A Family Secret

By Harry Brooks

A Family Secret is a fast moving novel that takes the reader from the streets of South Philly to the backroom gambling joints of Atlantic City in the early forties to the most Mafia-infested, politically corrupt city in the world Las Vegas. It is the story of two half brothers who each follow different career paths. One becomes a successful Las Vegas casino owner, while the other ends up in the Mafia.

The authors use of sharp street dialogue makes the characters as real as a royal flush. A Family Secret is a gritty sometime humorous story that keeps the reader wondering what will happen next.

You will meet all kinds of interesting characters in the book. People like Fat Lenny, Little Pussey and Eddie the hat Weisberg, who is more like somebodys old grandfather than a Jewish Gangster. The main character, Goldy, is the essence of every young mans dream. Handsome, rich and as cool as a winter night. And Bobby Cippolini, Goldys half brother, a careless, cocky young Italian who answers only to the face he sees in the mirror.

A Family Secret is a story about people as much as it is about gambling and the mob. It is a beguiling and sometime witty love story that keeps the reader in suspense until the very end.

R E V I E W S! on Amazon.com
Absolutely outstanding book! I found myself immersed in the characters' lives because of the author's incredible attention to detail. The characters were very well developed and it incorporated aspects of business, the underworld, and family in a realistic portrayal of Mafia life. The plot kept me guessing... I couldn't put it down! Very highly recommended as it is now one of my favorite books!

- Stephanie Cohrac (Grand Rapids, MI)

This book was one of a kind. A real pageturner!! It really paints a perfect picture on how life really was back then. A must read!!

- A big fan, Jason Nissan

The story takes you through a realistic portrayal of what it was like to be a wise guy in South Philly. The story flows well and the characters are well developed to give the reader a visualization of the story. The author is currently unknown, but won't be after people get a copy of this book. A must read!

- Daniel Halpern (State College, PA)

I was pleased to read a story that was true to life.No phony characters or make-belive ":wise guys".The author knew what he was doing A great read.Can see this as a movie.

- Florida Mike "Mike the Man" (Florida)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 14, 2005
• ISBN: 9781469120225

Harry Brooks

Brooks was born and raised in Philadelphia. After serving two years in the marines, he went into the trucking business. During his business career, he served on the board of the American Trucking Association, was chairman of two state trucking associations, and was appointed to the U.S. Senatorial Business Advisory Board Steering Committee. After retiring from his business in 1989, Brooks has published six novels, written three short stories and an unproduced screen play. He continues to write a monthly column for a local Philadelphia publication. He presently resides in South Florida.

Book preview

A Family Secret

Harry Brooks

Copyright © 2004, 2005 by Harry Brooks.

Library of Congress Number: 2004098164

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, digital imaging, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This novel is a work of fiction. All of the characters, events and places are products of the author’s imagination, and in no way are intended to represent any real life incidents. Where the author uses the names ofpublic places, personalities, celebrities, or publicized events, they are used only to dramatize and to establish a time-frame and point of reference. The story is not intended to depict any true situations.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

26125

Contents

About Gambling

Special Thanks

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Chapter Sixty-nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-one

Chapter Seventy-two

Chapter Seventy-three

Chapter Seventy-four

Chapter Seventy-five

Chapter Seventy-six

Chapter Seventy-seven

Chapter Seventy-eight

Chapter Seventy-nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-one

Chapter Eighty-two

Chapter Eighty-three

Chapter Eighty-four

Chapter Eighty-five

Chapter Eighty-six

Chapter Eighty-seven

Chapter Eighty-eight

Chapter Eighty-nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-one

Chapter Ninety-two

Chapter Ninety-three

Chapter Ninety-four

About Gambling

In this time of same sex marriage, permissive sex and outrageous gasoline prices, it is difficult to understand the condemnation of gambling expressed by so many people and assorted religious groups.

People have been gambling since the beginning of time according to Greek mythology. The first crap game ever, was when Hades rolled dice for shares of the Universe.

The English word gaming comes from the Saxon word gamer, which is defined as joy, pleasure sport. That’s one definition. Ask any degenerate bust-out gambler, and I am sure he would have a different definition.

All over the world, people have gambled. Singing gondoliers in Italy bet their liberty for a number of years for gambling debts and in China rice paddy workers bet their ears. The losers sliced them off with a polite kowtow.

In England during the 1700’s many of the young aristocracy lost all their money gambling and went to the Colonies to make a new fortune. When you think about it, Christopher Columbus took one hell of a gamble when he convinced the Queen to give him money to discover the new world. I wonder what the odds were on that deal.

In the old Jewish religion, the Talmud equates a gambler with a thief. He could not be a witness in any court of justice and was an outcast.

So how come I see all those Hasidic Jews in the casinos in Las Vegas and Atlantic City? And how about all those right wing religious fanatics who condemn gambling but have no problem with the Catholic Church running bingo games?

