G-Mama and the Mafia

by Fran Rizer

My post for today has been ready for weeks, so I felt pretty good when I arose yesterday and, coffee cup in hand, went to the computer to see what Leigh had to say.  I confess I wasn't expecting to read about one of his exes being formerly a mob moll.  This was especially amusing since last week, my grandson told me, "Dad says you used to date someone who was in the Mafia."

Dilemma: Is that a story I really want to share with SSers?
  
Answer:  Yep, I think I will.  Note that my author photo today is from the time in my life that this occurred.  

It happened like this:

My older son was sixteen; the younger, eleven. They'd been taking karate lessons across town, so when a dojo opened near our townhouse, we visited.  The tall, good-looking sensei/proprietor was very convincing, and I moved the boys' lessons to his studio. Unlike Leigh, I'm not using real names, so I'll just call him John.

A few weeks later, John began joining me on the bleachers after my sons' lessons. He spoke glowingly of their progress and we discussed life as single parents. We also talked about how to build his business through a promotional campaign for the karate lessons and the aerobics classes upstairs.  

Next came an invitation to dinner, which I thought was a business meeting to discuss the PR plan. During the evening, I wasn't quite sure what to think. He acted more like we were having a date than a business meeting, but the conversation kept going back to plans for the dojo. At the end of the night, when he went for the inevitable goodnight kiss, I was still confused.

John was handsome. He was charming.  He took up a lot of time with my sons. In June, he confessed to me that he was having a hard time with the dojo rent, but that he would be receiving a substantial financial settlement from an accident in just a few weeks.

Can you believe that I was dumb enough to lend him a thousand dollars? The only reason I had a thousand to spare was that I drew three months' pay as a lump sum at the beginning of the summer.

Weeks rolled by and I saw more and more things about John that I disliked. For one, he had my sixteen-year-old son teaching younger students. It began with his just doing warm-up exercises with them. Soon he was teaching the entire class time. John told the kids' parents that my son was a black belt, which he was not. I've never liked liars.  

Every time I asked about his "settlement," John told me he would be getting it soon. Now, I've never liked liars, but I didn't say I'd never lied. After all, I was essentially in training to become a fiction writer later in life.

On a Monday afternoon in August, I told John that he had to return my money by Friday because I'd borrowed it from someone who was becoming very impatient causing me to be frightened. I never said it, but I implied that I'd gotten the thousand from a loan shark. Tuesday afternoon, John told me that he didn't think he'd be able to pay me anytime soon.  He didn't seem overly concerned. He acted like it was my problem, and I'd have to deal with it.

Wednesday afternoon, the owner of a deli that I did bookkeeping for called John. He was a big Greek man from somewhere up North, had the lowest voice of anyone I ever knew, and said the following, word for word: 

I have a problem, John. I loaned some money to a young woman who can't pay it back  It turns out she got that money for you. I'll be taking care of this matter this weekend unless she puts that money in my hand Friday at lunchtime. You need to understand that I'm not going after her. I'll be settling up with you. I don't like men who take advantage of women.

Those are the exact words that were spoken. I know because my Greek friend read them exactly as I'd written them on an index card for him. John spluttered around trying to negotiate, but the phone line went dead. The big, bad karate master dang near wet his gi.

Rain was pouring mid-morning Friday, but John came running out to my car when I pulled up in front of the dojo. He couldn't put the money in my hand fast enough. I even asked him if he'd like to ride with me, but he was adamant that he had too much to do. I killed a few hours at the library and then stopped at a florist before heading back to the dojo.

My drama skills were in full play when I returned.  I motioned for John to join me in the office.  

Closing the door behind us frantically, John asked, "Is it okay? He's not coming here, is he?"

I handed John a single red rose and said, "He said to give you this, and you'd better be damn glad it's red and not white."

That's the end of the story if I rewrite and try to sell it, but since we're friends, I'll tell you the rest.

My sons returned to lessons at their original karate location. Neither objected. They even said, "We were learning more there."

