Читать книгу Newark Minutemen - Leslie K. Barry - Страница 26

“Four liters of beer!” I shout to the German-dressed waitress. Today is Sunday. One of the many days Germans drink. And the best place to drink on Sundays in Newark, New Jersey is the German Biergarten.

“This is what democracy is all about, mein Freunde,” I tell Günther and the boys. Along with Axel and Frank, Günther sits with me at the freshly painted patio table. “Sharing tables, talking with our own, eating our food, drinking endless liters of beer.” The chill of winter is gone and I feel the future among my many German compatriots. Most are uniformed like us. Others have turned into good ole’ Americans hiding behind the American flag. They’ll learn!

“This, my boys, is choice,” Günther responds. He spreads his arms wide.

The wunderschöne waitress delivers our beer. She’s beautiful, but it took her long enough. I lift my stein toward the others and then gulp the beer down before she has time to step away. Tasting the first sip of my favorite drink never gets old. “Another round!” I say to the Fräulein whose Bavarian skirt flips up from a breeze as she walks away.

Frank gulps his beer. “Heidi and Krista barely made it home alive the other night,” he says, lifting his eyebrows like a gossiping teenage girl. Clearly, he’s itching to pat himself on the back for facing Zwillman’s gang. Maybe I should give him a break? Heck! I’ve been in his shoes before. After the failed coup attempt with Adolph, I remember trying to impress my father. In front of all his friends, he laughed. He said he was not surprised with the fiasco since I had always been a coward—the type of boy who threw snowballs with gloves on.

“What Frank means to report is that these were the same gangsters who wrecked the Bund rally the other night at City Hall,” Axel says to cover for his Freund. “They’re part of the Zwillman gang who are constantly causing trouble.”

“You mean the catastrophe in Union City?” I bob my head. “Now this is interesting news,” I say. “I hope the girls lambasted the schlagers for destroying City Hall.”

“Yes!” Frank says. “Heidi told them off good. She said they should respect freedom of speech. But Krista’s a different story, right Axel?”

Axel grits his teeth. “The scum got her drunk. I’d expect nothing less from these people. Krista knows what she did was wrong. And she’s ready to pay back!” Normally the blacks of Axel’s eyes are big with excitement. But right now the stony turquoise surrounds a beady black dot in the center. The spot hammers, like a serpent who’s ready to pounce. And pounce we will.

The waitress rushes over with our beer so quickly that it splashes in my lap. “Es tut mir Leid, I’m so sorry,” she blurts. Finally, she recognizes me. She bows her head. “Oh, forgive me, mein Führer. You are the Führer Kuhn.” She shivers like a newborn calf and wipes my pants with her apron. I spread my legs to indulge her.

Her soft flushed cheeks are framed with blonde braids, and when I look into her eyes she knows I will forgive her. “No matter, Fräulein. That’s what Biergartens are for.” I slide my hand under her ruffled dirnl apron-dress and down her curvy hips. She smiles. “Bring us sandwiches and sauerkraut.” I wink at Günther. We will not have to wait very long now.

“How come Zwillman is always one step ahead of us. How does he know so much about our plans?” Frank asks, slurping the rest of his beer.

Finally, a worthwhile question. “I’ll tell you. Gangster Abner Longie Zwillman is a criminal. He hobbles knees and cracks knuckles until he gets information. His Murder Inc. runs America like an evil dictatorship. All the while, U.S. government dances for him like a puppet.”

Günther chuckles low in his throat. “Three Jews and three Italians keep peace with machine guns and assassinations,” he says. Günther’s familiar with the Big Six crime syndicate that props up America—Zwillman, Bugsy Siegel, Meyer Lansky, Lucky Luciano, Joey Adonis and Frank Costello. No wonder the country is in shambles.

I clack my empty stein on the table. “Zwillman smuggled in half the country’s illegal alcohol during the Prohibition from right here in the bay,” I say. “In fact, they call Zwillman the Capone of New Jersey.” Zwillman probably considers it a compliment. Can’t blame him too much for that, though. After all, I swell with pride when they call me the American Hitler.

“While good Americans like us grow hungry, they bring in millions from gambling, prostitution, dirty money washed through clubs, and labor union rackets,” Günther says.

“And the cops just let it slide?” asks Axel, astonishment in the rise of his voice.

“The rat coined the word payoff in Newark. He controls cops all the way up to the judges,” Günther says. “He puts mayors and attorney generals in office.

“I get it. And now he’s using his connections to disrupt our rallies and uncover our secrets,” Axel says as he extends his lower jaw toward Frank.

A fascist government would never allow criminals to run a country. Yet in America, they bankroll them. “Is this democracy?” I ask, scanning everyone’s eyes for an answer. I get nothing. “I want a plan to stop this slimy man’s conspiracy to bring down America!” I yell.

My skin broils when I consider Zwillman’s threat to this country. I want to cut the head off this dragon. The bastard is worshipped like some Robin Hood hero. But face it. He’s a flachwichser, just a corrupt scumbag and destroyer of everything American! Then, like vinegar clearing filth from a pipe, the rush clears my mind. I have an idea to discuss later with Günther.

Thankfully, my blood pressure decreases as soon as I see our lovely waitress sprinting toward us with our feast! After lunch, she will get to escort me to the officers’ toilette. Letting her entertain me will help give her a sense of duty that all our women crave. My eyes wash over her body like soap. I breathe in the spring air mixed with the cheesy smell of sauerkraut. The band in their lederhosen shorts and suspenders returns me to the Fatherland. I know this song will be stuck in my head now for days.