Mario Puzo claims a man named Louis Cohen left a letter confessing that the great Chicago fire was not caused by a cow kicking over a lantern. He confessed that he and friends were shooting craps in the barn and accidentally started the fire. But he could have been just a bust-out gambler looking for a little glory. He would never steal the credit from a fellow gambler but gamblers don’t care about cows.

Many psychiatrist claim gambling is masochistic, that all gamblers want to lose to punish themselves. Bullshit. Sure some do. Some people like to jump off the Empire State Building. But millions go up to look at the view.

So what is it about gambling that has fascinated so many people for so many years. Consider the line from the Paul Newman movie The Color of Money—Money won is twice as sweet as money earned. Someone asked Gloria Steinem why women don’t gamble as much as men do. She replied, Women don’t have as much money as men. That was a true but incomplete answer. The fact of the matter is, women’s total instinct for gambling is satisfied by marriage.

In any event, gambling is here to stay. Although the old time barons of gambling are gone, they have been replaced by the multi-billion dollar conglomerates that control Las Vegas and Atlantic City. And remember, they don’t build those big hotels with winners. So, if you must gamble, remember the old Chinese Proverb—"Decide upon three things at the start; the rules of the game, the stakes, and most important—quitting time.

Special Thanks

To my loving wife Joan, who spent numerous hours searching the internet for me, looking up all kinds of crazy things—like Jewish bath houses (the shvitz) to name one. Although she doesn’t approve of gambling, her research on the subject was of great help to me in writing this book.

In addition to the internet, the following books were also used as reference material to verify dates and events. The Money and the Power (Making of Las Vegas) by Sally Denton and Roger Morris, Crime Incorporated (The First One Hundred Years of the Mafia) by William Balsarno and George Carpozi, Jr and The Boardwalk Jungle (Atlantic City and the Mafia) by David DeMaris.

Also, once again, thanks to Karen for being able to read my handwriting and typing the manuscript.

Introduction

Growing up in a North Philly blue-collar neighborhood, I had the good fortune to meet and become friendly with a lot of colorful characters. The neighborhood bookies, wannabe wise guys, and two-bit con artists usually hung around the corner drug store, or men’s clothing store which were located near my father’s furniture store. I started working in my father’s store when I was thirteen years old and got to know these guys at a very early age. It was a great education and it was all free. Don’t misunderstand me, not everyone who lived or frequented the neighborhood fell into this category. But those who didn’t were definitely in the minority.

I don’t know how I got started, but I always enjoyed gambling. To me it was the competition. That’s why I do believe gambling has bettered my character, helped me to raise five children, and I think to be modest, more or less successful. Gambling is not for everyone. Which applies to most things in life. I would not want my children or grandchildren to think the only way they can develop character is by gambling. Not true. But the more things you try in this lifetime, so long as they do not threaten your health or hurt your family, can help you be a better person.

Thomas Wolfe said, You can never go home again. I think he meant physically, not emotionally. When I decided to write this book, it was like going home again, remembering all the Daemon Runyon characters from the old neighborhood. A good friend of mine, who lives in New York, read the manuscript and couldn’t wait to call me. He said, I know all the guys in your story. They have different names and live in a different city. But they’re the same guys. We’re from the same generation and share the same memories.

The characters you will meet in A Family Secret are guys I knew growing up in Philadelphia as well as composites of guys I met over the years. It’s a story about people and events, more than about just gambling. It is not a glorification of any type of lifestyle, and it is certainly not a moral or social condemnation of any.

Because my children and grandchildren will read this book, I must issue a warning. There is some unsavory language in the book. I didn’t include the dirty words for shock value, that’s the way people talked in my neighborhood. For example, if my friend Fat Lenny got caught stealing a sports jacket from Louie’s men’s store (where he worked), Louie wouldn’t say Hey Leonard, you shouldn’t have done that. What he would do is smack Lenny on the back of the head, kick the shit out of him, give him a week off without pay and then put him back to work. Louie’s theory, Fat Lennie wouldn’t steal again, because he didn’t like getting smacked around. Maybe not Dr. Phil, but back then it worked.

All of that said, I hope you enjoy A Family Secret, and if you think you recognize some of the characters in the book, great. If not, enjoy the book for what it is . . . a story!

The true test of the character of a man, is not what he does for public recognition, but instead, what he does for someone he doesn’t know or what he does for someone he doesn’t need.

—The Author

Chapter One

Joseph Nathan Goldman, known to everyone as Goldy, stood on the balcony of his suite on the thirty-first floor of the new Trump Taj Mahal Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. The Taj Mahal had opened on April 5, 1990, four months earlier. Although he was invited, Goldy did not attend the gala grand opening. Fifteen years ago, Goldy probably would have made the party. Back then he was a player. He would have arrived in a private jet and stayed in the best suite in the joint. But that was then. This is now.