John called a few times, and I always made some excuse not to see him.  Three months later, his business closed. Six months later, I ran into the former aerobics instructor from John's studio at the mall. She told me that he'd disappeared while owing her husband several thousand dollars including their last loan to him when he swore the Mafia was after him. 

End of story?  Not yet.

A few years later, I'm in the kitchen preparing dinner when my younger son calls, "Hey, Mom, come here. John's on the news."

He'd been arrested for conning several women out of money by setting up a photography studio and advertising for models, who were then giving him their student loan money to advance their careers. I think there was probably more to the story than that, but I changed the channel.

Now, how does this relate to writing fiction? I hadn't thought about that crazy summer for years until my grandson said his dad told him I dated someone in the Mafia.

I questioned my son about it and he said that John had told him, "Your mom has a boyfriend in the Mafia."

My grandson and his dad, my older son

When I told them the entire story, both my son and grandson had a big laugh over G-Mama conning a con man. Leigh's column yesterday inspired me to begin writing this tale as a short story.  Of course, I always "embroider" real events, so the protagonist might become the aerobics teacher (change aerobics to zumba to update it) and the older Greek man could be her grandfather.   

What about you?  Are some of your stories semi-autobiographical?

Until we meet again, take care of … you.

Disorganized Crime

History Channel: The Mafia in the US

RT’s article reminded me of an acquaintance who opened to me the shadowy world of organized crime. She had been ‘Married to the Mob,’ which, she said, was the most accurate movie portraying the mafia. She insisted upon seeing Goodfellas and the Godfather franchise, although she said The Godfather represented the 1%. The reality of the remaining 99% was a banality that only boys who never grew up could buy into.

Carlotta had been intimate with the Youngstown Mafia and knew the players. She was smart, educated, talented, and charming beyond belief. Following her decision to leave Youngstown and its dark side, she went to a great deal of trouble to quietly distance herself from her former life.

When she registered her car in Florida, the sweet lady behind the counter said, “Oh my, Ohio made a mistake recording your VIN on the title, dear. Honey, just fill out this affidavit…” She rolled her eyes at me as if to say, “You can leave that world but it still follows you.” She had bought the car at a deep discount from a connected dealer named Baglier. His body was later found in the trunk of one of his own vehicles towed from a swamp.

She talked about the protocols. No self-respecting 'made guy' would drive a foreign car, only a Caddy, Lincoln, maybe a Buick or a Corvette if he wanted sporty. Mafioso banked at Bank of America, because BoA was the original mafia banker (and still is, according to some). And in a city where citizens simply disappeared from the offices, their cars, and their dinner tables, the mafia first sent their victims a white rose.

Carlotta refused to shop at a couple of major Orlando malls that she contended were mafia laundry machines. I later bumped into a young woman who owned a shop in one of the malls where she often worked late. She mentioned seeing cash register drawers and a safe carted out in the middle of the night. Once as she was leaving her shop, she startled a handful of suited men who directed her away. “Girly, why don’t you go back to your shop for ten minutes.” (You no doubt noticed I’ve not mentioned the developer’s well-known name because to my knowledge he was often accused but never indicted for any crime.)

Carlotta went to school with the mall developer's son and with Mickey Monus, the CFO of Phar-mor, noted for the largest US embezzlement on record. She was acquainted with James Traficant, the flamboyant Ohio congressman and former corrupt sheriff who ran for office from his prison cell. All connected.

Even Kosovo feels the heat of the Mafia.

Those were the bigger guys.

Carlotta described the mafia as a corporate pyramid. While the so-called ‘foot soldiers’ were low on the totem pole, below them were the teeming worker-bees and wanna-bees, less than pawns in most cases. Picture the hoods in high school who drove around all night talking big, catcalling girls, vandalizing, committing petty larceny and break-ins, initiating a burglary or a spur-of-the-moment home invasion. Now picture those same guys ten, twenty, thirty years later doing the same thing, riding around, talking trash, doing trashy crap. That’s the vast majority of the mafia base: furnishings that fell off a truck, a little grift and graft here, a spot of muscle there, say ten ‘Hail Mary’s and lie to your wife. The boys retell the same stories– the knife fight they almost won a dozen years ago or that time when their dad was being chased by cops and he slipped the smoking gun to their nonna who sat on it, knitting as police conducted a fruitless search.

