LITMIR.BIZ

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Minutemen. He grips her. She writhes like a cat. He drags her body to the escape route. He turns and scowls at me like a rabid wolf.

      LONGIE ZWILLMAN:

      Club Miami. Clinton Avenue. Newark, NJ

      Right before midnight, I raise a glass through the dark, hazy air at my Club Miami in the red light district of Clinton Avenue. “We plugged this one before the Nazis rallied, men.” I congratulate over two hundred Minutemen on a successful battle at City Hall. “Everyone, eat! Drink!” My club might not clamor the tropical vacation of its namesake, but the “bucket of blood,” as it’s known, welcomes my clientele to be themselves. The overcrowded room rumbles as the Minutemen cheer their victory. They pound their bruised fists against the leather-backed booths.

      From the stage, brassy notes and quick drum-taps spray from the swing band and the crowd begins to sway. In front of the bandstand, Benny, Yael, Harry, and Abie raise their drinks to me. Our elbows rub as we clink the glasses.

      “KAY-O!” Maxie shouts from a few feet away. He lobs an ice pack to Abie over the head of a food server who is balancing two trays. “The numbskulls kept getting in the way of my fists.” He snatches deviled eggs off of each tray.

      “Congrats on a record knockout night, Maxie,” I say with a wink.

      He raises the eggs and licks out the mustardy yellow cream just as Al and Puddy appear from opposite directions.

      Al fake-punches Puddy’s chafed chin. “KA-POW! They got ya good, pal,” he says to Puddy.

      Nat barrels over to Puddy and swings his arm around his shoulders. “Let me take a look at that,” Nat says. He calls over one of the cigarette gals. “Lillian! Come here, doll. Puddy needs ya to kiss his boo-boo.”

      Puddy shoves Nat away. On cue, Lil sets down her tray and cuddles Puddy’s chin in one hand. She leads him through the reveling pack of Minutemen into the kitchen with the other.

      Nat nicks a drink off Lil’s tray. “How come the biggest losers get the girls?” With a weighty arm, he corrals his “eight” and me to sit down at a white linen-covered table. He waves over the white-tux waiters carrying bowls of food. Before we know it, the table is covered with choices. Maxie and Abie splat mashed potatoes onto their plates. Benny smothers his greens with A1 sauce. Yael carves his double helping of rare steak. Al streams golden whiskey over his glass of ice and then Harry’s. Then, as if someone turns down Louis Armstrong trumpeting on a radio, the voices fade. Only the music of silverware scratching against plates can be heard as the men chow down.

      After dinner, the boys barely rub their full stomachs before they scramble to find cigars and girls. Yael and I are left eating dessert alone.

      “How’s that cheesecake?” I ask.

      Yael’s mouth is so full he can’t answer. I smile at my boy who has grown into the man who holds the strength for many.

      My arm rests around his sturdy shoulders. “How’s the family?”

      Yael wipes his mouth with the red cloth napkin. “Everyone’s good, Boss. I haven’t had a chance to tell ya. My brother, Dov, had his boy two days ago. He wants you at the bris. He’s namin’ him Abner, after you.”

      “Mazel Tov,” I laugh.” This gives me a thrill, it really does. When Yael was barely thirteen, he and his two older brothers clung to me after the death of their parents. At barely thirty, I’d had a lot of responsibility, but nothing like this. I taught them the important stuff. They learned from me how family radiates into the community. And from the community, we fix the world. “Hah. Abner. No one even knows that’s my real name anymore,” I chuckle. Yael grins.

      I ask about his Austrian cousins. “Did Uncle Irving’s cousins get our visas? Are they out of Vienna or not?” These days a piece of paper with a stamp on it is the difference between life and death.

      “They’re safe in Newark now,” Yael assures me. His expression grows serious. He hits me with the question he’s asked a thousand times. “Nat said you have a lead on Pop’s killer?”

      After five years, it’s a relief to deliver a decent tip to Yael. “Mayor Ellenstein came through for us. We got our target landing on the 46^th Street Pier two weeks ago. A Hamburg-American Line vessel.” My heart warms when Yael’s face lights up. “But there’s more. He lives right under our noses here in Newark.” I cup my hand around my mouth and call across the room. “Nat, ya got the mug shots for Yael?”

      Nat grabs a drink off Lil’s abandoned serving tray with one hand and clutches his briefcase with the other. He approaches the table. “Right here, Boss.” The tablecloth creases up when he places the briefcase in front of me. He flips it open and hands Yael an envelope. “The photos are dark and blurry, nothing like your quality. But they should do the job.”

      “Newark Minutemen always get their foes,” I tell Yael. “By the way, I need you and Harry to chauffeur tomorrow. Good?” I often offer extra work to the boys. My family won’t dare wear the shameful idleness and humiliation of the Depression.

      Yael handles the envelope like it’s an ancient treasure. He peeks inside just as Harry approaches. He slips it inside his suit pocket. “What time should we pick ya up in the Pierce Arrow, Boss?” he asks me and then turns to Harry. “Boss needs us to work tomorrow night.”

      “Seven sharp,” I answer. “We got big guns. New York bosses Meyer Lansky and Willie Moretti.” It’s always an interesting night when the Jewish and Italian mob socialize together.” Then I sweeten the pie. “If ya do a good job, I got an old Ford auto that fell into my lap. You two can share some wheels.”

      Yael and Harry grant me big bonus smiles. Since the death of Yael’s parents, he understands I’m protecting him, making him feel secure to take risks or just be himself.

      Then we’re interrupted. But I’m okay with it because a beautiful woman I’ve never met before puts her arms around me. Another sits on Yael’s lap, a third on Harry’s. Harry wraps his long arms around the dame. Yael drinks and lets his new girl run her fingers through his golden wavy hair. I call it a night with the gal who’s rubbing my shoulders. “Good night, boys.”

      As I step away, I hear Yael. “Okay enough, babe. I’m busy,” he says. I turn back. He prods the dame away.

      “That’s not the Yael Newman I know. Wishin’ you had that Nazi girl in your pants instead?” Harry says.

      “Dry up!” Yael stands and snatches Harry’s girl right from his arms. Harry rears up. He pushes his chair back against the tray, sending dirty plates crashing to the floor. Yael drops the gal’s arm and leaves, alone. I put my hand on Harry’s arm to stop him.

      My bouncer, “Jumpin’ Jack” Gleason who doubles as a comic some nights, springs to my side. “Need help, Boss?”

      “Nah, it’s just Yael letting off some steam.” Yael isn’t usually a firestorm of fury. That dame Harry teased him about must be shooting him with a lethal concoction of lust and guilt.

      CHAPTER 4

      The Heavyweights

      YAEL:

      Hawthorne Avenue. Newark, NJ

      I drive Longie’s sleek Pierce Arrow up to the curb in front of Abraham Block’s candy store. Heads turn. I watch Harry’s cleft chin tilt and his eyes check the windows above the store. His father, Isaac, waves. That’s where Harry lives.

      Harry and I hop out to serve our boss. Before opening the door for Longie and New York Mob King Meyer Lansky, I brush lint off the arms of my wool suit. These new broad shoulders hang just right for us boxers. When Longie gets out, he holds his fedora and crouches his head to fit his tallness through the door. Behind him, Lansky’s five-and half-foot body sportin’ a striped double-breasted suit slips out. The men’s suits luster against the Hawthorne

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