Some of his close friends and family were here to celebrate his seventy-second birthday. He told his family that if he knew he was going to live to reach seventy-two, he would have taken better care of himself. He knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have changed one damn thing. As he stood looking out over the new Atlantic City, holding a vodka martini in one hand and a Marlboro cigarette in the other, he could see the Showboat and Resorts, with their bright lights and fancy decor. If he looked hard enough he could just about see Bally’s and Caesar’s with The Trump Plaza in the background.

Standing on the balcony, he could hear the Dixieland band playing on the boardwalk. Even though the Taj Mahal opening was four months ago, the celebration continued. People were dancing and clapping to the Dixieland rhythms of the hotel’s band. Hissing above their heads and dwarfing all underneath was a wondrously monstrous blue-and-white hot air balloon with the words Welcome to the Taj Mahal in large red letters along its side. Goldy had seen these types of grand openings before.

His thin lips formed a smile as he took a puff of his Marlboro and thought about what Atlantic City was in the late forties and fifties. There were now fourteen legal casinos in Atlantic City, including the two in Brigantine. Back in the forties and fifties there were three times that many, illegal casinos or carpet rooms as they were called. Not as modern and sophisticated as the ones today. But nevertheless, places where you could play poker or blackjack, shoot craps, pick up a hooker, and make off-track bets. And there were some very high rollers back then. Places like Skinny D’Amato’s joint, the 500 Club on Missouri Avenue that operated a backroom gambling establishment, where guys lost as much as a half million bucks in one night playing poker. Another fancy joint was The Bath and Turf Club on Stanton Avenue just off the boardwalk. Goldy thought to himself, They were really the fun days. His daydreaming was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He turned around to look in the living room of the suite like he expected someone to answer it. He had to laugh to himself. There was no Lefty to answer the phone. Like many of his other friends and people he hung out with in his heyday, Lefty had gone to the big casino in the sky. He once said, If there really was a God, then he would have a special place in Heaven for the ‘players’ of this world.

Lefty, whose real name was Leon Lefkowitz, had been Goldy’s personal driver, bodyguard, friend, and gin rummy partner for almost forty-five years from 1945 to 1989, when Lefty died of a heart attack. They were at Saratoga Racetrack in New York. Lefty had just won over a thousand dollars on a trifecta bet, when he grabbed his chest, whispered Goldy’s name, and dropped dead. Everyone said he died happy. Bullshit, Goldy said. You live happy.

The phone rang again. Goldy put out his cigarette, took a sip of his martini, and walked into the living room to answer it. Everything that Goldy did was cool. The way he dressed. The way he smoked. The way he drank. Even at seventy-two years old he was still cool. He was over six feet tall and in good shape. He was a fine-looking man, and his suntanned face made him look even more handsome. Although his full head of black hair was now tinted with a lot of gray, he did not look his age. He was always dressed to the nines. Even in sport clothes he looked like he was formally dressed. That’s just the way he was. Cool. And always a ladies’ man.

He loved to flirt. Ask any waitress, hatcheck girl, cigarette girl, barmaid, sales lady, or for that matter, any woman. They only had to meet him for a few minutes and they would be charmed.

Goldy picked up the phone. Hello?

Grandpop, this is Lindsey. Lindsey was his oldest granddaughter, the daughter of his firstborn. She was thirteen going on twenty-three. Lindsey had large bright blue eyes and a face that, even without the benefit of makeup, looked like it was the face of a young model. Her hair was naturally blonde, almost a crayon yellow, hacked off in a straight line at her chin. Her nose, short and bobbed. When the boys in school told her she was beautiful, she would smile and think I look like myself.

Hey, baby, what’s going on?

What’s going on? Do you have a girl up there, Goldy?

Goldy laughed. Behave yourself, young lady.

You know I always behave myself. But being your granddaughter makes that a little bit difficult.

Goldy laughed again. He had three daughters and five grandchildren. But for whatever reason, Lindsey was his favorite of them all. And she knew it. Maybe because she was the first.

I’ll be right down, baby, Goldy said.

Well, you better. Everyone is here already. After all the party is for you.

Goldy hung up the phone and smiled. His eyes were moist. Where did all the years go? He finished his martini, put on his sports jacket, took a last glance in the mirror, lit another Marlboro, and made his way out of the suite to the elevator, his mind still thinking of the past years.

