On my way to the house I’m hoping Moish isn’t home. But as soon as I walk in there he is, standing in the living room, holding the Post in one hand and the News in the other.

I gird myself for what’s coming. “So I guess you read about me in the paper.”

His smile gets broader. “You bet I did.”

“It was all a huge misunderstanding. Believe it or not, you’re my alibi. I was here with you last night when it happened.”

He sticks his thumb in the air. “Of course you were. I’ll back you up a hundred percent. Just tell me what time I was supposed to be here and I’ll swear on a pile of Bibles.” He winks at me. “Old Testament, of course.”

“No, really.”

He shakes his head. “This is better. We were here together all night, playing pinochle. Wait a minute, you never learned to play pinochle. How about gin rummy? You know how to play gin rummy. Of course you do. Any moron can play gin rummy.”

“Pop, listen to me. We don’t have to make up a story. If it ever comes up, just tell the truth.”

“Okay, son,” he says, still grinning. “Whatever you say. But I still think the gin rummy routine is the way to go.”

Son? He never calls me son. Putz, schmendrick or shmuck with earlaps, which for my father is the absolute worst thing you can be, are his usual terms of endearment for me, but son? Never.

Since my mother died, giving me a hard time has become my father’s favorite pastime. Even more than playing cards or going to the track. After forty-five years of arguing with her, he needed someone else to yell at. Not that he didn’t yell at me when she was alive, it’s just that she was his number-one target. She told me that he never means anything by it. She used to say, “When he gets quiet, that’s when you have to worry. As long as he’s yelling, everything’s fine.”

That’s why I’m so confused. Here’s the perfect chance for him to tell me what a shmuck I am for getting myself into this mess, instead he’s kvelling like I just won the Nobel Prize.

“You did see the paper, didn’t you?”

“Of course. I bought extra copies. I’m gonna hand them out to everyone at the track.”

“And you’re not upset?”

“Upset?” He puffs out his chest. “I’ve never been prouder.”

“But everyone thinks I’m a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I know.” There’s that grin again. “It’s terrific.”

“I don’t get it.”

“What’s to get? You finally made a name for yourself. Made it to the front page. The page that’s usually reserved for presidents, governors and generals. And now my boy is right up there with them.”

“They made me look like a homicidal maniac. It’s not the same.”

“You’re right. It’s better.”

At this point I don’t know what to say, so I just stand there with my mouth open.

“You know where I grew up, right?”

I nod. “Yeah. Brownsville. Chester Street, right?”

“You know my mother had a chicken market around the corner on Dumont Avenue?”

“Of course. You told me that story a hundred times. They called her the Chicken Lady. She made you get up at five in the morning to pluck chickens before you went to school. Made you come back before you went to bed to sweep up.”

“She was a hard woman, my mother. She had to be. After that goddamn flu killed my father, she had three babies to feed. But that doesn’t matter now.” His eyes start to twinkle. And Moish wasn’t usually a twinkler. “Do you know what was down the street from my mother’s store?”

I shrug.

“Rosie Gold’s candy store.”

“Okaaaaay?”

“You know who hung around Rosie’s?”

“Not a clue.”

He puffs out his chest. I’m thinking it’s gonna be some old-time Jewish sports hero like Kingfish Levinsky or Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom.

“Murder, Incorporated. That’s who. The toughest SOBs in the country. And they were all Jews. Louis Lepke, Abe Reles, Buggsy Goldstein. Killers, every one of them. Everybody feared them. The Italians, the Irish, the coloreds. They had class too. Money, women, fancy cars, you name it. When I was a kid, twelve or thirteen, I’d sneak out of my mother’s shop and hang around outside Rosie’s. Those guys loved me. They treated me like I was their little mascot. Their good-luck charm. I’d run errands for them. Bring them cigarettes, drinks, the paper. Whatever they wanted. And they’d throw me a twenty-dollar tip like it was a nickel. You know what that’s worth today? Five hundred dollars. I was a snot-nosed pisher with more money in my pocket than most of the grown men in the neighborhood. In a couple of years I coulda been one of them.”

I don’t know whether to be impressed or aghast. “So what happened?”

He shrugs. “This and that. Reles turned rat. Then he fell out of a hotel window. Pretty soon they were all dead or in jail. The Depression hit. The war happened. I spent five years in the Philippines shooting Japs. And when I came home I married your mother.”

I’m a little taken aback that he puts marrying my mother in the same category as the Second World War and the Great Depression.

“Besides, when your grandmother found out what I was doing, she beat the living crap outta me. Told me if she ever caught me hanging around with those bums again she’d pluck me like one of her chickens.”

“Let me get this straight, your childhood dream was to be a gangster?”

“It was different then, not like the scum-bums you see now. Back then, if you were in the rackets you were somebody, a big shot, a mensch.”

“So seeing my commercials on TV and the awards I won, that all means nothing to you, but having everybody in New York think I’m the Jewish Dillinger, that you’re proud of?”

“It’s not like you’re a senator or governor, but it’s something.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but I really didn’t do it.”

“Whatever you say.” He pauses for a second. “Listen, do you know Shifty, the bookie from back in our old neighborhood?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“He’s been giving me a hard time. He says I owe him some money but he’s fulla shit.”

“How much money?”

“I dunno, two . . . three hundred.”

“Dollars?”

“No, kishkes. Of course dollars.”

“And you’re sure you don’t owe him the money?”

“Of course I’m sure. You think I wouldn’t remember something like that?”

I don’t say anything.

“He says he’s gonna come over here with some leg breakers and take it if I don’t give it to him. How about you pay him a little visit and convince him to lay off?” He holds up the paper and grins. “He’ll listen to you.”

“Listen, Pop. I’m not a thug. I don’t even play one on TV. There’s no way I’m gonna threaten your bookie or anybody else.”

He shoots me a scornful smirk. “I shoulda known you didn’t have the guts.” He walks to the bathroom. Before he shuts the door he looks at me with disgust and shouts, “Putz!”

***

Excerpt from GET GRIBNITZ by Howard Gimple. Copyright 2026 by Howard Gimple. Reproduced with permission from Howard Gimple. All rights reserved.