My Uncle Louie, The Goniff ("Being a 'goniff' or in polite language a thief is a terrific life, but they put you in the slammer for it.") It was a bleak wintry morning as I waited in the misery of that freezing day in my sedan outside the gates of the penitentiary. My paunchy body was well wrapped in a thick overcoat as I was forced to leave a frosted window partially opened in order to see the outside world. On the outside the winds sent chills through the air and whisked up whirlpools of dust from the ground. The winds blew their chilling gusts on my florid features, reddening the skin despite a heavy pulled-down woolen cap on the bald of my head, and a thick woolen scarf around the neck. The frost fogged my thick specs forcing me to wipe them repeatedly. "Damn it, damn it to hell,' I muttered inwardly, "why the devil did the family chose me to pick up my Uncle Louie. Even the authorities contacted me; it seemed that every time Uncle Louie got into some lawbreaking or other I would be notified. Even the newspaper clipping agency in service to my office informed me of his exploits; it was an added but quiet service, which I paid handsomely." "I had enough of it. This they they could of gotten Aunt Fray, his ex-wife, as she knew he would be discharged this day. Damn she knew as she was always writing to him while he served his period of time for forgery and theft. True I was a lawyer, but my expertise was in corporate law, but not in defending petty criminals. Damn and be damned Uncle Louie was not even my client." I finished my cursed words and let my thoughts drift to my Uncle Louie, the black sheep of our large family. He was always one step from the law, and again, the usual scenario, tripped by a competent investigation by the authorities. I thought of my relative and the images of him weren't not so pleasant. From what I remembered of the sight of the bugger, that he always walked about slunk down with a furtive look in his dark deep set eyes. "That runty little man was always dressed like a beggar, with a workman's peaked cap, covering his thin lined face," I mused, "except when he was on his many criminal exploits. Then he dressed the part." Thoughts ran through in its rembrance. "Uncle Louie was always known as a real thorough hard luck case, a real schmiel. Yiddish words were the only way to describe his life; as they say in that lingo, 'a 'schmiel' was always the chap that dropped the soup and the 'schmalzal' was poor hard luck fool who was on the receiving end.' But, my Uncle Louie was both in character." "That poor fool, everything that he touched in his miserable life turned to ashes. Even in marriage he found the ill’temper of his fortune, but that is a story that will take hours to relate. His attempts to earn a honest living always found some pitfall or other, like his two-day employment as a waiter at a plush Jewish restaurant; no need to explain what happened. Probably those were the reasons he turned to criminal acts." My florid face was etched in mirth when I thought deeply of my uncle's past life in crime, "Even in those criminal pursuits he committed some stupid mistakes, like stealing that doughnut delivery truck. It was rather comical with the police following the trail of spilling doughnuts, because in his haste he forgot to close the back of the truck. Earned himself a couple of years in the slammer." "And," as I continued to reminisce, "the time he burglarized the photo shop. He just couldn't resist the temptation of taking his picture in the automatic photo booth. The idiot put in the right amount of coinage, sat still and as the lights flashed he was phographed. Well other lights were seen, blue flashing ones, which forced my Uncle Louie to scurry away," I chortle inwardly as I thought that the boys in blue were not schmiels when they retrieved his photos in the slot. "Uncle Louie didn't show up for the arraignment as he took up residence in a distant town." "Even there he became known to the coppers," My mind reverted to that era of time when in that town there was a string of burglaries committed by a man small enough to shimmy through transoms and other inaccesible spots, which gave easy access to an interior of a shop. "Well," as I remembered the end of the incident, "It seemed that a patrol car spotted my Uncle Louie, with the loot, crawling from a shop. Chase was the word. In order to escape the hand of the law my Uncle Louie stripped to his BVDs and shimmied through a drainpipe. He got stuck as the pipe narrowed and it took three hours to free him. I bet that was the dirtiest arrest made by the cops." "The old fool, should have quit in his middling years. He should of learned a bitter lesson,that for him ‘crime does not pay’. No, he had to try his luck again in the criminal craft. During that period he tried his hand in snitching official mail from locked mailboxes. It was quite easy for the good man as the mailman usually jammed the letters in the mail slot. All my Uncle Louie had to do in the act of stealing was simply scanning the letters and those that might contain checks or money orders were pilfered." I thought of the few months seeing my Uncle Louie as a high roller with snappy clothes and quite generous with the cash." "Until the day the police collared him!" My mind reverted to the incident, which led to the finality of yours truly, corporate lawyer par excellent, waiting at the gates of the prison. "It seems that my Uncle Louie was quite successful as he possesed a good hand at forgery; the banks and postoffices where he cashed the checks paid out without a word. Yet, my Uncle Louie was fated to be a constant schmiel, a real schmuk, an idiot." "What I rembered was written in the tabloids, which detailed the event that led to his arrest." 