A Crime for Love

Dear Reader, not everything you read is fiction. The bones of this story are true, with some required invention. I can't admit to all the nefarious activities of the past. I've spent the last 40 years trying to avoid solace in a cold cell. So far, I've been successful. You might say this is my confession. Please keep what I am relating close to your vest. I'm getting too old to go to prison. --The Author

"CRIME AND PUNISHMENT 2023--THE SWISS AIR CAPER"

Americans were struggling in 1945, The Second World War was coming to an end in Japan. The sluggish economy was poised for a rebirth. American's stumbled into the 1950s with a shoe one size too large. We had hoped for tranquility, but then the Korean War broke out, and we put more than a toe into the quarrelsome peninsula. This 'police action' was no 2nd World War. The little yellow guy whooped our butts. The reality of American military weakness, apparent to our enemies, was concealed from the public.

My father, a skilled illustrator, had kept busy with the WPA art projects, and as the war in the Pacific raged, he got a job drawing architectural renderings for a secret camouflaged airport near Key West. Dad was trying to decide if commercial art was more lucrative than his astounding watercolors. When he wasn't painting, he was selling typewriters door to door, which is how he met my Uncle Al. Al was a successful attorney in Jacksonville, Florida, who introduced Dad to my mother, a recent teacher's college graduate. Marriage and sex intervened, and then my parents took a long bus ride to New York, where Dad found employment on Madison Avenue.

Mom became pregnant in a New Jersey housing unit that did not permit children. Although rental units were scarce, a relative found them an apartment in the suburbs. I was born in the local city hospital with a birthmark on my left ass cheek that looked like a map of China. Maybe it's telling me something?

My mother was a Patriot. She worked in Yonkers cleaning and recycling lead submarine batteries for the Navy. When she acquired Parkinson's years later, I wondered if her exposure to lead toxins was the cause. My advice to Patriots, let someone else clean submarine batteries.

I was raised on bottled milk, probably the reason for my fascination with titties. Mom's ingrown nipple prevented breastfeeding but didn't deter other men from sucking on her tit. I spent the first year in a crib, an early walker, housed in the living room of a one-bedroom flat. While my parents were busy in the next room fucking, I'd be pissing through the bars.

The next few years passed quickly. I played with the girls in an ersatz clubhouse they constructed on the basement stairs at the back of the building. I also played with my childhood friend, Patrick. We listened to Roy Rogers on the radio while his Irish mom fed us green jello. So fueled, we ran around the vacant lot on the side of the building. At five years old, my Mom enrolled me prematurely in public school. I don't recall the first six months other than playing with wooden blocks around a tiled goldfish pond. In first grade, I was seated next to Juliet Cruz, the most beautiful girl in the world and the world opened up for me. Julie was my first girlfriend.

Most people in America were making headway. Dad left a good job on Madison Avenue (the Advertising Center) and was trying to start his own business. My Mom was helping, much like a burlesque female pitchman, getting crowds into a strip show. When too busy to pick me up at school, a teenage babysitter would come instead, and Julie and I would walk home hand in hand. When we arrived at Julie's home, three blocks away, Julie would kiss me goodbye on the mouth. I was in love with her from day one.

With the passage of time, our youthful romance continued. At her home, we listened to the radio and the eight-inch television when broadcasting became popular. There was a ping-pong table in the garage to play on. Once we got to third grade, I'd carry her violin case for her. Julie's house always smelled good, like garlic and onions. In elementary school, she wore woolen sweaters that smelled just like the house.

Julie was a first-generation Cuban American. Her family came to America to work in a cousin's Cuban restaurant in Soho. (in downtown Manhattan) By the time Julie and I were in 4th grade, the restaurant had become successful, and her parents were now the owners.

In school, all the kids knew we were a couple. They also knew I was the bad guy. Julie was a good girl, I'd be sent to the principal's office frequently for my disruptive behavior while she was an honor hall monitor with a paper badge. When I'd get into a fight, the kids would create a ring around me and my opponent. Mr. McKee would intercede to break up the fight, and I'd throw a roundhouse punch, miss my opponent, and the teacher would go home with a black eye.

Juliet knew of my malfeasance, but she never stood in judgment. We shared lovely moments of innocence together. There was no one else in the world for me. Julie was much prettier than Shirley Temple. We'd hold hands, and occasionally, we'd kiss, but that was all.

