Nisfit: A Novel

By Michael E. Dmytriw

How many times can one person cheat certain death? How often will God look down and steer him clear of well-earned disaster and grace him with good fortune instead? How long will that arrogant, obnoxious son-of-a-bitch remain ungrateful for the good things life has provided for him maintaining that he deserves better. Such is the position of the main character in this writing. Hes good at what he does, but has problems choosing the right path. He has a distrust of politicians; even those he knows nothing about. He wont work for anyone he doesnt respect and makes up the rules as he goes along. He always has a plan B in the back of his brain for whatever situation he may encounter. Hes not paranoid, but he knows that hes going to get screwed by you. If he senses that you present a potential problem, he will screw you first guaranteed. This guy is a walking train wreck looking for a place to crash and burn.

He loves the Marine Corps and loves being an NIS Special Agent, but his ego and arrogance failed both miserably.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 11, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462843121

Michael E. Dmytriw

Born in Munich, Germany in 1948 Mike arrived in the United States in time to attend Kindergarten, parochial and numerous elementary schools in Chicago, Illinois. His formative years and early experiences in the windy city served him well, in that, they provided him the tools required to survive two tours in Vietnam as a Marine Corps infantryman assigned to First Battalion, First Marine Regiment, First Marine Division. After a lengthy stay in a U.S. Navy hospital to recuperate from wounds sustained in combat Mike was allowed to reenlist and was assigned duties as a military policeman until he was commissioned as an officer and later assigned as a counterintelligence sub-team commander. Subsequently, he attended numerous intelligence courses, both military and civilian and served with the Naval Investigative Service (NIS) as a Special Agent. Mike retired from service in 1988 and now lives in Southern California with his wife Jeanne.

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Copyright © 2009 by Michael E. Dmytriw.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Acknowledgments

I   

II

III

IV

V   

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X   

XI

XII

For

Jeanne

John

Scott

Connor and his mom Brooke

Our friends

Charley and Janet

Larry and Patty

Acknowledgments

Yeah, I liked it. I read the whole thing.—Patty Hottenstien, referring to the original manuscript

Her little white lie prompted me to continue.

Are you nuts? That’s not what happened at all!—My sister, Irene Vincent, referring to the original manuscript

Concerning my sanity and accuracy of the manuscript.

"You’re doing what? [giggle, giggle] No really, what have you been up to? [another giggle] Seriously, now!"—John Jack Giles, referring to my attempt at serious writing

When I told my friend what I’ve really been up to.

"You will never become an officer if you don’t communicate well. You have to write." General Carl E. Munday Jr., Commandant, United Sates Marine Corps, referring to my career as a United States Marine

When I told the then lieutenant colonel of my military career aspirations.

I   

CHICAGO/ESCAPE FROM REALITY

I was always quick on my feet, but never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine that I could run this fast. I was really impressed with myself, the fleetness of foot, grace, and agility as I effortlessly propelled myself faster and faster… down the middle of Division Street, hoping that the pack of pissed-off Puerto Ricans behind me couldn’t catch up. Just a few blocks ago, I was running down the sidewalk, but the locals tried to trip me up after they saw who was chasing me. It was crazy, but much safer to run with the traffic than to take a chance getting spilled on the sidewalk by some big interfering foot or an intentional bump. As hard as those bastards tried to catch us, it was a matter of survival that kept me going just a little bit faster. Fear was also a major motivator. Every labored breath filled my lungs with the exhaust of cars and buses traveling up and down Division Street on this incredibly hot August day. Nothing unusual about this afternoon. I often found myself running away from some sort of trouble. More often than not, I found myself running straight into the jaws of trouble of the worst kind. In every case, I fully participated in the development of my own problems regardless of which way I was heading at any given moment. Making the right choice had never been my strong suit.

