MYRON -THE JEW OF JERSEY.

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Three of Myron in New Jersey. We just left Frank’s office.  “ Okay boys; to the Chelsea.”   

“ I’ve been to a lot of wild parties in that hotel! Paul says, Callahan snubs his comment, “ Oh yea. You’re lucky you didn’t drop dead.

Inside the Chelsea, Myron takes a fast glance, and shakes his head. “ You like the artwork Myron?” I asked

“ Huh? Looks like crap to me.” Up on the third floor, Arthur comes out in the hall to greet us.  This is the first time we’ve met. Arthur found me by way of the Las Vegas Mob Museum, because he is one of the curators and has woven himself into the families of mob history.

“ Hello Hello–come in. Luellen, so nice to meet you. This must be Uncle Myron. Come in; it’s so small. I’m sorry, please sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Soda–Water?”

“Do you have wine?” I asked.     

“I have a bottle here somewhere. Taste it;I think it might be old.”

“Your right, it’s old.” Myron sat in the club chair, took off his glasses and let his eyes roam the collection of photographs.

Watching Arthur, he reminded me of one part Charles Boyer and the other part, street smart Sterling Hayden. Arthur grew up next door to a famous gangster, and his grandmother was a collector, so this history became his passion. He’s been collecting memorabilia fourteen years and studying the characters from his corner on Mulberry Street. He was much younger than I imagined, and he dressed vintage chic 1940’s.

No problem Luellen, I’ll order up.”

Arthur picked up the phone, “Yea, I want to order a few bottles of wine; I’m a desperate alcoholic so hurry it up.”

Myron was still looking at the walls. Then they began exchanging stories about the Mustache Petes, Crazy Joe Gallo, all the way up to present day.

“Do you know Abe X?” Myron asked.

“Yea, he comes over all the time.”

“Call him up. Tell him I’m here.”

“Are you sure? He’s sort of private, and he’s very temperamental. I’d rather not Myron.”

“Call him. Trust me.”

“He’s old; I don’t want to upset him.” He glanced at me.

“Arthur; Myron knows what he’s doing.” I interjected. 

He winked at me. “All right, I’ll call him.”

“Hello Abe? Yea it’s me-how you doing? Everything all right? Listen I got a friend over that wants to say hello. Myron—I said Myron! Yea, Myron Sugerman. Do you want to say hello? Yea, he’s here now. At the Chelsea. You’re coming over now? Okay. Yea, we’ll be here.”

Myron shrugged. “Haven’t seen that guy in twenty years.” Not more than ten minutes later, this large man carrying a worn brief case shuffles inside. He’s the Walter Matthau type who talks without waiting for a response, and moves like he just woke up.

“ Myron, for heaven’s sake.”  Myron and Abe do not shake hands, or embrace or anything.  They immediately start talking. 

Arthur smiled at me, and I played with his cat, Selleck.  

The two men flipped through their rolodex cards of thugs, gamblers, bosses, rats, and jailbirds. I heard a Myron and Abe mention a few names I recognized so I asked about a friend of Dad’s.

“ Abe, do you know Chuck Delmonico?”

“ Sure,” Abe said.

“ Is he still in Florida?”

“ Nope, he’s dead. Died a few months ago.”

“ That’s too bad. I was finally ready to call him. He was good  friends with Dad.”

“ His father was Jimmy the Blade.” Abe added.

“ Yes, I read that.” The delivery showed up and Arthur poured me a glass. I drank in bliss-this was about the closest I’d felt to being home; I mean amongst people that understand my background and love me for it.

 “Okay, time to go.” Myron stood up. He has a built in alarm that rings right before people begin to exaggerate or bore one another.

“ Arthur, we have Seder tomorrow night. You’re invited if you’d like to come.” Myron said as pulled on his overcoat.

“ Oh I’d love to. I have to figure out a ride to Jersey.”

“ It’s taken care of; Paul will pick you up at 6:OO.”  Myron said as he walked out the entry.

“ Bye Arthur, see you tomorrow night.” And I followed behind Myron.

As we walked down the hallway Myron took a deep breath.“What a joint, the whole place smells like marijuana. ”

Callahan and Paul were waiting on the sidewalk, looking more aggravated. “ Myron, for crying out loud! It’s raining.”

“So get in the car imbecile.”  Mocking Myron entitles Myron to mock back better so it’s an education for anyone listening.  They have their favorite subjects and one of them is poor Callahan’s love life, “ I went to London to see my girlfriend, I brought eight Viagra and only two worked. I thought she was in love with me, and she thought I had money.”

“Did you break up?” I asked.

Myron interjects, “ Yea, she broke his balls”  Laughter all around and then Paul says something sweet like, “Don’t talk like that in front of the lady.  Myron interjects, “ She’s more than a lady; she’s the real deal.” 

