MAFIA BOOK COLLECTION FOR SALE.


BOOKS FOR SALE FROM MY RESEARCH COLLECTION.

  A few book sections are highlighted but otherwise in good condition.

HB $14.00 SB $6.00 + MEDIA SHIPPING. Minimum order of 5.

  1. THE BATTLE FOR LAS VEGAS SB  – DENNIS GRIFFIN
  2.  BUT HE WAS GOOD TO HIS MOTHER –  SB R. ROCKAWAY
  3.  WHEN THE MOB RAN LAS VEGAS SB – STEVE FISCHER
  4. MOTOR CITY MAFIA SB – SCOTT  M. BURSTEIN
  5. THE BOYS FROM NEW JERSEY SB – ROBERT RUDOLPH
  6. CHICAGO HB- DAVID MAMET
  7. DOUBLE CROSS- HB SAM & CHUCK GIANCANA
  8. GANGSTERS AND GOODFELLAS HB AS TOLD BY GUSS RUSSO
  9. SUPER MOB HB –  GUS RUSSO  
  10. THE RISE AND FALL OF THE CLEVELAND MAFIA HB – RICK PORELLO
  11. THE STARKER HB – JACK ZELIG ROSE KEEFE
  12. MOBBED UP  HB – JAMES NEFF
  13. PRETTY BOY FLOYDHB –  LARRY MCCURTY 
  14. BOUND BY HONOR HB –  BILL BONNANO
  15. THE LUCIANO STORY SB – SID FEDER
  16. THE PUBLIC ENEMY  SB – HENRY COHEN SCRIPT
  17. NAZIS IN NEWARK SB- WARREN GROVER
  18. THE VALACHI PAPERS  PETER MAAS
  19. BLOOD RELATION SB – ERIC KONICSBERG 
  20. THE OUTFIT SB – GUSS RUSSO
  21. TOUGH JEWS – SB RICH COHEN
  22. THE MAFIA MURDER OF JFK CONTRACT ON AMERICA-HB DAVID SCHEIM
  23. ORGANIZED CRIME HB – PAUL LINDE
  24. CAPONE HB- JOHN KOLER
  25. LITERARY LAS VEGAS  SB -The best writing about America’s Finest City  MIKE TRONNES 
  26. MURDER INC SB BURTON TURKAS – SID FEDER
  27.           THE LAST MAFIAOSO HB –  OVID DEMARIS
  28. ALL AMERICAN MAFIOS HB- THE JOHNNY ROSELLI STORY  CHARLES RAPPLEYE & ED BECKER. SIGNED. $35.00

                                      PICTORIAL BOOKS

  • FABULOUS LAS VEGAS HB – MICHELE FERRARI
  •  STEVEN IVES ORGANIZED CRIME- PLAYBOYS PICTORIAL HISTORY HB  RICHARD HANNER

STRANGERS THEN LOVE


From Anais Nin Diaries 1939-1944. 

“I respond to intensity, but I also like reflection to follow action, for then understanding is born, and understanding prepares me for the next act.” 

JANUARY

SNOW, ARTIC BLAST, ICE, FREEZING. Maelstrom of inconveniences toppling down in every nook and cranny of body, home, and outdoors. I wore a long-sleeved liner, wool sweater dress, rabbit poncho, and over that, a wool wrap, laptop mittens, sherpa leggings, wool socks, and boots. Mornings, eight degrees, afternoons eighteen, and the absence of sunlight grids my spirit. Repetitive lessons in endurance, tolerance, and acceptance. The outer world stenches corruption, propaganda, cruelty, violence, and haranguing reporters. The election year dominates the bunkum reporting.  

It’s been almost a month since I texted or called Dodger. Somedays, I enter the memories, a reel of episodes on our cross-country road trips, hiking barren, narrow, unclaimed paths in Baja, mountains and canyons in New Mexico, and lakes and forests in upstate New York. They appear to be aberrations of myself; I am unrecognizable as he is, too. 

FEBRUARY

MATURITY has caught up with me, and I am viscerally aware of this pendulum as replacing the nonacceptance of my lifestyle and future to hardened acceptance, which is a relief. I used to be full of follies, gaiety, and impulse; inner choreography is now critical thinking, studied decisions, and a spoonful of distrust. Instead of unleashing all that I think and feel with strangers, the narrative is split between inching closer to listening rather than personal tete e tet. Once a week, I go outing to the social club, where I find conversant strangers, couples, singles, divorces, and a variety of ages, and yet they all have a commonality that I don’t, they seem genuinely satisfied with their lives, one comment this, after asking the bartender how are you, he smiled, slapped the polished wooden bar with both hands and replied, I couldn’t be happier. Then he opened his phone and showed me a photo of a baby boy. His expression soared through my senses, and I adulated with compliments. Another evening, I opened a conversation with a couple next to me, and for the next hour, I learned of their life; children, travel, cruises, especially, ” Oh, you’ve never been on one? You must go, you’re so perfect for a cruise.

” I’m uncomfortable with more than twenty people.”

I don’t believe that for a minute.” Wendy was really fit to her name; she wiggled in her seat, her hands never at rest, and her thoughts poured like raindrops. Her husband, Christian, nodded a lot, and when he tried to speak, she ran right over him. A few times, he rolled his eyes at me. They’d been married thirty-five years, looked to be in their early fifties, and semi-retired.  I left feeling love, had tipped our kinship, a surprising need to leap from trivialities to more substance.