Chapter Two

It was 2:00 a.m. on Sunday, August 10, 1936. Two days before Goldy’s eighteenth birthday. Goldy was standing on the front steps of Lilly Kaplan’s house. Lilly’s parents were out of town for the week, and Goldy made the most of the opportunity. He had been dating Lilly off and on for the past year. On their third date, Lilly lost her virginity to Goldy in the backseat of a 1930 Ford that Goldy borrowed from The Hook. His real name was Sammy Cohen, a small-time bookie from the neighborhood. He was called The Hook because of the way his nose was shaped. Against his mother’s wishes, Goldy had been working for The Hook on and off for years doing all kinds of odd jobs. The Hook took a liking to Goldy when he was just a kid. When Goldy was only seven years old he would watch the older men shooting craps on the street corner. That’s really how he learned math. When he was ten years old, The Hook taught Goldy how to tell the old Jews in the neighborhood to put a penny on a number, and they could win $4. Jobs were scarce then so everyone hoped to hit on the number. The number wasn’t fixed; it came from the racetrack, but the odds were still in the bookie’s favor. When his mother found out what he was doing, she would scold him and warn him not to do it again. But a couple of days later, Goldy was back on the street hanging around with The Hook. When he was twelve years old, he became the lookout for dice games The Hook would run in the alley. He got paid $5. That was a lot of money in those days. At thirteen, Goldy could read a racing form as well as anybody and figure out the betting line on ball games as well as most of the bookies in the neighborhood. By the time Goldy was fifteen, The Hook was backing Goldy when he played poker with the other kids in the neighborhood—in the summertime, on the sidewalks beneath the lampposts, and in the winter in the back of the local candy store. Goldy was not only a good player; he was also a lucky player.

When Goldy told The Hook there was a good chance he could get laid but had no place to do it, The Hook gladly lent him his car. Goldy took out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, flipped the pack so only one cigarette popped up, and put it in his mouth. Even at eighteen, Goldy was cool. He looked at his watch. A couple of minutes past two. He was going to meet some of his friends at the Camac Bath House. The Camac was an old-fashioned bathhouse. This was in the days before the modern health clubs and other private clubs with workout and steam rooms. The young men followed their fathers’ footsteps for a daily shvitz (Yiddish for steam bath) at the Old Camac Bath House. The young men prepared for dates as well as life itself under the influence of shvitzing in this men-only haven. The procedure took a couple of hours and included a rubdownlike massage called plaitza, several trips in and out of the steam room, along with a dousing of cold water. Patrons, most of whom were Jewish, steamed, then plunged into a cool pool of water, or were sprayed with cold water, steamed again, and if lucky, had a plaitza with an oak leaf broom soaked in hot water. All for $4. The main floor was a place to change and eat, while the second floor was like a rooming house.

In the early twentieth century, bathhouses were not only social meeting places but hygienic necessities for the immigrants, many from Eastern Europe, who lived in nearby cold-water flats and apartments. European Jews needed public bathhouses. The Russian steam room tradition was decidedly a Jewish one.

The Camac Bath House had a twenty-by-twenty-five-foot steam room. It supported a clientele, who were a rare mix of everyman, sitting alongside judges, politicians, and members of the Purple Gang (Jewish gangsters). Together they sweated, wearing only a wet towel wrapped around their heads as the temperature climbed to 180 degrees. It eased any physical or mental pain. One of the best parts of going to the shvitz was the camaraderie. This was kind of a late-Saturday night ritual. The guys would meet at the bathhouse, play cards, take a steam, play some old-fashioned handball, eat a salami sandwich, sleep for a couple of hours on an uncomfortable cot, and go home on Sunday morning.

Goldy took a puff on his cigarette and started to walk home. Lilly’s house was on Catherine Street about five blocks from his house. His mother told him he could borrow her car to drive to the Camac after his date with Lilly. Goldy had no problem walking the streets in South Philly at two o’clock in the morning. He knew these streets. He was born and raised in South Philly. These were his streets. As Goldy walked east on Catherine Street, he noticed a shiny black Buick parked across the street from Charley’s barbershop. As he passed the car, he could see there were three men in it—two in front and one in the back. He didn’t recognize the car, and he thought it was kind of strange for a car to be parked there this time of night with three men. But he didn’t stop. He continued on his way, and when he got to Twelfth Street, he turned the corner toward his house and at the same time glanced over his shoulder to look back at the car. In that instance he thought he saw the men get out of the car and cross the street to Charley’s barbershop.

Walking toward Goldy on Twelfth Street was Jimmy, the delivery boy for Mario’s Steak and Pizza Shop.

Hey, Jimmy, what ya doin’ out so late?

Hey, Goldy. Delivering this stuff to Charley’s. You know, food for the Saturday night card game guys.

Yeah. I forgot about that.

See ya later, Goldy.

Yeah, Jimmy, you take care.

Goldy continued down Twelfth Street without the slightest idea that the next few hours would change his entire life.

