs dangling on the armrests of my chair in Bernie’s office in the Teamster building.

  “This isn’t going to be some kind of Mexican stand off, you know, just because you’ve got muscle, Bernie.”

  “I know, Jake. I’m no fool. I believe in the cause but I also believe in staying alive to fight another day. Really.”

  “So how is this going to work?”

  “I’m expecting my muscle to speak to his muscle and for the whole thing to get called off.”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  “My men will fight for the right to have better pay and conditions, like we wanted to do in the first place.”

  “You’re playing a mighty queer game, Bernie, and I’m not sure you will be on the winning side.”

  “If Pilkerton loses then we win - even if we don’t get all our demands met. We win if he loses. And every day he pays money to his New York muscle, he makes less profit and he loses. My Chicago muscle can fight his New York muscle if it makes them feel any better to earn their respective fees. That’s fine. But Pilkerton must lose.”

  He fixed me with a steely stare and, despite his leftie rants and moaning, I knew he was serious about this matter. He wanted to stick it to the man.

  SATURDAY MORNING ARRIVED and there I was, manning the barricades, in the name of the workers’ rights. Or, more accurately, there I was leaning on a wall with a cigarette hanging out my mouth near some other men who were manning the barricades in the name of their own rights.

  I was stood on the opposite side of the street to the warehouse, whose gates were unsurprisingly locked as Pilkerton didn’t want to let any of the strikers onto his property. Outside the gates, there were ten, twenty men with placards in their hands and hate in their eyes, shouting and chanting appropriate slogans. I tried not to take it in too deeply as I knew I would hear the same words repeated for many hours and I didn’t want them to get under my skin.

  This position also gave me greater visibility as to what or - more importantly - who was coming down the road. The chances were something would happen today, although I reckoned Pilkerton’s men would wait until this afternoon. I’d let the truckers get tired out, from chanting and waving signs to the occasional passing vehicle, before I waded in to bust their heads.

  Sure enough, around three, a truck careered round the corner and screeched to a stop about thirty feet from the crowd outside the gate. I’d found a makeshift seat by this time from a couple of boxes, but I stood up, knowing that some bad shit was going to go down.

  But nothing for five, ten, fifteen minutes. Every one of the strikers stood still too. They could sense something was about to happen too.

  Then the back of the van opened up and a horde of guys in balaclavas, brandishing baseball bats leaped out and attacked any damn thing that moved near the gate.

  Of course, I stood there and watched. This was not my fight. Not even close, not even in the same neighborhood. My job was to help Bernie and he wasn’t here. My job was not to fight with a bunch of goons, all of whom were probably being paid far more than I was.

  Five minutes later and the men bundled themselves back in the truck and sped off down the street, leaving a lake of bashed, bruised and assaulted strikers in their wake.

  I put out my latest cigarette with the tip of my shoe and walked over to the gates, just to make sure no-one needed hospital treatment, but the goons had done a good job. Every last one of them had been hurt real bad, but no-one would go squealing to the cops or have their injuries reported to the cops by some doing-the-right-thing ER nurse.

  The question was whether they’d done enough damage to get Bernie to either call off the strike or pay up the fifty large. The other thing missing was what the hell happened to Bernie’s muscle, because their camouflage was so good, you could be forgiven for thinking they weren’t there at all.

  21

  I’D PARKED MY car two blocks away in an open air parking lot as I didn’t want to lose my vehicle in the name of communism or workers’ rights or whatever. Walking away from that whole mess I wondered why Bernie hadn’t been there with his people, showing support for his guys.

  “They’re all mensches. They didn’t need me to be stood beside them, but at least they weren’t too badly hurt. It was inevitable really. As soon as Pilkerton hired outside muscle, things were going to turn sour pretty fast.”

  “That’s as may be, but there’s a simple way for you to stop your men getting hurt: pay up the money and you’ll be left alone. Easy.”

  “Easy for you but not for me and the Teamsters. If we gave up, every time some capitalist lapdog kicked us in the teeth,
we’d have got nowhere by now.”

  “But Bernie.”

  “No ifs and buts. We stand tall or not at all.”

  “And what happened to your hired hounds? Where did they get to?”

  “They said they’d be available to deal with my problem on Monday.”

  “You’re kidding me. Why give them the weekend off?”

  “Not my choice. They said they weren’t free until then.”

  “Sounds to me like you’ve been set up. How much do your guys cost you then?”

  “Twenty five large for the first week, but we shouldn’t need the whole week.”

  “You really are crazy. If you’ve got that much spare cash, you could have paid off the hit squad that beat your men into a pulp only a few hours ago.”

  “Jake, Jake. It’s not about the money. The union has money. It’s about what’s right. And bribing someone to stop hitting you is not right. They should stop because they want to stop.”

  “That’s an easy thing to say when you’re not the one cowering on the ground with a baseball bat beating your brains onto the street.”

  “Don’t exaggerate, Jake. No brains were spilled today. These were professional men. They drew blood and knocked out a couple of teeth, but nothing more. They understand how this game is played.”

  I was lost for words. Bernie was playing to his own set of rules and they sounded screwy. It was almost as if he wanted the violence to rain down on his men so they could look beautifully oppressed by the capitalist beast. Screwy.

  SHOOK MY HEAD, walked out the door and went back to my apartment. Cooked me up a real nice steak and potatoes, had a shower and went to bed. The union game was not all it was cracked up to be.

  There was a knock on my door shortly after nine thirty. I was already up but hadn’t finished my breakfast yet: I still had half a slice of toast and a second cup of coffee to complete. But I answered the door anyway, because you never know what opportunity lies on the other side of a piece of wood.