We are driving down one of the avenues and in the distance I  notice the steeple of a high rise wrapped in a cloud of wet fog. “Look! Isn’t that a beautiful sight?” I say. The men pay no attention and continue to bark and harangue one another, as the car crawls behind a thousand other cars.

We pull up and park across from the The 2^nd Street Deli.

“ You’ll get a real Kosher meal here. You like that?”

“ Wonderful,” I said.

There’s a bit of a wait, so Myron sits down. Then the host comes over and helps me find a seat between the narrow as nails aisles. He asked me what I do; if I model or something. I tell him I’m a food critic. The thin and newly immigrated man, shoots off and comes back with a winning smile. “ I have your table.”  First time that ever worked in my life. 

I ordered what Myron did, corn beef on rye and a Soda.

The other tables were live portraits of a society in action on a Thursday night; there were family squabbles, political arguments, wedding plans, women watching men, and men belching with the relief of a birthing contraction. The later it got, the nosier the crowd. It seemed like everyone was shouting. Then come these hi-rise corn beef sandwiches, and Myron is cajoling with the waitress.

“Honey bring some more pickles.”

“Sure baby, anything you want.”

“Well how about some more cole slaw, and another soda.”

“All right, one tune at a time.” She quips.

We ate in silence. There was no way you could talk through this sandwich. Afterwards, before the beef settled, we were on the road again. Myron dropped Paul off at a corner, and Callahan on another corner, and we zipped back through the Holland tunnel.

“ I got a little stop to make first.” I understood the meaning behind that line, because I’d heard it a million times growing up. It is one of those eight minute meetings, never much longer unless they mix it with a meal. A meeting in this world is bim- bam-boom. It is either to collect, to pay, or to get information. You do this–I do that-done. 

We pull up in a neighborhood Myron explains is one-hundred percent Columbian. When he parked in front of this little café, I thought we were in Columbia. The room was lit with harsh white lighting, and plastic chairs and tables were scattered amongst children’s toys. The counter was small, and the menus hand printed and pasted on the wall. It was a family room, a family restaurant, and the place where the boys had their meetings.    

“ These are hard working people. You don’t mind do you?”

“ No, of course not.” I answered.

“ It won’t take long sweetheart.”

We walked inside and a man greeted us. He was clean-cut, young and well-mannered. We sat down and Myron ordered coffee. Then he  made a few introductory comments about his friend and told him I was his niece. Myron carried in a small canvas bag which he placed next to his chair. Then after the coffee was served they spoke in Spanish.  I watched the women behind the counter. She moved fluidly from register, to the ice machine, to the phone, and then every so often looked up. Once we met glances, her fixed brown eyes were ready to flip a table on my head and then she turned away.  The young man handed an envelope to Myron, and he placed it in his bag, without as much as a squeak. They talked a while longer, and I drank my coffee. I observed every detail of the room, and how unfamiliar it was from the previous few hours in Manhattan.

“ Okay sweetheart, you ready to go?”

“ Sure.”

The young man shook my hand,” Nice to meet you.” He looked about seventeen but his grip was sucker-proof.  We walked out to the car.”

“ Myron, he was so young.” I said.

“ Yea, but he’s smart. He’s got his own crew; maybe twenty other young boys depend on him.

“ He was so polite.” I added.

“ Sweetheart, I have the best. I’ve been around more make believe wise-guys than I care to remember. Everyone says he’s a wise-guy until you meet them in the joint and they have to take Anti-depressants every day. I never took them.” 

“ How did you make it through?”

“ Humor. You can’t survive without it sweetheart.”  

“ My Dad had the same philosophy.”

“ Sure he did. We come from a different world.”

 

TO BE CONTINUED Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com

THE JAMMERS KICK

In the fall of 1993, I was working for a king-sized jerk in his commercial real estate office.  Dirksen used every opportunity to remind me that I was not as successful as he was.

I was the only female in an office of twelve better suited men. My Chanel 5 was used sparingly and I dressed in navy-blue two piece suits and low-heeled pumps.  With a leather briefcase slung over my shoulder, and a HP calculator that I refused to master, I was a shrimp swimming with the sharks. On hot blue sky days I drove around San Diego searching for new listings, meeting prospects, and showing space. One eye was always drifting; scanning the horizon, museums, artists hang-outs.

I tossed out the two-piece suits, and turned off the world outside. In the next weeks my attention was drawn to music and dance. During the hottest of summer days I was seated cross legged on the worn carpeting of my little bungalow, watching MTV and flipping through magazines.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

UNCLE MYRON

UNCLE MYRON & THE JEWS OF JERSEY

The throw of the dice this week lands on Part Two; Uncle Myron of New Jersey.

“Will you look at this weather? Two weeks of it all ready,” Myron griped.  Then his phone rang again. He doesn’t have time to build on his gripes and complaints. They get momentary attention. 