Chapter Three

In the early thirties, a man by the name of Giuseppe Masseria was at the top of the heap in the underworld of man haters. Masseria known as The Boss suddenly fell into odds with the Italian clique headed by Salvatore Marazano. As a result of this, Marazano put out a contract on The Boss. When the squat and fat boss learned of this, he knew he needed some help. So he reached out to the underworld of South Philadelphia, and the Philly mobsters were only too glad to help. Being associated with a New York crime family gave the local Philly wise guys prestige.

One of the South Philly wise guys who became an ally of Masseria was a man named Willie Posceti. In the shaving mirror every morning Willie would take inventory. Height: still only five feet eight. Hair: one head of dark and curly, now thinner, with hairline inching back. Teeth: still all in a row, like books, yellowing. Eyes: like black olives. Midriff: flabby. At thirty-six, he could still remember the feeling of twenty. He just couldn’t feel it anymore. Because of his association with the New York mob, Willie earned a lot of respect in his neighborhood. He would tell stories of how he would go to New York and make a hit for The Boss. His reputation soared at home.

One of Willie’s employees was a man named Fat Lenny. His real name was Lenny Gastapio. The one the girls never wanted to party with. He was always the outcast, a loner with no friends. Hefty and round faced by the time he was fourteen, he already weighed over a hundred and eighty pounds. The kids at school taunted him calling him all sorts of names—Sewer was favorite, The Dump and Big Boy were two others. Finally it just became Fat Lenny. Besides all of his other vices, Fat Lenny was a compulsive gambler. He would bet on anything. One day Fat Lenny was in a bar with a couple of his buddies, one of them made a passing remark about some guy who had just walked into the bar and very politely ordered a beer.

Look at that guy. Looks like a henpecked husband out on the town.

For how much? Fat Lenny said.

For how much what? His buddy said, confused.

How much you wanna bet that this guy is single or married? I’ll take either one.

Fat Lenny’s friend looked at him, shook his head, and went back to his drink.

There are few things that are so unpardonably neglected in our country as poker. . . Why I have known clergymen, good men, kind-hearted, liberal, sincere and all that, who did not know the meaning of a flush. . . It’s enough to make one ashamed of one’s species.

—Mark Twain

On that same Saturday night that Goldy left Lilly’s house, Fat Lenny was playing cards at Charley the Barber’s. That’s what everyone called Charley Monte—Charley the Barber.

Charley the Barber was sixty years old. He opened his barbershop ten years after coming to this country from Palermo. He was only twenty-five years old at the time. When he was twenty-eight, he married Maria Costeglia, another immigrant from Charley’s birthplace in Palermo. When Maria found out she couldn’t bear children she went into a deep depression. And at the age of twenty-six she looked like an old woman. No matter what Charley the Barber did to try and cheer her up, she remained in a deep depression. Then one morning she just didn’t wake up. She was fifty-two years old. Charley the Barber told everyone it was God’s wish.

Charley continued to live in the apartment on the second floor above the barbershop. One day when Willie Posceti was getting a haircut he made Charley a proposition.

Hey, Charley. You cut hair, you go upstairs to eat and then to sleep. You gotta no life. Charley just shrugged his shoulders.

How would you like to make some extra money and have a little fun? Charley again shrugged his shoulders.

How about we have a poker game upstairs in your place on Saturday night? I teach you how to deal, and I give you fifty dollars—no, I’ll give you one hundred dollars.

Charley stopped cutting Willie’s hair and walked around to the front of the chair.

How about a hundred and fifty dollars? Willie laughed. You gotta a deal.

And the Saturday night poker game was born. Over the years the poker game became a high-stakes game. Willie knew how to get the high rollers.

There was a waiting list of players. Willie had thought about running two games on Saturday night, but instead he convinced Charley to deal a game on Sunday night also. The Sunday night game accommodated those players who didn’t make the cut on Saturday night.

On this particular Saturday night the other players included Ira Glassman, who owned a large men’s store on South Broad Street; Bobby Costello, who had no real job but always had plenty of money to play; Angie Rigottiola, who owned a restaurant and bar in South Philly; Sid Bradley, a big shot in the mayor’s office; and Bobby Sykes, who was in the garment business and came in from New York by train just for the games. The game had started around nine o’clock on Saturday night. As was the custom, they took a break at 2:00 a.m. to get something to eat. Mario’s pizza and steak joint would send over the food for the game. It was a standing order. Jimmy the delivery boy would deliver the food. Mario would wait for Jimmy to return and then close. It was a set routine.

After Jimmy passed Goldy, he turned the corner and continued on Catherine Street singing to himself as he half-walked, half-skipped toward his final destination, Charley’s barbershop. Before he knew what happened, the three men who had left the parked Buick on the other side of the street quickly surrounded Jimmy and gently eased him into the shadows of the vacant store next to Charley’s barbershop.

What the hell—, Jimmy started but was silenced when one of the men put his hand over Jimmy’s mouth. The three men were wearing stockings over their heads that made them look even more menacing.

