July 6–13, 1995

pretzel logic

Payback Time

Allegedly, a DJ can hire a hit man. So why can't I?

By Howard Altman

This whole tale of Stale Cheesedoodle Jerry Blavat supposedly wanting Nicky Scarfo to off Stale Cheesedoodle Hy Lit because Lit was playing the same stale records as Blavat gave me an idea.

I called my old pal, Myron "The Siren" Greenblatt, ex-capo of the Philly Kosher Nostra, who's now spending his days on a tropical island I won't mention as a guest of the Federal Witless Protection Program.

As I read about the Goiter Who Likes To Loiter and his reputed plea for mob muscle to moider Lit, I got to thinking about Greenblatt and what he could do for me.

Greenblatt is in The Program thanks to his decision to play cantor and sing about the famous "Phony Baloney" extortion case, in which the Kosher Nostra tried to move in on a kashrut meat plant in the Northeast.

Greenblatt, on orders from the New York Kosher Nostra, was supposed to whack the meat plant owner if the owner didn't ante up protection money.

Well, it turned out that the plant owner knew bubkes about kosher meat and was actually an FBI agent whose experience with Judaism was limited to renting Yentl from the FBI headquarters' Quantico, Va video library.

At any rate, Greenblatt, who has a severe allergic reaction to prison food, decided that prison wasn't for him.

Prison is noisy, crowded and besides, it would mean a 20-year hiatus from his daily breakfast of sablefish, cream cheese and a slice tomato on a poppy seed bagel. So he finked on the New York boys and is now, as they say, on the lam.

But he still keeps in touch.

Usually, the conversation goes something like this:

"So how are the Phillies?" he asks. "How is that nice Jewish mayor from New York?"

I say fine. He asks me about the weather. I say fine. I ask him about the island, he says, "Oy, you can't get a decent pickle here."

The other day was different, though.

Right after he groused about the pickles, I asked Myron the Siren a favor.

I know I will live to regret it, but, what the hell, I got some things on my mind that need taking care of.

"So, Myron, can you do me a favor?" I asked.

"What do you need, boychick?" he answered.

"Well, there's a couple of people around town that are bugging me, Myron. I need some muscle to shake them up a little bit."

"So, who?" he told me. "Who do you need me to fix?"

"Larry Platt over at Philly Mag. He once called me a 'Giant of Journalism' in a story and I don't take kindly to that kind of mockery. And he never returned my phone call about Stato-Matic baseball."

"It's as good as done, boychick," said my friend Myron the Siren. "Anyone else?"

"My ice cream man."

"I'm sorry," said Myron. "Must be a bad connection. Did you say your ice cream man?"

"Yes. I can't remember the last time he had any chocolate ice cream left by the time he made it to my block. I think he needs some fixing, too."

There was a pause. From the other end of the phone, I could hear Myron harassing a waiter.

"Schmuck! I said seltzer!" Myron was screaming. "There's no cream in an egg cream. Seltzer!"

After a few more minutes of moaning and groaning, Myron was back.

"Gevult, maybe I should have gone to jail after all. These people don't know the difference between egg cream and egg salad. Anyway, bubbe, this ice cream man, he's not one of the old boys from my group, is he? You know we had a thing going with ice cream trucks. Remember the Mr. Tsoris trucks? Those were ours."

I assured Myron that my ice cream man definitely does not drive a Mr. Tsoris truck and he assured me that the guy was as good as melted unless he made with a chocolate cone.

"Anything else?" Myron asked me.

"Well, as long as you ask, there is someone else up here that needs fixing."

"And who might this someone be, bubbalah?"

Before I could answer, Myron was at it again.

"You schmendrin!" he was screaming again at the hapless island help. "There are no eggs in an egg cream. Oh Lord, is this my punishment?"

Then he came back to me and I could tell by his voice that he was in a foul mood and that I was definitely pushing things.

"Look, I'm in a foul mood and you're beginning to push things," he said. "If this guy don't bring me a good egg cream, you're gonna read about it. You have one more person in mind you want I should fix before I hang up?"

Hmmm.

That was a tough choice.

John Street?

Nah, too obvious.

Bob Hall?

Nope. He's got enough troubles already.

I was beginning to feel like Daffy Duck in the episode where he gets his hands on a magic lamp.

Then it came to me.

A guy who pissed me off years ago.

A guy who is definitely owed a good fixing.

"Hey, Myron, can you do something about Lee Thomas?"

I could hear Myron almost gag.

"Lee Thomas. You want I should fix Lee Thomas? What are you, meshugina? I love Lee Thomas. So nu? What do you have against Lee Thomas?"

It was the Lenny Dykstra thing.

All these years and I'm still pissed off that Thomas, the Phillies' general manager, talked the Mets into giving him not just Dykstra, but Roger McDowell and Tom Edens for Juan Samuel.

It was payback time.

But Myron wasn't so sure that was a good idea.

"Listen kid, I like you," he said. "You were always kind to me. This Platt guy and your ice cream man. No problem. But Lee and I are buds. Who do you think thought up that Dykstra deal?"

Oh well. Payback really is a bitch.

"Ok, so forget Thomas. But can you take care of one more guy?"

"Who?" asked Myron.

"What about Blavat, the boss with the old sauce?" I asked. "That guy really bugs me."

"Me too," said my friend Myron the Siren Greenblatt. "Consider it done."