Behind the Scenes

By James Stanley

Behind the Scenes takes place during a time referred to as the Golden Age of Hollywood, bookended by the end of silent films and the advent of television. Follow the meeting and subsequent lives of LA transients, the strikingly beautiful Dinah Nolan from Chicago and the high-ranking mobster David Abrams from New York; and the peripheral influences of the beginning and end of Prohibition, the Great Depression, and World War II, along with the growth of Las Vegas as the gambling capital of America.
Three members of the mob community: David Abrams, Aaron “Crackers” Cohen, and Sara Balin bond on the streets of New York, rise in the underworld, and move to the West Coast at the request of the “Commission”, the mob’s governing body. Unexpected circumstances await the three and Dinah Nolan. Their world meets an unexpected end in 1952 for two of the four…as well as a new beginning…for the remaining two.
Follow Stanley’s suspenseful and sensual story in Behind the Scenes…

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728365640

James Stanley

Rob Beman was born a twin in Westfield, Massachusetts in 1942. His pen name couples the middle names of his twin brother (James) and his own (Stanley). The twins were raised in Westfield and Rob continues to reside there to this day, married 56 years in August 2020 to his high school sweetheart, Carole. Rob and Carole have four children, three daughters and a son, and ten grandchildren, all also residing in Westfield. Rob graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree, magna cum laude, from the University of Massachusetts in Amherst in 1964. He received a Master of Business Administration degree with honors from Western New England College in 1978, attending evening classes while employed on the corporate staff of a national-based firm in Springfield, Massachusetts, ten miles east of Westfield. Rob retired after 42 years at the same firm in 2007, his years reflecting increasing responsibilities in engineering, manufacturing, finance, and supply chain management. Rob began writing fiction in 2000 while in his late fifties, a life-long promise to himself, and he has accelerated his second career, following his retirement. Behind the Scenes is his 11th novel. He is currently formulating ideas for number twelve. In addition to writing, Rob is a prolific reader, devouring close to one hundred books a year, walks two miles daily, bets the ponies on-line, religiously follows and roots for the New York Yankees, plays in fantasy MLB and NBA leagues, attends family get-togethers and the varied activities of all of his grandchildren, and frequently visits Saratoga Springs, New York, its famous thoroughbred race track in August and September, as well as its casino and race-book, many times throughout the year with his wife and partner Carole, his special gift, who never fails to make him feel like the luckiest man alive. As stated in the dedication: from the start, his best part, his second heart.

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© 2020 . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/29/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6565-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6564-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020911961

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

Part One

1

2

3

4

5

Part Two

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

Part Three

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

Part Four

32

33

34

35

Epilogue

About the Author

Author’s Note

Accounts of the Great Depression, Prohibition, World War II, and the New Deal fill our history books as well as the glamorized emergence and subsequent pinnacle period of both the Mafia in America and Hollywood’s Golden Years of film. Behind the Scenes takes place during the core years of both of these worlds.

It is a work of fiction, but many characters mentioned, such as mob boss Lucky Luciano, movie leading man Errol Flynn, the ventures into film by Joe Kennedy, William Randolph Hearst, Herbert J. Yates and Howard Hughes; and others from the underworld and world of film are an integral part of the times depicted as are many referenced locations in Brooklyn, Manhattan, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas.

Luciano’s time as leader of the mob, depicted in Behind the Scenes exceeds his actual realm of control; but, gives the story more unencumbered flow than introducing a series of other mobsters vying for control as was the case in reality.

Admittedly, one of the main characters, Aaron Crackers Cohen is patterned after Benjamin Bugsy Siegel, while the other main characters David Abrams, Sara Balin, and Dinah Nolan are purely a figment of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, real or not, and to actual events, is purely coincidental.

I do a lot of things behind the scenes. I do a lot of things that don’t hit the headlines.

John Oates, 1948 - present

Half of the Hall & Oates rock ‘n roll duo who achieved their greatest fame in the 70’s and 80’s

You have to work very hard behind the scenes to make a message clear enough for a lot of people to understand.

