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kitty and said she had to take a poke. In them days mari-geewana was a big deal. The broad blew up, ran downtown and put the squeal on the Palladium to her boss, an assistant D.A. name of Kuh who was already into being one of Hogan’s main honchos. So now you got shoo-fly checking out the P and first thing down is a pimp name of Umberto beating up on two of his whores. And what does they see the house do? Throw the broads down the stairs and buy Umberto a drink. This is an outrage, say Mr. Kuh. And the great Palladium raid was on. ’Cept that by that time all the heavy people knew it was coming off—yeah, stool pigeons fly in both directions. So like, block all the exits, blow all the lights—“Everybody freeze!” By the time they got the lights back on, all the guns, knives, and dope was on the floor and the bulls was running around trying to match up whozis with whatzis. It was a jive raid but it blew the liquor license and the old P went under. Damn shame. Somebody always gotta mess up a good thing.
    M IDWAY UP THE FIFTIES , E ARL B ASSEY SENT WORD HE wanted a meet with me. I’d run into Earl from time to time; I knew he was big in policy up in black Harlem. Sunday night at the Copa: I knew right away we was connected. So the wops are cutting loose; they been hoggingit all to themselves—finally giving the natives a break. I got myself all dolled up and went down—big night at the Copa. The boys was all in their tiers, according to rank. Cigars, white-on-white, pinkie rings—the broads, roamin’ noses, with hair teased like brillo. Every table like a little click, with the boss playing his crew like he had a baton—he laughs, they laugh, he gets up, they get up.
    “So I sez to him….”
    “ Madon’ , Fonso, you got some pair of balls….”
    “He’s a fuckin’ cafone… .”
    I don’t see a black face in the whole joint. I go back upstairs to the lounge and order a drink. I ain’t there five minutes when there’s a big commotion coming up from downstairs. This little blond guy is raising hell—he’s got three or four guys with him, spitters all—the maitre d’ is pleading, “Please Joey, please!”
    “I wanna see this Jew cocksucker right here and now!”
    This little Jew comes off the bar.
    “What’s the trouble, Joey?”
    “What’s the trouble? What kind of ratjoint is this that I got to sit in the back—I don’t rate around here? Where’s my respect?”
    “Joey, please—there’s been a mixup with the tables, we’ll straighten it out—”
    By this time, this Joey guy is stone-white in the face. He whips out an automatic and starts banging it on top of the bar—splinters flying—he’s screaming, “I’m gonna shylock this joint, I am in—starting next week you’re turning over to me—you hear, you Jew bastard?”
    “Whatever you say, Joey, whatever you say.” The Jew was cool, ice water. Sweat was coming down my spine; other people’s beefs always scare me more than my own. I never seen such a show of cojones; there was a hundred guys frozen there—half of them had to be packing.
    Then they were gone. About that time Earl came in— clean as always. He had with him a high-yaller chick that wouldn’t quit. Uuwee!
    I was still shook up. I told him this wop Joey, from Brooklyn, had terrorized the joint. Earl said, “He be bad as ten sacks of motherfuckers, but he ain’t coming back next week; he’s crazy, but he ain’t that crazy.”
    This guy comes over and says to us, “You’re Mr. Fabrizi’s guests?” Well all right!
    Rocco, you sombitch, I knew you was heavy in the mambo when I saw that table right down on the floor. Some mobbed-up Jew comedian was on the floor and every joke was played to some capo at ringside, like “Sonny this” and “Sonny that.” I knew enough not to want to know who these guys were, but I was impressed—heavy, heavy.
    About this time, slipping and sliding, Mr. Rocco Fabrizi. He looked like money—tiny cuff links, tiny watch, shoulders