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It was September 1977, and the biggest names in New York crime were David Berkowitz and John Gotti. Berkowitz had been apprehended, and Gotti was the real King of Queens. I was 22 and had been downsized from my job as a store manager at one of the thirty-three Jimmy’s Music World record stores that would soon be closed, and was, along with all other Jimmy’s managers, blacklisted in the retail record business.

That’s another story for another column.

My mother, Evelyn, was running a blackjack game out of a small, nondescript apartment above a store in Maspeth, Queens. Gambling and running a gambling establishment were illegal, but I believe the statute of limitations has expired, and so has Evelyn.

If you were involved in any sort of illegal activity in Queens in those days, you paid tribute to John Gotti. He wasn’t the boss of the Gambino family yet, and not long out of prison, but he had his territory. Sometimes he’d show up to play cards, usually with some young hoodlum for protection. Nobody got in John’s way.

Since I was unemployed, Mom hired me as a driver. I would pick up gamblers from their homes in the evening, take them to the game, and drive them home in the morning. In between, I’d watch TV and sleep on a La-Z-Boy recliner in a tiny side bedroom of the apartment. It was a crap job, but it wouldn’t be forever. I still felt like a punk — low expectations, high on weed, no real future that I could see.

There was this ‘connected’ guy who worked the game with Evelyn. Jimmy (not his real name because I’ve forgotten it) would roast a turkey hours before a game, make sandwiches, and serve drinks. Jimmy was a classic example of a certain New York type. He was Mister Five-By-Five: short, round, and bald, the kind of guy who looked like he was smoking a cigar even when he wasn’t. Still, round as he was, he had arms like tree trunks. You’d be a fool to mess with Jimmy, and that was his real job.

One night, Gotti showed up, not in one of the expensive suits that would later define him, but wearing a polo shirt and gold chains. His bodyguard was wearing the same. I saw them enter the apartment, greet Jimmy, ignore me, and go into the front room, the card room. Gotti had had a few. Not sloppy, but not at the top of his game either.

Jimmy made me a sandwich. He made one hell of a turkey sandwich — tender, not too much mayo, and rye bread freshly sliced from a store up the block. I stood next to Jimmy in the kitchen savoring the first bite.

It’s important to note that, if you lent money to a made guy like Gotti, you should forget about ever getting it back, but Evelyn didn’t play by those rules. John Gotti owed my mother a thousand dollars, and at some point in the evening, she asked for it back.

“You need money?” Gotti asked, loud and slurring just a little. “Then take your fat Jew ass out on the street and earn it.” Now, Evelyn was fat and Jewish, but what he’d just called my mother was way over the line. I had to do something, so I strode toward the card room. Jimmy grabbed my sleeve.

“Whatchoo think you’re doin’?”

“That guy just called my mother a whore!” I said. “That’s not right.”

“That guy,” Jimmy said, very calmly, “would have no problem having you killed if you say one word to him. Your mother is a big girl, and she can handle it herself.”

“But I have to…”

“You have to take that sandwich into that side room, turn on the television, and pretend you didn’t hear anything. Do it now. I’ll bring you a soda.”

I took a breath. I went into the side room and watched an old gangster movie where the gangsters wore suits with wide lapels, not polo shirts.

By morning, Gotti and his goon were gone.

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