Stefano Gabbano, 1962 - present

Italian Fashion Designer

To my wife Carole:

From the start,

my best part…my second heart

Prologue

New York City

October 6, 1942

We were members of what the media called The Jewish Mob or Jewish-American Mafia, led by Sammy Levy, the capo-Familia, Herschel Shapiro, the under boss, and consigliere Daniel Arkin. We were lieutenants of separate divisions with crews of three to five soldiers at our disposal.

Sam Levy and Hershel Shapiro exercised control over the bootlegging and illegal distribution of liquor in Brooklyn during prohibition. Gambling, narcotics, prostitution, numbers, slot machines, loansharking, and infiltrating unions followed.

Brownsville, a noteworthy neighborhood in Brooklyn New York, founded in 1858, was initially a settlement composed of Jewish factory workers that later became identified with organized crime. The Jewish mob met at Midnight Rose’s, a candy store at the corner of Livonia and Saratoga Avenues, conferring over long-pretzels and egg creams.

The polished black Cadillac Fleetwood limo with blacked-out windows came to a stop at the curb. The driver-side window lowered and the driver nodded for us to get in. The three of us wore lined trench coats, boots, a watchful eye, and listened alertly to the driver and his partner with the massive neck sitting in the passenger seat. None of us had a clue as to what Shapiro, our boss man, wanted to see us about. Unfortunately, our two escorts were of no help, offering no inclination to include us in their conversation.

They talked about the New York Yankees World Series loss to the St. Louis Cardinals the previous afternoon at Yankee Stadium, the Guadalcanal Campaign between the Japanese and U.S. troops, and surprisingly, the Statue of Liberty scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s spy film, Saboteur.

I sensed a change was coming and was not looking forward to it. Given a choice, I’d keep everything as it was. My sidekicks, on the other hand, were more willing to venture out. Not that it mattered. Whatever it was, it was out of our control. We were puppets in the hands of our employer…

We rolled over the Brooklyn Bridge that spanned the East River, connecting the boroughs of Manhattan and Brooklyn.

We remained silent, observing the dreary, overcast sky, and the changing sky line, only half-listening, and making sure not to look at each other. I sat in the middle. The other two were looking out the windows. I kept my head down, folded my hands, placed them in my lap, and twirled my thumbs, one way and then the other.

I suddenly felt haunted by memories that I thought were long buried. I found myself reminiscing my youth and the events that brought me to my current status.

I wondered if my cohorts were doing the same.

When Ellis Island opened in 1892, European immigrants came in droves to New York City, settling in the Lower East Side of Manhattan in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Those of Italian and Jewish heritage led the way, soon after becoming engulfed in the city’s booming garment and shipping industries.

My mother and father were Polish-Lithuanian refugees with roots in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania and the northeastern region of Poland, pushed out, they said, by overpopulation, oppressive legislation, and poverty. They immigrated to America in 1905 seeking financial and social advancement, ending up working in the garment industry.

Not long after, along with hordes of others, they flocked to nearby Brooklyn, seeking relief from the high rents and small apartments of New York City. I recalled later reading that by the end of the 19th century, more than a million-people lived in Brooklyn and more than thirty percent were born in another country. They settled in Brooklyn Heights and I became the first American born Abrams in our family, a national holiday, my mom declared every year, on May 28, 1911.

Shortly thereafter, we moved from Brooklyn Heights to Pitkin Avenue in Brownsville and its 95% Jewish neighborhood, where our apartment mingled among Kosher restaurants, like Rothman’s with their chewie bagels and bialys, a butcher, the dairy Shoppe, pickle-jar peddlers and the smell of garlic and dill, and other pushcart vendors selling fruit, vegetables, even pots and pans. You name it, somebody was selling it. The Kishke King Deli with frankfurters and knishes being grilled in the window, and Rockway Furniture where you went to buy a bedroom set to last a lifetime; hanging out in front of the newsstand or candy store. Nickle candy bars, Beeman and Clove chewing gum, Chase’s Cherry Mash, and frozen Milky Ways. The maroon-and-cream-colored trolley cars. Sailors from the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

And Abrams Tailors where my mom and dad made and altered clothing for both men, women, and children of all ages. I envisioned the curbside public trash receptacles and the khaki-colored sanitation trucks emptying them like clockwork every Saturday junk day. We’d get up early to collect our treasures beforehand so we could trade our take for pennies. We lived on the floor above the shop.