Jimmy thought he was peeing in his pants. While one of the men held his hand over Jimmy’s mouth, another was helping Jimmy hold the pizza and steak sandwiches. The third finally spoke.

We don’t want to hurt you, kid. Do you understand?

Jimmy nodded, more out of sheer nervousness than anything else.

Okay then. My friend is gonna take his hand away from your mouth. Now you ain’t gonna scream or nothin’, right?

Again, Jimmy nodded. By now he knew he peed his pants. The man holding his hand over Jimmy’s mouth slowly moved it away as he put his finger over his mouth as if to signal for Jimmy to be quiet. Jimmy was too scared to say or do anything. The man who first spoke, spoke again.

All right, kid. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You ring the bell at the side door like you always do. Me and my friends here are gonna stay in the shadows, so when Charley the Barber looks out the window to throw you the keys he don’t see us. But we’ll be looking at you with these. And with that, all three showed Jimmy their guns. Jimmy was sure he started to pee again. The man continued. Don’t say or do nothin’ that is out of line. You know what I mean?

Jimmy nodded. His mouth was so dry he couldn’t talk if he wanted to.

Okay, now go ring the bell.

Jimmy wasn’t sure he would be able to walk the ten feet to the side door of Charley’s barbershop, but he did. He rang the bell. A couple of seconds later, Charley the Barber poked his head out of the second-floor window.

Hey, Jimmy. Where you been? It was a rhetorical question. He threw the keys to Jimmy not waiting for an answer. The keys landed on the sidewalk near Jimmy. Jimmy juggled the food so that he was able to bend over and pick up the keys. Charley the Barber had already pulled his head back and closed the window. The three men moved out of the shadows, took the keys from Jimmy, and opened the door. They motioned for Jimmy to start up the stairs. He did with the three gunmen right behind him. When he reached the top of the stairs, one of the men pushed Jimmy in front of him down the short hallway and into the dining room that had been converted to a poker room. Jimmy dropped the food he had been holding so carefully and slumped to the floor. Fat Lenny was the first to see Jimmy and the three men.

What the fuck—, Fat Lenny started when all of a sudden the three men with ladies’ silk stockings over their faces were standing in the doorway; each holding a gun like they were ready for a shootout in the OK Corral.

Everybody stay quiet and line up against the wall. The same man, who had instructed Jimmy as to what to do, was the man in charge. He was giving the orders.

Charley the Barber, realizing what was about to happen, held out his hands to help Jimmy up from the floor.

Stand back, old man. The leader of the gang was still in charge.

I only wanna help him up.

He can get up on his own. Now everybody do as I say and nobody gets hurt.

Fat Lenny squinted as if trying to make out the faces under the stockings.

I know you? Fat Lenny asked.

Just get up against the wall. The man in charge was becoming irritated. He then motioned to one of the other men with him. Pick up all the money on the table, and put it in here, and with that he took a folded paper bag out of his jacket and gave it to his partner.

Fat Lenny spoke again. Do you Momma-Lukes know who I work for? Do you know who owns this game?

The chief robber was now visibly nervous. I don’t give a shit who you are or who you work for, you fat fuck. Now I want all the money from the game, plus whatever cash you guys got in your pockets. One of the other robbers chimed in, Yeah, and all your jewelry too.

Fuck you, Fat Lenny hollered back and at the same time reached his hand to the back of his belt.

Keep your hands where I can see them, one of the robbers hollered.

Fuck you, Fat Lenny said again as he pulled a small gun from the back of his pants. Before anyone knew what happened, one of the robbers fired three shots point-blank at Fat Lenny. Two hit him in the chest area, the third in his face. He dropped his gun, screamed in pain, and fell face forward to the floor.

Bobby Costello, the young poker player almost in shock, spoke up. Look, you guys, it was an accident. He never should have tried to pull a gun. We don’t know who you guys are. Take the money. Please take the money and go.

The robber who shot Fat Lenny was still standing with his gun pointed at Fat Lenny lying on the floor. He kept muttering, Oh shit, oh shit. Finally the take-charge robber got his composure back.

Okay, everybody, stay calm. We came here for the money. That asshole on the floor should have listened to me in the first place, and nobody would have got hurt.

Angie, the restaurant and bar owner, was the first to empty his pockets and take off his gold watch. Here, take this. Please, I don’t want no more trouble. I got a wife and three kids.

Shut the fuck up, the take-charge robber said. Okay, okay. Everybody empty their pockets, and put your dough on the table.

And the jewelry too, said one of the other robbers.

Yeah, yeah. The jewelry too. Then he turned to Charley the Barber. Okay, old man, let’s you and me go to that safe you have in your bedroom. Charley the Barber turned pale. How did they know he had a safe with over $50,000? Somebody in the neighborhood fingered this job! Charley didn’t think these guys were from this neighborhood. There was a local guy who set this up.

