LITMIR.BIZ

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chuggin’ Hamm’s beer and smokin.’ Candy stores are found on every corner, but there’s more to them than meets the eye. Sure, if you peek inside the shop, the shelves are lined with grape gumballs and nickel Milky Ways, Baby Ruth’s, and Reeses. You can innocently quench your thirst with a Cherry Coke or malted. And you can buy everything from ballpoint pens to comic books to toothpaste. But behind the candy store is a hidden world. Block’s Candy is the front for Longie’s illicit operation. It’s the only hope for countless unemployed to put bread on the table.

      A few feet across from the gang, a teenage boy riffles through a deck of cards and fans them for the audience to see. He dares his mark to choose one, replace it in the deck, and shuffle. From my angle, the con is as plain as the nose on my face. Bettors throw down money on the sidewalk, vexing when coins roll into the cracks. The game begins. Of course, the young dealer guesses the card. He scoops up the winnings off the ground.

      “Hey!” a voice in the crowd shouts. “He saw our cards in the window.” Before you can say, “shark,” the kid dodges his victims and slips sideways between two mothers strollin’ babies. Then he ducks under a sheet of glass carried by four men and shuffles past three girls singin’ “To Me You’re Beautiful.” All the while, my knee pops to this swing version of the hit “Bei Mir Bist Du Schön” from the old country, and Harry and I howl. The three Andrew sisters singin’ on our corner are gonna make it big.

      Feet away, the notorious New Jersey Mob Boss, Guarino “Willie” Moretti of the rulin’ Genovese crime family, exits the barbershop of Harry’s cousin Irving. His big Italian personality matches his bulk. Willie’s a nice guy whose belly brags the love for his mama’s cookin’.

      “Appreciate the haircut, Irving,” he says. He peels off bills from his wad of dough. “I’ll bring by my up and comer, Frankie Sinatra. Ya gotta hear him swoon. Willie’s got an ear for talent. He’s helping another kid, Dino Crocetti, and a funny young boy over in Irvington who calls himself Jerry Lewis.”

      Willie rests his hat over his freshly slicked hair. The crowd on the sidewalk parts as he approaches Longie and Lansky. “Miei amici! Meyer Lansky, the Jewish Godfather,” Willie says. “Been awhile.”

      A couple years before my father was rubbed out, I overhead Longie tellin’ Pop that Meyer Lansky was doin’ a deal with Willie Moretti and his boss, Lucky Luciano. They wanted no more fightin’ between the Italian mafiosa dagos and the Jewish gangster yids. These matchmakers rounded up their families. Lansky’s were some sharp frickin’ businessmen. His best buddy was Bugsy Siegel. And there was Louis Lepke Buchalter, Harry Big Greenie Greenberg, and all the rest of ‘em.

      Over the honkin’ cars, Lansky shakes Willie’s hand. “I’m impressed that an Italian’s keeping peace in New Jersey,” he says. “The Corporation sends their praises.” The oath of loyalty runs deep between these so-called brothers.

      Willie waves his free hand toward the street. “Here comes Nat Arno!”

      Without lookin’, Nat crosses through heavy traffic. Three cars honk. Tires squeal and I close my eyes. Nat pounds a man’s car hood. A cigar wags from his mouth as he steps onto the curb and exchanges handshakes with Lansky and Willie. I admire his nerve.

      “I hear ya got New York under your thumb and FBI arranged the whole shebang,” Willie says to Lansky. “Judge Perlman and Mayor LaGuardia offered ya a deal?” Willie plugs a cigar into his mouth. Nat leans in with a lighter, just far enough away for Willie to rotate it like he’s roastin’ a marshmallow. Their cigar smoke puffs into a single cloud.

      “Took the good judge’s hit list but turned down the cash,” Lansky explains. “He promised to look the other way. Our guys are like kids in a candy store ready to bust loose.” He drops his cigar on the sidewalk and twists the glowin’ embers out with his shoe. “We’re signed up to rub out New York Nazis so they get the message we’re not just gonna accept insults.”