Most all of the buildings on Pitkin Avenue and nearby were two-story dwellings, made for two families, one up and one down. After the war, most first floors were converted with shops on the first floor and the owner and his family living above. Our place like most was heated by coal. I closed my eyes and could see and smell the coal smoke. I remembered we were situated so that I could see the RKO Albee Theater clearly across the street, from the second-floor window, advertising their 10-cent matinees. At night, I could clearly see crystal chandeliers lighting a magnificent interior in the lobby. Fancy Dancy, my mother and father used to say.

My mom did most of her work upstairs on her worn Singer sewing machine refusing to leave me alone in the apartment or to bring me into the shop to get in the way and aggravate my dad. She always had old issues of the Brooklyn Eagle newspaper and discarded magazines that she read, to learn the English she said. You too Davey. Read. Read. Read. That’s how you can learn and make something of your life.

I heeded her advice to read, later graduating to as many books as I could borrow from the library, always on the lookout for the New York City daily’s - The Evening Post, The Herald, The Tribune, The Daily News, The Times, and the Sun – in addition to the Brooklyn Eagle. I was interested in everything. I read every word in the newspapers and books.

I was sure what I became was nowhere close to what she hoped. Neither she nor my dad, could have foreseen what happened that day. I sure as hell didn’t. The day that changed my life forever.

The limo turned north and I saw the street sign for the southern exit, showing the miles to Brownsville and the beaches. My mind flashed back to that day. October 13, 1921. I was attending PS 18. I was in the fifth grade. It was after school and I was upstairs with Mama. She was at her sewing machine and I was reading or doing my homework, when we heard my Pa yelling from downstairs. GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY SHOP!

Mama and I hurried to see what was going on. When we rounded the corner of the entrance doorway to the rear of the shop, we saw Pa pushing two young men toward the front entrance. One was waving a gun.

Localized protection rackets thrived as citizens accepted and tolerated the practice, a part of life witnessed for generations back in Europe. Failure to meet demands meant almost certain harm to the store owner and his business by way of arson, assault, or even murder. Or, if you did not or could not pay, the extortionists might simply blow up your store. My father did not think of the old days. He had come to America to escape such atrocities.

I WILL NOT PAY YOU A CENT FOR YOUR SO-CALLED PROTECTION, my Pa said. YOU PAY ME FOR NEEDED ALTERATIONS, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE!

My Ma pushed me behind a display cabinet and told me to stay still. She hurried to her husband’s side.

I heard one of the men my father was yelling at, yell back. YOU’LL BE SORRY OLD MAN. ALL THE OTHER’S ON THIS BLOCK ARE PAYING.

THEY ARE FOOLS. GET OUT YOU DELINQUENTS. GET OUT!

I heard the shot and I heard my mother scream, NOO-OO. I heard a second shot and then I heard the door slam and the faint sound of running feet fading away. I bit my lip as the memory washed over me.

I waited a few minutes, not knowing what to do, shaking with fear, cuddled behind the glass display case. I heard the front door open and a man’s voice shouting, It’s the police. Is anyone here? I stood and the police saw me, rushing to my side and holding me. It’s okay son. Nobody is going to hurt you.

How could it be okay? My parents were dead. Killed. I saw their motionless bodies and the blood-stained floor.

I moved in with Mister and Mrs. Cohen who lived a few doors down and ran Cohen’s Hardware. Their second floor housed not only Mister and Mrs. Cohen but their three sons. One more person doesn’t matter none, Mrs. Cohen said. It’s the least we can do.

I only knew that Mister Cohen and my pa went fishing together sometimes. And drinking at the neighborhood pub. Mrs. Cohen and my ma liked to shop and gossip. I didn’t fuss over the arrangement. It was better than being carted off to some place I was unfamiliar with, I figured.