In the spring, when we were both together in Miss Descanso's 5th-grade class, my parents began to look for a home. They settled on a simple Victorian house with a big porch and a treeless backyard on the other side of the town. The house stood at the top of a hill. The land fell away behind the house where an ancient flat stone retaining wall separated our property from the lower one. Several years later, my father purchased the lot next door from the old man who lived below. He warned us,

"Be careful of the rock walls. The serpent's hide there."

I knew of 'snakes,' but I'd never heard them described as serpents. My Dad read 'The Daily News,' not the bible.

It was exciting to play behind our home. I'd play cowboys up and down the hill with a neighborhood friend waving cap pistols. I carried my favorite toy shotgun. I never saw any of the serpents.

Our 'new' house was on the north side of the city. My mother said,

"The better people live here."

If that was where the better people lived, something had gone wrong. What were we doing there? We weren't better than our next-door neighbor, a drunken Irishman. The woman across the street's husband had abandoned her with two small children after breaking her nose. The guy in the fancy house, Mr. Lane, lived across the street with a goldfish pond watched over by a statue of a saint.

A new Caddy (Cadillac) was always parked in Mr. Lane's driveway with the sales sticker on the passenger's window. I never saw Mr. Lane working, but there were frequent visitors to his home who looked like you wouldn't want to lean your bike against their cars. What the hell did he do for a living? I was to find out.

I had a behavior problem in the classroom, but I was a prodigious reader, often reading the textbook before the teacher assigned it. In fifth grade, Mrs. Corcran, a short older woman, dragged me out in the hall and lifted me up by my collar, pushed me against a wall, and said,

"You have a high IQ. Why can't you buckle down?

Not deterred, I continued as a clown and troublemaker. I loaded three cherry bombs into the student's toilet and caused serious plumbing damage. To say I was antisocial was an understatement. I slit the tires of the rich kid's fancy English racer bikes if they wised off.

Being on the north side with the 'fancy people,' Juliet and I were now separated. Romance before puberty is easily affected by the adults who succeed in dividing childhood friends.

The Soap Box Derby contest came to town when I was fifteen. All the neighborhood kids were building little wooden cars with a steering system made of a broomstick with a coiled rope. My racer had a big number 8, standing for Barney Oldfield, the famous car racer. I was coasting down the high hill in front of our home. Mr.Lane watched me as I rolled up the opposing slope and smoothly reversed direction.

When I pushed the car back uphill, Mr. Lane handed me a ten-dollar bill,

"Old Number Eight," said Mr. Lane, "Nice job, kid, you're going to make one hell of a getaway driver."

My rebellious behavior continued. Teachers who picked on me found their car door locks glued shut. Some of the tough kids were trying to build zip guns. I specialized in pipe bombs filled with matchheads.

My bomb placed under the gas tank of the Vice-principal's new car exploded, leaving his auto a smoking metal carcass. I'd report to the VP when I was disruptive in class and 'sent to the office.' My explosive crimes were never pinned on me, but I was a suspect. I now carried a German stiletto switchblade knife in my pocket in case a bigger kid fucked with me. No metal detectors existed in school.

In 9th grade, I was required to report for group therapy sessions with a shrink and seven of the most dangerous students in the school. The shrink said,

"You were chosen because you are bright kids who are anti-social."

The kids in the group had dreadful upbringings from broken homes or were orphans. My problems stemmed from my aggressive, violent mother, who occasionally beat me with a hammer when her sexual affairs caused her to go out of whack. I saw several therapy kids dead in the next few years. I thought I didn't belong in the group but found it interesting to hear their stories, but I did belong. Maybe I was smarter than most of them, maybe not. None of them had to attend my funeral.

When we entered high school, Julie and I were reconnected. The romance was on again. Time seemed to fly by. We started dating and spending Saturday nights at the RKO theater, afternoons in the malt shop, or at the local YMCA watching the teen bandstand programs. The girl who stole my heart was back in my life.

Although I rarely saw the old therapy group, several of them were named when a local waitress (18 years old) claimed to be pregnant as a result of car sex gone too far. To shield the boy who was responsible, the entire group claimed they had all had unprotected sex with Bertha. The police investigation was stymied by these claims. A lawyer convinced the authorities it was not a rape but consensual group sex. No DNA tests existed then. The victim, a dark-haired Italian waitress at the local pizzeria, left town. We never saw the tall, big-breasted girl again in her sexy cigarette skirts and tight, suggestive sweaters.