My best friend of many years and next-door neighbor, Greg, was on my left, keeping up really well, I might add. Sweat poured off my head and into my eyes. I used either my arm or my shoulder to wipe the sweat without missing a single stride. We dodged buses and cars with grace and agility; in some cases, we passed the slow-moving cars stuck in heavily congested traffic in the hot afternoon. Even the blowing car horns and the scorn of the motorists didn’t distract us too much. I could live with an irritated driver yelling for us to get the hell out of the street, no problem. I couldn’t live with a stiletto lodged between my ribs; I was trying very hard to avoid that possibility. There was a lot of incentive to move fast right now; it’s called maintaining a heartbeat. Mixing it up with any one of the Puerto Rican gangs in this part of town was never pretty. Even if the odds were with you at the moment, it was only a matter of time before you were outnumbered and getting your ass beat. Getting jumped by an entire herd could be really ugly. The irony in all this was that no one ever needed a solid reason for a fight. That was just the way things were. Throw hands at the drop of a hat—no reason required.

Seriously outgunned, Greg and I were running, and we were in deep trouble if we didn’t make it to the right side of he tracks. A thought flashed through my very preoccupied head. I hoped Greg could keep his footing and not stumble, since I really didn’t want to fight these guys, and I would be forced to if he fell behind. Just as we have been many times in the past, we were in the wrong part of town, and we live three or four blocks away. We know that it’s not safe to run down the center of a busy, congested Chicago street; however, this particular part of town is Puerto Rican owned. The Serpents, these guys called themselves. Just a bunch of hoodlums with nothing better to do but chase a couple of poor white boys down the street. Then again, given the opportunity and a change of circumstance, we’d reverse roles as we had many times. Basically, we were all just a bunch of assholes. Regardless of race, we all had a hand in destroying our neighborhood and any promise of a tomorrow.

There were several other Puerto Rican gangs in the neighborhood, the Latin Lords, the Latin Disciples, and some others; but right now, our concern was the pack of Serpents hot on our heels. For that matter, there were gangs of every ethnicity represented in the city, especially in my neighborhood. Black, white, Mexican, or other, everyone had some affiliation necessary for urban survival. Virtually everyone I knew belonged to a gang, or a club, as some groups chose to call themselves. I guess that gave them a sense of legitimacy. What bullshit! A gang is a gang is a gang… by any other name is still a gang! Even my group of choice, the Jokers, wasn’t much more than a gang of troublemaking bad boys, but they were the closest things to friends that I knew.

The traffic provided the interference necessary to effectively evade. Weaving in and out of traffic really screwed up everyone’s commute on this particular day. We created quite the traffic snarl in our wake and a lot of noise. If I had the time, I would stop running long enough to kick the crap out of one of the many people calling me an asshole from the confines of their car. Couldn’t really be too upset with them; after all, I was an asshole!

The Latin Lords—these guys are particularly nasty; they would just as soon cut you and watch you bleed onto the sidewalk than look at you. All you had to be was white or affiliated with another group. The issue at present wasn’t that Greg or I did anything wrong to piss these guys off on this particular afternoon; we were in the wrong part of town, making us fair game for an ass kicking. We were the only white guys around for miles, which made us easy to spot in a crowd; and… I don’t know… maybe watching us run was somehow entertaining to our pursuers or gave them an ego boost. Didn’t matter right now; payback was always a bitch, and surely my turn would come! Got to think of the positive in situations like this; at least we didn’t run into these guys in the subway and end up cornered. That happened to me a couple of months ago during the winter, and I almost had my ass handed to me. Got off pretty easy with a stiletto slice on the chest and one ruined leather jacket. It was my favorite jacket—a black button-down cabretta leather car coat. Best damn jacket I ever owned! I try to avoid the subway at night, and the bus too, for that matter. Division Street is like a no-man’s-land, and it’s always-open season on the unsuspecting prey. Even experienced gangsters like me were always cautious of our surroundings. There were no safe heavens for anyone in our neighborhood. The sidewalk, subway, buses, the street itself, even your homes were all potential battlegrounds.