Night after night, year after year, same-ol’, same-ol’.

Many Italians are offended by the mafia. At New York University, I dated a vivacious student from Brooklyn. Cecilia Mongiardo lived down the street from a mafia headquarters in a warehouse. She said, “Italy is steeped in great history. It’s known for magnificent art, music, and cuisine. We invented modern architecture. We’re noted for design. Yet when people think Italians, they think mafia: Joe Bananas, Masseria and Maranzano, Genovese and Gambino, Gagliano and Lucchese. People think Vegas and Frank Sinatra and the assassination of JFK. It’s embarrassing.”

It’s a shadowy world most of us are unaware of. When writers like R.T. Lawton and David Dean bring us stories of their battles against crime, only then do we get a peek behind that dark curtain.

Submission Accomplished

by John M. Floyd

As most of you have heard by now, Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine recently introduced a new submission process. Authors can now send their short stories in to AHMM the same way they've been doing it at EQMM, via the shared web site themysteryplace.com. Just navigate to the Hitchcock site, click on "Writers' Guidelines," and then choose "online submission system."

This is of course good news for those of us who regularly send stories in to AH for consideration. No more printouts, no more envelopes (self-addressed or otherwise), no more labels, no more stamps, no more trips to the post office. Easier, quicker, less expensive. A byproduct of the new system is an online tracking program that allows the writer to keep up with the current status of his/her manuscript. What's not to like?

Look, Mom--no hands

I was intrigued to see, at a couple of the Internet forums (fora? fori?) that not everyone seems to be pleased by the discontinuation of AHMM's old-school "manual" submission system. Although I don't agree, I think I do understand the reasons that some are less than happy about the move. It's been said that any publication that begins accepting online submissions, whether it's via e-mail or via a website "submission box," also begins receiving far more manuscripts than before. Why? Because it's now easier, quicker, and less expensive. The one thing that seems to make everything simpler can conceivably also make it harder because of increased competition and an increased workload for those who read the submissions.

Simply stated, it might now be so easy to submit that everyone will want to submit everything, maybe even those who shouldn't be writing and submitting anything. One school of thought maintains that if you're willing to take the time and trouble to print your story, print a cover letter, include an SASE, clip it all together, stuff it into an envelope, print and attach address labels, and drive to the P.O. and stand in line and pay the postage to mail it--well, that means you're possibly more serious about your writing. The more labor-intensive the job is, the fewer lazy workers will participate.

What are your views on the subject? Would you now be more likely to send a manuscript to AHMM? Do you think the pluses outweigh the minuses? I find it interesting that of the four mystery markets I submit to the most, two of them (Woman's World and The Strand Magazine) require snailmailed submissions. Maybe WW and The Strand will switch over as well, one day.

Again, I can see both sides of the argument. But I must admit, as someone who has already taken advantage of the new system (I e-sent AH a new story a few days ago), that I like it. A lot. Nothing can reduce the work it takes to produce a quality story, but anything that reduces the work it takes to get it submitted is--in my opinion--a good thing. I'm also wondering if the new process might allow AHMM to respond more quickly than it has in the past. (That might be overly optimistic, since--as I mentioned--there will probably now be even more manuscripts in the chute.)

Preaching to the choir?

Please be aware, I am not one of those writers who have been reluctant to submit stories to AHMM because of its hardcopy-only submission procedures. I've faithfully read AH since I was in college, editor Linda Landrigan has been extremely kind to me, and I would probably continue to submit stories to her magazine even if I had to send them via mule train. I suspect that most of my SleuthSayers colleagues feel the same way. But this should make the process a lot more pleasant.