I shook my head in agreement, but I loved the way rain coated the old brick buildings and sidewalks of Jersey. It was the sort of day that rain and driving alongside Myron while he talked on the phone seemed staged.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

“Yes. I’m close to starving.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

He didn’t wait for me to answer; he just drove faster. We parked in a lot and walked up to an older building, without windows. A valet greeted us, took Myron’s keys, and they exchanged familiar conversation.

“Sweetheart, this is the real thing, traditional Italian. You like Italian right?”

“Oh yes, I grew up on Italian food.

“Sure you did. Our father’s loved Italian food.”        

The room was sealed like a bank, or casino. Once you stepped inside you forgot what was outside.  A traditional Italian restaurant with built-in booths on one side of the room, a few center tables, white tablecloths, chandeliers and worn paisley carpeting.  There were no windows, skylights, or doors.   It’s a place you where you cannot hide or escape.

 The owner was dressed in a dark blue suit and he had a big bald head and sad eyes. He barely acknowledged me before he bent down to whisper something to Myron.  Then he took the order, “Madam, what would you like.” Afterwards Myron whispered to me, “He wanted a tip on which machines to play. What a shame, he’s got this beautiful restaurant, and he gambles all his money.”

“Dad gambled away everything too.”

“That’s the tragedy of it; you never end up a winner.”   

“I heard Dad was a great handicapper, he lived off his winnings at the race tracks, until they kicked him out. He played poker, and bet on all the major sports games, but he wasn’t a roulette sort of gambler.”

“Of course not; that’s for the suckers.”   

My cell phone rang, and recognizing the number as my agent I answered. A few moments later, I clicked off.

“What is it?” Myron asked.

“Frank had to cancel the meeting; his son has trouble at school.” Myron didn’t flinch, he just stared at me.

“What! You flew 1000 miles to meet this guy and he cancels. Call him back and tell him you must see him.”

I did as instructed, and told Frank’s assistant I had Uncle Myron with me. She said she’d give Frank the message.

“He left for the day?” I said to Myron.    

“Listen sweetheart, I heard the way you talked on the phone. You’re not handling this with what you got to show. Now you tell him, ‘break my heart Frank, tell me the truth. Are we going to make money on this book or not?”

“Yes; you’re right of course. But he has a lot of clients, and he works alone.”

“What are you talking about? You got a story!  Whatta’ya say we take a drive over to his office?”   

“But he’s not there.”

Myron shrugged his shoulders, “Well, maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. We’ll say we were in the neighborhood.” 

“Really?”

“Why not? Are you ready? Let’s go.” Men like Myron, they do not let time just pass. They don’t let an opportunity, a conflict, a fight, or an injustice just pass by. Whether it be for their own gain, or someone they care about. They don’t leave unfinished business at the lunch table, and let it get swept off with paying the bill. These guys, the real ones, never leave anything to second guessing; unless they’re blind folded or handcuffed.

By the time Myron finished schooling me on what to say, my cell phone rang. ” Frank will be able to make the appointment.”

Myron nodded. ” There you go.”  

When we shot out of the Holland Tunnel I lost all sense of direction. The next thing I knew we were parked in front of a building and two men approached the car.

“What a mug. I thought she’d be pretty like her mother; she looked good on the internet. What a dog face. Take a look.” Myron jibed.

The man leaned over and stuck his head in the window. He laughed and his whole face melted into a half-moon smile.

“Get in Callahan.  Paul, you sit in front. Sweetheart get in the back seat with me. These are two misfits; can’t find their way around a grocery store. Runyon characters. Paul, turn around and say hello you imbecile.”

Paul’s eyes were watery blue and his face flushed, but he was on the side of compassion. You could see all of it in his expression and how he began each sentence with defeat. Callahan was a gambler; ruddy faced, tired, and a pocket full of stories that he rattled off like he had prompt cards on the dash board. We laughed all the way to Frank’s.

“Okay boys, wait here.” 

We went up the elevator and Myron was silent. He was thinking about what he was going to say.

We spent over an hour sitting with Frank and talking about old time gangsters, and who’s still alive and who is doing time. Frank knew them all; or had published their books. It was a relaxed meeting and when it was my turn, I repeated almost exactly what Myron had said. Instead of saying, ‘are we going to make money, I said, are you going to make money. Frank answered, “You’ll make money too.”

Back in the elevator Myron remarked, “He’s a nice guy, I really liked him.” 

“Yes, he’s very likable isn’t he? By the way, Arthur Nash lives close by. He’s the man who has the mob museum collection. He’d love to meet you. He’s waiting for me to call.”

“So, let’s go meet him. Where’s he located?”

“At the Chelsea Hotel.” 

Paul and Callahan were anxiously pacing the sidewalk when we arrived.

“Okay boys, we’re going to the Chelsea.”

“What’s there?” Paul asked. 

“A mob museum. What the hell–I love photographs of the old guys.” To be continued…

Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com