Not An Easy Line of Business

I turned to a life of crime only after my mother died. It had been her one wish, and not God almighty would stop me from granting it. She’d been a reasonable woman, and that’s plenty.

The crimes aren’t especially elaborate, if that’s what you were thinking. I’m no Al Capone. Not trying to be, either. Not trying to be any criminal you’ve heard the name of, really. Probably a bad sign that you know them at all, y’ask me. No, I do the right amount of crime for someone of my demographic and not a misdemeanor more.

Delis have been the major focus lately. Not because of the security, I just have a pastrami guy. I won’t lie to you, though. Early on, I was clueless. First time, imagine me just shoving bobby pins in the lock. Jiggling a little. They got stuck after a minute. Couldn’t pull them out. Never felt dumber in my life. Who was I? Some schmuck trying to break into the criminal underworld who just used up all his good bobby pins? Al Capone wouldn’t get caught in that kind of situation. The bobby pin thing didn’t end up being so big of an issue. There was a CVS next to the deli.

Anyway, the next few attempts ended up similar. Eventually I tried YouTube and that was a pretty big break. Turns out there's a whole breaking and entering community. They do it professionally for the most part. Not a passion project, like me. They really have the system down. Conferences, branding, specialized tools, I mean they have companies paying them. Must be nice. Like I said, though, that’s not my scene. Too much publicity.