Speaking of pleasant things, AHMM recently accepted another of my stories--this one submitted months ago, via snailmail--and as always, that feeling made it well worth the wait. I hope more acceptances, from AH and from others, are coming up for all of us.

No matter how we send the stories in.

More Black Market

(continued from 18/Jul/14)

In the low end of the Vietnam Black Market, almost everyone had a hand in the trade. It was politely called the barter system and was for small immediate gain. What could it hurt?

See, every soldier in-country had a ration card which allowed him to buy two cartons of cigarettes, two cases of beer, two bottles of wine and/or two fifths of hard liquor per month. But, not every soldier smoked and not every soldier drank booze, which then created a market for those extra goods. The rationed amounts mentioned above generally sufficed for the needs of most G.I.'s, however there were outsiders who had no access to the PX (cigarettes) or the Class Six Store (booze).

Simple solution, trade those extra goods which you bought from the non-smoking, non-drinking soldiers who otherwise didn't use their ration cards. Want some cases of steaks or lobster to supplement your C-rations or scant mess hall chow? Trade some of those extra purchased goods to a civilian contractor or merchant seaman who had connections to his company's kitchen. Need a freezer to keep those extra steaks cold as they're hidden behind a false wall in your company area? Once again, trade some of that booze or cartons to a civilian for that freezer. You say a real ice cream factory went into operation down in the ville and they don't make their product out of reconstituted milk like the military does? Now you're trading PX items to Vietnamese workers who smuggle out gallons of whichever flavor of real ice cream you desire. This may be bartering, but it's still operating in the Black Market, only on a much lower scale.

Today's World

But then you don't need a time of war to have a Black Market in existence. I once entered a mob joint in downtown Kansas City and sat at the corner of the bar where I could watch everything going on. When I ordered my second drink, I gave the bartender some extra money and asked her to get me a pack of Winstons. My second drink came fast, then she wandered around for a while before disappearing into a back room. A few minutes later, she came out and wandered around again before finally depositing the cigarettes in front of me on the bar. I had paid full price for the pack, but it didn't have a federal tax stamp on it. She never went near the vending machine in plain sight against the wall. These smokes were contraband, smuggled out the back door of an East Coast factory or else high-jacked from a semi trailer before the government got paid and put a tax stamp on them.

Operators in this market may only make nickels, dimes or quarters on every small sale, but they are in it for the volume. In the end, all those nickels, dimes and quarters add up to very big dollars, and those are untaxed dollars not subject to state and federal sales or income taxes. Free money, so to speak.

All this merely goes to show that any economic system with man-imposed restrictions or regulations allows for the creation of a Black Market for desired goods. The schemers will find a way to operate in this environment.

There's also the underground market created between thieves and those loose-moral people who are not adverse to buying on the "midnight discount" or "three-finger discount" plan. The first refers to goods stolen by burglars and the second to goods stolen by pickpockets and shoplifters.

You've all read news articles or seen TV shows where law enforcement has run a sting operation. This usually consists of a rented storefront or warehouse where law enforcement installs concealed cameras to record all transactions, plus law enforcement personnel in an undercover capacity, or an informant, work the front counter to purchase stolen goods from criminals. After a period of time, the crooks get arrested. But, cop sponsored stings are only a small portion of the real fencing of stolen goods operations we never hear about.

And then there are those who make and sell counterfeit t-shirts, computer chips, fake brand-name handbags, etc. Don't forget DVD's of pirated movies or pirated songs from the music industry. All trade mark and copyright violations done on the sly to be sold on the Black Market.

Bottom line, criminals and schemers will keep looking for ways to work the system. Like the line says in that song, Smuggler's Blues: "… it's the lure of easy money."

---

To read about the black market with the U.S. Army in Cold War Germany, get Black Traffic, an e-novel by our very own David Edgerley Gates. (kindle, nook) It's a good one.

The Modern Slaves

By Jim Winter

Modern society has two images of prostitutes. On the one hand, it's a sleazy profession generally undertaken by women trying to support a drug habit. Eliminate the habit, and the woman can reenter society. The other image comes from movies such as Pretty Woman, the hooker with a heart of gold in charge of whom she services. Perhaps a darker version of this comes from Lawrence Block's Scudder series, where Elaine uses prostitution to build up her savings.

