ADVENTURES IN UNCERTAINTY

EARLY WINTER

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a  man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone before they finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

 

 

SMILEY’S DICE ON UNCERTAINTY

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in uncertainty. I’m about to have a meltdown, and I’m not afraid. This is for all of you, who like me, are trying to adapt, change, make up your mind, or waiting for a miracle.

The last time I had no direction home was in 1994. I was living in San Diego and was the on-site manager of a townhouse project in the process of condo-conversion.

The phone rang in my apartment, breaking the silence.

“Turn on the A & E channel.” Rudy said.

“What’s on?” I asked.  

“Bugsy Siegel.”

“Are you watching it?”

“Yea! I’ll call you afterward.”

I knew the photographs of Ben slumped on that sofa, eyes bleeding down his face, was what my dad witnessed, from the same sofa. That’s about all my father told me, that he was sitting next to Ben, and that he was his best friend. He told me to honor Ben’s memory for life, and that I should never call him Bugsy. I believed what my father told me because he was always right. What I didn’t know is if my mother knew Ben, and if she loved him as my father did. It was our family secret, his name was not mentioned, but his sister was my Aunt Bess whom I loved. I met Millicent and Barbara, Ben’s daughters, and when we were together, Ben never came up in conversation.  

 When the reporter made the statement that my father was the point man, who conveniently disappeared into the kitchen during the time of the shooting, I was enraged. I wanted to strangle her. But it was when the photograph of my dad appeared on the screen, a man with thick graying hair, that I noticed an expression I’d never seen on his face-fear.

After the show ended, the phone rang.

“Did you see it?” Rudy asked.

“Yea.”

“Your Dad looked so young. Can you even imagine what he went through? Those guys were tough, they fought the entire government. I wish I knew how to do that; you know? Hello, are you there?”

“I’m here. I can’t believe they said he set it up. Dad was forty, the same age as I am now. Should I believe what they said? It’s shameful, it’s worse than what I imagined. He was a man who murdered. I can’t talk about it anymore. If anyone in the office watched the show they might ask me if I’m related. What would I say? I feel like quitting, and going into hiding.” 

“You shouldn’t be ashamed. They were the original rebels. They made their own rules.”

“I gotta go now, this program gave me some things to think about. I’m learning about my father from television, because he didn’t want me to know anything about his life. What was he hiding?” 

The next day, when I was in my office, the guys were talking over coffee. One of them asked me if I was related to Allen Smiley, and I said, why. He told me he’d seen the documentary and wondered if I was related. I stood there, staring back at him, and intuitively knew I had to admit I was. ‘Don’t have me rubbed out,’ he told his group of agents. They all laughed. I wondered what my father would tell me to say.  “Well, don’t piss me off and I won’t.”  That’s what he’d want me to say, but the formidable shame that exploded was over powering.

By the end of the day, everyone in the office knew who I was, and most of them approached me, with their own censorious commentary about Bugsy, and the Mob. It made me defensive and obstinate. This wouldn’t go away; the office joke would be, Luellen is going to shoot you if you cross her.  

Once my father told me there was no such thing as the Mafia, he was shouting it, his face red as beets, his veins enflamed. I was thirteen at the time, just after my mother died, and it was the first time I was afraid my father would smash my head against a wall. I’d made the mistake of asking him what the Mafia was, after reading about it in The Green Felt Jungle, a book one of my girlfriends had seen. I read my father was a hoodlum, and an associate of Bugsy Siegel.

That night I paced the apartment, giving in to my imagination, and the allegations against Ben. I cursed my father, for dying without giving me answers, and my mother for keeping his secret safe. What I needed was someone to talk to about them, but their friends vanished after they died. I wondered if Millicent was still in Los Angeles and if she’d talk to me. I called information but she wasn’t listed. None of Dad’s friends were ever listed.

When I told Rudy I was leaving my job, he argued with my reasoning. But it wasn’t a shame he could understand, and eventually he agreed. Rudy was an ex-boyfriend, the best type of friend to have, and he was a rebel. My job was ending in a few months any way, when the condos went up for sale.

“ What are you going to do? Where are you going to go?

“One at a time. I don’t know, and I don’t have a clue.”

“Why don’t you go to Florence’s. She’s always asking you to come stay, and I’m sure she’d love your company, especially after the earthquake. You weren’t really happy in San Diego and you’re always talking about going back to Los Angeles.” 