'Authorities stated that Louis C...., 42 entered the Farmers State Bank at about 10 a.m. on the tenth of July. The accused attempted to cash a disability check for $500.00 at the bank written in the top right corner. That the inquisitive teller had recognized the name on the check, but didn't recognize the face. It seemed the check was the property of the new cleaning man of the bank who recently opened an account. "Well the teller was clever chap," I mused, "he confirmed that the man's identity was bogus and then stalled my Uncle Louie till the arrival of the men in blue." "This time the luck of my Uncle Louie ran out. He was sentenced to eight years with the usual pardon after a time of good behavior; the judge deemed him incorrigible and warned him that he faced life in prison for another criminal act. I wondered how much effect the words of the judge had on him." My thoughts were interrupted as the steel door of the institution opened and an aged man in ill-fitting prison issued clothes exited. The schmiel saw me waiting in my vehicle and he slowly made his way to his nephew. Our family never saw Uncle Louie after that shameful incident and they hoped he traded in his career as a goniff to more honest pursuits, but they were wrong. Uncle Louie tried his hand to become an instant millionaire. It was fortunate for the members of our large family that he decided to carry on his trade in the land below the flow of the Rio Grande. Uncle Louie teemed up with a local goniff, as he didn't understand the lingo. They were paired in their furtive appearances, except the local boyo was swarthy in complexion and had a fair knowledge of the computer world. Together they set up business and were rather successful for a couple of months. The larcenous business was quite simple. "The Latino, Sanchez was his first name," as I tried to remember, "would slip his slim body on the swivel chair in front of his computer." Sanchez was a real artist in his forgery. With deft fingers he would punch the keys of the infernal machine and print out plausible bank checks. Then Uncle Louie would disguise himself as an Americano tourist and visited culpable souvenier shops; disguises would change on a daily basis and at different locations. There a purchase or two would be made with a higher amount than the bill written on the check. The shop would profusely accept his apologies of the error took the checks and return the right amount written in access. As to the purchased goods, a profitable market was found; Sanchez's uncle and owner of a well-established gift shop, was quite understanding. But, the luck of my Uncle Louie and his Sanchez turned sour, as they were wanted by the local police to answer their inquiries. It seemed that Sanchez in the skill of the computer world forgot to print the name of a bank on top of the blank checks. Sanchez was an equal 'schmiel'and most probably there is a Spanish word describing his character. Both the skilled craftsmen, after a bit of articulation, made their whereabouts unknown to those seeking them. Memory rattled in the mind. "Uncle Louie and his partner did surface for a short while until the troopers of the Lone Star State were in need of them. The wanted to have a chat with them for passing bogus checks in the name of the 'La Palma State Equity Bank' to the merchants of the companera communities. Signed with the flourishing hand of Dr. Louis Sanchez, bank president." "I never knew if the boys in the ten gallon hats ever had that chat with or with his partner Sanchez. But, when I read in some periodical that police of certain community were searching for the man of my Uncle Louie's description, I knew the goniff and his Snachez were going strong in their criminal pursuits. Until the day, according to type written on the back pages, when an irate shopkeeper, spotted the fake check printed with name of the 'Reality State Comprehensive Bank' that was passed by my Uncle Louie. The chappie was quite irritated for the attempt in pulling the wool over his eyes and he simply grabbed a shotgun and let pellets fly." "Well my Uncle Louie might be up there with all the angels and I trust he will be satified with strumming a harp even though he is musically tone deaf. But if went down to the hellfires, I'm sure he found a scheme to finagle Lucifer and his myriad of demons. Trust my Uncle Louie, the goniff, he would find a way, even though he is a schmiel."
Copyright © 2002 Norman A Rubin |