There was nothing unusual in this scenario that repeated almost daily; sometimes the players changed roles, but the object of this game was always the same. Find ’em, catch ’em whip the shit out of ’em. There were a few simple rules; first and foremost, outnumber your opponent and go for the element of surprise. Fists were always the immediate weapons of choice because bragging rights were associated with the knuckle scars, but baseball bats were acceptable. He who runs slowest gets his ass kicked. Simple, straightforward, easy to understand! There was no sitting on the sidelines; everyone who lived in our neighborhood played the game. Greg and I lived on Richmond Street near Humboldt Park. No matter where you went in the city, in order to make it back home, you had to navigate through some pretty rough neighborhoods before you were on safe ground again. To catch a movie downtown, I had to get past the Puerto Ricans, slither past the projects, and pray that someone from the opposition didn’t get on the same bus. Even to get to school at Tuley High School on Claremont Avenue was a trick. There was an intricate maze that had to be negotiated with caution and stealth in order to make it to school without getting your ass stomped. Those who failed to exercise this were apt to have a terrible attendance record as a result of illness. I always associated the address of the school, 1313 Claremont Avenue, as a bad omen.

There was always an air of unexplainable morbid excitement regardless of who was doing the chasing or who was doing the running at the time. It was like the prelude to the unavoidable, inevitable fight that was to follow the chase. No one ran because they were scared. It was simply the prudent thing to do when the numbers against you were significant enough to warrant a swift departure until the odds could be evened out later. Most often numbers helped to give you a greater chance of survival, but when the numbers were against you, you’re just fucked; so you’d better take off. Times like this may seem surreal or unimaginable to people who lived elsewhere, but in my neighborhood, it was a common, almost-everyday occurrence, almost an accepted way of life. Gang fights, turf wars, and brawls were as common and normal as going to the grocery store in other neighborhoods. Going anywhere around here was a challenge, a risk.

Almost to the park, Greg, I gasped as I saw the statue of Kosciusko, a Polish civil war hero sitting high on a horse—sword drawn, ready for battle—on the corner entrance to Humboldt Park. The park was a safe haven for us, and I knew that the gang running us down would not follow.

I’m on your heels, don’t slow down, or I’ll run over your ass, Greg replied, as he gasped for breath.

Humboldt Park was considered the other side of the tracks for the Puerto Rican gangs, where they did not venture too often. This was the turf of the Hirsh Street Lords, the Jokers, and Chi-West—gangs comprised mainly of Italians, with a spattering of other ethnicities from a diverse mostly immigrant-laden neighborhoods situated around the park. Italian, Mexican, Polish, Jewish, Ukrainian, Irish, black, and a host of others represented our neighborhood. Most got along, but for some reason, the Puerto Ricans hated us all; maybe it was just the Serpents, who knew for sure. I never stopped running or fighting long enough to ask why I was defending myself. Who really gave a rat’s ass why a bunch of fried-banana-munching assholes were pissed? Wouldn’t do any good to talk or try to understand—hell, didn’t want to understand! If you tried to talk about our differences, you were considered a bleeding heart pussy; if you understood our differences, you were obviously Puerto Rican.

We made it to the park easily, drenched in sweat and panting like a couple of dogs from the chase we’d eluded for the past half hour or so. It all started at the intersection of Division Street and Western Avenue almost three miles from the park. It was a very long three miles that seemed like light-years away from safety. Ah! Yes, my formative years growing up in Chicago. In the next few days, given the right opportunity, it’d be my turn to chase down one of them, hopefully catch him, and whip his ass. Battle lines were drawn based on race, creed, color of skin, religious preference, or national origin; all the basic protections the Constitution affords us decided which gang you belonged to. How utterly insane! Didn’t matter what you were, there was no gray area; you didn’t have to choose sides. By virtue of family origin or heritage, one was predestined to belong to one band of brothers or another. Those who didn’t belong didn’t survive long. The stray cats and dogs hid in the shadows for as long as they could until they could find a way to bail out of the neighborhood.