“ Los Angeles is a collision of childhood bliss and death. I feel like a bird whose been thrown from the nest. 

“ Just try it out. If you don’t like it you can stay in the studio until you figure things out.”

I moved to Florence’s because she knew me for many years, and she understood me more than anyone else. I settled upstairs in the extra room, on a convertible sofa. My room looked out to Westwood Boulevard, where I used to transfer buses before going back to my dad’s Hollywood apartment. Where ever I went, something reminded me of the past I tried to forget.

Florence sat me down at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and asked me questions, one after the other, and I had no answers, or I didn’t want to talk about it.

“Why should that program on TV bother you? You knew your father was doing business with these guys.”

“I don’t know anything about Ben! I learned about my Dad from television Florence, okay, it’s a shock. People ask me about it, and I don’t know what to say. Oh yea, my dad was a gangster too.  What do you know about Bugsy?”

“Well, just what I’ve heard. He made Las Vegas, and he was in the Mob.”

“I saw Godfather, I know there is a Mafia but my father wasn’t in it; I know that for certain.”

“Darling, your father was connected, that’s all.”

“To what was he connected, gambling, prostitution, what?”

“Oh stop it! That was not your life anyway. Now just calm down  and we’ll have a good time tonight. You want to rent a movie tonight?”

I hoped she wouldn’t rent a romantic drama because I had none in my life. I was unattached, separated by distrust, and aching to be part of a group. Trust was another boundary; I was taught not to trust anyone.

We lived like two unsteady nervous women do; checking on each other, making lists, and trying to get organized. When Passover arrived, the house overflowed with her children, grandchildren, and chicken matzo ball soup.

During Seder, I had to excuse myself before everyone  finished because family gatherings splinter me, I fall backwards into my own history and ache for relatives. The unpolished conversations, and mocking, the jokes and communal laughter, it hits me like a tidal wave in the face. Family gatherings were abandoned by the time I was twelve. Florence pleaded for me to stay, but I said I had to write so she let me go.

After I left Florence’s I drove undirected around Los Angeles, like a reporter, stopping and making notes and then continuing on. I drove to Linden Drive, and looked at the house where Ben was murdered.  Then I went to a phone booth, and called UCLA Counseling Center. I didn’t know if I’d hang up, or make an appointment, but I knew the scratch for help was rising up and I could not control it any longer. I was sick of shame and secrecy. To be continued. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol.com   

 

 

 

 

 

THE UNDERWORLD STORY

MYRON & ME

The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness.  There were two more evenings that rekindled my roots in New Jersey. One was Sabbath at Myron’s. We gathered around a table, cluttered with exotic kosher food that Myron’s wife Clara had prepared. We prayed, ate, laughed, and listened to Myron’s stories. There were no phones ringing, television or music.

Arthur, Callahan, Paul, and another gentlemen visiting from Germany sat at the table. Myron told us about the time he went to Nigeria. He was thirty seven years old and was in charge of slot machines business. I looked at him now and then through the dinner, and imagined him at that age, a young fearless student. Myron’s life has never been about just livingness. He lives differently than anyone I’ve ever met. He treats people differently, and he is certainly a person who you cannot BS. After I left New York, he went to Russia to do business. He sent photographs of Moscow, and told stories in his emails about Russia. I learn from him, but it’s not the same as living the experience. The only way to learn from Myron is to sit beside him and shut-up.  

On the country drive out to the suburbs to visit a friend of his, Myron gave me a history lesson of the Jewish religion. He passed on the simple version; he called it Judaism 101, because I cannot fool Uncle Myron. What I learned in Synagogue has not been exercised in many years. I recorded his lesson on my pocket recorder. What happened next was more about universal religion;  friendship without judgment and criticism.  

“This is a good friend of mine. He just got out of the joint. He was a boss of one of the families in New Jersey.”

When we reached Tack’s neighborhood, I noticed the other homes had a similar design and color like custom homes in a development usually do. All the lawns were manicured and the neighborhood appeared pressed with the same iron of income level and values. We parked on the street and walked up the driveway. A woman with penetrating brown eyes and short cropped hair waved at us.  Myron turned to me, “Tack’s in shackles. He can’t go further than the garage.”   Myron introduced me to Tack’s wife, and we gathered around the center island of the kitchen.