Somehow the city or the bank took over my parent’s property and paid the Cohens to watch over me. My dad’s Tailor shop became an Ice Cream parlor. The owner and his two brothers occupied the second floor.

School life went on, but Brownsville was becoming a rough place. I remember articles in the Brooklyn Eagle, where more than one public teacher called Brownsville a huge cesspool of illiteracy and hoodlumism. I guess that included me. Me and the youngest Cohen’s boy became bosom buddies and eventually moved to Manhattan. I’d become a member of a gang with my own gun and my own money. It was the best way, I reasoned, to make sure nobody was going to hurt me.

Part One

The world is changing and there are new opportunities for those who are ready to join forces with those who are stronger and more experienced.

Salvartore Maranzano, 1886 – 1931

Early leader of the New York-based Bonnano crime family.

There’s no such thing as good money or bad money. There’s just money.

Lucky Luciano, 1897-1962

Considered by many, the Father of organized crime in the United States.

1

I t took us close to an hour to arrive at the guarded villa in Great Neck, Long Island. Me and my capo companions spent a great deal of time together away from the mob, but our common dealings with Shapiro and the Jewish Mob, took us in varied unrelated directions. Again, I wondered what this important meeting was about.

I’m sure Sara and Crackers were silently asking themselves the same as me. What could Shapiro possibly want to discuss with all three of us? He had expressed no complaints about our performance, at least we hadn’t heard anything. In fact, just the opposite. We each had been told separately that we were held in the utmost regard. Still, one could never be sure in our lines of work. Nothing to do but wait. We’d find out eventually.

We sat on the bench in the hallway, outside his study as each soldier flanked the doorway. Crackers lit a cigarette, stood, and paced. Sara unbuttoned her coat and slung it over her shoulders before taking the same brand from her purse. I was quick to strike a match and provide her a light. She nodded and puffed thoughtfully observing her lover. I joined her with one of my own brands.

I looked at Sara’s face as she watched Crackers. As always, I felt a little weird. I could stare at Sara for hours. It wasn’t just her beauty although she made the boys take notice. There was an animation in her features. An intuitiveness. A mysteriousness.

I leaned and stared at the way her silky reddish hair flowed over her wonderfully rounded shoulders. She gave a half-smile, still watching Crackers. Cut it out, Davey, she said.

I’m not doing anything, I said. Finally, she looked my way. What? I asked.

The two of you are my world, you know, she said simply. I love you; you know. I love you both…

You’re pretty special, yourself, I said.

Yeah, she said. Yeah, it’s true. I am. What’s not to love?

I rolled my eyes. She playfully punched my arm.

Whenever we pressed for details about her past, Sara would clam up. Told us that yesterday was gone, only today and tomorrow mattered. We honored her stance, not because we weren’t interested, but because we wanted to please her and welcome her to our world, unwilling to do anything that might drive her away. We figured that like so many others, her circumstances were the consequence of the Great Depression and the conditions of her home life: abuse…maybe…intolerable foster care… Sara only revealed that she was from a small town in the South, Georgia she said, and decided at thirteen to run away, never specific as to why or exactly where from. That was all she or Hannah ever told us about her past.

She sure didn’t have any small-town girl in her anymore. I’m not sure if becoming one of Hannah’s girls or hanging with us was the explanation. Probably a little of both.

For some reason, my thoughts drifted to how much Sara loved to dance. And…how much I loved to watch her. She and another of Hannah’ girls, Suzy, had joined a dance club over at the Jewish Community Center on 71st Avenue. She and Suzy talked Crackers and me to join them sometimes at their late Wednesday afternoon sessions. We were the youngest ones at the center by at least thirty years.

Sara and Suzy urged us to join them on the dance floor. They and the old folks knew how to move. Me and Crackers not so much.

In the middle of a dance, the two girls let go of our hands and directed us to a bench against a wall to wait and watch. Relieved, we offered no argument. We watched Sara and Suzy take turns dancing with some of the more rhythmic older gentlemen, welcoming their moment in paradise.