In either case, we're looking at women who choose the profession. Many cases mirror these two images, perhaps without the romanticism of the latter. More commonly, however, is a much more disturbing scenario - that of the woman coerced into prostitution.

It's become a frequent story on the local news. A young girl is lured into a prostitution ring and either coerced into servicing clients or outright kidnapped. It may seem hard to believe, but this is a modern form of slavery happening right here in the United States today.

The most frequent situation involves immigrants, legal or illegal. Because these people often don't know the language very well and don't know the local laws, there are those who can use the threat of deportation or jail, never mind torture or death, to force them to work.

India is a hotbed for this sort of slavery. One local church in Cincinnati has partnered with an organization in Mumbai to rescue teenage girls from human traffickers. The girls are spirited out of the brothels (which are a far cry from the legal brothels in Nevada, Holland, and Germany), taken to a halfway house where they learn to readjust to society, and assisted in reintegrating into society. The rescue plan has had the added effect of attracting police attention to the brothels. Because someone is actively extracting young women from this form of slavery, the police in Mumbai now see an opportunity to directly intervene and bring down the traffickers.

It's a little more difficult in Western nations, where slavery as an institution is looked at as a relic of earlier centuries. The signs are usually a combination of missing persons reports and web sites offering "personal services." If the women are local, the police might pick up on it. If the women are immigrants, particular illegals, there is very little documentation to serve as a clue.

A manager I worked with at my last company is married to a Cincinnati cop who occasionally finds himself volunteered for this duty. I've seen him a couple of times on Cops and Police Women of Cincinnati. To his wife's horror, the latter show featured him as a decoy in a prostitution sting. So yes, all of Cincinnati has seen Amy's husband in his boxers. (For his part, he prefers to talk about his episode of Cops, which featured him on patrol and in uniform.) Such stings are often some girls' only chance of getting out of bondage. Frequently, however, the best defense is to go after the johns. They might think that it's a victimless crime, since they believe they are paying for consensual sex. The reality is just as often the exact opposite.

Happy 125th Anniversary!

Brian's column in June about connections reminded me that I wanted to point out that this year we must commemorate the 125th anniversary of the publication of a book which holds a major place in the history of mystery fiction.  It is a novel by Arthur Conan Doyle.

I refer, of course, to Micah Clarke.

You may now be thinking: Wait a minute.  Is that a classic mystery by Conan Doyle I somehow missed?

Well, no.  It was a historical novel about the English Civil War.  So why do I say it holds an important place in the history of our field?  Grab a cup of coffee and I will explain.

In 1886 Conan Doyle finished A Study In Scarlet, which I am certain you know introduced Sherlock Holmes to the world.  He hoped it would be published in the  Cornhill Magazine, but James Payn (seen on the left), in the move that gave him an eternal place in the Editor's Hall of Fame, rejected it.   The book finally found a place in  Beeton's Christmas Annual, published at the end of 1887.   The company  liked it enough to also put it out as a hardcover, and in America Lippincott's Magazine  ran it.

And then-- well, pretty much nothing happened.  It didn't rock the world even a tiny bit off its axis. 

So Conan Doyle wrote Micah Clarke, a historical novel of--  I already told you that.   And that book was a huge success when it came out early in 1889.


It so happened that Joseph Stoddart, editor of Lippincott's Magazine, visited England that year and noticed the success of the book.  He remembered that he had previously published the author's A Study In Scarlet.  So, 125 years ago this very month, he invited Doyle to dinner at the Langham Hotel (a location which subsequently appeared favorably in several of Doyle's works).  Stoddart suggested that Doyle write another book about Sherlock Holmes, and  the good doctor promptly wrote The Sign of Four.  And, as we all know, as soon as that book arrived on the newsstands the public --

Well, did nothing much.  It wasn't much any more successful than the first book.  But Doyle had the Holmes habit now and he soon wrote "A Scandal In Bohemia," which appeared in The Strand Magazine.  That was the first of  the string of short stories that truly established Holmes as an immortal character.

