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The illusion our mostly unsuccessful hijacking brother Leny
One N would create was, that he was tightly associated
with organized crime and this illusion was perpetuated every
time we went to visit him in his new home in Pennsylvania,among
Amish country, at the Lewisburg Federal Penitentiary not terribly
far from where a certain resigned president's cronies would
do time for re-interpreting the Constitution and the Magna
Carta — a paper for them that was just so much cheap
toilet paper.
In not so casual a way he would tell us many times how he
had often eaten at Umberto's; the very same eatery where "Crazy
Guy" had been gunned down and always parenthetically
he would inform us that he had on more than one occasion rubbed
elbows with some syndicate guys in The Bronx who were still
living in our old neighborhood; still sitting in front of
"the club," in nice weather, playing "Three
Sevens" or "Sweep."
"Hey, not for nothing,
if you talk to a guy — it don't make you one of them!"
he would say; shaping fantasies in minds — including
his own that had him already a legend.
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