After a spell, the older patrons and Suzy departed. Sara continued to dance and I watched her lithe movements and proud bearing, her eyes closed, as she blissfully disappeared into the music. After, I told Sara, You’re amazing.

Yes. Yes, I am.

51976.png

My mind drifted to what I’d learned of Lucky Luciano and his newly-formed Commission. Charlie Lucky Luciano’s story started similarly to that of the Cohen brothers or Crackers and mine. He attended Public School 19 on East Fourteenth Street until he dropped out at age thirteen, securing employment at a local factory for a few months before deciding that holding down a legitimate job was not for him. He had already been influenced by the street and was flirting with a life of crime, spending time in juvenile detention and getting into trouble with a multitude of petty crimes. Early on he was called Charlie Lucky eventually shortened to simply Lucky.

Lucky left home and spent his nights in empty apartments and pool halls, engaging in criminal activities during the day in order to survive. He got possession of a revolver and fell into a crowd that introduced him to shoplifting, pickpocketing, burglarizing apartments, forming a small protection racket that terrorized local school kids, and pushing heroin for a neighborhood dealer.

As his social circle grew, so did his opportunities. Lucky branched out from street level heroin peddling and strong-arming to operating small gambling operations on the East Side. He met and became involved with a woman, Bella Stein, the niece of uncle Sammy, aka Sam Levy, an influential Jewish racketeer and head of the Levy group. Lucky and Levy, sharing a common bond, developed a friendship, eventually opening up an important liaison between Italian and Jewish networks, which continued to this day.

Luciano skillfully engineered his way to the top of New York’s Mafia power structure after Giuseppe Masseria introduced him to the mafia, the Genovese crime family, and various rackets: loan-sharking, labor racketeering, a prostitution ring, a more all-inclusive drug-trafficking network, and of course, the profitable alcohol trade. In 1931, a bloody bootlegging war for control of the illegal and profitable Prohibition East Side market took center stage. The culmination of this war came when Luciano allegedly took part in the assassinations of both Masseria, his boss, and rival Salvatore Maranzano of the Bonanno crime family in the space of five months.

On April 15, 1931 gangland legend says that Luciano and Masseria were dining together at the Nova Villa Restaurant on Coney Island and adjourned to a back room to discuss business and play poker. Luciano supposedly excused himself to go the bathroom as did Masseria’s two bodyguards when three Genovese soldiers, hired by Luciano, rushed in and shot Masseria to death as he clutched the ace of spades, the death card. The police and media were unable to establish and substantiate exactly what occurred as both Luciano and the bodyguards swore being elsewhere and the restaurant staff claimed that Masseria dined alone and knew nothing of a card game.

On September 15, 1931, Salvatore Maranzano was also supposedly murdered under the orders of Lucky Luciano. Although unsubstantiated, it was generally accepted that Luciano engaged the services of The Levy Group to tilt the scales.

In this case, I know exactly what happened. I was there. So was Crackers. Six gunmen, including Crackers and me, dressed as cops, went to Maranzano’s ninth-floor office suite at 230 Park Avenue. We were surprised to find the waiting room in his suite filled with people. We ordered them to rise and line up against the rear wall. Two of the fake cops, designated fellow soldiers Leo Lansky and Herman Eastman, entered Maranzano’s office where he was stabbed numerous times before being shot five times in the head and chest.

The assassins as well as the rest of us fled the ninth floor and scattered. Supposedly fearing identification or a similar fate, the other people in the waiting room did likewise. The police questioned a number of people, including Luciano, Crackers, and yours truly, but made no arrests for Maranzano’s murder.

With the death of Salvatore Maranzano, Lucky Luciano became the controlling crime boss in New York City. The Luciano/Levy union continued and thrived as each faction gained the respect of and confidence in the other, although factions of both the Genovese and Levy families as well as the membership of the other four Italian crime families, not surprisingly, questioned the alliance. The other families, did however; shy away from challenging what was labeled the Strange Bedfellow Society (SBS) or Mutual Admiration Duo (MAD) by the police, press, and gangland members throughout the city. Luciano/Levy became widely recognized as a Prohibition force to be avoided.