I was now 18 years of age. I had matured enough to settle down and began to try to get along with people. Juliet was a top student on her way to college. I had no interest in academics and was working part-time, driving Mr.Lane's aged religious mother to church most days. I called her Grandma Lane. She always wore black dresses fringed with lace. When the old lady passed, I expected to be unemployed. after her funeral. Instead, Mr. Lane brought me into his gang. He asked me only one question,

"You into drugs?"

"No." I didn't know what drugs were for.

I didn't know I was replacing Bobby Schieder, a blond, pretty boy from the neighborhood found dead several months earlier in the back of a bus from a heroin overdose. Bobby had tried to interest me in his nighttime activity, trolling the balconies of the notorious 42nd Street porno theaters, hustling gay 'moviegoers' offering blowjobs for $20. I refused his offer, not understanding why he was doing this. In retrospect, the real cause was Bobby's heroin addiction.

I had no interest in academics and quit high school a few months before completion. I didn't believe in homework; I failed tests, even getting Fs in gym class due to my absences or refusal to wear a gym outfit. I didn't care about a graduation certificate. I never mentioned my school activities to Mr. Lane, my mentor. He wasn't aware, but he must have caught some vibe in my personality that made me a potential criminal and said,

"Going to school is a waste of precious time. You're a bright kid. I'll put you on to some fast money."

He gave me an old pickup truck. I asked,

"How much?"

He said, "Don't worry, son, you'll work it off."

While I was busy being groomed to be an obedient criminal, Julie was enrolled in a famous New York music school where she was soon acclaimed as a violin virtuoso. Why Julie still stayed with me, I've never understood. Maybe it had something to do with how much I loved her and that she felt safe with me. Her parents were working twenty-four-seven and were not there to advise her, but their employment financed her musical career.

I was now in my early twenties, working long hours. Although I had no interest in current events as a student, I was very impressed with one news story. The publicity was so persistent I couldn't ignore it. I even went out and bought newspapers about the famous event that took place at the Kennedy International Airport on December 11, 1978. It was quickly dubbed the 'Lufthansa Caper." The brazen theft and armed robbery totaled $5.875 million, the largest cash theft up to that time, which included $5 million in untraceable cash and $875,000 in jewelry.

Although the heist was well planned and conceived, as days passed, details leaked out, suggesting it was a Mafia gang hit. All the participants were mob-connected except for the black getaway driver. Instead of driving the getaway van to an auto demolition location, he got doped up and celebrated his share of the expected loot by having sex with his white girlfriend. She was an employee at Horn and Hardart Automat, responsible for putting the pie on a plate in the little windows that opened when coins were inserted in the slot. The getaway driver had left the car parked outside her apartment and did not observe he was in front of a fire hydrant. While the couple was upstairs having a party, the cops towed away the robbery van. That was when, as they say, "the shit hit the fan."

The discovery of the van used in the 'Lufthansa Caper' was big news. In three days, the identity of the thieves became known to the police. Things got worse. The head of the crime family was so pissed that he had the getaway driver murdered. One by one, almost everyone who took part in the heist was murdered. This was an attempt to keep the trail cold so it could not be traced back to the crime boss. The dead participants were not talking, and as a result, the cash and jewelry were never recovered.

I was now an active gang member. At first, Mr. Lane had me running numbers for assorted bookies. I would carry the money and betting slips between the bookies and Mr. Lane's headquarters. It wasn't a very dangerous occupation as the cops were paid off and stepped aside for me. At Mr. Lane's suggestion, I started to frequent a gym and muscled out accordingly. I was about 6 feet tall., big enough and wide enough that Mr. Lane wanted to use me for debt collection. I was sent to a Karate School located in a building Mr. Lane owned to learn self-defense. I was listed as an employee of a Security Firm controlled by Mr. Lane and licensed to carry a snub-nosed .38 revolver under my jacket.