Few were fortunate enough to leave the neighborhood ’cause Mom and Dad had enough money to move. For others it was chance of good fortune or fate that changed their direction in life. For me in the midsixties, I saw no way that my life was going to change. My career as a hoodlum was already taking shape, building a solid foundation for a dead-end life. I didn’t like it, but I didn’t know anything else was out there. The only time I left the neighborhood was to steal something not readily available, or to venture downtown. Life was different downtown—big stores, restaurants, movie theaters, all of which I couldn’t afford to frequent, but it was nice to get away from the rat race to check out the upper crust. Otherwise, Sacramento Avenue, Division Street, Augusta Boulevard and California Avenue bordered my entire life; that was my whole existence. My neighborhood and the litter box of the rest of the cities! All the shit ended up in my neighborhood. I often thought that I’m in the right place and that there was no escaping my reality.

Greg was as odd duck. He was destined to do other things in his life. He was intelligent and well read and actively aspired to do well. Very much unlike me, Greg had the capacity to make good decisions. Greg was the only one in the neighborhood with a car, as such it was, a Volkswagen Beetle. After this summer, he was on his way to the University of Illinois to begin his first year of college at Circle Campus. I’d never known anyone who attended college—hell, I didn’t even know where a college was. He knew something about everything. Greg could identify with a piece of classical music as quickly as describe the operating system of a rifle. Greg was meticulous in his thinking and in the execution of his plans even if it was something as simple as getting a local bum to buy us beer. He talked about the sun causing certain types of cancer and the latest trends in the stock market. He understood politics and pointed out accurately that repair of lights and streets always occurred in the neighborhood just before election time. Greg coined the phrase fat little Irish Buddha in reference to the city mayor, Richard J. Daley.

Greg also introduced me to the music of Ravel’s Bolero long before Bo Derek immortalized it in the film 10. I did not realize it at the time, but Greg would influence my life considerably. I will always wonder why Greg and I remained friends; we had absolutely nothing in common that I could recognize at the time with the exception of the values I had yet to develop. So I asked myself, Why is Greg spending this fine summer afternoon running down the street with me? Has to be that he’s just a wannabe bad boy with an exit plan.

We walked into the park, casual repeated glances to the rear as we spoke, and laughed at the inability of the gang to catch us. Continuing the over-the-shoulder glances, scanning to ensure someone didn’t have a renewed sense of courage and decided to follow us into the park. Approaching the lagoon at the center of the park, we saw our friends hanging around a group of benches and joined them. This was home; it was safe among these guys. We were accepted and a part of something strong and vibrant. In an extremely turbulent and sometimes-violent environment there was a sense of serenity and security when there was strength in numbers. The Jokers! Our clan, our turf, our home, and the safety of the tribe. It was unimaginable that anyone or any group could ever try to hurt us when we were all together… simply impossible and unheard of. Just too damn many of us. This was our environment, but not by choice or design. It’s where we lived and how we lived.

No one ever expected that gangs would rule the neighborhood and that we would have to fight to hold on to the few possessions we owned. Like freedom to walk down the street without wondering who was going to jump out of the shadows to slice you open. I never thought that my teenage years would be filled with fierce challenges and I would have to establish myself on a pecking order every day, even among my own crowd sometimes. This was a beautiful neighborhood when my family moved into our new home a few years earlier. What the hell changed? Maybe I did, maybe everything did.

Danny Kahn threw us each a beer, saying, What the hell you two bums have been up to? You guys look like shit! We didn’t answer, just used my church key to open the quart bottles haphazardly wrapped in their paper bags and took a healthy swig. The beer was cool and refreshing compared to the heat of the day. Greg and I looked at each other and, acknowledging that we did look like shit, broke out in relieved laughter. We were just out getting some exercise and fresh air. Football tryouts are coming up, and I want to be ready, I replied a little later.

The discussion we walked into was concerning the upcoming war between the Serpents and the other smaller gangs in the area. This was always an ongoing topic of discussion. It was ironic how formal these things could get. There were certain steps a respectable gang had to take to declare an all-out war. I immediately got the impression that the Jokers would be involved in the next round of fights. Deep inside, it scared me, and strangely, at the same time, I welcomed it. My blood began to pump through my veins more briskly, and I could feel my muscles tense as I listened with anticipation. I knew that there would be a lot of split heads and broken bones; hopefully, there wouldn’t be too many guns involved. I didn’t have one.