In December 1933, Prohibition ended with the adaption of the 21st Amendment to the Constitution thus eliminating a major money source. Unwavering, both Luciano and Levy forged ahead with different business ventures, establishing needed ties to Tammany Hall politics and Union/Labor infiltrations, as well as other interests to make money and maximize profits.

While Luciano ruled most areas, Levy was given control of the gambling and prostitution rings. In essence, each group kept a degree of separation except when the two leaders determined a unified approach was deemed advantageous. As Crackers, Sara, and I rose in Levy’s Group, each gaining a niche, respectively in gambling, prostitution, and overall administration, we had little direct contact with Luciano and the Genovese crime family.

Levy gave the three of us more and more responsibilities as he concentrated on expansion of the gambling segment away from the city, such as Saratoga Springs in upstate New York as well as Florida, New Orleans, and Cuba.

We were privy to the recent scuttlebutt on the street that Luciano had designs to expand his influence nationwide, with plans to reach the pinnacle of America’s underworld, directing the rules, policies, and activities, not only of his own crime family but those of the other four of the five New York Italian- American crime families, the Levy Group and other Jewish organizations, as well as the Irish, Chinese, and Russian criminal organizations in New York and their control of the rackets in the city such as illegal gambling, bookmaking, extortion, loansharking, drug-trafficking, prostitution, and labor-union activities that managed the Manhattan Waterfront, garbage hauling, construction, trucking, and the Garment district.

In theory, Luciano’s Commission was to serve as the governing body for organized crime, a sort of Supreme Court for the Mafia, he said, designed to settle all disputes and decide which families controlled which territories. Luciano sold his plan on the basis of preventing future gang wars, while maintaining his own power over the other families. All to have one vote each, including Levy and the Jewish mob. In reality, Luciano and his allies controlled the Commission.

More recent rumors talked of expansion to Buffalo, Boston, and Newark; even to Philadelphia, Detroit, and to the Chicago Al Capone outfit. Places as far away as Kansas City and Los Angeles were mentioned as well. I wondered if that was the reason we were brought here today. Sara to head a prostitution ring in another city. Cracker’s to do the same on the gambling end. Me, I was more of a number’s man, a behind-the-scenes kind of guy that could size things up, organize, present a compromise satisfactory to all parties, and one that would satisfy the bottom line. The Commission’s. And mine.

I thought back to my youth in Brownsville. And Cracker’s. He was Aaron Cohen then. I met him the day my parents died.

Abrams, you’re up, one of the soldiers said, rousing me from my reverie. I stood and exchanged brief and puzzled nods with Sara, then Crackers, and obediently followed my escort inside. I was about to meet with one of the most powerful men in New York. I reminded myself that he didn’t get to that pinnacle without being a cunning and ruthless sob and getting what he wanted. I took a deep breath.

Herschel Shapiro sat behind a large wooden desk smoking a cigar. Arkin was seated to his right. Neither got up. Shapiro motioned with a wave of his hand for me to take one of the seats in front of his desk. I noticed that two additional body guards remained in his office, their backs against the closed double door, arms folded, and eyes staring at me. I turned, walked backwards a couple of steps and gave them a nod and smile. Neither gave me any acknowledgement. I sat before Shapiro. He offered me a cigar.

No thanks, I said. Mind if I have a cigarette instead?

He pushed a glass ash tray toward me. Be my guest. Shapiro turned his head to the right and nodded at Arkin.

I lit up and directed my attention to the consigliore.

Recent developments and discussions with Levy have led us to a decision of some consequence to you and your friends, Arkin began. We are expanding our realm of responsibility to California and we want the three of you to assist us. He turned to Shapiro. Herschel will explain our plan and expectations.

Levy has gotten approval from the Commission and Luciano has endorsed the plan. Jack Dragna, the current kingpin on the West Coast, has been alerted.

And this Dragna is going to welcome us with open arms?