I’ve never been in it for the glory. Some days, I’m in it for the profit. Most days I’m in it for the challenge. That’s how I found myself at Goldenzwein’s Delicatessen on 14th and Iverson. Quaint little shop. Knishes and various flavors of tuna salad in the window display. That was Goldenzwein’s brand. Twenty-six flavors to choose from. More than any deli in Buffalo. Not an easy accolade to get in this town. I read that in the “Restaurants, Delis, and Dives” issue of Buffalo Magazine. That’s one of the things that separates me from your run of the mill thief. I do my research. I knew it wouldn’t take long for Goldenzwein to cash in that acclaim for cold hard currency - and that’s where I’d come in. Casing the joint was the easy part. It was all smiles and hellos when I walked in. Older man, maybe Goldenzwein, at the register. Younger man with similar eyes behind the counter, cutting pastrami for several men dressed in black hats and dark suits. Hassidic Jews, I suspected, fairly. Looked like a family business. Perfect. Family makes them complacent. When the likely Hasids finished their order, the younger man asked me what I wanted. Pastrami on white, extra russian dressing, half pound of thinly sliced turkey on the side. My usual. Inconspicuous. Easy to forget. That's how you have to be in this business. I don’t even like Russian dressing. As the man handed me my order I saw a kid come out of the back. Maybe 14. “Hey Dad, kugel is almost done.” He said. “Bring it out to the mishulachim when it’s finished.” the dad responded There it was. The telltale guttural croak of the Hebrew language. You pick up on that sort of thing robbing delis. I made a note of the kid. Could be trouble. I headed back home to simmer. Trouble or no, I had work to do. First step? Check my materials. Watch. Partial face-covering. Large canvas bag. Binoculars. Set of lock-picks from Amazon. Second step is wait. There was baseball on TV. I read a book instead. By the time I put the book down, it was nearly 11:15. Time to go. By 11:35 I’d parked across the street and started surveying the area. Clear. Most delis are clear that time of night, but with a place like Goldenzwein’s, you never know. Time to move. I stepped out of the car and pulled the balaclava over my head. It was itchy, but it had sentimental value. My mom knitted it. She would’ve hated how I used it. But she was dead, and I had a deli to rob. Everything was going according to plan. By 11:37 I was on my knees pulling out my lockpicks. I inspected the lock. Nothing familiar, could spell trouble. A hitch in the plan, but I wasn’t worried. My lock pick set had 11 pieces. And, it was on sale. A sticky 4th pin and a couple false starts later, I was in. Time to get serious. I knew from earlier that the Goldenzwein’s store their deli meats just below the food displays. The only problem, there were food displays along the whole deli counter. And the deli counter was as long as hell is balmy. One thing you learn in this business is to work methodically. I took a breath, walked to one end, and got to work. First cabinet? Six containers of tuna salad, grouped by flavor profile. Four savory, two sweet. I closed the cabinet carefully. Onto the next. By then, it was nearly 11:41 and I was already three minutes past my record. But professionals don’t get antsy. We get careful. Next cabinet, more tuna. Mostly savory, some umami. The next was tangy down the line. That’s when the feeling hit. Kind of a sense you get when you’ve progressed far enough in the craft. An instinct. Like a pressure in your gullet. And just then, my gullet was feeling a lot of pressure. But I knew I was close. I couldn’t stop there. Two more cabinets, 11 more flavors and I was through. The next one opened with a squeak, and there they were. At least 8 loaves of prime, freeze dried pastrami, straight from the farm. Next to it, turkey so fresh I almost sliced it on sight. But tonight wasn’t the night for a snack. It was the night for a heist. I started collecting the pastrami into my bag. A beautiful haul, one of my most successful evenings in weeks. Then I heard the lock click. No plan ever goes according to plan. I moved quickly. It’s the scenario every burglar dreads and every decent burglar prepares for. I ducked into the deli refrigerator I had grabbed the pastrami from just as the door hinges creaked open. I heard the intruder walk in. Their footsteps were heavy. Maybe boots. Or large loafers. They were getting closer. In the darkness of the deli refrigerator, my other senses sharpened. I followed the boots with my ears. Quiet, careful clomping. They stepped behind the deli counter. No sound from the cash register. They walked right past it. Then it hit me. They weren’t there for money. They were there for the deli. Moments like that were made to test guys like me. Lots of decent crooks would panic, jump out the freezer and make a break for it. Can hardly blame them. It’s only natural. But decent crooks don’t break into places like Goldenzwein’s and leave with eight loaves of pastrami. Great ones do. I heard the first cabinet slide open. The guy was methodical. Had to give them that. The intruder paused to inspect, then slid the cabinet closed again. Second cabinet came next. “More tuna?” I heard them say. Yeah, I thought. A lot more Tuna. I knew I had two things on my side. Surprise, and pastrami. I knew what they wanted and I knew where they’d try to find it. I did the same thing I’d done a thousand times in my head. I slid my hands into the sack and grabbed the hardest pastrami I could find. The third cabinet opened. “No fucking way” they said, “what the hell is tangy tuna?” The harder I gripped the pastrami the more confident I felt. The intruder was an amateur. They should have known not to speak during an operation. Me, a lean pastrami and 11 seconds were all I’d need to take them out and get the hell out of here. The boots stepped closer. “Oh my God you cannot be serious.” The intruder said. They were agitated. Another weakness. I couldn’t wait. My body tensed. My heart beat harder. It was time. The pastrami felt cold in my hand. As the last tuna cabinet slid open, I struck. “Ow, what the fuck” they yelled, stumbling. I had them on the run. I leapt forward, adding three well placed pastrami strikes to the attack. The intruder fell back onto the polished linoleum floors. That’s when I saw them. They were wearing a balaclava. It looked hand-knit. In one hand they were holding a plastic shopping bag. Couldn’t hold more than three pastramis, max. In the other, a handful of broken bobby pins. You don’t get a lot of time for reflection in this business. But looking down at them, I felt still. It was like staring through a deli window into myself. They wanted what I wanted. They were trying to practice what I’d spent years perfecting. And there they were, on the ground, pastrami bruises starting to set. Maybe the intruder wasn’t cut out for this line of work, I thought to myself. Wouldn’t be the first time they’d have to face down some tough pastrami. God knows it wasn’t my first time holding one. What a life I’d chosen. Mixing danger and deli and hoping to come out unscathed. All this flashed through my mind in an instant. I still had a grip on the pastrami. I looked down at the intruder. They were wearing shorts. Amateur. “Don’t speak during an operation” I told them. “What?” They said back. “Never know who’s sleeping in the back.” “Like, in the kitchen?” “Exactly.” “Ok..” They had a lot to learn. Not an easy business to break into. Certainly hadn’t been for me. The intruder looked scared and confused. I threw the hard pastrami back in my sack. Time to go. I left the intruder to nurse their pastrami wounds. It’d be a rough few days, no doubt. But if they were anything like me, they’d get up, put on some lotion, and get back to work. Because that’s the thing about deli robberies. Sometimes it’s not about the deli. It’s about the deli robber. And me? I’m a hell of a deli robber.