''The Gang That Couldn't Shoot Straight'' - A Review

It can be strange to consider where you find comfort in times of stress. I found a copy of the book in one of Montréal's Livre-Service boxes, and I found myself consistently dipping into this roman-a-clef as I packed, contacted movers and contemplated another home in this city. It turned out to be an interesting friend that made me laugh, contemplate a city that I have always been obsessed with, and think about how language, even when devoted to pulpy subjects, can fly and soar...

But who the hell is Jimmy Breslin? And why should you read this book?

You can sometimes read about certain figures in history and say to yourself, “Only one person could have led this life, and I'm grateful it wasn’t me.” Mr. Breslin was born in 1928 into a family whose father left the house one day and never came back, forcing his mother to raise a growing Catholic boy and his siblings during the Great Depression. He wrote for various New York papers as a columnist, often championing the underdogs and demimonde of his hometown (one of his most famous pieces was an interview with a gravedigger…who helped inter John F. Kennedy). He would eventually run for public office with the late Norman Mailer, running a campaign that is still commented on by pundits and poli-sci students. There would be serious beat-downs by gangsters (one took place in a business owned by Henry Hill of “Goodfellas” notoriety by a character mentioned in this book – fame was not what they wanted), numerous books (his look at the first season of the New York Mets – “Can't Anybody Here Play This Game?” – still speaks to me), fame - David Berkowitz (Son of Sam) corresponded with him during the latter's murder spree in the late 70s - and awards. He would even get to host Saturday Night Live in the same year he won a Pulitzer Prize for Commentary (1986). Since his death in 2017, a growing level of respect and love for the man and his work has made me eager to read and learn everything I could about him. And so, I began with the tome I found in the book box.

And it begins with a bike race.

What a perfect way to make a fortune if you’re a gangster.

Okay, maybe not, and the race itself is such a small part of this tale that the outcome is barely acknowledged in the story that unfolds. There are gangsters who just want to get ahead in the life, a cyclist who wants to be an artist, believing that untied shoelaces and unnecessary glasses give him an advantage, meter maids you do not want to mess with, police officers who just want to have a break, a mayor you can actually feel sorry for, and…a lion.

Ah, New York…

The 1960s and 70s were a very different era. Look at the movies that depict the city during that heady time (amazed that they had to nerve to call themselves “Fun City” ). Breslin’s prose, although badly dated in some senses, is very alive and electric as it dances on the page and pulls you into that darkness. And as my cover keeps mentioning to me, it is a “belly laugh”. How do you not laugh at sections like this:

“Raymond the Wolf passed away one night from natural causes: his heart stopped beating when three men who slipped into his bedroom stuck knives in it. Joe the Wop, who had sent the three men, took over the mob… A year later he dropped dead while being strangled.”

And this:

“She (Carmela Russo) regarded Weight Watchers as the last chance for her marriage... One afternoon Carmela Russo was in the Weight Watchers club, exercising very hard. She glanced up and saw Kid Sally Palumbo and two of his group swagger in and begin shouting at Mrs. Millie Lewin, who ran the club. Carmela Russo picked her chest off the floor and let out the first of many loud hollers, the last of several of which were heard in the District Attorney’s office.”

And finally, this:

“The big moment in the wake at Campion’s came when Kid Sally Palumbo arrived. Entrances signify rank at gang funerals. A big shot does not walk in from the hallway and stand in front of the casket like any other mourner. A big shot forms up in the hallway with his bodyguards and he waits until the front of the room is clear and the seats are filled. Then he sweeps in. The level of murmur in the room attests to his rank. A buttonman gets a little gasp. A lieutenant gets a louder gasp. A captain gets tears. A don beppe or generalissimo creates screams. If you come in front of a casket and create only silence, it usually means that you too could be on the road to the cemetery.”

And so on and so on… And as you can imagine, there are passages like this all through Breslin’s tale, as well as characters named Water Buffalo, Tony the Indian, Benny the Bug, Big Jelly Catallano, and…a lion who remains untitled.

I know that some people might balk at reading a book with a character named Joe the Wop or lines like this:

“Meester Jelly, please, we get a nice-a place here. You a circus.”

I won’t bring down the political correctness and cancel culture of our age into this. Breslin plays no favourites and has an eye and an ear that are perfectly in tune with the world he portrays. And please remember that it was published in 1969, a few short years before “The Godfather”, “The French Connection”, and the rest of those classic films that would tell an ugly truth about a city that had been abandoned and left to rot.

Breslin refuses to let this happen, and this is too entertaining a book for anyone to abandon, even if the lion remains the only truly sympathetic character in the whole tale.

Do yourself a favour and go into this for a laugh. It reads like pulp fiction, feels like riding a whirlwind, and you owe it to yourself to find out more about that wonderful talented beast…

I mean, New York...of course. ;)

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