“Where’s Tack?” Myron asked.

“He’s in the house, I’ll get him.”  

Myron whispered, “He’s got another case coming up, he appealed but odds are he won’t win.”

Tack entered the kitchen, and we were introduced.

“What can I get you Luellen? A glass of wine, something to eat?’

He looked healthy and fit; a man of strength but a worn voice like someone with laryngitis. 

“No thanks.”

“ Tack, you know who this is?”

“No, who?”

“Al Smiley’s daughter. You remember, Benny Siegel’s partner.”

“No kidding.” He said.

Tack’s wife, peered at me through her glasses.  I smiled, unashamed, and relieved I didn’t have to explain everything.

Tack had a stack of papers to show Myron. They walked into the living room and started to talk.

“Mrs. Tack, can I see your garden? It looks beautiful from here.” I asked.

“Sure.” I followed her outside to the wooden deck overlooking a lovely green patch of grass and flower beds. We sat down and I told her I was a writer, and how I met Uncle Myron. She told me she was a High School teacher.

“I’d love to read your columns. Will you send them to me?” I agreed to, and then we talked about summer vacations, and she was looking forward to going to Los Angeles.

“I go every year with my sister. We stay in Santa Monica, and go to the beach every day. We don’t even talk that much, we just lie down; get out our books, and escape. I love Los Angeles.”

“I love it too.”

We sat out there, on a muggy warm Friday afternoon, just listening to birds, watching them feed from the little bird tray, and sewed a silent thread of understanding.

When Myron came out to fetch us, Tack looked more relaxed. He asked me to come back anytime for dinner, and have a real homemade Italian meal. I told him I’d like that. The thing was he really meant it. If I showed up one night, they would invite me in without any hesitancy. 

Afterwards in the car I told Myron I felt like I was in the Soprano’s home.”

“You were sweetheart. You were in the real thing.”

“Will he have to go back to prison?”

“I believe so. Mrs. Tack knows the score; she’s been with him since High School.” Myron said Tack was a stand up guy, and he liked the family and would do whatever he could to help.

The next night I spent with Arthur on Mulberry Street. He took me to Florio’s for dinner, and we sat with Butch Blasi, another Runyon character with a disarming manner and a face that made Sylvester Stallone seem ordinary. Arthur and Butch talked back and forth about different characters; guys from the Genovese family, and how this one ended up in the joint and the other one in a ditch, and then in the middle of a story, Butch tells me he likes my coat. Then they return to the quipping and stories and there were too many Horse Eddie names so I just sat back and absorbed all of it without needing to talk. It was drizzling outside and just a few people on the street. I could have sat there all night listening and drinking espresso.

I left New York with a sealed envelope of memories that included a walk on Riverside Drive. Morris Rosen lived on that street. I never met him, but I read about him. He orchestrated the battle against the government when they tried to deport my  father to Russia. He was also the man who took control of the Flamingo after Benny Siegel was murdered.  

A couple of weeks after I got home Myron sent me an email with a link to a newspaper article. Tack lost his case. He was sentenced to life in prison. I asked Myron if I could talk to Tack and hear his side of the story. Myron said, “ Sweetheart, it won’t help your career and it won’t help Tack.”  That’s the way things turn out in the underworld. No one will ever know the real story. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol,com

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

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

THE DICE on UNCLE MYRON

The throw of the dice the week lands on adventures in Newark and Manhattan with Uncle Myron. Myron is my Uncle by way of tradition in the world of my father. Most of his associates and friends were Uncles. It was after the New York Post published my story on ”Confessions of a Mob Kid”, that Myron wrote to me.    

Our first meeting.

“Hello sweetheart. I’ll meet you downstairs in your hotel at 10:00.”

“Can we make it 10:30, I’m running late.”

“Sure.”

A thick steamy humid rain splattered against the hotel window in Newark, New Jersey. Coming to Jersey has everything to do with Myron and my mother. She was born and raised here, and so was Uncle Myron; the man I am meeting downstairs as soon as I dry my hair. His father, Sugie, was a friend of the family. Not the Smiley family, the other family that I only acknowledged after writing a memoir.  

The phone rang at 10:00 am.

“Hi sweetheart I’m downstairs.”

“I’m getting ready as fast as I can.”

“Well make it faster.” Click.

I had a feeling that he’d be early. Dad pulled the same stunt on me.

