Minnie the Squealer

Yeah, I knew Minnie Moskowitz. And I thought the same thing about him that everybody else did. He was a low-down, good-for-nothing, backstabbing, double-dealing, dirty, lying, cheat. But I loved him like a brother. An illegitimate stepbrother, but family nonetheless. Minnie taught me things about breaking the law I had only seen in poorly lit black and white noir films before. He may have been a two-faced punk, but he was also a %&*$#*& genius. Too bad what happened to him, getting rubbed out like that. But I saw it coming. Hell, anybody that knew the little worm could see it was just a question of time before somebody dusted his ass off. We all knew Minnie would rat-out any one of us if the price was right.

I spent a lot of time with Moskowiz; more than I wanted to, and I came to the conclusion that Minnie was more of a victim of his disorder. Being a rat was something the guy simply could not stop doing. Since he is dead now, I guess its all right to mention that Minnie was a manically depressed, bi-polar sociopath. He was also a sex addict, kleptomaniac and compulsive liar. Apart from that, he was perfectly normal. Still, a whole lot of people wanted him dead. Permanently dead. But the worst part of all is, they’ll never find out who knocked him off because Minnie had thousands of enemies. To this day, there are one hundred and six registered suspects. All with good motives. Even though they found his body in the East River, 27 guys in this cellblock alone confessed to his murder.

Time passes very slowly when you’re in the joint. Unless you’re on death-row. Between gang fights, working out, and last-minute race-riots, there’s a lot of time to better oneself. Some guys in this place learn a trade. Or, how to read. Me? I got into writing poetry. And I owe it all to that slim ball and dear friend, Minnie Moskowitz. It was Minnie who turned me onto e.e. cummings and Walt Whitman. But it wasn’t until I discovered prison poets like Lucifer Crossbow and Jennifer Homicide that I started to write my own stuff. Minnie, that scumbag was more relieved than pleased. Yeah, I owe him a lot. He always encouraged me.

“Writing poetry is a lot like fighting the biggest bastard in the yard.” Minnie said to me one day in the boxing gym. “Your words have to have punch and power. You gotta try to cold-cock the reader every time. Poetry is a hazardous genre ma-man.”

Minnie knew the danger inherent in writing anything. He actually got his start in writing bad checks and forgery. He made damn good money at it. However Mini concluded it wasn’t dangerous enough for him. It was too “white-collar”, as he put it. What’s weird is, he left a successful career as a professor of comparative literature at this all chick’s college upstate. No shit! Minnie was at the very top of his game in academia. Then, overnight, he gave it all up to pursue a life of crime. Just like that! I’m telling ya, that guy was born with corruption in his blood. Minnie took to breaking the law like a gold-digger to diamonds. But it wasn’t just illegal activity. Anything that was wrong to do, at all, had a lip smacking appeal to him. He was completely compulsive about being bad. Minnie would borrow money, even when he didn’t need it, just so he could have somebody to be looking over his shoulder at. He invested all his cash in running a protection racket. But the business went belly-up because Minnie wasn’t intimidating enough to secure any clients. This professional defeat really hurt his reputation and his feelings. Minnie kind of drifted around a while working as a bookie and loan shark, but he was lost.

One day a good fella from Bensonhurst asked Minnie if he knew a good place to dump a body. Minnie told the guy of a spot on the Hudson River under the George Washington Bridge and the guy gives him ten grand. Now, the Feds are tailing this mob-guy and see Minnie talking to him. They send an undercover agent to chat him up. Moskowitz is no dressmaker's dummy, he knows it’s the feds but plays stupid so he can hold out for more cash. To make a long story short, Minnie sings for another ten G’s.

The hit man went to jail, but Minnie realized there was a new and dangerous way to make big money, fresh enemies, and stay on the run. He became a squealer. And not just for the cops. He’d squeal on, and for anyone. When he found out he had been taken out of his grandmother’s will, he called the IRS on her. At 87 the lady goes to jail for the rest of her life.

One thing most people don’t understand is, Minnie knew everybody.

“Ya know what dugs me Bullet,” he says to me one day. “I like John Gotti, but he doesn’t like me”.

“Why do you think that is?’ I asked.

“I dunno. I think he doesn’t trust me or something.”

“Minnie, nobody trusts you.”

“Yeah, but is that any reason not like a guy?”

Minnie didn’t understand his position in criminal society. Because some gangs loved him, others hated him. But nobody trusted him. And like I said, Minnie had a pack of enemies. His youngest daughter tried to stab him when she was only seven. His priest took a contract out on him. And once a nun kicked him in the balls. For some reason, I’ll never understand, Minnie never did me wrong. But the whole two years we shared a cell, he slept with one eye open… propped with a toothpick.

Yeah Minnie was a character alright. He was a hard guy to be friends with, and an even harder guy to write about. Since The Lockdown Gazette asked me to put pen to paper for my friend and former cellmate, I thought I would honor old Minnie with a poem written just for him.

Minnie The Squealer.

Mini was a squealer,

That’s why he got rubbed out.

There Lays His Body,

Carelessly spread out.

I tried to warn him,

Not to rat-out a friend,

But his karma caught up,

And brought him to an end.

Poor Minnie Moskowitz,

Couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Dropped dime on Tony z,

Then the cops showed.

So Tony’s in the pen,

On a hitch from five to ten

And Minnie sings some more

On the rest of his old friends

So Minnie moves uptown

And he was living pretty good.

Till he happened on some boys

From the old neighborhood

And there lays his body,

Carelessly spread out.

Minnie was a squealer,

That’s why he got rubbed out.

Minnie The Squealer and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt the One You Love is protected under the law by the United States Copyright office. Any publication, public performance, duplication or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author Gaz O’Connor. Copyright 2005

This is am uncorrected proof.