Shall we get to it now? I assumed that all of this would be taken to my grave, as I am not a rat, but something compelled me to stop in and suspend mortality for a bit longer, almost as if you were my confessor. Not that absolution is being sought. We are all in need of occasional literary absolution, of course, but I suppose I was subconsciously remembering when my dear father would tuck me, his little bird, into him, visit the bookseller, and they would talk simply but with apparent meaning. Papa once told me that booksellers, gracious of knowledge, but weak of courage, were among the few semi-honorable people in this crafty city. As I walked up Chartres Street, I thought, where is my best chance at these few minutes being true, even if not an exchange, because there simply is not time for it. I guess you are naturally mordant and sardonic rather than gregarious, but if nothing else, you might find your time redeemed. You will soon realize that this is not to be repeated, at least not until your own final minutes, and although I do not expect that anyone would believe you anyway, an error of judgment by lack of discretion on your part would be a fatal mistake. Papa once told me that booksellers, gracious of knowledge, but weak of courage, were among the few semi-honorable people in this crafty city. Do not let the fact of my obvious German heritage fool you. You have probably heard of some of the big names of the past, mostly Sicilians, but there always have been several of other nationalities who keep a low profile. I am talking about business, the kind I call facilitation or providing a desired service, but which is labeled as organized crime when it is not being perpetuated by corporations, politicians, or the police. They have mostly taken over things with a greedy fervency that would put to shame a junkie in need of a fix. You still look skeptical and askance, as if you are entertaining disbelief about my authenticity or cannot reconcile it with what you see in front of you. Perhaps your preconceptions do not allow you to picture someone like me being ruthless and making daily bread off of the suckers, schmucks, hucklebucks, and Vidalias. My bonafides will be readily apparent soon enough. Call me a shadow. My name does not matter. Everyone who needs to know does, and all others think me a little old shopkeeper remnant from the long past immigrant neighborhood days. It is an artificial name anyway, though no one is aware of that, a paper name it was referred to as being, the non-ethnic American sounding name provided to me, complete with modified birth records, after my father was imprisoned in 1918 for speaking German in a public place. My childhood had been fairly uneventful, but due to this terrible event I ended up receiving succor for several years at the, now what was it, let’s see, oh yes, the Bethlehem Orphan Asylum on North Peters Street, which faced the levee in what was then the country. My years upon coming of age were fairly hardscrabble, some days no better than a hand upon the waters, but I came through them well, considering, less a supplicant than a barely ruined child, resourceful and focused. I swore that I would put my mark on Leveetown and started out by acquiring a position at a tailor shop on Bourbon Street. Over my time there, an enduring lesson was learned. In this wretched life, it is better to control than to be controlled.

By the late 1940’s, I began to do odd jobs for Carlos Marcello, who ran everything in the South. Gambling, drugs, girls, you name it. It was an irregular arrangement for him, but we were bound to end up working together, elective affinities based on both of our natures, you see. After the Kefauver Committee hearings, Carlos felt besieged by the fruits of conspiracy, needed to reduce his active presence, and began to shift some responsibilities to trusted underlings and family members. You may have heard of a few of them, they turned flashy and thought they were invincible, sufficient heart twice pleased by brash conduct. Me, I took an example from someone who was also a shadow, Abe Raxas, a person not mentioned in books or archives, one benefit of history being a scoundrel. He has been dead for eighty years but wore the golden band in his day. Abe was ingenious and formidable, the informal mayor of the city starting around the turn of the century. No was not an option. One either did his bidding for the day or just jumped into the river to trump the inevitable grisly example made of the defiant few. His tactic was to pick 365 men randomly each year. Different men every time. No repeats. Those chosen were designated a specific day to report for duty and assigned a criminally compromising task that he needed accomplished, in effect eventually holding the potential threat of blackmail over most of the entire city’s men. No was not an option. One either did his bidding for the day or just jumped into the river to trump the inevitable grisly example made of the defiant few. Abe was utilizing a secret society model to make all of the Leveetown men his blood brothers, his own brethren, the paradox being that it was in everyone’s best interest to keep their mouths shut about that which also ended up involving nearly all of the collective male residents, including friends and neighbors. There was little resentment or honest envy because only one day of service was required over a lifetime and Abe gave back to the community with unwieldy largess not based on proud pity. My own style is much more subdued, to put it mildly, but one can always learn from people of his stature. I have adapted Abe’s philosophy of thinking big, yet remaining discreet, and keeping as many people as possible in one’s employ, as well as making sure to pay them well, which was also emphasized by Carlos. When I say as many people as possible, I mean those on or potentially on the wrong side of the laws. Notice I did not say the law, because those charlatans are far baser than we could ever hope to be, just don’t think that their ineptness is limited to only police work. That goes double for the politicians, those errors of biology, who would rob the coffers even more if they had a modicum of smarts.