C’mon, old man, let’s go! Charley hesitated, and the robber gave him a hard punch on the side of the face that knocked him back against the wall.

He’s an old man, let him be. This was the first time that Ira, the men’s store owner-poker player, spoke. The robber turned to him. You want some of the same? Ira shook his head. Then shut the fuck up!

While the other two robbers guarded the remaining five poker players, Charley the Barber led the lead robber to his safe—with his life savings of $50,000—in the bedroom. The robber stuffed the money in his pocket and followed Charley the Barber back into the poker room. By this time the other two robbers had gathered up all the cash and jewelry and stuffed their pockets as well as the paper bag. Then the lead robber gave his final instructions.

Okay, we’re leaving now. I pulled the phone out of the wall, so you can’t make no calls. I want you all to stay right here for at least an hour. After that, I don’t give a shit.

Then out of the blue the robber who had shot Fat Lenny said, I think we should waste them all right now. The other two robbers looked at him.

Bobby Costello spoke out. Look, you guys, you got what you came for. Please don’t do it!

The head robber was thinking. You get the chair for killing one person or for killing seven. But the thing with Fat Lenny was self-defense. He thought another minute and then told his friends it was over. They got what they came for. Let’s go, guys. The shooter hesitated, shook his head, and decided to follow the orders of the lead robber.

Back at the pizza and steak joint, Mario was starting to worry. Jimmy never took this long. Besides he was tired. He wanted to go home. He decided to call Charley the Barber. The phone just rang and rang. No answer. He called the operator. She checked the line.

I’m sorry, sir. Your call is going through, but no one is answering.

Now Mario was really worried. He took the gun he kept under the counter, put it in his jacket, locked up the store, and started for Charley the Barber’s. Just as Mario turned the corner onto

Catherine Street, he could see a car pulling away from the curb near Charley’s barbershop. Mario quickened his step. By the time he got to the barbershop the car was already out of sight. Mario went to the side entrance and rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again and again. Finally he heard someone holler from the second-floor window.

Who’s there?

It’s me, Mario. Is that you, Charley?

No, no. It’s Angie.

Angie? What the hell is going on?

It’s very bad, Mario. Jimmy is coming down to open the door. It’s very bad, Mario.

Jimmy came down, opened the door, and returned back upstairs with Mario. What’s going on? Mario asked when Jimmy opened the door. On the way upstairs Jimmy started to tell his boss what had happened. The other men greeted Mario at the top of the steps. They filled in all the blank spots left by Jimmy.

We gotta get Charley to the hospital, Angie said. I think he’s having a heart attack. Mario looked past the group and saw his old friend Charley, slumped in a chair, holding his chest, and having a difficult time breathing. Sid Bradley, one of the poker players, had enough composure to realize there must be a phone downstairs in the barbershop. Charley nodded that he was right. Sid and Angie went down to the shop. First they called for an ambulance. Then they thought they should call the police. Angie thought for a minute. No. I think we should call Willie Posceti. Sid thought for a minute. There’s a dead man up there, Angie. I know, Sid, and he works for Willie. We need to call Willie and see how he wants to handle this.

Chapter Four

Willie Posceti was not a happy camper. He was sitting at his kitchen table drinking coffee with two members of his gang: Johnny Anselmi and Vince The Cutter Scalia. He was called The Cutter because that’s what he liked to do, cut people. Very nice fellow! It was 8:00 a.m., Sunday. Willie did not get much sleep. He was at a party Saturday night and didn’t get to bed until almost half past two on Sunday morning. Then the telephone rang about an hour later. It was Angie Regottiola. Angie and Willie both were born and raised in South Philly and had remained friends over the years.

Willie, Angie.

What the hell? It’s almost four o’clock in the morning. Somebody pretty fucking important better have died for you to call me at this hour.

Yeah, sorry, Willie, but I thought I should call you. Couple guys busted the game at Charley the Barber’s a couple hours ago.

Are you shittin’ me? Willie said, now fully awake.

Yeah, I know what you mean. Can’t imagine how somebody would try something like this to your game.

What happened?

Well, these three guys . . . they had, you know, ladies’ silk stockings over their faces . . . looked like Halloween or somethin’.

Would you get to the fuckin’ point, Willie shouted.

Well, yeah, okay. Well, anyway, these three guys grabbed Jimmy, you know the kid who brings the pizzas and stuff from Mario’s. Well, they grab him outside, and when Charley throws him the keys to come in, they come busting into the game all waving guns.

Sonofabitch! Willie whispered.

What you say?

Nothin’. Anyway, so what happened? Was Fat Lenny there? What did he do?

He tried to do something, Willie . . . but . . . well . . . shit . . . they shot him. Those bastards killed Lenny.