Time was passing, but my boss had not forgotten airport crime and looked to the Lufthansa caper as a model. Mr. Lane's interest was piqued when an inside informant reported that Swiss Air, a smaller airline known for cheap student flights to Europe, was transporting gold bullion from Swiss Bank vaults to its warehouse office on a back lot at JFK. Americans were permitted to own gold. Swiss Banks were doing a land-office business supplying it. Mr. Lane wanted to replicate the Lufthansa Heist. That is how I got involved.

Mr. Lane masterminded the Swiss Air caper. I'm still embarrassed to recount my part, but now, forty years later, almost all of those involved are dead. I've still got my share in a secret numbered Swiss bank account. The statute of limitations has run on all crimes except murder, and I didn't murder anyone; well, no murder has ever been connected to me.

As a test of my skills as a gangster, Mr. Lane sent me to Miami to deal with drug smugglers who were flying weekly trips into Columbia in a small two-seat Cessna. They had gutted the light aircraft, filled it with suitcases of cash, and flown to Columbia. When they flew back to Florida, the plane's belly was filled with cocaine. One of those flight's suitcases was Mr. Lane's money, and the jerks running this flying circus forgot to send Mr. Lane his share of white powder. They must not have known you don't fuck with Mr. Lane, but they were to learn.

An older Croatian ex-pat, driving a green jeep and wearing a military vest, took me to the Brooklyn garbage dump to teach me how to use a modified automatic Thompson.45 submachine gun. Semi-auto Thompson's were being sold in gun stores. It was a simple trick to file down the block that held the firing pin and turn the semi-auto into a fully automatic weapon. Of course, no one sought an ATF (Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms) permit or stamp as required by law.

At the dump, the Croat suggested I practice by shooting the multitude of cats hunting rats. I told him to set up some cans and bottles instead. He explained that the submachine gun's kick, when fired, caused the barrel to rise upwards. It was a bitch to keep the barrel pointed down, but once you mastered that trick, it became a formidable weapon. A 50-shot rotary magazine added to the weight but looked frighteningly cool. Because of the short barrel, the device was only accurate at fifty feet. "You gotta get close to your target, or you'll be the one shot."

I flew to Miami on a commercial flight with the Thompson .45 broken down in my suitcase. Airlines had not begun X-raying suitcases. The plane stopped in Orlando, and I was transferred to a smaller plane with 10 seats. I was the only passenger. On arrival in Miami, I rented a Hertz sedan at the airport. An hour later, I checked into a small Cuban hotel across the street from the drug dealer's hideout, which was a working Pizzeria. From my hotel room, I could see that the cocaine smugglers used the building's rear exit as their distribution point. There was a constant traffic of buyers. Drugs were being sold to small-time distributors. When I left New York, I was given photos of the swindlers. I had a hit list, and from my hotel room, I began to identify them.

I spent six days observing their activities. I'd figured out the gang's comings and goings and had spotted the key players who swindled Mr. Lane. They were marked to be taken down. On a late Sunday afternoon, I waited in my rent-a-car outside the pizza parlor's front door. At closing time, the Boss, Luigi Giancarlo, came out the front door. He was easy to identify by his big handlebar mustache that perfectly matched the picture I had been given. I kicked my car door open to get a clear shot and cut him in two with a short riff of seven shots from the Thompson. When he fell, he still had a Cuban cigar clenched in his teeth.

I jumped out of the Dodge and ran into the pizza place, past the empty tables, and blew away two other gang members eating spaghetti before they could lock the door separating the parlor from the back office. I entered the office and saw a large safe with the door unlocked. I swung the heavy steel door open and scooped up a suitcase filled with cash and a blue knapsack filled with pure cocaine waiting for pickup. My job was to execute the hit. Three men lay dead. The money and cocaine were the cherry on top—and I was out of there.

I'd picked the hour to leave, thinking the evening traffic would be light. I drove five hours north to Jacksonville, past that famous sign at the state border that said 'Welcome to Florida, Bring Money."

I stayed under the speed limit as the highway patrol was busy pulling over speeders. I never stopped except for gas, and I peed in an empty glass milk bottle. I drove north in a beeline, passing one state after another. It seemed to take forever to get past New Jersey. I was tired by that point. When I got to the outskirts of New York City, I drove straight to Lane's clubhouse in Bedford Sty. I made it in less than 24 sleepless hours. Once I arrived, I handed Norbert the suitcase and knapsack, and left.