      “Well, nice to have a free pass on screwin’ up Hitler-goose-steppers marchin’ down Park Avenue with their bony arms in the air,” Nat says.

      “We’re fightin’ back,” Lansky says. “But our volunteers in the Big Apple can be rough around the edges.” In New York, Lansky recruited thugs. Let’s just say it got out of hand and the newspapers had a field day. “What can I tell ya?”

      Longie takes his overcoat from me and layers it over his own arm. “Nat’s got the Newark system down,” Longie says over the noise around us. He turns to a woman bouncin’ her cranky baby and shakes the baby’s hand. The baby stops cryin’ and its mama smiles.

      Meyer Lansky nods. “Gatsby of Gangsters, Longie Zwillman and commander Nat Arno, turnin’ our Jewish boxers into a trained militia of Nazi-busters. Ain’t that something! The Newark Minutemen.”

      Longie digs inside his trouser pocket and rattles coins. He tosses nickels and dimes on the sidewalk to a bunch of street kids. They scramble and scoop up the bouncin’ silver and run into the candy store.

      “Geez, Longie,” Lansky jokes. “If ya gonna give your dough away to every bum in Newark, give me a chance to win it first. Let’s get inside and play some cards and show those Italians what the Jews got.” Lansky leans down and picks up a shiny Jefferson nickel next to Longie’s polished shoe. He flips it in the air.

      Longie intercepts the coin and puts his hand on Lansky’s shoulder. In front of them, the gang of men push each other into the candy store. They’re headin’ to the action in the back. I note the roll call of the toughest of the Third Ward and Hawthorne Avenue. It’s Longie, Lansky, Moretti, and of course Nat Arno, Abie, Puddy, Benny, Maxie, and Al, to name a few.

      At the entrance to the shop, Longie holds the door open for two pigtailed dames escapin’ the pandemonium. He catches me starin’ at the blonde girls and gives me a curious look.

      I hate to admit he’s got a spider sense with me. My heart is hammering. “Harry!” I say. “Those are the dames from the American Nazi riot.” The memory of the girl’s soft hand intoxicates me. My face sizzles with guilt. How can I let anyone from the enemy camp captivate me? The blonde pigtails, the sexy red dress and her rebellious gesture, givin’ me a helpin’ hand, right there in front of her people. The dang paradox of it all. Krista, yeah, that’s her name. I dip into the car for the bottle of whiskey waitin’ on the seat. “We got ourselves some victims for tonight,” I rumble to Harry. I blow across the bottle top and a loud whistle sounds. Then, tippin’ my head back, I chug.

      Harry grabs the bottle from me. “You’re right. They were with Fritz Kuhn. You’re playing with fire. Why don’t ya rein in that charm tonight, buddy. You know it’s gonna be your downfall.” Harry ingests a long pull of whiskey.

      I notice that Krista has replaced her red dress with a sporty blue thingamajig that fits her body just right. Does she want me to watch her sway her hips? ‘Cause her eyes are eatin’ me up. “Gosh,” I whisper to Harry. “They’re inspecting us up and down. Maybe we’re the victims?” Like a matchstick struck next to a gas leak, my guilty lust sparks my ire.

      “We gonna go through another night of this?” Harry asks before he guzzles another slug of the golden liquid.

      “Ya know how Nazis just naturally gnaw away at my humanity,” I say. “Revenge is my only satisfaction.” I whip the bottle from Harry and call to the girls. “How about a ride, dolls?” Then I whisper to him. “I haven’t had action for three whole days.”

      The older of the two girls rolls her eyes. “No, thank you.”

      Krista pulls her close. “Heidi, that’s the guy who saved me the other night at the rally.” She eyes the sleek vehicle we’re leanin’ against. “Plus, we’ve never been in a movie star car like that before.”

      “Son of a gun,” Harry says and winks at me. “Ya’ cornered another girl on the ropes.”

      Heidi frowns at Krista. “That’s because German Lutherans don’t hang out with Jewish gangsters,

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