Angie and Willie spoke for a while longer, Willie continuing to ask the same questions.

Did any of you, guys, recognize them? Do you think the kid Jimmy had anything to do with it? Do you think any of the other players were in on it?

Finally after exhausting all the possibilities, Willie thanked Angie for calling. He told him he would send someone over to take care of the body. He was glad they didn’t call the police. Now sitting with Johnny and The Cutter, they were trying to figure out what to do. They had determined that the robbers got away with almost $90,000 including the $50,000 from Charley the Barber. Charley was in the hospital. No one was sure how bad he was. After talking for about an hour, Willie decided their best lead was the kid, Jimmy. He must have seen or heard something when they grabbed him outside. He told Johnny to get hold of the kid. Don’t hurt him. I just want to talk to him.

When Goldy arrived at the bathhouse about 2:30 a.m., he went right into the steam room. After the steam bath, he wrapped himself in a large Turkish towel and walked into the card room. He spotted two of his friends from the neighborhood playing in a stud poker game. One of the other players, a man in his late twenties called Shooter, looked up when Goldy approached the game. Goldy had played poker with him several times and didn’t like the man. He was a loudmouth, wannabe wise guy who was a bad loser. Because he was only five feet tall, he always tried to bully people in an attempt to make himself feel like a bigger man. His balding red hair and uncharacteristic fair skin did not help his attempt to look like a Mafia type.

Hey, look who’s here. The golden boy. Feel lucky, sport, we got a seat for you. Goldy’s two friends looked at him as if to say Pay no attention to him, pal, he’s an asshole. Goldy smiled. You think you’re good enough to play with me? Goldy said to

Shooter, just trying to bust his balls. Just set your Jew ass down, I’ll show you how good I am.

Vinny Petrofina, a man in his sixties looked at Shooter and told him, Relax, no need to talk like that. Goldy held up his hand. Relax, guys. He took thirty dollars from his wallet that he kept with him and said, Let’s play cards.

By 5:00 a.m. there were only three players left in the game: Goldy, Shooter, and Smitty, a man in his thirties also from South Philly. As was usually the case, Goldy was the big winner. Smitty looked down at the fifty dollars in front of him. I’m about even. Think I’m gonna call it a night.

Yeah, yeah, Shooter said as he dealt the cards.

Looks like it’s just me and you, Goldy said as he looked at his hole card.

Shooter had a jack in the hole, his first up card was a 10. He bet and Goldy called. After all the cards were dealt, Shooter had a 10, 9, 8, and 6 showing. He played with his money, counted it, and finally said, Bettin’ it all—eighty-six dollars.

Goldy smiled. Looks like you got a straight, he said.

It will cost you eighty-six bucks to find out, Shooter said with a smirk on his face.

Goldy had a 10, 5, 9, and 3 showing. I am going to call you, Goldy said, counting out the eighty-six dollars.

Shooter’s face got beet red. You’re calling? With what? You got nothin’. Don’t you see I got a straight?

That’s what I want to see, Goldy said with a smile on his face. So let me see the 7, Goldy said, sure that Shooter was bluffing. Shooter hesitated, then turned over his hole card—a jack. Jack high, he said, waiting to hear what Goldy had. Goldy smiled and turned over a queen.

Queen high, Goldy said with a smile.

Sonofabitch! Shooter screamed as he stood up and pushed the cards off the table. How the fuck you call a possible straight with only a queen?

Goldy very calmly said, Because I knew you didn’t have the straight.

Shooter was still standing. My jack to your queen, can you beat that? He said, still visibly angry.

Goldy couldn’t resist. I just did, he said.

Fuck you, Shooter said, walking away after taking off his towel and throwing it on the floor, exposing his flabby ass.

One of Goldy’s friends had walked over. How do you do that? his friend asked. Goldy stood up and patted his friend on the cheek. You pay to see the cards—lessons are extra. Both young men laughed. Goldy was the coolest.

Goldy had trouble sleeping. He sat up and looked around the dormitory-type sleeping room on the second floor of the Camac Bath House. His friends were still sleeping: Andy Diamond a.k.a. Skinny, a friend of Goldy’s since they were in grade school. Skinny got his nickname for only one reason—he was skinny. He was over six feet tall and weighed less than a hundred and fifty pounds. Henry Silverman, a.k.a. Boomer, had the ability to fart at any time: loud, medium or soft. This talent made him a popular entertainer at neighborhood parties. He and Skinny were so close, Skinny said that when Henry ate too much—which he always did even when he was on one of his diets—it gave Skinny gas. Bernard Jason Moskowitz, a.k.a. BJ. BJ was a hanger-on. He was a nice-looking young man with no real purpose in life with the exception of hoping to meet and marry a rich girl. And Johnny Esposito, a.k.a. Johnny