One had to be politically correct and secure the blessings of other gangs before you went to war, so as not to piss them off. Otherwise, you might double your problems if another gang turned against you while you battled with your initial adversary. Everyone knew it was coming and recognized the smoke signals. Most of the gangs in the area had a beef with the Serpents for one reason or another. The Serpents bolstered alliances against them without even trying; they were not politically correct! They just had to be themselves! Assholes!

Things were heating up; new skirmishes in stores, on the street, at the movies, in schools, at sporting events. Fights were becoming commonplace, and things were coming to a head fast. This was to be a summer that promised large-scale violence. Nothing good would come of another war, but that was just the way things were. It was going to happen, and nothing would stop it, because no one cared to. Not anytime soon, maybe not even in my lifetime, but someday this would all end. Someday the rest of society would take notice of what was going on and come up with the right solution. Then again, maybe someday I’d pull an elephant out of my ass.

This summer, fate would alter my direction in life and present new opportunities for great challenges, successes, many achievements, and many miserable failures. This summer would change my life and set the tempo for my future. This summer would be my last in Chicago, although I did not realize it at the time. The wheels were already in motion for me to take a different turn in life. Chicago’s streets and my neighborhood were the proving grounds for what was yet to come. Unknown to me at the time, I was being groomed by my experiences as a teenager to use as an adult later in life.

There was a war counsel established to determine the course of battle. Danny Kahn, Bob McCarthy, Rich Striker, and Joe Gallo were the leaders of the local gangs that were to declare war on the Puerto Rican gang, the Serpents. Greg and I were members of the Jokers. It was one of the oldest and largest gangs on the northwest side. Joined together, these gangs could muster five hundred to one thousand in number for a fight from other groups.

This war was not going to be a small-time pissing contest; the Jokers alone represented well over one hundred plus members in their gang. There was no pulling any punches; this was not going to be a time to fuck around. In a war, always someone bleeds; sometimes someone dies when shit goes down.

The cops already know something is up. The Anti-Gang Task Force has been busting our nuts for weeks. Everyone needs to do nothing but keep their mouths shut if you expect this to happen without cops interfering. Danny went on, Everyone knows shit is going to happen. Nobody knows when, where, how, or who. That has not been decided.

Danny concluded, The cops don’t know because we don’t know. I’ll let you guys know when the time is right. Just be fucking ready.

Greg and I listened and, when asked to do so, contributed our two cents’ worth. Danny and the others already approached the Latin Lords and the Disciples; neither one wanted anything to do with the Serpents. The Lords had been alienated and didn’t have any support from other gangs in the area. The opportunity is here. It’s my turn now. The tables have turned, I quietly thought as I tried to accept the inevitable and pump myself up for what was needed to happen.

We needed a decisive event to establish ourselves as the top dogs. Danny was right: everyone suspected that the shit was going to hit the fan and that the neighborhood was going to erupt like a long-smoldering volcano that was overdue for some fresh air. There was a lot of speculative talk going on, but in reality, no one knew any details. No one knew shit except that the war paint was going on. I talked big, but in reality, I had an uneasy feeling in my gut. I didn’t let on that inwardly, I really wished all the bullshit would end. I knew that it wouldn’t.

Danny Kahn lived around the block from my house. He and his family were Jewish, which was cool with me, but not with some others. There were a lot of Jew jokes going around, but not when Danny or his six-foot-five little brother Bobby was around. Danny was so fucking big he could be whatever he wanted to be; no one would argue with him unless they had a death wish. Danny’s family arrived in the United States about the same time my family did. Danny got on the boat as a displaced person from somewhere in the Middle East, and my family left from Germany. I’d never seen anyone be disrespectful to Danny and walk away in one piece. Danny wasn’t the type to look for a fight, but I never saw him walk away from one either. He is hard to describe adequately because he seemed more mature than some of the other guys. He was big and strong and didn’t have a burning desire to prove it by kicking someone’s ass. He didn’t have to, but there were occasions.