Shapiro inhaled his cigar before stating the obvious. I repeat, he said. "Dragna has been alerted. You can rest assured that he and his people will cooperate. We have been provided the needed intel. The areas we intend to infiltrate are not currently areas his people have exploited to their full potential. The Commission is convinced that Californians are no different than any other areas we have infiltrated, including New York. We expect to drink the California cocktail of ambition, ego, and greed to our advantage, becoming behind-the-scenes power brokers.

Both Sara and Crackers have been selected because of their expertise in two of these areas. Sara has been chosen to head a prostitution ring in Los Angeles and Crackers a casino in Las Vegas.

And if Dragna resists?

The Commission has its way of gaining his cooperation.

Will any of us be expected to help gain this cooperation? I must have conveyed more of a concern than I wanted.

We are very aware that Jewish Mobsters are no longer required to become made" men or women. It is not a required ritual as it is with the Italian-Americans. I can assure you, if we are met with resistance, others will be assigned the necessary tasks to right the ship. Make no mistake. There will always be the need for such men, trusted soldiers, enforcers willing to do what needs to be done to ensure the success and survival of our chosen interests.

Luciano does not insist on an outdated ceremony to promote family obedience, but he will endorse it if there is no other way. Shapiro paused and took another long drag on his cigar. "Your involvement will be to honor omerta."

Arkin leaned forward. As expected of all contingents and members of the Commission. You, in all matters, will be expected to take an oath of silence to protect our families from legal prosecution.

I gave a sigh of relief. Good. I’ve never killed someone and I’m not sure if I could start now.

Shapiro positioned his cigar to the corner of his mouth, reached and withdrew a gun from his right-hand desk drawer. He placed it on his desk top. I recognized the gun as a .357 Magnum. He inserted his index finger in the trigger guard and spun it like a top. He laughed as did Arkin. When the gun came to rest, he said, "C’mon Abrams, a gun has been the implement of choice in our field for as long as I can remember. The tool of our profession, from the street soldiers to the top. We must make our sales pitch and if necessary, defend ourselves. No? We may no longer carry a Tommy Gun or sawed-off BAR, but we come armed and prepared.

Our predecessors, early on, recognized that we are all capable of killing under the right circumstances. All of us in the family are aware of how Crackers got his nickname. We are aware that your friend packs a Colt .45 automatic and a .357 S & W Magnum, like this one; and his girlfriend, a .38 Special. You do own a gun as well, do you not?

I do. Crackers convinced me that I should…for protection…the same argument he used with Sara. I have a .38 Special, like she has. Whenever we’ve talked about it, Crackers admitted guns not only protect, but help intimidate, help make a point, an advantage in our line of work.

Thank-you for your honesty, Abrams, Shapiro said. We sincerely hope none of you will be put in a position in your new assignments to either intimidate or protect. We have others if needed. Of course, a more immediate decision may sometimes be required…But as I said earlier, we, more than in the past, favor more civil means.

Without knowing the details, I can see the possible need for the use of guns with Crackers and maybe even Sara, but what about me? What exactly am I expected to do while Sara and Crackers build the Commission’s prostitution and gaming rings on the West Coast? Keep an eye on them? Make sure they toe the line? I’m to be the Commission’s watchdog?

Partly, Shapiro said. "We are fortunate to have someone with your abilities at our disposal. You have become the consummate behind-the-scenes player, David. Quite frankly, it’s the reason you’ve been called here today. It’s the reason that you’ve been summoned to be the first before us. You take the time to understand what needs to go down. You’re thorough. You don’t fly off the handle. You’re trustworthy.

Crackers and Sara trust, you…more importantly, we trust you. They will feel comfortable with you around to help in their respective ventures by getting familiar with the area and the people, acting as a liaison with the locals, and smoothing over any potential problems before they occur. Your powers of observation and deduction, as well as your unflagging focus will allow all of us to feel comfortable by providing a safety net, if you will. You will be a sounding board for both Crackers and Sara. And, you will keep us informed.

I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you’ve only confirmed that I’m to be the Commission’s watchdog…your eyes and ears.

You can label your assignment as you wish, Shapiro said. Along with being our watchdog, we have an additional assignment for you. A special assignment.

And what might that be?

