Newly illustrated with 16 graphic images.
Written by a real mafia insider, I, Mobster, is a thrilling account of the heyday of the New York mob during the Prohibition years. Had the anonymous author\'s true identity been known by his peers, he most certainly would have paid with his life.
I, Mobster holds the distinction of being the first direct-ti-paperback book to be made into a major motion picture in 1958 by director Roger Corman.
FROM THE BOOK:
WHO CAN remember when it started?
Maybe it was when I was six or seven. It must have been summer. It was a hot day, anyway, because the street was crowded, folks sitting on the stoops and in the open windows and kids swarming over the sidewalks. On the top step across the street a fat woman was nursing a baby and yelling up at a neighbor in a third-floor window. In the areaway beside the steps a couple of old greasers were playing dominoes, shouting and swearing at each other. I was sitting on the edge of the curb, not doing anything except in my mind. Whatever it is a kid six, seven thinks about. All around is the stink of the gutters and rotting garbage and the heavy, sweaty smell of too many people. A smell I never did get out of my nostrils, that not even a hundred-dollars-a-day sea breeze at Miami could ever sweep completely away.
That was when the sounds came that were different somehow from the other sounds of the street. I didn\'t know then what gunshots sounded like, but I had a funny feeling inside of me that this new sound was important.
I turned my head just as the man who ran the olive-oil store next door came running out. He had his hands tight to his belly and he couldn\'t run straight, kind of staggering from side to side until finally he tripped over himself and fell.
That was when I saw the two men behind him. Both of them had guns, but they weren\'t running. Just moving slowly, as if they knew there wasn\'t any hurry. They leaned over the man on the sidewalk and he started to cry up at them in Italian and then his words choked off. One of the men laughed and pointed down with the gun in his hand. I heard the sounds again and on the sidewalk the man\'s head, made funny, jerky movements. Then he didn\'t have a face any more—just blood-red meat like in the butcher store.
And I heard the quiet.
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