And they would have never come along if Stoddart hadn't been impressed by the success of Micah Clarke.  Connections, right? 

Speaking of which, Stoddart invited another author to that dinner, one who declared himself an admirer of Micah Clarke, thereby beginning a friendship with Doyle.  He also wrote something for Lippincott's at Stoddart's request.  And that book worked out pretty well too.

The Unsung Editor

   Our followers will remember author Angela Zeman who graced the pages of Criminal Brief. She and I appeared together in the Mystery Writers of America anthology, The Prosecution Rests.
   Angela is not only a wonderful writer, but she married the amazing Barry Zeman who, in a leather jacket, is my idea of what Mickey Spillane should look like. Can you imagine inspiration in your life like that?
   But she has editors on her mind and I’ll let her tell you about that.

        — Leigh Lundin

The Unsung Editor

by Angela Zeman

Hello! It’s been forever since I’ve checked in on SleuthSayers, thanks, Leigh for the invitation. When browsing your blogs, I detected that nobody here has been idle. (Elementary, heh heh.)  Most of you know that for several years, back and disc issues have disrupted my writing and my life. But tah-dah, it’s over. Well, I’ve had to stop leaping tall buildings. But I’m content with short hops. So, friends, to all directly concerned with my production (you know who you are) whatever I promised you… it’s going to arrive late. But I’m on it, no worries.

I’ve managed in these last few years to publish short stories. I’m especially proud of the Roxanne story that made the cover of Alfred Hitchcock two years ago. (I owe Linda more Roxanne stories, which are next on my agenda after Mary Higgins Clark’s Wall Street story.) Linda Landrigan, known by many, is as shrewd as she is skilled, and a lovely person to work with. I thanked the late Cathleen Jordan after she published my first Mrs. Risk story in AHMM. Her editing smoothed out tiny rough spots and I was delighted with the results. And so unfair. I got all the credit.

Do editors receive awards from their writers? I don’t know. They should. They work away from the spotlight and are so under-appreciated. Before I began to sell my work, I’d heard only campfire tales of destructive, ignorant, to-be-dreaded EDITORS. What editors were those?

Alfred Hitchcock’s Linda Landrigan would’ve won for most patient of all editors (in my experience) had not Kate White come into my life. She was in the process of editing the next MWA cookbook, to which I had agreed pre-surgery to contribute. Poor woman, I told her (post-surgery), “No, I’m sorry, I can’t write, I may never write again. I can barely think.” She cajoled, charmed, nudged, and finally threatened me, via a series of phone calls, to get going! She declared with impressive intensity (she might’ve been gritting her teeth) she’d write my cookbook entry herself if she had to! Kate White went further and worked harder (on me, I don’t know about any of the other contributors) than any editor should have to. She virtually kicked me back into my chair. And here I sit, thrilled to be here, thanks to Ms. White.

I don’t want to forget the Tekno books guys. Marty, Jon, all of them. One time I went ballistic and they listened. And fixed the problem. They treated me with respect and a writer could talk to them. I miss Tekno and Marty.

About five years ago, I wrote a story titled “Bang” for the Linda Fairstein The Prosecution Rests anthology Leigh mentioned in my introduction. The bad guy shot at my heroine. I wrote “bang!” He missed my girl, which was good, but the bullet was the only solid proof among circumstantial evidence of his guilt. We really needed that bullet. A little note scribbled in the margin asked: “You fired the gun, shouldn’t the bullet land somewhere?” Michael Connolly’s editor. I never met her, but I’ll never forget! She saved me from shriveling embarrassment. One small comment from a shrewd editor saved the story. I’ll bet several authors here have similar editors to whom they owe kudos and thanks.

So here’s to the world’s heroic editors: may they prosper and increase, and may they earn the praise and pay they truly deserve for snatching their writers from the dark and stormy night!