Something that doesn’t involve either Cohen’s or Balin’s tasks. Shapiro nodded to Arkin.

Arkin placed his cigar in the ash tray and directed his eyes to the soldiers at the door. With a lift of his chin, he said, Martin, would you ask Mr. Goldsmith to join us?

While we waited, Arkin informed me that Jerry Goldsmith was an associate and friend of Sam Levy. Goldsmith was the current owner and CEO of Signal Films, an independent motion picture production company founded by his father and passed on to Jerry. His father, now deceased, was an officer in World War I that was assigned to make motion pictures for the Army Signal Corp. Following the war, he formed Signal Films in hopes of applying the mechanics of film making to a more creative side, reaping the benefits of the national craze for movies. Following the lead of the big 5 movie studios, Signal Films established offices in New York and Hollywood.

"In the nearly twenty-five years since founding the company, Signal Films had barely hung on, failing to make the hoped-for dent in the industry. Apparently, in a recent discussion with Sam Levy, Goldsmith mentioned that he was about to throw in the towel. Levy told him to hold off and offered his assistance to help save the company knowing of our imminent move to California.

"Saving Signal Films, Shapiro concluded is your special assignment."

Is the mob getting involved with movie making and distribution?

No. This is a favor to our boss. Plain and simple. No ties to the family other than that.

Jerry Goldsmith entered. Shapiro introduced us and he took the seat to my left. In his late forties or early fifties, he was a smallish man, thin, and immaculately dressed in a three-piece gray flannel suit, matching gray and trim hair, horn-rimmed eye glasses, a red and black tie, and polished black shoes. He looked from me to Shapiro and back to me. I understand you’re the man that is going to save my company? The one that is going to do what my father and I have been unable to do in almost three decades… make a profit.

I’ve just been told that is my assignment, yes.

And what exactly is your experience with the film-making industry?

I occasionally attend and watch the finished product.

That’s it?

Yes, I’m afraid so.

You have absolutely no exposure to the creative side of film-making, the casting of players, the designing of their costumes, the sets which provide their backgrounds, the direction, and the cutting and editing of the finished product, as you call it?

Correct.

Goldsmith looked at both Shapiro and Arkin with a puzzled look on his face. I tried to explain to Sam that films are dominated by the tastes and whims of the head men at the Big Five: MGM, 20th Century Fox, Paramount, Warner Brothers, and RKO Radio Pictures; and independent film-makers like me have little chance to compete. I fail to see how this man can combat the dilemma that I’m faced with.

Mr. Abrams, Shapiro replied, although unfamiliar with film making, is astute at evaluating a situation and coming up with a more than satisfying solution. And…he will be on the West Coast for months. I’d strongly recommend that you give him a chance. It sounds to me that you’ve run out of other alternatives. Perhaps, someone with minimal familiarity with the film industry and its traditions, is exactly what the doctor ordered.

I can’t argue with that. All right. Before throwing in the towel, I’ll give it this one last shot. Goldsmith stood and shook Shapiro’s hand then turned and shook mine as well. We need to talk further. Can you come to my office in the next day or two? He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and gave me his business card. The address is shown here. Call to make an appointment.

Will do, I said.

Goldsmith turned and briskly walked away.

I followed.

Hold on Abrams, Shapiro said. Along with Arkin, I want you to sit in on our discussions with both Cohen and Balin.

Crackers came in with his usual brash stride and chip on his shoulder. He shook hands with Arkin and Shapiro. I sat in the seat Goldsmith had vacated and Crackers sat in the same hot seat I had previously occupied.

Shapiro took a deep breath and began, deciding to get right to the point. Congratulations Cohen. You’ve been designated to head the Commission’s move into the hotel and casino business…in Las Vegas.

Crackers looked at me.

I’m going too, I said. Not to Las Vegas, but to the West Coast. So’s Sara. She’s to start up a Bordello House and prostitution ring; and I’m to infiltrate the film-making industry. We’ll both be in the Los Angeles area, but Vegas is not that far away. We’ll see each other out there, the same as we do now.

Holy Shit! Crackers shouted.