Danny was tough as nails and didn’t take any shit from anyone; but he had another side to him, which no one recognized until Danny did something completely out of character. Danny dove into the Chicago River one winter to save a guy who was trying to commit suicide. Off a snow-covered bridge, thirty feet up, into the freezing river to save some jerk he didn’t even know who was trying to kill himself. Danny Kahn had brass balls. He happened to notice the guy standing on the top rail of the bridge. Danny was driving his dad’s truck, delivering coal to the furnaces of the numerous apartment buildings on his route. The guy jumped off the top rail while Danny was looking at him.

At first Danny didn’t stop because he didn’t believe what he saw. Then he stopped in the middle of the street and leaped off the top rail after the guy, never hesitating for a second. Not even stopping to remove his heavy work coat or boots. Danny grabbed the guy before he sank completely and dragged him through large chunks of ice broken during the consecutive falls into the river to the bridge piling. Only to realize that there was no way to climb out of the water. Danny kept warm by getting angry and cursing the guy in his grasp. By the time the cops and the fire department had arrived on the scene, Danny had already exhausted his entire vocabulary of curse words—even made some up as he treaded the icy, partially frozen water. After the fire department got Danny out of the river, he hopped back into his dad’s truck, soaked to the bone, and finished delivering coal to stops on his route before going home to warm up. Danny got a medal from the police department and a lot of Chicago Sun-Times notoriety; from us he earned respect. Danny was a common-sense type of guy and simply took the lead in every situation. Danny wasn’t a follower; he was a war general, a leader, and a certifiable hero according to the newspapers.

Conversely, Jim McCarthy was also certifiable; however, as a nutcase. Jim was known to explode in a rage without warning. Even when he smiled or when he was telling a joke, there was a fuse burning within him. It was impossible to determine how much of the fuse was left at any given moment. Jim could change his demeanor at the drop of a hat. The frequency of McCarthy’s explosions increased at a rate commensurate to his intake of Meister Brau; about the time he finished his third quart, his mood would noticeably shift, and he wanted to scrap with someone. In the absence of people, Jim would beat the shit out of an unsuspecting Chevrolet or Buick. Didn’t make much difference what the object was as long as Jim could destroy something with his fists. Jim never made any sense to me, not even when he was sober.

I always tried to make my exit before he polished off his second quart. Didn’t need any particular place to go, just make some distance between myself and the rat trap that was about to snap. Jim’s older brother was shot in the head right here in the park about a year ago and died on the way to the hospital. Cops never knew who did it, or at least couldn’t prove anything; no arrests were ever made, and the whole issue just went away. It went away for some people, but not for the other Jokers or me. No one spoke about it after the funeral, but everyone silently agreed that it was Jim; they argued a lot. Unlike the cops and the lawyers, we didn’t have to prove anything; we all knew the story. No one outside the neighborhood really cared what happened to another gang punk who lived off Division Street in the shitty part of town. We did care and therefore were left to live with our memories, regrets, and fears, isolated from the real world and alone. Jim was just a pain in the ass!

Rich Underling was a species unto himself, a true Neanderthal man. Absolutely brain dead from too much booze, too many drugs, and several ass beatings from fights he caused and lost as a result. Rich was covered in scars received in fights and proudly spoke about the .22 caliber bullet still lodged in his ass. Without exaggeration, I witnessed people crossing the street to avoid Rich from as far as two city blocks away. He was colorful and truly possessed a unique persona. Most of the time, he stunk like a wet pig that rolled in smoldering cigarette butts. Rich had absolutely no fear, which made him a ferocious rival. He had no concept of pain and no vanity, which would cause him to disregard scars brought on by assaults on his body.

Rich was dangerous, and no one wanted to be around him except at times like this—when a war was on the horizon. You wanted Rich on your side; you did not want Rich against