Downstairs in the lobby, an imposing man wearing a black fedora and a black over coat, was standing in front of two younger men. They looked like blue collar guys; dressed to make contact with machinery or heavy equipment. They all turned my way as I approached them.

“Hey, little lady! Come on-we’ll have a cup of coffee. I have to talk to the boys for a few minutes.”

“Boys, this is Luellen. Okay, everyone sit down.”

“You know who this lady is?” Myron asked. They both stared at me.

“Her father was Benny Siegel’s partner, and a friend of my father.”

They nodded.

“Luellen, these boys are from Russia. They’re good people–the best, and highly educated.  Where was your Dad born sweetheart?”

“Kiev.” I answered.

Simultaneously the two young men, started to speak about our Russian family name, Smehoff, and the meaning in Russian.

“It translates something like joy, and to be happy.”

“That’s why the immigration officers changed it to Smiley.” I said.

The boys, as Myron called them, talked history, politics and world affairs before I’d finished my double espresso.

“Is the Russian Mafia very powerful?” I asked.

“There is no Russian Mafia. The power is with the government, and it’s hidden agencies.” One of them answered. I regretted making such a stupid comment.  

“All right, now we’re going to go over here and talk a little business.”  Myron stood up. He looked down at me, ” Okay.”

They shook my hand and nodded, without any affectation, and followed Myron to the next table. I’d been here before, many times, I knew the routine, sit and wait. 

After the meeting, Myron and I went to the car. 

“I was in prison with the kid, the fair haired one. He just got another sentence. I’m trying to help him; I have to do what I can. He’s got a wife and child.”

I listened to Myron; every word. His language was not formed in college or through books. It is one of people who’ve survived the dangers of living outside the law;of living in Africa, when Chicago sent him to be the manager of a joint venture slot machine operation with the Arabs, Israel, and every Latin American country from South of the Rio Grande to Patagonia. He moved machines through un-chartered borders, and learned the language of the people. It gives a person the sophistication that enables them to stand up in the hall of justice, where judges and informants cat-walk their power, to the chagrin of men who live by their word, honor, and secrecy. Myron is raw as beef; there is no fat between the lines. He says something; you know it came from experience.     

“What did the kid do?” I asked.

“It’s all bullshit.” 

I’d heard that before too; and I knew it wasn’t any of my business.

“Would you like to see where your mother grew up?”

“Yes!” 

“What street was it—Schley?”

“Yes, 35 Schley.” How did he know the street? I don’t remember telling Myron or writing about  Myron drove slowly, it had been years since he’d been in this part of town. 

“I’m not sure if this street will go through. They didn’t have a freeway going through this part of town in the thirties. Wait a minute-if I go up here, and turn around,” Myron drove with one hand, without a seatbelt, wired into the blackberry ringing at ten minute intervals.  He grew up in Newark, so he was determined to find his way back to Schley Street. We circled for a few minutes. He made U-turns in the middle of intersections, and paid no heed to other drivers. I recognized that routine, Dad used to drive with two fingers and read his mail simultaneously.    

“This was all Jewish at one time. Look! There’s the park where your mother played as a little girl. I can guarantee it.” 

The park was set in the midst of a deteriorating neighborhood; the Victorian homes were boarded up or used for storage. The park was the last remaining landmark of the turn of the century Newark culture; a society that pushed buggies on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in top hats and lace dresses.

“There’s the famous Tavern. It was one of the most famous restaurants back then. Your mother went there, and across the street is the high school. This is Wweequahic neighborhood. Newark was a flashy town back then, better than New York because you knew everyone. I knew every family and if I didn’t, someone I knew did. We looked out for each other.”

“Like Longy did.”  I knew Myron’s father was partners with the legendary Jewish boss of New Jersey, Abner Zwillman, who was known as Longy.  

“Longy is another story all together little lady. You cannot grasp what the man was about on a short drive through Newark.” 

“Look there’s the house.” Myron pointed. “It’s a two-family, your mother lived in a very nice place, see. Now you know. Are you happy?”

Myron picked up the phone. “Yea, meet us in the city-I’ll tell you later what time.”  I looked at the house; imagining Nana, and the grandfather I never met inside, and my little mom standing in the front yard with her German Sheppard.  I have a photo of her standing in front of this house. She is holding a parasol over her head, and even at five she looked ready to model.  To be continued… Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com